A/N I have recently been re-watching a lot of the episodes, as I am so sad for another series to have ended. This is set after 5x04, with references to 5x03 (one part in italics is quoted from 5x03). I was intrigued by Bacchus' relationship with his father, and then I was interested by how would have Peter reacted when hearing of John's shooting in the Cathedral.
I got Peter's name from the end credits of 5x03, but as I couldn't see anything of John's mother's name I made her name up, and it wasn't until half way through this that I realized Anne is part of John's daughter's name. (I am so bright! ;P) So in my head cannon I'm just going to believe that John wanted to partly name his daughter after his mother.
I have guessed with a lot of John and Peter's backstories here. But in 6x01 (set 1969) it is inferred that John is either twenty-nine or thirty, and as in past episodes he has mentioned just barely being able to remember WWII. I've just set his being born in 1939. If this is wrong, please just ignore it for this story please.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this.
Durham, 1968.
Peter was sat in his armchair reading his newspaper. It had been a nice and quiet day for him, which was nice. Although he had to admit it would have been nice to be bothered by his son. Recently things between him and John had improved ever since the missing baby case John had worked on. A couple times a week John had taken to popping in for a cup of tea and they would sit talking. It was nice. For once Peter actually felt that he was getting to know his son.
He was startled by a knock at his door; he smiled thinking that it might just be John. He always called about this time when he was coming over. However, when Peter pulled open the door it was not to find his son stood before him. Rather, two uniformed Police Constables stood with matching solemn looks etched upon their faces.
Fear gripped his heart tightly. There were only ever three reasons why a Police Constable would be knocking on someone's door. The first, asking if you had witnessed a crime, the second, if you were being arrested. And the third, most heart breaking reason, to inform you of the injury or death of a loved one. Instinctively Peter knew it was the third reason, which had brought the Constables to his door. It wasn't because he knew that no crime had taken place in the area or because he had done something that warranted being arrested. He knew because of the looks on their faces.
His heart pounded loudly, petrified of the news that he was soon to be told. He didn't want to know, but he also did. He had to know. He knew it involved John. John was his only family apart from Leigh-Anne, but if anything had happened to his granddaughter he knew John would tell him himself.
"Mr Bacchus," began the youngest of the Constables, unease and pain reflected on his face. Peter distantly recognized him as a boy who had been three years behind John in school. His mind dimly recalled the Constable's name as Bobby Wright, but right now his mind was only focused on the reason behind the Constables presence at his front door.
The second Constable saw his colleague's inability to continue, and so cleared his own throat. He looked up at Peter and softly said. "Mr Bacchus, we're very sorry to inform ya, that…that ya son. Detective Sergeant John Bacchus has been taken to hospital. I'm afraid he's in critical condition."
Ears pounding and with sharp panicked breaths, Peter leaned heavily on his doorframe, his knees shaking and threatening to buckle beneath him. Bobby reached out his arms, ready to catch the old man should he fall to the hard concrete steps.
Peter stared past the Constables out onto the street where joyful children ran and screeched in their joy. John used to play out in that very street, laughing and running with the very likes of Bobby and his other friends. John. Oh John. His son was in hospital. In critical condition. His son could be dying and here he was holding onto the doorframe with a white knuckled grip. He pulled himself up and with a straight back, he turned and grabbed his coat off the hook and took his keys before stepping through the door and down the steps. Silently he was flanked by Bobby and the other Constable and guided into their car. They made the journey to the hospital in silence. What could be said? John was in critical condition, could already be dead. No. Peter hissed to himself. John isn't dead; he is strong and stubborn just like his mother. He wouldn't give up easily, he wouldn't leave Leigh-Anne. He's far too stubborn to let a criminal get the best of him.
It was then it occurred to Peter that something must have seriously gone wrong for his son to end up in the hospital. So he looked from the backseat to the passenger side where Bobby sat, and he asked what had happened. As Bobby explained the situation Peter got the distinct feeling that he wasn't being told everything. He didn't care, he just sat in a pained and stunned silence while Bobby explained that after calling for backup, John had run to Durham Cathedral, alone, to come to the aid of George Gently. As the DCI faced a dangerous man. That man had already wounded George by the time John had arrived; Bobby explained what he had heard Gently mumble to PC Taylor before he had passed out. John was wounded because he had apparently sensed that backup would be too late if he waited, and so John had tried to make a grab for a gun, but had been shot.
Peter flinched picturing all to easily his son hitting the floor, bleeding from a bullet wound. He had seen it all too much during the war, and now amongst the faces of his dead friends and fellow soldiers, John's face now joined them. He mentally shook himself, John wasn't dead yet, he wouldn't die. He couldn't. Peter didn't enjoy death, but hearing that Gently had shot and killed the man that wounded both Gently and John, eased his mind somewhat.
Soon they had arrived at the hospital. Bobby sat beside him in the waiting room as he waited for news on his son. A PC who introduced himself as Taylor soon joined them. Together the three of them sat in silence watching the corridor for any sign of a surgeon. Eventually one made his way to Taylor to inform the PC of Gently coming through his surgery and being moved to a recovery room. While Peter was glad to hear the DCI was going to be fine. He had to grip his hands tightly to the sides of his chair, to keep himself from pacing the waiting room. He had been sat waiting for two hours already. Still there was no news on his son.
He was beginning to wonder if perhaps John had died and the Doctors were just stalling, trying to come up with a way to gently break the news to him. As he sat in the waiting room, he reflected on some moments in John's life.
John had been born on a mild April day in 1939. It was the happiest day in Peter's life, the moment he had held his son for the first time was ingrained into his mind. Anne was lying in their bed completely spent and exhausted, but her eyes remained open as John cried. Peter, standing, had rocked himself from side to side and soon was holding a sleeping John in his arms. He placed the peaceful baby into the cradle; he had made himself, which was beside the bed. Then he stretched out beside Anne and watched over his sleeping wife and son.
Their peaceful and happy life only lasted a few months. On September 3rd the country was pulled into a war and soon Peter had enlisted and left behind a wife and a baby son. He returned six years later to the same loving wife, but to a six-year-old son who didn't know his father.
He often wondered if that was where the distance between himself and John stemmed from. John had lived the first six years of his life with just his mother, and a couple of photographs of his father, his mother's stories and some letters from a man he had no memory of. Once he returned home he had tried so hard to get to know his son. Perhaps he had tried too hard. Maybe that was where he had gone wrong. Instead of letting John get to know him and come to him in his own time, Peter had forced himself into his son's life.
Whenever John wanted to go out and play with his friends, Peter would go outside and watch and occasionally join in. Anne had warned him about pushing John too much, but he hadn't listened. A part of him was jealous. John would freely grin; laugh and joke with his mother, but would only hesitantly smile at his father. Peter wanted the same grin and laugh directed at him and in his jealously hadn't seen that Anne was right. He had been pushing John too much. It had escalated when John was ten and with the usual pre-teen annoyances forming and with a father that was never off his back. To this day Peter could still clearly picture John's face and words from that angry conversation.
"Mam I'm goin' ta play with Gerry," commented John as he walked through the hallway to poke his head into the kitchen where his parents were gathered.
"Have fun sweetheart!" responded Anne, "But don't be out for too long, dinner won't be much longer than an hour!"
"Got it mam!" smiled John brightly.
Peter rose to his feet, "How about I come and kick a football with ya?" It wasn't really a question, more of a statement. With his back to his wife, Peter had missed the look directed at him by Anne.
John's face fell, "We weren' gonna play football dad. We don't want ta."
"Nonsense!" protested Peter, "Of course ya do!"
"Peter," warned Anne, but the warning went unheeded.
"No dad. We don't," glared John.
Peter frowned and crossed his arms, "Don't use that tone with me boy."
"Then let me go alone to play with Gerry!" snapped John.
"Football-" began Peter,
"Ya not listenin'!" shouted John, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
"John," said Peter in a low voice.
"Don't ya understand?! I don't want ta play with ya! Ya always butt in! Ya don't understand how I don't want ta play with ya! Yer always tellin' me what I should play! For four years yer've done it! And I've had it!" yelled John angrily.
"Go ta yer room," ordered Peter, "And maybe I'll let ya out for dinner."
John glared at his father for a moment and then stepped back. Before he disappeared down the hall, he stared at his father and in a low and angry voice said. "I hate ya! I wish ya'd never come back!" Then John spun on his heels and was charging up the stairs to his room. Leaving his parents stood in stunned silence.
That night, despite Anne telling John he could have dinner, John refused to come downstairs. He then avoided his father for the next two days. After that Peter understood that Anne had been right. For the past four years he had been pushing John. However, his realization came too late. Despite the jokes he said, trying to engage his son's sarcastic and witty humour, nothing worked. If anything his jokes seemed to backfire. Instead of making John laugh, they seemed to ware away at his self-confidence. Until Peter was faced with an eighteen-year-old son, finishing school, a young man he didn't know how to talk to.
Peter was roused out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps bouncing off the lament floor. He looked up from his feet to find a Doctor walking towards him. Looking at his watch he saw that it had been a further half an hour since Taylor received the news about Gently.
"Mr Bacchus," began the Doctor. Peter rose shakily to his feet, Bobby still flanking him, and looked hopefully into the Doctor's eyes. "Your son is out of surgery and in a recovery room. The prognosis looks good, but the next few days are still critical. Your son is likely to remain unconscious for a day or so while his body continues to heal."
Peter slowly nodded his head, digesting the news. John was still alive, but wasn't out of the woods yet. "Can…can I see him?" he asked quietly, his voice rough from disuse.
The Doctor nodded, "There is still another hour of visiting hours left."
So Peter followed the Doctor down the corridor and up a flight of stairs and halfway down another corridor. Before they stopped outside a door. The door was pulled open for him; Peter stared at the pale figure on the bed as he slowly entered the room. A chair was already beside the bed, so once he reached the chair, he sat down and continued to stare at his son.
"Oh John," he murmured. His son was deathly pale. Ever since the day John had announced he was joining the Police, Peter had never imagined that one day he would be sat beside his son's hospital bed.
He had always known that the Police wasn't the safest of jobs; occasionally there would be news of a Police officer killed. But he himself had worked down the pit, that was one of the most dangerous jobs, men constantly going underground to work the mines and risk being caught in a collapse. A part of him had been relieved when John announced his chosen career. He hadn't wanted John down in the pit with him, but he had also been worried of his son joining the army as many young men from their area did. He didn't want his precious son being marched off to some war. Fate was funny like that though. Despite his relief, he was still sitting beside his son in the hospital, when his son was so near death.
So he reached out a hand and gently squeezed John's nearest hand. "I'm here son. I'm not leavin' ya here alone. So ya gotta keep fightin', got that?" He remained sat in that uncomfortable chair, holding John's hand until the end of visiting hours. Knowing that the next day he would be sat back in that very chair.
The next day, after Peter had gone to get a bite to eat from the hospital canteen, he returned to John's room. To find DCI Gently sat in a wheelchair at John's bedside.
Looking at the other man sat beside his son, startled, he realized Gently knew his son better than he did. Gently and John had been working together since 1964. That was four years of getting to see each other basically every day. It was funny. He thought sarcastically, Gently got to really know and form a close friendship with John in four years. When Peter, in four years, pushed his son too much and drove a wedge between them.
George's head turned hearing the room's door open and close. "Hello Mr Bacchus."
"Hello, and it's Peter as yer a friend," he responded, taking the chair beside George who smiled in response.
They sat in silence, both lost in their thoughts, both their gazes resting on John. Neither could contemplate the thought of loosing the younger man, he meant too much to them.
Peter flickered his eyes over to George and said, "I want to thank ya George."
"Why?" frowned George in confusion.
"For givin' me the chance ta get ta know my son." He confessed. "Yer probably already guessed, but me and John had never been close. And after the missin' bairn case, when ya called me. Since then, I've gotten ta spend time with John every week, and while its not perfect. It's the closest I've ever been to him."
George reached out a hand and gently squeezed Peter's arm. "You'll have the chance to get to know him some more. He's not going anywhere." Peter smiled and nodded, but doubt still lingered in his mind.
Was this his punishment? His punishment for pushing his son too hard while growing up?
Was he just getting to know his son, for his son to be ripped away from him and forever lost? All because he didn't let his son come to him? And for slowly tearing down his self-confidence.
He knew John came across as hard and uncaring sometimes, but underneath all that was a kind and caring man. He now knew, that John had created that hard exterior to protect and shield himself. One of the two people whose job it was to care, love and protect him unconditionally, had thrown comments left and right, while meant in jest, had only made John feel unworthy.
Something he realized during the missing baby case a couple of months back. When standing on his doorstep beside John while Leigh-Anne gathered her things.
"Ya know what? Ya take it far too seriously when I make a joke," he commented, seeing the despondent look on his son's face.
"It gets a bit wearin' dad," John sighed. "Especially in front of Leigh-Anne. I have enough trouble keepin' her respect as it is." He added with a bit of a bite to his tone.
It was then that Peter decided to change the subject, knowing that his son was right. He had been constantly wearing John down, unintended, but still he continued to make jokes that caused hurt instead of laughter. So he leaned against the open door, hastily trying to bring his jumbled thoughts together. "John…"
"What dad?" Sighed John, telling his father how anxious John was to get away from the conversation. Maybe even from his father.
"When you made Detective. I felt like…I was so proud!" He clenched his hands into fists. Desperate for John to see how proud he had been.
John leaned back and flatly replied, "Yeah. Mam told us."
"Well. I'm tellin' ya now." Peter hesitantly said, almost pleading with his son to understand.
John paused while throwing his cigarette into the street. He then quietly, but firmly, said. "It's a bit late dad." Then he walked past his father, seeing Leigh-Anne ready to go, he led his daughter out of the house and out into the street. Not once meeting his father's eye.
Peter looked solemnly at his son. He never regretted anything more than not telling John how proud he had been when his son became a Detective Constable. He had been in the pub telling anyone who would listen, but he hadn't been able to tell his own son. By this point John was aged twenty-two and had been a PC for four years, and Peter had admitted defeat in ever being able to be close to his son and have a peaceful conversation. So he had left it to Anne to tell John how proud he was. Anne hadn't been happy, oh boy had she been mad with him! But he countered her arguments with not wanting to ruin John's moment. As undoubtedly he'd make a joke that would upset his son.
Looking at John now, aged twenty-nine, a Detective Sergeant and with a six-year-old daughter. Despite John and Lisa's divorce and the hours he worked with the Police, John was still closer to his daughter than Peter had ever been with John. It seemed John was determined not to fail where his father had done. John knew what it felt like to have a poor relationship with his father, and so was doing all he could to ensure Leigh-Anne did not feel the same. And he was doing wonderfully. Peter could see that as plain as day when seeing the loving smiles and grins Leigh-Anne would give her father. Something Peter had desperately wanted his own son to give him.
Peter then frowned, while Anne had been there for John's promotion to Detective Constable. She had not been there for John's promotion to Detective Sergeant (which came six months before Gently's arrival). She had died when John was twenty-three and Leigh-Anne was only two months old. Peter remembered the heartbroken expression on John's face at the burial. He hadn't cried, but he had clutched Leigh-Anne to him and buried his face into her soft baby hair, while Lisa held his arm. It wasn't until his own grief had begun to fade that he realized that what John had needed was his father's support, instead he had taken comfort from his infant daughter. Something else that pushed them apart.
That afternoon he sat beside Anne's grave and talked, begged and pleaded with her to give John the strength to pull through. He had already buried his wife. It would tear his heart to pieces if he had to bury his son.
He buried his face in his hands, tears threatening to spill. "I feel as if our situations should be reversed." He confessed quietly, lifting his head to look at the gravestone. John had adored his mother, the look on his face when Peter had broke the news that Anne had passed, was so full of pain that Peter thought he might just loose his son as well.
A sharp wind blew some leaves into his face, and he easily imagined it as a sharp rebuke from Anne. She had hated to hear people talk as if they had no hope left. She had been one of the strongest people he had known. While he had been off fighting a war, Anne had been left to raise their son alone, threatened constantly by German bombing raids and even loosing her own parents to a raid. And yet she had still muddled on. He remembered writing to her once, asking and almost begging for her to let John be evacuated to the countryside, but Anne had stubbornly refused. Now Peter understood. Anne was faced with the loss of her parents and her husband in constant threat; she couldn't bear to part with her son also. Peter reflected on what might have happened if John had been evacuated. Would he have been distant with both parents? Perhaps Anne had been right all along. To be honest he should have known she was right. Anne had the sharp ability of reading people; John was a lot like his mother in that way. Maybe that made him consider the Police.
"Please Annie. I need him. I can't loose him," his voice cracked, "I know I should of told him more. I promise I will. Just don't let me loose him." Tears began to track down his face for the first time since the knock on his door.
The wind grew softer and tenderly touched his face, drying his tears. "Alright Annie. Alright." He smiled; he rested a hand on the rough stone and then got to his feet. Strength and love and determination flowed throughout his veins and bones. He was not going to loose his son. He was not.
So when he next sat to John, he talked and talked and talked until his voice began to grow hoarse. He talked of how much joy it had brought him to watch as John played in the streets, how he laughed and how every time he fell over he just got back up and carried on. He told him how much he loved him and how proud he was of everything John had achieved. How in his bedroom, sat next to the precious framed photograph of his wife, was a framed photograph of John stood proudly in his Police Constable uniform, which was just as precious to him. He talked of how it brought such joy to him to see John and Leigh-Anne run and laugh together. Above all, he told his son how heartbroken he would be if he lost him.
Eventually he paused in his continuous speech to take a sip of water. He replaced the glass on the side and opened his mouth to continue when a slowly opening pair of eyes grabbed his attention.
"John!" he exclaimed softly, he got to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed and gently grasped John's hand.
John groaned and feeling the hand holding his, opened his eyes further to look up at Peter. "…Dad…"
Tears of relief swelled in Peter's eyes as he looked at his son's face. "Yes son. I'm here."
A nurse happened to walk past and so Peter waved to grab her attention. While the Doctor checked up on John Peter walked to George's room and informed the man that John was awake. He helped guide George's wheelchair into John's room and retook his seat in the chair.
John's eyes flickered between them and Peter saw tension bleed from John's face once he saw George was alive and well. "John," commented George in greeting, his tone rough from trying to keep his voice even.
"Okay…guv?" asked John, his voice catching slightly.
"Yes John. Everything is okay," smiled George.
Peter got to his feet to back out of the room to allow the two of them some time together, but a hesitant voice stopped him. "Dad?" Peter turned to see a blank expression on his son's face, but his eyes, so much like Anne's. Expressed how much he wanted his dad to remain, but also preparing himself for rejection.
"I'm here son," responded Peter as he sat back down. The smile on John's face caused a smile of his own to break out on his face. From the corner of his eye he caught George smiling and nodding seeing the father and son moment.
Later, once George had been forced by a nurse to return to his room. Peter read a newspaper as he sat beside a sleeping John. His eyes shot up hearing a pained gasp from the bed, looking up he saw John was now awake with wide eyes flickering across the room. A nightmare. Peter knew the signs; he had suffered from them enough to recognize the signs.
He left the newspaper on the side and moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's alright John. Ya safe and sound in the hospital." He spent a few minutes just talking soothing nonsense to John, and soon his son had relaxed again. But fighting sleep. He saw the haunted look in John's eyes and knew it was going to be a long road to recovery for his son, but he vowed to be there every step of the way for his son. He would not leave his son to face his horrors on his own. Too often in the past he had left John to deal with things on his own. Not anymore. "Close yer eyes son."
John frowned in confusion but complied anyway. Then Peter began to softly hum the lullaby Anne used to sing to John throughout his babyhood and childhood. John's eyes snapped open. "I'm bit old fer that dad, don't ya think dad?"
Peter smiled and shook his head, "Nope. Just as yer'll never stop being my son. Come on lad, yer mam used to do this ta help ya sleep. And right now yer need yer sleep. So go on, close yer eyes."
John gave his father a half smile and once again shut his eyes. Then Peter began humming again, and soon enough John had drifted off to sleep once again.
Peter's newspaper remained discarded on the side, as he remained on the edge of the bed and watched over his son, humming again whenever John's brows creased in mental pain. This was a new beginning for them, and the days ahead looked very promising. Once John had recovered Peter foresaw jokes and grins being directed at him, not just by Leigh-Anne, but also John. And the thought gladdened his heart.
Everything was going to be all right.
The End.