Chapter Text
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. There's a second article underneath it, dated just three days later. 'Local Child Found in Critical Condition.' Martin has to read this one twice. His brain refuses to cooperate. It details how the body of an unresponsive child was found, alive and grievously wounded, on the shore of the beach by some American tourists in Bournemouth. The child, later identified as missing eight year old Jonathan Sims, had sustained significant head trauma and was rushed to the hospital immediately. His condition stabilized well, but the child appeared to be in a coma-like state, with some brain activity. Based on accounts from his guardian and various neighbors on the child's typical personal habits, no foul play was suspected. Police hypothesize the child had fallen into the water and hit his head.
There's another article about a Bournemouth man in a prolonged minimally conscious state being moved to a care home on the outskirts of the city following the death of his only living relative. Martin skims it for the date, 2013. The follow up article, only barely a month old now reads 'Bournemouth Miracle Man Survives 19 Year Coma.' Martin reads this article with more fervor than he's given some of his actual work. The man, unnamed, suffered traumatic brain injury around 1996 and had been in a minimally conscious state since. Sources in the hospital say the man showed severe seizure-like behavior before sitting bolt up in his bed for the first time in twenty years, demanded the date and fainted dead away again. Local papers were still trying to request interviews but had been denied by the patient.
There is one more sheet of paper. A visitors pass, dated for today, already filled out with his information. The bright green 'Approved by Patient' stamp on the bottom makes Martin's heart thump in double time.
Basira is in the doorway, car keys in one hand, purse in the other. "C'mon, Loverboy," She says with a small smile, "let's go get your eldritch monster."
The drive to Bournemouth is simultaneously the longest two hours of Martin's life and entirely not long enough. Twenty years in a coma… could Jon's body even handle consciousness? How would he adapt? Martin's mind races, trying to figure out if he can add someone to the lease on his flat, is it even accessible? What if Jon needs a wheelchair? What if Jon isn't Jon? What if he is, but he doesn't want Martin? He's anxious and elated by turns, trying not to get ahead of himself. He can't imagine going home alone again.
A kindly, ancient nurse pats them both on the hands, though her gaze is obviously judgemental. "It's so nice to see people coming to visit little Jonathan," She croaks at them. "You're the first in nearly three years. I'm sure he's very pleased you're here." Basira makes some noncommittal hum about only just finding out where he'd been moved. Martin is too anxious for pleasantries. He strains to hear any sign of Jon, reads every name plate on the doors as they pass.
When they do reach the door, the nurse bustles right in, leaving Martin and Basira in the hall. Martin stares at the door, just to the side so he can't see in the room. He's afraid, he realizes. Afraid Jon will be angry or hurt that Martin hadn't come for him immediately. Afraid Jon won't want to see him or be seen, or that he'll change his mind now that the apocalypse isn't limiting their time and futures. Martin feels the weight of every insecurity, every barb made about his appearance, his manner, his intelligence. They press on his shoulders and make the last two steps to the door feel almost insurmountable.
Basira looks at him coolly and makes an 'after you' gesture to the door. He finds some strength in her own composure.
Martin squares his shoulders and repeats his own words under his breath, just a whisper. "Right, where you go, I go."
He can hear the nurse talking in the room. He takes those last two steps.
From the bed, warm sage green eyes regard him, Know him. They are every bit as lovely and loving as they have been in Martin's dreams.
"Hello, Martin."
Martin is home.