The heat of summer lies thick on the Paris air, wet and heavy, pressing down without mercy. It is a silent weight; it sinks between the buildings, and winds slowly through the streets, consuming all in its path. At the city walls, it tucks in like a sleeping cat, its tail folding around to make a circle from which it is impossible to escape. Valjean, accustomed to staying inside during daylight – once by necessity, now by habit – feels as though the sun sucks all the moisture from his body, then forces him to walk through it. Breathing should not be such a labour, nor a simple walk. But the air slips between layers of cloth and nestles there, adding weight to each step. He would rather stay in his stone-cooled apartment, and not subject himself to the pain. But Cosette must go to Marius. And now, he must go to Javert.

But first, the necessities. He has been preparing for this since he left the hospital yesterday. His rational mind tells him that to enter a police station will not mean instant denouncement and arrest. He reminds himself that Jean Valjean is dead in the eyes of the law. But he also knows there is no way to be sure of what Javert did when he was freed from the barricade. He had made it clear he would not forget his pursuit. Maybe he filed a report in the hours they were apart. You will still answer to me, Jean Valjean. Now, away from the heat of the situation, that seems a strange choice of words. Does Valjean answer to Javert, or the law? Perhaps the hunt became personal for the man. It would not be a surprise. Or maybe Javert and the law are one and the same. Either way, he prays for God's protection as he enters the prefecture, and it gives him strength. Even if the worst should happen, it is no more than he has managed to evade all these years. If God wills his return to Toulon, then so it must be. But he cannot leave Javert to die without at least attempting to understand the circumstances.

He walks tall, and without hesitation. His stomach quails, but he does not loiter outside, or in the doorway. That might be more damning than being bold, and it is not so hard to remember the demeanour of Monsieur Madeleine, his straight back and air of righteousness.

The building offers relief from the sun's glare, with its cavernous interior and high windows that keep the heat above. The marble columns draw the eye upwards, and Valjean finds himself standing and staring to the ceiling, where the Lady Justice looks down from on high. She is painted in gold, reflected in a sunbeam that makes her shine like the stars. He can make out the bandage over her eyes, and it is that that makes him drop his gaze. Justice is blind, indeed. He thinks of Javert, and then shakes his head to remove the thought. It is not fair to make that connection. He knows so little of the man, or how he came to be the way he is.

'Does monsieur require assistance?'

Valjean is pulled from his musing, and nods as he removes his hat. The man behind the desk is of middle-age, and in the uniform of a sergeant. His smile is thin, but polite, and Valjean returns it in kind. 'I hope so, monsieur. I have come to enquire after one of your officers. I don't know if he works from this building, but thought it the best place to start.'

The sergeant's eyes narrow as he speaks. Perhaps it is unusual for civilians to ask after policemen. Valjean maintains his outward calm, but feels his stomach tighten.

'The nature of your enquiry, sir?'

'We were acquainted, years ago. He has been gravely injured, and I happened across him again. The doctors know of no family, so I took it upon myself to ask on his behalf.'

The sergeant's demeanour relaxes, and the smile is perhaps a little more genuine this time. 'Was it during that damned – begging your pardon, sir – that damned foolishness with the students?'

'It was.'

The man nods. 'Many officers were injured that night, though this is the first such enquiry I've had to deal with. Your name, sir?'

'Fauchelevent.'

'And the officer in question?' The sergeant reaches for a thick ledger on a desk behind him. Valjean wonders, briefly, whether no one enquires after the police because they do not tend towards family life, or because they do, and their wives and children already know their fates.

'Inspector Javert.'

The man stops dead. The heavy frontispiece of the ledger remains suspended upright in his hand; the book half-open, half-closed. Then he lets it drop. It falls with a heavy thud. 'Javert?'

'Yes.'

The nerves are crawling back up Valjean's centre. The sergeant stares at him, eyes narrowed once more. Then he shakes his head, and says, 'he no longer works here.'

'Oh?' Valjean forces himself to look only mildly interested, and not to frown. 'You know him, then?'

'Oh, everybody knows Javert. He practically lived here. A good policeman, if not the most personable of colleagues.'

So much for finding friends. 'I apologise, sergeant. I find myself confused.' Not least because if everyone knows Javert, why has he not had a single visitor at the hospital? 'I believe I saw him on the day of June sixth, and he was certainly an Inspector then. His doctor told me he was brought to the hospital the day after. How could he no longer work here during that short space of time?'

The answer comes as though he is a small child, to whom the sergeant must explain matters clearly. Even before he finishes speaking, Valjean makes the jump to the truth of it, feels it stealing over his skin and turning him cold in its wake. 'Because, monsieur, he resigned his post.'

'Javert resigned.' He says it to himself, but the man nods anyway.

'He left a note, you see. Which is why everyone knows he has no intention of returning. The ones in charge don't like being told how the service should be run. But the word got out of what he said, because the Prefect's staff let it slip to someone. And there aren't many secrets in the police, sir.'

Valjean's fingers are tight around the brim of his hat, and he thinks he should loosen them, in case he arouses suspicion. But he cannot seem to make them work. 'I do see, yes.'

The sergeant recalls something, and frowns. 'You say he's gravely injured? I don't understand that. He was seen at the Place du Chatelet that night. That's where he wrote the letter. If he was hurt, it must have been after that – but then, he'd still have been wearing uniform, I suppose, and certain types do take exception to it when feelings are running high. How did you find him?'

Valjean spreads his hands an inch or two, and tries for another smile. 'I was at the hospital, and saw him by chance. The hand of fate, nothing more.'

It is a lie, and one he asks silent forgiveness for. The sergeant seems to think nothing of it, and puts the ledger back where he got it from. 'Well, I'm sorry for him. Not an easy man to know, but devoted to the work.'

'Might he have any friends who would wish to see him? I understand his prospects are-' it is hard to say. He still cannot believe it himself, though he knows it must be true, '-not good.'

'I don't know.' The sergeant looks uncomfortable. 'He wasn't…well. I can ask. He had a patron, I understand. There should be someone who knows more about him. Where is he? I'll forward the information.'

Valjean tells him, and replaces his hat on his head. His fingers ache with the effort of loosening on the brim. When he walks back out into the heat of the morning, he barely feels it. Instead, his skin bleeds droplets of cold sweat, beading like tears on his forehead.

Javert resigned. Which means, Javert jumped. It is the only conclusion he can draw, because surely nothing but death would separate the man from his duty. So something happened to cause it, and perhaps it is hubris to think anything he, Valjean, did that night could cause a man to take such extreme measures – but in his heart, he feels it to be true.

Valjean stands by the door of the prefecture, eyes closed, mouth moving in prayer. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. But for once, there is no relief in asking. Perhaps his request is directed at the wrong being.

He turns on his heel, in the direction of the hospital. This time, walking is easier. There may not be much time, and certainly not enough to think too long about what he is doing, and why he is doing it.

###

As he steps into the room, he notices two things. Three beds are empty; stripped and scrubbed. And while the first four patients are exactly as they were the day before, the second half of the room is in disarray.

Valjean steps cautiously, so as not to disturb those sleeping to their deaths. And also because there are people moving at the end of the room, shapes visible through the fine lace curtains that offer a semblance of privacy. Perhaps one of the other men has awoken. Perhaps they are bathing Javert, or seeing to his dressings. The thought of it makes him recoil, because he knows he would struggle to look the man in the face again, if he saw him that exposed. And then he turns his head, a sharp jerk to the side, to banish the thought of why he cannot endure the thought of such vulnerability. It is only yesterday he faced the knowledge that he has never seen Javert as a man, so perhaps it is still very soon. But…he realises his feet have brought him to a halt. A nun emerges from behind the curtain, carrying a bowl half full of blood, and bandages steeped in red. He stands aside to let her pass, and despite her outward calm, there is tension at the corner of her lips.

'Sister?'

She shakes her head, just once, and moves on. Valjean feels his mouth open, even as his stomach falls to his boots. 'He is not…?'

But she is gone, and he faces forward. One of the figures is a man, and he is speaking urgently in hushed tones. Valjean straightens his shoulders, and walks on.

'Sister, hold him. He must be still. He must…no, please, I beg you monsieur, you must listen…'

He walks faster, striding as if he were young again. The doctor's voice becomes clearer, the scene more agitated.

'We must bind him, or there is no…please, monsieur, try to hear me…'

There is a crash, and Valjean can hear, under the doctor's frantic tone, a low rumble that gets louder the closer he comes. It is unlike anything he has heard in so long, it takes a moment to remember why it resonates. And then it comes back, and breaks over him like a wash of sea-salt water on a winter's day; it is the sound of torment, that he has not heard since Toulon. It is the uncontrolled moan of a body that cannot contain its pain; the raw, unchecked utterance of someone locked in a world of agony, and unable to articulate more than an animal. He remembers that sound from the dark of the galleys, when the groans would rise through the night, and they would all close their ears and try not to hear. It was a relief when the stench of shit became fresh and strong, because it meant the body was letting go, and the noise would soon be over. He lost count of the amount of times he woke to see someone dead on their plank. One night, it was the man above him. He spent the night wishing he were dying too, and woke at dawn with the man's final bowel movement dripping onto his smock.

There is no such smell here. Only blood, and something almost sweet. He forces his eyes open, and steps inside the curtain.

Javert is awake, and mostly dead. The doctor is pressed over his chest, trying to stop him from struggling. Two nuns attempt to bind his arms to the bedframe, but he is thrashing feebly, and there is slick blood on one wrist, a match in colour to the glistening wound exposed on his shoulder. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open as he emits that sound. It is the keen of a trapped beast, and Valjean feels it vibrate through him, from the soles of his boots all the way to his clamp around his heart.

'Can I help?'

The doctor startles, but only for an instant. 'Yes! He must be still, or he will pierce something more inside. Quick, now!'

Valjean tosses his hat aside, and moves to the opposite side of the bed. He stretches his hands down, but hesitates; he does not know where to hold, or what might cause more hurt. But the doctor tuts, and snaps at him, 'anywhere, man! In the name of God, hold him.'

Javert's skin is wet and cold, sweat as much as blood. But it is not that which turns his stomach. It is the feel of his heart, thundering inside him, thumping against the bits still holding him together. It is raw, and could not be more obvious even if the chest was open all the way. He feels as if it were; as if he is standing here, watching Javert's heart pump, open and exposed, furious in its constant beat.

'Good. Good. Tighter, monsieur. You cannot hurt him more than he is hurting himself.' The doctor sounds relieved, and there is a small sound, almost a sob, from one of the nuns. They are tying him now, and Valjean has to struggle not to pull away from how wrong this is, for him to have his hands on Javert's body.

'How long as he been awake?'

'An hour, maybe more. It came suddenly. We were not prepared. He has broken his ribs again, I think.'

The doctor is flushed and sweaty, and looks far younger than he did the day before. He looks like a man who has been proved wrong, and feels ashamed of it. Valjean would offer words of condolence, but he can only think of what is under his hands. The essence of Javert, fighting to carry on. 'Have you given him something for the pain? Has he said any words?'

'No. Yes.' The doctor shakes his head. 'I am afraid he will choke if I give him laudanum before he is eased. And he said something at first, but then something broke, and…monsieur, he was not supposed to recover.'

'He isn't recovered.' Javert's hands are tied to the bed, and still he writhes. The heavy splints on his legs look as though they keep him anchored, but all the vital organs are inches away from Valjean's palms, and the man will not be still. 'Get the laudanum. I will hold him.'

The man nods, and relinquishes his grip. Javert moves quicker than he should be able to, twists in the sheets and then lets out a cry that rips the air in two. Valjean chokes in fear, and presses down hard. His own heart is hammering, and he feels sweat rolling down his face, wetting the hair next to his ears. 'Javert. Javert, please. Hear me. You must stop. I know it hurts, but you must…you must be still, for once in your life.'

The noise from his mouth does not cease, and he does not stop moving. But an eyelid flickers, and Valjean can only pray it means he has heard. 'Listen to me, Javert. The doctor is getting you something for the pain. Please, man. You can be well. But you must stop.'

He has no idea whether the words make sense to him. Probably not, because he is not answering the plea. But maybe the noise is less. Valjean can hear the rattling of his breath in his chest. It gutters and creaks out of him, wheezes from his nose. When his mouth falls open, blood drops from his lips, as though it has been trapped inside for quite some time. It is dark, too dark, almost black. Valjean knows it is the sign of internal damage, and starts to pray. His eyes close as he whispers, trying to block the sound of death on the approach. Please Lord, take him in peace. Let him not suffer this, let him

'Valjean.'

He opens his eyes. Javert is watching him from beneath lids barely open. His mouth is red, and his fingers claw at the sheets. But through the moans still coming, and the death rattle from his throat, his voice is nothing but fury. 'Valjean.'

'It is I. Javert, please. The doctor-'

'You…' He breaks off, and his eyes twist close. Another cry that burns through Valjean's ear, and the body tenses tight enough that it feels like it may burst. But the heart still thumps under his hands, and he is aware again of the heat of him. If he weren't dying, he might think his body more alive than he has ever seen it. But surely it is only the desperation of death throes.

'Do not talk. Do not weaken yourself.'

Incredibly, something comes that is close to a laugh. Or maybe it is another cry; Javert cannot be in his senses. But the eyes crack open again, and suddenly he is trying to lean up. Valjean realises they are only inches apart, and all he can see is the black depths of Javert's blood-blown eyes. He speaks, and the desperation is made worse only by the utter contempt in his broken tone.

'Where is your mercy now, Jean Valjean?' he says, and blood spits from between his teeth, melts into the saliva dripping down his chin. 'Kill me.'

Valjean freezes, his gaze locked to the pleading agony, fear gripping his gut from the hate this man can hold. But he shakes his head; a slow, transfixed swivel from side to side, as his whole being constricts in sorrow. 'I can't.'

Javert is silent for one blessed minute. And then his face crumples into something inhuman, as his body is wracked again. Another howl, and Valjean feels tears drop down his cheeks. He is powerless, and if he were a good man, surely he would be able to grant his request. No man deserves this. But he cannot do it, cannot even think about it.

There are hands at his shoulders. He sags back in relief as the doctor takes his place, and starts to drip half a bottle laudanum into Javert's mouth. Valjean staggers until his back hits the wall, and it is a long moment of struggle to fill his lungs entirely. All he can smell is blood, all he can hear is the heartfelt plea, the undercurrent of hate under the request. Kill me. But no, he cannot. He cannot. He should be able to, but he cannot.

###

Half an hour later, and Javert's blood is dried, and cracking in flakes off Valjean's waistcoat. The man is, mercifully, asleep. He watches him dully, his eyes aching with heat, and tears, and exhaustion.

'Monsieur, you should leave. He will sleep through the night.'

The doctor looks as tired as he feels. His faith in him is no longer strong, but he does not contradict his words. It seems incredible that Javert is still breathing at all, that his body hadn't flown apart under the onslaught. 'Do you still think he will die?'

'Yes.' But there is hesitation in the voice. 'It is likely. But I think…he has more chance than he had this morning.'

There is a chance. It is something, though Valjean wonders whether it is merciful to pray for it now. He lets the silence be for a moment, and flexes his fingers. They are sticky with congealed blood, yet he cannot muster the energy to move and clean them. 'What is your name?'

'Joly.'

'Joly?'

'Yes.'

Valjean glances up. There is something about the jaw, perhaps. Around the eyes. He cannot be certain. 'Yesterday, you seemed not to care whether he survived. Today, I think, you do.'

The young man seems caught. He rocks back and forth on the spot, as though debating which words would be best to say. Eventually, his tone suggests he has chosen the truth. 'He was wearing a uniform when he was brought here. It was the night of the barricades.'

'Yes.'

'I had a brother.' Joly waves a hand, as if it is of no consequence. Or perhaps he does not want to go into detail about a revolutionary sibling. 'He also died that night. But it is not…' Whatever he had thought of saying, the impulse is gone. '…I thought this man was dead. Now I see he is not, and I am unsure as to whether…'

Valjean looks at his hands. So much blood still there. Javert, all over him. 'I'm sure you did what you thought best, monsieur. But now we know more. I must insist you do all in your power for him.'

'Of course. Of course, sir. And I thank you for your assistance today. Without you, I fear he would not now be with us.'

He cannot decide if that is a good thing, or not. What is mercy, here? But he is too tired to decide, and the room too warm with Javert's iron blood. 'I will stay with him. Please, no more talk of sending messengers to me. I will stay.'

Joly looks to protest, but when Valjean meets his eyes, he closes his mouth. 'I will leave you with him, then. Please call if he wakens.'

The room seems so much quieter than even the silence of yesterday. There are less men breathing in here, that is true. But Valjean knows it is simply the absence of Javert's fight, temporarily put to sleep as it is. It reminds him of the years he thought he was safe from the man. It was a pretence at peace, because did he not always know that Javert would find him eventually? And it is a pretence now, because Valjean knows, as he used to, that the man will come again.

But this time, it is not a fearful thing. It is not something he dreads, but something he wants. The reasons for that can be divined later. For now, he is happy to accept that no, he does not wish Javert gone. And he will do all he can to ensure his wellbeing.