Chapter Text
So it went like this:
Martin and Tim were out to lunch when Helen Richardson made her statement. When she disappeared -- when Michael appeared -- they weren't around at the assistants' bullpen to hear Jon's shouts and cries. They weren't there to hear Michael's discordant laugh, to feel the hair on their arms stand up as the static gradually rose. They weren't there to see that Helen Richardson had never left. By the time they had gotten back from lunch, Jon had managed to patch up his shoulder. When Martin came in for tea, he noticed the slight stain on Jon's green cardigan (hadn't he been wearing a grey one earlier?). When he set down the mug of tea and asked Jon about the stain, Jon looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. And then he said, "Oh, just… a wound…" and then waved Martin away before he could inquire any further.
When both Martin and Tim had realized that their first aid supplies had been severely depleted (what had Jon been doing with so much gauze?), Tim was far past the point of caring and Martin had other, more immediate, worries about Jon on his mind.
And so it went like this:
Elias had known Helen Richardson would be making her statement. He had paid for the cab, after all. He knew that, even with the seeds of distrust having been sown in the archives, that both Tim and Martin would have come to Jon's assistance had they heard any sort of commotion from his office. So Elias had put them out of the way. He sent Tim to some obscure shop in London, claiming a Leitner revolving around a circus, and told the man that, "I'm worried for the public's safety and everyone from Research and Artefact Storage are tied up or out sick. I know your job is to record and compile... but would you just do me this favor? I can trust you to handle it." And just like that, Tim Stoker grabbed his coat, checked out some of Research’s supplies, and he was out of the way for the entire afternoon.
Martin Blackwood was similarly easy. All Elias had to do was pop his head into the archives, eyebrow raised. "Martin, did you forget about your yearly review again? I've been waiting in my office for the past half hour and I do have things to do, you know."
And Martin stuttered and stumbled, his eyebrows knitting together and the tips of his ears turning head. "I-I could have sworn that my review wasn't until next month -- I have it here on my calenda--" and when he clicked through his calendar, he saw the words "YEARLY REVIEW - 12:30 W/ ELIAS" staring back at him from a purple box.
Elias had to mask his pleasure. Of course, Mr. Blackwood had been correct -- his yearly review wasn't supposed to be until November, but Elias needed him out of the way now. "Now that we have it settled that you *are* late for our meeting," he drawled, "then will you accompany me back to my office? I would expect better punctuality from an academic; you should know how valuable our time is."
So while Jon was confronting Michael, Elias was happily drinking up the fear radiating off of Martin Blackwood during his impromptu performance review.
Of course, just as Elias had known she would, Sasha James just dutifully stayed at her desk and ignored the shouts and cries.
And so it went like this:
Tim was home sick and Martin was busy in the library.
And so it went like this:
Tim had his headphones on, trying to lose himself in his work while rock music blasted in his ears. He was looking stuff up for the Andrea Nunis statement. Just verifying ticket logs and such. Normally, Sasha would have done that sort of verification (would have shown him how to try to break through security for Nunis's credit card database. She would have stood behind him, hand on his shoulder, while he floundered about and failed and she would laugh and things would be okay), but she was busy filing and her computer was on the fritz. It had been sent to IT again.
He and Sasha didn't talk much anymore.
She had rejected his invitation for drinks.
Martin was taking a long lunch. The nursing home had called him -- some news about his mother -- and immediately his face turned pale and he quickly scurried to the outside of the Institute for better reception.
Tim did not hear the commotion from Jon's office.
And so it went like this:
Tim was at his physical therapy appointment and Martin was doing door-to-door checks for a statement.
And so it went like this:
Tim had a legitimate stomach bug but when he texted Martin about it, Martin immediately assumed the worst and showed up at his flat. Jon was alone in the Archives.
And so it went like this:
While the Archives had been shut down for cleaning, Elias had made sure to soundproof the Archivist's office.
And so it went like this:
Jon sat at his desk, clutching his shoulder. He ground his teeth, trying to find anything that would distract him from the searing pain. He tried to work on statements, but he was too afraid of getting blood on the papers. He tried to answer some emails, but his left arm didn't seem up to helping him type. He tried to listen to an audiobook, but he found that the words slid over his ears and just fell to the floor. So Jonathan Sims tried many things, but he did not try leaving his office until 8pm that evening. He couldn't afford to let his assistants see him in such a vulnerable state -- not when one of them was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to finally kill him.
Sometimes the universe could be kind. Sometimes the universe could be uncaring. Most of the time, the universe never interfered at all. But life comes with many possibilities -- unopened doors and dividing paths, along with traps and lost keys. All of the previous possibilities could have played out (did play out). But there were always more.
And so it actually went like this:
Martin and Tim were both in the Archives. Martin was at the bullpen, working on a report -- Tim was eating biscuits with Sasha in the break room, trying to talk to her about Greek Revival architecture in Germany. Martin heard the commotion from Jon's office. He had tried to get in -- to see what was wrong -- but the handle to the door was stuck. He tried pounding on the door, but it didn't seem like Jon was even noticing him. The whole atmosphere was alive with static and a sense of unease. After a few minutes, Martin stopped trying, and went back to his desk.
He tried not to worry, but he worried anyway.
If the universe had been feeling ambivalent, then maybe Jonathan Sims would have stayed in his office in incredible pain. But the universe had a different prerogative. So Jon stumbled out of his office, clutching his bleeding shoulder, teeth gritted and blood slowly seeping through his stark white button-up. If he could just get to a walk-in centre before anyone noticed…
Martin was immediately on his feet, concern etched across his face. "Jesus Christ, Jon, what the hell happened in there?" And when he took a step forward, held out a hand to try and steady the swaying man, he was met with Jon taking a step back and pushing himself flush against the wall.
"I'm fine, Martin," Jon gritted out. His unruly hair was sticking to his brow from the thin layer of sweat. His pupils were blown wide. His breathing was heavy and inconsistent. "Now, please, I need to be getting to our first aid kit, so if you would--"
Martin did not step aside. He stared Jon down. "You don't just need a first aid kit, Jon. You need to go to A&E or something! What happened to Ms. Richardson? Did she do this to you?" He tried to take another step forward, to see if he could look at the wound on Jon's shoulder, to see how bad it was and what sort of medical attention he might need -- but Jon, eyes wide and panicked, simply slid along the wall to try to get away from Martin. His shirt left a smear of ruddy brown behind.
Jon shook his head, frantically. "No, she didn't do anything -- it was all my fault, really. Just, Martin, please go."
And there were many decisions that Martin Blackwood could have made in those few moments. He could have further stepped into Jon's space, cornering the man and forcing him to reveal what was wrong. He could have walked away, could have left Jon to his own devices. Lord knows that with the man stalking him, that he was probably well within his rights to do that. Martin could have maybe handed in his two weeks' notice to Elias, given that the job was becoming so dangerous that both Jon and Tim had become horrifically maimed. But Martin Blackwood did not do any of those things. Martin simply looked Jon up and down -- how his legs were shaking, how his left arm was limp at his side, how his brows were furrowed in pain and not disapproval -- and then he nodded. "Okay," Martin said. "I'll go."
And Jon looked somewhat pleased at this.
Martin took a step back, back into the bullpen. As soon as he was out of arm's reach, Jon started to amble down the hallway to the stacks, where some of the emergency first aid supplies were. And maybe Martin should have followed him.
But Martin went the other direction. He walked into the break room, calmly, as if that would help the situation any. He walked over to Tim, who was Sashaless, and put a hand on his shoulder to bring him out of his technicolor iPhone games. "Tim, erm--"
Tim looked up at him, surprised but not irritated. "What's up?" The small worm spots across his face were healing quite nicely -- it was obvious that he had been following whatever regimen the doctors had laid out for him.
"Uhm, it's Jon." Martin swallowed, not entirely sure how Tim would react. Some days, Tim was sympathetic towards Jon -- friendly, even. He'd try to go into his office, have a chat, try to bring about old times, but other days he would just be... listless. There wasn't ever a proper way to react when you knew your boss and former friend was stalking you.
Tim did not look angry or upset. He didn't look pleased. He didn't even look surprised. But he turned off his phone screen and gave Martin his full attention. "What's going on? Does he need us to do some followup on the live statement?"
"He's bleeding in the hallway."
"What?"
Martin ran his hands through his hair and then pulled them down the front of his face. "He says it's his fault -- the stain on his shirt is pretty big too. I tried to get closer to him, to help, but he just kept shying away. I-- it looks like he's been stabbed?" he took a deep breath, stared up at the tiled ceiling, and tried to not cry as he felt his face heat up. "Tim, he's hurt and scared and I don't know what to do--"
And Martin didn't need to do any more convincing. Because Tim was on his feet, already walking out of the break room. "C'mon, Martin, we'll sort him out."
-
Jon sat on the floor, his legs criss-crossed and his back against the wall for support. In one shaking hand, he held a bloodied rag as he tried to mop up the blood that wouldn't cease flowing from the wound Michael had given him. It was long and slightly jagged from where Michael had decided to twist his fingers ever so slightly. Even the memory of that made Jon's eyes water.
There were two things he knew for certain in that moment:
He was in a hell of a lot of pain. And that his binder and shirt were probably irrecoverable.
Even with a healthy heaping of hydrogen peroxide and a good bit of elbow grease, he wouldn't be able to do much about the tears and he had never been one for sewing. And he no longer had any friends who engaged in the fine arts of needlework. But it was fine. He had money. He could buy a new shirt and a new binder. He just needed to stop the constant flow of blood so he could clean up the torn tissue so he could wrap his shoulder with gauze so he could take an ibuprofen and go home–
He tried to lift up his shoulder ever so slightly, and a blinding flash of pain seared through him.
He closed his eyes and groaned.
Can't let them see me. Fix this up. Vulnerable. Do you know they're lying to you?
Jon could hear footsteps approaching him. Two sets. Shoes against the thin green carpeting of the floors. Probably Tim and Martin, both here to finish the job that Michael started. He dropped the bloody flannel on the floor and leaned forward, trying to stand up. He just needed to go deeper into the archives -- to hide within the stacks. This would all blow over, surely. But when he leaned forward, he suddenly found that his brain was filled with spinning cotton balls.
He slumped again.
Wounded prey in a wolf's den.
“What happened here, boss?”
His mouth was dry, tongue laden down with heavy weight. But he managed to muster the words out, "Go away, Tim--" He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. They were clean, which he didn’t know if he expected or not. Maybe he thought some worm splatter would have made it up there? That wasn't important.
Jon watched, limply, as Tim crouched down in front of him. His eyebrows were knit together with concern. He's just worried that Michael got to me before he could. "Hey, I'm not going away -- not when you're hurt like this. Martin said you got stabbed, Jon, is that true?" He didn't make any move toward or away from Jon -- there didn't seem to be a gun at his hip, but maybe there was a knife hidden in his boot or he'd try to str--
Jon tried to scooch away from Tim, but as he put his left hand down, he started crying from pain. Tears, unwanted tears were flowing down his face. Energy and strength exhausted, with his adrenaline finally slowing to a halt, he collapsed onto his shoulder. Another scream ripped out from his lungs, raw. The pain was more intense than the actual stabbing itself. The pressure made him dizzy. "Not-not stabbed," he managed. He had to get away. He had to get away.
Tim made an effort to move forward, but stopped when Martin put a hand on his shoulder. They both seemed to be speaking some sort of code with the expressions on their faces. Are they conspiring?
"Jon," Martin said softly, "if you weren't stabbed, then what happened? It's not as if you just bumped into a door or something." And Jon was sure that if he looked up, he would see Martin standing back a respectful distance. Martin was trying to earn his trust. Martin was trying to find him with his guard down, obscuring his true intent with baby blue jumpers and perfectly brewed tea and-- Jon wouldn't let him. Jon couldn't let him. He couldn't trust Martin, with his curly hair and kind face smattered with freckles, because Martin had been lying to him.
I don't think someone would write to their mum about murdering someone. But then he quashed the thought. He just didn't have enough experience with a mum to use as a cross reference. Maybe mother-son murder duos were incredibly common, and Jon was just left out of the loop because his grandmother had retired from the gig and never really saw him as a -- Stop, stop. This isn't helpful.
"Jon?" Martin's voice again. Jon blinked up at the ceiling. His shoulder still hurt something fierce. He was vaguely aware that he was staining the carpet.
Then came Tim, with his sonorous voice and affable stature that was really just a mirage-- "Boss?"
"Jon? Can you talk? Can you tell us what happened?"
Jon opened his mouth, groaned, closed his mouth. This isn't as bad as it looks. "It's... it's nothing," he managed, gasping out. "I just managed to, uh..." He tried to reach back into memory, to pull out something that would make sense and be totally plausible. One doesn't end up bleeding from a pen wound. Nor could it be played off as a large paper cut. "I--" and he closed his eyes tight, as if that would help the pain lessen. "I had an accident with a bread knife, is all."
Tim barked out a short laugh while he heard Martin scoff.
Shit.
"Jon?" He couldn't place Martin's tone. "That's total bullshit and we all know it."
He could sense Tim moving closer to him, Martin moving closer to him, the whole world moving closer to him just ready to shut him up and stop all the pain. Because he'd failed. He'd revealed his weaknesses. And if Martin and Tim weren't working together -- if Tim was Gertrude's murderer and Martin was just an innocent bystander or if Martin were Gertrude's murderer and Tim was just an innocent bystander... Jon wouldn't be able to protect either of them. Because he had shown his hand and he had failed.
Just how he had failed to stop Jane Prentiss from attacking the archives.
"Boss?" There was Tim's voice. "We're going to take you to A&E, okay? We're going to have you looked over and patched up by people who *know* what they're doing. Will you let Martin clean you up before we go? I think you might need stitches."
Jon tried to sit back up. He groaned instead, the effort wasted. "M'fine, honestly." His own voice betrayed him. Just like his assistants were betraying him. "I just... need a moment. You lot can go -- take the rest of the day off." And maybe if he had more energy, he would have waved his arm lazily toward the exit. Where was the exit? He didn't know. He couldn't feel direction anymore. All he could see was the ceiling and then a bit of Tim's forehead and hair over him where he entered the picture. Tim's blond hair. Hair that wasn't styled anymore -- just combed any which way.
"Jon." Tim's voice was firm. "I could call 999, if you'd rather."
"Please don't."
More movement with steps hitting the floor. Shadows moving. Body heat close to him -- Martin close to him. It would be so easy to finish Jon while he was vulnerable. "Jon," Martin said, "we really don't want you to bleed out in the archives. No one deserves to die down here."
It was Jon's turn to scoff. "Like you actually believe that."
"What? Never mind -- I need to sit you upright so I can bandage you up, okay?"
Jon let himself be manhandled like a doll. He went from slumped over on his bad shoulder to once again sitting back up. He could finally see both Tim and Martin's faces, along with the various items of the first aid kit scattered about the floor. He watched as Tim opened up a packet of wipes and then watched as he handed a wipe to Martin.
Maybe they're actually... helping me?
But the anxiety deep within his throat was too tight, the sense of unease burned into his bones was too prominent -- something was off, something wasn't right. He couldn't just ignore that. He would be killed if he ignored that. He was missing something glaringly obvious and he needed to dissect every little last bit of everything until he could dig it out and reveal it.
The wet wipe was cool on his skin. He flinched back. "Please, I'll take it fro--"
And then Martin said the words that Jon could never answer. "Do you trust me?"
Everyone fell silent. Jon knew that both Martin and Tim were waiting for him. But his mouth stayed closed. Tears started to stream down his face again, but maybe they had never stopped.
Tim coughed, roughly, voice choked up. "Right then, I guess that's our answer." His face was red for some reason. "I'm going to tell Rosie to call 999 and then I'll wait outside for the ambulance, yeah?" He didn't pause for an answer. He simply got up off his knees and walked down the halls of the archives.
Now it was just Jon and Martin, because Sasha was god-knows-where. It was the perfect opportunity for Martin to just take the medical scissors and--
"Jon, I'm going to touch you again. All I'm going to do is wrap this bandage around you, okay? It might hurt a tad -- I'm not an expert at this stuff -- but I promise I'm not trying to hurt you. I promise." Martin was true to his word. His hands were free of weapons. He narrated each action that he took, apologized for each and every wince. And when he was satisfied with his job, he moved back. "See? Good as new."
And they both knew he wasn't.
They both sat there. Jon wouldn't have been able to put a time to the length that they sat there. He could vaguely hear the ticking of the analog clocks that lined the wall, but the whooshing of the blood in his ears was louder. He could hear Martin breathing. At some point, during the monotony, Martin had started to hum a small tune. Jon couldn't pick up the melody and he didn't ask for it.
And then. "Why can't you trust me, Jon?"
Jon swallowed.
Martin looked at him earnestly, soft brown eyes searching for something that Jon couldn't give. The tips of his ears were red. The sleeves of his shirt were stained with Jon's blood. He kept moving his left hand across the carpet in small motions.
"If it's because I--I left you in the tunnels then... I... I understand. But just know that I wouldn't cause you harm." Why did Martin's voice waver? Why did he speak like something depended on his words? Nothing did.
Jon cast his own gaze down towards his lap. "It's not that."
"Then what is it, Jon?"
"You-- in a letter to your mum, you mentioned that you were lying and-- I see how easily you can spin a tale on the phone and-- it's always the people you least suspect and--" Words kept falling out of Jon's mouth like an avalanche and he was unable to control where each one landed. "I-I can't trust anyone -- I. I feel like I'm dying. I -- someone is out to get me, out to get us and--"
He had so much of this bottled up inside of him for so long, plaguing his dreams as he slept at night. Sometimes he was in a graveyard with Naomi Herne, but other times he was just watching as a shadowed figure shot Gertrude Robinson thrice. How her corpse would look at him. Look through him. And her mummified mouth would open. "Be careful who you trust." As if he needed the verbal reminder. As if her body wasn't message enough.
Martin tilted his head to the side, mouth in a small 'o'. "Do you think I want to kill you?"
Jon nodded. Then he shook his head. Then he squeezed his eyes shut tight so he wouldn't have to see the twisting expression on Martin's face, have to put a name to each emotion. His shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat.
"No-- yes -- you, Tim, Elias, Sasha-- anyone -- she was just shot down there. Prentiss was after the Archivist and--"
"Jon, I need you to breathe."
Jon wanted to say that he couldn’t breathe, the words “I can’t” at the tip of his tongue, but shuddering gasps interrupted every attempt and left him choked. "I *can't*, Martin!"
Martin started saying something. Maybe something about breathing in time to the numbers. Jon couldn't hear him, all words washed away. His mind was spinning with possibilities. How stupid could he be? He'd just handed his fears on a platter to Martin -- the man would be able to do with them whatever he wished. And maybe he wasn't out to just murder Jon, but to toy with him for as long as possible. This right here -- this taking care of Jon was just an elaborate ruse; it was just playing the long con.
The paramedics arrived soon after. More people were talking to Jon. An officer of some sort was talking to Martin, maybe. He could hear Tim's voice.
Stitches. Hospital.
"--file a report?"
"--won't say what happened to him, but we did have a statement giver who just disappeared--"
"Can you hear me, Mr. Sims?"
"Christ, it's all down these hal--"
"I think he's having some sort of bre--"
"Ah, Mr. Blackwood--"
"Yes, yes, take him to the hospita--"
And before he knew it, he was being led up the stairs of the archives. One foot in front of the other in front of the other until, finally, he was outside. The cool October air was a change of pace from the archives, but it didn't feel entirely real. The only actual constant was the throbbing pain from his shoulders.
"Will you say what happe--"
"Mallory, I think he's in shock."
"Well obviously."