Chapter Text
Martin came back to himself in pieces. First, the dull roar of his heart, pumping steadily in his chest. Then, the tingling almost-pain of feet long since gone to sleep. The rasp and whorl of wood beneath his fingertips and cheek, the slow ache of a crick in his neck and lower back that feel like old friends. Drowsy memories of waking up much like this, after long days of research for the Institute, and longer nights of quiet regret and self loathing. He can almost hear Tim humming, smell ink and paper, and taste the dust they still hadn't managed to get out of the Archives before Scotland… Scotland! Magnus and the Panopticon! Jon!
His whole body convulses in a sharp seizure, he feels crushingly empty, hollowed out. When it passes, memory and sensation rush in to fill him and Martin jolts upright in his seat, palms now flat on the surface before him. He stares down at his hands- pale, large, and covered in a light coating of freckles and ginger hair. They look at once familiar and not. His writing callus on the middle finger, a scar from childhood shaped vaguely like a cresent moon on his ring finger, the freckles dusted between his knuckles, all present and accounted for. The endless, circular holes he had lived with since the Prentiss attack are missing from their reddened backs. The surface they rest on is a desk as familiar to him as the hands themselves- papers, clips and staples, pens, an old desktop computer and an out of date monitor. The humming has stopped, and only in it's absence does Martin register it was present properly at all.
"You alright there, Mart-o?" It's Tim, of course it's Tim, he'd known as soon as he'd heard the humming. Tim, hair impeccably coiffed, shirt unbuttoned almost scandalously low for an academic society, tucked into trim cut trousers Martin has always been terribly jealous of. Tim, alive, whole, smiling uncertainly and staring at Martin with concern. Martin can only gape at him, brain disbelieving, eyes brimming with tears.
"T-Tim?" Martin's voice is an unsteady thing, filled with nameless grief and desperate hope. His eyes fill, overflow, and Tim's blurry figure scampers to Martin's side.
"Martin, buddy, what is it? What's the matter?" He goes to lay a gentle hand on Martin's shoulder and the warmth of his palm is too much. A broken sob makes it's way from the depths of Martin's battered heart. He wraps his arms around Tim's torso and cries in great heaving sobs, between them he blubbers
"Tim?" The words are barely legible, "but how? The Unknowing! The C4! You- you're dead! And Sasha and Daisy and- and-"
"Woah woah! Slow down Martin! I'm fine, Sasha's fine! Unknowing what? And who's Daisy? Have you been holding out on me you sly dog?" The words are heavy with innuendo and slight panic- Tim never had been very good with crying people. "It must have been a bad dream, that's all! You began to shake a minute ago, maybe it's turned your head." Tim rubs his back soothingly.
Martin doesn't think it was a dream, doesn't believe it. His feet may not feel the miles he has walked, his hands may not bear the scars they should, but it feels almost too good to be true. Maybe something they did- they had released the fears right? He thought nothing else would change- but maybe it's all gone back to how it was before the first touch of the entities in their lives? Maybe- Martin releases Tim and stands abruptly, red rimmed eyes wide, cheeks blotchy. He wavers unstable on his feet, Tim reaching to steady him. He grips Tim's hand, afraid to let go for even a minute in case this is some cruel trick and his friend will fade away when he stops looking.
"Martin what-"
But Martin isn't listening, he tugs Tim toward the door at the back of the staff room, the door labeled "Head Archivist," that like everything else in this room looks exactly as it always had. Unpainted light colored wood, shiny brass doorknob, frosted window. Martin pins all his hopes on that door and when he reaches it, barely five strides across the floor, he rips it open without knocking. The room inside is familiar- and not.
Sasha James, springy red curls tucked into a headscarf, wire rimmed glasses perched on the end of her thin nose, turns to the intrusion sharply. She is seated at the desk- at Jon's desk- covered in papers, a kitschy mug Martin would recognize anywhere and a brand new laptop he knows very well is her personal one. The name plate on the desk reads 'Sasha James- Head Archivist.'
"Boys? What-"
"Sasha?" Martin inturrupts, "But where's Jon?"
Distantly, Martin realizes her eyes are blue. He had forgotten, before, with the Not Sasha. It had haunted Tim he knows, not being able to recall. Not remembering.
She looks exactly as she always did- tall and bright and blessedly alive but somehow also so wrong. Seated at Jon's desk. Little pieces of herself, that bright and cheery personality are littered around the room. He takes it in. A sunny landscape painting on the wall, a warm orange and and yellow afghan tossed in the couch across from her desk. Martin remembers Jon always being chilly down here, remembers finding him asleep on that couch wrapped in his cardigans, remembers the warm woodsy smell of his cologne mixed with the citrus of his aftershave. He remembers a thousand cups of tea, brewed to perfection and left on the corner of that desk. Remembers the deep reverberation of Jon's voice, whir and click of a tape recorder, the perfect warm brown of his skin, silver scars and silver temples and warm, warm green eyes. All these thoughts and more race through his mind as Sasha and Tim both ask, almost in unison, "Who's Jon?"
"Who- Who's Jon?" Martin splutters, releasing Tim's hand, "Jonathan Sims? Our boss? Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute ever since Elias murdered Gertrude Robinson?! My- my-" Martin doesn't realize he's been yelling until his voice cracks on 'my boyfriend.' He stops, chest heaving, hands balled into fists at his sides. Sasha and Tim are both staring at him, wide eyed and confused.
"Martin, honey," Sasha soothes carefully as she stands, holding her hands out in a placating gesture. "I think you might be… confused." She and Tim trade nervous glances, Martin looking wildly back and forth between the two of them. It's with some measure of shock he realizes they're afraid… of him.
"I-I'm the Head Archivist, and Gertrude hasn't been murdered- she's been the head of the Institute since 1996. Eric Delano, the previous Archivist retired last month, and Gertrude hired me in his place?" She says the last bit with an upward lilt, like trying to jog his memory, and it does, like a scene from a dream he remembers getting this job, remembers Tim's introduction and interviewing with Sasha. Her telling him she knew he'd lied on his CV, but she was willing to take the chance on him. He remembers the three of them getting uproariously drunk together just a few days ago, stumbling into a shared cab and waving unsteadily as they dropped him off at his flat.
Tim is gently trying to guide him on to the couch, tugging at his hand. Martin looks at them, bereft, unseeing.
"What's happening..?" He asks through the haze of two lives superimposed over one another, head already beginning to ache.
They take him to the A&E of course, where the doctor kindly tells him that confusion after a seizure is normal. They diagnose him with potential epilepsy and tell him to follow up with his general practitioner as soon as possible. Tim and Sasha hover endlessly on the ride home, take care to walk him inside, feed him mild take out and tea, put him gently to bed. They fret and worry and wonder if one of them should stay, but Martin tells them he thinks he'd prefer to be alone if it's all the same. He'll see them tomorrow, at work.
Tim threatens to break in if Martin doesn't respond to his texts the following morning, and Martin agrees in a daze. Everything feels disjointed and out of focus, like new lenses that aren't quite the right prescription. He opens all the windows and listens to the London traffic. He lays in his bed in the dark, in the flat he'd lived in since before Jane Prentiss, before that though intrudes and he locks every door and window tight, shoving a towel tight against the jamb, then remembers he hasn't yet met Jane Prentiss, or she's dead, or maybe she never existed?
He pulls out his laptop and starts researching. He doesn't sleep that night. For every statement he can remember, every Avatar and their story he can think of, he searches. Jane Prentiss, he finds, smiling brightly from a series of photographs on Facebook set in a crystal shop down in Archway. She looks… startlingly normal. Young and happy. There is no indication she's gone missing, or been infested with anything. Martin feels another tiny trickle of hope.
He looks for Simon Fairchild next, finds him still rich, still smarmy, and still obnoxious. 'Can't win them all.' He supposes, Peter Lukas appears in much the same way, though he finds a wedding announcement for Evan Lukas and feels some distant joy for his wife Naomi, the statement giver who had almost been consumed by the Lonely. He has a good laugh when he finds Elias Bouchard, apparently disgraced scion of the great Bouchard family. There's a dramatic picture of him being carried out of a student housing complex by two constables, one on each side. They have ahold of him beneath his armpits, his hands already handcuffed behind his back. Though they carry him at shoulder height, he has his legs pulled up to his chest, forcing the constables to fully carry him. They don't appear to even notice. His mouth is open in a scream. Hysterically, Martin thinks he looks like he's shouting, "My father will hear about this!"
Helen Richardson reveals a nice real-estate agent, as it should. Michael Crew has no conclusive online presence but for a single article about an eight year old boy surviving an impossible lightning strike. Jude Perry reveals nothing, but that could just be Martin's lack of technical skills.
What the Ghost and Ghost Hunk UK are easy to find online, with Melanie and Georgie being small time celebrities. He takes a long moment to contemplate Melanie's headshot. Her eyes are a warm, clear brown. Her face is relaxed, self assured. She looks nothing like the terrified, hardened woman she had become when he'd known her. He thinks he'd like to know this version of herself better. Georgie is, as she ever was, lovely, vivacious and charismatic. Martin still finds it in him to be petty and jealous of this woman who knew his Jon first. He stamps it down with long practice.
The first rays of sunlight are caressing his windows when Martin finally tries to search for Jon. It seems reasonable to him that if everyone else has carried on through the paths in life they would have taken without the Fears, Jon must have too. He starts with Georgie's Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. He can't find profiles for Jon, or Jonathan, though a search for Jonny Sims shows some kind of voice actor. His image looks nothing like Jon though, so Martin moves on. He's about to give up and text Sasha when he remembers Jon went to Oxford, but a perusal of their records from 2009 all the way to 2011 doesn't turn up his name in any classes, projects or affliliates. He does find Georgie, though, so he's confident he's checked the right years.
It's nearly 7:30, and almost time to catch the tube in to work when Martin finally checks the texts on his phone. Tim and Sasha have both messaged. He replies to Sasha first that he won't be in today- claims he still isn't feeling well. She sends him back a thumbs up and her well wishes to feel better. He snaps Tim a picture of a granola bar and the morning sun through his bedroom window with the caption 'yes, mother, I am eating' and pretends he's capable of taking a nap. He gives up after an hour, thoughts still racing a mile a minute, head foggy from lack of sleep.
He's about to stumble into the kitchen in search of glorious caffeine when he remembers the bare state of his pantry and fridge- he hasn't been shopping in a while. A vague memory of telling himself he'll do it tomorrow floats through his head. He's tired. He tells himself, again apparently, that he'll do it later, and heads for the quaint little cafe down the street from his house. Inside, the smell of coffee and fresh bread greets him like a slap. Everything about London feels like that. Too loud, too close, so different from the weeks of walking between domains with Jon. His heart squeezes in his chest. He thinks he misses Jon most of all, and it's barely been a day. They haven't been parted for this long since… since before the Lonely, he supposes. It's not a comfortable feeling, even if at one point he had thought he wanted some distance.
He orders his usual and a breakfast style sandwich, and tucks himself into a quiet corner to plan his next move. Everything still feels so surreal. He drinks his tea and tries to focus. Most importantly, he needs to find Jon. He should start with the Archives, see if any statements match up to the ones he remembers from before, for people he hadn't thought to look for. Talk to Gertrude maybe? See if he can speak with Georgie or Melanie- maybe he didn't end up here alone? He can ask Sasha to look for Jon, but he'll need a good, believable excuse. Reconnecting with a childhood friend, perhaps? It might work, he's only interacted with Sasha and Tim in a personal capacity for a few weeks at this point.
He's pulled from his thoughts by a familiar Welsh accent and his eyes land on a blue hijab he'd recognize absolutely anywhere. Daisy and Basira are standing at the counter waiting on their cups. Both are dressed in uniform, Daisy is saying something to her partner, eyes on the door, but Basira… Basira is staring at Martin, eyes intent. Hesitantly, he reaches up and taps one finger beneath his eye, two quick taps- the motion they'd decided on from before, when they thought Elias might be watching, then grabs his cup. Her eyes widen marginally, for his benefit he thinks, she's always been so impassive and difficult to read, and she gives a decisive nod, grabs her takeaway and let's Daisy lead them out.
Martin is absolutely elated. She knew him! Quickly he realizes he needs to get somewhere where she'll know to find him. He scarfs down his food and heads for the Institute. He can always tell Tim and Sasha he thinks maybe someone should be watching him in case he seizes again.
It takes far too long long make it back to the Institute, and predictably his friends are concerned to see him in. They take his excuses for the time being, and he does try to get some work in. By ten though, he has to admit it's a lost cause. The brief levity of seeing Basira and being seen is fading fast. He allows Sasha to persuade him onto the couch in her office for a quick kip.
He wakes to tense, low voices. Sasha and Tim are arguing with someone and whoever it is isn't trying to keep their voice down like the staff. Martin sits up bleary-eyed and checks for his glasses, finding them folded neatly on the edge of Jon's- Sasha's- the Archivist's desk. His heart and head pound in time, and he stumbles into the outer office to see what's going on.
Sasha and Tim are both casually arrayed in front of the office door, blocking the path of their visitor. Basira looks past them at Martin as he emerges.
"Not at work today, huh?" She asks sardonically. "I've been looking for you, Martin." His friends look back at him, concerned.
Sasha responds to Basira first. "Technically, Martin isn't on the clock, and is therefore not at work today so-"
Martin waves her off and moves forward, pasting on a grin. "Hey Basira, I was wondering when you'd be ready for dinner. Sorry I didn't text you- after my funny turn yesterday I thought it'd be best to stay where someone could keep an eye on me." He forces a light chuckle.
He's walked forward enough to have Tim and Sasha at his back. He winks encouragingly at Basira hoping she'll play along. She blinks placidly at him. "Of course, Martin. That's the second best plan I've heard you make this week." She responds, eyebrows raised just a touch.
"Now hold on, Martin," Sasha intersects, "You know the good PC Hussain?" She's frowning at him, though the tight line of her shoulders has relaxed slightly at Martin's casual address of the stranger. He forces another laugh.
"Oh of course I do! Basira and I go way back-" He hesitates and lies on the fly, not sure for a moment how much of his life he's mentioned to this Sasha, "we met when my mother first started getting confused. Mum and Basira get on well, so we try to keep in touch when time allows!" Sasha's furrowed brow relaxes, though Tim looks back and forth between the two for a moment before he nods slowly. "Basira," he says, trying to make it seem casual, "these lovely people are my friends and coworkers- Sasha, and Tim. They're the ones who took me to the hospital yesterday after my seizure. Guys, this is PC Basira Hussain." He widens his eyes at Basira meaningfully as his friends give Basira a slightly awkward greeting.
"Uh, sorry, Ms. Hussain," Sasha says, wringing her hands, defensiveness leaving her voice, though she still sounds guarded to Martin's trained ears. "Nothing personal. Martin is very dear to us, you see." Tim nods decisively, and Martin's grin becomes easier, a bit softer. He loves these two, and he's missed them so very much. He had forgotten the easy comradary they'd always shared with him.
Basira gives a game nod, "Hullo friends of Martin," She responds dryly. "It's quite alright. Are you ready to go? I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry today." Martin glances at the clock, relieved to see its nearly five pm. "Of course, of course, Sasha? Is it alright if I head out early?" He asks, turning to look at his boss with a bright grin, still filled with affection. Whatever she sees in his face makes the last of the tension in her shoulders slide out. "You're fine Martin," She replies. "Technically you called in today, remember? You aren't even on the clock." She waves him away. Tim chimes in with a suggestive tone, "Have fun with your friend. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hussain. Text us when you get home buddy!" The 'if you get home' is clear. Basira can't hold back the eyebrow this time. She eyes Martin archly.
"I was under the impression your tastes lay… elsewhere, Martin." She remarks, turning to leave. Martin flushes immediately and begins to splutter. Tim's face absolutely lights up with glee, and Martin knows he'll be hearing about this later. Without Jon around to be hopelessly in love with, he supposes his preferences aren't immediately obvious this time around.
Basira leads Martin in quick steps down to the nearest park. "Basira-" He tries.
"Nope."
"But are you-"
"Not yet Martin." She walks quickly, her words clipped and her eyes intent. As soon as they've turned the corner from the Institute she rounds on him. "Prove you're my Martin Blackwood." She demands. Martin has a semi hysterical flashback. "Well," he says sarcastically, "how exactly do you want me to do that? I'm not exactly Jon with the know it all powers!"
Basira immediately relaxes, letting go of tension Martin hadn't even been aware she was carrying. "Okay, fine. Good. What happened?" She demands. "Last thing I remember is watching the Archives burn, then waking up suddenly in the squad car with Daisy yesterday. She said I'd had a seizure or something."
Martin nods, "I was asleep at my desk yesterday, Tim said I started to shake, then seemed off and confused enough he and Sasha took me to A&E. I was going to take today off, but then I spotted you in the Cafe this morning and thought it best to wait where you'd know how to find me."
"And the end? What happened at the Panopticon?" They're walking toward a bench, shaded under a large tree and a bit out of the way. Martin tries not to look at Basira, breathing deeply. "Right, I, uh, when I saw that Jon was… not there, I sent the three of you straight away to burn the Archives, and I followed after him into the tower. He was- I- that thing? He'd talked about it? He had- had killed Jonah, and the Eye had- he was one with it. The Pupil of the Eye or whatever." Martin's voice begins to quiver, his hands shaking at his sides. "He seemed… he seemed so normal. Stupid, guilty, arrogant as ever. I, we fought. He eventually came around to reason but it was too late. He was already- so he told me I had to- like, like with Daisy-" his composure broken, Martin's claps his hands to his face and cries. Basira leads him the last few stumbling steps to the bench and sits him down. She does not embrace him, or offer false platitudes, but rests a single hand on his shoulder.
When the tears start to subside some undetermined time later, she offers him crumpled napkins from her uniform pocket. Her eyes are kind, grave. Her face is lined with empathy. "I understand." She whispers at last, squeezing his shoulder. Martin is struck with unexpected gratitude that she's here with him. Of them all, of everyone he's ever loved or shared grief with, this is the most complete understanding he's ever shared with another. Basira's eyes are as ancient and grief stricken as his own, in faces not yet lined by age or trial. He understands why she'd needed time and space to come to terms after Daisy.
"He, I mean, he's still here right? I- we- came back, didn't we? I couldn't find him online, but maybe you-?" Martin stumbles over the words, a swollen stone of hope and dread has been growing in his stomach for the last twenty four hours. "I've been poking around the Archives, trying to find any information on the Fears, but none of the statements from before exist down there! Tim and Sasha don't remember anything, does Daisy..?" Basira shakes her head.
"Maybe he is out there," She replies, "but he might not be the same person you knew. Are you sure you don't want to try moving on?"
Martin shakes his head emphatically. "I- I need to know. We came back, maybe he did too. And Georgie, and Melaine. Could you honestly leave it if there was a chance Daisy would remember too?"
Basira kindly didn't point out that only the ones who'd lived seem to have come back. Martin has to believe. He can still feel Jon's blackened blood seeping down his hand, still see the awful poison green light in his eyes fade and be replaced last minute with beloved sage. Jon's whispered 'I love you' still echos in Martin's ears. Maybe it's selfish, if Jon really doesn't remember, because clearly without infernal help they would never have met, but the overwhelming sense of wrongness has settled into his bones. Every moment without at least knowing feels like a lifetime on it's own.
"I'll look for him." Basira says, standing suddenly. "I'll let you know what I find out. You said you'd done some research?" He nods. "Good, send it to me. Keep looking. Have you seen any indication it didn't go the way we'd planned?"
"No, no, I couldn't find a hint of the fears or the avatars at all in the Archives. All the Avatars whose information I knew from before seem to have just… lived out their lives like normal. Even Jurgen fucking Leitner is just an aging private collector." He replies bitterly.
"I couldn't find anything at the station suggesting section 31 still exists, or ever did. And…" She hesitates. "And Daisy seems more like she did… after the Buried. More herself, a little less subdued but not so violent. It's… it's nice."
She looks uncertain, which prompts Martin to reassure her, "That's great, Basira! You deserve to have good things- both of you." Privately, he wonders if Jon will be different too. Softer, less paranoid maybe? Does Martin even want to get close enough to find out?
"Thank you," Basira says sincerely, her usual brisk manner set aside for this one moment. "We'll find him. Keep an eye on the Archives, keep me updated… I'll search the system, drop a line on Melaine and see if she and Georgie returned too. I'll get ahold of you when I know more, alright? And Martin… Try to take care of yourself." She looks searchingly into his eyes, and only leaves when he finally nods mutely. He sits there silently a while longer, kept company only by the setting sun and the Jon shaped hole where his heart should be.
-
Martin tries to do as Basira suggested. He checks the Archives religiously for any mention of the entities, sends her all his research on the previous Avatars and their current lives. He makes tea for Tim and Sasha, gets drinks with them, builds their friendship back to what it had been Before. He has lunch with Rosie in the staff room, visits bookstores and writes poetry. He even visits his mother, tells her sleeping form he forgives her, not that she'll ever know, and not that she really deserves that forgiveness. He sees Jon every night in his sleep, sometimes dreams, sometimes nightmares.
It's two weeks before Basira texts him, six simple words. "Georgie and Melanie didn't make it." Abruptly, Martin remembers he has other people to mourn. He binge watches every single episode of What the Ghost and Ghost Hunt UK. He laughs when they laugh, and only cries a little when they smile at the camera.
Missing Jon is a constant ache, but the worst moments are the quiet ones, when he's alone. Making tea and automatically grabbing two mugs. Waking cold from pleasant dreams and reaching for a warm body that's never been there. Watching the sun rise and set and rise and set and feeling as close to the Lonely as he ever has.
Another ten days pass like this until Basira texts him again, just a time and place. Martin's heart swells in to his throat. Saturday cannot come fast enough. He lives on the edge of terrified and elated, and tries not to dwell on that six word text in his inbox.
The address he finds is a small, neat brownstone, immaculately kept with daisies growing in the window box. Basira answers on the first knock, like she's been waiting just inside the door. She's wearing the most relaxed clothes he's ever seen her in, with a pretty patterned hijab replacing her usual somber blue. The patterns, he notes with amusement, are wildflowers. Primarily, daisies.
Basira's home is light and airy, done up in cool and creamy tones. It feels comfortable, well loved. Martin tries not to think of his dark and empty flat.
Basira offers tea Martin is too polite to refuse, and they spend twenty minutes making painful, meaningless small talk in a room like a cross between a sitting room and a study. Martin tries not to let his impatience make him rude. There is a manilla folder in the center of the table. It's thin, plain, but draws his eye time and again. He asks after Daisy, and Basira after Tim and Sasha. The pleasantries end quickly, both parties fiddling with empty mugs.
"Martin," Basira asks, standing abruptly, "are you sure you want to know?"
Martin tries a dry chuckle. "I mean, it's hardly like he's a serial killer or anything, right?"
Basira's serious expression does not change. The stone that's been living in Martin's gut for a month doubles in size. She trades him the envelope for his mug. It's light, slim. Only a handful of papers.
"Right. I'm. I'll leave you to it." She gestures awkwardly toward the door leading to the kitchen. "Give me a shout if you need me." Martin nods numbly. She closes the door behind her.
He shuts his eyes tight enough to send spots of light across his vision and tries to envision his Jon, the one he fell in love with. Martin pictures that Jon drunk off his tits rambling about emulsifiers. Imagines Jon asleep at his desk, Jon smiling at him over tea, Jon whispering 'I love you, I love you, I love you' into the skin of Martin's neck.
"Where you go, I go." He whispers to himself and opens the folder.
There are two photocopies of smaller newspaper clippings on the very top, and two color photographs. The first is an obituary for Andrew James Sims, dated for 1989. The man in the accompanying photo has a barely passing resemblance to Jon. He has ruddy pink skin and wavy chocolate brown hair. He's short like his son, and his eyes… his eyes are sparkling sage green, Jon's exactly, right down to the shape they crinkle into as Andrew smiles into the camera. Martin's heart constricts.
The next article is another obituary, for Halima Ann Sims. His mother shines clear in every inch of Jon's face. She is small, with sharp cheeks and a stubborn chin. Her black hair falls in loose waves around her caramel colored face. According to her obituary, her date of death is listed as 1993, survived by one son now in the care of his paternal grandmother. Preceded in death by both parents and a loving husband.
Martin is terrified to flip the page. He does so anyway.
The next paper is a medium sized photograph of a tiny eight year old boy. He has caramel skin, sage green eyes and close cropped black hair. He's wearing a dark green jumper and a familiar expression of absolutely disdain, mouth pulled down in a petulant pout. He clutches a book in both tiny hands. Martin runs his fingers over Jon's small face, lingering on his familiar eyes. His own prickle with tears. It takes several minutes to convince himself to flip the page.
The next paper is a regular newspaper article. The heading reads 'Local Child Missing, Jonathan Sims, Age 8, Bournemouth."
Martin's heart beats hard, his breath starts to come in short rasps. He reads the article quickly, noting the date from July, 1996. It implicates a local teen as a person of interest in the disappearance. He flips to the next page. It's a police report, dated for August of '96. Three weeks after little Jon had gone missing. The report contains a transcript of an interview with 18 year old Daniel Barkley, dotted with notes from the interviewer. Daniel weeps openly as he confesses to often pushing scrawny little Jon Sims around. He claims he'd never meant to hurt the boy. On the day in question he'd been teasing Jon, had stolen his book. Jon, all of eight years old and barely three and a half stone, had balled up his fists and kicked Daniel in the testicles. The teen claims to have blacked out, or seen red and shoved the kid down hard. When his vision had cleared, he found little Jon unmoving on the pavement, having cracked his head hard against the brickwork of the building behind him. Daniel had panicked, seeing all the blood, and gathered the boy's body into his father's boat, dumping it in the bay in the middle of the night. He claims he hadn't even thought to check for breathing or a pulse, there had been so much blood, too much blood.
Martin doesn't want to keep reading, he feels sick, light headed. His hands shake as he flips to the final page. It's another obituary, for Jonathan James Sims, eight years old. His sad, sage green eyes stare out accusingly from the photograph beside the words.
Martin's stomach lurches. He rushes out of the sitting room, down the hall to the little washroom Basira had pointed out on their way in, where he barely makes it to the loo in time. His meager breakfast and tea come back to haunt him. When the retching has ended, he sits back against the cool tile of the wall and finds Basira in the doorway, clutching a bottle of water for him. Her face is lined with compassion and understand and something else. It takes Martin a second to recognize pity, and in that moment he hates her. Hates her sympathy and her understanding and most of all, he that she gets a chance to correct her mistakes. Hates that she gets Daisy back.
He leaves soon after. The photograph comes with him. At home in his dark little flat, Martin does what he's always done when his emotions feel like they'll burst him open from the inside. He writes. He fills page after page with rhyme and prose. Builds Jon a future with flowers and trees, cries him out in raging storms and rushing rivers. He carves Jon's face in mountain sides and slips his laughter in between the pages pressed like clovers and birds feathers and when he feels as hollowed out and empty as an overturned kettle, he puts the notebook away.
When Sasha finds the poems two years later, she steals it and cries with strange deja vu for a man she's never met, loved so deeply he's left the shape of his love pressed into the features of her dear friend. She almost feels like she can remember this man, thinks she knows his dry humor and acerbic wit. She takes the poetry to Tim, who feels it just as deeply.
Together, they manage to convince Martin to publish. To his infinite shock, the poetry sells, and keeps selling. The agency contracts him for two more anthologies, before asking if he's ever tried prose. With Tim and Sasha's unending support, he writes his first novel, a thrilling tale of a daring Archivist and his dashing assistants, hellbent on saving the world.
He makes enough to retire to Bournemouth, though only Basira understands the real reason. He makes up some excuse about the the water being great for writing, but the truth is, when the sun is coming up and the fog swirls around his front step, Martin tries to pretend he's never left the Lonely. It's the closest he gets to absolution.
His life continues on, quiet and unobtrusive in his little cottage on the waterfront. He still makes two mugs of tea. He likely always will.