Chapter Text
“Mind how you go.”
That’s how it had all started – mind how you go.
Such a little phrase, and yet it meant so bloody much.
Well, really it had started with the poisonings at Richardson’s, which had led to the capture of Verity Richardson, and the ransom drop. Peter hadn’t felt right since the moment he’d seen Morse in plainclothes, sucking down sweets to apparently calm his nerves. He’d felt even worse when they’d found Morse curled up in the middle of a field, groaning around a blow to the head and hands empty of the holdall and its contents.
Since Morse’s revelation about the chalk works, Peter felt a little bit better. Course the clever bastard would know about it – he’s practically got Oxford mapped at this point, and carries it around in that funny old brain of his. If it hadn’t have been for work, Peter wouldn’t know Holywell Street from Brasenose Lane. And of course, Morse had noticed the bloody padlock. How one person could be so observant, Peter would never understand.
Still, what Morse excelled at with brains, he did lack a little with brawn, so it was Peter’s job to smash to bar down onto the opening, allowing the door to creak open. He stood for a heartbeat, staring into the gloom, and then Morse was behind him, with the Old Man’s words on his lips.
“Mind how you go.”
They crept forward, the only light coming from their small torches and the gap of the door. The passageway was mostly silent, but Peter thought he could hear some thudding.
“Verity!” He cried out, but Morse yanked hard on his arm.
“Shhhh! You’ll bring the roof down!” Trust Morse to sound peeved in a life-or-death situation. In the flash of the torchlight, he could see Morse’s face looking pinched and pale, the way it always did when he was thinking hard. Morse had a way of zoning in on important information that Peter could only ogle at, so he stayed silent and waited. Morse paused, turning his head left and right, like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent. After a moment, he moved forward, towards the rustling that Peter had noticed.
“Verity!” He hissed again, and this time there was a response – a small, pained moan to their left. God, they’d found her – and she was alive! He’d hung onto that hope, that dream of going out on a win, despite Morse’s grim prediction. The pathway got darker and darker as they moved forward, the floor a loose mess of stones.
“Watch yourself! Watch yourself!” Morse was at his shoulder, Peter could hear his soft breaths and sure footsteps. Still, it was worth reminding him of the unstable terrain; for his brilliant mind, Morse had a surprisingly clumsy body, and the slightest trip would send them both flying.
Shuffling, stumbling, they made their way towards the voice. God, Verity Richardson sounded awful, wailing and crying like a stuck pig. She was trying her hardest though, shouting ‘Help’ and ‘Here!’ as much as she could from behind her gag. When they turned, Peter spied the girl through a barred doorway. She looked awful too, dressed in a ragged white nightdress, with restraints around her wrists, eyes and mouth. Her dark hair hung lank and was covered with dirt and sticks.
“Verity? It’s alright. It’s the police. Stay calm – we’re going to get you out.” He threw himself on his knees at the doorway, pressing himself up the bars to make sure she could hear him. Morse was next to him, and they both fumbled with the door. It stayed stubbornly closed.
There had to be something they could use, right? A stone, or something, to smash the bars open. He swore, wondering why he hadn’t picked up a bloody lock-picking kit on his way out of the station. Still, nothing to be done now.
“Look.” Morse mumbled, but Peter ignored him. Maybe he could use the torch; it seemed sturdy enough. But no – one light tap against the bars and its light dimmed. If they lost it entirely, they were damned. He forced his voice to stay steady as he spoke again.
“Won’t be long now, nothing to be afraid of.” He’d dealt with hostage situations before, with terrified kids, but this was somehow worse than all of them. God, he just needed this to be over. He’d never felt so stifled or sick.
“Look!” Morse grabbed his arm again, tugging hard. Peter nearly snapped at him, but then followed his gaze. In the corner of the room, caged like a wild bear, was a clock, and some ominous sticks of dynamite.
“Oh Christ.”
Police officers died in the line of duty every day. He remembered taking his oath – twenty-three and still fresh from Hendon – and thinking that he was proud to sign his life away. Better than the army, doing something that mattered to the average person. He hadn’t wavered, even after his first horrendous case, or his second, or his third. After his first massacre – a bank job gone horribly horribly wrong – he and his fellow constables had grimly debated which way they would want to go, if they died in service. Shot, stabbed, drowned, hit by a car, overcome by fire.
Exploding hadn’t even been on the fucking list.
He glanced at Morse and for a breath, they’re not two police officers. They’re two people, frightened for their lives. Morse was greenish-grey, his massive eyes wild with fear. This couldn’t be how it goes. Morse was an artist, one born for soft sunrises and concerts and a life spent tucked away in libraries. He won’t die – he’ll expire like a poet, wasting away of consumption or drifting away like a nightingale.
Peter couldn’t let him die like this. In the dark and the dirt.
“Gotta get that bar we used on the way in. Need something for leverage.” It started as an excuse, to get Morse away and out, but his instincts had taken over, because it was a bloody good idea anyway. As sturdy as the bars seemed now, they wee old, and a few whacks in the right places might just loosen them. “I’ll do what I can in the meantime with elbow grease.”
Except Morse wasn’t moving – wasn’t going. Instead, he was just staring at him. For a second, it was like Peter could hear the cogs of his mind turning, could hear both their heartbeats instead of his own.
“You go – I’ll stay.” He said it so casually too, the same tone of voice he’d used last week when they were trying to find a table in the pub, or during the last stakeout when one of them had needed a piss. Did he even realise -?
“It’s not a debate. That thing goes off, it could bring the whole bloody place down.” Peter rattled the door again, and then there was Morse’s hand on his wrist. Those wide eyes were softer now, calmer.
“Peter, you’ve got something to lose.”
Shit. Hope. The baby.
He hadn’t even thought about them.
Morse was still stood in front of him, gaping. He had to say something, quick – get the bastard out of harm’s way. Maybe that would stop his heart hammering.
“And, til the end of the week, I’m still your senior.” Morse had always hated it when he pulled rank, so the little huff doesn’t surprise him, but the refusal does. He puffed out his chest, perhaps for the last time taking up the role of Sergeant Jakes, City Police. “So get. Go on!”
Morse leaned in for a moment, as if to say something.
Then he was gone, pelting up the passageway towards the door. Something in Peter eased, knowing he’d gone, and he dropped his gaze down, pressing his foot uselessly at the bars.
“Won’t be long now, Verity. Nothing to be afraid of.” He announced, knowing he’d repeated himself, but not being able to care. He gave the door a quick kick, mainly out of frustration, but suddenly there was a clunk, and a loosening. He dropped down, pressing his foot against the now bent bar. It kept pushing away, the space getting wider and wider. Peter’s leg ached and burned, but he pushed past it. He groaned in pain though, and closes his eyes.
Suddenly, he could see sunlight. He could feel the wind on his face. Could hear the birds. Hands that weren’t his own scoop up the bar.
Peter jerked forward, and he was back in the darkness; of course he was - he never left. How had he -? No, not the time to get distracted, not with an opening finally big enough to climb through. He could hear Morse back in the tunnel, and so dropped to his belly to squeeze through the gap. Maybe if they were lucky, Morse wouldn’t need to come back to this wicked place – they could meet halfway and drag the girl to freedom.
The dungeon stunk of sweat and piss and gunpowder. Peter pressed on, turning to the bomb as Verity sobs. Maybe Morse would know how to deactivate it, but Peter didn’t have a clue, and figured it was probably more dangerous to attempt it. Instead, he turned his attention to the girl. Got her hands free, then eyes, then mouth. She gave a great gasp of fresh air, and Peter felt her relief. She was trembling against him, weak as a kitten, her exhausted arms flailing as she was freed.
“Come on. Up you get. Up you get.” He tried to keep his voice soft as he ushered her forward. God knows he’d been frightened himself before, and being screamed at had never helped. But the bomb was ticking ominously and it was hard to keep himself under control, especially when he spied Morse at the doorway. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The girl stumbled and staggered, but dropped herself to squeeze through the gap. Thank God she was slim; he’d have no idea of what to do if any of them had been larger. He swore the ticking was getting louder, and his palms were suddenly slippery with sweat. Not now – fuck, not now.
“Get her out. Get her out get her out get her out.” He chanted, and Morse was there, easing the girl through. He hesitated for a second, and Peter wanted to scream at him, but Morse’s low soft voice offered an explanation.
“Careful.” He murmured, and released a snag of the girl’s nightdress which had caught on the pole. It was much harder to get out of this space than it had been getting in, Peter realised. “Careful.”
“Come on, get her out.” The girl moaned but she was free, in Morse’s arms. Morse stood there, waiting. Waiting for what? For a well done, for an order? There was only one thing to do and that was to get as far away from the bomb as possible. It was only when Morse tried to grab his sleeve that he realised Morse was waiting for him. He shook his head. “I’m right behind ya.”
Morse gave one grim nod, put his arm around the girl and was gone again. Peter dropped down, trying to push himself out, but the angle was all wrong. His shoulders were too broad, his hips in the wrong place, and his jacket snagged. He tried to wrestle it free, but it seemed to dig deeper. He could feel the chill of it against his spine. He tried to move the other way and it bit into his flesh. His feet scrabbled around on the floor, trying to find purchase, but the loose stones and his stupid shiny soles did nothing. He grunted, and strained, but nothing changed.
He was stuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He didn’t want to die like this, his jacket caught in a railing, bits of him flying all over Oxfordshire. He didn’t want to die in this cramped dark hole. He wanted to see the sky again, taste fresh clean air.
He wanted to see Morse’s eyes again.
If this had been a film, he’d have given up, lain down, and taken a deep breath as the explosion careened over him. But it wasn’t a film, and he wanted to live, so he dragged himself forward, ignoring the way his jacket tore and his back scraped against the metal pole. He managed to contort his hips in just the right way so that he could slip free.
And then he was running, running as fast as his legs would take me. He hadn’t bothered using his torch but for some reason, it felt like he didn’t need it, like he was being dragged out of the mine-shaft by an invisible magnet. His stomach was spiralling in him, a bone-deep anxiety low in his belly.
One more turn – one more turn and he’d be free.
From behind him, he could hear the first rumblings of the explosion, and so pushed as hard as he could towards the light. He’d just about managed to take a lungful of clean air before everything was coated with chalk and ash.
He froze, waiting for the throb of pain.
Nothing came.
He was alright – he’d survived. And best of all, he was on his feet. He staggered forward, a quip about second thoughts twisting his lips into a smile when he stopped again.
Morse.
The anxiety reared again.
Something was wrong with Morse.
If he hadn’t been a copper, he thought he might have collapsed, shrieking, onto his knees. The feeling was like fire in his bones, or ice in his heart, aching down to his soul. All he could think of was getting to Morse, being with Morse, holding him.
For a moment, he couldn’t see him or the girl for the detritus in the air but when it cleared, he could see they were both on the floor. Verity Richardson was looking up at the light, her chest heaving as she breathed. Morse was curled up on the grass, hands pressed tightly over his ears. Peter frowned. Yeah, the explosion had been loud – his own ears were ringing – but not enough to be so painful. And he’d been closer. Morse and the girl were clear long before Peter had, and he was feeling fine, if a little shaky.
“Morse?” Peter called out as he moved closer, trying not to trip on the rubble. He couldn’t look down to mind his footing, couldn’t pull his eyes away from the heap of fabric and dust that was Morse. The girl was moving closer to Morse too, and Peter had to fight the urge to shriek at her when she tried to put a hand on Morse’s shoulder.
Morse was not so restrained, jolting violently to avoid the touch, and so turning his face to the light. As he did so, his whole face twisted into a silent scream.
There was a second explosion, this one located exclusively in Peter’s heart. It thudded hard and heavy in his chest as he raced forward. He had to be with Morse, had to hold him, had to hear his heartbeat, know he was alright.
“Is he hurt?” Verity Richardson’s eyes were wide and her hands were shaking. “No-one was supposed to get hurt.”
Peter didn’t have time to dissect that. He’d just managed to drop to his knees beside Morse when the whole cavalry came over the hill. Thursday, Strange, even the bloody Alsatians all came bounding over. Trewlove prioritised the girl – like a proper copper, she’d go far, he thought distantly. Suddenly, there was a thousand voices and footsteps and shadows all over the glade, and Morse was writing in pain.
Too much, too much.
The voice had sounded like Morse’s, but Peter had been watching his mouth and it hadn’t moved beyond being stretched in his scream.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP EVERYONE!” He knew his shouting was only making whatever Morse was going through worse, but it was the only way to make everyone stop. Even after his command, a few young officers still shuffled around. Peter had to lean close to Morse to hear him beyond their fumbling. “He’s trying to – Morse?”
Too many – too much – can’t – can’t –
“Too much what, Morse?”
“Peter, he’s not saying anything.” Thursday’s low rumble cut through the now silent air. Peter shook his head. Had the Old Man been deafened in the explosion?
“He is, he is, I can hear him.” Peter couldn’t help it – he reached out and shook Morse’s shoulder, but it had no effect. Where Morse had once been at least moving through his pain, he was now stock still, eyes fixed on the sky. “Morse?!”
“WE NEED AN AMBULANCE NOW!” Thursday hollered, and between that and the rush of helpful footsteps, Morse’s face twitched and jerked. Whatever pain he was in must have be agony.
“Is he hurt?” Thursday was at his side now, his bulk cutting through the light pouring onto Morse’s face. But his presence didn’t seem to do much good beyond that, as Morse gave a low, guttural moan. Thursday’s eyes widened, and he turned to Peter instead. “Sergeant, is he hurt?”
“I don’t know – it doesn’t look like it but –“ Peter checked both of Morse’s ears, but they weren’t bleeding. He was drooling a bit though, no doubt from the strain of gritting his teeth. Without thinking, Peter grabbed his pocket square and pressed it against the side of Morse’s mouth. As he did so, he realised how ridiculous the damn thing was – a pop of colour to match his tie and contrast with his once sleek black suit – and how thankful he was for it. Morse didn’t relax, but Peter hoped his shoulders soften just a fraction.
“Back away! Give them some bloody space!” Jim roared, and everyone instinctively took a step back, even the dogs.
“Morse, I don’t know how to help you. You need to calm down, you need to talk to me again.” He whispered into the shell of Morse’s ear. Morse didn’t make any indication that he could hear, not a whimper, not a flinch. God, Peter would have done anything for a flinch. “Please talk to me.”
But there was only silence. Morse was still awake, his chest lurching as he breathed, but it was if he were in another room for all their attempts to communicate with him succeeded. His eyes stared beyond what they could see, and no amount of pushing and shoving from Peter succeeded in making him move or talk again. However, when Thursday tried to lay a comforting hand on his bagman’s shoulder, he screamed as if he’d been stabbed, and huddled back in on himself. It was enough to drain whatever colour remained in Thursday’s face, and he backed away.
It was a long time – far too long – until the ambulance crew arrived, forcing themselves through the crowd of baffled officers. Their leader was short and stocky, scowling at everyone in her way and barking harshly.
“Move – everybody move!” She snapped, dropping onto her knees beside Peter. “What happened?”
“Chalkworks exploded while saving the girl. I thought he was clear but –“ Peter could hear the tremble in his voice rising with the bile in his stomach, and fought to keep it down. The paramedic was trying to touch him again, and Morse gave out another dreadful whine. “I thought he was fine.”
“Of course, he’s not bloody fine – you’ve just put a Sentinel next to an explosion. Course he’s bloody overloaded.” She growled, running practiced hands down Morse’s arms, even as he writhed. She didn’t seem to find what she was looking for, as she yanked the cuffs of his jacket and jumper up. “Why isn’t he wearing his identity bracelet? Where is his Guide?”
“Guide? What Guide?” The words slipped out of Peter’s mouth. He knew he should be using logic – trying to work out which of the officers around them is a Guide, trying to work out who could help Morse – but all he could see is how Morse’s cheeks were now wet from his tears, and that he was shuddering against the grass. Thursday, thank God, filled in the blanks.
“Doctor, you’re mistaken – he’s not a Sentinel.” Thursday was not one to sit and wring his hands, but Peter thinks he wants to, with the way he’s twisting his hat. And Thursday should know about Morse’s status – he was the one who reads their files when they got employed. He was Morse’s boss, the one who’d stuck his neck out for the arrogant little bagman every time.
“He might have been latent this morning, but this is a full-blown Sentinel overload.” The paramedic continued, standing straight enough to put her hands on her hips. In that moment, Peter realises how odd it was to have a female medic at a scene like this, and saw her own silver bracelet sparkling in the morning light. “Now where’s his bloody Guide?”
And in that moment, Morse reached for his hand.