Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cough is gentle, at first.

It begins as a tickle in his throat, persistent and irritating. For most of the morning he wonders if somehow he’s developed a food allergy - there were so many different foods to still try, after all, and surely this body had to be allergic to something. Arthur assured him a reaction to something he ate would most likely look very different, so he puts the possibility out of his mind. It could have been a simple, stray annoyance, a side effect of settling into this new form perhaps. He stubbornly spends the remainder of the afternoon refusing to clear his throat in the vain hope it would disappear if he ignored it.

By evening, it grew into a full blown source of frustration. No matter how forcefully he coughed, the sensation remained. A raw inflammation blossomed in his chest, his ribs growing sore with the effort of trying to rid himself of the itch. As night fell he found himself wondering if he were slowly being poisoned. 

“You don’t sound well at all,” Arthur calls from across the room. He pauses his book, fingertips hovering over the last little braille cell in the sentence. “I think you’re growing worse.”

John sits heavily on the couch, practically drooping backwards as he melts into the cushions. “I’m not.”

Though John’s eyes are tightly shut he hears the shifting of Arthur rising from the table in the kitchen. His bare feet shuffle lightly along the carpet as he makes his way over, eventually coming to a stop right in front of him. A cool palm rests across his forehead, brushing back a few wayward strands of deep black hair.

“You’re burning up,” Arthur murmurs. His hand cups the side of John’s face, gently coaxing his chin up off his chest. Against his will his eyes flicker back open, glancing up at the thin figure silhouetted by the living room’s lamplight. Arthur stared sightlessly back at him, lips curving down in a tight frown.

“What are you talking about?” John bemoans. “It’s clearly some kind of poisoning.”

“I mean you have a fever, John,” Arthur clarifies. “I think you’re getting sick.”

“Sick?” The exclamation is a snarl between his teeth. “I don’t get sick.”

“Humans get sick, John,” Arthur reminds him. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “You’re one of us now, remember?”

John coughs again. It rattles in his ribcage, raspy and thick. Instinctively he puts a fist to his chest as though he could pull the sensation right out of his lungs and be done with it.

“How could I have gotten sick?” he says, derision dripping off his tongue. “This is ridiculous.”

Arthur takes a seat beside him, careful not to jostle him as another series of coughs ring sharply out from his mouth. He wheezes, drawing in a shaky breath, an ache like a wound rubbed raw throbbing dully in his throat.

“You could have gotten sick anywhere,” Arthur says. He reaches out to sweep the long dark plait back off John’s shoulder, smoothing a hand gently down his spine as he does so. “We don’t exactly know what kind of immune system this body has, much less how it’s going to react to the world over time.”

“So I’m a ticking time bomb,” John scoffs. “Fucking perfect.”

Arthur struggles to stifle a smile. “Could just be the common cold. I saw it often enough with-”

He pauses abruptly, and his smile fades. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We should probably get you in bed though, darling.”

“What good will it do?” John moans. “I can die right here just fine.”

“Well, we need to get your fever down, and you need to rest.” He tugs on John’s elbow, who doesn’t budge.

“Cut my head off, then,” he says morosely. “No head, no fever.”

“Jesus Christ, John.”

“Just leave me here,” John mutters, slouching further into the couch as though he wished to become it. “I’m fine. It’s comfortable.”

“You look like the most uncomfortable man I’ve ever met,” he counters doubtfully.

“You can’t even see me.”

“How do you know?”

John’s head snaps up so quickly he reels from the onslaught of nausea that follows. “Arthur, are you…?

“No, I still can’t see you, John,” he teases, feeling only slightly guilty at the joke. “But I can hear you, and you sound miserable.” 

“I’m fine,” he hisses. “Just leave me to decompose right here.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, a glint of amusement in their empty depths. He tugs again a bit more forcefully, willing John to relent. 

“Come on, you donkey.”

He helps John remove most of his clothes once they’re back in the bedroom, pushing the button down gently off his shoulders until he’s left in a light cotton t-shirt and underwear. What’s more surprising than the deafening silence as he stands there, still as a limp statue, is how he allows Arthur to help him undress without protest.

“You must really be feeling poorly,” Arthur murmurs, concern emanating from him as he settles John down onto the mattress. “Here, just lie back - I’ll go grab you a glass of water.”

He disappears into the hall. John hefts himself down onto the pillow, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling, counting the seconds until he hears the creak of the faucet in the kitchen being shut off. The house is old, built well before the cluster of more modern homes which surrounded it. Something about its architecture or the way the front garden had been overrun with an array of wildflowers appealed to them both. It looked well lived in, well loved. Already possessive of a number of stories to tell, upon which they wanted to make their own.

It also meant the house had its problems: some windows didn’t close all the way, leaving an inch or so open to the elements and a perpetual draft. The fireplace filled the living room with smoke more often than it kept them warm during cooler nights. A peculiar scent filled the kitchen at odd intervals but neither of them could track down its source.

And most of the appliances creaked. It was almost funny, in a sense. In this way he could keep tabs on Arthur as he moved throughout the house during the day, noting his location by the squeal of a rusted door hinge or the angry hiss of water from a leaky faucet. If not for a bit of conversation or hummed verse of wordless song, he moved so silently around him that John worried sometimes if he was even there at all.

“Here,” comes the reassuring voice right above him. John startles, not realizing his eyes had drifted shut again. “This will help.”

“Fuck, you’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Sorry,” says Arthur sheepishly.

He takes the cold glass of water, sniffing disdainfully. All the same he props himself up and takes several long sips, to Arthur’s encouraging satisfaction.

Arthur places the glass on the nightstand, then sits on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on John’s knee. John settles back, another cough wracking his frame.

“This is torture,” he says heavily, rubbing weakly at his neck. “Who devised this?”

Arthur chuckles. “Nature, I suppose, John. A stuffy nose, a sore throat, it’s all part of the human experience.”

“I preferred when you bit my finger off to this,” he retorts. “At least that had a purpose.”

Arthur’s expression grows suddenly serious. He feels John’s forehead again, leaning deliberately into him. 

“Hmm,” he muses, wiping away the beads of sweat on John’s brow. “Could be pneumonia, you know. The black lung.” He pulls the blanket up over John’s legs, tucking him in up to the elbow. “An unidentified plague.”

“Fuck,” John whispers hoarsely, “off.”

Arthur laughs, unable to stop himself. He places an apologetic kiss to the tip of John’s nose, only for him to grimace halfheartedly at the gesture. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I promise you aren’t dying anytime soon.”

“What if I did?” 

“I’d keep you as a Halloween decoration, perhaps,” he answers after some thought. 

“A scarecrow?” John suggests with interest.

“Sure, if that’s what you want. I’ll prop you up in the yard to scare away all the neighborhood children.”

“Thanks.”

Arthur unties the band at the end of John’s hair, allowing the braid he had plaited for him that morning to come undone. He combs his fingers through it quietly, loosening the strands until it all lay around his head on the pillow like a black halo. John murmurs something wordless at the sensation of a hand against his scalp. An acknowledgement of appreciation, Arthur realizes with a smile.

“Arthur?”

“Yes, John?” he says, continuing to brush back flyaways from John’s reddened face.

“How much longer will it be like this?”

“A few days, then you’ll be-”

“A few days?” he exclaims, the force of his distress shaking the bed frame as he shoots up. “ Are you fucking serious? ”

Around three in the morning, the fever worsened. 

Arthur curls next to him, head propped up in one hand, the other resting flat in the center of John’s chest, feeling the uneven waves of his shaky breathing. The helplessness at not actually being able to see him like this is not so easy to ignore, so he begins to trace the outline of his fractured god’s cheekbone, mapping the angles of his face through touch, a pastime he had taken up on many occasions before. He had yet to stop marveling at the fact John now existed as someone concrete and real, a solid form he could share space with, could feel the warmth of now outside of himself. John had tried to describe what he looked like many times, but even through the lens of his usually poetic viewpoint, it wasn’t enough for Arthur to form a proper image in his head.

John mutters in his sleep, weakly turning over. His rest had been fitful for the past hour, but at least it was better than the ceaseless complaining he had taken to for the three hours prior. Despite repeated assurances it was just a bad cold, John had convinced himself he was infected simultaneously with every harrowing and deadly disease known to humankind. He  turns yet again, dragging a tangle of sheets along with him, lost in a private, subdued frenzy. Arthur was reluctant to wake him regardless, staying with the hope he was at least finding respite in whatever dream occupied him.

The room is chilly, victim to that damned half closed window and its draft. Arthur pulled every blanket he could find within the house onto the bed but still John shivers. He’s as close as he can manage without lying on top of him; although, he ponders, that might just keep him still, too. 

“Arthur,” John mumbles suddenly. He sounds fainter than Arthur’s ever heard before.

“Yes? What is it?” he asks quickly, snapping to attention. He adjusts the damp cloth laid across his forehead, flipping it over to the cooler side.

“Arthur,” he repeats, whispering. His right arm is flailing loosely, flopping around as if searching. “Arthur?”

He shifts, worrying at the heat radiating off him. “I’m right here, John.”

“Arthur,” he whispers again. “Can you bring him to me, please?”

“What?”

“Have you seen him?” 

Realization dawns on him, and in spite of the gravity he feels around his concern and the depth of John’s plea, he has to fight hard not to laugh. 

 “I’m right here, idiot,” he tells him fondly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please,” John mumbles. “I want him here when I die.”

“You’ve lost it, officially,” announces Arthur to deaf ears. “You’ve never said please for anything.”

“Arthur…” John’s trailing off, succumbing to an illusion only he could see once more. “Arthur. Arthur.”

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

Arthur wraps one arm around his ribs and almost immediately the shuddering ceases. John lies still, his breathing evening out from a rapid flutter into a melody more akin to a peaceable trance. Head resting on John’s chest, taking in the sound, other hand entangling in his hair, he experiences a fleeting sensation of guilt. How nice it was to take care of someone again, even if they were suffering for the benefit of his empathetic gratification. 

“I shouldn’t be enjoying this, John,” he says. “I’m not, really. I don’t like seeing you so ill, but I guess I missed having opportunities to make someone else feel cared for.”

“Mm,” John says wordlessly. Arthur feels the rumble against his ear. 

“I’m not going to tell you this, obviously,” he adds, smiling to himself. “You’re already insufferable.”

“Arthur.”

“I wanted to feel like I had a home so… desperately after, well… after she was gone,” he continues, drifting briefly backwards into a part of his life he could never return to. “I never could quite get it right. It was easier to try and give that experience to others rather than focus on finding it in myself.”

“Arthur?”

“I’m right here, John, don’t worry,” he hurriedly interjects. 

John puts a hand on his shoulder. He moves as though still buried in his own subconscious and fighting to stay present, pulling Arthur close until they are wrapped together, an intertwined knot of limbs.

“Hush, Arthur,” he mumbles. “You’re rambling. Go to sleep.” 

“I’m rambling?” Arthur stutters out in surprise. He huffs, momentary annoyance swayed by John’s lips brushing along his cheek. 

“Not enjoying my bedtime story?” he asks, burying his face into John’s collarbone. “Ungrateful audience.”

John doesn't answer, already asleep.

“And hopeless, too,” he sighs, breathing in the scent of him, getting comfortable for the night. “Absolutely hopeless.” 

They were in for a long few days.

Chapter Text

Noel stands in the frame of the front doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed in a disconcerting manner John’s never quite come across before now. He’s not intimidated by him - it was difficult to feel subdued by someone so innately kind, who had risked his life to help them in the past - and yet he still couldn’t exactly meet the detective’s searching eye.

“I told you not to jump, John,” he says, tone taking on an uncharacteristic somber hue. 

John doesn’t glance up from where he sits on the couch. Sit wasn’t the correct word, exactly. He’s sprawled there like a loose pile of unfolded laundry, half of him more on top of the coffee table than the cushions, a miserable spill leaking out into his surroundings. It’s not amusing, and it definitely isn’t pathetic, Noel has to convince himself. All the same, despite his overwhelming remorse, attempting to keep his lips pushed into a suitable frown is nearly painful. 

“I didn’t jump,” John bites out. He sounds woozy, swimming weakly in the effects of pain medication given to him hours before. “I… lunged,” he chooses carefully, lifting his head with a dignified sniff. “I dove over to catch him.”

“No, you jumped,” Arthur clarifies from where he stands beside Noel, “and then you missed the rooftop, and you fell over.”

“How would you know?” John asks, disdain falling short of his original intention. “You didn’t see me.”

“I don’t know how else one would clarify the sound of someone’s body slapping into the side of a brick wall one story up,” says Arthur drily. “Except for a fall. ”

John merely grunts, crossing his arms along his chest. “I was trying to help. Fucking shoot me.”

“Where did he pick that one up?” Noel whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Arthur shrugs.

“Been watching too many films, I guess.”

Two out of three pairs of eyes slide to linger on the leg propped up atop the majority of the coffee table’s available space. From right below John’s knee to the middle of his foot, his limb was encased in a wrap of immobilizing cotton and plaster. The stark white shines out like a contrasting beacon among the softer, warmer colors of the living room decor. 

“I told you boys you didn’t have to help,” says Noel, clearing his throat. “I know this case isn’t as exciting as Dreamland abominations and all that, but I didn’t think you’d wanna get this involved.”

“I didn’t think he would get so into it,” admits Arthur under his breath. Since John had finally gotten a body of his own, physical agency was an achievement he celebrated above all else - and it was both a blessing and curse to Arthur, who tried to keep him from acting on said agency whenever and wherever it would likely destroy him. His new corporeal form was taller than Arthur’s own, and certainly much stronger. From John’s perspective, previously trapped within someone’s head, only a hand to claim as his own, it must have felt as though now he was unstoppable. 

“Can we keep calling you the undefeated, kid?” Noel jokes. At John’s glare he promptly dips his chin to stare respectfully at the hem of his overcoat sweeping along the carpet. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist that one.”

“What am I supposed to do?” John demands, echoing the same question he’s been repeating since they had picked him gingerly up off the pavement and had to hurriedly explain legs were not supposed to bend at that angle. “You want me to shamble around for six weeks?”

“I don’t want you to do anything except for rest,” Arthur says thinly. “The doctor is the one who wants you to keep off the leg for six weeks.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John’s head lolls back and he redirects his glare up at the ceiling.

“It’s only a compound fracture,” Noel reminds him. “You ever see bone sticking out of skin? Actually, don't answer that. I’m surprised you didn’t break a few ribs against that wall as well. It could be much worse.”

“I don’t see how,” mutters John, refusing to look at them still.

Noel sighs, turning to face Arthur.

“I really am sorry, kid,” he apologizes for the third instance that same hour. Arthur shakes his head, looking somewhere just beyond Noel’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, Noel. You caught him in the end, right?”

Noel shoves one hand in his pocket, fidgeting. “Yeah. Coming down the fire escape on the other side,” he mumbles.

“Maybe Mister Undefeated here won’t be so eager to jump alleyway gaps between rooftops now.”

John’s voice rings out accusingly. “I heard that.”

“I think he’s just frustrated,” Arthur continues, turning briefly away from the couch in a conspiratorial murmur. “He acted the same way when he was sick a few months back. I’ve never witnessed such agony over a common cold.”

“That’s our John,” Noel agrees, allowing himself to smile. “Dramatic to a fault.”

“Once he figures out how to work around the cast, I’m sure he’ll be less, ah…” he trails off, searching for a more complimentary phrase.

“Less insufferable?” Noel suggests brightly.

Arthur shrugs. “Less intense.”

Noel moves across the entryway towards the couch, taking a brief seat atop the coffee table beside John’s foot. Its various knick knacks and the vase of yellow flowers had been moved temporarily to the kitchen, creating a lovely clutter of color over in the corner which Arthur didn’t mind imagining the look of. It was nice, having things to relocate around now, little bits of familiarity and permanence to decorate this space in promise of a fuller life.

“You’ll be fine, handsome,” Noel insists, gently patting his knee. “I’ve broken a few bones before. It’s not so bad, once you get used to moving around.”

He glances up to Arthur, grinning. “Remind me to tell you two about the time I got run over.”

“By a car?” Arthur inquires with a touch of uneasy concern.

“No, by a horse.”

“What?” John and Arthur exclaim simultaneously. 

Noel taps the side of his nose. “A story for later. Promise.”

He pats John’s knee one final time as he stands back up. “Be kind to Arthur, John,” he says meaningfully. “I know you’re in pain, but he’s only trying to help.”

Lightly kissing Arthur’s cheek as he strolls past on his way back out, one final apology and assurance behind the warm touch of his lips, he turns to add, “I’ll pop by the pharmacy later if you need anything, by the way. Just let me know.”

“Thanks, Noel, I really appreciate, well…” He waves an aimless hand. “This.”

“Takes a village to raise a god fragment. I think that’s what they say, anyways. See ya, doll,” he says with a wink, and closes the door softly behind him.

John stares mutely at Arthur. He turns his head to face him, as if perfectly aware.

“You’ve fallen at least a hundred times I can recall,” John rumbles. “You made it out fine - but the first fall I have, I shatter this stupid body into a thousand separate pieces.”

“Technically just three pieces,” Arthur sighs.

“What if I lose the leg?” he frets.

“You’re not going to lose the leg, John.”

“Who made this collection of, of-” he fumbles, searching for the right word. “Of sinew and blood encapsulated in a sack so fragile?”

“Humans can survive a lot, John,” reminds Arthur as he starts to move over in his direction. “Car crashes, stabbings, starvation.”

“That’s just you.”

“Point is,” he presses on, “some moments in life which seem so unassuming can have consequences far beyond what you imagined.”

“Such as?” says John, haughtily 

“Such as,” he replies pointedly, “trying to leap from one building onto another.”

His expression softens. “I genuinely am sorry, John,” he says, any remaining jest he was trying to inject into the conversation fading away. “I know you were only trying to help. Here-”

Taking a careful seat next to him, he curls gingerly around the parts of him that are safe to touch. Every accidental jostle had Arthur whispering apologies, John wincing in discomfort, but eventually they settle into a position unorthodox and pleasantly sweet. John rests his head on Arthur’s lap, laid out sideways along the couch, all weird angles and disjointed limbs that aren’t sure where to easily put themselves. To Arthur, he felt like a tangle of loosely coiled rope.

“Better?”

John huffs. “Maybe.”

“Thought so,” he replies, leaning down to kiss his forehead. 

“Have you ever broken a bone, Arthur?” John asks after a long moment, beginning to be lulled into complacency by the comfortable silence.

“John, you were there for literally every bone I’ve broken,” says Arthur drily.

“Before we met, I mean.”

He ponders the question, stretching his memory far, far back. “Once,” he admits, shifting to comb his fingers through strands of John’s hair, now a favorite pastime of theirs both. “I think it was related to a case, just like yours. I didn’t jump off a building, though.”

“I didn’t jump,” John hisses, immediately grimacing as he bumps his injured leg at the ankle. “Ow.”

“I don’t remember the details exactly,” he continues, “but I do know it was something stupid I had done. Broke my left forearm nearly in two. Parker didn’t let me live it down for weeks.”

He laughs, soft and reminiscent. “I had the bulkiest cast. Do you know how intimidating a private investigator is with an arm cast?”

“Not very, I can imagine,” John utters, attempting to keep his eyes from fluttering shut as Arthur aimlessly smooths down ebony wisps with a wandering caress.

“Not very, no,” he repeats with amusement. “It was bad cop and broken cop for a while there. I’d linger menacingly in the corner, trying to hide my arm while Parker, well-”

Arthur gently shakes his head. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter, really. I handled it much less elegantly than you, which is saying something indeed.”

“Mm,” John replies dimly. 

“Are you even paying attention?” Arthur laughs again, fingers halting in their hypnotizing work. John immediately complains with a wordless grumble.

“I was enjoying that,” he bemoans. “It’s a nice distraction.”

“Fine, fine,” mutters Arthur airily. “I’ll keep going.”

They listen together to quiet, far off rushes of the occasional car passing by outside, the gleeful clarity of the songbirds milling around the birdfeeder in the front garden. Though that damn draft still hadn’t been fixed, the air which flows through is cool and refreshing, bringing on its breeze scents of the magnolia blooms by the front windows. Arthur continues to stroke his hair, allowing his aim to meander from time to time, tracing the delicate curve of an earlobe or simply letting his hand rest atop John’s head. It is still a wonder, this distinct separation, this ability to tangibly connect. Touch-starved didn’t even begin to describe how desperate for physical affection he had become over the past few years, how empty. John would never properly admit it, he knew, but he felt the exact same way.

“You know,” Arthur muses, and John stirs briefly from his trance to listen. “I can’t remember the last time I took care of someone like this, other than you. Had to be-”

He drops abruptly off. John cranes his neck up to look, recognizing with alarming familiarity the emotional distance settling over his features like cool mist.

“Faroe?” he asks. Instantly he regrets the name as soon as it leaves his lips. 

“Yes,” Arthur answers faintly.

When Arthur doesn’t elaborate he quickly starts to backtrack, mentally scrambling. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I know I promised not to say her name.”

“No, no, John. It’s alright.”

John waits, regretfully as Arthur’s slowed the motion of his hands, now far away in thought. His leg throbs dully, a reminder of pain medicine beginning to wear off and he wonders distantly if Noel really was going to the pharmacy later as he promised.

“She was, ah, four,” says Arthur, sighing heavily. “Just turned, actually.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” John interjects. 

“I want to.” His voice is weightless and small. 

“Okay.”

“She was four,” he continues. “It wasn’t a bad fall. I glanced away for just a second and she had stumbled on the playground in the park at just the wrong angle. Still, she needed a cast for a few weeks.”

A flicker of a subtle smile tugs at his mouth. “Do you know how impossible it is to keep a rambunctious toddler still and indoors so she can heal properly? She was miserable. Couldn’t play, couldn’t really help her dad press the keys on the piano when he was composing. I invented so many games to keep her occupied that summer, all inside or in the back garden. She’d get so frustrated when I told her to slow down, stop running, you’re going to hurt your arm again…”

John stays silent, enraptured by the memory Arthur weaves over them, afraid to break its fragile strands if he moves.

“Anyway, she didn’t like the color of the cast. It was white, like yours, and she had to keep it clean all the time - which meant no digging in the dirt for earthworms, no painting with watercolors. After I’d tuck her in each night, I would come back around later to make sure she was fully asleep, and leave notes to her on the plaster with her markers. Silly little jokes, terribly done drawings of the wildflowers which grew by the abandoned lot around the corner, small patches of bright green or powder blue to liven up the spaces in between. Those were her favorite colors at the time. She’d wake up each morning delighted to see what new piece of art appeared, or lines of poetry she would have me read to her.”

He clears his throat. “I don’t know if she ever knew it was me. Maybe she did,” he admits, turning away so John couldn’t see his eyes. “She loved the tooth fairy. Part of her probably thought it was the same thing. At the end, when they took that cast off, she tried to get the doctor to let her keep it so I could frame it in the living room.”

He laughs, a haunted sound hollowed out with longing. John reaches up and wipes away the wetness trailing down one side of his face with his thumb.

“I bet she knew,” he tells him quietly. It is all he can think to say, and perhaps it’s all he needs to hear.

“Maybe.” Arthur swipes the back of his wrist across his cheek. “Maybe. We should get you to bed, John.”

“It’s hardly mid-day!” John immediately attempts to argue. Both of them allow the clumsy redirection of conversation to fall into place without acknowledgement. 

“Yes, and you’ve just fallen off a building,” Arthur distinctly reminds him. “You should try and sleep. Come on, darling.”

They hobble their way into the bedroom, the blind leading the weak. The symbolism is not lost, but they can’t parse it. Arthur helps him undress for the second time in as many months, and although he has more objections this round they’re spoken without any real malice or discontent. Once in bed, tucked up with the curtains drawn just enough to let a line of sunlight through to see by, John finally feels the day's events and aftermath begin to loom over him like an approaching tidal wave about to crash ashore. 

“I almost caught him,” he says, his pride diminished within the yawn that swiftly follows. 

“I know, John,” Arthur praises absentmindedly, adjusting the blankets, still somewhere far away.

“Arthur?”

He tilts his head. “Hmm?”

“Thanks. For this.”

Appreciation swells through him, building until he thinks he might burst under its pressure. Although he’s wrung thin from the morning, too wired and uneasy to lay down, he crawls into bed next to John anyways. They meet each other halfway, tangling together loosely, unsure where one ended and the other began. Arthur listens to him fall asleep until he loses track of the hour, marking the minutes by each deep exhale. 

When John wakes much later that evening, he opens bleary eyes to a ceiling he doesn’t recognize for a fraction of a second before it all comes flooding back. Arthur is curled up next to him, still as the dead in his slumber and just as cold to the touch. Flipping the blanket over him with a grunt, John spots something marking the length of his cast by the light of the silver half moon.

It’s big and gold and unmistakable, and he has no idea where the marker would have come from. He traces the lines of dried ink, whispering aloud. Arthur’s handwriting was always terrible.

“This too shall pass.”

Chapter Text

“Noel,” implores John hurriedly over the phone, “I need help. I think he’s broken.”

“...What?”

“I think something’s horribly off.”

“What do you mean, kid?” Noel asks, bemused. “Slow down.”

Noel’s voice comes through the other end of the line tinny and distant, likely effects of a bad signal. The complexities of telephones and their inner workings had been explained to him multiple times, but John never quite grasped a full understanding of exactly what a signal represented, much less how it functioned in real time. Wherever Noel was, the number he had given them to call in case of emergencies until he returned must have been a location quite far away, judging by the static.

John cups one hand around the bottom of the receiver, back hunched, facing away from the kitchen. He stands sequestered in the corner by the half-functioning stove, still steaming mug of coffee all but forgotten on the countertop.

“I mean,” he clarifies, obviously agitated even to Noel’s remote ear, “he’s broken. There’s something wrong with him.”

“Wrong with who?”

“Arthur!” John exclaims. Hurriedly he lowers his tone to a hushed whisper. “Who do you think?”

“What has he done this time?” asks Noel. The attempted nonchalance of his joke is lost in his immediately evident concern. “Fallen into a hole again? Between the both of you, you’d think one or the other would have to be functioning at least most of the time.”

Behind him, slumped at the kitchen table, Arthur stirs at the mention of his name. “John?” he calls out, turning his head in the direction of where John hugged the wall. 

“No he didn’t fall,” John spits out, glancing out of the corner of his eye to watch Arthur try and gauge where he was. “I think he’s sick.”

“Sick, how? Tell me what he’s doing.”

“That’s the thing. He’s just… sitting there.”

“Sitting isn’t an illness, John,” Noel says drily.

“I know that. I mean... He just looks off.”

John glances over a second time, fully studying the slouched silhouette barely holding himself up in the chair. His elbows are splayed along the table’s surface, arms askew, head now resting sullenly in one elbow. Mussed hair left uncombed sticks up off the back of his neck, and his clothes hang loose and wrinkled off his frame. He resembles a discarded puppet someone got bored of playing with and tossed into the corner.

“Listen, Noel,” John continues, trying again to keep his concerns to a low murmur. “I’ve seen him bounce back from killing people, from literally dying on me multiple times. I watched it through his own eyes. He’s been gutted, stabbed, had his legs broken, been shot -”

“Jesus-” Noel interrupts briefly.

“And he always comes back eventually. But this is different,” he presses, desperately trying to make Noel understand. “This isn’t some average illness. I don’t think, anyways. How many kinds of diseases do humans even get?”

“Oh, multitudes, John,” Noel says airily. “You’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“But yeah, you’re right. This doesn’t sound like a cold. Have you tried… talking to him?”

“Obviously,” he retorts. “He hasn't been much for it since he got home. He went straight to the kitchen and just sort of… collapsed there.”

“It's barely ten in the morning there, right?” asks Noel. “What, was he out all night?”

John shrugs. “I don't know. When I woke up at four, he wasn't there. I think he muttered something about helping you with a case when he came in?”

“Damnit.” Noel sounds as if he leans back from the phone for a moment before returning. “You know I don't like him going out alone.” 

“Yes, well, obviously neither do I.”

Noel doesn't respond immediately. When he speaks, his reply is tinged with a guilt John swears he can feel weighing down the phone’s wire.

“Tell him he's off, John,” he sighs. “Tell him the case went cold on the civilian front. I don't need his help anymore. It’s all internal now.”

“What?” John raises a brow, sneaking another peek at the table. “You want me to lie to him?”

“I want you to help me protect him,” Noel reasons. “I don't like it either, Johnny boy. But I have the strangest feeling this one might be hitting too close to home for him.”

“You don’t think he’s going to go and hear about it from someone else later? I can’t hide the outcome from him forever.”

“I think,” Noel says heavily, “once we find her, he’ll be okay. But for now, he needs to back off it; and I can’t be there to help you keep him blissfully unaware.” 

“Shouldn’t I just tell him you found her?” John inquires, lowering his voice to a strained whisper.

“No, handsome, you shouldn’t. I can’t lie to him anymore than that.”

“Alright.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

“It'll help him get some rest if he’s not focused on it constantly,” the detective reassures. “I think he's running himself ragged over this.”

Again John glances over. Arthur’s stopped searching for him, head buried back in one arm. The sight fills John with an uneasiness he didn’t believe even the King could draw out of him. 

“Fine,” he says a second time. “When are you coming back, Noel?”

“Soon,” he answers, a smile clear in his tone. “Miss me already?”

“What am I supposed to-”

"Do?” He chuckles through a burst of static. “What he's done for you any time you've been tired or sick. Think about it, kid.”

They part with a promise to check in later. John clicks the phone’s receiver back into place and moves quietly across the kitchen. When he places a hand on the top of Arthur’s head, he doesn’t stir.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” One bleary eye blinks open. 

“Wake up, Arthur.”

He lifts himself up, rubbing a hand sleepily across his pale face. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. How’s Noel?”

“Uh,” John stutters, taking a step back. “He’s okay. He says he misses us.”

“Mm.”

“He said, well…” John winces as he takes a seat next to Arthur, fully absorbing the haunted set of his expression, the apathy in the curve of his frown. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to need our assistance any longer. With this case, I mean.”

“Oh.”

Arthur is silent. Too long for John’s liking, who after a burst of nervous impatience can’t restrain himself from coaxing Arthur’s chin up with a careful grip until they’re eye to sightless eye.

“Arthur.”

“Sorry John, I’m just-” He watches him swallow thickly, thoughts a thousand miles away. “Disappointed, I guess.”

“Noel says it’s not us,” John is quick to infer. “There’s nothing else we could do on our end. He called it a cold case.”

“God damn it.” He sighs, and John lets him go. “That's why I was out, you know. I'm sorry, by the way,” he adds softly. “Didn't mean to worry you, but I didn't want to wake you either. I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk and got a little lost.”

He attempts a laugh, but it dies as soon as it touches his lips. “Flagged down a cab eventually to take me back here. It was easier getting around when you were in my head, you know?”

“You left the cane here, Arthur,” John says darkly, fragmented between displaying his frustration and wrapping the man across from him up into his arms for the next three hours until he complained he was going numb. Perhaps he could do a little of both. “I had no way to tell where you had gone.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't really thinking, I just kept imagining where she might be, where she might have gone, and I didn't - I couldn't sit still. I had to move.” 

John reaches over and places a hand atop one of Arthur’s own. It's strange, interacting with a part of someone else's body that briefly belonged to you. He watches regret linger in his gaze, thinking how grateful he is to finally see those eyes from the other side. Unsure what to say, he decides on nothing at all, wondering back at Noel’s advice over the phone.

“You did everything you could, Arthur,” he pointedly reminds him. “I know Noel is grateful for any help we gave him. This is not our problem to solve.”

“No,” he says slowly, only half convinced, “I guess it isn't. I kept thinking if I were - If I helped-”

But he can't get the words out. John rises from the table, tugging at Arthur's sleeve.

“Come on. You need sleep. You're practically falling out of the chair.” 

He watches, fascinated, at the obvious inclination to argue against him wrestle with the desire to give in. Unfortunately, to his detriment, the stubborn streak wins out.

“I'm fine, John, honestly,” he says, pulling away from him. “I just need some time. Did you make coffee? That'll help.” 

He moves as though to stand and make for the kitchen counter, but John neatly pushes him back down into the chair with a bewildered puff of air. 

“John, what are you doing?” he asks. 

“Taking some recent advice to heart.”

“What?”

“You need to lie down, Arthur,” John says with a glint in his eye he knows is wasted. “You're exhausted, you haven't slept properly in days. I'm not taking no for an answer.”

“I'm not a child, John,” he retorts, trying and failing to stand up again, this time due to the give of his own legs. “I'll go sit on the couch.”

“No,” John says airily, “I don't think you will.”

“Will you just - hey!”

Lifting Arthur up out of the chair as unceremoniously as hefting a sack of flour up off the floor, he tosses him neatly over his shoulder. He struggles in John's grip, but it's useless - his hold is too firm, and Arthur's muscles are too worn thin for him to do anything more than let out a few choice curses. 

“You're being ridiculous,” Arthur tries to plead as he's carried into the living room towards the hall, draped like a ragdoll. “Can you fucking put me down? Please?”

“Sure,” John says, only a small sliver of remorse in his self satisfied grin. “I will, right here.”

And he flips him gently over onto the bed.

As soon as he hits the sheets, he starts scrabbling for purchase along the fabric, gripping handfuls of the duvet in preparation for an escape. John is quicker - as Arthur rolls to one side he lays the length of his entire body on top of him, pinning him in place. The weight is no match for him. They may as well have been a pouncing spider and doomed fly, entwined together in a death match. Arthur weakly scrambles against him, now twisted up in the sheets and part of his own coat slipping off his shoulders. It doesn't last long. After a moment of pointless agonizing, all the fight seeps out of him and he goes completely still.

“I hate you,” John hears, muffled against his neck. “Get off me.”

“Are you going to move?”

“I said no,” Arthur bites out thinly. His eyes are closed, and he's breathing far too heavily. That spark of remorse blossoms fully into regret and John climbs off him without further pressuring. 

“Jesus Christ,” hisses Arthur, wincing. “Why did your body have to be built like a brick wall?” 

John shrugs, gazing down at him. “To keep you in one piece, I’m guessing.”

Settling gingerly on the edge of the bed, John begins to try and pry the overcoat off him. Arthur stubbornly refuses to assist, making the manipulation of his limbs that much more difficult. John grunts as he finally slips the coat off and tosses it to the floor by his feet. 

“Aren’t you a romantic,” Arthur mutters, head still turned away from him. “Undressing me as kindly as possible, and we haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“I’m trying to make you comfortable,” John snaps, exasperated. “This is what you did for me.” Then, in a softer, hesitant voice: “Do you… want breakfast? I can make us something.”

“No, John.” Arthur smiles ruefully and attempts to sit up, arms trembling at the elbows as he does so. John quickly props up a pillow behind him, which he sinks gratefully back into. “I’m being an ass.”

“Oh.” John blinks. 

“Here, let me at least try and help you.”

Together they manage to shed most of his clothing. After nudging the pile into the corner with a promise it was definitely properly placed in the laundry hamper, he closes the bedroom curtains and takes his place next to Arthur once more.

Interesting how history had a habit of not only repeating, but of reflecting the mirror image of itself, he muses as he watches Arthur struggle to slip under the blanket in the near darkness. Twice now he had been on the other side of this same set of circumstances, albeit for different reasons, and twice Arthur had displayed a boundless kindness John still felt he didn't wholly deserve. Was this merely a previously undiscovered facet of human nature? A back and forth of spontaneous sickness and gratifying health, taking comfort and peace in the fact you had someone to lean on when you were falling?

Maybe he had been too hard on him just now, he thinks. He listens pensively to the hollow breath echoing out from winded lungs as Arthur finally falls still.

“Was I this difficult,” John asks, “when I was ill?”

“Oh, far worse,” Arthur says. His head is facing towards him now, a reluctant gesture of a truce. He always appeared smaller without his usual coat or tie, narrower somehow, and lesser still as he was at the moment, all scrunched up in bed. “You were misery incarnate, I'd say.”

“At least I stayed put,” John retorts. 

“For the most part, although it’s hard to go far with a broken leg.”

Studying his unwilling patient, Noel’s advice comes back to him. “Can I… do anything for you, Arthur?” he offers.

The surprised smile which answers is far more rewarding than any sense of satisfaction he may have received from eventually getting Arthur to lie down. It lights the pallor of his cheeks, inquisitive, delighted and perplexed all at once. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean-” he sighs heavily. “Can I get you anything? Water, food, a - a comb.”

A peculiar amused gleam shines in Arthur’s eyes. “A what?”

“Your hair is a mess.”

He can’t help but laugh, even as it rasps out into a strained cough within sore ribs. “You don’t know what to do with me now, do you?” he teases.

“No,” John scowls, clearly affronted. “I mean, yes. Fuck. I’ve never been on the other end of this, okay? I’m trying, Arthur. I can actually help you now instead of just offering suggestions from within your own head, limited to one hand, and it’s - it’s too much.”

“Ah,” Arthur hums. His smile fades. What rigidity remains in his muscles relinquishes itself, and his touch is soft as he slides his fingers into the open palm resting on John’s knee. The gesture is reciprocated after a moment, albeit with a begrudging squeeze.

“I’m sorry, John,” he apologizes, dipping his chin. “I don’t mean to make light of what you’re doing here. I’m grateful for your help; you know that, yeah?”

“I wanted to repeat what you did for me,” John admits, turning over their intertwined hands, studying the scarred backs of Arthur’s knuckles. “You just make it look so easy. You hardly had to think of what to do next.”

“Well,” Arthur says, a flicker of that humor returning, “I had quite a bit of practice for a while there.”

It’s John’s turn to lower his head, appropriately chastised. “Oh. Right.”

As if sensing John had glanced away, Arthur untangles their fingers and leans unsteadily over to coax his head up; again time mirrors itself. “It’s okay, John,” he says. “Taking care of something - someone - takes practice. You’re not going to get it perfectly on the first attempt. You’re trying,” he adds sincerely. “That’s all that matters.”

“Did you ever… mess up? With her?” John forces himself to say, although he knows he probably shouldn’t.

Arthur merely nods. “Oh, yes. Anytime she was sick I couldn’t leave her alone. I think she got tired of me near the end of every cold she ever had. Always present, always asking what I could bring her.”

“Sounds smothering,” John says before he can stop himself. “I mean… nice.”

“I’m going to smother you with this pillow,” Arthur says, and John’s uncertain if he’s meant it playfully or not. Being constantly surrounded by someone who wanted to help did sound favorable, in a way. If it was similar to how Arthur had nursed him back to health in the past, she had been lucky to be on the receiving end of that devotion.

“It was nice, though, while I was…” He clears his throat, continuing, sounding fairly distant for a brief, inscrutable moment. “I did it for so long I forgot what it was like to be cared for in return.”

“I guess we’re both at a loss then here,” murmurs John. 

“I guess so,” Arthur agrees. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“I know what you can do for me, actually,” he says, fidgeting with the pinky finger of his left hand. “Can you stay?”

“Home? I wasn't planning on leaving you alone, Arthur.”

“No, I mean here.” His tone is shy as he pats the empty side of the bed, hopeful like they hadn’t shared this space a hundred times before, hadn’t been warmed by the heat of the other beneath these sheets - but John is already climbing gingerly over him. 

Despite its humble repetition, a dance through that same nameless waltz, each iteration of its steps was no less special or new. John lies quietly beside him, enough of a respectful distance between them to allow Arthur to come to him, if he wished. He thinks of the way Arthur often ran his fingers through his hair and reaches over to do the same, knowing he's made the right choice when he hears a soft, thankful exhale. 

They stay this way for some time, John beginning to realize with each stroke through tousled locks that Arthur wasn't going to try and run again. He shuffles closer, their bodies now faintly touching, comforted by the presence of each other.

“John?” he pipes up.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Do you think she'll be alright?”

John shifts. Although the curtains were closed, a fair bit of early morning light slipped through, casting an arrangement of scattered golden shadows along the walls and floor. He catches Arthur staring emptily up at the ceiling, half of him etched in that hazy, dim glow. At John's tentative touch he finally turns, rolling over, allowing himself to be caught up in waiting arms. 

John rests his chin atop Arthur's head as he cradles him close. It is his favorite place to be, a makeshift shelter providing safe haven for as long as he was wanted. Arthur sighs into his chest, stretching out alongside him, enveloped by his touch.

“I don't know,” John tells him honestly. “I do know she's in good care under Noel. Humans - regular ones, anyways - don't just disappear. Do they?” 

A half-snort of pained laughter sounds muffled into his shirt. 

“Not usually. I shouldn't have offered to help,” Arthur whispers. “What could I have done?” 

“Arthur,” says John, carefully cutting off the line of thought before it ran wild. “Not every burden is yours to bear.” 

“I kept thinking of -”

“I know.” He cuts him off. “I imagine it’s difficult not to.”

“I’m just so - fucking hell, John, I’m just so goddamned tired !” he exclaims, the force behind his words lost in the way they rasp out from his mouth, and John doesn’t even have to wonder where this is coming from, where it’s been building up all this time. He holds him tighter, sliding his hand down Arthur’s spine, trying to smooth out the trembling gathering there beneath the skin. He feels as fragile as a bird, bones lighter than air, threatening to fly away from him.

Arthur inhales, and for one frantic second John thinks he’s going to shove him wildly away. Instead he’s reaching up to wipe at his eyes, all of his pent up exhaustion and agitation flowing brokenly now down his face.

“Arthur,” John murmurs firmly, “this isn’t on you. You didn’t cause this. Her life is not Faroe’s life - do you understand?”

“I kept thinking,” he sniffs, his voice breaking apart, “somehow if I could help Noel find that girl, it would make up for- for-”

But he can’t say it. He lets out a weak sob and buries his head. From John’s perspective, he doesn’t have to say anything more. The damage is done, the heart of it all laid bare.

“Arthur,” he begins, choosing what to say carefully. Arthur shudders at the sound of his name, clinging despondently to him, quickly wiping a few more tears before they can leak onto John’s shirt.

“What?” He sounded so small.

“Listen, I don’t-” He groans at his own inadequacy here and tries anew. “Fuck. I was the King in Yellow, right?”

“What?” Arthur repeats in confusion. “Y-yes?”

“I was the King for the longest time,” John continues, wondering where he himself was going, but feeling as though he was developing a hunch. “I don’t know how long; eons, maybe. I did unspeakable things, Arthur. Tortured thousands, played a role in the death of countless others. I incited so many to madness; and while I’m unable to remember most of it, the things I did will continue to stick with me for as long as I’m alive in this reality. Perhaps even after, in the Dark World.”

He holds back a grimace. Arthur says nothing, sniffing once more.

“When I was the King, I held a high amount of pride for these deeds,” he admits softly. “I’ll have to live with the memory of that pride forever. But who I am now, what I’ve worked to become, mostly in part of you - no, don’t argue,” he adds as Arthur tries to speak. “What I’ve become is no less worthwhile because of what I’ve done in the past. Do you understand?”

“I… think?” Arthur offers, still puzzled. At least the majority of his tears have slowed.

“I’m saying that even despite those centuries of mistakes, I try not to draw parallels between everything that comes my way now, and what I used to be. Neither of us can sustain ourselves living in a time that doesn’t exist any longer.”

He kisses the top of Arthur’s head, and the gesture is so genuine, so without need for anything in return, Arthur is at a loss on how to react entirely. John rubs a finger below both his eyes, clearing away the salty dampness gathered there. 

“When did you get so wise?” is all Arthur manages to choke out, and suddenly he’s laughing, a haggard, empty sound, his face scrunching up. “Where’s all this humanity coming from, hmm? Where have you been hiding it?”

John tries to shrug, suddenly abashed, but the movement doesn’t quite transfer well lying down. “It came from you, mostly. Noel, Oscar, Marie. Lily. But yes, mostly you.”

“John, I’m… touched,” he says in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” he replies soothingly into his ear. “And stop trying to defend yourself from the faults you’ve been carrying around like dead weight.”

“It’s not that simple, John,” Arthur whispers.

“It isn’t, no. We’ll get there eventually, even if we end up taking the long way around.”

Another press of lips to his forehead, another fingertip brushing along his cheeks. Arthur’s limbs let go of that last bit of energy he had been fighting to possess. His eyelids grow heavy, the inevitable collapse of burnout descending hungrily upon him. Breathing steadying under the lasting impression of John’s advice, he allows his eyes to close fully as he sinks into the patiently waiting embrace of a comforting darkness just outside of his thoughts.

“Sleep, Arthur,” John says. Slumber hangs sweetly over him too, the hours of worry over Arthur’s disappearance and subsequent breakdown catching up to him. “It will all remain when you wake.”

In their tiny bedroom with the breezy draft and the rising mid-morning sun creeping higher in the sky beyond the drawn window, they drift off together. He wasn’t perfect at this by any means, John thinks to himself - perhaps he wasn’t even good. But knowing he had helped, if at least a meager amount, did invoke a sense of strange gratification which asked for nothing in return, a deep desire to keep him safe. At least when it came to caring for another, he had someone to learn from, and plenty of coming years in which to practice.

Chapter Text

John turns into the brick building with a growing sense of trepidation he had been unable to shake from the phone call just thirty minutes prior.

Phone calls from Noel always seemed to vary wildly. Either it was a pleasant, banter filled conversation between the two of them, perhaps all three depending on who was around to talk, usually culminating in a promise to meet up the next time they all were able; or it was the type of exchange where he without warning delivered a piece of news that set their minds spinning, his voice low and serious, no room for aimless chatter in the midst. 

The most recent had been one of the latter, and John’s all too human heart had felt crushed in a vice he couldn’t twist out from since.

“I need you to come down here now,” Noel had told him over the line as soon as he picked up. “It’s urgent.”

“Noel?” John asked, staring blankly at the kitchen wall. “Come where?”

“The station, kid,” Noel said, as if this were obvious. “Right now.”

“What? Why?” John pressed, but no one was there to give him an answer. The line clicked off on the other end, leaving him listening to dead air.

Naturally, he wasted no time in doing as requested, even if his apprehension began to boil over into frustration. The phone wasn’t going anywhere, he thought to himself as he slid on a pair of shoes and closed the door of their home behind him. He could have stayed on another second or two to properly explain. 

He makes a beeline for the station with only one wrong turn in the midst of the map he had worked to craft so carefully in his head. The city was endless, a mass of sprawling streets and ever growing towers which reached up towards the sky like glass monoliths, fingers of steel and concrete grasping at intangible swaths of cloudy blue. It had taken both he and Arthur a few months to understand its layout, getting lost on an average of once a week. Arthur became the expert at sheepishly asking for directions, while John was content to go exploring until he found the path back home. More than once they had stood on many of these crowded intersections, arguing passionately about which way to go.

But he knows it well enough now. The station isn’t far, conveniently, and his long legs carry him quickly over the roughly paved sidewalks. A few people cast wary glances from the corners of their eyes as he passes, wondering at the hard set of his jaw and the steel in his glare as he stares dead ahead. He pays them no mind. 

His hands are all but knots in the pockets of his coat as he slips through the station’s front door. 

It’s one of the smaller buildings in the precinct, Noel had told them both once. Fine for a slow day, yet nearly impossible to get anything done when more than a handful of people needed to cooperate together. Upon entering, John begins to understand what he meant. 

He had been here just once with Arthur on a whim. Arthur’s desire to see the place through John’s eyes meant the two of them stood next to Noel as John described it once warm afternoon, trying and failing to match Arthur’s enthusiasm with what he considered personally to be a dull office building. The second time around, its atmosphere strikes him a little differently. The room opens up into an office space littered with desks organized into small quadrants, occupied by more people John had ever seen in one small space. He presses his back to the door instinctively as soon as it closes behind him, wood furnishings, stacks of papers and the scent of coffee brewed some time ago blending together into a sensory clamor that leaves him abruptly overwhelmed.

Everyone’s too busy, focused on their own individual tasks to notice him. He considers this a blessing as he begins to creep inward, sidestepping a group of men in suits to force his way through the din.

It isn’t Noel’s insistence which worries him on its own. Arthur was somewhere here as well. The two had left earlier in the day, Noel swinging by to pick Arthur up for what he teased was likely to be a nice surprise for them all, if everything worked out in the end. He refused to tell both of them what that meant, though his wink at John upon departing, a nervously apprehensive Arthur in tow, carried an entirely different sentiment than what came through in his tone over the phone.

Only a week had passed since John woke to find Arthur collapsed at their kitchen table, and though he appeared to be getting better as the days went on, John still caught himself worrying at the circles beneath his eyes. He had stoically avoided engaging with any piece of news related to the case, much to John’s guilty satisfaction. It was for his own good, they both said. Running himself ragged over what he couldn’t control just to feed a flame caught perpetually in the past would only hurt him farther in the long run.

You can’t move forward if you’re always trying to drown, John told him one night, Arthur curled up in his arms. It isn’t healing, it’s obsessing - something each of them had been struggling with in their own separate way. Neither had known what to say once the words left John’s lips, so they spent the remainder of their waking hour listening to the other breathe, John counting each rise and fall of Arthur’s chest until he fell asleep.

Much of John’s approach in trying to get Arthur back into a better mood had been repeating what was done for his own illnesses in the past: plenty of rest, keep him relatively still, make sure he knew he was safe. The level of patience required wasn’t innate, but it came naturally where Arthur was concerned all the same. Almost as though he were giving back what he had learned from the very beginning.

Sighing, he pushes his way farther in. The atmosphere, he notes as he begins to study his surroundings more closely, is brimming with excitement. Men exchange grins and hearty handshakes throughout the room, displaying clear signs of relief. Beyond that surges a quiet undercurrent of joy, no less impactful for its subtlety.

Past this front area he knew a few hallways ran through the back of the building, plus a handful of cells hidden from the public view. He doubted the two were anywhere back there. John’s eyes roam the sea of heads, trying in vain to pick out Noel’s familiar hat or the reddish gold glint of Arthur’s hair, before a voice calls out his name.

“John!” 

He twists to the side. Noel’s arm is waving at him above a grouping of people leaning against a cluttered desk. Weaving through with a pointed elbow or two to aid his progress, he emerges on the other side into a space somewhat sequestered away from the rest of the crowd.

Noel’s tiny corner office, he realizes once he stands next to it. Truthfully, it’s less of an office and more of a singular desk, but the half organized jumble which lay atop it feels distinctly like him all the same.

“John!” Noel repeats, an eager gleam in his eye. He moves forward instantly to wrap him in a hug. John exhales sharply in surprise as warm arms wrap around him, holding him close for a few perplexing seconds he wished were infinitely longer. The grin on his face when he pulls away has John more confused than ever, lost in the faint scent of smoke and wool.

“Why the fuck am I here?” he says, not unkindly, staring intently at the detective. “Why did you call me so urgently?”

“You can’t come visit me on a weekday for no reason?” Noel asks him cheerfully. “I’m heartbroken.”

“Noel.” John fixes him with a deadpan stare. “You called me. Why am I here, with all these other people?”

“Sorry, Johnny boy, I didn’t know how else to get you here so fast. Parents are on their way soon. We wanted to show you something,” Noel tells him.

John blinks. “We?”

“Sweetheart,” says Arthur’s voice, just behind him.

He turns around. 

Arthur stands a few feet away, tucked almost into the back left corner of the station’s front room, somewhat behind Noel’s desk on the opposite side. John hurriedly studies his face, searching for any sign of injury or distress, and comes away bafflingly empty. Arthur’s smiling at him, the curve of his mouth soft and tired. It takes John another long second entirely to focus on who he’s holding.

“Hi,” says the girl tucked against Arthur’s hip. The noise around them begins to fall away, reduced to a hazy background murmur just out of John’s reach. He swallows thickly, glancing from Arthur to Noel and then back to the tiny thing now looking shyly up at him.

“You found her?” he breathes out. “Noel, you - I don’t -”

Arthur’s smile widens by a fraction. He gives a tiny bounce of his arm and the girl giggles, but her gaze is still locked solidly on John.

“Case closed, boys,” Noel says softly. One hand squeezes John’s shoulder. “Guess you can sleep easy now, huh? Most of us are going to, anyway.”

John takes another long, scrutinizing look. Noel was noticeably thinner than the last time he had seen him, pale and drawn. Hair unbrushed and clearly slept on peeks out in tousled curls from the side of his hat, and although his entire body sagged under a weight John could certainly put a name to if he tried, the expression which danced across his face was brighter than John had ever witnessed.

Arthur, in comparison to Noel’s buzzing enthusiasm, is unusually quiet. John watches him say something to the child he held dearly to him like he was afraid she would disappear if his grip loosened by a fragment, laughing when she giggles again in response. He seemed so natural standing there with her, John thinks, at ease, his hands exactly where they needed to be. Though he faces both the detective and John it’s clear who has his full attention.

“Noel found her,” Arthur announces after a moment. “Last place anyone would look, too.”

“I’m not taking all the credit,” Noel says, flushing. “It was a group effort. You two definitely helped to further things along.”

She was clearly bedraggled, clothes torn, thinner than the photos in the missing posters John had seen pasted at every corner. Yet she grinned up at the three of them all the same, weary, but delighted by the general commotion around her.

“This is John,” Arthur tells her, moving closer. “He helped Noel find you.”

“Hi, John,” she says dutifully, fidgeting with one of Arthur’s sleeves. 

“Um. Hello,” he replies stiffly. 

“John took care of me while we searched for you,” Arthur adds, tilting his head meaningfully in John’s direction. “He got a lot of good practice in, too. Said I was a bit insufferable, but I don't mind.”

The child looks from Arthur to John and slowly reaches two arms out. Noel grins when John doesn’t react. 

“She wants you to pick her up, John.”

“Oh,” he says. “I won’t hurt her?”

“Kids are small, not breakable,” Arthur chuckles. “Here, let me show you.”

Arthur stands next to him, gently coaxing John’s arm up with an encouraging nod. Once settled in John’s careful grip, she wraps one tiny arm around the back of his neck, glancing back to Arthur tentatively as if for approval. 

“She weighs almost nothing,” John comments in wonder, watching as she begins to fiddle with strands of his hair that had come loose from their tie. “It’s like holding a slip of paper.”

“They get heavier the longer you hold them,” Arthur jokes, sounding fond. “Don’t let her fool you. In a few minutes she’ll weigh more than me.”

"Well, that's not saying much."

"Shush," Arthur says out of the corner of his mouth.

“Your hair is nice,” the girl comments absently, thoroughly fixated on the black locks slipping through her fingers. She's fully leaning against him now, investigating the curve of one ear. “Like the silk of a dress.”

“Thanks?” he says, brow furrowed. Arthur grins.

“I didn’t get a compliment,” Noel pouts, causing her to smile in his direction. “What’s the deal, hm?”

"Hat is crooked," she says, pointing, to which Noel only grins wider.

"I'll take such high praise to my grave, kid."

“Arthur,” John adds in a whisper, feeling more gentle tugs against his scalp. “Am I doing this correctly?”

"Oh, not at all," Arthur says, voice dropping dramatically.

"What?"

He puts a placating hand on John's arm, smiling guiltily. “I'm joking, darling. You’re doing just fine. She seems content, anyhow.”

"Pretty," she says, again indicating John's head. "Did you grow it yourself?"

“If you boys will excuse me for a minute,” says Noel suddenly, brushing gently against Arthur as he passes between them, tucking his hat low over his eyes. “I’ll go check if her parents are here. It’s impossible to find anyone in this place right now.”

John lets him go, eyebrows raised, wincing as little fingers twist several strands into a makeshift braid. “Is he-”

“Yep,” Arthur says. “So obvious to see through he’s practically transparent.”

She’s picked up with no small amount of fanfare. John listens to grown men cheer as the parents arrive, Noel having to push, blushing, through rounds of applause as he shows them through. How interesting was the inherent condition of human empathy, he muses. As soon as they spot her there’s a flood of tears, and John hands her back over into her mother’s waiting arms. It’s clear she’s still too young to understand exactly what’s happened to her, but possibly that was for the best. The three of them watch her be carried through the station’s door after a flurry of heartfelt thanks from both parents, Noel following to see them off. She waves over her mother’s shoulder as she goes.

The way Arthur holds himself, lingering in the echo of that unoccupied space just above his hip, is noticeably empty now. John reaches over and brushes the knuckles of his hand against Arthur’s wrist, gratified when their fingers interlace.

“Are you alright?” he says into Arthur’s ear. They were invisible once more, tucked away in the corner, partially shielded from any prying glances.

“Surprisingly?” Arthur says thoughtfully, leaning against John’s shoulder. “Yes. Thanks to you, mostly.”

“I didn’t find her,” John retorts self-consciously. “I can’t take any credit.”

“You absolutely can.” Arthur sounds resolute. “I meant what I said, earlier. Thank you. For caring so much, about me, about-”

The kiss is so quick Arthur thinks later he must have dreamt it, but sure enough he feels John’s lips ghost across one cheek, leaving a spark of warmth that blooms until he’s flushed pink.

“Before you ask, no one’s looking,” John murmurs. “And you’re welcome, Arthur. I did learn from the best, after all.”