Archive of Our Own

John closed his book with a contented sigh. The better part of a month had passed since he’d taken on the Fross case. He’d spent the past few weeks pouring over Corey Fross’s notes and doing follow-ups on people mentioned in his notes. And now, he was on a train for the first time in a long, long while. 

He'd known the trip would be a long haul (and guessed the same for the case, all those weeks ago) and had prepared accordingly. Being on a train for nearly four hours was significantly less boring, he found, when there was some sort of entertainment during the ride - hence the large bag of books he’d brought to keep him occupied. They were never as good as Arthur’s stories, parables, and poems, but… well, they did their job well enough. 

He was going to New York. Fross's had been found less than a week ago - facedown in some poor son's swimming pool. The body had been dumped while the owners of said pool had been vacationing in the countryside and only discovered it when they had returned home. 

John suppressed a shudder, desperately trying to cling to his previous good mood, as he vividly recalled what the body had looked like, the one time he’d seen it: bloated and half decomposing,. Rotting, covered in molds and algae alike, with part of it red, leathery, and burned - almost like desert roadkill - while the rest was horribly pale and clammy, slowly leaking whatever fluids it had absorbed while floating in the pool. Its smell had inescapably permeated the air in that mortician’s office - fermenting blood and tissues, rancid meat, faint traces of sweat and body odor, chlorine, and putrid rot. 

Just the concept of reaching out to touch it had very nearly turned John’s stomach inside out. But he'd endured, as always, and had been rewarded with the knowledge of how Fross had died. Unsurprisingly, the powerful individuals he’d pissed off previously had been the ones to kill him - foul play and then his body was dumped. What surprised John, however, was that he’d recognized the faces and voices of all men present when Fross had been killed, as well as the names said men threw around. 

All the men involved in Corey Fross’s murder - standing by or killing him - had ties to The Order of the Fallen Star. He'd seen all their portraits in the Freemason's headquarters and heard more than a few of their voices at the cult gathering (before he, Arthur, Noel, and the Butcher had crashed it, anyways). 

So, John was off to New York, to see if he couldn't find evidence of some wrongdoing or another that would get each of them some time behind bars. He didn't think he'd be able to bust them all for the part they'd played in the curious young man's death (though, granted, he would certainly try), but corruption generally surrounded powerful people as fully as flies swarmed carrion, and he was pretty darn sure he could bust them for something. 

He intended to alert Daniel (and quite possibly the rest of Arthur's acquaintances) of Arthur's death. The man had a right to know, even if John couldn't tell him everything. He deserved to know. Gods - the man had just rebuilt (just begun building) a relationship with his son-in-law, when everything had gone to shit. He couldn't help but wonder what Arthur and Daniel's lives could have looked like, had anything not gone to hell in a handbasket with the Order. 

Could the two of them have stayed connected? Enjoyed talking about Bella, Faroe, over lunch together? Taken daytrips just to visit each other? 

Two (or perhaps three - depending on how he counted) deals with the Devil himself. Was that really all it had taken to build and ruin a future like that? 

John closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh. There was little use ruminating over such things here and now - so long after the fact. He only hoped Daniel didn't take it too hard. Or Marie, for that matter. He couldn't imagine how the woman would react to finding out that they had, once again, lost someone who they had loved much like their own child. 

He hoped they'd be okay, eventually. Losing someone you loved was… a hard thing. Feeling that same sort of loss multiple times was just cruel. 

Fuck Kayne. Fuck him for putting Arthur and his friends and family through that. Fuck him to hell and back. John hoped the guy had died screaming. He hoped the Manager and Lilith had won. John was gratified to think that they probably had, the cunning bastards. 

Stepping off the train, he surveyed his surroundings before starting off in the direction he and Arthur had first taken when they’d arrived in New York, all those months back. He wanted to drop his stuff off at the hotel he was renting, first and foremost. Once he'd dealt with his luggage, he could worry about… everything else. 

Eating the elephant. Hopefully he could keep his foot out of his mouth and his emotions in check for long enough that he wasn't eating a side of boot leather. 

Signing in and renting the room wasn't too hard (he wasn't even remotely strapped for cash) - third floor, half a hallway from the nearest stairwell. The first two floors of any building were always the most likely to be burgled, especially when it came to places that people generally stayed at or lived in. John wanted an easy escape, though, in case he had to beat a hasty retreat (a building catching fire with him inside was, quite honestly, the least physically dangerous “emergency” he could think of, when it came to himself. Being hunted down by cultists, otherworldly monsters, bounty hunters, lunatics, and the like was far more probable). 

The window to his room overlooked an alleyway, rather than showcasing the rest of the city - a shame, but he'd rented it intentionally. Chances were that he'd make some serious enemies, during his visit, so he’d accept any potential escape he could possibly get (besides, the number of hardy badasses that Arthur had managed to befriend was, frankly, ridiculous - which wasn’t helped by the fact that at least two of said badasses were elderly and, thus, probably had much less to worry about, should any sort of “life sentence” verdict be rolled out upon the discovery of his murder. Multiple ways to escape the building were a requirement.), scenery be damned. 

His room had a bed (large and plush, topped with a warm looking comforter and no less than three pillows), a dresser (built from some dark, varnished wood, it looked almost stately, but was clearly intended for clothes - not that John intended to use it), and a small kitchenette (he'd recently discovered the word. Why the fuck hadn't he or Arthur thought to buy any dictionaries while they were traveling? It would have made so many of John's questions during their travels obsolete!) - in all, it was as close to perfect as John could've hoped. 

John set his bags down - he wanted a few hours to decompress but, after so many hours sedentary on the train - he wanted to stretch his legs. His muscles were stiff and, nice as laying around in his room sounded, he'd much rather take a walk. 

Stretching his arms above his head and arching his back resulted in several loud cracks emanating from his shoulders and hips. That train ride had been hell on his posture - probably because he'd spent almost the entire trip hunched over reading (John had no regrets). 

Grabbing his messenger bag (he'd begun carrying one of those some while ago - useful, in his line of work) but leaving his suitcase, he left his bedroom and made his way out of the building. It was later afternoon, now, almost evening. 

Weaving his way through the crowded streets, John simply followed where his legs brought him. He wanted to explore - Arthur's and his trip here had been rather short and had left very little time to explore. The city infrastructure alone was incredible - each building was unique and beautiful. 

A hundred different windows reflected the sun's slowly dimming light, gleaming like a thousand tiny bonfires that were fading into piles of gleaming, glowing embers. The colors shining on the windows were reflected and magnified in the trees, where leaves were already shifting from that soft green into the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows of autumn. 

The quickly darkening sky was slightly cloudy, with each wispy addition adding its own sharp note of color to a violet-seeped red and gold canvas. The air was crisp but not quite cold, yet, as if the world itself (much like the people in it) was trying desperately to cling to the last of the warmth and freedom that summer had provided. 

With a start, John focused back on the scenery around him. He worried, for a moment, that he'd gotten himself lost, but quickly realized that he recognized his surroundings. Apparently, even as his mind had wandered, his body had kept track of where he was going. He'd hoped to wait awhile (until the next day, at the very least) before speaking to any of Arthur's acquaintances. As with many things, however, lady luck was not on his side and fate (the bitch) was a cruel mistress. 

He was at the store, above which lived Marie. 

Sighing at his ill luck, but knowing better than to run from his problems (how many times had that nearly destroyed his and Arthur's friendship? How many times could Arthur have died, had he done as John asked - wanted?), John made his way up the side stairwell and knocked at Marie's door. 

Nobody answered for a few minutes and he wondered, idly, if her sister had ever been found again. Knocking again awarded him no different results and he recalled (very vaguely) the schedule that Marie had given Arthur. Was she in bed already? 

“Hello?” A kind, familiar voice called up to him, just as he moved to check his watch. John froze. He'd recognize that voice anywhere (gods, this was going to be so awkward). Sighing once again, he turned and trotted back down the stairs. 

“Hello. Uh, I was looking for Marie. This is still her address, right? I-I have information about an- an old tenant of hers. Some.. news.” That last word came out more as a question than a statement, despite his best efforts. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Oscar’s expression took on a sad, sympathetic look. “Ah. I'm afraid you're a few weeks too late, friend.” 

“She moved away?” John frowned. He didn't think Oscar was lying, but he had a hard time picturing the old woman anywhere but here. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Oscar shook his head. “No, Marie was stubborn. This was her home - she and her sister stayed here ‘til the end.” 

“The end? You don't mean-” 

Oscar cut him off, nodding as he spoke. “Afraid so. Died about three, four weeks ago, now - a week or so after her sister. Not even death could keep those two separate for too terribly long.” His face was sad, as he spoke, but not at all bitter. 

“But- But she- I- She can't have…” He'd never written her. Arthur had never had the chance and John… John just hadn't. The request to write had been extended to Arthur, not him, and he hadn't wanted to risk encroaching. He'd considered it a few times, perhaps, but he'd never actually sent Marie anything. It wasn't his place, wasn't his relationship. 

So… So why did John feel so guilty, for never writing? For not getting here sooner? He couldn't have kept Marie alive any linger. Could he? 

He didn't want to think of that possibility. Maybe coming here was a mistake - tracking down Order members would probably just paint a target on himself without helping anything. 

“Hey, hey. Easy now.” Belatedly, he realized that Oscar had slung his arm around John's shoulders and was talking to him. 

“It's okay. Marie lived a good, long life. She wasn't angry or sad or in pain, when she died. It was a peaceful, comfortable deal - died in her sleep.” John hated the burning behind his eyes, the wetness on his face. 

Fuck this stupid human body. Why hadn't he come sooner? Why hadn't he ever written Marie? Arthur hadn't been there to do it - and since Arthur couldn't be there for Marie, John should have stepped up and done it himself. 

He should have. 

He could have and he should have. 

Marie had deserved better - far better - than what Lilith or life or the war or John had ever given her. She should've lived with her son and been able to spoil her grandkids. She should've been able to kiss her husband and banter with her sister, rather than hoping and praying that Scratch would fuck off on his own. 

John should have been there for her. Why hadn't he been there for her? She deserved to be surrounded by the people she loved. 

“Aye, she did - and she was.” Oscar replied easily. John realized that he must have said some part of that aloud. He was being led somewhere by Oscar, who only paused a moment before continuing to talk.

“I was there when Marie died. I'd been staying there the past couple days - she wasn't in good health and must have known that her time was coming, soon. She stayed in bed in the days leading up to her death and Hattie - thats her sister, see - well, she'd died pretty recently. I wanted to be there and help keep her house in order, see, but… well, then her health started getting much worse, much faster.” 

“Where are we going?” John murmured mutely. He didn't know what else to say. 

“Ah. Well, friend, you looked like you could use a drink. And I know a very good place to get a drink or three.” 

“Ah.” 

An awkward silence stretched between them, for a long moment, before Oscar broke it again. 

“Say, my mysterious friend, do you, ah… do you have a name I could use?” 

“John.” He responded numbly. Marie had died. She'd never known what happened to Arthur - only that he'd never written her. Had she worried for him? John was going to be sick - gods. 

“John, eh? Name’s Oscar.” 

“I know.” 

“Did you, now? How's that?” 

“I was friends with Arth- Parker. We traveled together for awhile.” John barely corrected himself into saying Arthur’s alias in time. Maybe making Oscar jealous would get him to leave John be. Walk away and leave him alone - as he should be. 

Oscar had gone still and silent for a moment and John thought he was going to walk away, before he spoke again - quieter, this time. More seriously. 

“...Parker, eh? Is he the old friend you wanted to tell Marie about?” 

“He… was. Yes.” 

“How is he? Been doin’ okay? Marie always did wonder…” 

“He's dead.” John tried not to sound bitter. He wasn't sure how the words sounded, though. Oscar stopped walking, pulling them both to a halt. 

“Dead?” 

John stared silently at his shoes - he couldn't look Oscar in the face. Not now. 

“Nearly three years ago. He-... He died.” 

Oscar seemed to hesitate a moment before asking, “Was it… peaceful?” 

John shook his head miserably. “...No. He was terrified. It- It wasn't peaceful, but... but it was quick. And it was painless.” He paused a moment before continuing, anticipating Oscar's next question before it was voiced. “He died to save my life. There… wasn't a body to bury.” 

Oscar removed his arm from around John's shoulders. “Shit. You're… you're serious?” 

“Very.” Was he going to leave, now? Walk back to that bar he frequented? John wouldn't have been upset if he had: he'd just told the man that Arthur - Oscar's “purpose” - had died horribly. Died years ago! Died because of John. 

Then, Oscar’s arm wrapped around his shoulders again, and he was being walked into the bar. The other man pulled John into the seat next to him and, when he spoke, John had no way of anticipating the question that came next. 

“That's why you were trying to get to Marie, then? You, ah- You wanted to tell her what had happened?” 

John nodded silently. What was there to say? Oscar's hand gripped his shoulder silently, until John finally looked at him. There was a deep, indescribable sadness in Oscar’s eyes - one John knew very well. He understood the feelings behind it: regret, abandonment, words that he'd never realized would remain forever unspoken. Loss. Sadness. And… kindness. 

Mercy, perhaps, or maybe pity. 

Oscar had known Arthur for less than a week. He had never met John. But John had met him. Gods, how had John hated him so much? Jealousy was an evil thing. For the first time since fusing with Yellow - really, for the first time since Arthur's death - John felt… understood. Someone who had a fraction of the relationship he'd shared with Arthur was grieving the Englishman just as deeply as him. 

It wasn’t the same feeling of being understood that he’d felt with Arthur - not by a long shot. But it was understanding, all the same. Perhaps it made John evil, feeling comforted by the pain of another person - Oscar wasn’t hurting as badly as John, but he was hurting. Perhaps John was a monster for being comforted by that or-… or, maybe, that made him human. Not being alone in his sorrow, having someone to… share his pain. Oscar was somebody who knew and loved Marie, somebody who knew and loved Arthur, and (more than that) somebody who had… experienced losses like this - more than John had. The priest was… familiar with this- this pain that John was experiencing, as much as anybody could be expected to. 

“You’re quite brave.” His words took John off guard. What the hell was the priest on about? John checked the counter in front of the two of them - there weren’t any empty glasses or mugs, so Oscar was still as sober as he’d been when they walked in. 

His confusion must have been as plain as day, because Oscar continued speaking after a moment’s pause. “Being willing to come to her with that information at all, I mean. Most people would rather leave the questions unanswered than give voice to unpleasant realities. It wasn’t easy to come here, willing to tell strangers that a close friend or family member had died, but you did it.” 

John let out a wry chuckle. “I’m not half as benevolent as all that. I came here intending to dig up leads - there are some cultists I’m trying to get arrested.” 

“Leads, eh? Are you an investigator, then? You mentioned Parker dying to save you. Did you work with him? What happened to him? How- How did he die? Is there anything I could help you with?” Oscar seemed intrigued, but stopped himself from asking anything else, waving the bartender over. “Sorry. Brought you out here for a drink and I’m just grilling you for information.” 

John didn’t think that he was being grilled or otherwise raked over any coals, but he didn’t mention that. Oscar ordered himself a beer, before turning to John with raised brows. 

“Sorry, ah... what’s your drink of choice?” Right, John should order something. Shit, uhh...

“Uh- one blood and sand on the rocks, if- if you can?” He was rarely this awkward. The priest seemed dead set on throwing John off his game, no matter what, though - even now that Arthur was out of the picture and John had his own body, Oscar had him off balance. Still, he was relaxed with the other man, moreso than he’d thought he would ever be. 

He took a long sip of his drink when it was brought, before setting it back down in front of himself. He traced the edge of his glass with a finger as he began answering Oscar’s earlier questions. 

“I.. I suppose you could say I worked with him, yes. We travelled together for a time, before he died - never worked as investigators or anything together, though. Not officially.” 

“How’d you two meet?” Shit, uh. Shit. 

Fuck.

Okay then. 

“We, ah… we met in Arkham, before he went on the run.” 

“Old friends, then?” 

“Not… exactly, no. Not old, but… well, not newly found or anything, either. We- We, ahm- It’s… Well, it’s a little-” 

“Complicated?” Oscar put him out of his tongue-tied misery with a knowing look. “Aye, that’s how things always seemed to be, with him. Nothing was ever cut-and-dry - not with Parker.” 

John’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “No, I suppose they weren’t.” 

“So, tell me. What happened? What actually happened - I don't care to be lied to.” 

John, to the best of his ability, told Oscar everything. He left a lot of things vague, of course, but gave him the spark notes and answered whatever questions were asked. He told Oscar how Arthur's... "quarrel," with the Freemasons had ended poorly, with a different powerful being (he didn't really want to debate religion and deal with the explanations of "outer gods" and whatnot, so he left the description of the Nyarlothotep at "powerful, malevolent being, named Kayne") sending him somewhere else, which had eventually ended in Parker being sent to the Dark World (and a brief tangent to explain what the Dark World was - "Hell" seemed like a bit of a blanket term), where he'd died to get John out. 

John didn’t feel the same sort of obligation that he felt for Daniel - who he fully intended to wait for a few days before telling - but explaining things to Oscar, it… it felt good. He couldn’t “come clean,” or whatever, about everything, but being able to remember Arthur? Being able to talk about him with somebody else, who knew and cared about him? 

It felt… it didn’t fix anything, not really. John would always know he’d tried to kill Oscar out of jealousy (a fact that he prayed Oscar would never learn, himself - dealing with an angry, generally well-liked priest who, conveniently, had a large following was not something John was interested in experiencing). Oscar would always know he’d been left behind by Arthur, and… and Arthur would never be here to speak with them. There would be no “catching up” or anything like that, with the man himself. There was no "making up" or "reconnecting" or "rebuilding the bridges John had made him burn" or anything even remotely similar. He was dead and gone, fully. 

And that loss - Arthur's loss - the loss still ached, deep in John’s bones, throbbing to the beat of his heart.

It... hurt to remember Arthur, yes, but more than that, it-... it felt good - so, so good - at the exact same time. Like the burn of working out paired with the thrill of an adrenaline rush. Arthur deserved to be remembered and, more than that, he deserved to have more than just John to remember him. He hadn’t deserved to die any more than John had deserved to live. But, he had died - the same as Marie. They’d both died in the presence of people who cared dearly about them. And now those people (John, Oscar, maybe even Daniel) had to keep their memory alive and well-honored. 

The two of them talked late into the night, enjoying their shared memories of Marie and Arthur, before parting ways. John would meet with Oscar for breakfast in a few days, to finish catching up and (hopefully) get some information on some of the Order members he was looking for. He had discounted how helpful Oscar could be, last time they were in New York, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. The “holy” man was very, very well-connected, and (for some reason or another) was very keen to help him out. 

Far be it for John to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. If the priest wanted to help, he’d take whatever assistance was offered. 

— — — — — — —

Five days later:

Five days. 

A work week. 

Almost an actual week. 

He had spent almost a week, just chasing down leads and trying (failing) to get enough evidence to hurt the cultist pricks in power. He didn’t have nearly enough evidence to willingly throw anything into the hands of law enforcement (yet) - he knew just how much bribery and bullshit were pumped from the rich and powerful straight into the legal system and, as such, knew he would need some overwhelming evidence of wrongdoings before he could throw any of the intel he’d gained to the police. 

Which pissed him off, because the rich and powerful (by virtue of being themselves) weren’t generally as attached to their belongings as your average blue-collar worker. 

The sheer number of leads he’d had to quit following because “whoops, some rich dude’s farm in the country burned down last year - no, the police never investigated anything, why would you ever think that” or some bullshit of that ilk was, frankly, ridiculous. Okay, fine. Burn the site of whatever shitty ritual (or whatever) you were doing. Fine. Human sacrifices? Can’t find any evidence for that - any family members of those murdered were bribed (or coerced) into silence. 

Gods. It would have been easier to deep throat a fucking cactus than it was to dig up any serious dirt on these cultist fucks. John wanted to break something (or someone - several someones, actually), but settled for letting out a long, suffering sigh as he unlatched the window from the outside. 

The action reminded him of his time back Addison, when he and Arthur had just reunited. He had known that Arthur was capable of great violence. He’d experienced firsthand how truly skilled Arthur was able to be in inflicting an incredible amount of pain upon others. He - back in the nightmare realm - had thought that he’d seen Arthur at his lowest, back in the prison pits (and, really, he had), but... but the Arthur he met in Addison? That was a shock. It had hurt him, watching the man fight like a desperate, caged animal, despite the obvious exit to said cage being right there. He hadn’t understood why Arthur had been so angry until they’d killed Uncle and - gods - he could feel his insides twist at the memory.

Arthur had been so… so broken, once Uncle was dealt with. He’d seemed so small, so weak, in spite of the massive, still-bleeding corpse underneath him. He'd hurt, badly, in ways that no medicine could fix, and John had.. he'd done his best to help. Remembering it now, all John wanted to do was hold Arthur. He’d wanted to hold him - comfort him - back then, but hadn’t yet figured out how to project. He remembered how Arthur had sobbed, back then, when John had recited the poem and… and how comforted he’d seemed, as John spoke to him. He remembered how Arthur had been so stubborn, going back to save those trapped in the caves below the Larson estate, and hadn’t given up through… all of it. 

Ha… 

He missed Arthur, more than words could ever express. 

It probably wasn't healthy, John being so hung up on a dead man, but when had that ever stopped him before? When had anything being "unhealthy" ever made him unwilling to do it? He'd never felt quite so strong or so whole as he had when he'd been with Arthur. 

But, even beyond the grave, Arthur was still helping John through whatever struggles he was facing. The window swung open with barely a sound and John (after checking the other side and making sure he wasn’t about to plummet to his death - he was on the third story, after all) climbed carefully through it, landing safely on the other side. 

He was in a warehouse - one that, if he was reading between the lines correctly, was a place for conducting business for certain Freemasons (Order members), whose faces and voices he’d seen and heard in Fross’s last moments. John would probably be annoyed at how (seemingly) few spots there were to hide, if he weren’t so thrilled that he wasn’t breaking into a building in some densely populated urban area. Gods, witnesses were always nightmares to worry about. Thankfully, he didn’t need to worry about that (much) here. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. 

The warehouse had three floors and he was, currently, huddled next to an open window on the topmost of these. He considered shutting the window, briefly, but decided against it - chances were that nobody would come up here any time soon (most of their business seemed to be conducted downstairs, if the layer of dust coating the surfaces around him said anything) and he wanted an easy escape route, should he be unable to simply… leg it out the nearest door. 

John had lucked out, as far as window placement was concerned - he was on one of the few stairwells onto the third floor. The downstairs was sparsely furnished (“sparsely” - it had some tables and chairs that weren’t half as pretty as they would have been, if this place was somewhere that events were hosted, but they were clearly decent quality (apparently, rich assholes didn’t like the idea of sitting down on lawn chairs or something of equally “common” quality, or something) and could, presumably, take a beating), but the place was definitely not just used for storage or something equally normal. He made his way down the stairs as quickly (and silently) as he could, and began preparing. 

He didn’t think that anybody else was in the building, but was careful, regardless. Slowly, ever so slowly, John crept towards a steam valve. He knew that the valves and pipes were used to transport steam through the building - it kept the warehouse warm in the colder months and, at this point in the year, it wasn’t any surprise that they’d be on. John fiddled with it to figure out which way to turn it to release the steam, for a minute, before he pulled a roll of twine out of his pocket and began laying out the trap, connecting the string to as many of the valves as he could reasonably reach. It wouldn’t be perfect but, hopefully, it would be good enough to buy him some time. 

He’d already figured out a few different paths out of the building, so he knew where he should run. Arthur had navigated his world blind for months, before he-… before getting John out of the Dark World. He’d managed that just fine, with and without a voice in his head to tell him where to go. So, why was John nervous at the prospect of having to do the same for a few measly minutes? Shaking his head in the hopes of clearing some thoughts out of it, John returned to his work - trapping the ever-loving shit out of a cultist hideaway and business place. 

Which, unfortunately, wasn’t actually as thorough as he would’ve liked it to be. John had packed light for this (with every intention of getting in, grabbing whatever incriminating evidence he could, and getting back out) and, clearly, this place didn’t have much he could use in the way of traps. Perks of being a white collar cultist, he supposed - they didn’t have any need for this place, beyond just meeting here (“client meetings,” or whatever - they wanted power, influence, trade avenues, etcetera, and apparently corrupt dealings with New York’s criminal underbelly (or whatever the equivalent was here) was the best way they could think to advance those goals) - next to nothing was actually stored here. There were some cabinets and dressers, a few small piles of textiles, a couple desks, and a large table and chairs were in the center of the room. 

John gave up in minutes and began to set up his hiding spot. He’d been careful not to leave many traces of himself while he explored - there weren’t any footprints to worry about (down here), nor was anything left open or moved around much. He didn’t worry about anybody noticing his steam trap, though - nobody really paid attention to the pipes in places like these, even when they worked full-time in the facilities. 

Once he felt well-covered enough (hidden behind some of the dustier pieces of furniture), he hunkered down enough and began to doze. The meeting between the Order members was supposed to be a few hours out and John… well, deep sleep wasn’t what he’d call a “close acquaintance” of his. So, he closed his eyes and lightly slept, crammed in behind pieces of furniture, with arms around his legs and his head resting on his knees. 

John was dancing with Arthur, when next he woke - or, trying to, at least. The Englishman- gods above - he was terrible at dancing! John was far worse, of course, but really! What had started off as a serious, well-intentioned lesson in waltzing had transformed, at some point, into the two of them trying desperately to avoid breaking each other’s legs and avoid dissolving into laughing fits on the floor. 

…Which, apparently, was impossible. 

They couldn’t avoid both at the same time, despite Arthur’s best efforts (and John’s amused lack thereof) and ended up falling in a heap on the floor of Arthur’s office. The blind man had made a valiant effort to remain upright but, alas, John was much bulkier than him. When John went down, he’d ended up dragging his poor dancing partner down with him, with Arthur faceplanting painfully into his shoulder and both men’s limbs forming into some sort of… tangled knot? They untangled themselves easily enough, when they’d finally caught their breath after spending a solid five to ten minutes laughing at their own clumsiness. 

The record player kept on playing in the background - its music was low, soft, and sweet - as John stood, clutching his chest, and helped Arthur to his feet. Arthur, for his part, was flushed from laughing so hard, with unshed tears gleaming amusedly in his eyes. 

“Gods…” Arthur chuckled happily. “What a pair we make, eh? I’d like to say that this was a poorer showing than usual from me...” 

“But, unfortunately, that would be the lie of the century?” John barely eked out around amused chortles, a mile-wide grin on his face, even as his chest still burned from the laughter-induced exertion. 

“Yes- Yes, something like that.” Arthur looked amused, adding without any trace of venom, “Though, I can’t say that my partner was any better.” 

“Hey now!” John chuckled in false affront. 

“I understand that you only had partial control of one of my feet, but there is no excuse for dancing that poorly.” His words were fond, contented, and John felt an indescribably warm happiness as his friend uttered them. 

“Need I remind you that students are only as good as their teachers, Arthur? Your dancing left quite a bit to be desired, after all.” John wasn’t even upset at the dings and bruises. While it had been a painful experience, dancing with Arthur… that had been fun. He’d had a good time. 

Arthur played his part to perfection, gasping in mock horror at John’s rebuke, before continuing on, as if he was listing his credentials. “My dancing? I’ll have you know, Mister Doe, that I had no education whatsoever in dancing, before I met you. None!” 

“Yes, I’d count myself lucky to have a teacher. If said teacher weren’t blind and hadn’t tried to break both my legs for the entirety of the lesson, that is.” 

“That- That- How dare-!” Arthur tried to keep on the banter, a matter complicated immensely by John’s amused laughter. The poor, bedraggled Englishman, despite his best efforts, cracked up before he could even get a sentence out. 

A door creaked, loudly, as it swung open and John startled. Where was Arthur?

Arthur... was gone.

Right. Work. His case. 

…Right, okay. 

He looked up, staring at the collection of mirrors he’d positioned high up around the meeting table. He was able to see the men gathered by looking through them - or, see their general locations. The mirrors were small enough that he couldn’t make out any solid details, but he could see the men’s positions in the building easily enough (which was more than enough to mollify John). 

He waited. The men, whoever they were, pulled out some papers and discussed matters in voices that were far too hushed for John to make them out. He didn’t even try. He just focused on how far he’d have to sprint to get ahold of those papers - human trafficking was a bad look on anybody, after all, and those would definitely force law enforcement’s hand. 

Talk about getting older, eh? At one point, John would scarcely have cared about slavery. Now, though? Things had changed. 

He stayed crouched in his hiding spot for what must have been more than half an hour, waiting, watching. 

John was about to yank the twine tripwire and hightail it over to the table (the papers), before a flicker of movement above caught his eye. He saw somebody climbing in, through the window he’d left open. The man - it was clearly a man - was thinner than his frame should have allowed, almost as if he’d been broad-shouldered, but had starved or- or something, and had never fully recovered. They were familiar, whoever they were. It took a long moment for John to realize why that was, until he saw the man (almost instinctively) reach into his pocket, withdraw a small pack of cigarettes, realize what he was doing, and shove the cigarettes back they’d come from. He couldn’t make out the brand, exactly, but he knew exactly why the man seemed so familiar, and… 

There was no way. None. 

Not a chance. 

Not even John was that lucky. But- maybe he was. It couldn’t be-… 

John shook his head silently, pulling another small mirror out of his pocket. He reflected the (admittedly dim) light, directing it straight into the eyes of the other man. Repeatedly. Whether John was right about who this was, he needed to alert the fellow interloper to his presence - John wanted nothing less than he wanted to get caught in the crossfire. 

The man blinked a few times, dropping into a low crouch (John made sure to flash his mirror-light into the eyes of the man a couple more times, just for good measure), presumably in an attempt to keep himself hidden. John raised his fingers to his lips silently, once he was sure the man’s eyes were on him. The other man nodded without a word, gesturing at the group huddled around the table and tilting his head. 

John pointed at them for a moment, head mirrored in the tilt, before he shook his head, rolling his eyes faintly as his pointer finger dragged its way, quickly, through the air in front of his neck. He had no relationship with them. He wanted them all dead or in chains. The other man nodded slowly, pondering. 

John got his attention again and, this time, mimed writing onto one of his hands, making sure the other man understood what he was miming before he pointed at the table again. They both wanted to get those papers - the rest of the people here were inconsequential. The man nodded again and made to get up, but John raised his hands in a ‘STOP’ motion, and the man paused. John carefully, ever so carefully, raised the fistfull of twine he had and tugged at it. The man did a noticeable double take, clearly noticing the valves the twine was tied to, and nodded in appreciation. He understood what John was planning. 

The other man pointed at himself and then pointed at the table, before pointing at John and then miming yanking the threads. John flashed him a thumbs up. The man gestured for him to wait, before creeping slowly, ever so slowly, down the stairs, stopping at the bottom and looking back to John. He slowly, meaningfully tapped the back of his wrist, before raising a hand and counting down (again, slowly) from five. John understood. The other man was closer to the table, anyway. 

When the man's last finger dropped, he yanked on the twine as hard as possible, which triggered his valve trap, and vaulted over the furniture he’d hidden himself behind, just as the other man started towards the table at a dead run and grabbed hold of all the papers on the table. The room all but erupted into chaos, as the area filled with thick, white steam, and John sprinted in the direction he’d last seen the man, grabbing hold of a chair on his way over. He heard some sounds of fighting near the stairwell and, squinting, recognized one of the people involved as having been present at Fross’s murder. 

Much as he would’ve happily killed the man there and been done with it, he didn’t want to have to avoid murder charges - nor did he think it would help the situation at hand. So, rather than trying to snap his neck, he hit the man in the back of his neck (on the side - right near his shoulder) with the chair, putting as much force as he thought was possibly safe into the hit. The killer’s knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

John similarly beat down the few other attackers near his unexpected comrade, before throwing the chair off in a different direction (hoping to either hit another ill-intentioned person in power or, at the very least, throw off their perception of where he was in the room), and following the stranger up the stairs. He gave the man (broad shouldered, but a bit shorter than him) a leg up, helping him out the window. The other man, in turn, offered an arm for John to pull himself up with, and John happily accepted the proffered limb. He could have climbed out the window on his own, but the added help was certainly nice. 

(Could it have been this way more regularly, if Arthur had made it out?) 

(Could John have had this camaraderie, this simplification of any and all problems he faced, if he hadn’t been so stupid as to let Arthur die?) 

(Could he and Arthur have done this, if they’d both escaped? If they’d worked together as investigators? Could it have happened? Would Arthur - gods - would Arthur have wanted that? If it had been on the table?) 

He and the ‘stranger’ (he used the term lightly - John was very certain of this man’s identity, at this point) wasted no words, opting to sprint from the building as fast as they physically could. John followed the man, assuming he had some sort of plan, and wasn’t disappointed to discover that the man had led them to what was, presumably, his own car. 

“Get in!” The man wheezed, breathless, flinging himself into the driver’s seat and starting the car. John needed no further invitation and jumped into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind himself before he thought to buckle himself. His legs and chest burned - an expectable (if unpleasant) sensation, considering how far and how fast he’d just sprinted. The man wasted absolutely no time in driving away, fast, from the warehouse. 

A few minutes of panting, exhausted silence lapsed between the two of them, before the two of them finally caught their breath, and the man started to talk. 

“So, ah… I take it you’re no fan of those guys?” Came the awkward question in that familiar, accented voice. 

“Oh, I'm- I’m an investigator. They stood around and watched as somebody I was hired to find was… well, murdered." John shrugged, continuing. "I'm up here trying to get some damning evidence of wrongdoing on their parts - something that none of those fucks they call friends can bail them out from.” 

His friend chuckled. “Damn. An investigator? Where ya from, kid?” 

John looked at him and contemplated silently. A smile slowly crept onto his face and he responded, “Depends on how you call it, honestly. I’m based out of Arkham, but I'm not from the area. And, before anything else, I’d like to say… I’m glad to see you alive, detective.” That last bit earned him a curious glance. 

“Ah, you… you know of me, somehow?” John chuckled faintly, while Noel’s brows furrowed in suspicion. “Oh, c’mon. Who are you, kid? I don’t recognize you, but you clearly recognize me. You knew I’d been injured badly awhile back. Do I… know you from somewhere?” John bit back another chuckle. “Hey, you’re the one with all the cards here! Do I know ya or not?” 

Relenting, raising his hands placaingly, John couldn’t help the amused note in his voice as he responded. “I suppose you could say you do… Charlie.” Noel stiffened, his eyes flicking over to John, before returning to the road in front of him. When the detective spoke next, his voice was low and forcibly steady. 

“...Is this a threat?” John was caught off guard, his response was hasty and awkward. 

“What? No- No! Fuck, Noel, no. I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t do that. Okay?” 

“Uh.. huh.” Noel replied dubiously. “Look, kid, I don’t know ya. So, how about this: gimme one good reason I shouldn’t just drop you on the side of the road and let you walk back to… wherever you’re goin’.”

“Sorry, uh… My name's John.” John took a steadying breath, taking not of the surprised glance sent his way, before he pressed on. “John Doe. I- I know I didn’t have a body when we met, but… Arthur - Arthur Lester - introduced us. You met him in the hospital, where you two captured the Butcher who, at that point, was moving to try and kill a man named Daniel - Arthur’s.. father.” Noel was deathly silent, now, as he drove. John continued to speak, hoping to prove who he was by repeating shared experiences that he couldn’t have known about unless he’d been present, himself. 

“Ahm… Arthur introduced us at a diner, the next day. And- And that evening, you revealed who you were, why you were helping us, and… well, what the King in Yellow… what he’d done to you. You told us how you’d escaped the Prison Pits - ab- about three years ago, then - with the help of a Cana named Lorick, who told you-” 

“John.” The word was gentle, but firm nonetheless, as it fell from Noel’s lips. John looked over at the other man and was surprised to see him smiling, faintly. 

“I… I believe you, John.” Noel chuckled - a faint, disbelieving sound. “Jesus. I believe you.” 

“Oh.” John was pretty sure he sagged a foot in relief. He cleared his throat. “That- good. Good. I… good.” 

“So, ah… nice to finally talk t’you, face-to-face. But, ah, what happened? After that lunatic shot me off elsewhere, I never saw hide nor hair of Arthur - or you, either, I guess - again. I mean, I’m assumin’ things went okay, since you’re… separate, now?” He- gods, he sounded so fucking hopeful. 

Who had decided that John should be the living half of their duo? Arthur was so much better at handling people - handling their feelings - than John had ever been (case in point: John himself, more often than not). 

Taking a deep breath and steeling his nerves, John responded. “It… It’s a long story. Though, I suppose we have a bit of a drive. So, I suppose… I’ll start when you were sent away, give you the broad strokes, and build from there. 

“The man who attacked us, Kayne, was… have you heard of a being named “Nyarlothotep?” That- Kayne’s a version of that - of him. After he... dealt with the rest of you, he took me and Arthur to-... well, he took us somewhere else, monologued for awhile (more on that in a minute), and then dropped us off in… in England. Or a, a version of it. 

“It wasn’t the England of this world - Arthur mentioned something about how the French taking over was odd, or- or something. I don’t... really remember all of that, at this point. Anyways, we were sent to a different version of thirteenth century England and tasked with retrieving a different powerful object that Kayne couldn’t be bothered to get himself. That object - the Blackstone - was… powerful, I suppose? Ehm, anyway, we- we got ahold of it. He coerced us into giving it to him. And then he… killed us.” John’s chest tightened at the memory. 

It had hurt him, certainly, but more than that… Arthur had been hurt. John had felt his eyes, arm, and maybe part of his leg, when they’d been ripped apart. Arthur, though, he’d… he’d felt everything. Every bit of the pain Kayne put the two of them through, Arthur felt it all. And John hated that. The sounds of Arthur screaming in agony - at the hands of the King, when he’d tried to protect John, and every single time since then - still haunted his nightmares, some nights. John took in a deep, shuddering breath before he pressed on. 

“It- It was horrible. We were… ripped to shreds. We died and went to… the Dark World.” He explained as much as he could about it - he didn’t want Noel to ask any questions about this part of his travels, so he’d just answer them beforehand. He didn’t tell him everything (if John had it his way, the chapel made of Arthur’s bones would be a secret kept between him and Arthur only), but… he told as much as he could. And then he got to Arthur’s death. 

He explained it all - every excruciating detail: every tear shed, the look on Arthur’s face as he’d died and John had continued on, their hug before that, their- their- gods. Arthur had died. For John. That alone fucked up John’s heart more than anything… probably ever had. Arthur was dead because of him. He knew it. And, now, Noel knew it, too. 

Arthur had died for him. The stupid, stubborn, foolish Englishman- they’d never gone to England, to Arthur’s home. They’d planned to, they’d gone to the alternate version of England, in the 1200s, but… never to the place that Arthur had ever called home. Why was John remembering that now? His heart ached. 

Needless to say, John was pretty sure he was crying, by the end of his story. He couldn’t even tell, at this point. He was tired, despite the nap he’d taken earlier. His body was sore and stiff and fatigued and Arthur was just as gone as he’d ever be. John was very, very, very alone, just as he’d deserved to be- 

Noel cut off his rapidly spiraling thoughts with a firm, warm hug. “Easy there, John. Easy.” 

John’s head was nestled against his chest, listening to the detective’s heartbeat and… gods. Were humans always this warm? 

"Easy, there. I've got you. I get it, kid. You'll get through this. I've got you." His words were quiet and came from a place... of understanding. Of course he'd understand what John was going through - Charlie had lost Noel (the original Noel), Roland Cummings, and- and who knew how many other friends, during his time in the Dreamlands and during the war. Noel understood what was happening. John was glad for it. 

John had experienced a moment of panic at the hug (at the unanticipated physical contact, restraint), but it was only a moment before he felt… peaceful. This was more comforting than it had any right to be. He realized, belatedly, that Noel had pulled off to the side of the road. He wasn’t upset to take a little longer getting over to Noel’s higher-ups, so long as he could keep being hugged. 

Actually- 

John wrapped his arms around Noel. It wasn’t perfect (the car was a bit cramped for a tight hug, after all), but John returned the hug to the best of his abilities. 

He’d… only been hugged once before. This was nice, though. Noel wasn’t Arthur, but he was John’s friend. He’d found out where John had come from and hadn’t held it against John in any obvious way. Hell, he’d known John existed and had asked for his thoughts and opinions before they’d ever dealt with the Order. He’d known and cared about John - not just Arthur - and that- that- 

That was more of a comfort than John wanted to admit. 

— — — — — — — 

“You’re… You’re no longer John, a-are you Yellow?”