Chapter Text
All the things yet to come are the things that have passed
Like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass
Like the bonfire that burns, that all words in the fight fell to
Wasteland, baby
I'm in love
I'm in love with you
And I love too
That love soon might end
Be known in its aching
Shown in the shaking
Lately of my wasteland, baby
Be still, my indelible friend
You are unbreaking
Though quaking
Though crazy
That's just wasteland, baby
– Hozier, “Wasteland, Baby!”
SHERLOCK
SUNDAY, 23 April 2017
10:03 am
A bit putrid, that. Like a beached squid on a hot summer’s day, caked in salt and sand. Remarkably reminiscent of decaying human brain, though admittedly even more pungent. The flame he held to the surface of the tissue magnified the odor, of course.
Interesting.
Sherlock noted the distinctive scent and carefully placed the scrawled description into the olive-green lateral file folder he kept for that very purpose in his mind palace (Study #3, Cabinet #2, Drawer #1). The already illusory room now shimmered. Like a rainbow.
John coughed from the non-illusory, very real sitting room; a happy squeal punctuated the harsh noise.
“Hm. Ah. Ahem.” Sherlock had been unwittingly staring into the iridescent tapetum lucidum of the choroid layer of an eyeball, one he’d turned inside out and thoroughly excavated before attempting to set it alight. It was from an Ovis aries (“Christ. It’s a sheep, Sherlock, just say that.”); he hadn’t been able to obtain a human eye since his aborted experiment the (hateful, glorious) day John asked him to be best man. The gruff butcher on Crawford Street came in handy for more than just prime cuts of beef.
It's also… been a while since I asked Molly for anything. Where even to start?
The tapetum lucidum – shining layer – was absent in primates, intriguingly. Including humans. Astoundingly beautiful, despite the process to discover it being objectively disgusting. Its colorful prism was almost hypnotizing.
John opened the window to 221B without a word, letting in a fresh spring breeze. Sherlock could feel (or, rather, imagine; he wasn’t daft enough to believe gazes could actually be felt) the burn of narrowed blue eyes against his temple as John made his way back to the carpet. He was restraining himself for Rosie’s benefit, surely – devoted father that he was – despite the clear fact that this particular experiment wasn’t hazardous or even unsanitary. Sherlock had been careful about that these days. Smelly, though. It was certainly smelly.
There were worse things. Maggots, for one. Organic poisons. Toxic fumes. Illicit intravenous narcotics. Dirty needles. Severed heads leaking congealed blood onto the porous plastic shelf of their refrigerator.
Those sorts of things.
John was nursing a mug of lukewarm coffee rather than his standard tea. Sleep deprivation demanded coffee, or so he’d often heard said. By many people. Sherlock had never understood the appeal of coffee himself, though he was intimately familiar with the feeling of exhaustion. Tea was far superior, despite only containing about half the caffeine. They were both more likely to drink twice as much tea anyway, if given the choice and without any extraneous variables (such as fatherhood) swaying their decision. Not that he and John routinely shared beverages together anymore.
John’s sandy hair – lighter seemingly by the day with new shoots of gray – was two days unwashed. Not a deduction, of course. An observation. Bathing habits were rather transparent in their shared rooms.
Sharing his bedroom with Rosie is unsustainable; John is going to leave.
“Yellow block. Yellow! You like? Or blue?”
“Boo.”
“You can use articles and prepositions in your speech, John,” drawled Sherlock, still staring at his skewered, hollowed-out and inverted sheep’s eyeball through foggy goggles. “Even a few determiners, if you see fit. ‘Baby talk’, despite being ubiquitous in the West, is not integral to a child’s linguistic development and could, in fact, impede the expedient acquisition of academic language, though data on the matter are inconclusive. As tends to be the case with research in the soft sciences. Obviously.”
There was a moment of silence, then the muffled sound of wooden cubes falling onto a blend of wool and synthetic fiber. Rosie shrieked with laughter. Sherlock ached to look over and commit her happy face to memory; to pick her up and throw her into the air just to see the round apples of her cheeks redden with giggles.
He couldn’t risk sparing an overly fond (paternal) glance at her, not with John there. Babysitting was a different story, but as Rosie’s vocabulary grew, so did her ability to relate stories that may give away his affection. He wasn’t sure of the (confusingly invisible) boundaries. What he was permitted to say and do.
Who was he to John Rosie? The role of godfather was nebulous. Undefined, at least to him. He and Molly would care for her if John passed away; that was the technical arrangement. But what was he to do while John remained (blessedly) alive?
Things were odd within the walls of 221B. During their stilted conversations. Their shared, awkward glances, always across reasonable distances. Unnecessary touch had been mutually avoided since their unexpected embrace after Mary’s death. The flat wasn’t quite chilly, but just… odd. Off-tilt, as if the world had been knocked a bit off its axis. Or perhaps just as if London had been. The very foundation beneath them that used to keep Baker Street level. Straight.
Sherlock felt constantly off balance.
It had barely been a week since John and Rosie had come to stay indefinitely, and just as many days since the repairs and remodel had been completed post-explosion. John was only there because he couldn’t stand Mary’s ghost haunting their beige Chelmsford home. It was obvious. He’d moved out of the dreadful place just as soon as 221B was habitable once more. It felt little more than a refurbished wasteland, however. Ruins lay beneath their feet.
Regardless, their flat was objectively better now. Almost perfect, updated and new – baby-proofed furniture and all, thanks in no small part to Mycroft’s deep pockets and resolute insistence on helping – but it still wasn’t right. Nothing was.
Off. It was all off.
“You- how can you possibly pay attention to so many things at once?” John huffed, groaning as he rose from his knees. “You haven’t said a word to us all morning. Knee deep in… sheep eyeballs, is that what you said? Or whatever it is that smells like such shit- erm. That smells like a dock at high tide.”
Watching his language. Not easy for John.
“Low tide smells worse. Higher waters obfuscate–”
“–Sherlock.”
“Fine. You’ve read her two books, built seven towers – you four, little Watson three, though ‘tower’ is a generous description of her unbalanced stacks – and consumed two and a half cups of sub-par coffee. You’ll not be finishing the third. Parenthetically, The Cat-In-The-Hat is a certifiable criminal. How could any parent, let alone a child, enjoy such a story? It’s terrifying, yes, but it also sets a dangerous precedent regarding how one should behave during a home invasion that I believe you’d rather not have Rosie emulate. I’d advise against another read of that one. Horton the Elephant is a much more responsible role model.”
The startling, sudden sound of barked laughter caused Sherlock’s heart to race. Perhaps he had overstepped by expressing an opinion related, even tangentially, to parenting. John often laughed when he was angry. This laugh had a different tone – lighter than the deep, simmering rage he knew John still carried – but Sherlock couldn’t be too sure.
John had proven himself especially… unpredictable lately.
Sherlock removed his goggles and, using forceps, carefully placed the burned and dissected lump of fibrous tunic and vitreous humor into a graduated beaker. John stared back at him, his mouth a tight line. Rosie was happily rolling on the carpet, a saliva-covered green block gripped tightly between two chubby fists. She’d started walking some weeks ago, but she didn’t have the patience for longer distances. Scooting was still her preferred method of transport. Sherlock estimated that her ambulatory ability would vastly improve within the next three weeks.
“We’re talking about Dr. Seuss now, are we?”
Sherlock blinked at him. “Y-es? Is that funny?”
John sighed, then looked up at the ceiling. “No. Just. It’s different. For us.”
“Different.”
John pursed his lips and winced, flexing the fingers of both hands into fists as though his knuckles ached. “After everything. To be back here, talking about silly children’s books. Like we didn’t- like nothing bad ever- forget it.”
“They’re not silly books,” sputtered Sherlock. His brain refused to focus on the rest of John’s words. (Bad. Lots of bad had happened. He preferred to avoid the topic, and John had said to forget it.) “They will forever influence Rosie’s cognitive development and burgeoning awareness of morality.”
“Mm. Right. You’re Horton, then.” John ran his fingers through (thankfully) product-less hair, then turned around to look wistfully at Rosie. “I’ve been Mayzie. Before, I mean. Yeah. I hope- I hope not now. I want things to be different.”
“Different,” Sherlock said again.
“That’s what I said, yeah.” There it was. The smile that wasn’t really a smile. Sherlock’s heart started to pound once more.
Ridiculous. This is ridiculous.
“Everything’s different from before.” Sherlock’s voice was low. He quite wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
John tilted his head at him, brows raised. Sherlock looked down at his feet. Only because there was a drop of vitreous humor on his left big toe, of course. No other reason.
“Which before? Before you died? Before Mary died? Before Rosie? Before Eurus? Before Culv- ahem. Before… that? Because I don’t even know what normal means anymore.”
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock continued to avoid eye contact.
“You know which before,” he finally said, emphasizing the final word with no small amount of cynicism. “Irrelevant. Time marches on, as must we all.”
Silence once more. Four seconds.
A small whimper came from the sitting room, but Rosie quickly soothed herself by putting the wooden block (sanitized earlier that morning) back into her mouth.
“Before… all of it, then. Yeah.”
“Indeed. All of it.”
Rosie suddenly threw the block aside and pulled herself to her feet using their new round coffee table; she began doing a happy sort of bouncing, bent-knee dance. Sherlock smiled.
“There is at least one new and inarguably positive product of these tumultuous past few years.” The words came out before Sherlock was quite aware of himself. He glanced quickly at John, who was also looking fondly at his daughter with wet eyes and lips upturned at the corners.
“Ah. Agreed. Christ, agreed. I have no bloody idea how I got so lucky. God knows I don’t deserve her.”
“I–”
“Hoo hoo! Boys!” Two sets of footsteps accompanied Mrs. Hudson’s melodic voice, gradually rising in volume.
“Client,” muttered Sherlock. He was startled by the fact of not having heard the front door swing open, nor the muffled conversation downstairs that had surely followed.
You’ve never concerned yourself so overly much with household mundanities, Sherlock. You’re not yourself.
They’re a distraction.
John nodded tightly, then walked over to grab Rosie. They all had a bit of a system in place, assuming Mrs. Hudson was home. John would ask her consent anyway, of course (ever-apologetic for the days before), but he was admonished and hushed every time. Their little childcare routine had started even before John moved back in, during the long, limbo-era of Baker Street’s restoration. Occasionally, cases had knocked at the door when both of their hands were caked in paint and grout; Rosie was already downstairs with their landlady much of the time to avoid inhaling VOCs. That was the excuse, at least. It had become increasingly evident that there didn’t need to be a reason for Mrs. Hudson to sweep Rosie into her rooms.
By the time the encroaching footfalls stopped outside their front door and a knock resounded at 221B, John was standing at the ready with Rosie in his arms. He opened the door with a polite grin and a nod to the man standing just behind Mrs. Hudson.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
There it was. Perfunctory.
Rosie reached out her arms to the woman who served as her stand-in grandmother, shrieking with laughter as Mrs. Hudson took her from John to bounce upon her hip. Her arthritic pain seemed to dissipate with Rosie around, though Sherlock still winced a bit. “Pish posh, dear, I absolutely relish our time together! How many times do I need to knock that into your thick skull?”
“Just a few more, I guess. Sorry, you know I have to ask.”
Mrs. Hudson snorted, then waved her hand as if to shoo him away. “Silly man, I’ve no problem telling you off if you’re being rude or if I’m indisposed. Don’t you believe that of me? Or do I need to remind you that you’ve still never driven that car of mine, despite your incessant begging?”
An unfortunate reminder of a terrible day.
Move on.
Sherlock ushered their silent guest into the room, winking first at Mrs. Hudson. She gave him a warm, knowing smile in return. She’d seemed to be… waiting for something lately. For what, Sherlock wasn’t certain.
He hated not being certain.
“Martha Hudson has made no fewer than a dozen murderers cower to extent that their knees knocked together like wooden drumsticks and once stuffed me into the boot of that prized car of hers. As you pose no personal risk nor threat, I daresay that her words are never constrained by fear in your presence, John.”
John huffed in amusement, then shook his head and shrugged. “Ta. True enough. We should know where you keep the key, though. In case of, erm, an emergency.”
He’s joking. John’s joking again. It’s been a long time. Even despite my inadvisable mention of that… awful time. Before.
“Don’t be absurd. As if I need to ask the location of her car key.” Sherlock steepled his hands together with a cheeky grin as he raised his eyebrows. His old persona, obviously.
The entire interaction felt nostalgic; familial. He wanted to savor it. To stow it away in his mind palace to revisit later, once John had left him and Mrs. Hudson was no longer alive. It was all inevitable. Only a matter of time.
“Oh, you. I invite you to see what happens if you dare even touch the Aston. Instant regret, that’s all I’ll say. Let me get going, though! We’ve kept this poor man waiting. Wave bye-bye to your father and Sherlock, Rosie-posie!”
Your father. (And Sherlock). A non-title. An afterthought.
“Thank you. We’ll let you know,” John murmured to Mrs. Hudson before kissing Rosie on the top of her head. Sherlock knew he was also beaming unabashedly at little Watson’s unrestrained waving. He couldn’t see John’s face, but he needn’t imagine the expression that was surely upon it. He’d seen John’s genuine smile frequently lately, much to his (secret) delight. Little Watson provided the only moments of true happiness for either of them. “Shouldn’t be too long.”
The door closed gently, muffling the repeated yelling of “Ba ba papa Wock!”
Sherlock’s heart clenched.
John spun on his heel to face the room, smacking his hands together front of his chest like a film clapperboard as if to start the scene. “And we’re being rude to our guest. Welcome, welcome! Mr…?”
“Morrison,” the man said. His voice was gravelly; unremarkable. Gray eyes darted uncomfortably around the room. “Burton Morrison.”
“Come this way, Mr. Morrison,” Sherlock replied smoothly. He deduced approximately twenty-six distinguishing traits about their (late) middle-aged client as his eyes swept over his haggard form. All filed away for later; he was bored already. “You may sit right there. I’m going to run and change. It won’t take two minutes. Chat with Dr. Watson here about the weather or something. The stock market, perhaps. He’s a wonderful conversationalist. I am not. Refrain from describing your case details just yet, though I’m confident I already know about 65% of them.”
“Tea?” John’s question came from the kitchen, where he’d stopped to empty his cold mug of coffee and to quickly ferret away Sherlock’s eye-filled graduated beaker. John was already dressed, as he planned to run errands later. Sherlock had promised to mind Rosie while he was gone; he’d been considering whether to give Peppa Pig another try. He’d not yet been able to suffer through more than one episode at a time, but perhaps he’d been an unfairly hasty judge.
“Hm? Ah. No.”
Sherlock dashed to his room, throwing on black trousers, a crisp pale-blue button-down shirt, and a pair of perfectly matched socks from his catalog. YSL oxfords came next. He made sure not to focus upon his face in the mirror. He was older. More angular. Lined. Scarred.
Different.
He re-entered the sitting room to find John in his chair with a fresh cup of tea. Mr. Morrison was sitting stiffly in the client seat, hands braced against his knees. Anxious. Almost panicking. It was why he’d been so silent thus far. Some people rambled when nervous. Others froze.
Familiar leather welcomed him with its soft, worn comfort; it was one thing that wasn’t different from before. Somehow, his faithful old lounger had survived the explosion. Both chairs had done, though John’s had needed reupholstering. Sherlock took another moment to observe Mr. Morrison, mentally arranging the myriad deductions in his mind palace. He closed his eyes, steepled his hands at the fingertips, and took a deep breath.
“Right, Mr. Morrison, why don’t you tell us why you’re here?”
John often asked questions when they weren’t necessary.
“Well, I–”
Sherlock rose a hand. “–No need. You’re a businessman. More specifically, a financial advisor. Down on your luck. Deaf in your left ear, perhaps from opioid usage in your youth. Divorced within the past six months. High blood pressure. You recently sold your car. Got off at the wrong stop today; unfamiliar with the Tube. Possibly why you’re so flustered. It is a rather embarrassing gaffe, especially considering your advanced age and projected level of intelligence. You’ve lived in London your whole life. Misguided investments, I presume? Though since you’re approaching us for a case I can infer that some level of criminal responsibility may be attributed to an outside party. Regardless, the point still stands that you were deluded to trust a system run by psychopaths. That’s not an opinion, simply a truth. Unfortunately, I cannot obtain you a refund, nor would I be inclined to do so. You’re a Conservative, meaning you’ve long built your lifestyle upon the backs of London’s citizenry. Diverting my attention from their problems would do much the same.”
“Oi, Sher–”
“–How do you know there wasn’t a murder? A robbery?” There was anger in Mr. Morrison’s voice now; a bit of potential danger behind his cold stare. Sherlock swallowed as he belatedly noticed that the man was carrying a sidearm, now more visible in his seated position than it had been while standing. Almost certainly smuggled from Northern Ireland. He sucked at his teeth, suddenly immensely grateful that Rosie and Mrs. Hudson were downstairs. It might be incidental, of course. Burton Morrison wouldn’t be their first patron to carry a gun as a matter of habit.
Sherlock nodded minutely at John to draw his attention to the small lump at their client’s hip – they (remarkably, despite it all) hadn’t lost their ability to communicate without words. John clicked his tongue once in acknowledgement, expression otherwise unchanging. His own SIG was locked securely in his room for Rosie’s safety, along with another newly acquired 9mm for Sherlock’s use.
Unfortunately.
“Simple. Because there was no murder. No robbery. Far more likely an investment scam. Corruption of some sort. Worse still, something involving the government. Boring. Not my area.”
Get him out of here. Quickly. Dismiss the case.
“You’ll find that my case has absolutely everything to do with your area.” The hidden pistol – a CZ 75 – was drawn and cocked before either of them had time to react. It wavered a bit in the air, aimed (roughly) at Sherlock’s temple; the man was still nervous, though it was an unusually heavy handgun. Despite himself, Sherlock was curious as to why Mr. Morrison seemed to have lost his mind. Deductions began to appear in the form of floating words, temporarily swept away.
He probably should have been scared, but Sherlock had long since stopped counting the number of times he’d faced down the barrel of a gun. It wasn’t John or Rosie or Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Lestrade or even Mycroft in the crosshairs today – it was him.
Acceptable. Of course it was. He put up his hands slowly and looked at John, feeling oddly numb.
“Take these,” Mr. Morrison spat over his shoulder. He removed a hidden pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, throwing them at John without taking his eyes (nor his gun) off Sherlock. The metal links rattled loudly when John caught them one-handed, his expression stony and cheeks hollow as he rolled his tongue in his mouth.
Tension radiated throughout the room. An inaudible strum.
“Handcuff your partner’s wrists behind his back, Dr. Watson. He’s coming with me. I’m not dense enough to put down this fucking gun and do it myself. Your… grandmother and daughter are downstairs. Do exactly as I say or they’ll each have swallowed a bullet before you can even begin to say ‘sorry’. No backtalk. You’ll not say a word to me. And if you involve police, your little sideshow performer… lover?... Sherlock Holmes will lose that inflated head of his and lose it bloody. I’ll know. Believe me. There are cameras all over this city.”
“She’s our landlady,” Sherlock blurted, mostly to dissipate the oppressive disquiet. “Not John’s grandmother. How old do you think she is?” The clarification was – predictably – ignored, though Mr. Morrison cocked his head at him.
Lover. No. Not that. Never that.
Don’t dwell. Focus.
“You have 30 seconds. Say your goodbyes.” Mr. Morrison walked backward toward the front door, CZ 75 now switching between both of them to ensure that John couldn’t leave; it also placed the man closer to his two innocent and unwitting hostages downstairs, which he certainly knew would put Sherlock and John on edge and keep them cooperative. Smart.
Perfect.
There was now a good 15 feet of space between them, and poor, angry Mr. Morrison happened to be deaf in his left ear; he would have protested had Sherlock been incorrect in that deduction. Men of his particular phenotype (white, employed in finance, new money, just far enough into middle age to be seriously contemplating their own mortality) were generally desperate to prove strength and virility at any available turn, especially when accused of possessing a physical weakness. Textbook.
He felt John’s presence behind him, still taciturn but almost vibrating with rage and nerves. Sherlock could hear his breath hitch; could feel his quickened pulse as John took one of his wrists and gently placed it within the cuff. If it weren’t for Rosie and Mrs. Hudson, John would already have started a brawl. Or shot the armed intruder, SIG at the ready.
Things are different now.
“He wants something from Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed.
John paused his movements, now simply gripping Sherlock’s right wrist in his hand. The handcuffs dangled loosely between them, momentarily forgotten. He began to softly stroke the soft skin at the base of Sherlock’s thumb in small, soothing circles. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, horrified at the mist he could feel forming in his eyes. Just because of John’s touch. Weak. Very much unlike himself.
I’ve missed him terribly.
“Mycroft? Sherlock–”
“–Don’t let it happen. Lie to my brother about where I am if need be. He won’t believe you, but who cares. He’s abroad anyway. Seville, I think. Summering… spring-ing?... before the stress of the snap election. Regardless. You’ll find me. You and Lestrade. Greg. You don’t need the imbeciles of Scotland Yard. It will be all right, John.”
“20 seconds!”
Sherlock was no longer numb. He was… he was…
John took his other hand to attach the opposite cuff, but he was still gently caressing the skin of Sherlock’s right wrist. It was possible it was a nervous tick; a way of keeping himself grounded. He may not even have been aware he was doing it.
It’s also possible he’s… comforting me.
Or telling me something… more.
No. Not that. Never that.
Before the handcuffs were locked into place, Sherlock deftly drew out his phone from his back pocket. He bit his lip as he focused – entering his mind palace to replicate the screen display in his head – and switched the contact names for Mycroft and John’s numbers before sliding it back where it had been before. John took a quick step away as he did so, audibly exhaling in surprise but seemingly too disoriented to speak.
“10 seconds!”
“Act as him. I shall send clues.”
“Why? Why not call your brother?” It sounded as though John’s throat were sore. His whisper was rough.
“My life is not worth the fate of the nation. And Mycroft, despite his pretensions to the contrary, will be tempted to bend.”
He knew John was aching to disagree, but there was no time for that. Instead, he secured the handcuffs, lightly tugged at them to test their strength, and then grasped Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Not too tight?”
Sherlock squeezed back to the best of his ability, blinking away renewed tears. They (still) weren’t because he was being kidnapped.
Don’t let him see.
“No. They’re fine.”
“Time’s up! Walk him here. Now. Give me his phone, then put his coat over his back to hide the cuffs. We’re leaving.”
John’s pulse fluttered beneath his fingers and against his palms. His own heart was beating so rapidly against his ribcage that it was becoming uncomfortable.
“If you weren’t so afraid John or I would injure you in close proximity, you’d be doing this yourself. Like a proper criminal. Instead, you’re delegating human abduction duties to an Army doctor and relying upon him to tattle to my brother, parliamentary puppet master extraordinaire. Certainly… unusual. One might even call it pathetic. A betrayal of Mother England herself.”
“For God’s sa- Sherlock!” John grip on his hands tightened.
“He didn’t tell me not to speak. Only you.”
“Oh, so you’re a funny one. Right maddening. You’ll pay for that later.”
“I hope you’re fucking happy,” John hissed as they began to move. Perfectly in-step with one another, they steadily approached the front door – and Sherlock’s armed captor.
“I am,” whispered Sherlock. “He didn’t deny that this was about Mycroft.” John didn’t say anything in reply, but he brought his left hand to rest upon Sherlock’s shoulder, steady and reassuring. Without another word, as they were too close now not to be overhead, he then lifted Sherlock’s Belstaff from the hook on the wall. Sherlock took a deep breath as he felt its blanketing warmth drape itself over his back.
“Phone. Now.”
With an expression that could only be described as murderous, John reached into Sherlock’s back pocket (both of their breaths hitched at the touch), drew out his iPhone, and thrust it into Mr. Morrison’s left hand; his right was still aiming the CZ 75 at Sherlock’s forehead.
A nightmarish image of grayish pink brain matter and stark-red blood splattered across the yellow smiley face flashed into Sherlock’s mind, vivid enough to make him feel a bit dizzy. White fragments of bone littered the scene.
Fear.
There it was.
He was about to leave John. His home.
He’d be alone.
Again.
Good things never happened when he was alone.
He stumbled a bit as he was yanked backwards by the chain of the handcuffs, Mr. Morrison’s cruel hand having snaked under his Belstaff to assert his control. John met his eye. He nodded once, almost harshly, in the regimented yet reassuring manner of a soldier. Sherlock knew he was painfully squeezing his hands together behind his back as if to punish himself; lips bitten red and a tightly clenched jaw also betrayed the worry behind his steely façade.
“I’ll kill him,” John said, terrifyingly calm. “I’ll kill him and bring you home. I will.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond just as Mr. Morrison slammed the door shut in his face. His body jolted at the loud bang. Post traumatic stress disorder, as always, proved an incredibly inconvenient burden.
I know you will.
Don’t risk your life for me.
I love you.
“Goodbye,” he shouted instead.
It was jarring to hear the hysteria that tinged his voice.