Chapter Text
Jon scowled as he strode down the pavement, anger and fear and guilt swirling inside him and filling him up like smoke until he was nearly choking on it. He walked quickly, no destination in mind. He just needed to get away. He just needed it to stop.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. Had it been hours since he and Martin had fought, or only minutes? His mind felt hazy and numb, his thoughts whirling around like a sandstorm, and just as difficult to catch hold of. He was overreacting. Probably. Was he?
His steps slowed as he came to a bridge, leaning against the railing and gazing out across the river. It had been months, now, since the world had been fixed. Months since the Fears had been sent through the rift to who knows how many other worlds. Months of everyone trying to forget and move on.
Jon couldn’t though. How could he, knowing that somewhere, other people were suffering from his choices?
And Martin’s choices too, he thought.
And that was... it was fine, he didn’t, couldn’t, blame Martin for wanting to protect him, he just wished Martin would stop acting as though what they’d done had been the objectively correct choice. As though the fates of the people in other worlds didn’t matter just because they couldn’t see their pain.
Jon knew he was probably being too hard on Martin, that the other man still had something of a tendency to keep his true feelings bottled up. But it was difficult to be fair when it also felt like Martin was absolutely refusing to try and understand Jon’s perspective.
After all, it wasn’t as though Jon hadn’t understood why Martin and the others had been reluctant to go along with his plan. They weren’t the ones who would have had to more or less directly cause the deaths of seven billion people. Jon was more than aware of the gravity, the horror, of what he had suggested.
Between that and his role in causing the apocalypse in the first place, Jon could barely stand to be in the same room with other people anymore without being overwhelmed by guilt. It almost made him feel envious of Martin’s ability to simply disappear, back when he’d been entrenched in The Lonely.
God, Martin.
Jon should go back, should apologise for leaving like that. Martin had come such a long way since Jon had pulled him from The Lonely, but seeing his partner practically flee their flat couldn’t be doing him any favours. The last thing Jon wanted was for Martin to misunderstand, to think that Jon didn’t want to be with him anymore, because that was the furthest thing from the truth.
It was just...
Lately it felt like all they did was misunderstand each other. They hadn’t argued this much during the literal actual apocalypse, and now....
Jon sighed, gripping the railing tighter.
Maybe... maybe things would be better if... if Jon weren’t around anymore.
It would hurt Martin, he knew that. He wasn’t quite so far gone to think his boyfriend wouldn’t be deeply upset if he died. But he’d be alright in the end, Jon was sure of that. Martin was the strongest person he knew. And Martin was good, and kind, and anyone would be lucky to be with him. He wouldn’t have to worry about Martin being alone.
The world would be better off too, without him, he was certain of that. He wasn’t sure what more damage he could do without his Beholding powers, but he’d hardly been the most pleasant person to be around before all of that anyway.
Jon eyed the dark, swirling water below him. It would be so easy. Just a step or two and the world would be done with him. No one would need to fear The Archivist any longer. Martin wouldn’t be trapped with a mess of a boyfriend who barely remembered how to be human. Who, despite everything, still missed his powers and the satisfaction they’d given him. Martin could find someone who truly deserved to be with him. Someone who wasn’t damaged, wasn’t a monster. Someone good.
There was a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.
Jon turned to see someone walk into the street, seemingly taking no notice of the oncoming traffic, or the large double-decker bus barreling towards them. Without pausing to think, Jon rushed after them, reaching out to grab at their black leather jacket and pull them back and out of the way. They collapsed backwards onto the pavement in a heap, the bus trundling past just inches away.
The person in the leather jacket rolled off of Jon and sat next to him on the kerb. Jon sat up too, intending to either berate the stranger for their recklessness, or ask them if they were okay. He looked over, and his voice died in his throat. The young man sitting next to him had long, dyed black hair, with an inch or so of blond roots showing, several eye tattoos visible on the joints of his hands, and was, unmistakably, Gerard Keay.
“Hey, Jon,” he said, grinning. “It’s been a while.”
Jon stared, aware that his mouth was hanging open like an idiot, and completely unable to do anything about it.
Gerry frowned, looking a bit concerned about Jon’s lack of response.
“Shit, you didn’t hit your head or something, did you? Not sure I can actually do any first aid like this.”
Finally getting his voice to cooperate, Jon stuttered, “G-Gerry?”
“You remember me,” Gerry said, sounding almost surprised.
“I... but you... you’re....”
“Dead?”
“Well, yes.”
Gerry nodded, looking at Jon intensely. “Yeah, I am. Thanks to you.”
Jon stared at him, wide-eyed, and leaned backwards slightly.
“Shit, wait, that came out wrong.” Gerry sighed. “I just mean.... You burned my page. Not many people would have done that, not with as connected to The Eye as you were. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I kinda owe you one.”
“Look,” Jon said, frowning, “even if I believed that you’re really... you, none of that explains how you’re still here, or why you did... that.” He gestured towards the street, where not five minutes ago he'd stopped the definitely solid-seeming ghost from being flattened. “The Fears are... the Fears are gone, even if ghosts were real, there’s no way for you to be here.”
Gerry laughed. "Only if you think the Fears we're the only manifestation of the supernatural in this world."
Jon looked at him strangely. "You quite literally told me that they were," he said.
Oh.
Oops.
To be fair, Gerry had never encountered anything else before his page had been burned either.
"Well, anyways," Gerry said, waving this off, "the point is you needed help, so here I am."
"I fail to see how throwing yourself into traffic in any way helps me."
"I mean, it's pretty simple, really," Gerry said, grinning. "Look, I've learned a lot about you since the last time we talked. Those tapes of yours have a lot on them!"
At the mention of the tapes, Jon flinched violently.
Right. Web trauma.
"Anyways, you," he said, pointing at Jon, "clearly are more than willing to just jump in if you think you can help someone else, so I figured that'd be the best way to distract you long enough to keep you from doing something really stupid."
"And, what, exactly, did you think I was going to do?"
Gerry sighed. "You were going to jump, Jon."
Jon scowled. Even if Gerry was real, which he doubted, it was hardly any of his business what Jon did. And if he really had heard the tapes somehow, then he should understand how much better things would be without Jon. Not that his opinion mattered anyway, because he simply couldn't be real. Jon had probably just hit his head when he'd fallen. Or something.
"Look," said Gerry, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "I'm not really very good at this kinda thing. This is what therapists are supposed to be for, I think. But from where I'm standing, it seems like things are going pretty okay for you right now. I mean, your soul isn't tied to any eldritch powers, and you've got at least one person who'd be pretty upset if you died."
Drawing his knees up to his chest, Jon considered this for a moment, face pensive. Yes, Martin would be upset, he'd already known that. But the thought of causing him any kind of hurt sent a pang through Jon's chest. If he'd never known Jon though....
Well that would solve everything wouldn't it?
After all, how could Jon hurt anyone if he'd simply never existed in the first place?
While Jon was coming to this depressing conclusion, Gerry was watching him thoughtfully. He nodded, as though coming to a decision.
"Yeah, okay. Sure," he said.
"What?" Jon said, startled out of his thoughts. He had no idea what maybe-Gerry was talking about.
"Sure," he said again with a shrug. "You don't exist."
Jon stared at him blankly.
"By the way, you haven't seen It's a Wonderful Life, have you?"
"Um, no. Why?" Jon said, nonplussed. "Isn't that a Christmas movie?"
He felt thoroughly lost now.
"Oh, no reason," Gerry said with a smirk.
Jon bristled, feeling like he was being made fun of, which did nothing to help his already dismal mood. He stood abruptly and began to walk briskly away.
"Whoa, hey, where are you going?" Gerry called after him, also getting to his feet.
"Home," Jon snapped without turning around.
He was confused and angry now, and simply wanted this bizarre interaction to end. In his distracted state, Jon didn't notice that the noises of the traffic had vanished. Nor did he notice any of the other changes to the city around him. Or the sky.
Jon walked quickly back to the flat he shared with Martin, trying to ignore the figure following him, and the familiar prickling sensation on the back of his neck of being watched.
Finally, he reached the front door. Distantly, he noted that something seemed off about it. Had the peephole always looked like that? Trying to push his discomfort aside, made more difficult by the fact that his hand seemed wrong somehow too, he went to open the door.
Martin wasn’t there.
Nor, in fact, were any of their things. Not the ugly but surprisingly comfortable couch, not their few photos, their small collection of books, or even their mismatched collection of mugs that they both insisted was not, in fact, a collection.
The flat was completely empty.
Panic mounting, Jon ran from room to room, hoping to find something, anything, to explain what was going on. Even if Martin had been furious enough with him to just leave, there was no possible way Jon had been gone long enough for everything to be cleared out like this.
Jon dug in his pockets for his phone. Maybe he could still call him.
Empty.
That’s right, he had forgotten to grab it when he’d left earlier that evening.
Not knowing what to do, Jon turned back towards the front door, and saw Gerry leaning against the door-frame. He didn’t look surprised by the empty flat, but watched Jon with a small, sad smile.
“Did you know about this?” Jon asked, incensed. “Is that why you followed me?”
“I told you, Jon,” Gerry said patiently, “I’m here to help you. This is what you asked for.”
“That doesn’t. Make. Sense. I never asked for this. Even if Martin and I... he wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t.”
Jon tried vainly to squash the thought that that had been exactly what he himself had been about to do.
“Of course he didn’t leave,” Gerry said. “Martin Blackwood never lived here to begin with.”
This was a preposterous statement, but as Jon opened his mouth to protest, Gerry cut him off.
“And you did ask for this. You wanted a world where Jonathan Sims never existed. Well here it is. Don’t blame me if you don’t like it,” he finished with a shrug.
“I’m still here, though,” Jon said, waving his hands in frustration. “How can I not exist when I’m right here?”
As he spoke, he noticed again that something seemed off about his hands. This time, he realised what it was, and wondered how he had possibly missed it before.
His burn scar, the Desolation’s mark left by Jude Perry, was gone.
A quick look revealed that his scars from Prentiss’s attack were gone as well, and Jon suspected that if he looked in the mirror, he would no longer see the line across his throat left by Daisy’s knife.
“Like I said,” Gerry repeated softly, “you never existed, so none of it ever happened. Not to you at least.”
Jon’s legs felt weak, and he grabbed at the door to help keep his balance.
“Guess that means you can do whatever you want to now. No responsibilities, no one telling you what to do or how to think. Pretty good deal, except for, you know....”
As Gerry trailed off meaningfully, Jon followed his gaze to the open front door, and knew with a sickening lurch why it too had seemed wrong before.
Their flat didn’t have a peephole.
It certainly didn’t have one that seemed to watch with a large, dark eye even without someone on the other side.
Feeling as though he were moving through a dream, or a nightmare, Jon slowly walked into the hall, and yes, there were the cameras, whirring and staring at him from either end. Watching him.
He stumbled back into the flat, but the prickling gaze on the back of his neck only seemed to intensify. Slowly, he moved to the window, dread pooling in his stomach as he hoped vainly to be wrong about what he was about to see.
Jon looked outside, and the sky looked back.
The apocalypse had returned, and the Fears with it. Tears streamed down Jon’s face as he looked out over London, plunged once again into fear and terror and endless suffering. He couldn’t breathe. In the distance, the Panopticon loomed over it all.
Jon’s legs finally gave out, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap.