What Would Have To Be Proved
Summary: She had been told. Doesn't mean she could bear the consequences.
Jo did remember what he told her about his "condition". But when, a few weeks after their Talk, she's confronted with it in all its bloody glory all she can do is not let it break her.
Warning: Some swearing, blood and tears. Must be Tuesday.
Rating: If you watch the show you can read this.
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me and I very much intend to give them back after playing.
Part 1
Her feet hit the pavement in a dramatic staccato rhythm that would've made a heart patient jitter with fear. Her breaths came in painful gasps while her eyes raked the pavement in front of her for unexpected obstacles that would've turned her run quickly into an acrobatic tumble and she didn't need that.
It was 3am and so it wasn't like the streets were crowded, but it was a generally known fact that New York never slept. Traffic was slow and the occasional honking and laughing as well as the booming of loud music accompanied her flight. Her eyes started to water and she wasn't sure whether it was because of the pain in her side, the cold wind in her eyes or the knowledge that she was spattered with the blood of the man she started to like a little more than a friend. Which, of course, she'd never have admitted.
"Whoa, lady!" A man yelled, jumping violently out of her path, but she had already passed him before she even had the chance to apologize. She didn't care. She also didn't care that she probably looked like a psycho with her whole front, arms and hands covered in a dark red blood, itching where it started to dry.
With an Olympic jump she vaulted the hood of a car, leaving behind an ugly trace of blood over the yellow hood and another angry voice yelled obscenities after her. She still didn't care. All she cared was the river and the fastest way to get there.
Don't be dead! Don't be dead!, her mind kept screaming while at the same time the hope kept pulsing that maybe – just maybe – he wasn't crazy after all. Maybe, the story he had told her – the one that had stood between them since that day a few weeks ago – wasn't the result of a delusional mind and advanced photoshopping but the story of his admittedly long life. And maybe he really had told the truth when his last words before he died and vanished (HE FUCKING VANISHED) into thin air were a hoarse "See you at the river…"
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
1 hour earlier
The case was about to give her nightmares. Not the bloody kind, thank you very much, but honestly… being bored to death by surveillance wasn't exactly her cup of tea either.
It had begun as absurd as two dead bodies in an ice cream parlor could get.
Some dead guy – Collin Maisies – had been found by the owner in the wee hours of Monday morning, head bashed in by a frozen bucket of vanilla ice cream. The poor owner of the establishment, a stand-up citizen of New York, promptly died of a heart attack and was found four hours later by his employee who finally stayed alive enough to tell the story. All they could get from the crime scene was half a shoe print of a common Nike sneaker and a ten kilo bag of weed hidden under the ingredients for such exotic ice cream flavors as woodruff, basil and peppermint. Evidently a deal gone wrong.
They had suspected the estranged son of the owner to be the involved dealer but since father and son – according to statements of the suspect as well as his mother and sister's –hadn't been in contact for years, they had nothing to go on. Trusting the dealer to be moronic enough to come back to the crime scene to retrieve his goods they had started surveillance, 24/7 for almost five days on the row.
Great.
Her butt hurt, as did her back. And her feet. How could her feet hurt when she had been sitting all day?
"How come my feet hurt when I've been sitting all day?" She mumbled more to herself, but she got an answer anyway.
"Your body isn't designed for inactivity. Its whole purpose is movement. Sitting puts pressure on your spine, which explains the back aches. Back aches lead to your torso bending involuntary inwards, which leads to further cramping of muscles. The bent position further increases the strain on your circulation, especially compromising your extremities which can cause swelling in your ankles and thrombosis."
With a look at her shoes she rigorously started flexing her feet up and down.
"Of course it usually takes an extended period for this to lead to a worrisome condition."
"Thanks, Henry," she said, half tired, half sarcastically. "Maybe we should call in and come back tomorr-" With a glance at the time she sighed and corrected herself. "Today. Later."
"No," Henry replied, his eyes never leaving the street they had been watching for what felt like eternity. "There is no need to."
"And you know this because…?"
She looked at her partner. It was way past midnight and he still made the impression of just having stepped out of the shower. There wasn't even a single crease visible on the front of his dazzling white button-down. His scarf – an elegant black today that probably cost more than her entire collection of shoes – was stylishly draped around his neck, and even in the darkness his shoes shone with a brightness that attested to lots of shoe polish and disposable cloths.
"…because I can see him."
"What?" Hastily she looked ahead, trying to see what Henry saw.
As usual, Henry was right.
The nervous man who was walking directly towards the ice cream parlor was the embodiment of a suspect. His nervous gaze kept searching his immediate vicinity while his hands were pushed deeply in the pockets of an inconspicuous baseball jacket. Once more his head turned back and forth several times as if to make sure that no one was watching.
"Hanson, he's here," Jo reported into the radio, her former whiny tone replaced by intense concentration and activity. "We're going in."
Protocol would make sure that back up would be here within minutes.
Jo and Henry quickly climbed out of the car, closing the doors as quietly as possible, to follow the man who had turned into a dingy alley leading to the back door. Suppressing the need to tell Henry to stay behind her she got out her weapon and couldn't help but relish the feeling of security and protection the heavy tool implied. Immediately after leaving the relative safety of the illuminated street they found themselves surrounded by darkness, still trying to stay hot on the man's heels. Which, of course, was easier said than done considering they could barely see him if it weren't for the dirty grey puddles of light the distant flickering street lamps shed.
They heard the crunching of pebbles then the distinct rattling of keys.
"Ha! Spare keys. I knew it." Henry said and Jo could literally hear his grin. She groaned inwardly.
Then the sound of a heavy door opening and swinging back slowly with a screeching noise. Next to her Henry sprinted ahead to stop the door from closing. The door stopped with his fingers stuck between the metal and its frame and he smiled at her when she caught up with him.
"Normally I would say Ladies first but…"
"I'm the one with the gun, Henry," she interrupted and pushed him aside. He was about to object but she held his index finger to her lips. "Shut up!"
His mouth closing obediently while his face said No need to get prissy they were looking into each other's eyes while straining their ears to hear the suspect rummaging around, searching the large storage rack for his goods. After a few frantic minutes of searching there was a loud "Fuck!" coming from the inside and Henry's face lit up in amusement like a Christmas tree.
"His vulgar language gives the impression he is unable to find his preferred flavor."
"Shut up, Henry!" Jo repeated in a hissing tone and opened the door a little wider to yell into the premises. "New York police department. Marco Jonasson, you are arrested for the murder of Collin Maisies."
A shot rang out and she let the door fall against the frame, causing the door to slam shut again. Which meant they couldn't get in.
"He's got a gun," Henry whispered and managed to sound almost personally insulted.
"No shit, Sherlock."
Loud stomping sounds came from the inside, something crashed on the floor and then the sound of something heavy crashing against a window.
"He's trying to get away through the front."
Henry stated unnecessarily as Jo had already come to the same conclusion.
They ran, Jo first with Henry close behind her. Another crash and this time followed by the sound of exploding glass. They rounded the corner back to the main street, Jo still a few feet ahead of Henry when she experienced two sensations at the same time. Another loud gunshot and the body of her partner crashing into her, throwing her into the passenger door of a parking car. A sharp pain shot through her left arm as she collided with the unforgiving frame of the car and the force of the crash pressed the air from her lungs. Adrenaline cursed through her veins and for a moment she feared she had been hit but it quickly dissipated as she had no problems lifting her arms. Steadily she aimed her gun at the suspect who was standing a few feet away, his eyes wide and panicked.
"Put your weapon down!" Jo yelled, gritting her teeth, and her eyes never left the young man who still held his own gun in front of him. His left gun-holding hand, was shaking viciously while his right wiped non-existent sweat of his face. They looked into each other's eyes and if it weren't for the shaking of his hand the next bullet would have hit its aim. Something swooshed past Jo's head – its trail creating a hot draft next to her temple – and in the same instant she pulled the trigger of her own gun, hitting the man exactly where she had intended. He crumbled to the floor with a pained scream, dropped his gun and pressed his left knee against his torso with a whimper. With five steps she closed the distance, kicked the offensive gun aside and watched it disappear under another car.
"That was a huge mistake," she barked at him, but from the pained expression he made she concluded he probably didn't hear her at all.
"Henry, you okay?" She asked, her eyes still fixed on the man lying at her feet as she'd been trained. Never NEVER take your eyes of your opponent even after he's down.
"Henry!" She repeated this time a little louder.
"Just … wonderful," Came the answer but it was the tone that made her throw all caution in the wind. She looked back and saw her partner sitting on the pavement, his back against the car she had crashed into and there was something wrong with his white collar. It was dirty.
"Henry?" She swallowed, bile rising in her throat as she realized that the crash had not been Henry turning all klutzy on her. It was Henry pushing her out of bullets way.
"Henry! Dammit!"
"Detective, cuffs!" Henry ordered, his voice weak yet inappropriately patient.
She hesitated for a moment before she leaned down to clap the metal around the wrists of the man writhing at her feet. In the distance she could hear sirens.
"You have the right to remain silent, asshole," She spat between gritted teeth and jumped back on her feet. "Henry," She scolded angrily as she turned back to her partner and kneeled down next to him. "That was incredibly stupid you idiot."
Carefully she lifted the revers of his jacket, wincing slightly as the whole extent of the wound came to light. She was starting to feel lightheaded and had to suppress a cry of panic. "Dammit, Henry. That's…"
"It's okay, Jo," He said and she looked up into his wide eyes filled with pain and something else: a weariness that seemed to reach further than a physical fatigue. A spiritual understanding of how life sometimes pissed on your leg when you expect it the least. How could he be so calm?
"No, NO, it's not okay. This is NOT okay, you hear me?" She couldn't help it. She felt panic rise deep down inside of her, could hear her own voice break and her hands started to shake. "This looks…"
"Bullet hit the lungs. One side collapsed. Other side will follow. Hit artery." He listed the damage almost inaudibly and shook his head. "Two minutes, three tops." Like he was a coroner examining a subject on the sterile table of his work place. "Starting to feel light-headed. Vision blurry. Hard to breathe."
The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and it was spreading quickly. Jo's eyes widened and instinctively she did the only thing she could do. Without thinking she pressed her hands against his torn side, causing him to moan.
"I'm sorry, Henry. I have to stop the blee…"
"No!" He interrupted. "Y'only make it hurt long'r." He coughed miserably. Rosy bubbles of blood were dripping over his lips, adding to the colorful spectrum of his front.
"I can't just…"
"Stop... please," He ordered, his last word a mere whisper. He was starting to have problems focusing as his eyes blinked rapidly, pupils dilated in a physical shock. "They'll be here soon. Need to be gone…"
Coughing."…by then."
"What do you mean?" She swallowed and tried to think straight only to fail... miserably. How could this happen? How could he just be shot and how could he possibly think he was going to survive this? It was impossible. No one could survive this. No one - either 35 or 235 years old – could. Angry tears started to fill her eyes and she wiped them away. The sirens now blared louder, causing the first windows above their heads to lighten up with artificial lights. Nosy New Yorkers wanting to know who it was that disturbed their sleep by daring to die on their doorsteps.
"Don't worry, Jo," He managed to croak. "It's gonna b'fine. Told you."
She took a deep breath and stopped pressing down on his sides. It didn't matter. It wouldn't make any difference anyway and she knew it. Slowly and with an aggravating weight settling on her shoulders she leaned back, sat on her feet and slumped in defeat. It painfully felt like she was giving up on him.
"Henry, " She began softly, licked her lips. "How do you know this?"
He just smiled a crooked smile. In his eyes shone a light twinkle of amusement and – it took her a moment to understand it – trust.
"Trust me."
It didn't feel like her own head when she nodded and it was all she could do not to lose her dinner in the gutter.
"Okay," She nodded again, this time a little stronger and sniffed. Her eyes watered, she couldn't help it but she ignored it. "What… what am I supposed to do now?"
His smile actually widened and his eyes went down, trying to find the strength to look for something. His left hand slowly rose up and crawled under his jacket, patting against his bloodied chest. Then it stopped, vanished a little further, came back from under the fabric. His hand was covered in his own blood but she could see he was holding something.
"Keep this for me." He pressed his beloved watch into her outstretched hand, closing her fingers in an affectionate gesture over the golden hull. The delicate chain clinked softly. He held on to her, his warm palm giving her the strength and courage to look back up and into the eyes.
"See you at the river…" He breathed. A sudden look of surprise and wonder flickered over his face before a soft sound of exhaled air came from between his lips. She saw his life leaving his eyes, could feel it leaving his body like a sudden pulse of energy that fled a sinking ship, could feel her world shatter, could see him die in front of her, just inches away.