How many were there?

That question was still burning in Marty's brain, trying to burn it to ashes. But he didn't cry anymore. He didn't hate anyone anymore, not even himself. He was just numb. He felt nothing. He literally didn't care. That absence of feeling was everywhere he went, he couldn't escape it. Not that he could run far, in cell three by four it would be kind of difficult. Only thing that somehow sparked some kind of emotion was that question. He never forgot it. Not for one day. And he knew – even that those junkies would kill themselves sooner or later, even that he had no remorse in killing them, even that he was never convicted of the murders – Sid was right to despise him. And that strange ticklish feeling was with him every time he remembered that question.

How many?

And it was not because he killed them. No. They were just junkies. They would die sooner or later. It was that he didn't know. He had no idea how many people he killed. Sometimes he asked himself: Am I just another serial killer? And the answer was: No. He figured it out pretty soon. He was worse. Way worse. So he cut off his feelings. Every single one of them. Almost. For that simple question he just couldn't do it.

How many?

Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sid with that hurt look on his face. And that question on his lips. In the beginning it was driving him crazy. But after time, he just got used to it. It became his never-leaving companion. Disturbing and unpleasant companion, but companion nevertheless. And in place full of criminals – many of them he testified against – he would take everything he could. And it was certainly better than his former nightmares – watching Annabelle die over and over again. Dying and whispering: It's your fault. You killed me. And he knew she was right. And he thought he wouldn't be able to handle it. And he wanted to end it. Again. But this time, there would be no one to stop him. Oh, how wrong he was. Once he put his head through the noose and closed his eyes, Sid stopped him again.

How many?

And since then, that question never left him. Hanging over him during day, screaming at him during night. In a way, it was interesting. Watching Annabelle blaming him was unbearable to the point he couldn't cope. But when it was Sid asking that stupid question – and he knew it was just another way of blaming him – he had power to fight little more. That question was keeping him alive. Was it because Sid talked him down once already? Or did he want to find an answer to it? He didn't know. All he knew was that he felt like he was never alone. That question was ringing in his ears like Sid was standing right in front of him. He was never alone because Sid never left him. Not in his mind. It was his last link to sanity. And he would not lose it, no. So he became familiar with it. He learned to love it when it was there. He learned to crave it when it wasn't there. And every time he lay down to sleep, he longingly waited until he heard it.

How many?

Of course, he knew that in reality, Sid left him long time ago. Like everyone else. Maybe that's why he needed it. That little voice whispering in his head reminding him of the things he lost forever. He should be depressed because of it. But he wasn't. Not really. Because that little voice still sounded like Sid. Like the man who pushed him to propose. Like the man Annabelle considered father. Like the man who walked her down the aisle. Like the man who was the last and only link to everything he ever loved. Truly loved. And that was Annabelle. And his job. His real job. That was all over now. That didn't mean he wanted to lose that link though. He would keep it. He wouldn't meet him again. No, never ever again. But that little voice would stay with him.

When he was arrested he was sure he would die in prison. So he didn't say anything. What did it matter anyway? They had enough evidence already, he was sure of it. He knew how they were good. He knew they didn't need his confession. So he didn't talk. He was just sitting there, looking into Flack's eyes full of rage, keeping his mouth shut, not really hearing what was Flack yelling at him. They sent Hawkes then. Maybe they thought he would talk to him. But why would he? What would be the point? He hated him, his friend hated and despised him and no confession would change that. So he just sat there, blankly staring ahead.

Most of the time after his arrest was blurred by impenetrable fog of depressing memories. He didn't quite notice when exactly they stopped asking questions, yelling, blaming and reproaching. And he didn't know how much time has passed, but when he was able to perceive his surroundings properly, he found himself in a court room. He should have probably paid attention then, it was his trial after all, but again, he saw no reason. He would get life sentence, whether he would speak or not. So once again, he just sat there, staring ahead, his mind whirling around Annabelle and the question. Sometimes it seemed it was her who was asking it. Pale skin, dead eyes, skin peeling off and her cold voice.

How many?

The trial apparently went for weeks, but he didn't pay attention. He was so absorbed in his guilty consciousness he didn't even care what was being said. But then it happened. The day of sentencing. He didn't want to listen to it either, he was sure he would die in prison, but what was being said was so unbelievable it penetrated his barrier.

"On the account of first-degree murder of Mike Stevenson we, the jury, find the defendant..

"Not guilty."

When he heard it, he looked up. In that whole trial there was nothing that would get his attention. But this? This definitely did. He had to hear it wrong, right? He looked around, visibly confused. And when he locked his eyes with eyes of his former colleagues, he knew they were equally confused. So he heard it right. She really said it. Not guilty. How ridiculous justice system is. He knew he did it, his lawyer knew it, all the cops knew it, but there it was – not guilty. He knew he would still go to prison. But what is drug trafficking and mutilation of corpses compared to murder of so many people he lost count?

Still confused, he looked at his lawyer. Did he get the only capable public defense attorney in New York? With that smug look on his face he would have never guessed him as someone who worked in public defense office. More like lawyer for the upper ten thousand. He had no idea what happened. He had no idea what was still happening. Apparently, 6 years in supermax was punishment enough for drug-dealing serial killer. Justice system. Not that he complained. But all this was just.. what the hell? And he saw that same question in everyone's eyes. In the eyes full of confusion, anger, repulsion and something else. Any other day he would call it 'conflicted', but that couldn't be right. Why would they be conflicted about it? They all hated him and wanted him to suffer. There was no reason for them to feel conflicted. He should die in prison and especially his colleagues wanted him to. He just mistook conflicted look with the furious one. Right?

Now, Marty couldn't believe it was over. That he was out of that hell, more or less healthy. But not unscathed. Not even close. But he wouldn't complain. Not when he was out. It was all in the past, past he won't revisit ever again. Well, at least he hoped. Just like he hoped he would not come across someone who would recognize him. He was still in New York, after all. He was walking in the streets, baseball cap and hood on his head, trying to cover his face. He wasn't wearing sunglasses this time, because it was night and he wasn't douchebag. Not even prison would change him into one. He wasn't exactly worried of being recognized by ordinary people – he was no Ted Bundy – but rather by law enforcement. It all belonged to the past he didn't want to refresh. Maybe with little luck, he would never meet them again.

All this was on his mind, yet he had to end up there. And not just that. He stopped there and was staring at that apartment building. Maybe he was suicidal. Yeah, had to be. Because if the person living there knew who was staring up at his apartment's windows, he would definitely shoot him. Without hesitation. Repeatedly. But that didn't stop him, no. He didn't even leave when he realized where he was. He was just standing in that dark alley, blankly staring at the building. Why did he have to live so close? He couldn't 'visit' Sid or Hawk, not even subconsciously, because they lived too far from him, he would never get there on foot. But not this one, no. He had to live within his reach. Not that it was just around the corner, but by taking one of his long night walks, he could get there without trouble. So he was there, glued to the ground, staring into enlightened windows, unable to avert his eyes. If he would look out from the window, Marty was sure, he would notice him. He should leave. Yeah. He definitely should. He learned long time ago – Don't mess with Messer.

Eventually, he persuaded his body to activity and walked away. He was again buried in his thoughts, so he didn't pay much attention to where exactly he was going. It was wonder really, that he wasn't hit by any car yet. After the last near-collision with another box of metal he was determined to pay attention. At least at crossings. With that on his mind, he realized where exactly was he heading. Oh. Crap. That was the one thing that came to his mind. He was dangerously close to a bar. And not just any bar. A cop bar. And no, not just any cop bar, the one cop bar his colleagues were going to. It was clear now. He was suicidal. He had to get out of here, or this was going to end badly. And probably bloody and painfully for him. But his body didn't seem to want to listen to him, he was unable to move.

He was standing next to some shitty alley, not far from the corner, when he heard a voice. And not just any voice. The voice. It was just behind the corner. Marty ducked into an alley and pressed himself against the wall, hoping the owner of the voice wouldn't notice him. Fortunately, the luck was in his favor. He peeked at person casually walking past the alley, talking on the phone. He still looked the same. Still sounded the same.

".. Yes, Danny, just a few minutes... No, it's not a problem, I was nearby.. You know I'm always glad to help. See you soon."

He smiled to himself. That man didn't change at all. He was the same as he was when he helped him out with Annabelle. The father figure he so desperately missed in his life. Nice to see you, Sid.

He walked out of the alley and wanted to continue with his walk, when he heard muffled voices nearby and something that sounded like struggle. And it was coming from behind him. From the same direction where Sid was going. Oh, no. He forgot all about his reservations to meeting someone from his past and ran towards the noise. It didn't take long and he found the source. Sid was standing in another alley, back against the wall. In front of him, it could be just few inches, was standing dark figure. Looked like a male, slightly smaller than Sid, probably weaker too. But of course, he had to have a gun. And he had to have it under Sid's chin. And that was just pissing Marty off. He decided to take an action. Maybe that gangsta-wannabe would spook and bolt. Or not. In that case, he would fight him off. Either way, he was not going to let Sid die.

"Hey, asshole!" he yelled and walked casually into the alley. Sid and the asshole jumped, startled to hear sudden voice. Both of them looked into his direction. And both of them looked just confused, Sid even little relieved. Guess he didn't recognize me. Good thing too. The dark was playing in his favor, plus he had a cap, so Sid would have to be right in front of him to recognize him. Maybe he would be able to save him without being recognized. Yeah. Masked hero fighting with armed assholes in the dark. Serial killer turned superhero. That would make some crappy movie.

"Who the hell are you?!" the asshole snarled, not taking his gun off Sid.

"Concerned citizen." Marty said nonchalantly and walked towards them. Sid narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to remember something.

"Stay where you are! It's none of your business!" the asshole said, sounding agitated.

Marty obliged, but he was not gonna give up that easily. If he could just make the asshole point the gun at him, it would all be much easier. "Oh, I disagree. You're ruining my peaceful night walk."

The asshole looked at him awestruck and blinked several times. "What are you, retarded? Or just plain stupid? Get out of here!"

"Stay or get out? I think I'm not the one with sub-average intellectual functioning."

"What?" asshole asked confused and Sid's eyes widened. Marty knew what that meant. So much for not being recognized.

"He calls you stupid. Or retarded?" Sid said, sounding unusually confident for someone in his position. Like if the fact that his ex-friend/drug dealer/serial killer was filling him with energy to fight.

"Take your pick." Marty said with clearly audible chuckle. He saw asshole's grip on the gun tighten and then happened something he hoped for. He pointed it at him.

"What did you say?!" the asshole barked. Marty pointedly looked at Sid, who barely visibly nodded.

"Stupid. Retarded. And crap shot too." Marty mocked him and saw his posture tense. Just like he wanted, asshole averted his full attention to him, so he didn't notice Sid to make his move. He kicked him to his knee in the exact moment when he fired, so he stumbled forward and completely missed his target. Marty didn't wait and lunged for him, trying to get the gun out of his grasp. They struggled, to Marty it seemed like an eternity, when the shot rang out.

"No!" Sid yelled, rushing to him. Marty looked at him confused. The asshole was.. well, an asshole, so why that horrified look on his face? What did it matter if he's been shot? But then he looked at said asshole, who just stood there, eyes wide, his right hand bloody and shaking. Marty looked down at himself and saw blood at his abdomen, quickly spreading on his shirt.

"Oh.." he managed to say before it hit him full force. The unimaginable pain forced him to tumble down to the ground. His eye-lids were suddenly heavy. He was sweating. His breathing was unusually rapid. Shock. Not good.

He yelped in pain as something was pressed against his wound. He noticed Sid kneeling at his side, one hand probably pressing at his abdomen, the other one gently putting down his cap. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open, so he closed them. He felt the touch on his cheek and heard Sid's voice, so close to him.

"Marty.." he said, voice trembling.

Marty forced himself to open his eyes again. He just couldn't leave Sid like that. Not without getting it out of his chest.

"I'm sorry." he said, hoping that someday he would be able to forgive him.

"What about?" Sid asked.

"I don't know how many." Marty said weakly, slowly closing his eyes. Single tear was coming from his eye, finding his way through his cheek to Sid's hand. And he heard him as clear as the day. But it wasn't that question, no. It was something different, something he would have never expected to hear. Not again.

"I know. It's okay."

It's okay. It's okay. He heard it like in echo, it repeated itself in his mind as he was drifting away. Sid surly said something else after that, maybe he even yelled, but he didn't care. It's okay. That sentence was everything he needed to hear. He suddenly felt complete and literally didn't care what would happen to him. Perhaps this was what he was waiting for. Walking right into embrace of darkness with knowing that –

It's okay.

For the time being, consider it oneshot. But it doesn't have to end like that. Because I like Marty. And that episode killed me! So I won't tell if he died. That's for you to decide. Maybe I will continue. And maybe I won't.