Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was highly undignified, having to sit in the cargo section of a train amongst crates of goods, but the conductor had assured John that there had been no other options. It was either this, or return to the Magnus Institute empty handed, which of course was hardly an option. He needed this job. And, on some level, he was looking forward to it. 

Retrieving research from a colleague and spending a few days learning about the local legends and culture sounded more like a holiday than anything. The fact that it was having a rather unpleasant start didn’t mean anything. He could do this. It would get better. 

He was currently sitting on his coat to afford himself that little bit of comfort between him and the wooden floor, clutching his papers close. He’d made sure to bring all necessary legal papers in case anyone tried to stop him, and he even had his orders from his boss, Elias Bouchard. He was fairly well known and respectable in academia, surely his wishes would be respected if anyone tried to question John. 

He had never been outside of the city before and he was perhaps more paranoid than he needed to be, but he just wasn’t sure what to expect. He thought he’d prepared for everything, but that was before a woman startled him by climbing out of a coffin on the far side of the train car. All he could do was gape in confusion, suddenly forgetting how to speak.  

“Ah, hello,” she said as he closed the lid and sat down primly on top of it. “Not typically how I tend to travel, coffins aren’t usually my thing, but it is a touch ironic. What about you? Travel in coffins much?”

“N-no, can’t say I have,” John said, floundering. 

“Annabelle,” he said. 

“Jonathan. Sims,” he said, words stilted as he tried to get a handle on what the hell was happening. 

“Well,” she said. “I think great things are going to happen in the weeks to come. Don't you?”

“I suppose,” he said. “I’m just a researcher.” 

Well, Archivist, now, he supposed, what with his recent promotion. He didn’t think he needed to explain all that to Annabelle, though. 

“Well, I wish you luck,” she said simply. 

“Y-you too?”

Annabelle didn’t appear to be all that talkative. Once their introductions were complete, they fell into an uneasy silence. Well, it felt uneasy to John. Annabelle seemed completely content to sit there and ignore him. Eventually, John shoved his documents into his breast pocket and pulled his coat around himself before rolling over to get some sleep. If she planned to kill him, there wasn’t much he could really do about it anyway. Might as well get it over with. 

-

He was dreaming. At least, he was pretty sure he was dreaming, because he wasn’t on the train anymore. He was walking across the steppe, able to see far into the distance with no buildings or trees to block his view. Looking behind him, it didn’t even seem like he was walking down any sort of path. Odd. At least it was a lovely day and he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the sun. 

Opening his eyes again, he froze. There, on the horizon, was a smear of black. He didn’t know what it was, smoke maybe? There were insects that could swarm so thick that they looked like dark clouds from a distance, but it wasn’t the right season or region for them, but he had no idea what else it could be. 

Regardless, he didn’t particularly want to find out, so he turned around— and immediately stepped into a dark cloud of what appeared to be ash. It was all around him, now, blotting out the sun and obscuring his vision. Turning around again, he couldn’t see the clear patch he’d been standing on. It was as if it had simply fallen down all around him, covering the entire area in the blink of an eye with no warning. 

He was too late to hold his breath and coughed violently as he inhaled the particulates. It didn’t exactly taste like wood ash, but he tried not to think about that. Instead, he quickly pulled the collar of his coat up around his mouth and held it there in place. He wasn’t sure it would do much, but it had to be better than nothing. 

With no other options, he stumbled forward. He had to find shelter of some kind, preferably another person who could offer assistance of some kind and explain what the hell was happening. Whatever this was, he was fairly certain he’d die out here unprotected like this. Even breathing just ash and smoke could kill him. 

He saw a large shadow looming out of the darkness and, with a thrill of hope, he sped up. It was odd, he hadn’t seen anything before when he’d had a clear view of the skyline, but maybe he’d just missed it. Or maybe it was a rock formation that had blended into the scenery. That meant it was likely to be a cave and that would do well enough for the moment and he sped up in his relief. Once there, he could make a plan. This— whatever this was, couldn’t last forever. 

He slipped on something and only had a moment to register that it had felt soft and slick and then he landed painfully on his hands and knees with a horrible squelch. Looking down at the ground, now, he saw that there seemed to be some sort of putrid liquid covering the ground, he could barely see bits of grass poking up through it, as well as glistening chunks of— something. And the smell was overwhelming, nearly causing him to wretch. 

With a disgusted cry he scrambled to his feet, his hands and legs covered in the disgusting fluid, and he tried not to wretch. He looked up in the direction of the form he had seen and cried out as he came face to face with the rotting carcass of a massive bull. Its head alone was several times larger than John, he’d never seen anything like it. But the state it was in distracted him from the size. 

Its glassy eyes stared blankly, its flesh sunken in as it decayed. And then he noticed the insects. There were maggots or small worms or something burrowing into the flesh of the great beast. His stomach turned as he realized the liquid he was now partially covered in had to come from the beast, a putrefied combination of blood and flesh, and the chunks seemed to be bits of flesh and organs. 

He wanted to get out of there, he needed to get as far away from this thing as possible, his skin itching with fandom insects and he didn’t think he’d ever feel clean again. He somehow knew he was in grave danger, especially when the insects began to sing. Thousands, millions of voices crying out in ecstasy and rage, making him shudder, forming a single word. 

“Archivist.”

How could they know who he was? He’d only just gotten this promotion. What did they want with him? He took a stumbling step back from this horrible sight, ready to turn and flee but so afraid any movement would draw the attention of all of those horrid worms. And then, impossibly, the long-dead bull’s eyes widened in terror and it raised its head to bellow—

And then John was sitting up from his makeshift nest on the train, the steady rocking suddenly feeling more soothing than annoying simply because it didn’t sound like those writhing worms. Blessedly he couldn’t smell the rot anymore, and as he slowly got his bearings and caught his breath, the dream-terror was beginning to fade. 

He couldn’t help but notice that his companion and her coffin were gone and he wondered how long he’d been asleep and dreaming. With an annoyed huff, he turned over and tried to go back to sleep. This truly was going to be a miserable train ride. 

Chapter Text

When the train finally came to a stop, John sighed in relief. He wasn’t used to trains and this one had felt like it had taken years. The silence without the constant lurching and groaning of the train car or the chugging of the engine was such a blessed relief. 

His muscles were stiff as he dragged himself to his feet and slowly and painfully rolled back the door. It was dark outside and he vaguely wondered what time it was as he climbed down as carefully as he could, thankfully avoiding twisting his ankle, and was gripped with the irrational urge to kiss the ground. 

The hard part was over, now. He just needed to meet up with his contact and then he would be more or less free to explore the town. Yes, this was his first assignment in his new position, but more than anything this was supposed to be a congratulations, a little vacation before he really dug into his new role as Head Archivist. There were so many fascinating practices here to learn about and he wanted to know and document all of it. 

Movement caught his eye pulling him from his thoughts and he looked up to see three men, all with knives, approaching him with violent intent. He knew he should be afraid, but the sight was just so wrong he couldn’t seem to process it properly. According to his research, sharp objects like knives were banned here and violent crimes were incredibly rare, this was supposed to be a peaceful town. He had no idea what was going on, but his mind insisted this had to be a mistake. 

He took an involuntary step back and bumped into the train car, the realization that he was trapped snapping him out of it and letting the panic finally sink in. There was nowhere to run. He looked around frantically, but there was no one else in sight, no one who might help him. Where was the conductor? What was happening? And why him of all people? It made no sense. 

“What-what do you want?” He stuttered, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. 

He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t exactly a fighter. Was he about to be mugged? He’d been mugged a few times before, but not by so many people that seemed so angry. If they were after his money, they were going to be sorely disappointed. 

“Justice,” the one leading them said to his complete bafflement and then they were sprinting towards him. 

“For what!” John screamed, but none of them seemed interested in talking anymore.  

On reflex, John swung his bag off his shoulder and threw it at them, the weight causing the one who appeared to be the leader to stagger into the other two. He had a brief moment of remorse realizing he’d just lost all of his personal belongings before the danger of the situation sunk in and he jumped into action. Unfortunately, his attackers didn’t seem interested in robbing him, but the distraction did buy him a few precious seconds in which he dropped to the ground and scrambled underneath the train car as quickly as he could. 

He had a moment of triumph at his quick thinking, sure he was going to make it, when he felt a hand close around his ankle, dragging him back. He rolled onto his back to try to get enough of a view to deliver a kick, but before he could, blinding pain ripped through him as the man drove his knife into his thigh. 

All his life, despite the scrapes and beatings he managed to get himself into, he had never actually been stabbed before. It was a singularly unique experience, feeling the blade rip through skin and muscle. It was a pain that radiated outward, nearly debilitating him, causing him to fly into a blind panic. He cried out from the pain, kicking instinctively, and suddenly he was free. It was pure adrenaline that let him continue scrambling to freedom, hearing the obscenities yelled at him by the man he’d struck.

The moment he was out from under the car, he staggered to his feet and limped towards a gate in a nearby wall, an exit from the train yard. It looked like a warehouse district of sorts beyond, and he slipped behind one of the buildings, hobbling along as fast as he could. 

He was gasping for breath now, agony spiking through his leg with every step, and he knew he had to find a place to hide. There was no way he was going to outrun them like this. He refused to die here and now, he had way too much work to do, both here and in the capital. He'd only just gotten his promotion!

He could still hear the shouting behind him, growing ever closer, and he was beginning to hyperventilate as he looked around frantically. Every building had a secure chain on the front, and there wasn’t much to actually hide behind. As he took a hard turn down a side alley, he spotted a rusted out hole in the side of one of the buildings and he felt a surge of hope. 

He practically dove inside without a second thought, reaching around blindly in the darkness until he found a crate. It was incredibly heavy and he had to throw his weight into it, but he managed to push it up against the opening, plunging him in complete darkness. He covered his mouth, trying to stifle his gasping breaths, just hoping no one would notice and think to check. He was fairly certain they would be able to move the box if they suspected, even if John tried to push back. And if they got inside, there was nowhere he could run. 

He sat there, curled in on himself, his hand pressed to his bleeding leg in an attempt to staunch the blood flow, counting down the seconds to try to keep track of how long he was there. He felt restless and frantic, his body aching and his leg in agony, and he hated staying still, but he had no choice. It felt like an eternity when he heard voices and the sound of feet on gravel and he held his breath until they ran far enough that he could no longer hear them.  

He stayed there well after he thought they’d moved on, worried he’d find them waiting just on the other side of the wall if he tried to leave too soon. He couldn’t stay here forever, though, so eventually he got up the courage to move the crate and crawl back out. He gasped in pain as he put too much weight on his injured leg, and he slapped a hand over his mouth, cursing himself and his own idiocy. It was like he was trying to give himself away. 

He just stood there between the buildings for a long moment, wavering slightly as he tried to balance on one leg, listening. Once he was sure he hadn’t alerted anyone to his presence, he leaned heavily against the rickety old building and pulled off his belt. Then, he pulled out his handkerchief for good measure. It wasn’t much, but hopefully it would stop him bleeding out until he could get it properly looked at. 

He took a steadying breath and finished his makeshift bandage. Then, he stood and prepared to make his way again, swaying slightly and feeling light headed from the blood loss. He just needed to keep going. He’d studied maps of the town before he left - he disliked going anywhere unprepared - so he had an idea of where to go. He just needed to get to Gertrude Robinson’s flat. She would know what to do, and hopefully she could explain what the hell was happening. 

He was wound so tightly as he made his way, peaking around corners and diving for cover at any hint of another person, his progress hindered by his injured leg. At least the streets were mostly empty at this hour, but he could occasionally hear shouts, and he wasn’t sure if more people had taken to searching for him, or if the town was simply descended into chaos and violence. 

He was breathing hard, strained and exhausted, his heart pounding in his chest as he expected someone to jump out at him at any moment. Then he heard someone nearby cry out in pain as more shouts rose up. He froze, but only for a moment. He was heading towards the noise before he’d really registered what he was doing. 

He had no plan, he’d barely escaped his first encounter with angry locals, what could he possibly do to help now? Somehow none of that seemed to matter. It certainly wasn’t bravery that drove him on, and his ego wasn't so inflated that he thought he could swoop in for a rescue. He just knew he had to try, even if he had no real chance. He was always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He’d gotten himself into trouble this way before, blundering into a mugging once and getting a concussion for it. He never seemed to learn his lesson.

He’d barely turned the corner when he came across two men restraining a third who was begging for his life. John couldn’t help but note his black eye and split lip, or the cruelly tight grip the attackers had on him as they pinned him against the ground. 

“What are you doing?” John demanded, like an idiot. Apparently that was the best he could come up with and he tried not to let his wince show. 

“What’s it look like?” One of them answered. “We found the new Archivist, Jonathan Sims.”

“That is not Jonathan Sims,” John snapped before he could stop himself, because none of this felt real. They knew enough to know his name, but not what he looked like? How did they even know who he was to begin with? It didn’t make any sense. 

“And how do you know that?” the other man asked. 

“Because I’m Jonathan Sims.”

It was a stupid thing to do, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He knew what was coming when the two men shared a glance. They released their current prisoner, who took off running, before they turned on John instead. He tried to flee as well, but he forgot about his leg and put his full weight on it, nearly collapsing from the pain. 

It left his pursuers plenty of time to grab him. One of them delivered a punch to his gut that knocked the breath from his lungs and it would have dropped him if they hadn’t had such a tight grip on him as they slammed him against the side of a building, pinning him in place, his face scraping against rough wood. 

He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t know why there was so much hate in their eyes. He’d been the target of violence before, and he knew what it was like to be hated, to have someone loathe his presence. But he’d never had anyone out for his blood quite so personally like this. It was terrifying being the center of that focus and he couldn’t get the words out to ask them why they were doing this. 

He wondered in a detached sort of way how long it would take for someone to find his body crumpled in some back alley in an undignified position. Maybe they wouldn’t find him at all, there was plenty of space out in the steppe to bury a body. He wondered how much it would hurt, how much his body could take before it gave out. He wondered if his boss would be disappointed that he needed to be replaced so soon. He hadn’t even seen his new office. 

He wondered if anyone would miss him, and decided that was one question he could answer himself. He wasn’t exactly well liked at work, and he didn’t have a social life beyond that. Maybe he should have felt some form of regret for that, but it was just the kind of person he was. He was unpleasant and rude and, honestly, it was a wonder something like this hadn’t happened to him sooner. 

“Run!” someone yelled down the street, and the two men holding him froze. “It’s the Shabnak-adyr!”

The men shared a look so full of terror, it was incredibly jarring to see. They had been the ones with all the power, the ones presumably preparing to kill him, but now they dropped him and fled down the street, all interest in him gone. John had read about the Shabnak-adyr, but it was a creature of myth, and it didn’t make any sense that they’d show so much terror just from the name. 

It was likened to a demon, or some sort of spirit of the earth, that often disguised itself as a woman. There was more evidence than most legends that this might have been a real creature once, but that had been hundreds of years ago. Surely it was just paranoia, monsters didn’t just go walking down the street, even in the middle of the night. What on earth was happening in this town? Had everything he’d heard about it been wrong?

Regardless, he took advantage of his newfound freedom to stagger to his feet and limp away in the opposite direction the men had run in. There was no way he was going to stand around and see if they’d return. His head was spinning and he still couldn’t make any sense of what was happening to him. A strange mugging he could write off, but these people knew his name, were expecting him. 

Yes, he knew Elias had sent word of his coming, but there was no reason anyone beyond Gertrude or his contact would know or care. Besides, the town was supposed to have a good relationship with the Magnus Institute, Gertrude worked here with them, for god’s sake. She’d even sent a report just last month that had seemed normal enough, and he wracked his brain to try to remember what it had been about. Local medical practices and herbs, maybe? That didn’t seem relevant at all. 

He was so distracted as he limped along that when he finally looked up, he realized he was standing in full view of a woman who was watching him. At least, he thought it was a woman. She was standing casually in the middle of the street, wearing a tattered red dress, her face partially obscured by her long black hair. And she seemed to be covered in small circular holes all over her body. She didn’t seem injured, and she wasn’t actively bleeding. And then he nearly gagged when he realized there were worms crawling in and out of her flesh. 

He staggered back with a horrified shout, realizing he’d been running in the direction the supposed Shabnak-adyr had been in. Was this it? It certainly didn’t seem human, at least not anymore. He didn’t think a human could live with that many maggots or worms or whatever they were inside of them. And worst of all, it reminded him of the giant bull from his nightmare that wasn’t as dead as it should be. She grinned at him and he felt a shiver of terror down his spine. 

“Archivist,” she said, or at least tried to say. It didn’t look like her throat was made for speaking any longer and it came out harsh and guttural, but it was clear enough that he understood, and he went cold with terror. 

She knew who he was. How could she possibly know who he was? Why would someone like her, some sort of powerful inhuman being, even care? He was a nobody. She was still grinning at him and a worm tumbled out of her open mouth, hitting the ground where it squirmed with its brethren, and somehow that was the jolt of surprise he needed to startle himself back into motion. 

She didn’t give chase, and somehow that was worse. He could hear her cackle following him but he didn’t dare turn around. He was already hindered by his injury and he couldn’t risk it. He didn’t know how fast she would be if she did follow, with her flesh covered in burrowing holes, but he had a horrible feeling that if she wanted to catch him, she could. 

That made it all the more unsettling when, several minutes and several wrong turns down confusing backstreets later, he finally made it to his destination unhindered and seemingly unfollowed. He had nowhere else to go, though, and he needed to get off the streets before someone else tried to stab him, so he headed up to Gertrude’s flat. 

Chapter Text

John kept knocking on Gertrude’s door, but no one was answering. Yes, it was nearing three in the morning, but he had no idea how anyone could sleep when the town seemed to be descending into chaos. Then again, even if she was awake, maybe she didn’t want to answer in case they turned on her as well. 

That was a thought. What if they had turned on her already? John didn’t know why they were after him, but if it had to do with the Institute, she could be in danger as well. He needed to get inside immediately. Besides, the longer he stood around outside, the higher the likelihood someone would spot him. It had been fairly quiet the past few minutes, but he knew he had to be pushing his luck. 

He crouched down on one knee and fumbled in his pockets for his lockpicks. They were a tool he’d learned to use while working in Research when dealing with particularly tricky cases. Yes, they’d gotten him into more trouble than they were likely worth, but right now he was infinitely grateful he had them. He was also grateful that he kept them on his person out of habit. If they’d been in his pack, he would have been out of luck. 

He once again mourned his belongings, but pushed the thought aside as the door unlocked with a satisfying click. He didn’t want to startle the poor old woman, so he called out her name as he slipped inside, keeping his voice quiet. Hearing nothing in response, he re-locked the door and crept into the hallway preparing to call out again— and was immediately hit with the overwhelming metallic scent of blood. 

He felt numb as he limped his way down the hall. It was easy to tell where it was coming from, and he already knew what he’d see when he stepped into the small living room. There was blood pooling on the floor, and signs of a struggle; an overturned coffee table, a broken teacup, the couch shoved out of alignment, a splash of crimson across the pale fabric. 

That was it, then. Gertrude Robinson was dead. There was far more blood here than a single person could lose, and while there was no body, there were enough signs that one had been removed. Had the whole town turned against them? It didn’t make sense, he didn’t know why anyone would want Archivists dead. 

Yes, the Magnus Institute wasn’t exactly high academia, it had a bit of a reputation considering its fascination with the odd and the supernatural, but usually the preservation of knowledge was looked on favorably enough to make up for it. And he’d been under the impression that the town had been willingly working with them, had even welcomed Gertrude. 

There was a crash outside, and John flinched. Standing around speculating wasn’t going to help him, he needed to get to the bottom of this before someone arrived to destroy Gertrude’s documents. Assuming there were actually any hints in them of course. 

He quickly limped around, making sure all the doors and windows were securely locked, before slumping down into her desk in a small cramped study and began sifting through her work. His entire body ached, his leg in agony from the constant movement, and he found himself absolutely exhausted. He just— he just needed to focus. He could rest later. 

-

John felt blurry and disoriented, unsure where he was or what was happening. Someone was speaking to him, and he opened his eyes, squinting in his attempt to focus, the morning light sending a flash of pain through his skull. A large man was leaning over him, his round friendly face creased in concern as he reached out to place a hand gently on John’s shoulder. 

Somewhat deliriously, John noted he was attractive and fat, his mess of curls incredibly endearing. His size looming over him should have been intimidating, but his overall appearance and mannerisms as well as his gentle voice made his presence feel comforting and, for some reason, John found that incredibly irritating. 

“Hey, hey,” the man said, voice so soft and soothing. “It looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re gonna be okay, you’re safe now.” 

John found himself annoyed by that as well. Maybe it was the pounding headache. Or maybe he just hated being found in such a vulnerable state, being made to feel coddled. And then it all came rushing back; the danger and the terror, here in this unfamiliar town. John threw himself backwards, trying to get away from the hand touching him before it could curl into a fist and grab onto him, and he toppled off the chair. 

He was ready to scramble away on his hands and knees to put more distance between them, but he hissed in pain as his injury made itself known and he froze. Thankfully it seemed the man didn’t plan on advancing on him. Instead, he had his hands raised in a placating gesture and hadn’t followed. 

“It’s okay,” the man repeated. “You’re safe now, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Right,” John couldn’t help but snap. “I feel so relieved, being accosted by a thief in the middle of breaking and entering.”

John didn’t mean to antagonize the man. If he didn’t want him dead before, this was a good way to get him to change his mind, but he never had been very good at containing his anger, especially when upset. He saw a series of emotions flicker behind the strangers eyes, surprise and confusion and annoyance, but thankfully it seemed to settle on amusement. 

“I mean, you’re the one trespassing here, not me,” he said. 

“I am not,” John replied indignantly, for some reason feeling insulted at the accusation. It wasn’t like that was a crime he was unacquainted with. It just so happened he was innocent at this exact moment. “This is Institute property.”

The man looked confused for a moment, then his eyes went wide. ”Oh, you’re— you’re with the Magnus Institute?” he asked. “Oh. Oh, you’re not Jonathan Sims, are you?”

“Why?” John asked warily, all too aware that he had no way to defend himself if this man suddenly attacked him. He was broad and John was very aware of how scrawny he was in comparison. 

“Shit, you weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow,” the man said, and he looked genuinely alarmed. “Did they attack you? I am so, so sorry. The ones responsible have been arrested, if that helps.”

“What the hell is happening in this town?” John demanded, reaching the end of his patience. 

“Right, yes, sorry,” the man said, standing straighter. “Someone killed Gertrude Robinson last night.”

“I did notice,” John snapped. 

“She was well-liked in the community, and it seems some of them lost their minds a bit. No one knows why anyone would want her dead, and, well, hearing that there was a new Head Archivist replacing her, someone started the rumor that you had done it.”

“I mean, I didn’t,” John said, indignant. 

“I know, I know!” the man raised a placating hand. “She died before you even arrived.”

“Not to mention I was only filling a role she left behind,” John clarified. “She was retiring, I didn’t steal her job”

“Of course,” the man said. “I’m so sorry, this never should have happened. It was a ridiculous rumor, and I’m sure that if Mister Lukas had known you would be getting in early he would have sent an escort.”

“Peter Lukas?” John asked, pulling out his papers at his nod and scanning through his letter from Elias. “He is the one I was supposed to be reporting to once I arrived.”

“I’d be happy to take you there,” the man said, but John couldn’t help but look him up and down skeptically. 

“What exactly are you doing here?” 

“I volunteered to help pack away her things,” he said, and he held up a set of keys to show he hadn’t broken in the way John had. 

“Did you now? What’s your name?” John demanded, still feeling suspicious. 

“Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

“Well, Martin, your services are no longer needed,” John said with finality, and he was suddenly all too aware that he was sitting on the floor where he’d landed. He crawled back into the chair with as much dignity as he could muster, feeling nauseous and dizzy again. “I will be taking over here for now. There could be evidence.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” Martin asked as if it wasn’t obvious. 

“Whatever she was working on might very well have been what got her killed,” John said impatiently, suddenly gripped with the urge to angle the documents away from him. What if he knew exactly which documents held that vital information and was hoping to locate it first?

“Right,” Martin said, but he looked doubtful. Whatever his thoughts, he apparently chose to keep them to himself. “Well, before you do that, Jonathan, how about I take a look at that leg?”

“John,” he corrected on reflex.

He couldn’t help but study Martin for a moment, weighing his options. Last night it had seemed like the whole town had been after him, and it was difficult to put that aside. He could still be in grave danger. Martin could be lying about all of it just to get him to lower his guard. Maybe he’d even been the one to kill Gertrude and was planning on killing him as well. 

But he was right that John really did need his injury tended to, and he was unlikely to be able to get to anyone else who could assist. Even if he had felt safe enough going back outside, he was unlikely to make it far. Besides, if Martin really did want him dead, he probably would have attacked already, or simply left him to bleed out. He sighed in defeat. 

“Fine, if it will get you to leave me be,” John snapped, knowing he should sound more grateful but unwilling to give him any sort of edge in the conversation. It felt more comfortable behaving as if he were the one doing Martin a favor. 

John unbuckled his belt and carefully removed his makeshift bandage as Martin knelt beside him and began unpacking the first aid kit. Then, without much thought, John unbuttoned his pants and slipped them off while attempting to remain seated as much as possible to avoid aggravating the injury any more. Martin startled him when he made a confused and distressed noise and turned away quickly.

“Well?” John said, rolling his eyes. This was likely to be awkward and embarrassing either way and it seemed juvenile to him to make a big deal out of it. “You wanted to look at the injury and I’d rather not lose the pant leg entirely.”

“Oh, yes,” Martin said, still bright red as he set to work. 

At least John was distracted from the humiliation and the stranger invading his personal space by the sharp sting of the disinfectant. 

“This is going to need stitches,” Martin said, concern in his voice as he cleaned away the blood. “Are you okay for me to continue?”

“Fine, just get it on with it,” John said between clenched teeth. He winced as the needle pressed into his skin, flinching slightly despite himself. 

“You’re going to need to hold still,” Martin said unhelpfully. 

“Yes, I’m aware,” John snapped, placing a hand on his leg to try to help keep it steady.

He did his best not to make a sound, but he was ashamed to say a few noises may have escaped him. He never had been great at handling pain. He couldn’t bring himself to watch, so he stared at a spot on the floor, but Martin worked surprisingly quickly, to his great relief. 

“Done,” Martin announced at long last as he placed a bandage over the top. 

“Thank you,” John said, more from relief that he was stopping than the actual act itself.

Martin excused himself to return the first aid kit, and John slumped down onto the desk, suddenly completely drained. He was just going to rest for a moment, try to catch his breath, then he could figure out what he was supposed to do next. 

Chapter Text

John woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own with his head throbbing and his leg aching. He lay there for a long moment waiting for the fog in his mind to clear when he heard someone humming in the other room. Right, that was Martin. Which meant he must have fallen asleep. Did he carry him into Gertrude Robinson’s room? 

He felt a flash of embarrassment that he quickly redirected to annoyance as he sat up and located his pants and shoes on the bedside table. He would have preferred Martin just left him at the desk and been on his way. What was he even still doing there? 

John had that flash of concern again, worried Martin might have taken advantage of his unconscious state to find the documents that would incriminate him and he felt like an idiot for letting his guard down. He’d just have to watch him more carefully from now on. 

Limping into the main room, he found Martin on his knees scrubbing the floor. Most of the blood had been cleaned up and John was actually impressed that he’d managed to salvage the couch. Martin wiped the sweat from his brow as he glanced over at his approach. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Martin said. “Feeling any better?” 

“Fine,” John said quickly. “Why are you still here?”

“I told you,” Martin said, and John was once again surprised when he failed to look annoyed at his tone. He was used to annoying most people with his too blunt words. “I volunteered to help clean up. But I think I’ve done enough for today if you’d like me to take you to the town hall.”

“I can get there on my own.”

“I know, but I need to see Peter as well,” Martin said. “Besides, after last night, he’d probably be incredibly unhappy with me if I didn’t make sure you made it there in one piece. I promise, our town is usually a peaceful and welcoming one.”

“Right,” John said, grudgingly. “Okay, fine.”

While Martin dumped out the bucket and put away the cleaning supplies, John found a shoulder bag in Gertrude’s closet and shoved as many documents on her desk that he could manage. He didn’t want to leave them out of his sight again. He felt a little better when it looked like everything was where he’d left it. Maybe Martin hadn’t stolen anything after all. Maybe.

By the time he made it to the foyer, Martin was already waiting for him. He was wearing a well-patched coat and boots that looked much more suited to the mud and cobblestone streets of this town. John made a mental note to get himself a better coat since fall was setting in. Maybe some new shoes as well, before he ruined his only good pair. 

“Here,” Martin said, catching his attention as he finished pulling on his coat. He was holding out a cane like a peace offering. 

“What’s this?” John asked, confused. 

“I-it’s a cane,” Martin said, looking uncertain.  

“No, yes, I can see that,” John snapped. “But why?”

“Oh! It was Gertrude’s, and I thought it might help keep pressure off of your injured leg,” Martin said, smiling and looking very pleased with himself. 

John could feel himself blushing at the sight, and even though he thought it was ridiculous and unnecessary, he took the cane with a muttered thanks. Martin turned and led the way out the front door, that smile lingering. But John couldn’t help but pause at the doorway. 

For a moment, he expected the entire town to be waiting for him, with torches and pitchforks, the whole deal. And there were a few people out on the street, but they were focused on where they were going and no one looked over at them. Martin turned back to look at him quizzically, and John took a deep breath. He didn’t want to admit to the deep anxiety he felt, so he pushed down the fear and followed. 

He found himself more grateful for the cane than he was willing to admit. It was still slow going, but it was no longer the agonizing scramble getting around had been the night before. And the farther they walked, the more relaxed he became. There were a few times when they’d come around a corner and see a crowd of people gathered for one reason or another, and he’d flinch, expecting them to all descend on him, but they never did. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what Martin would do if it did happen, though. It seemed unlikely he’d turn on him. He’d had him unconscious and bleeding out, there was no point in leading him into a trap. So would he step aside? Or would he try to stand between John and the angry townspeople? 

Honestly, he hated that thought the most. Martin had been kind when he didn’t have to be, it would be cruel if his repayment was to get injured or killed alongside him. He reassured himself that, once he met with Peter Lukas, they could go their separate ways. Maybe he could even go home. 

John was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that when he looked up to see a building with no walls just across the street that he’d nearly walked right past, he had to do a double take. It was impossible. It was like a staircase to nowhere, with no supports, climbing a few stories into the sky. It should collapse, but it looked like it had been there for years. 

“Oh, right,” Martin said when he noticed his gaze. “That’s been here so long, sometimes I forget it’s not normal.”

“What— how?” John asked.

“I don’t know how any of it works, I don’t know anything about Architecture. You could ask Simon Fairchild about it? There’s no guarantee he will give you a straight answer, but he funded a lot of it. Well, a lot of people did, including the Magnus Institute, but he was the most vocal about it.”

“Oh,” was all John could say. He had no idea this existed let alone that the Institute had been involved with it. He’d never encountered anything like it in his research of the city, but maybe the books he’d referenced were too old. 

“My understanding is that it was made as practice for the Polyhedron.”

Martin pointed into the distance and John could just see the top of a hive-like spire. It had been too dark to see last night, but it stood out now between the buildings, giving the sense that it was looming over everything. 

“Can we—“ John began, suddenly gripped by the urge to glance around and ensure no one was watching them, as if he wasn’t allowed. “Can we go up?”

“Yeah, no one will stop us,” Martin said. “There’s no railings, though, so people don’t usually. I’ve never really done it. The Polyhedron is closed off, so this is the best way to experience it, I guess.”

“You’ve never been up? John repeated. “Why? Aren’t you curious?”

“I guess?” Martin said, stretching his chin as he looked up at the impossible staircase. “I don’t know, it’s just a lot of stairs for a view you can get elsewhere.”

“I suppose,” John said, but he was in no way dissuaded. 

John could feel an eager itching under his skin as he climbed. Martin followed more slowly, looking incredibly nervous and taking each step carefully. John knew he probably should have been nervous too, but all he could feel was a strange anticipation. He reached the top, only three floors up, and while the view was nice, the cool wind was pleasant after the climb, it didn’t exactly hold any revelations. 

He found his eyes drawn to the Polyhedron and he wondered what it would be like to climb it. It stretched into the sky, high above all other buildings, and he could feel some sort of draw towards it, curiosity and a desire to understand why it was built, what its purpose was, and how any of it was possible.  

But this was a distraction, this wasn’t why he was here, he needed to focus. He needed to find Gertrude’s killer. There was every chance they would come for him next, and he needed to focus. 

He realized Martin was staring at him instead of the surrounding view and he turned to look at him with a spark of annoyance and suspicion, suddenly realizing how easy it would be for him to push him off if he wanted John dead. Martin looked surprised when their eyes met, and was that a flash of guilt in his expression? But then he was looking away, a pleasant blush creeping up his cheeks to the tip of his ears. 

Pleasant? That was a strange descriptor for it and John quickly turned away as well. He decided not to think about it anymore. He could make Martin lead the way back down, but that hardly seemed necessary at this point. That made three times he could have turned against him. He really needed to be more careful.