Chapter Text
The rain didn’t start until Morse was well on his way through the forest. It was a fairly big area just outside of the city, and he wondered why anyone would choose to live so far away from everyone else. There had been a murder just a week prior. Multiple, actually, in the course of the past few days. Three police officers. Morse had been in DeBryn’s office gathering information on the latest victim when Inspector Thursday called and sent him on his way to chase down a possible suspect.
“Yes?”
“Morse. We’ve just received the deciphered planner. Carrie Greene seems to have wanted to meet someone just outside of Wychwood shortly before her time of death.”
“What, outside of a forest?”
“Seems that way. There’s a single house there, on the other end, fairly old but inhabited. Some guy by the name of Jonathan Hayes got in trouble with the law back in ‘64 ‘cause he was hunting there illegally.”
“But we don’t know if he still lives there?”
“That’s why I’m sending you to check it out. Tell you what, I’ll just finish my business here in the station and then I’ll meet you there, alright?”
“Yes, alright.”
“You still got the revolver?”
“I won’t forget it, sir.”
“Alright then, watch out for yourself.”
He’d scoffed and hung up, exchanging a look with DeBryn, who only shrugged at him. Both of them knew Morse hated doing legwork, but walking through a forest really wasn’t what he’d wished for that day. Especially not when it would most likely - in his opinion - be a dead end. The first victim, Carrie Greene, had been found, like the others a few days later, drowned in a lake. She had had a notebook with her, and Strange had been tasked with figuring out if there was anything worthwhile written in it.
Because of the nature of the murders, namely being centred on police officers, Chief Superintendent Bright had approved every officer on the case to be carrying a revolver at all times for the duration of the investigation for their own safety. Back then, Morse had scoffed, too. Surely having a bunch of police officers running around with weapons wouldn’t do too well for making the public feel safe. If the police thought they were in danger - then who would protect the civilians?
The metal in the pocket of his jacket lightly bumped against his chest with every slow step he took. He wasn’t in a hurry. At least not until the first drops of rain landed on his head. The weather had gotten worse by now, and the rain was starting to pour instead of just trickling like it had minutes before.
Still, for some reason Morse didn’t feel the need to pick up his speed. He shrugged it off by telling himself it was just one of those days. The days where you just don’t feel like hurrying or getting anything done or even getting out of bed, really. The weather certainly hadn’t helped with that feeling, Morse thought grimly.
For the first time, Morse tried taking in his environment more clearly. The trees were exclusively maple, the leaves a healthy green, just in time for spring. They were bending under the weight of the water, and occasionally one got too heavy and the water rolled off the tip, falling to the floor or the leaf below it. He could see and hear very few birds, most of them sitting on trees, practically hugging the trunk to stay dry. The ground below his feet was soft and wet and invited Morse’s slow step.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Morse felt calm. Not the kind of calm that he could easily achieve by letting himself fall onto his bed after a long day of work, or by going drinking with his colleagues, but a free kind of calm. Most of the time, Morse’s heart was aching for one reason or another. But not right now.
He hesitated, then came to a halt. His shirt, already soaked, was sticking to his skin, and he moved his hand to at least get his wet hair out of his face. Even his eyelashes were glued together because of the rain. There was no reason for him to go on, was there?
“There’s nothing to keep you here.” The Chief Superintendent had told him that not too long ago. And it had been true. As much as he’d wished that maybe Bright or his colleagues would convince him to stay, it was true. They’d been fine without him, and they would again. Even Thursday. He’d go on without him, find the suspect, question him, and carry on like usual.
Since coming to Cowley, Morse had supposedly found a few friends in his colleagues. They’d gone drinking together, helped each other when it came to personal matters, and all the stuff formal friends usually do. But it had never really felt right to Morse. As if they were only befriending him because it was standard procedure. To not make him feel left out.
He’d felt it from Jakes, and so many others he’d met in his life: he didn’t fit in. People didn’t like the way he was. How direct he was, or how he put justice above everything else. That he didn’t get along with others easily because he never really was a social person. And maybe he wasn’t meant to fit in. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be here. ‘His way’ had already troubled his parents and sister more than enough.
Morse had thought about this more than once. Mostly with a glass of Bourbon in his hand, but recently also during work. Why was he doing what he was doing? The world wouldn’t change because of him, because he locked up a few criminals every now and then. Any other police officer could do that, with a little work. His days were all the same. Waking up, going to work, drinking at home, going to sleep. There was no variation, nothing interesting.
In these moments Morse often wondered if there even was a sense in anything. In living. Especially his life. He’d come to the conclusion that there wasn’t. He realised still felt the revolver in his jacket.
There was a moment of pause in his thoughts. Morse looked up. The forest was completely empty. The only thing moving were the raindrops, loudly raining down, reaching the earth and the trees. They created a nice, calming melody. In the back of his mind, there was an inkling of an opinion, that there were reasons for him to stay. That he was good at his job, better than others. That his friends were real. Morse sighed. It was long ago that he’d have trusted every single thing his mind told him.
No one would hear him here. He’d be spared the humiliation of someone finding him if he didn’t succeed, because eventually he’d bleed out anyways. The chance of Thursday going this exact way and seeing him was small, he knew that. His heartbeat quickened as he slowly removed the revolver from his pocket.
For a few moments, Morse just stared at the cold metal in his hand, uncertainty rising in his chest. He wouldn’t get a chance like this in a good while. All alone, so secluded, so peaceful. With the easiest way out a man could wish for. Cold raindrops hit its surface and the back of his hand. Then he felt warm drops hit his skin. Only now did he realise he’d begun to tear up.
To test his resolve, Morse slowly led the gun to his temple. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly. The calming effects of the forest and the rain had worn off, and the coldness of his damp surroundings had come through to him. Morse was shivering now. Suddenly he felt all alone.
A sob escaped his throat. Then he started trembling. Morse lowered his arm and let the gun slip out of his hand. It landed in the mud with a splash. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he ever would be. He leaned on the nearest tree for support and slid down until he was sitting, not caring about his clothes getting dirty.
He heard himself sob again, and this time he differentiated the ice cold drops of rain from the burning tears that now ran down his face. He buried his head in his arms and let himself weep. He was alone, after all.
There was no one, no one who could help him, who would help him, he’d always be alone, and always be different. He would never fit in, and maybe that’s what he deserved. Maybe this is what he deserved. But he was too scared to end it, too afraid of what was to come, so he’d be stuck in limbo, in his miserable life, not dead, but not really living. And it would never end.