The Depth of Faith
"Damn it, Dominic. Where are you?" Finch exhaled and snapped his cell phone shut, the call time flashing bright blue against his palm.
It was late in the morning; the London sun would soon rise against a haze of smoke. Even now, Finch could see the glow of hungry flames and knew that Parliament was still burning.
Finch checked his watch. Nearly five in the morning. He'd pulled another all-nighter and he could feel the effects it was having on his tired body. He had stayed up through the night, drinking scotch and waiting for someone—anyone—to call.
He supposed he shouldn't be surprised about the silence of his superiors and subordinates—his superiors were probably dead and his subordinates were likely hiding 'V' costumes under their beds for the next revolution.
But Dominic's silence perplexed the inspector, who had grown used to the constant contact with the younger cop. Probably trying to help restrain the crowd, he thought.
A momentary stab of guilt at his absence and then nothing but mild resolve. He was too drunk to be of any use to anyone and it wouldn't help his credibility to show up in such a state. Dominic was quite capable of handling crowds on his own and there would be plenty of work to deal with in a couple of hours.
Finch discarded his nagging curiosity and fell into a deep sleep that only complete exhaustion, fiery vendettas, and a bottle of scotch can give.
Dominic entered the Yard still brimming with nervous energy from the early morning's events. He'd gone home and nabbed two hours of restless sleep, a hot shower, and a cup of coffee; however, the excitement alone had given him enough energy to rebuild Parliament.
The young inspector exited the elevator and moved swiftly down the hallway, the incessant ringing of office phones echoing off the walls. Upon reaching his office, Dominic slammed the door shut, muffling the noise.
Finch was not yet present and that gave Dominic time to collect his nerves. He was certain that no one would find out. He'd boxed up his costume and hidden it in the deep recess under his bed; he'd recognized the faces of many officers but he'd managed to slip by them unnoticed.
No one had really noticed anything beyond the explosion and the fire. It's hard to be bothered when such a show is occurring in present time—Dominic had had a hell of a time pulling himself away.
But bloody hell was it amazing. Another tinge of excitement surged through him as he booted up his computer. His inbox was full--resigned, Dominic began to browse through the e-mail, weeding out the general exclamations of disbelief and focusing on the important stuff.
He had cleared out ¾ of his inbox when Finch staggered in, looking as if he'd run across Dead Man's Land in the black of night. The haggard man slumped into his chair and covered his face with his hands. After a tense moment, Finch glanced up.
"Do we have coffee?" he asked, his usually soft voice further muffled by his hands.
Dominic leapt out of his chair and hurried to put on the coffee. Filling the machine with water and flicking the START switch, Dominic ventured a quick glance at his boss.
Finch had managed to boot up his computer and he was scrolling noncommittally through his own e-mail. The deep pockets of skin under his eyes were bruised and his shaggy hair was mussed.
"Excuse me, sir, but you look bloody awful."
"Thank you," was the lifeless reply.
"Did you get any sleep?"
"An hour."
The coffee was nearly done percolating; Dominic pulled out the pot before it was finished, ignoring the late drops that splattered and sizzled against the hot plate. "Here you are, sir."
"Ah…" Finch accepted the mug with a grateful expression. After a few sips, the inspector's complexion warmed with life. He glanced up at Dominic, eyes tight. "Was it bad?"
Dominic hesitated. He may as well just tell his boss he was there, considering it was his best excuse, but mum was to the condition.
"It was a madhouse," he said, not quite lying. "The whole bloody city came out."
Finch's gaze returned to his screen and Dominic sat at the ready, anxious for more of the inspector's questions. None came, however, so Dominic returned to the menial task in front of him, completely comfortable in the supposition that his foray into the fiery festivities was safe from further scrutiny.
It was a difficult task, not looking guilty. And it was one that Dominic Stone failed spectacularly at.
If Finch was a bit more lucid and a little less trusting of his partner, he would have noticed this right away. As for now, his ability to perform basic functions relied solely on how far away the bottom of his cup was.
Dominic's answer had been earnest and the mass of police reports stuffed in his inbox had corroborated his statement. People dancing in the streets, carrying away chunks of rubble, even climbing poles and trashing the PA systems.
Finch wrote off Dominic's incessant fidgeting as a display of tension from his lack of instruction. Sure enough, Dominic sighed and gave Finch a pleading look.
"What do we do now?"
Finch scrolled for a moment, then pushed his mouse away. "We wait."
"Wait." The younger cop's tone suggested that was the last thing he wanted to do.
"No one has heard from Sutler or Creedy which suggests that they're dead. London is in shambles and until we find their bodies, there's really nothing to do."
Dominic thumbed the cap off of a pen, sending it flying across the desks. "And what do we do about this?" He gestured about the office.
"You're free to re-decorate however you see fit." Finch remained inwardly amused at his own show of dry humor, most likely motivated by the lingering presence of scotch in his blood.
Dominic had gathered up an expression of the utmost patience. "I meant England, sir."
"Same as before, Dominic. We wait."
He received a barely disguised scowl in reply.
Finch shut down his computer and slipped back into his coat. "I'm going home, Dominic. Call me when you get sick of waiting."
"Yes, sir."
Finch paused at the doorway and watched Dominic weave the pen through his fingers. A sudden memory of the younger man's earlier words flashed in his mind.
"Makes you wish that no one would show up tonight." "If they do, what do you think will happen?"
Relatively casual statements but Dominic lent them notice with his barely displaced excitement. So he was there, Finch mused, and in costume.
Noticing his boss's lingering presence, Dominic craned his neck over his shoulder. "Need something, sir?"
Finch shook his weary head and left.
Dominic became sick of waiting around noon. Finch roused himself from his warm bed, jamming the cold phone against his ear.
"Finch."
"We found them, sir. Creedy and Sutler."
"Where?"
"Victoria Station."
Finch was struck with memory. He'd heard the shots and ran off to investigate but once he found the Hammond girl, he completely forgot about the earlier gunfire. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
The station was already littered with patrol cars when Finch arrived. Maneuvering his car between a lamppost and a cruiser, Finch pulled the key as Dominic approached.
"You were right. They're dead."
Finch locked his car and began his descent into the abandoned station. A green-faced officer stumbled past them, holding his hand to his mouth.
Finch raised an eyebrow at Dominic, who shrugged. "It's pretty bad down there, sir."
Dominic was right. The entire area was riddled with casings and gore. Sutler lay in a rocky puddle, a massive hole over his left eye. Creedy was not far off, his neck almost perpendicular to his body; surrounded by him were the bodies of at least fifteen soldiers, all torn and blood-spattered.
There was a look of unease upon Dominic's face, as if the dead eyes of the former Party leaders could see the guilt in him. Finch, for his part, was experiencing a feeling that, unbeknownst to him, Evey Hammond had also felt.
Nothing.
Nothing touched him as he gazed over the ruined men with an expression nearing boredom. They seemed so long ago and Finch could not find it within himself to feel pity.
Standing over Creedy's body, Finch glared at it in contempt. It was terrible what St. Mary's did to the Irish you bloody fuck. You did it to them.
No. No pity for these monsters.
"Inspector!"
Finch ambled over to where Dominic stood with his flashlight angled at the ground. The wan light caught the shine of metal and revealed to the detectives a homemade breastplate, spattered with blood and bullet holes.
"The terrorist's?"
Another memory drifted up—this one of a black-clad body whose porcelain face smiled up from a wreath of roses.
It was too close to him. There were thoughts he had not yet come to grips with and they were plaguing him now in this bloodied tunnel.
Finch turned on his heel and stalked out before his own mental weakness could betray him.
It wasn't unusual for Finch to remain unresponsive to Dominic's questions. The chief inspector wasn't being rude—he was merely deep in thought. He was a damn good detective and it was an honor to work so closely with him, so Dominic could handle a few daily slights. But as he watched Finch practically bolt from the tunnel and back his car away from the station, Dominic couldn't help but feel as if he'd been intentionally snubbed.
He left instructions to send the bodies to the morgue with the police constable and headed for the station.
Finch was perched on the edge of his chair, his fingers steepled against his chin. His dark eyes didn't even register Dominic's arrival—they remained intently focused on the bare desk, however Dominic would venture that nothing was registering now.
The younger officer took his seat and began to finish sorting his e-mails, but his mind was far from his computer screen. He burned with curiosity to know what thoughts roamed in Finch's head and to share his own.
Unable to stop himself, he asked, "Should we start searching again?"
"For?"
"The terrorist."
"Codename V is dead." Finch's voice sounded hoarse in the small room.
Dominic's eyes widened in disbelief. "Surely, after all of that, he's still alive somewhere."
Finally, Finch's dark eyes found his own. "He was human after all, Dominic. He's dead. I saw him myself."
Prompted by the stunned expression on his protégé's countenance, Finch explained what had happened in the tunnels of Victoria station that night.
Dominic leaned back in his chair when Finch finished. "Wow. What—wow."
Finch shook his head. "I let her pull the lever. I could have stopped her so easily…" Realization hit him. "I let Parliament explode."
"And so the Gunpowder Treason finally commenced. Guy Fawkes would be proud."
Dominic shared an embarrassed grin with his superior. "I went to see it…and not as crowd control."
Finch offered a tight smile that said he'd suspected as much.
"It's a good thing you didn't kill her. Poor girl's been through enough."
Finch frowned. "That's the thing. She didn't seem fazed by the prospect of death. He made her just like him."
"What, loony?"
"No, fearless."
Dominic laughed a bit, then stared up at the ceiling. "Sure as hell wish I was the same way."
"Well you've got loony down pat."
"Very funny, chief."
Leaning over the desks on his elbows, Dominic spoke with all the bright-eyed excitement of a boy. "I was petrified that the military would open fire at the last second. Then I feared that someone in the crowd would recognize me."
"Bloody hell, Dominic. You were wearing a mask."
"You weren't there, chief. Everyone took off their masks when Parliament went up. It was pure adrenalin, I'll tell you. Absolutely terrifying."
"It's a good thing you've gotten that out of your system then."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter anymore," grumbled Finch. "People will talk about it for awhile, then they'll all forget it and go about their usual lives."
Dominic just shook his head, smiling. "How can you say that, sir? It matters more than ever."
Finch leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. A brief image of the uncertainty facing the country darted through his mind. "I suppose you're right."
"You can't go judging everyone's depth of faith lightly, sir."
Strength through unity. Unity through faith. These statements were true, no matter how twisted, how convoluted Norsefire propaganda had made them.
London standing together was what made them strong, and it was their faith that had brought them to Parliament this November the Fifth. It was faith that lowered Finch's gun and convinced Evey Hammond to lower the lever.
But what did he believe in? People? No, people were soft, easy to manipulate. England? It was nothing but a name, a chunk of land.
What was it that tested Finch's depth of faith? Dominic's? All of London's?
It was an idea, a simple thought put forth by a man and carried away by the vast population. They had taken it home with them, planted it in their tiny window boxes, and looked after it--casually at first, but as it began to sprout, they tended it diligently. Until finally, it bloomed.
By that time, it had spread across the land, creating an epidemic of flowering minds and blooming resolve. Sutler could have spent his entire life tearing out plants but somewhere, one tiny stem would still be growing.
This idea gave people hope, and in turn they gave it power. Yes, this was what had justified Finch's actions and this idea was the very testament to the depth of Finch's faith. To Dominic's. To everyone's.
It was the idea that freedom could—and should—still exist that united them.
And no one could take that away.
"Must have been powerful," Finch mused aloud, a tinge of regret underlining his words.
"It was awesome."
"Hm."
Dominic grinned, looking all too much like a child with a secret.
Finch scowled. "What?"
The younger man disappeared beneath his desk for a moment. There was the sound of a drawer unlocking and finally Dominic reappeared, dropping a black lump onto a stack of files on the corner of Finch's desk. It hit the papers with a dull thud and Finch eyed it wearily.
"What the bloody hell, Dominic…" He picked it up, noticing the char marks it left on the files and his hand. "Jesus Christ, it's a piece of rock."
"No," corrected Dominic, a self-satisfied grin pasted on his face. "It's a piece of Parliament."
A momentary vision of how satisfying it would be to throw his piece of Parliament at Dominic's head passed through Finch's mind. He must have showed some inclination of this because the young inspector scooted his chair behind his computer screen.
"Figured you'd regret not being there yourself." He motioned to the rock still clutched in Finch's sooty hand. "Better keep a good hold on that. Might be worth something one day."
"One can only imagine. I suppose this is payback for judging your depth of faith?"
"No, payback would be covering your entire desk with the damn rocks."
Finch chuckled. "'pieces of Parliament,' you mean."
The two cops shared a laugh. Finch returned the rock ("piece of Parliament") to the stack of files and dusted his hand off on his suit jacket.
Dominic rolled himself back and forth, using the desk as leverage. After a moment, he paused. "Phones have stopped ringing."
"People have calmed down."
"That's good for us. I wonder what everyone's up to."
Finch imagined people sleeping, talking, dancing, sitting on their couches in complete silence. Just living. "Probably tending their window boxes."
Creases appeared on the younger officer's head. "Tending their window boxes, sir?"
Finch deleted a few messages, browsed others, then offered up a tight-lipped smile. "They have to hide all those rocks somewhere."