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He makes it home by sheer force of will, stumbling up the steps to his apartment and fumbling with the lock with shaking hands. Only when the door slams shut behind him can he finally relax. Here, in this place warded in more ways than even many experts on the subject knew, is the only place he can feel safe.
Especially now.
He doesn’t make it to the bathroom, instead falling on his knees right where he stands to empty his stomach contents onto the floor. It’s not much, he’s struggled to get down much more than his morning coffee, and even that is something he now regrets. Still his stomach tries to turn itself inside out for minutes until he finally gets some respite.
He stays on his knees for a moment, catching his breath, willing his head to stop spinning. His hair is damp with his own sweat, his face clammy. He doesn’t need to look into a mirror to know that his eyes are bright with fever.
Finally he gathers the strength to stumble to his feet again. He even manages to get a towel to take care of the mess. Afterwards he slips out of his jacket and pulls impatiently at his tie until he can get it off, leaving the clothes where they fall before flopping down onto the couch. He grunts as the pain in his belly, briefly assuaged by the expulsion, makes a sudden and unwelcome return. It feels like something is trying to claw its way out – and no, that’s not something he wants to think about.
Maybe he just needs some sleep, he tells himself. Yes, that’s right, just sleep it off, and he’ll feel right as rain tomorrow. It won’t matter if he misses one night out there. Evil never sleeps, but the rest of them have to every once in a while.
In the end, it doesn’t quite work out that way. He manages to doze off, but his sleep is uneasy, filled with jagged pieces of his mind, some real and some imagined. In the brief moments of wakefulness in between, he struggles to tell the difference. And just when he’s managed to find some blissful darkness, he finds himself stumbling to his feet and gagging over the toilet, throwing up what little water he’s forced down earlier.
The next time it’s a buzzing sound that wakes him. At first he considers that to be merely in his head as he blearily blinks at the too-bright ceiling light. But it won’t disappear even as he sits himself up and rubs his temples, and finally his gaze catches his phone moving in circles over the table.
He wouldn’t have picked up if it wasn’t for the name on the display. “Yes.” His voice sounds like he hasn’t used it in a year, and he clears his throat multiple times.
Her voice sounds distant, like she’s somewhere with bad reception. “They found another victim. The markings are similar, but different. You should take a look, tell me what you know.”
Right. That’s the thing that slipped his mind earlier. Right now, he’d rather do anything but, but he still makes a noise that he hopes sounds affirmative.
“I think we’ll be done here in 30 minutes. Meet me at the precinct in an hour?” She has what he internally calls her ‘business voice’ on. He hasn’t yet told her how attractive that is.
“I’ve got… a thing tonight. Tomorrow?” he says, betting the fact that she will assume the thing to be an exorcism and not him kneeling on the cold bathroom floor throwing up his guts.
Still, he can tell she’s taken aback. “Right. Of course. Can you make the afternoon or do I have to wait ‘til night fall?”
Normally that would elicit a smile. “I don’t know yet”, he says hesitantly. “I’ll call you.” He coughs into his hand, grimaces as he tastes bile on the back of his tongue.
“John, are you okay?” she asks suddenly.
“Sure”, he says distractedly. “Long night.” But as his eyes catch his clock, the face barely reads midnight.
He hears someone on the other side call her name. “Alright, I have to go. See you tomorrow.”
“See you”, he mumbles. As he hangs up, the phone almost slips out of his hand.
He sighs and leans his head back into the arm rest, closing his eyes against the brightness. The pain in his temples throbs in time with his heart beat. Worse still is the pain in his stomach. He slips one hand beneath his shirt, tries to find a spot to ease the cramping muscles, but it’s not working. A wave of nausea rolls over him and he groans in frustration.
Damn, he doesn’t want to do this anymore.
“-ohn? John?” Somebody is hammering against this door. They might as well hammer a nail straight into his skull.
He sits up so rapidly his head spins, looking around for something to defend himself with. Only then does he recognize the voice.
“I’m coming”, he mumbles, trying to extract himself from the blanket he’s thrown over himself earlier when he was freezing. Now the heat underneath his skin is stifling and his damp shirt is clinging to his body.
Briefly he worries about fixing his appearance, but then he takes a look in the mirror and realizes that that’s a useless task.
Angela seems to think so, too. When he finally manages to undo the lock, she takes one look at him and breathes out: “Damn, John, you look like shit.”
“What are you doing here?” He holds onto the door frame with one hand to keep himself stable.
“You sounded off on the phone.” She doesn’t wait for an invitation, instead breezing past him like she lives there. One look of hers takes in the messy blanket on the couch, the still more than half-full water bottle on the table, and the discarded clothes in the corner. He feels weirdly self-conscious.
“Off?” he asks as he makes his way back to the couch. Now that the cards are on the table, might as well sit down again.
“Call it a cop instinct.” She shakes her head. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were working.” It sounds lame even to his own ears.
“That guy was already dead. He can wait ‘til morning. You, on the other hand…”
“It’s just a bug. You should leave before you catch it.”
“John.” She leans forward, hands resting on the table, with that no-bullshit look in her eyes. “Do you want me to go?”
He hesitates for only a moment. “No.”
“Alright then.” She straightens her back. “You, off to bed. This can’t be comfortable.”
He shakes his head. “Too far away from the bathroom”, he says sheepishly.
“That’s what the lord has invented buckets for.” She starts rummaging around underneath the sink until she finds what she is looking for. “Aha!”
He pulls a face. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Are you still here? Shoo!” – “And get changed!” she calls after him.
This is better, he has to admit to himself as he is finally lying in bed in a fresh set of pyjamas. It’d feel even better if he’d had a chance to shower, but maybe that can wait until morning.
He starts as she drops down onto the mattress next to him. “Stop, you’re gonna catch it”, he mumbles and tries to turn away, but she holds on to his shirt.
“Oh, shut up”, she says. “You have no idea how much germs I touch at work each day, I’m basically immune.”
“We’ll see”, he says, but he can’t help but smile a little.
“So, is that where it hurts?” she asks gently as she nudges the arm away that he has curled protectively around his stomach.
He doesn’t fight her, only humming a confirmation instead. She presses her fingers into his skin, searching for the tight muscles underneath.
Somehow, this time it helps.