Chapter Text
Things took a bad turn.
They tend to, overall, in their line of work.
Only this time, there’s no killer to shoot at, no bullet to take out, no patch-up job to be done. The perpetrator was caught and processed, the confession obtained, the justice served.
Once again it repaired none of the damage.
Fred’s hands sit uselessly in his lap, folded into fists.
He wants to hit something.
It comes out in most inopportune moments.
He can still hear his voice, unnaturally loud in a place of healing, all but calling the doctor an idiot who wouldn’t know Morse’s intelligence if it kicked him up the arse because if anyone’s mind had a chance of recovering from something like that – well. They don’t know Morse.
And the doctor just stood there with something akin to pity in his eyes and waited for him to finish, for the powerless rage to be replaced by the shame that seemed to drain the very strength from his legs. Fred sat down, put his face in his hands and apologised.
It wasn’t his finest hour.
But bad turns pass, and so will this one.
*
Fred hates hospitals. The sterile pastel buzzing that he can’t blink away, the drab uniforms mooching about, the patients drowning in the lack of colour.
He hates the way they sound, the clinking of the instruments and the shouting and the groaning always going on somewhere in the distance. The silence of the trench before the action.
He hates the sharp smell that he brings home with him, the way it clings even after a shower, when he goes to sleep beside his wife. The oppressive heat of a stuffy room, the lack of fresh air.
Most of all, he hates how time seems to stop, and seconds drag by like hours, and nothing’s ever bloody happening in the room that he’s sitting in.
*
There are no new cases, and old ones don’t seem important in the light of the vacant desk he isn’t able to ignore. He sits at Morse’s bedside and tries to do a crossword, hoping against reason that the very proximity of it might coax Morse out of his sleep, as if Morse’s consciousness, hovering somewhere near the ceiling as his body tries to recover, might scoff at the way Fred’s absolutely dreadful at it and return into its owner out of sheer indignation.
Ridiculous.
Sometimes he tries asking him about the clues. The nurses said it might help to talk to him – wouldn’t hurt in any case, and Fred feels stupid but he’s desperate enough to try because at least that’s doing something. He doesn’t miss the look of sadness Nurse Hicks gives him as she comes in to take Morse’s vitals, masking it quickly it with a smile, her hand lingering over her patient’s form just a moment too long.
He eats his sandwiches without noticing what’s in them and misses Morse spoiling the surprise.
*
He sits there for ages, it feels.
He thinks of Win. Guilt niggles at him, and it’s not like he wants to leave her by herself in that empty house but he can’t very well leave Morse alone. It’s silly, Morse doesn’t know or care if he’s there – but Win has the comfort of their home, all their memories to keep her company. Morse has a bed in a place of fear and no one of his own to come and sit with him.
He wonders how Sam’s getting on. When his next letter will arrive, if it’s some sort of cosmic payback that his own son doesn’t write as much as he needs him to. He didn’t, either.
He tries not to think of all the cases he’s had in Vice and finds himself going through them on a loop as the sun goes down on another day of silence.
*
Sometimes there are people. Young Trewlove pops by, and a couple of PCs he never would have guessed would want to visit Morse. Fred makes mental notes in their favour. Dr DeBryn is a steadying presence, but echoes the other doctors’ fears when pressed, and Fred feels better when he leaves. Jim Strange smuggles him a pint of beer and they sit there, drinking like they do at the pub and discussing past cases, almost forgetting that the third voice is silent. Mr Bright brings flowers from his garden, the sweet soft scent a brief respite from disinfectant, the only spot of colour in the room. Fred wills Morse to wake up and see it.
“What do the doctors say? Will he recover, do they think?”
“It’s… hard to say, sir. Physically he seems to be fine, but mentally…” Fred remembers all the expressions they used and decides not to repeat any. “It doesn’t sound too good, but nothing’s certain.”
Mr Bright sighs.
“A brilliant mind… such a shame,” he says sadly, and something in Fred bristles.
“He hasn’t lost it, sir. He’s still in there somewhere. He just needs to find a way out, that’s all.”
*
One day, he does.
Fred has a heart attack, feels like.
*
'… and after a month hiatus, the cheers of the football players, family and friends once again echoed on Sunday afternoon at a friendly match with the guests from Kidlington –'
“Rain.”
Fred drops the newspaper he’s been reading and nearly falls out of his chair.
His heart pounds against his chest.
Morse’s eyes are open.
“What did you say?” Fred asks shakily.
Morse clears his throat.
“Water sped around one,” he croaks.
Fred stares, dread pooling in his stomach.
“Four letters. Rain.”
Morse juts his chin in the direction of the floor, then winces and brings a hand to his forehead.
Fred looks down. The crossword he gave up on in favour of the local sports news is lying on top.
Everything inside him sags in relief.
“The bloody crossword! I might have known that’d be the first thing out of your mouth. Predictable as night and day you are,” he chuckles through the tightness in his throat.
Morse rubs at his eyes.
“What happened?”
“You were drugged," Fred replies immediately. "The doctors thought… Well, never mind what they thought, they were wrong, weren’t they? It was the girl, the one we never suspected, Emma Carr – she’d put something in the lemonade. It’s messed with your head, you’ve been asleep for days.”
Morse stares at him, brows furrowed.
Uncomprehending.
“What day is it?”
Fred smiles.
“Cheese and pickle.”
He waits.
Time stretches on, even further than before.
“Morse?”
“Is that… some kind of code? I don’t remember…” He trails off.
Fred stands up. Ice prickles at his skin in the stifling heat of the room.
“You…” He swallows. “You do know who I am, Morse, surely?”
Seconds tick by. Fred waits for a dawning, but Morse's expression doesn’t change.
“Sorry, no.”
Fred’s mouth goes dry.
“That’s alright,” he begins, a little breathlessly. “An ordeal like that, you’re bound to be a bit confused. I’ll just go and get the doctor, shall I? Don’t you worry about a thing, we’ll sort you out in a tick.”
He avoids Morse’s eyes, keeping the smile fixed on his face even as his legs threaten to give out.
It’s only normal, after everything. Give him an hour or two to gather his bearings, put some food in him to get his energy up, water it down with a pint and he’ll be right as rain. He’s lucid – he isn’t screaming – he’s expressing himself in an articulate way. He solved the bloody crossword clue, he’s still cleverer than Fred, even moments after waking up from a coma.
A bit muddled, that’s all. Who wouldn’t be, after hell and back?
*
It’s not important, in the end, what caused it – the herbs or the chemicals or some evil combination of the two, or even if he hit his head while going through the fit. What’s important is that Morse is discharged from the hospital a perfectly healthy young man of recovered body and sound mind, with no recollection of any part of his life or identity, and no guarantee as to when or if he'll get his memory back.
Nothing so bad but it might have been worse. Where there’s life, there’s hope, and his children may be beyond his reach but Fred will see his bagman restored to duty yet, if it’s the last thing he does.