Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

John had thought he'd moved onto the acceptance phase of grief. As it turned out, he was still bargaining.

Arthur was gone. Arthur had been gone for a while now. Long enough to miss a new year turning, but not long enough for John to see flower sprout up from the thick, ashen snow that had been falling in heaps for weeks. Not long enough for John to forget his voice either.

Of course, that would be difficult, seeing as John was currently using it.

He tried not to. He really, truly did, but he needed to communicate with people somehow. He needed to get food, and an apartment, and a job, and somehow that had landed him square in Arkham, where they'd began. He'd spun some story or another about the Butcher, from what little he'd gathered about Elijah Strong's encounter with him and, somehow, he'd been left alone.

Utterly alone.

So he stayed in the office where they'd first met, and ignored the closet they'd stashed Parker's body into within five minutes of knowing eachother, and he tried to stay the fuck out of any supernatural cases. But much like with trying to avoid Arthur's voice, sometimes it proved impossible.

It was a case of drowning. Perfectly normal, provided the person was near a river. Less so on their living room floor. Originally, the concerned neighbour had phoned the police, who decided to quietly pass it onto him. Arkham's police department probably had a whole desk just full of "cults maybe" cases that they either never bothered to crack open, or tossed to whoever was stupid enough to take them.

John certainly felt stupid, standing in the crammed living room next to a corpse. The curtains were drawn, and the candles strewn about had long burned out, leaving only the flickering bulb above him. What might have been markings on the floor once was now a pale, chalky wash across waterlogged floorboards, deeming it utterly useless. At least, he sincerely hoped it was water. Much like the body next to him, the wood had long bloated, far darker in colour than the rest of the boards, as though it had soaked up coal along with whatever sludge or monstrosity had come from the ritual.

A heavy smell sat in the air, one John couldn't quite pinpoint. It wasn't rot, that one he was all too familiar with. Salt coated his tongue, stinging lips cracked from the cold. Carefully, John knelt down, grateful for gloves as he rolled the body over, and something sloshed onto the bare boards below.

The man had been crying when he died. Thick, dark streaks ran down his face, a near-black film painting over his eyes. Blue lips, parted with rigor mortis, revealed a murky liquid filled his mouth and throat. John was willing to bet it ran deeper, all the way into the poor man's lungs, into every crany of his body. He couldn't spot any signs of a struggle, but he'd have been surprised if there was one. No signs of tentacles, no yellow, no pools of blood, no cloying patches of darkness. That ruled out a few of his kind, but nowhere near enough for John to feel at ease. How many of them knew about him? How many would bother to hunt him down out of sheer pettiness if he started meddling in their affairs?

John sighed, casting a glance around the room. It was small, with peeling wallpaper like scabs and barely a couch. A wilting potted plant sat on a windowsill, and he could hardly use it as a witness. The sigils weren't of any use either, but maybe there were at least some clues. Arthur had once told him he was one of Arkham's best. Now John wore his skin and used his name, and he had to live up to that, damn it. The body wasn't likely to yield much, not enough to justify living through it anyway, and he'd rather let a coroner deal with it. The objects used for the ritual, though... well, candles were pretty standard, but there had to be more. A sacrifice, a mask, a book of some sort. John tried not to think about the possibility that whatever it was, might have also made away with the tome, because that meant he'd have a whole lot of a bigger problem, or another fucking family reunion. Those always went so excellently for him.

He pulled himself into a crouch, shifting closer to the centre of the washed up, chalky mess. The smell still lingered, dark and noticeable even after acclimating to the room, its scent just slipping his mind. Not quite like cigarette smoke, yet equally prone to clinging to his – Arthur's – hair and clothes, like a foul shroud. He shook his head, like it could get the oppressive air off. Power always left a trace, and he'd be lucky if this was the worst of it. He snapped his attention back to the floorboards, but any evidence was ruined beyond repair. A notepad sat in his pocket, but he didn't even bother pulling it out. John had learned the hard way not to copy symbols and markings precisely, but with this, he'd be best off spilling coffee onto it and letting it dry in a ditch. For the hundredth time, he wished Arthur was there. He'd make something out of this all, even if that something was to fuck all the way off from yet another monster, but John didn't know how. Maybe he'd have, if he didn't feel so empty. With Arthur gone, there was a pit in his chest that kept caving in on itself, a distinct lack of weight that kept him grounded for so long. Every captain needed an anchor, and John had managed to lose his.

That was it. He was done here. Nothing he could find out, unless he touched the body, which he'd do about as gladly as jump into an active plague pit. Swaying slightly, he was about to push himself off the floor, when something caught his eye. A white glint, half-buried under the couch.

John stuck an arm under it, shimmying closer, but the scrap was just at his fingertips, taunting. And maybe he should have just called it a day as he'd intended to and left, but Arthur's stubborn curiosity had long infected him – or maybe it was something that always rotted both of them from within – and he pressed himself to the floorboards instead, stretching to grab it. Something wet and sticky slid along his skin, permeating his clothes, cold as water pouring off a roof after a storm. John yanked himself upright, snatching the paper. It was frail and wrinkled, like a schoolbook left out to dry after a child had spilled milk on it, and it tore immediately with barely a sound. Disgusting. This whole place was disgusting. This whole case was. And seeing as he was currently covered in whatever residue had been on those floorboards, so was John.

He barely bothered to shut the door on his way out.

The weather outside was unchanged. Thick, smog coloured snow fell in heaps, threatening to suffocate with its weight. Small puffs of fog exited John's mouth as he briskly walked, uncertain if the stinging in his cheeks was from the cold or the fuck-knows-what slime he'd picked up from the floor. The grey cover cracked beneath his – actually his, Arthur hadn't had any so John had to buy them with the weather shift – boots as he walked, already having frozen over. Apparently, this kind of weather was abnormal, but John hardly had any measure for it. If anything, it was useful to hide Arthur's scars. Scars that John hadn't earned, yet that now sometimes stung and ached if he slept wrong or stayed in the cold for too long.

Well. Slept was a loaded word.

Arthur's body slept, for certain, but John had no recollection of it. Dreams were once his kingdom, and they were now unreachable to him. It was as though once he'd been exiled into the Dark World, the King wanted to make certain he wouldn't ever return. So instead, he'd shut his eyes and… that'd be it. No dreams. No stirring. Only a death-like calm that lifted with the morning light… or the sound of an alarm clock.

The frozen path had led him to the stone-walled bank of the Miskatonic river, and after a moment, John took the stairs down to its shore. Fed by the snows, the waves lapped over the manmade edge, freezing upon impact with the ground. The constant rustle of moving water preoccupied his attention, and he turned his gaze towards the river that snaked through the city.

It wasn't unlike veins, in a way. Its many streams broke off in certain parts, people milling alongside its murky waters. The Miskatonic was as dirty as any city river, mud and silt making up only a fraction of its diseased look. Maybe once it had been the lifeblood of the city, but nowadays, chock full of waste and fuck knew what else, it looked more like an infection. Yet, John found himself peering into its depths – not that much difference to how he'd ruined Arthur himself after all.

Unsurprisingly, on the half-frozen surface, Arthur's face peered back. Every fucking time, it felt like a gut punch, and every fucking time, he never learned. The currents made it difficult to focus on any features at the same time, blurring his friend's pale expression into tragedy's mask. A note of resignation framed the tightly set curve of his lips, while sadness, so tangible and real and lonely danced behind his eyes – his golden eyes on each ripple. So similar to the drowned man's terror, yet so much livelier. Broken shards of half-formed eyes framed Arthur's face, like flowers fallen upon a stream.

He had to move. He had to move, and to get back to the fucking case, before he stayed on that shore and died like Narcissus, staring at his own reflection. John tore his gaze away, and continued the walk.

Fifteen minutes later, John turned a corner, entering his own building and refusing to think about anything except work. If the paper had any ritual meaning, he didn't want to read it out on the street, though, knowing his luck, it'd open up some portal regardless. Maybe he could say hi to Yellow or Scratch before a monstrosity of his own making bit his head off. Yellow... John tried not to think about him. He didn't even know if his other half was alive, leave alone where he was. As for Scratch, John was pointedly avoiding them. Arthur had struck the deal, and Scratch had gotten them free, and then Arthur was fading, and they prioritised getting to the stone before the Order could even meet, and then Arthur was gone and... truth be told, John sort of forgot about it. The damn pebble was probably still at Marie's. Or maybe she'd had the foresight to chuck it into a lake. That woman seemed smarter than most poking around the occult.

Lost in thought, he nearly missed the apartment, almost jamming his key into the neighbour's door instead. And wouldn't that have been a fun altercation – "oh no, sorry, I wasn't trying to break in, you see, I actually know how to that properly, I was just too up my own ass because a nightmare entity may be waiting to tear my head off". John cursed under his breath, turning around. He got the correct door this time, and slammed it behind him to make a statement. Which statement, he didn't know, but a statement regardless.

The heating in the apartment was spotty at best, and John kept his coat on most days. It was a beaten, woollen thing that looked like it had been mended at least five times over, but it was Arthur's. He tried to keep to his friend's clothing whenever he could, even if it was absolute shit. It was still Arthur's body, and John couldn't bring himself to dress it otherwise. So, he produced the torn paper from a pocket that honestly looked like Arthur had thrown up in it at least once, and squinted under the warm lights of the apartment. Like everything else, the paper had been utterly drenched. Ink had spilled in mesmerising waves in the weave of the paper, creating patterns that pulled at John's descriptive tendencies. A butterfly with torn wings, maybe, or teeth, or a jagged shore, or, or-
He tore his gaze away. Arthur wasn't there to describe to, so there was no reason for him to bother. Surely, there was more to the scrap than some messy ink. If he held it up to the light, he could almost perceive the shape of letters. –ong was still visible enough at the top. Long, maybe, though he didn't know what it could be. Art- was another, hidden further down, and John found himself sincerely hoping the full word was heart. Surely, surely the fucking King didn't track him down again. And, and if he did, drowning someone in their own apartment was decidedly not his style. John fumbled for the pencil he kept with his notepad, tracing it over the paper, but it yielded nothing. The paper had been too soaked, and when it dried, the creases destroyed any letters left.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, it was – there were too many words that could be for him to panic. And even if it was the King, what then? He couldn't force him back. Maybe he could send him to the Dark World again, sure, but it was an old trick by now. And given Arthur was probably there... no, too high of a risk. The two of them would get out somehow.
Of course, there was always physical torture, now that he had a body. And John had no doubts his old self was creative. Faust had really been a punishment for him, after all.

Sighing, John rubbed his face, and felt the slick film on his fingers. Right. Yeah. He should probably sort that slight issue out first. He could be paranoid about his past – and future, now that Arthur was gone – any time, but the King wouldn't even get to him if some abhorrent sludge dissolved his skin first. He threw the coat off, and headed to the bathroom.

It was the room John hated the most. Every scar, every inch of Arthur's skin was laid bare, constant reminders of what he'd been through, only to lose. Every bit of him that John took, the home that he locked the occupant out of, only to find entirely unsuitable. It wasn't him, it could never have been, and he despised the face he wore now much more than he ever did the comfort of the pallid mask. At first, he tormented himself with it. Sat for hours at the mirror, hoping for a twitch, a move, a word, anything that would show Arthur was still there. But as hours became days, eventually he realised the truth. Now he got past his reflection as quickly as he could, opting to sit in the bathtub while he waited for it to fill rather than spend even a second longer than necessary by the glass.

He chucked the clothes on the floor and climbed in, ignoring the sting of cold metal. Whatever it was that was on him had also probably soaked the clothes, and realistically, the safest thing to do would be to set them on fire. But... they were Arthur's. So for now, John let them sit on the freezing, uneven tiles, and turned the tap on. Warm water slowly poured out, pooling around his legs. It was a nice feeling in all honesty, letting the neutrality of water embrace him after the freezing temperatures outside, but it always came with a twinge of guilt. Every nice thing he'd gotten had come at Arthur's expense. The level rose, past his ankles, and over his stomach, water lapping over the jagged, uneven stitches. Even John could tell he'd done a poor job, though Arthur had never said it. Arthur had been grateful for it, before he... before. And some small part of John had been wondering since – was it his own inability to keep Arthur alive that had destroyed him? How many times can a human graze the Dark World, before slipping into it? If he'd been more careful, if he'd kept a better watch, if he'd, just for once, been of any fucking use at all, instead of dead weight that Arthur dragged, would he still be here?

Or had the Dark World claimed him just because John had left? Had it been his own selfishness? He wanted to escape so badly he never thought to ask about the cost. He'd heard of the saying "an eye for an eye" – was it the same? Did he doom Arthur because he was scared?

Water reached John's chest and he slid beneath its silky surface. In a way, it was peaceful, the still – flowing water adding a current to the smooth darkness behind his eyelids. The gurgle and rustling of pipes was subdued, and John tasted salt on his tongue.

Wait. Wait, no, that wasn't right. He was in a fucking bathtub, not the ocean! Panicked, he tried to wrap his hand around the edge of the tub, only to find it slick beneath the water flushing over it. Blindly reaching, his fingers wrapped around the tap, scalding heat from the boiler searing into the rough skin, lukewarm satin waves unable to wash the pain away, and he pulled himself up.

The water around him was black.

Not from the tap, which he now shakily shut off. That one still ran clear, even if most of its contents had wound up on the floor, entirely drenching Arthur's clothes. No, it was coming from him. From the murky residue that still ran across his skin in dark droplets, poisoning the water. He watched as they slid from Arthur's shoulders like tear marks, and swirled in the ripples around him. There was a bruised, red shine to it all, and John found out what it was like to retch.

Chapter Text

On the long running list of things John should have done, "stayed in bed one Tuesday morning" cemented its place as somewhere in the middle. It had been two weeks since the drowning case, and he'd tentatively begun to hope that this time a brush with his past would remain just that. The telegram left in his mailbox quickly dashed that.

Another case. Fuck knew what they wanted a private investigator to do. Shoot at the entity causing this? Actually, fuck it, why not, it was the one thing John hasn't tried yet on his kin – though, he supposed he should be grateful that Arthur hadn't come to the same conclusion when they first met.

The taxi dropped him off in front of a much grander building than the last. Its pristine walls seemed cleaner than the dirtied falling snow, and high windows were decorated with geometric gold. Arthur would have known what that was called – John just had to pretend. He straightened his back and confidently walked through the door, cold metal biting even through the leather of his gloves.

As it turned out, he shouldn't have worried at all. The hotel was dead silent. The foyer spread out, windows casting odd shadows under the hidden winter sun, colourful tiles now marred with John's footsteps. A desk sat neatly by the entrance, dark wood well varnished, but no one was there to man it. Even the rustling of John's clothes seemed to echo throughout the high ceiling.

Right. That was all well and good but, John needed to get into the hotel room somehow. He needed witnesses, or clues, or even just someone to acknowledge his presence before he dealt with an occult corpse. Even if his only friend was gone, people still tended to feel at least some obligation if a person disappeared. John swallowed, trying not to feel so horribly alone, like an animal lured away from the herd to be mauled. He wasn't even an animal. He wasn't even a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was something much, much worse – he was a thief. A parasite. And those could bring down even the largest predators.

His gaze fell upon the wrought iron of the elevator, curved in flower patterns. Well. At least he wasn't going to the basement this time.

It wasn't difficult to guess which room was his. The overly decorated carpet had long turned black before the door, mildew hanging in the air like cobweb. Careful not to let it touch his skin this time, John did his best to step around it, leaning over to grab the brass doorknob. The white wood of the door had soaked the liquid in too, dark spots climbing upwards like the roots beneath the skin of John's pinkie. He tried to turn the knob, but the door wouldn't budge an inch, creating an awful squelching noise. Undeterred, John pulled out his set of lock picks – he could use those blind. Muscle memory was amongst the things John had snatched from Arthur when he… no. No, he couldn't think about that, not here, not now. He could miss him when he got to the office. Not home, never home, not without him there. The picks clicked, and the door swung inwards, causing John to ungracefully stumble in.

His boots met ankle-deep water. Colours swirled beneath an oily surface, deep violets and reds, not black as John had originally thought. A sharp smell permeated the air – alcohol, with a metallic undertone – and the all too familiar taste of salt filled his mouth. It was, after all, the first thing he'd tasted. His own tears, when Arthur disappeared. Cautiously, he took another step, feet barely visible beneath the cover of ripples, and was all too grateful when he didn't immediately slip on the stone floor.

Right. Lots of tall, dark and mysterious liquid. So where the fuck was the body?

It seemed like a rather usual hotel room, if far too rich for John's budget. The walls were a warm ochre, with a high, ornate ceiling, from which an artistic chandelier hung. Shades of yellow always stirred odd feelings in John, a mixture of nostalgia and fear, but the entity must have outright hated it, given the amount of dark splatters on the wallpaper. Fucking fantastic, just about the last thing he needed was for this thing to hate the King specifically because of some centuries old feud over cutlery or some bullshit like that. He waddled towards the bed, splashing the liquid with each step. Its pristine white sheets hung over the edge, now stained past salvaging. Across from it, a piano stood, and John averted his gaze. It was just an instrument. It was just wood and strings. There were dozens of pianos in Arkham. One still stood in his own fucking office. It was just an instrument, just a thing that made noise, without Arthur there to play it. Just another object.

John hadn't noticed he'd been gripping at the sheets until his hand began hurting from it. Slowly, he drew back. He needed to focus on his actual job, not crying over his best friend in ankle deep water. Clearly the body wasn't in the bed. So where… of fucking course. Tucked away neatly in the corner, there was a wardrobe of notable size. How could he have forgotten the very same thing he'd used to cover up his first murder? A murder that he'd since regretted, more than most betrayals he'd committed. Parker had been a good man. Parker had helped Arthur. All that John's done was wreck his life. Like a rope had wrapped around his lungs, his chest tightened, drawing tears to his eyes. No, no, no, not right now. Not in a hotel room with a corpse waiting to be found. Later, he could cry later, when he was in the apartment, when he figured out what the fuck was going on. John's hand closed around the closet handle, and he pulled, expecting a body to tumble out. Instead, something small splashed at John's feet. He scrambled for it, water seeping into the space between his gloves and his sleeves, sliding down his hand like an embrace, and fuck, it was cold. His fingers closed around a rectangular shape, and he pulled it out, trying to ignore how oddly viscous the droplets sandwiched between his skin and the glove were, more like coagulating blood than alcohol.

It was a notebook. A small, brown notebook, with no discernible label or any other recognisable features, now thoroughly soaked. John carefully opened it, and a photograph nearly fluttered out. It was a woman, smiling at the camera, face cracked with wrinkles, yet full of life. The photograph had been posed, but everything about her expression was genuine. Whoever she was, clearly she'd mattered to the victim. John flipped the page, carefully tucking the photograph away. On the darkening, soggy page, there was a hastily drawn diagram of lines and circles. Something thrummed through John's bones at that, through his ribcage, like a chord struck. He turned another page, accompanied by the sound of wet paper sticking to its bound fellows. Geometric patterns were laid out yet again, scribbled and crossed out, stars and squares and circles again, overlapping like feathers of a bird. Static crackled through his veins, like radios always did in his presence before playing that song, that damn song he could not place, yet always knew. His hands did not feel like his own when he turned the page again, as though Arthur was still there, still guiding him, still keeping him safe. Constellations marked that one, written in a language John could not understand, yet he knew the diagram. The dark stars in dim Carcosa. His stars.

He shut the notebook. No. Not again. He's learned his lessons with cursed books. Spent long enough bound in one. And while this one did not seem to trap any of his kin, it did not make him inclined to open it again. In fact, he'd be more interested if someone was imprisoned by it. He knew that pain all too well. As it was, he simply shoved it into the pocket of his coat, and turned away from the closet.

So if the body wasn't in the bed, and it wasn't in the wardrobe… he looked down into the depths swirling around his feet. For fuck's sake. Surely, the water wasn't deep enough to hide a body, was it now? Would he have to go prodding through it all around the fucking room? John crouched down, taking in the iridescent patterns of rotting purples and wine reds, with the level low enough for it all not to melt into inky black. The colour was deceptively solid, giving the appearance of a much higher tide, and if John didn't know better, he'd have thought there was a crater on the floor of this room. It reminded him of the dark shore he and Arthur had first landed at, back in the Dreamlands. Back in the closest thing he had to home, now that Arthur was gone. Absent-mindedly, he dipped a gloved finger into the liquid, sending ripples out. But instead of them spreading in concentrated circles, shapes turned to an oval, slinking away from him. The fuck? John examined the flowing patterns closer now, careful to keep his face well above water level. They all moved and shone in one direction, as tough being pulled by a current. He raised his head, tracing the near-invisible waves to the balcony door.

John jumped to his feet, striding through the cold to the balcony. He'd thought it was closed at first, and dismissed it because of all the water in the room, but now he saw it was ajar by an inch. Not caring for the fragile glass, he yanked it open, and nearly immediately shut it again.

The body was there. A man, though it was hard to tell the age. He was lying on his back, face contorted in horror, mouth agape and full of fluids, and his eyes… oh, the eyes. Shaking, John knelt down to the body, wishing he could at least close his eyelids. It looked as though the eyes had popped open like grapes between teeth, bits and pieces still clinging onto flesh. Everything had frozen with the low temperatures, and it was impossible to tell what was blood, and what was the inky veil that John had come to associate with these cases. The veins on his face had bulged, like a balloon swelling with water, taking on a dark, unhealthy shade. He could track them down, past the man's neck, past his nice shirt and trousers, now stained with the murk John had been wallowing in, and down to his hands. He couldn't tell whether the darkened, blue fingers were a consequence of death, of the cold, or of the water spreading even to the tiniest pore. They were contorted, as though the man had been reaching out when he'd died. It was a sad sight. A lonely sight. And no one was around to hear a scream.

John took his glove off, and returned the man's grip, hours too late.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe. Water sloshed in his lungs, rising, slithering into throat, his blood, his eyes. It hurt, it hurt so fucking much, it hurt, it hurt, and no matter how much he coughed, it still rose, still spilled out, still grew and poured and rose. A flood tearing him from the inside. The pain behind his eyes increased, a radiant spike of pressure as the fluid leaked from his eyes, blinding him, painting the world dark, and still more, more, more came.

"I'm sorry, friend." the entity's ebbing voice lapped at his ears with a British lilt, and as he blinked and blinked and blinked, he could almost see its eyeless face staring down at him, its body swirling like the sea at night made flesh. He spluttered, pain rising and rising, his lungs desperately trying to contract, to pump the water out, taste of iron mixing with salt. It hurt, everything hurt, even pain melting into one continuous rising wave.

"This too shall pass." it crashed, and washed everything away in the tide.

John gasped, phantom pain racking his chest. His face had somehow wound up pressed against the metal railing when he fell, and he was certain tears had frozen on his face, but he didn't care, he didn't care. That voice. Those words. How many times had he heard it, how many times had he said it wrong, only to now hear them so, so right, so known?

Arthur. Arthur had been there, Arthur – he, wherever he was – whatever he was. John slowly rose. The words had come from the entity, and yet… he grabbed the corpse again.

Pain. Drowning. "This too shall pass." All too soon, death.

Again. And again. And again. John lost track of how many times he'd woken up gasping for air, how many times he coughed and coughed until his chest felt like it was ripping apart, how many times he'd heard those words. It was not enough. It never could be. He just needed to hear Arthur say "Friend" one more time. Just one more time.

"This too shall pass."

"This too shall pass."

"This too shall pass."

One. More. Time.

Finally, finally, long after the sky had darkened, John cast a look behind the fence, and saw the street below him painted in black from the liquid that had been dripping from the balcony all day long, snow soaking it in like sponge. He needed more than a single body and a scrambled notebook. He needed answers.

He didn't care what he looked like as he hailed down a cab.

"Miskatonic library." he rasped the moment he slumped in, shakily drawing in breath. He's found Arthur. He just needed to get him home.

Chapter Text

John oddly liked the library. Maybe because it was one of the first places he visited with Arthur. Or maybe because people had to be quiet there. Or maybe, as much as it had been his prison, a book had also been his home for a decade.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Armitage was the only other person he could speak to freely. He bee-lined for the man's desk immediately, ignoring the way his boots squealed on the clean, cream carpet. He was definitely leaving footprints.

"Mr. Armitage?" he greeted, the raspy whisper making the voice sound so much more like his own, and the librarian's eyes flicked up and down, seeing the darkened damage on his clothes. He raised his eyebrows, and John felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. Yet another thing he'd found out the human body does.

"Friend. Are you… in trouble?" Armitage had long figured out John was not Arthur. In fact, it was him John had gone to first, and Armitage had pulled him aside to his office, asking him what had happened to Arthur, and if the knowledge had been worth the price. It took John all of a breath before he broke down, and while he doubted Armitage had actually caught much of his sob-trodden babbles, he understood two things – one, John was not Arthur. And two, more importantly, John was not a danger. So they'd reached an agreement. Armitage helped John with less mundane cases. While John redirected the officials' attention from Armitage's… less than legal acquisitions.

"None immediate. I need help with a case." John bluntly said, knowing he was fumbling basic manners.

"What kind of help?"

"A-anything related to water. And um, new… family members on my side." he could not have worded that more awkwardly if he'd tried. Armitage's eyebrows scrunched in confusion, and John wordlessly handed him the notebook. The librarian hardly looked enthusiastic to take it, getting out a handkerchief to handle it.

"Why don't you go wait in my office?" Armitage suggested, handing him the key. It was a notable show of trust from the man, so either John had truly done well, or he wanted to put him in quarantine until they figured out what was going on. John suspected the latter, yet he rushed off to the office all the same.

There was a quaint sense of peace for John in the office. The oddities littered around felt… nearly familiar, even if John was aware he could very well have ended up as one of them. While he wasn't about to start pulling them off the shelves, he still often found himself standing before the many drawers and glass cases, fingers ghosting along the hinges. It was the closest place to where he could truly be himself – not posing as Arthur Lester, or trying to stomp all of his old impulses out, or being part of the King in Yellow. He shuddered at the thought, shutting his eyes. There was an undeniable thrum of power in the room, and he couldn't help but feel welcome.

"Made yourself at home, friend?" Armitage called, opening the door.

"It's not all people make it out to be." John replied, shrugging. He turned to face the librarian, expecting a notable stack of books.

All there was was the notebook, and some papers scattered on top. His face must have fallen, because Armitage rushed to shut the door:

"You've picked a difficult one this time."

"I didn't pick." John curtly responded. Armitage tensed, clutching the papers closer.

"All I meant was, it's difficult to find information of entities who've just formed." that made John's attention prick up. He wasn't planning on attending any baby showers, that was for certain.

"Just formed?"

"The process through which Great Old Ones are created is unknown. Whether it's human influence, or other factors…" Armitage trailed off.

"But – but you're certain it's a new entity? Not a, a fragment of an existing one, or offspring, or-" John began, feeling panic crawl up his spine. It was Arthur, it was Arthur, but he'd have rather faced the Dark World ten times over than become something like the King. And John had been watched through the death visions before. The King had personally tortured him with those. Fuck, fuck, how could he have been so stupid?

"Writings suggest so. Though… someone has yet to survive the ritual and tell the tale." Armitage gravely said, and John nearly buried his face into his hands before remembering the liquid was still on them.

"Reassuring. Well, unless the Arkham police department can arrest an otherworldly creature, sounds like the only solution is to stop idiots from summoning them." of course, John had also been summoned by idiots, but Armitage didn't have to know that.

"Or to seal them away." the librarian let the words hang in the air before handing the notes to John.

"Is any knowledge truly worth this?" he added, as he always did.

"Scorpions and frogs and all that." John shrugged again, taking them.

"Or moths and flames." Armitage said, and shut the door.

John carefully laid the notes out on the table. He'd gotten remarkably good at reading Armitage's chicken scratch, but the notebook proved to be more difficult, especially as the pages had gotten stuck together in his pocket. He sighed, choosing to go for Armitage's notes first.

Name: Unknown.

Off to a great fucking start then.

Titles: Lord of Loss.

Cheerful. It could go right up on the shelf next to all of John's technical titles – though, he liked "Arthur's friend" the most.

Tied to: Grief, regret (?), water – any liquid, music.

That made John pause. Music? Well, he supposed there had been the piano in the hotel room, but… He remembered the first paper. –ong. Song. John felt odd jealousy spark within him. Arts were his domain!

Physical appearance: Eyeless.

So clearly, the lack of eyes was a notable trait. He hadn't gotten a good glimpse at the rest of the entity's face, but at least he knew he hadn't changed his features entirely. Not that that particularly helped. He knew the King wore many disguises – there was nothing to say this entity hadn't done the same. The rest of the list was much shorter:

Weaknesses: Unknown.

Intentions: Unknown.

Symbols: Unknown.

Cults: Unknown.

That was… anything but comforting. So he didn't know what this being wanted, what it did, or what its weaknesses were, but he did know it – he's left a trail of bodies. It was just like fucking Kayne all over again. And yet… and yet. Eyeless. Music. Water. Grief. If that didn't sound like someone he knew…

John reached for the notebook, hoping for any clue at all. The woman's photo was still tucked away between the pages, and he carefully slid it between the next few to separate them. He passed the constellations to see very detailed sketches of the Dreamlands lake. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, when he and Arthur sat at that lakeshore, and Arthur had laughed and told him everything turned out alright after getting dragged through a fucking portal. Even in the Dreamlands, Arthur thought them being together and alive was all that mattered. Now, John found himself agreeing with that statement more and more. He'd thought he wanted to be human – really, he'd just wanted to be with Arthur. There was no point in being human if he was wearing stolen skin. John turned to the next page.

It was a sigil. A sign. On top of two triangles, like hourglass, swirls formed a tear-drop shape. The lines were scratched over and over, messy, with the tear-drop curling and overlapping on itself. Small dots marked quarters, and John couldn't tell if it was part of the symbol or a guideline for drawing. Just looking at the sign made something inside him twist and pull, a deep, aching sensation, like saltwater upon a wound. At the back of his head, a sound surrounded him, welcoming, spreading into the cavity Arthur's absence had left. The rush of pipes, the noise of waves. There was a familiarity so primal in gazing upon it that John might have as well been looking at his own symbol – like a twin to the Yellow Sign, the sigil felt like something torn out of his chest, now gently held in his arms. But he did not lose himself looking at it. He did not drift off to eons of his previous existence. He simply knew it, the same way he knew his hand or his eyes. Armitage's notes were still unfinished, weren't they? He should help. John pulled his pen out, and began tracing the sign onto the notes, not noticing that he'd never clicked it. Ink flowed all the same.

He did not know what time later he turned the page, but he now studied the notebook with a fervour. Some phrases he could catch, ritual hypotheses, but others were undiscernible to him. Diagrams and notations in a language he did not speak, or drawings he did not recognise. It didn't matter – he had the most important thing. The rest was only a matter of police reports. He was practically buzzing with energy when he flipped to the last page, and it felt like the world had slipped out from his feet.

Sheet music. That, he could read. But it wasn't the notes themselves that had knocked the air from his lungs. No, no, it was the title, the name he spotted sandwiched between the words he did not recognise.

Faroe.

He almost missed the knock at the door.

"Sorry, friend, but the library is closing-" Armitage began, but John was already rushing past him, having snatched the notebook off the table.

"Thank you, Armitage – thank, thank you-" he stammered out, back turned to the librarian. He missed the look of terror on the man's face as his gaze fell upon John's helpful additions to his notes.

Chapter Text

 A week later, John was going over the steps of the ritual in the office. As it turned out, there was quite the handful of unsolved cases that officials were more than happy to hand over, along with whatever meagre evidence they'd found. But, perhaps more importantly, his days as the King in Yellow turned out to be rather useful when it came to persuading certain groups to give him information regarding his old home.

One, the reason Armitage hadn't known about any cults was because none had formed yet. The entity did appear to have popped into existence in the Dreamlands some time ago, but he didn't seem to be interested in gaining followers. Instead, people who did his rituals were driven to it by desperation. Two, no one was entirely certain who the new entity even was – only that he resided by lake Hali. Seeing as that used to be the King's domain, John couldn't help nervousness. And three, the ritual was deadly. People theorised what might happen if it succeeds, that the entity may return a loved one, or that he might enter the world, but, as the ever-growing pile of bodies suggested, it was beyond dangerous to even attempt. And yet, the cases racked up. John couldn't help but think of the snow soaking the dark water in, of his own bathtub blackening when he tried to rinse it off. Like a spread of infection, the entity's influence seemed to be waterborne and easy to transmit, akin to the crushing sorrow John felt at every single one of those case sites.

Either Arthur was making his displeasure regarding cultists loud and clear, or John was a fool.

Twirling the paintbrush, he went over the steps again. First, draw the sigil. He hadn't gotten a straightforward answer on what should be used for that though. It ranged from ink to blood to alcohol to molten iron, and while he could see some… he'd seen too much of Arthur's blood spilt to think that'd be the correct answer, and he couldn't bring himself to drag his friend back to bedrock. He wound up settling on some unlabelled can of paint that must have been left over from when Parker and Arthur had painted the office. At least it'd be easier to explain than a bucket of blood. He'd briefly considered tracing it out in yellow, in case his own colour might help anchor them both, but the risk was too high. Just about the last thing he wanted to do was accidentally unleash something he used to command. He laid the notebook out on the creaky floor next to him. The instructions also hadn't been clear on how big the sign needed to be. Whether it should encompass the piano, or simply be big enough for Arthur to stand in. John opted for the latter, if anything, so he didn't have to keep moving the piano and accidentally fuck up the lines. He dipped the paintbrush in, and began marking the symbol. It was easy to get it right when his blood sang with each drawn line, even as the sharp sting of iron began to overpower the smell of the paint.

Next, ensure it's dark. Use something meaningful for a fire.

The office didn't have a fireplace, and John didn't like the idea of lighting a fire in the middle of the floor. He settled on some tea lights dotted around the piano and the symbol, which were now lit with the lighter. It was not enough to see by any means, and he hated every second of it. Not that it made a difference to Arthur. To Arthur, who… he had so many questions. So, so many. How did Arthur become what he despised? How did he wind up in the Dreamlands? How long has it been for him? He tried to flick the lighter off, but the flame remained burning, bright and warm in the dark. John decided not to push it, instead taking it as a sign to hurry the fuck up.

Play the Song of Sorrow. Faroe's Lullaby. Give the entity a name. Pretty much everyone agreed it should be his actual name, though John sincerely hoped his own would be enough without needing to drag his full name and titles into it. Do as he says. That was entirely unhelpful and pretty fucking terrifying. But when hadn't he done as Arthur asked? When had he ever refused his friend? It should be second nature by now. Hope you survive.

John set the lighter onto the piano, and pressed the keys.

Faroe's Lullaby was the first song he'd ever learned to play, back in that dingy shop in Harper's Hill. It was a memory etched so deep in Arthur's very soul that even John had been left with the muscle memory for it. The song was woven into Arthur, like a ribbon tied to his heart, and every time someone tried to set it free, all it did was tie itself into stronger knots, one that not even a sword could cut. Or a dagger, John recalled with a wince. The notes flowed through the office, reverberating in the silence of the night, odd in such a busy city. As though the streets themselves had stilled, leaving John wrapped in a blanket of peace.

That was, until the bubbling started. Quiet at first, not unlike a kettle on the stove, waiting to be brewed, the sound rose as the paint began to darken and boil. Fingers still on the keys, John continued playing, while dark liquid seeped across the floorboards, into the centre of the symbol. Higher and higher, the level rose, trickles becoming ripples becoming waves that lapped at the tea lights strewn about, threatening to drown them in inky darkness. It was nigh impossible to tell the floor apart from the shadows of the room anymore, save for the fire dancing on the dim water's surface. Yet still, John continued playing, even as the waves rose, even as the smell of iron struck the air, even as the purples and shades twisted, no longer a small lake, but rather, contorting into a watercolour outline of a person.

John stifled a gasp as the current stilled, warped into the shape of a man. Even with the ever-moving surface, it was clear he wore a simple shirt and trousers. His face was lit by the candles below, ripples giving it a deceptively solid appearance – save for the eyes. It was like a soft drizzle had washed them away. Not even empty sockets remained. Yet, John knew that face, knew it as well as his own, knew it in his sleep and his waking hours, because it was the face he wore.

"Arthur." he breathed, and his friend smiled back.

"Hello." his voice – his voice – overlapped, ebbing like a riverbank, and he stepped out of the symbol. Water followed, crashing over the candles, suffocating the office in darkness. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, he was supposed to give his own name, wasn't he?

"It's – it's John. I-" he stopped himself. As though it could have been anyone else wearing Arthur's skin. And now, now he was here, and all John had to do was go through this stupid ritual, and they'd figure something out, Arthur would figure something out. But Arthur… did not acknowledge him. With that slight smile, he circled around the piano, water sloshing in his wake. John felt him creep up behind him, splashing each tea light until the only flame left was the lighter still propped on the piano.

"Who do you see, when you look at me?" what?

"I – I see myself." the other hummed, drawing closer. Water rose around John, soaking his shoes, cold dripping down his back.

"Do you grieve yourself?" something was wrong. Something was very fucking wrong.

"No. I mean, I – I see my friend. My best friend. I'm just… renting the suite." was Arthur angry with him? Was that what this was? Fury at John's failure to save him?

"Describe him to me. Describe everything to me." of course he would. He always would.

"He was… kind. Gave me a lot more compassion than I deserved." John began, fingers stilling on the piano. But Arthur reached out, clasping his right hand with his own. He was there. He was right there, and everything in John screamed that things were right now. They were finally alright.

"And?" the voice weaved through the air, inky tethers guiding John across the keyboard.

"He – he kept me safe. I couldn't do the same, and I'm… fuck, Arthur, I'm so sorry." a burning tightness coiled in his chest, squeezing his lungs and throat like vines. There was no response, only notes that echoed over the splatter of the waves.

"I should have – I, I…" John trailed off, tears blurring his vision. Behind their thick cover, the piano was barely perceptible from the darkness anymore. He blinked, feeling warmth roll down his cheeks, and two dark drops smeared across the keys.

"He was so fucking smart, and stupidly brave and – and he knew how to survive. Fuck, the things we'd both done to survive… and I just – I left him. I left him alone, again and again and-" John struggled to draw in a breath, a cough racking his lungs. Salt covered his tongue, sticking to every crevice in his mouth, in his throat, in his nose, in his lungs, burning and burning and burning. Arthur did not help. Just played on, hand still on top of John's.

"He looked just like you." John forced out, and the entity drew back.

"Thank you, friend." there, behind the cool stillness of lapping water, behind the burn of salt and alcohol, was a sliver of a smile. John craned his neck, vaguely aware his chest felt far too heavy, his head tipping too far back, and saw the scars. Beneath the surface, iron glistened, rusting and jagged. Fine lines across the right side of Arthur's face. A thick, messy line across his throat. Metal entwined to make wood on his left hand, the one that limply hung by his side, as though he didn't quite remember how to use it.

"Arthur." John murmured, everything else in the room muffled as though his head had been pushed underwater.

"I can't help you." he slowly replied, moving away. Panic flashed through John like lightning. He couldn't just fucking leave now, he couldn't, not again, not again. Like a man drowned, he grabbed for Arthur, snatching his hand.

"Let go of-" waves rose again, crashing into John's legs, his chest, his face, but he didn't care.

"Stay, Arthur, please-"

"Leave me-"

"Don't leave again!" John desperately shouted over the roar of water, and the tide met him as he asked.

Chapter Text

It was narrow. It was so, so narrow. He couldn't move, he couldn't move. It was so small, so cramped, and he tried and he tried and he tried to move, to rise, to take a breath, but it was like trying to pour an ocean out with a bucket. Even with him trying to slink into every capillary in the human body, every nook and crevice, every empty space between muscle and skin and bone, it was still too small. He could feel each organ, each rise and fall of the chest, each tendon, press upon him, ensnaring him, squeezing him.

"Arthur? Arthur, breathe." he would, he would if he could, but he didn't even have the space for a breath. Was this was those idiots summoning him felt like? Was this what drowning was?

"Arthur, relax. Everything is alright." and that voice… that voice. A trap. It was a trap and he'd walked straight into it.

"Easy, easy, just – just take a breath." he tried, he really did, but all he managed was a spluttering rasp.

"Arthur, you need to fucking breathe!" somehow, that shout was what did the trick, startling him into a gasp. A series of coughs racked his lungs, forcing saltwater out of his throat. Even if he couldn't see, he felt his body move to its side, as presumably whatever was left bled out of him. Fuck. Fuck, where was he?

"Where-" he started, earning another series of coughs for it. It felt like his lungs were ripping themselves apart from the inside, and who knew, maybe they were. And his voice… it was still his voice, no mistake there, but it was much more solid, for a lack of better word. Like firm ground, instead of river silt.

"Where am I? What's happened?"

"Don't you remember?" he remembered… he remembered a ritual. He remembered a desperate man at the piano, with a voice like his. With a voice just like his. And he remembered being asked not to leave.

"I remember you." out, out, he needed out. Waves upon will, he threw himself against the invisible chains, drawing a pained scream from the other. Cacophonic noise followed, keys of a piano crushed under an uncoordinated hand, splashes of water grinding upon his ears. He needed it to stop, to shut up, he needed to never hear the instrument again.

The other shouted something, but he couldn't hear it over the roar of blood in his own ears, over the rush of icy cold in the room, over the crash of a body falling as a sudden drought knocked it aside, teeth rattling, bones slamming, pain he felt on impact. A heavy, inky, salted weight brought itself down on the piano, water meeting wood and metal and ivory, force snapping them – not clean, as water often is, but messy, complex fractures, like legs splitting under pressure.

For a single, blissful moment, there was silence.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Arthur?" it was more of an angry shout than genuine concern, and he felt himself baring teeth, not unlike a shark shoved into a fish ball.

"I am not Arthur." he spat back, effect dampened by saltwater and blood still expelling itself from his lungs.

"But you said you remembered me." caution clouded – what - what the fuck was it? John? – John's voice, and he spat another mouthful of blood out. No matter how much he coughed out, no matter how much he struggled, more still seemed to generate in his lungs, sticky and deep, phlegm made of tears and grievances.

"I remember you summoned me. I remember you were looking for someone." his lungs were burning again, burning with the salt he tasted thick and stinging upon his tongue, and he forced another breath in, air fighting to settle within the liquid:

"And I remember you fucked up."

"Fucked up? I completed the fucking ritual!" John responded as though he had any reason to be offended.

"Then why am I here?" there was a moment of silence, like a whisper above water, before the first raindrop falls.

"I've missed you, friend." John sounded so small. So vulnerable. It summoned up feelings he'd rather not have thought about, a reassuring press of a hand, pain searing through his stomach, before the water washed it all away, leaving only the heaviest anchors.

One of which was anger. As it always was.

"I am not your friend. And I did not ask to be here." there was a sharp inhale of breath. Oh, was John upset? Good.

"Arthur, do you… we're in your office. Where we met? Where we hid Parker's body? You – you remember Parker, don't you?" John managed to sound as choked as he felt, inky remnants still sticking to the back of his throat.

"Do you have a list of dead men for me to get through?"

"Addison? The mines? Me?" John started up, tripping over his own words.

"Faroe?" it was like a stab in the chest, like plunging headfirst into ice. For a breath, he couldn't feel anything but shock. And then anger, quick and forceful and violent, at having even that ripped from him, at John daring to mouth that name, at the idea that this wasn't the first time.

It wasn't his. That name was not his to take. And with the lack of a body of his own, his anger turned inwards.

Human bodies are wet. Sweat and tears and blood and mucus and spinal fluid and sinew, all flowing, sloshing internally, painting organs with a glistening shine, protecting. All there to spill, to expand, to bubble under pressure of restricting veins, to hurt. John screamed, pained and raw and far more human than it should have been, and it wasn't enough, he needed to harm more, John needed to suffer more, because John had broken a promise.

Then it slammed into him too. Water crawling up his lungs, mucus staining his throat, blood pouring into his mouth from the nose, all thick and sudden and too much, too much, everything felt narrowed, everything was salt and ink and blood, stinging with the aftertaste of alcohol.

He spat it out. In convulsing coughs, rage draining from him with each mouthful of agony.

"What the fuck was that?"  John shouted the moment pain subsided, fury dampened by pain.

"Power." power that certainly felt like anything but as blood trickled out of his mouth, John having collapsed into the ankle-deep water left in the wake of the summoning. John, however, did not notice or care as he kept gaining steam, unimpeded by the need to breathe.

"Power or not, I am the one controlling this body. So if you want to get separated so fucking badly, stop throwing fits, and help." every ounce of previous tenderness dissipated, leaving nothing but white, bright anger, scalding from both sides.

"I do not-"

"Like to be pushed around? Noted." he audibly snapped his jaw, even what little words he had getting snatched away from him.

"Fine."

Chapter Text

"The office is flooded. The water coats the floor, all of the papers from our desk have been knocked down into it-"

"Your desk." how dare he act like they're buddies after he'd just fucking threatened him? John paused, and cautiously replied:

"You've destroyed the piano."

"What, not going to tell me how it glints in the water or whatever fucking bullshit spiel you have?" he hated how much he wanted it, how clearly he could picture the room with the slightest help. He's been blind as long as he's known, and yet, sometimes, he still found himself expecting to see.

"I can barely tell apart its once polished wood from the water in the darkness. Any light that comes from the cracks in window blinds seems to dissipate along the surface, making it an odd, oiled mirror of the room. The white keys shine just below the surface, like barely perceptive whispers in a full room. And – fuck! Arthur, the lighter!" there was an audible splashing of water as John snatched something from its depths.

"We need to get rid of all this fucking water." John muttered. They needed to? He was fairly certain it was John's body.

"You don't need a mouth for that."

"It's your ritual." John spoke as though to a particularly difficult toddler.

"And you've done it. Don't you have windows to throw it out of?"

"In what, a pot?" John paused, then added, calmer:

"There are two windows in the office. They're thin, but tall, and the caked dirt on them creates patterns on the floor when the sun shines right, like a lamp shade. Arthur, I can't just toss the water out. One of the windows is jammed anyway, and the ground is covered in snow. Your impact spreads like a virus."

"Real flattering. Have you got a stove?" much as he hated the situation, he couldn't resist problem solving. Admittedly, he wasn't sure a mist would be any better – he didn't know if it would equally react to the saliva of mouths and phlegm of lungs.

"That would take too long. I could push it out into the hallway… but I doubt the neighbours would be happy."

"It's your call." he sighed, then added:

"Have you got a bathroom? What about the drain?"

"We've got a bathtub."

He hated every second of hearing water splash against the ceramic of the tub. Each drop, each splatter was like glass grinding against his nerves, and he found himself biting his tongue until the familiarity of iron enveloped his tongue like snakeskin.

John had done his best to get rid of ritual remains with a bucket and something he was fairly sure was a teapot, but a good number of mops had been lost to the cause anyway.

"What about these? Even if I wring them out, they're still caked in your shit." he briefly considered not responding at all, but John seemed keen on getting his opinion on every single fucking thing, except whether he wanted to be there in the first place.

"Leave them to dry. We'll burn them later." water struck ceramic yet again, and he wished he could physically recoil, wished he could drown out the noise with the rustling of waves or the sting of alcohol. Or music, he realised with a start, before remembering he smashed the piano.

"That's the last of it." John gently said, like he could hear his thoughts. Fuck, maybe he could.

"Let's hope it doesn't taint the water supply. Now are we done here?"

"I need your help with one more thing, friend."

Apparently, John's definition of help was having him repeat exactly whatever he fed him at the back of his mind. At least he'd managed to not fumble it too horribly with the taxi driver. He tried not to think about how he was in a cramped vehicle, driving to fuck know where, shoved into the voice box of a dead man, unable to move, unable to even say what he wanted-

"Arthur?" an insecure whisper came as they drove, and he made a non-committal sound. It wasn't really his name, but John didn't seem inclined to call him by any other.

"Do you… you asked, before. To describe everything to you. I can-" John awkwardly cut himself off, and he frankly had no clue what his companion was trying to say. It was difficult enough to focus on his words as was, with the feeling of every blood vessel in their body trying to crush him like a rock to a widow's head.

"The weather outside is the same as it's been for weeks, the grey cover of the skies blocking out the Sun. It's become a familiar sight." the calm monotony of John's voice was a welcome reprieve from his own thundering thoughts, and he felt some of that painful tightness give way.

"The buildings we pass are peaceful, most people only now stirring awake. The streets are empty, almost lonely, though… the snow cover makes for a pretty view." John paused for a moment.

"The car is a mess." the blunt disdain in his voice nearly startled him into a laugh, tension dissipating from his chest.

"Really, it looks like it hasn't been washed in a decade. The fucking pits looked better." pits? Before he could ask, John backtracked, practically running from the conversation:

"Nevermind. We're almost there, anyway." not suspicious at all. He'd dealt with plenty of summonings before, humans who thought he could grant them a wish or bring back someone they loved. Fuck knew where they got that idea, considering his own powers were born out of their pain. Some had tried to trick him, before. All had failed. John, however… what was it he'd said? He was just renting the suite.

He wasn't scared of being trapped with a human. He was, however, terrified of being trapped inside one by his own kind.

The car skidded, swerving with enough force to make his teeth rattle.

"Fucking- what the fuck, what the fuck?" the bewildered shock in John's voice painted a frightening enough image on its own.

"Ah, hell. Must be all the snow." the driver muttered, annoyed.

"The Miskatonic has overflown, Arthur. It's spilled out into the street, covering the asphalt with grime and river muck. It – that's fucking meters of water height, how the fuck-" John left the thought hanging, and Arthur could practically see it. Dark waters spilling out over the asphalt, reflecting street lamps in their oily depths, smell of rot heavy on his tongue. But the driver sped away, and John did not utter another word until they arrived.

"Miskatonic library." John explained, as they stepped out of the car.

"There is a man here, a librarian. Armitage. He's… a friend, of sorts." John began, opening the door. A little chime followed them in.

"The library is quiet – more so than usual. We may be the first patrons of the day. Rows and rows of shelves sprawl before us, the early morning light colouring them. Armitage is at his desk." how long had it been since he'd been in a library? He'd never even left his domain in the Dreamlands, and it stung to be little more than a glorified speaker now. Even if he couldn't see it, moving, feeling…

"We're here. He's looking up at us. Just – repeat after me." John announced.

"Hello?" he began, unprompted.

"Wait, no – he looks suspicious."

"How many times can one body change owners?" Armitage muttered in turn.

"Shit, shit – Arthur, he knows. Tell him I'm here!"

"How many were there before me?" he asked instead, dutifully ignoring John. He couldn't move, but he could choose his own words.

"Two." Armitage curtly responded, with a slam of a drawer.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting answers. Who was it, before?"

"Arthur, you won't get anything out of him this way, this isn't like with Eddie-" who the fuck was Eddie?

"Answer me, damn it!" clatter rang out in the silent library, sharp sounds of a mug breaking, and then the rush of liquid, a startled yelp, dripping, dripping, across the carpet, soft and damp.

"What the fuck – you just made his fucking mug explode! The coffee that was in it, it overflowed – fuck, it's all over. Why the fuck would you do that?" because he was furious. Because he felt like an animal in a trap, wanting to gnaw its leg off to get free, yet lacking teeth.

"Fix this." it was not the voice of a man crying for his best friend. It was the voice of a king used to giving commands.

"Fuck you." he rasped. Armitage sharply inhaled, but whatever he meant to say was cut off by another chime of the bell.

"We're leaving." John decided, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like "apologise". He opted to ignore it. It wasn't his job to fix John's friendships, when he so willingly threw them away to chase after an apparition.

Assuming John had truly done so, that was. The voice, the orders… knowledge of the Dreamlands. But why waste time tricking him with a sob story about a dead friend?

The very same bell saw them out, and John barely waited a moment before exploding:

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You want to separate, so you fuck over the best person who can help?"

"Oh, piss off. I'm not your personal broadcasting station. You make demands of me, while dragging me along, all because you fucked up and called to things you shouldn't have-"

"So you're throwing a tantrum and wrecking everything we could-"

"A tantrum? Listen here, you two-faced piece of shit! You dragged me out here, and you didn't even give me a choice! I'm a captive in a dead man's body, and you want me to – to what, play a parrot?" John inhaled sharply, lost in the rush of anger.

"And then you-"

"Stop. I'm… sorry." all the previous ire was gone, and the sudden diversion sapped the rage.

"You're right. I… haven't been giving you much of an ability to choose. It would benefit us both if you helped, but…" John drew in a deep, haggard breath, making his chest involuntarily expand.

"It's your call, Arthur." his call. Was it really?

"Let's go to the office. We can't talk on the street." he would not be apologising as John demanded it. Though why the – man? Entity? – didn't simply write it down on a piece of paper and hand it to Armitage was beyond him.

"Okay." quick and quiet, the answer came. That was… odd. A new current in the warring tides of their previous co-existence. John was willing to listen, and it made him all the more wary.

Hours later at the office, any further attempts at working a solution out were proving barren.

"Alright, so you completed the ritual, you succeeded. And then you asked for me to stay." he felt like a broken record at this point.

"And here I thought I'd asked for chocolate cake. Arthur, going over this isn't helping!"

"Fine then. New idea. You try to redo the ritual, and we see how well it goes over with me being anchored in this body." not even John's own, apparently, though the former had been pointedly dodging that theme since the library.

"Shouldn't you know?"

"I wasn't the one who created the ritual, actually. It, ah… well, it was more like an unwanted phone call, really."

"Someone crafted it for you."

"People did." it was just what happened. Grief tore souls, and they sought ways to stitch themselves back together. At least, it was what the canna had told him, when they'd first met at the shores of lake Hali.

A knock startled him out of his thoughts.

"Do you have any visitors?"

"No, but – I don't know, I might have forgotten an appointment." John got up, uncertainly treading to the door.

"Good evening, sir. Are you mister Arthur Lester?" a firm, polite voice greeted them.

"Fuck, Arthur, it's a police officer! Say yes!"

"Uh – yes, yes I am." fuck, he was stammering.

"How may I help you?" he tried with more confidence, sincerely hoping that John was following along with expressions.

"Maybe they have a new case for us, but they usually call those in-"

"Were you at the Miskatonic library earlier today?" fuck, okay, maybe no one had seen them-

"Uh, no, no, I can't say I was."

"Yes, we were, Arthur." John hadn't caught on, and was now making it even more difficult to lie convincingly.

"We've had a report saying they saw you talking to the librarian, Armitage?"

"Shit." John voiced both their thoughts.

"Ah, um yes – he's a, a friend. I'd only dropped by for a moment, entirely slipped my mind."

"The witness says it was an argument."

"Say it was a joke."

"An academic disagreement, that's all. Over uh, poetry." why did he say that, why the fuck did he say that?

"Poetry." the officer flatly repeated, before clicking their tongue in annoyance.

"Mister Lester, are you aware that some five minutes after you'd left, mister Armitage had gotten shot by another customer over a disagreement?"

"What?"

"Shot?" his and John's surprise overlapped.

"He is alive, but has been hospitalised. So may I ask if-"

"I'm a P.I." he blurted out. A minor detail John had mentioned at some point, since they would both have to be posing as Arthur now.

"Yes. I've noticed the sign." the officer slowly responded.

"Oh, Arthur… if you mention that Armitage was a source for us, you may persuade them to give us the case." there was undoubtable pride in John's voice.

"Armitage was – is a… business acquaintance. Of sorts. If, if someone had truly targeted him, it's my duty to investigate."

"Uh-huh. Say, mister Lester, what poetry was it you were discussing with the victim earlier?"

"Ah. It was, um-"

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep-" John softly began, throwing him a lifeline.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep-"

"But I have promises to keep-"

"But I have promises to keep-" the rest of the phrase sprang to his lips like water struck from the ground:

"… and miles to go before I sleep."

"And miles to go before we sleep." John echoed.

"Lovely recital. Which one is it?" the officer was starting to sound beyond annoyed. Shit. Shit, fuck.

"I – I don't think you ever told me the name-" fucking shit.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Frost. Now, if you'll excuse me, I understand you are just trying to do your job here. But I have a job too, and a duty to my friend-"

"Come to the station to give a statement. This is a police investigation, not a private one." the officer curtly cut in. Footsteps sounded down the hall, and John shut the door without any pleasantries.

"Right. Right. We – we need to go to the station, and then…" he trailed off. His mouth felt dry. There was something off in the air, about the room, about the body. The constant flow of blood, the steady chugging of vessels expanding and constricting, veins and arteries and capillaries, it all felt too warm, too flesh-like, too aware.

"You knew the poem." it wasn't intended as a jab. John's words were warm and gentle, like butterfly wings upon cracking, bleeding skin, stinging with cried salt. He'd known it, yes.

He had no idea where it had come from. No words survived in the depths of grief.

Chapter Text

"Two owners. You said before, you're just using this body." Arthur – because it was Arthur, damn whatever occult change happened when they separated – began, slow and purposeful. John sensed an incoming question, and paused pulling the gloves on.

"We shared." it was the best rebuttal he could offer. But they shared it much in the same sense they shared everything else – John took, and Arthur gave, willing or not.

"But you have gotten separated somehow. Can't we do that ag-"

"No!" it came out raw, panic stripping his voice of humanity like static corrupting a radio. Not again – not that again. Not the painful loneliness, ripping him apart as much as his original separation from the King, and the quiet, the quiet, so much like the Dark World. Arthur would understand. Of course he would, as soon as he remembered more. As soon as John worked out the solution for all of this. Arthur had saved him so, so many times with or without knowing – opening the book, showing him humanity, keeping him from the King, slitting his throat, waiting for him in Addison, waiting even though he could have gone back, waiting even though John was lying – he had to return the favour.

"Let's – let's go to the station." shakily, John reached for the door. Arthur gave no response, apparently deciding on silent treatment after that outburst. Fine. That was… fine. He knew his friend was still there, by the ever-present chill that had been sloshing around in every muscle and joint since they were re-bound.

The outside remained unchanged. It hadn't snowed since the morning, and the thick pile on the street had solidly greyed and frozen over. Like a trail, the distinct crunch of a thousand tiny ice shards followed his every step. A hazard in the making, but hardly one greater than his own mind, its coils shared yet again. He hoped he hadn't left too big of a mess. He hoped he was a good host.

"It's stopped snowing-" he was pretty sure he heard a mutter along the lines of "I can tell", and pushed down a chuckle.

"The streets are clearer in daylight, although most remain vacant. People are either at work or not wanting to linger in the cold. Buildings shine with lights and- oh." he cut off, glancing up.

"What? What is it?"

"The sky, Arthur. It seems… strange." he'd become used to the thick, solid grey mantle the skies had taken these last few weeks. To see anything else was a shock.

"Strange?"

"The clouds swirl above us in indescribable shapes, their dark colours a mix of odd shades. Golden light breaks through them, casting shadows on the ground. The sun is too high up in the sky for the sunset – it shouldn't be this vibrant." John slowed down, unease settling in his stomach. It reminded him far too much of the Dreamlands for comfort.

"You think we'll have a storm?" Arthur suggested, voice dropping as he realised that John was concerned about clouds.

"Let's hope not. Getting snowed in would be far from ideal." maybe it was just that. Something weird with the atmosphere, light breaking or some other thing. Still, John picked up the pace, trying not to let his eyes dart upwards too much.

Despite the quiet outside, the station was busy. People were milling in and out, trying to avoid the wet spots on the floor from the melting snow on their colleagues' shoes. John made his way to the front desk, getting accidentally shoulder-checked several times by officers rushing in and out of the cramped room. A woman sat at the desk, her short blonde hair pulled back into what must have been a neat up-do once, but now, messy strands framed her face.

"Arthur, something is going on. The station is never in this state." he warned as Arthur cleared his throat, getting the woman's tired gaze to snap up.

"I'm here to give a statement. My name is Arthur Lester, it's about the library." so far, so good.

"If you don't mind me asking, what's going on here?" Arthur tacked on, keeping his voice hushed. John played along, vaguely gesticulating at the rest of the room. The woman huffed, pinching her nose.

"It's been going on since last night. Emergencies all around. Do go down that hallway, someone will call you in if they have the time." she indicated, waving them off. Frustration and exhaustion lined her voice, and John hurried down the narrow corridor. The tiles were slick with melted snow, dirtied with mud and dust clinging to it, and his hand had to fling out more than once to catch himself on the cold, rough cement wall. With the crowd, he wound up pushed into a corner next to a coat rack, trying to keep out of the way. At least it made conversing easy.

"Do you think this is because…" he trailed off, trying to find wording that didn't sound like an accusation. Arthur caught the meaning regardless.

"Because you trapped me here? I don't know. I haven't done it on purpose, if that's what you mean, but there are those who would." the jab was pointed, coated in anger. Trapped. Was that really how Arthur felt?

Of course he did. John had felt the same countless times before their separations – and then he'd spent the rest of them begging to be let back into the cage. Frustration and fear and loneliness took over later, but at the start, he felt the exact same. The only difference was, John knew what awaited him otherwise was far, far worse.

"Do you miss it? Your domain?"

"It wasn't exactly mine to begin with." what.

"I had, uh – well, I needed a place to stay. And…"

"Arthur, have you stolen from another god?" it would be downright hysterical if it didn't mean they could add another pissed off deity to their tally. And even so, John couldn't keep amusement from his voice. Of course Arthur has. Stealing the heart of one and now the domain of another, probably for no other reason than wanting to give a big fuck you to the rest of their – his kind.

"You don't know?" Arthur asked, and John froze. Was he supposed to know? Did he miss something?

"Mister Lester?" a younger man with a stack of papers called out to them, looking frenzied. His reddish hair was sticking out from under his cap, and he looked like he didn't quite know what to do with them at all. Probably his first week.

"Don't worry, Arthur. I have a feeling it'll be a short interrogation."

It was the poor kid's second week, not first, and he seemed to mostly be going off some pre-approved form. Arthur stuck to the poetry story, and the young officer didn't raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah, um, sorry about all of this. I'm, I'm not actually supposed to be doing this but all of the senior staff is having their hands full. And you know, you've handled cases for us so yeah, they're not too worried." the officer rambled, having scribbled everything down.

"Right. So… in the spirit of that, can I ask you something? Uh, off the record?" Arthur began, clearly taken aback.

"I'm – I'm not sure I'm allowed-"

"It'll be quick." Arthur reassured, flashing a friendly smile.

"He's nodding, don't draw this out."

"The… person who shot Armitage. Do you have any idea who they might be?"

"I'm, I shouldn't give this information out, it's an ongoing investigation."

"And I'm an investigator too. Armitage is my friend, and, more importantly, a source of information. If someone's gone after him, I need to know." Arthur pressed on. The officer fiddled with the papers, casting a nervous glance to the cheap, flimsy door of the room.

"It was a man. Um, nicely dressed, but nothing of note. It's not really a priority right now. He…" almost comically, he riffled through the papers, trying to find the correct one.

"He had a necklace with some symbol on it. The witness didn't see it well, maybe it was a triangle, or a rhombus…"

"A star."

Chapter Text

"We need to leave." John immediately shot out as they stepped out of the building.

"Why?"

"The Order is here, Arthur."

"The… Order." great. Even more cryptic bullshit. Did John have any idea how little that narrowed it down? It seemed every other masquerade group that couldn't find brain cells if they were shining a torchlight into a pot was the order of so-and-so or the brotherhood of this-and-that.

"The Order of the Fallen Star."

"Are they into astrology?"

"Arthur, please. Larson is – oh. You don't remember, do you?" John's frustration dissipated into sadness.

"Larson is part of the Order, although he seems to have a greater knowledge of the occult than most. He's… old, even if he doesn't look it, and has kept himself alive through deals he's made. He's grown rich and powerful by using others, keeping them in his mines. We were also thrown down there." brief flashes of emotion punctuated John's words. Anger, hate. Guilt and loss. Yet none he could accurately direct.

"You died there." searing pain. Crying. Then nothing. He forced a deep breath into the shared lungs.

"What's the sky like?"

"The sky?" John sounded like he thought him nothing short of an idiot.

"You said it looked strange, earlier."

"It's darker now. The clouds have gathered into a thick cover, casting shadows on the street. It's still too early for the street lights, so we'll just have to tread more carefully." somewhere behind them, glass shattered, ringing out clear and loud.

"I think a bottle got knocked over." John sped up regardless, rushing up to the office.

The carpet was still damp when they entered, making disgusting, squelching noises as John trod across it.

"We'll go to Boston. You might still have some friends there, or at least the Order won't be able to track us down as quickly." John began, and he heard the rummage of things being moved, drawers opening and closing. John was packing.

"Wait, wait. What do you mean, we'll go? They were after Armitage-"

"So it's a matter of time before they're after us!"

"And you think running away to a different city will stop them?" John paused at that.

"The Order of the Fallen Star is a powerful group, Arthur. They have many connections, and at least one of them hates you. So yes, I think not staying in a city full of cults is a pretty good fucking idea!"

"Why Boston? There has to be somewhere we can go-"

"Daniel's already gotten shot once because of us. Even if the Order wasn't based in New York, we can't take that risk. I doubt Marie wants to see us again, and we fucked Scratch over, so that's another good reason to stay the fuck away from New York." he wasn't even going to bother asking after any of those names.

"But we'll still… fix this, right? Separate?"

"Of course, friend. That's always been the plan." John's answer came a second too late for comfort, and the silky smoothness of his voice, all but spun from smoke and mirrors, sent dread coursing through his veins.

"You do realise that this looks like we're running away after Armitage got shot, right? We're still a suspect." he started up at some point. They'd been driving for hours, and while he appreciated the radio being on, it did little to alleviate the utter boredom. Even if John hadn't been focusing all his attention on the road, there were only so many ways he could say there was snow and ice and it was getting dark. He wished he could at least feel something, at least be able to tap fingers to the music or blink or do anything at fucking all. He was becoming alarmingly complacent in this situation. Friendly or not, cult or not, John was still holding him hostage, and he seemed to be all too quick to forget the destruction of that morning.

"Hardly the first time."

"Don't suppose that had anything to do with us shoving a body into a closet, did it now?" he lightly remarked, but John remained silent.

"I never said we hid Parker's body in a closet." his words were tight, lined with hope. But – no, that wasn't right, John must have brought it up at some point. He could still remember the scrape of the chair, the dead weight in his hands. Someone knocking on the door. Yes, John must have said it before the officer had knocked on their door.

"What else do you remember?" nothing, he remembered nothing. Couldn't John just fuck off and leave him alone again?

"Do you remember what he looked like – or, or what he sounded like?"

"No-"

"Do you remember how you met?" embers of the burn of alcohol rekindled on his tongue. Radio static filled the air with a hitch, echoes of whispers within a familiar tune of an unforgettable night.

"John, please-"

"Do you remember how he died?" the tune of calling madness.

"Do you remember how he called out to you? How you were his last thought? How we had a second body on our hands an hour later, because you wanted it?"

"Shut up, shut the fuck up!" the tune of love.

Breath couldn't come in quickly enough to quell his fury, curses couldn't roll off his tongue in numbers needed to even put a dent in the anger he felt bubbling from within. John was fucking with his head. John had trapped his body and was now trying to ensnare his mind too, trying to confuse him, to put memories and thoughts there that didn't exist. John was – what kind of a Great Old One called himself John? Did he think he was an idiot? Did he think he wouldn't have recognised the voice that ruled Carcosa miles away?

He was done being a plaything.

His influence rolled out like a wave, like waters closing over a ship. A heartbeat, quick and pounding, made its presence known against his ribcage and lungs, pushing blood that flowed through his body like oil in a motor. And with that blood, came intent. Other sensations revealed themselves – the flex of muscles, the burn of cold, the suffocation of clothes, the press of boots upon pedals, the numbness of gloves pressing into a steering wheel. But still no sight.

"Arthur? Arthur, what are you – Arthur, don't!" John pushed back, but it was like trying to fight a tide with a bucket. He pressed onwards, pulling the other down, dragging him deeper into the confines of their shared mind. Fuck John. Fuck his plans. Fuck Boston. He tugged at the steering wheel sharply, but his left hand pulled it right back.

"Arthur, stop!" he didn't. He pressed on one of the pedals – the breaks, the gas, who knew – and gripped the steering wheel again. The scuffle was as comical as it was useless – neither could reasonably pull any stronger than the other, but he was furious, and blissfully unaware of the road.

"We are going to fucking crash!"

Arthur tugged again, nearly wrenching the wheel off the car altogether. The tires, which were doing an admirable job of staying on the road, gave a whine, and then the car jolted, clanking all of his teeth together. The vehicle screeched where it met ice instead of cement, and suddenly they were hurtling off the paved path, hitting every snow pile and tree in the way. John gave one final, desperate pull, and Arthur's head met the window pane as the car tipped over.

Pain engulfed him, quick and smothering, and then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

"Arthur? Arthur!" John lost track of how many times he'd repeated the name, getting no response at all. Inch by inch, sensation returned, from the tips of his toes to the rest of the body. Not the mouth though, that was still as numb as ever since that morning.

Fuck, had it only been a single day? Craning his neck, he tried to assess the situation. The car was on its side, lodged between two jagged rocks. A snowy duvet covered the ground beneath, although it was difficult to see with the impenetrable cover of clouds that had clustered in the sky above him. Painful throbbing made itself known throughout his entire skull, accompanied by countless milling bruises all over his body. Fuck. Fucking shit. Arthur had just almost fucking killed them.

Though, with how his body was dangling from the driver's seat, there was time for that yet.

"Arthur, I swear, if you don't fucking answer-" he let the threat dangle. What? What would he do? Piss him off again? It seemed that was all the two of them were good for, upsetting eachother. What did he even think he would achieve, reminding Arthur of how he'd killed his best friend? John had no illusions over what kind of monster he was, but why, why did he always rush to let Arthur know it?

Maybe he hoped Arthur would finally realise who he fought for. Maybe he hoped he would still choose to do it even when he knew.

A whimper slipped through his lips, one that John knew for a fact wasn't his.

"You crashed the car." a groan was all he got in response, despite the fact he was the one feeling the impact.

"Arthur. We need to get out of here. The car is lodged between two stones. I think we can climb out of the window, but we need to be careful. Although, there is snow beneath us. We could equally try to crawl out and under the car." he considered their options. Logically, John knew he should be more scared, but after everything they'd been through, it really was another shitty driving experience to add to the list. Fuck knew how they got from Addison to New York in the first place, especially as Arthur had kept zoning out.

"How… how close is the car to the ground?" Arthur mumbled, clearly trying to regain awareness.

"Difficult to tell. We are dangling from the driver's seat. It would be easier to drop down, but we might have to dig through snow."

"Climbing, then. Can you get the door open?" John shifted in the seat, trying to get a better grip on the door, but found his right hand still gripped the steering wheel. Fuck. Fuck, they couldn't do this with a broken arm. Cautiously, he tapped his forearm, but felt none of it.

"Oh, Arthur… I can't feel my right arm, all the way up to the shoulder, I'd say." he tried to hide his giddiness – which, in all fairness, may well have been hysteria.

"But I can." Arthur slowly said, tapping his fingers against the wheel.

"But you can." John echoed, wishing he could smile. This was right. This was better. He felt much more at home being unable to move that arm and speak than he ever did since their separation.

"Well then, where should I hold onto?" falling back into a familiar rhythm, Arthur seemed to be more willing to cooperate like this. Maybe some memories were coming back. Maybe it was the very real danger of them getting trapped in the car.

"I need you to give me leverage, I'll try to kick the door open. Anywhere on the board – yes, like that." John encouraged as Arthur gripped the board. His own hand wrapped around the door handle, but there was no give. The door was stuck.

"Shit. The door is trapped between the rocks. I could try breaking the window, but we'd have to crawl through glass." adjusting, John kicked at the door. Absolutely fucking nothing. Ignoring the pain, he slammed his shoulder against it, and there was an undeniable scrape of metal against stone.

"Wait, wait, John-" but Arthur didn't finish his sentence as the car slid down, lurching forward. Gravity pulled, and a gloved grip against the smooth car interior did nothing to dissuade it. One moment, the world was sideways, the next, it was a blur of white and the bite of glass as they crashed downwards, through the opposite window. The half-frozen snow beneath gave way, and they brought the entire sheet tumbling down with them into the rocky depths.

It was a softer landing than most they'd had, all things considered. The snow at the bottom of the pit successfully broke their fall, leaving John no worse off than a handful of bruises added to the existing dozens and a steady pour of blood from his nose.

"What the fuck-"

"The snow. It had frozen over a much larger hole. We've brought it down with us." it was easy to tell which areas had been impacted by their unfortunate attempt at car hiking, as what was mostly ankle-deep snow became hip height mounds in certain areas.

"How large?"

"I can't see the ends on either side. And it must be at least ten feet from where we fell." John tipped his head backwards, looking up at the sliver of skies visible through the jagged, blurry edges of rock and snow alike. Swathes of dark clouds made it impossible to tell night and day, and the icy wind picking up carried whatever snow wasn't frozen solid with it.

"Can we… climb up?" Arthur sounded hesitant to even ask, and John couldn't blame him. The last time they were in a pit-

No. This wasn't like the last time.

"Do your powers extend to snow?"

"If it's melted." Arthur sounded loathe to admit it, and of course he did. They both despised impossible situations.

"Then we'll need to find the least slippery part of the rock. We have rope with us, but it won't help much if we can't hook it to anything." John attempted to scramble to his feet at that, only to immediately sink into the snow. Fucking fantastic. Someone tapped him on the chest and he nearly grabbed the gun before he realised it was his own right hand. He watched as Arthur pulled the lighter out with a practiced precision, as though he'd always known it.

"What can you see?"

"Light reflects off the frozen sides of the rock like a kaleidoscope, ricocheting off the walls of the cavern. It plays tricks with my eyes – I can't tell whether the closest groove is near or far. The stone itself is of no note, but beneath the icy cover, it shines like opals. And… oh, Arthur. It's started snowing. Thick, white clumps are blossoming from the sky, carried by the wind. They are being whipped back and forth, though I think we are mostly sheltered from it." nowhere near enough though, if the stinging in his cheeks was anything to go by. He was pretty sure the nosebleed smeared across his face was already half-solid mush.

"Is there anywhere you can tie the rope to?"

"Not while we are still down here. We'll have to do this ourselves." for a brief moment, Arthur was silent. Then, he began trying to tug his own glove off. Catching on, John helped peel it off him – they'd need bare hands for a better grip. However, he was startled by the brush of skin against his – colder than usual, perhaps, rough from all the shit they'd crawled through already, but Arthur's regardless as he returned the favour, hooking a pinkie beneath John's glove. He's missed this. Fuck, he's missed this so much.

"John?" Arthur prompted him, and John turned towards the wall. His fingers recoiled at the sudden chill that met them, but he grabbed onto the rock regardless. The groups of snowflakes begun to flutter down, clouding his vision. As idyllic as they might have looked, they were gathering in far too large numbers, multiplying like a disease, covering the air around them. Wind roared up ahead, and a huge cluster of snow was swept down somewhere to his right.

"Climb."  it was all the instruction Arthur needed before John was pulled up by his right arm with no warning. His feet slipped, scrambling to find footing, and he nicked his chin against a particularly rough rock.

"With me." he gritted out. Since when did Arthur need such fucking clarification? There was a distinct plink sound of something hard hitting frozen stone, and he decided he'd rather not turn around and check for it. Reaching up, he dragged his feet to a more stable position, tucked into a cranny in the cavern wall. Arthur let out a hiss of pain, despite not doing anything of notable help.

"Something hit me in the shoulder!"

"Maybe it was a pebble."

"It didn't feel like a fucking pebble, John." before he could argue further, a sudden pain knocked into his forehead. A hard, cold object met soft skin. More plinks and plunks sounded, in an increasingly dangerous cacophony.

"John, this isn't snow. It's hail."

"It's a fucking snowstorm, Arthur!"

"Fuck – okay, okay, is there – can, can we hide somewhere?"

"I think a part of the cavern goes underground."

Chapter Text

It was hardly the better option. Even with the miserable flame of the lighter, the cavern was impossible to traverse. Frozen snow clung to the walls and ground, while the ceiling was an imperceptible swath of darkness. It spread in patches along the smooth stone, and it took John a moment or two to realise it was likely moss.

In some small mercy, it was warmer in there, stone and snow acting as isolation from the bitter chill. Wind howled outside, occasionally echoing through the empty halls.

"What if we get snowed in?" Arthur asked just as John inched deeper into the cavern. The question carried, like the overlapping his voice used to wield.

"Let's hope the storm eases up before that. Otherwise…" John trailed off, not wanting to admit it.

"Otherwise we find another way." if that grim determination didn't sound familiar. John would have laughed, if he wasn't so fucking cold. With the adrenaline ebbing away, he was becoming increasingly aware of the shake in their body, and the shivers running down his spine. Judging by the clattering of his teeth, Arthur felt it too.

"Maybe if we go further in-" John paused, nearly slipping something much soggier and softer than the near-solid snow.

"Oh, Arthur! The ground beneath our feet changes to piles of dead leaves. If we continue, we may be able to start a fire."

"Brilliant." Arthur responded, in the same way John had heard him say a hundred times before. His heart ached from the familiarity, yet Arthur didn't seem to take any notice.

Maybe bringing Parker up had jostled some memories. Maybe it was slamming his head into the car's interior.

Leaves grew drier the deeper in they went, turning from sloppy mulch to a gentle rustling beneath John's feet, long collected layers now disturbed. No twigs snapped, but occasionally pebbles rolled as he kicked through the piles.

"I think there's plenty here." with that, John knelt down and began to clear out a space. He only wanted to get warm, not set the entire cavern on fire. Although, given the snow, smoke was a bigger concern. Unprompted, Arthur's hand smacked into his as he attempted to help.

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"Nothing, just… it's fragile." John almost retorted it was his own hand before realising that Arthur had picked a leaf up.

"I can't see well here, but the leaf you're holding is large. It has a star-like shape, with jagged edges. One of its ends has been torn off. It's difficult to tell the colour, but I imagine it was probably a brilliant orange when it fell." he softly offered. His own first impressions after the Dark World were torn between trying not to get Arthur shot, and taking in every little inch he could. That clear blue sky he saw when Arthur had first stumbled out of his building and nearly into the road would be burned into his memory forever. He'd been deprived of colour, of peace for so long that he equally wanted to snatch everything he could, and didn't know what to do with it all.

"Thank you, John. You're the first to offer." Arthur's voice was rough, and it was impossible to read the emotion behind it. Not wanting to instigate another fight, John struck the lighter. Flames licked the pile of leaves, gently at first, then burst across it. Warmth and light alike spilled through the cavern, sending painful pins of defrosting through their hands.

"The fire is… beautiful. Shining reds and bright yellows spill over eachother, orbiting like dancers. The flames are warm and high, casting a glow throughout the cavern. The walls sparkle under it, each bit of snow and ice reflects the light like glass. It's-" John cut off as his gaze travelled through the cavern, and what laid curled in the corner.

"Arthur. There is a creature here. It's laying in the corner – I, I think it may be asleep?"

"Shit. What is it?" Arthur dropped his voice to a whisper.

"It's an amalgamation of some kind, almost like two animals stitched together. Its body, legs and fur are those of a fox, but its neck is long like a swan's. It snout elongates into a beak and-" John shifted, causing his boots to squeak.

"Fuck! Its ears just twitched. Arthur, the back of this thing's head is covered in mouths. It's difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins, and they all have razor sharp teeth. Long tongues are hanging out of some of them, and sickly foam is collecting in others."

"John. John, we need to go." Arthur hissed. He fucking knew that, he was trying to get across what they were facing!

"I can't see its claws well, but there is blood streaked across the fur. This being, whatever it is, is not friendly. Its face-"

"John!" he tried to clasp a hand over Arthur's mouth, but it was too late. The thing's beak-snout snapped directly towards them.

"Oh, Arthur… its eyes are human."

"Fucking run!"

Yes, they had to – fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck, he controlled the body now. John shot to his feet, but the thing was quicker. By the time he took a step back, it was already upon him, pouncing with limbs he now perceived had one too many joints. He grabbed at its fur, pulling it in an attempt to keep the thing away from his face, but he couldn't squeeze its long neck enough as its maw gaped at his face, biting inches away. And those eyes, those human eyes, burned with hate and rage.

"Arthur, it's on us, it has countless rows of teeth, including its entire tongue! The claws are digging into my stomach, the jacket isn't thick enough-"

"Then get it off!" the thing screeched, a shrill noise that tore at John's eardrums like sandpaper, and suddenly it was yanked off. Unable to aim, Arthur flung it right at the meagre fire. Another banshee scream punctuated its fall – and oh fuck, that was a human scream, wasn't it – before its weight snuffed the flames out, plunging the cavern into darkness. The only sliver of light was the near-imperceptible shine from the cavern's entrance, and it did nothing to discern the thing from the shadows.

"It's blocking the way- fuck, Arthur, it's got wings!" John shouted as its fur-covered sides opened up, revealing more sets of mouths beneath.

"Run!" with that, John dashed deeper into the stone around him. His feet pounded against the cold floor, echoing in the vastness of the underground. Heart pounding, his chest seized as Arthur struggled to get enough air in, unable to tell their speed, unable to see the ever-waning light as the walls narrowed around them. Screams and shrieks followed them, teeth snapping right at their feet, at their back, by the ear.

"John-"

"I know! I can't fucking see anything!"

"Can't imagine what that's like!" before John could answer, the slippery moss of the cave betrayed him. Pain shot through his ankle, hot and burning as he came crashing down, and the thing let out one final, triumphant squeal.

The ankle was nothing compared to pure agony that laced his entire leg within a second. Like molten gold poured onto an infested wound, it spread in waves, biting and clawing and singing, like ash given form and relit, like coal clotting in his veins.

"Fuck! Arthur, it's bitten me! Its teeth are buried in my thigh, one of the back mouths – it – fuck!" John couldn't even pretend to be coherent as pain took hold, branding his skin, travelling through each layer of the body – skin, fat, muscle, and bone – and spilling further, finding vessel in his blood. The creature clamped its jaw tighter, and close as they were, John could have sworn he'd seen delight in those awful, horrible, human eyes as another scream tore from him, deafening in the echo of his own mind, rolling over Arthur's words like a train.

A gunshot sliced through the cacophony.

And then the thing went limp.

"Why didn't you tell me we had a fucking gun?" Arthur exploded, like shooting a monstrosity blind, with only one arm and best information from his guide being incoherent screaming, was not even a thing worth mention.

"We could have dealt with it back at the entrance – John? John, John, what is it?" anger melted into panic as John screamed again, torment increased tenfold now that the beast lay dead at their feet.

"The fucking – it's venomous." he forced out, trying to keep a good grasp on his words. Thighs were a bad place to get cut in, he knew as much, but he barely felt anything of the blood spilling out in alarming amounts, except for the slightest relief it brought.

"You need to get up. We need to get up, seek help, do, do something – John, please, get up!" Arthur pressed his hand on the wound, and it hurt so bad John barely had it in him to whimper. The pain washed all coherent thoughts away, all attempts at talking and moving.

"You are not going to die in some fucking ditch!" but judging by the pain and the blood, he would. The Dark World – had it really been that bad? He'd only come back because he'd developed a conscience. And a whole lot of good that had done him. Maybe he could show it to Arthur. Maybe Arthur would understand it now. Understand him.

"Get up, your piss-coloured majesty! Get the fuck up, John, please!" Arthur's pleas swirled from anger to despair to tears, and John could hardly notice any of it.

A wave of numbness washed over him. Cold against the burning heat of the venom, and he was all but certain he'd boil from inside.

Then another came. And another. Washing away the pain, yes, but washing away everything else too. The tension of his muscles, the ability to command them. The feeling of clothes pressing upon his skin. The sensation of blood leaking out of him like a popped balloon.

Arthur screamed instead, and he was certain that was it.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't. Don't. Fuck, shit, dammit, o-okay. Fucking – okay. Okay. I've – fuck – I've got us. I've got us." Arthur breathlessly replied, sentence punctuated by whimpers and grunts of pain. John's vision spun as Arthur fought to get on their shaking feet, a bitten off scream erupting the moment he tried to put weight on their right leg.

"Just – just tell me where, okay? I think, I think the cavern slopes upwards. Just tell me where." Arthur kept repeating, like a mantra, despite his voice being barely above a laboured whisper.

"Just tell me where."

Chapter Text

At least there was a functional fireplace in the cabin.

He wasn't sure how they'd even made it there. John hadn't given more than barebones directions, and he himself had been preoccupied putting one foot in front of the other while feeling like his skin was peeling from inside out. Even now, after they'd done their best to wash and bandage the wound – or rather, John did while he screamed – there was a constant throbbing pain, each rise and crash of it like shards against his bones.

But they were alive, so he supposed that counted for something.

They'd wound up lying on the floor by the fireplace, with him being too exhausted to move when the adrenaline dropped, and John hadn't made complaints. He hadn't tried to wrestle back control of the body either. It seemed the King was content to simply lie there, and he swore he could feel his presence curled up in his mind like a cat.

"Arthur?" it wasn't his name, but what did it matter now? Names were as fickle as raindrops, and he'd grown used to the way John said it, all sharp and solid. It felt… familiar, the way he'd played with him in that office. Intuitive, almost. And most likely the result of his head getting fucked with, but he was too tired to properly care.

"Mhm?"

"Thank you. For getting us out of there. I… have never felt pain like that before. I haven't felt much physical pain, really." he wanted to point out that neither had he, but it felt like a lie. Instead of responding, he stretched across the stone floor, which had warmed considerably from the fireplace. When was the last time he'd felt warmth? When was the last time he'd been near a fire without dousing it out?

He was tired, and warm, and certainly suffering blood loss. In a wink, he was out like a light.

Arthur sat at the piano, playing. The water that had poured into the room from the hallway was nearly up to his ankles, but he didn't bother looking up.

"You used to be my favourite." this fucker, again.

Great Old Ones weren't meant to sleep. They weren't meant to have dreams, or so easily fall under the influence of their own kind. Yet night after night, Arthur did. Because Arthur wasn't their kind at all. No, he was something new, something formed from death experiences and entwined souls and every entity he came across using his brain like their own personal sorting shapes puzzle.

In some aspects, he was stronger. He could walk between the two planes with relative ease, if summoned. He didn't need a cult for power – not when John still sought him day and night. In others, though…

"And then you betrayed me." he'd tried to get out of the nightmare, the first few times. Tried to be left the fuck alone. Tried to save her. But it never worked. So he resorted to ignoring the entity near him.

"And you betrayed him too, didn't you? The bleeding heart. The golden boy. You failed him, just like you'd failed her." it was his own mind, it was only his own mind.

"So why not fail yourself too? Except, of course, you already have." the voice melted into his own – his eldritch, overlapping, own voice. A sightless figure rose out of the water, and Arthur didn't need to see to know it was a mirror image. Cold, wet fingers cupped his cheeks as his other self – current self – stronger self – damned self grabbed his face. Iron dragged along his skin, in place of the usual wooden pinkie, and yet Arthur did not stop playing.

He didn't stop until he was dragged beneath.

He didn't stop until the water turned red.

The awakening came with a scream on his lips, and a barrage of concern from John.

"Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me? You were screaming, I – I couldn't wake you up-"

"A nightmare. It was just a nightmare." it was the best answer he could offer. Those nightmares poured in and out, tormenting him each time he slept, but they slipped away through his fingers the moment he woke. He did his best to draw a non-shaky breath in, hoping to avoid interrogation.

The pain from earlier was gone, perhaps having been chased away by rest. The fire had dwindled down, leaving a noticeable chill in the cabin. He could practically feel the cold current of the outside sneaking in along the floor, air brushing against his bare hand. Right. Fire. They needed more firewood.

Arthur moved to push himself up, and found he couldn't. The body simply wouldn't respond. No muscles flexed under his command, no limbs responded save for that one hand.

It wasn't that the pain was gone. He just couldn't feel it. And the human body was so narrow of a prison.

Heart beating against his constricted lungs, in far too small of a cavity, hurting with each thump-thump-thump, it seemed the organ was trying to pummel his airways into dust. Nausea rolled in his stomach, vile and wavering, coming in bouts. He was going to be sick. He was going to be sick.

"Arthur-" it came as he was already coughing, John barely scrambling in time to make sure they were kneeling before he emptied whatever contents they still had in their stomach.

The taste was awful. Scalding and rotten, it was utterly disgusting.

"Are you… alright?" was he alright? Was he alright? He'd just thrown up for the first time that he could recall, after blindly running through snow whilst poisoned, trapped in a human shell as what he could only assume was a practical joke, and John was asking if he was alright? Bitter laughter broke from him, verging on hysteria.

"Make an educated guess, Your Highness." he spat the title out with remnants of bile still in his mouth. His hand found its way to his chest, in some reflex to try and breathe, and he felt their entire body tense.

"You knew." it was equal part accusation and disbelief.

"You didn't even bother to change your voice."

"And you didn't fucking tell me?"

"Tell you what? That this whole plan was stupid? I would have thought that someone with millennia of experience wouldn't struggle so much with a mere child thief." what a warm welcome he'd had to the Dreamlands. The King in Yellow trying to tear him apart on the spot while he didn't know what, or where, he was.

"What? No, I'm not-"

"Why do you hate me so much?" his voice cracked, and he despised it. He despised how he sounded like a schoolboy crying about bullies.

"Why did you ever go through the effort? Why did you drag me all the way here to stuff me into a corpse and then play a devastated friend? What have I ever done to you?"

"You made me love you." John offered, sounding like he himself was crying.

"I am not the King. At least, not fully. I am a fragment. And you – Arthur, you…" John – the fragment trailed off, searching for words.

"At least, the man that used to inhabit this body. We became bound, some time ago, but we also became friends. I didn't intend to harm you, and I don't… hate you."

"But I'm not him." he offered no response.

"I – I'm not-"

"Do you want to get separated?" John cut in, dismissing his words entirely. All the sadness was gone from his voice now – there was nothing but careful, calculated neutrality.

"Of course, but you said…"

" I don't know how. But the Order of the Fallen Star might. They have countless resources and occult objects."

"You want to go to people we are on the run from? That have already tried to kill one person?" fragment or not, John was certainly the King in Yellow, because he couldn't think of anyone else this out of touch with reality.

"We've just crashed the car. If they are after us, they'll find a wreck headed to Boston. The blizzard has covered our traces entirely. It would take them hours to even realise we ever came to this cabin. We can head to New York, break in, and get what we need. Or… we could continue looking in Arkham. It's your call."

"Let's go to New York. They already know we're in Arkham. I doubt they'll expect us to be bold enough to break into their own chambers." or stupid enough.

"Yes, Arthur!" John cawed, and it brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. But then he added, quieter:

"I… never asked. If you wanted me to call you that."

He thought about it. He thought about how he'd never picked a name for himself, because all had felt ill-fitting. He thought about how solid the name felt when John enunciated it. How he could tell what his next words would be by the tone he said it with.

"Arthur is just fine."

Chapter Text

There was an odd numbness in him. Even though John logically knew that his organs were working, that the heart was pumping blood and lungs were drawing air in and all that, he couldn't feel one bit of it. Considering he still more than likely had supernatural rabies or some other shit coursing through his blood, it was more than alarming.

Though, he wasn't about to mention that to Arthur. To maybe Arthur. He may very well and truly have dragged some poor sod out of the Dreamlands based on a hunch. Which, if that was the case… well, he was better off here anyway. But if it was Arthur, really Arthur, transformed in some odd way, maybe by the King himself, maybe by someone else – probably Kayne, the fucker – then he had to make this work. He just had to. What was one more, little, tiny lie, compared to all the ones he'd already told? What was a lie compared to having half his soul back? Since his separation from the King, there was an empty spot in his chest, and Arthur had filled it, until John managed to lose him, like he himself was once lost. But unlike the other side of his own golden coin, he would get it right. He had to. And he knew the Order had a way.

Despite what everyone else seemed to think, he wasn't a fool. Naïve, maybe, softer, sure, but he wasn't so easily played. He'd found out what that stupid rock that Kayne had wanted him to find did the moment Armitage trusted him enough to let him take a look at some of his tomes.

It bestowed knowledge. And unlike him, Arthur only had a few decades to recall.

Of course, a piano was an option too, provided his friend didn't immediately smash the next one.

"Pull over. We've been driving for hours and haven't had a single bathroom stop."

"In a stolen car?"

"It'll be five minutes." well, there was a possibility he hadn't considered. Somehow Arthur got internal organs. With a sympathetic sigh, John scanned their surroundings.

"The winter sun has set well over an hour ago. It is fully dark outside, save for streetlights shining a warm light on the fallen snow. The streets are quiet. It's too cold to mingle outside, and I imagine many people are still at work. Oh! I see a gas station up ahead, Arthur."

True to Arthur's words, at least it was quick. They were washing their hands when the door swung open behind them. John glanced in the mirror, at their bruised face and definitely broken nose, and every inch of him filled with terror.

"Arthur, it's an old woman. There is-"

"This is the men's!"

"My old favourite." Scratch hissed, and shut the door.

"You – I know you-" Arthur started, but John was already backing off, hand reaching for the gun.

"You barely know yourself."

"Arthur, this isn't the time for a chat. If you help me aim, we can-"

"Do you know who I am?"

"I know what you have done. And what you haven't."

"We made a deal with Scratch, and we didn't fulfill it. We need to kill them, now." he raised the gun, but Arthur still had the steadier hand. And he was doing absolutely nothing.

"Arthur, for fuck's sake!"

"Can you help me?"

"You didn't help me."

"You fucker, he let you out!" John screamed in frustration, and Scratch cocked their head towards him.

"Mmm, that he did. But he broke his promise." Fuck. Fuck, he didn't think they could hear him. Alright, this was fine. This was… fine.

"He freed you, you freed us. That's fair. The slate is clean."

"Freed?" Arthur echoed, alarm rising in his voice, and John steamrolled over it:

"So, our business here is done."

"Wait! Wait. If I – if we do… whatever it is, will you help me in return?"

"I could. But, if you fail… I will haunt your nightmares. And you will never wake."

"Arthur, don't. Please. We have another way."

"And if it fails? What, we run to the next cult?" Arthur insisted, stretching out his palm for a handshake.

"Good call, old favourite." with a blood-chilling grin to rival Kayne's, Scratch approached. They dug around in a pouch slung about their neck, before pulling that same fucking pebble out.

"Find me a new host. By sunrise."

"That was a fucking idiotic decision!" John shouted for what must have been the fifteenth time.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, an abandoned grain silo is a much better option!" Arthur shot back, as they riffled through their bag, trying to find anything to turn the stupid hidden button in the elevator with. Their keys were too thick, while razors had done nothing except nick both their fingers.

"How did you even do this the first time?"

"We used a ring. But I've… lost it." better said, he chucked it into the nearest sewage drain in a fit of enraged grief.

"You've lost it?"

"It wasn't of use-"

"Do you collect occult objects as a fucking hobby or something?"

"Fuck off!"

"You're the one who lost the fucking key!" Arthur slammed his fist against the elevator's buttons. Deep within the mechanism, something clicked.

And they dropped, door still open.

Layers of earth flew past John's eyes as they shot down, having been flung to the rickety elevator floor by the force alone. Tiles gave way to foundation, which turned to deep, rich dirt, and melted away into stone formations deep within the ground, some natural, and others fashioned to the Order's tastes. Air whistled past them, cold and unyielding, whipping their hair about. A short-lived scream tore from Arthur as they hurtled down, cut by the elevator slamming against the chamber floor. Every bone in their body rattled, adding a row of blooming bruises alongside the ones from the car crash.

"I have had it with these fucking cult elevators." Arthur spat out the moment they got their bearings.

"Let's hope it still works on the way up." John remarked. The Order's halls looked unchanged. Same odd paintings. Same stone-carved walls. Same echoing emptiness, as they'd made it there a full day before the meeting, and clearly nobody had bothered to decorate in advance. Cautiously, he stepped out of the elevator, and pain shot through the bite wounds. Fuck. Fuck, the wounds better not have reopened.

"So, what's the plan?"

"The Order has many occult objects, including the Grey Stone."

"What, you starting a rock collection?" Arthur deadpanned, and John really wished he'd keep his wits to himself for a change.

"Maybe. Listen, the point is, that stone can grant knowledge. Including how to separate us, if… if that's still what you-"

"Did you hear that?" Arthur cut in, hand going to the gun in alarm.

"Heard what?"

"Footsteps. Like there is someone else here."

"Arthur, I can't see anyone near. But, it may be wise to keep a hand on the gun, in case any Order members might be around." John gave options, as always. It was Arthur's choice, as always. And this time, Arthur chose to let go of the gun.

"As I was saying, the stone can grant knowledge. But, if we get lucky, we might loot whatever they've got." the bastards deserved it anyway. Fuck knew what deals they'd made to gain them in the first place. He, he'd made deals out of necessity – they'd made them out of greed. And if Larson was anything to go by…

They swerved into the grand hall. With its splendour shining in a lonely hole, John couldn't help but feel like they were the newest specimen in an operating theatre. Lights were still on, gas lamps shining despite them being hundreds of feet underground. Their soft, dim glow spilled across the intricate floor, that seemed to have been hewn for dancing alone, and all it did was smooth the shadows, their ends ebbing like smoke. For a moment, John thought he'd seen a figure slinking through them, as though spying, but it dissipated in a blink.

"We're almost there, Arthur. I swear, I'll fix all of this."

He made it to the stairs. Ornate, monstrous things they were, John normally might have appreciated the masonry that had gone into creating them. But as was, every step made him nearly cry out in pain as skin pulled taut alongside the barely healed, shining, apple red bite marks.

"It's up the stairs and to the left. It'll be as quick as your bathroom break." promises tumbled out of his mouth, ones he had to keep.

"John, I really think – I swear, I heard something."

"All the more reason for us to be quicker."

"No, I mean, right now. John." Arthur hissed as he sped up. So what if there was someone there? They'd fought worse than some rich cultist who thought waving a few candles would grant him power. They, they had real power, they had eachother and – well. He supposed Arthur could simply drown the man in his own saliva.

The corridor to the stone's chamber opened, and John's mind narrowed down to one singular thought, one that had haunted him from the moment Arthur was torn from him, one that had tormented him each night as Arthur's body rested but he was unable to sleep, one that jeered at him from each mirror until he covered them all with cloth, one that tormented and cut and tore him until he doomed someone to his old fate.

He had to get his friend back. And he didn't give a shit about anything else. Not about the failed deals, not about his own past, not even about the warnings and panic that rose in Arthur's voice as he tuned it out, used to delegating human speech to mindless bleating. The doors grew as he approached, practically sprinting. Twelve more steps, twelve more steps and Arthur would be back – truly be back. Eight more, just eight and Arthur would get it all, they'd play the piano again, they could even go back to the Dreamlands with Arthur's newfound abilities. They were the same now, in a way, and they could carve their own way. Four, only four and-

John's knees and palms met the ground as something heavy in robes crashed into him. He tried to struggle, but pain seared through the bite again and he found his hands wrung behind his back by something decidedly inhuman.

"Well, mister Lester, didn't expect you to try to pull the same trick twice." a Southern drawl dragged through the hall, and he didn't need to ever have met the man to recoil in revulsion. And Arthur, seemingly, came to the same conclusion:

"Who the fuck are you?"

Chapter Text

They were being dragged somewhere, by some things that John had described as "mucus", and if that didn't make him want to throw up again already, the bastard walking next to them just continued to talk.

"I expected more… creativity from you both. Stealing my car, destroying my mines, killing my children, and you get captured so easily? No, no, Arthur, I can not imagine you were the one making the calls here. The King can be rather petulant, imprisoned as he is within us."

"What the fuck is he on about?" finally, John said something Arthur wholeheartedly agreed with. Last he checked, John and him were still painfully stuck together, and getting dragged across the fucking floor by an underdeveloped digestive tract. However, seeing as John had also gotten them into this mess, he wasn't too inclined to be amicable towards him.

He'd warned him. He'd told him, over and over again, that someone was there, and John ignored him. His choice this and his call that, fucking bullshit, all of it. John had just ran on, as if he wasn't even there. He was a fucking idiot. What did he expect, that the King in Yellow would stick to his word? That he would give two shits? He doubted that fucking rock was ever going to separate them.

"And yet, this power we've been granted, the abilities we wield… it's changed you, hasn't it? I can see it on your face. I was wondering, when you disappeared so thoroughly, what had happened. And then… and then, Arthur, a new entity arose. Or should I call you by your proper title? I would never want to be rude to-"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." if he had to listen to any more of this ego-fuelled drivel, he'd claw out his own ears. The man had the lung capacity and self-importance to rival a Great Old One.

"You have changed since we last saw – well. Heard eachother."

"Oh yeah? You didn't make a lasting impression."

"Now, that-" he heard John hiss in annoyed discomfort. Good. He wasn't sure which one he disliked more at the moment.

"He tugged at your ear – the one with a missing part."

"I would disagree with."

He got a brief reprieve from the man's voice as doors scraped open, but John rose to fill the silence:

"Arthur! They've dragged us into a room with some – some machine!" oh, that was fucking great. He sincerely hoped that it was just another case of John not knowing what a fucking wheelchair was.

"It looks alien. Arthur, this thing was not made by human hands. Metal and stone bends with flesh at unnatural angles, like a grotesque display of art. There is light running through it, shifting colours as it does. There are two connected slabs – Arthur, they have restraints!" fuck, fuck, fuck! His arm was wrung behind his back, and the gun missing. Even so, he tried to reach for whatever powers he still had – whether it was whatever allowed him to take control previously or his own set – and came up empty handed. All of a sudden, Arthur was far too aware of how much the human heart can beat.

"Let us go, you fucker!"

"Arthur, they're tying us to the slab!" not again, not fucking again.

"I am going to kill you! You hear me, I will tear out your fucking eyes and-"

"Yes, yes, you do seem to have a penchant for doing that. You know, it was a bit of a puzzle, how to get you here without performing the ritual myself. It was actually the King – Yellow, I believe you called him - who pointed out that, if you were in the Dreamlands… someone had to be still controlling your body here on Earth. Finding out where he was was simple, he still worked in your old office after all, and it didn't take much to ah, nudge him in the correct direction."

"You used John as fucking bait?"

"Now, now, no need for these names anymore. We can refer to them as what they really are. And what we will be. Just – just look at you! From a mere human to a Great New One, with only one fragment. Think of what would happen with two."

"He's got Yellow." John whispered in shock, as though the words meant anything to Arthur. The name didn't stir anything in him but rage, disdain and… shame. There was quite a lot of shame.

"We will bring about a new dawn for humanity. We could craft kingdoms, nations, reality. We don't need to rely on them anymore, Arthur – we will be deities." Larson finished, breathless, and Arthur spat at him:

"You are a fucking lunatic."

"You hit his shoes." John added, voice roiling with same disgust at the cockroach of a man before them that Arthur felt. No, no, it was more than disgust. It was sheer and utter hatred.

"I didn't ask for this, you dimwit. You fucking – thief! You can't have him!"

"Thief? Remember who it was that had stolen Hastur's heart first. And then you stole the rest too." Larson sounded honestly, genuinely offended, and Arthur wanted to smash his skull open to see what was going on inside his fucked up brain.

"I will not ask twice, Arthur. Unlike the King, I don't need either to be willing." Larson's footsteps sounded down the hall, as though to leave, when he huffed under his breath:

"Fine. But be quick." then he added:

"Speak of the royalty! He wants to have a chat with you two."

"Arthur! A figure is rising from Larson's shadow. Colour is shining through, like in the fire. It's forming into yellow robes and… oh, Arthur. It's the King." there was no small amount of pride and terror mixed in John's voice, and it did little to placate Arthur.

"You have ten minutes." with that, Larson shut the door, and left them alone with Yellow.

Chapter Text

"Yellow, it's – how can he do that?"

"You can't?" Arthur shot back. Left with Larson's fucking – what, friend? Magical bodyguard? Pet? – that probably despised them both, and John now thought to mention he, apparently, had no supernatural abilities of his own!

"So John is here." The King – Yellow – offered no other greeting.

"You don't sound overjoyed at the family reunion."

"Reunion? We are chained by mortals, made to obey their whims and then usurped from our throne! You took us, you imprisoned us, and no punishment Larson may come up with will ever be painful enough for what you have done to us!" Yellow roared, and every memory of that first Dreamlands arrival came back in full swing. The King, trying to kill him. The King, threatening to torture him. The King, withdrawing as he fought back, as he took lake Hali for himself.

"You are no more than a common thief, Arthur, and if it weren't for John suffering alongside you, I'd force you to tear your own limbs off."

"Arthur – Arthur, tell him he's got it wrong. That we're friends. Tell him-"

"Friends?" Arthur chuckled in disbelief.

"John wants me to tell you that we're friends, but friends don't trap eachother. They don't force a friend to just stand by as they ruin their lives by being an idiot-"

"You've made us watch and suffer plenty." venom dripped from Yellow's words, and fuck, if Arthur didn't know the feeling all too well.

"He can keep whatever he wants to say. We'll be trapped with eachother in a few hours, helping Larson… ascend."

"You seem-"

"I don’t want to hear a word from you! This is all your fault, Arthur Lester!"

"Listen, I don't know what I – but, but I am sorry."

"I don't care."

"Arthur, he's going to leave!"

"Wait, wait, wait! I – I know how you feel. I do. Because… because John's done the same thing to me."

"He's paused. He's turning around. Arthur, I… I didn't mean to, ever – not like this."

"I control nothing except our speech." and an arm, but what was a little white lie?

"I felt equally… enraged, at first. It was humiliating. I wanted nothing more than – I, I think I did try to kill us. I almost did."

"And yet, you aren't trying to do so now."

"Because John… he's trying to be good to me. To make this work. He allows me freedom. But Larson…" he let the words hang in the air.

"Freedom? What freedom is there, when you can't choose where you go, or what you do? When you're constantly at the mercy of another?" Yellow scoffed.

"Arthur, can you – I want to ask him something. Is he… alright?"

"John wants to know if you're okay."

"Unless you've somehow blinded yourself permanently, John's got a working pair of eyes."

"I… Arthur, we can't just leave him with Larson." no, no they couldn't, even if Yellow made good on his limb tearing threat. Arthur knew that feeling of being so thoroughly broken in a prison, even if he couldn't place the memories.

"Larson wants two entities, doesn't he? Fine, he'll get two. But he can't have John."

"I sincerely doubt he wants you." Arthur doubted anyone wanted him.

"Not me, no. A different entity. One that calls themselves Scratch."

"Arthur… do you think this is a good idea? It might make Larson more powerful."

"I wish him good fucking luck, then. Scratch is a nightmare entity, looking for a new host. There is a pebble, in the pocket of our jacket. It…"

"Will allow them to possess the host when they fall asleep."

"Will allow them to possess the host when they fall asleep. Thanks, John." Arthur tacked on, hurrying before Yellow could refuse:

"I don't know what will happen. I can't promise it'll even work, with you already here. Maybe it'll kick you out. Maybe you'll have someone to share your misery with. But I can promise you, Scratch will make Larson suffer."

"I think he may be considering it."

"Just… let us go. Please. What do you think Larson will try to do if he has both of you? You think I usurped you? He'll be a hundred times worse. He wants to take your place as the ruler of the Dreamlands."

"It could be a trick." Yellow slowly said.

"It could be. But, you could also not give it to him. Pass it onto someone else, or, or toss it in a river or whatever. It's your call, Yellow." for a moment, there was silence. And then, Yellow gave a soft sigh.

"Get the pebble. And release them."

"Those things are digging through our pockets!" John sounded downright disgusted.

"They listen to you?"

"They might act in Larson's service, but I am still the King." Yellow mustered up as regal of a voice as he could, and Arthur didn't have the heart to make a cynical comment.

"Arthur, they've released us! We – we're free! They took the pebble."

"There's a door, behind a passage in this room. You can use it to get out."

"If Larson asks-"

"He thought some fucking rope would hold two Great Ones." Yellow's voice softened as he added:

"John. I won't pretend to understand this pipe dream of a bond you've convinced yourself you two have. But this… obsession with Arthur, this desperation… it'll destroy you."

"I've known that for a long time now." John calmly responded, and Arthur decided not to pass it on. Yellow had his own troubles to sort.

Shakily, they made it to the passage, that one of the… servants? Really, what the fuck were those? Opened for them.

"For fuck's – Arthur, these are stairs."

Chapter Text

They were tying new bandages on a bench in some tucked-away park when a voice startled them both.

"My old favourite… have you chosen yet?"

"For fuck's – stop doing that!" John swore, but Scratch ignored him. Arthur paused, trying to word it:

"I… have given the pebble to someone. But – I don't know who he'll give it to."

"And you've told him what it does? Who was it? The detective? He's been dreaming of you for a long time – for two years now. The priest? You'd left him without an explanation after he saved your father's life. Just left him sitting on a bench, waiting for you. How many more people are waiting for you, my old favourite? How many more have you left?" the who and who and sorry, Daniel's life? Arthur ignored the jab and continued:

"Another entity, actually. Like you. He… is stuck with a horrible man. And-"

"Yellow. Yes, you did feel regret for what you'd done to him, didn't you?"

"Then you also know what a fucker Larson is. And he's been alive for over a century. He'll have plenty of nightmares for you." John jumped in, voice smooth as butter.

"Mhm. You've done well, old favourite."

"Right. Your side of the deal, now. You said you could help."

"There is a farm, built by the man who'd brought me here. His writing remains, even if he's long been destroyed." charming.

"Arthur, I don't like the way they're smiling at us." ignoring the unease that coiled in his stomach, Arthur asked:

"Where?"

"What do you mean, you missed the exit twice?"

"It's difficult to see!"

"Do you even know how a roundabout works?" Arthur wished he could roll his eyes. According to John, a thick cover of clouds had gathered above them, blocking out the moonlight. The car they'd stolen barely had functioning lights, and there weren't any streetlamps this far out. However, Arthur was getting really fed up with driving in circles.

"Oh, I'm sorry Arthur, should I just drive off the road?"

"Wait – wait, you've been driving alone this whole time."

"Yes, Arthur."

"How many accidents have you had?"

"Including the one from today?" John paused for a moment, and then said:

"Arthur, I see the farm!" yeah, master of manipulation, this one.

"It's a derelict building, with the roof caving in. The whole place looks… rotten, almost. Darkness embraces this place, clinging to it like disease."

"Well, let us hope it's not contagious. Where did Scratch say the main room was?"

"Somewhere inside, though they weren't clear. I'd imagine a desk or cupboard of some sort may be our best bet."

They'd parked the car ostensibly well, after struggling with the breaks for a few moments. Old snow crunched beneath their boots, sounds filling the eerie silence of the area. New York and Arkham had been bustling with life even in winter, but wind itself seemed to hover still in this place.

"The detective and the priest? What did they mean?"

"We were meant to meet up with them, sort… some things out. Priorities shifted." John slowly said, as though treading on ice that may shatter any moment.

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure they met up in front of the hospital and had a chat about what an asshole you've been."

"Quite the wordsmith you are." Arthur sighed. Well, clearly both were still alive and well, if Scratch had thought he'd gone to them for help. Hurt feelings would ebb away eventually. Unoiled hinges creaked, and he assumed they'd stepped inside the building.

"Anything notable?"

"The place is a ruin. Mold is everywhere, and there are some… scorch marks, possibly, along the walls. The furniture is sparse, although – there is an open door, down the hallway." Arthur automatically felt for his gun. He didn't trust anything that came fucking gift-wrapped from an occult nutjob. It was how he'd gotten John in the first place.

Was it? John had summoned him, hadn't he? So why did his fingers weigh with the sturdy cover of a book? Why did whispers pass just below his earshot, promises and otherwise?

"Arthur?"

"Let's – let's go in."

"The room is as much of a wreck as the rest of the farm. There is a hole in the wall, as though something had burst out, and there are markings on the floor, though I can't tell which ones. Time and water have warped the boards so badly that whatever the original design had been, it's long gone now. However… there is a desk, in the corner, with papers scattered about."

"Time to tidy up, I suppose." he hated how he couldn't do anything but sit there as John parsed through the papers and scavenged the drawers. Without sight, and without control of the body, he just had to hope John would get the correct one and would feel oh-so-kind as to share it with him.

"So, Yellow-"

"Will hopefully be fine."

"He knew me, John. That… man also knew me."

"We've made enemies-"

"But they didn't address you. He said I killed his children!"

"They were products of pacts Larson has made with various beings. But – I did… I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"Where the fuck were you then? Because what I've been hearing is, you've been bound to this body-"

"The Dark World! Alright, Arthur, I was in the fucking Dark World! And I fucked up even further while there!" John threw something heavy on the desk, the thud resonating throughout the empty room.

"There's nothing of use here. Let's leave."

"Wait, John-"

"The only thing of note is a few blank papers, carefully tucked away in a book. The book itself seems to be some shitty sci-fi novel. The rest have been so damaged there is no fucking use even trying to read them." John continued on, wielding the usual guidance as a weapon.

"John, hold on- the, the blank papers. Hold them up to the light!"

"Why – fine. Get the lighter out." Arthur scrambled to do so, and the frustration in John's voice turned to marvel.

"Oh, Arthur… close to the lighter, there is a script revealed on the papers! It's in Latin, though."

"Worth a shot, don't you think? How much more trouble could reading this incantation get us into, really?" it was half a joke, some last desperate attempt at humour. This had to work. It had to. Because if it didn't, then…

What then? He'd stay stuck with John forever, until this mortal body gave up? Somehow it didn't seem like that awful of a fate, anymore. He certainly didn't long to return to the Dreamlands, or to the cold solace of his lake.

John made a pointed cough, and began:

"Domu restitue-"

"The fuck is that? What are you saying?"

"I did tell you it's Latin, Arthur."

"I'm not sure that counts as any language." John's garbled attempt was nearly unintelligible.

"For fuck's – just repeat it, Arthur. Worst case scenario, nothing happens." the entity pushed, before repeating the phrase:

"Domu restitue, amissus cantus mortuae animae-"

"Domu restitue, amiss – am – amicus cantus mortuae animae-" he tried to keep up, botching it terribly. But even so, he could feel something sticking to it, sticking to them, bubbling just beneath his skin, electricity tasting in his mouth, burning dancing along his arm as they continued:

"Et fides sanguinis et corporis abscide."

"Et fides sanguinis et corporis abscide!"

Energy erupted across the room, blasting the desk into the nearby wall. Windows shattered, and the sorry lamps came crashing down. Arthur felt his stomach drop, as though they'd hurtled off a cliff, and then a cold shock as something tore at his arm and muscle and lips.

"Colours are swarming us, blinding in their light! I – I can't see the farm anymore – Arthur!" John gave a panicked call as there was a definite tug and the two were pulled apart, gold and inky depths screaming both.

Waves were lapping on a shore. His heart beat in response. The tide of the lake rose and fell by his breathing, and he didn't really need to ask as someone groaned in pain by his side. But he asked regardless, grabbing a handful of what felt like spun gold, slipping through his fingers.

"Where – John, where are we?" and he did not expect the terror that the answer came with, but it made no difference either way:

"The Dreamlands."

Chapter Text

Arthur stood in front of him, a dark figure against the flashing stars of the sky. His form bent and flowed, ebbing like water across pebbles in a stream, and even so – even so, John could see his face contort in fury, rusting iron glistening along the paths of his scars.

"You – you lied to me! You fucking piece of shit! What, was I just a way to get back to your shiny throne?"

"No! No, Arthur, you – you know that- it isn't what I-" fuck, it was weird to hear his own voice actually reverberate in a place.

"It what? Isn't what you want?" Arthur mockingly replied, and John found himself at a loss for words. It… wasn't, right? He – he'd gone to the Dark World to prove that! But, but he'd also rebuilt it there. The moment Arthur wasn't holding his hand, he'd proven to care about exactly that.

"Of course. Of course you – and to think I bought it! I knew better, and I still fucking trusted you! I still wanted to believe you actually missed your friend, that, that you were capable of basic empathy!" behind Arthur, the lake was boiling. It rose and crashed, bubbling, begging to lure someone in. Ink darks and wine reds seeped out, staining the rocks that surrounded it, and inch by inch, the water crawled closer.

"You are my friend, Arthur! I don't want to… not here. Not, not like this!"

"But I do. And this is my domain, your highness." Arthur hissed, and John barely had a moment to think before a dark tide swept over him.

It was more than just water. It was tears and blood and ink and pain and salt. It was thick and burning and alive. Hands and waves melted into one as John was dragged to the bottom, as light faded and he was left with shifting, aching darkness, as the glimmer of gold became nothing more than a trick of the eye, muted and heavy in the iron grip of the lake. It clung to him, invited him down, found purchase in corners and tendons of his very being, snaking through to his heart. To what he was.

John was chained by currents at the bottom of the lake, and he was utterly alone.

"Arthur! Art – Arthur!" he tried to call, but in vain. Like cigarette smoke, it coated his tongue too, trying to stick his mouth together. His eyes, however – oh, his eyes still worked just fine. He could do nothing but watch as ink formed figures before him.

He knew this scene. He knew what would play out.

He saw Arthur's form on the ground, a book next to him. And he saw a body next to him too. Like a skipping record, it shifted ahead, to Arthur trying to shove Parker's body into a closet.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. For what I've done to Parker, I really am sorry!" but there was no answer. No reprieve, as it shifted again, like paint water gaining hue.

There wasn't any sound. There didn't need to be, as John watched Arthur struggle on the ground, his own hand trying to strangle him. Arthur shouted something at him, and John was certain he could recall every word if he tried.

"I shouldn't have said that. I – I shouldn't have betrayed your trust like that. But… but I've redeemed myself in the Pits, didn't I? Pain is penance. And I was in pain." of course a being of grief and regrets would choose those to torment him with. And really, he fucking deserved it.

Another shift, another painful puzzle piece. Arthur was tied to a chair, saying something to thin air. That… would be the Butcher, wouldn't it? But why? Sure, the deal had been stupid, but John didn't exactly regret it. Nor did he feel particularly guilty for it, other than having failed Arthur in general.

Then, his brain caught onto what he was seeing. Arthur still had both ears intact. But he… he hadn't been there for that. His ear had already been ripped off when John finally got off his ass and came back.

"These aren't my regrets at all, are they, friend?" he muttered, more to himself than Arthur. Putting far more effort in than should have been necessary, John got a hold of his drenched, heavy cloak, and got up. Trying to walk through the water was like wading through molasses, but he moved on anyway.

"Arthur? Where are you?" he couldn't tell his friend apart from his domain. More scenes flickered. Arthur, at a bar. Arthur, covered in blood. Arthur, at the piano.

And yet. And yet, no sign of the scene John was certain awaited. No whisper of him opening that damn book.

Arthur, alone in a hospital, leaning over a tiny cot. This wasn't right. This wasn't ever meant for him to see.

"Arthur, I will drain this fucking lake if I have to, I swear-" the body of water moved, knocking him down.

"Why won't you leave?" Arthur's voice echoed, carried by the waves.

"You're the one keeping me at the bottom of a fucking lake!"

"Everyone I've had, I've lost. Even Yellow, though I imagine he must be happy for it. So why you, John? What's different about you? Why do you keep coming back?"

"Because you're my friend." the answer came as easy as breathing. What other choice would he ever have made?

"I don't care how many litres of water you hide under, or how many times we sink. I promised you, Arthur, I will not let you drown." a mimicry of Arthur's face formed above him from the waves, and John reached out, gently cupping it. Under his touch, gold spread, melding with iron in a fascinating solder. It cast a mask of Arthur's face, carried on the currents.

"I've told you when we first met, you'd cursed yourself – and me, in a manner of speaking. We are bound. And if I have to spend the rest of fucking eternity at the bottom of a lake, I will do so. Because you're here. Because you're my friend." Arthur let out something between a sigh and a cry, and John could have sworn the water itself squeezed him tighter.

"I want to go home, John."

"Then we have miles to go before we sleep." without hesitation, John reached out, and a wet laugh spilled from Arthur's lips, and finally, finally, eyes formed on his sightless face. His fingers grasped John's, as they headed upwards.

And so, madness and grief walked hand in hand.

Chapter Text

Here is a link to a truly amazing, fully coloured animatic of Chapter 17 by Mivv! Please do check out more of their work!

https://youtu.be/cKTYTKNBKB8 

Chapter Text

In the end, it turned out that if two entities wanted to leave the Dreamlands, there was little to stop them. Especially if said two were truly bound as one.

They broke the surface in some park in Harper's Hill, leaving a rather alarmed dog walker to presumably alert the authorities that what looked like a drowned man had just scrambled out of a three feet deep pond. They'd sort it out later, preferably when Arthur got used to having a solid body again. As of right now, he stumbled, cold fragmenting against every soaked dip and bend of his clothes, woollen coat plastered to him like paper mache. John chuckled at every slip and near spill across the muddy ground, and he was doing remarkably little to help. It was beautiful to watch his friend struggle in his own body again, and he would not be fucking that up ever again. Even if they were covered in whatever had attempted to survive the winter in that pond.

"I'm telling you, John, wet clothes are heavy-"

"You have algae in your hair. It's quite the fashion statement." John tried to shake their head to get them out, when he was suddenly reminded that was out of the realm of his abilities now.

"I think I see a hostel, up ahead."

"Don't suppose they'll mind soaked bills?"

Thankfully, they didn't, though the look the receptionist gave them made John all the more certain police would wind up involved. At this point, best they could do was hope that no one would make the connection with a coma patient a few months prior. Or the man who stole a boat in broad daylight.

"Right, then. What's the finest room that Harper's Hill has to offer?" Arthur asked as he fumbled with the key.

"It's a drab, ugly hole. The walls are beige, although paint is chipping off them, and the floor and ceilings are grey – but, they might have been white at some point." even if he didn't care much for interior design, he couldn't deny the truth. And there was no need to make it appear brighter, to hide the imperfections from Arthur – nothing was after them. Ugly walls weren't a threat to life or sanity, and he'd rather look at terrible decorating choices than see Arthur in a lake ever again.

"Charming." Arthur dryly – well, as dryly as he could, given the situation – commented as he shut the door. John glanced at the mirror that hung in the hallway – something that mere days ago, he may have broken in a fit of despair. Arthur's hair was stuck to his face, algae still in it like some underwater crown. Power still thrummed through them both, and its fingerprints would likely never be erased – the gold of John's eyes, glistening in the light. The waters of lake Hali, still running through Arthur's veins, more river than blood. But they were not kings or lords. They were something entirely their own.

"It smells like mildew in here."

"That may be you. The bed is tiny, but I think we'll fit. And – oh, Arthur. There is a window, right up ahead." Arthur rushed to open it. Light poured in. Dawn had broken through the thick cover of clouds, dissipating on the street below like shining a torch through stained glass. No cold wind blew, and for the first time in weeks, John looked up to the sun again.

"Well? What's the- the fuck?" his demeanour shifted from excited to alarm.

"Something wet just dripped into my palm." No. No, no, no, they couldn't have done all this just to-

John glanced up, and he laughed.

"Arthur, the ceiling is leaking." Arthur joined him in laughter, a bright and cheery sound, and when John cast a glance out the window, he saw green grass peeking out from beneath the snow.