Calm surrounds Gordon and John as they're buzzed into the shop, the automatic lock clicking in place as the door closes behind them. Light jazz plays softly and the waistcoat clad greeter offers to take their coats, or maybe a drink? A warm towel to wipe their hands? It's the sort of establishment that provides personal, one-on-one service to its customers, where there isn't anything as crass as a price on display. The whole atmosphere reeks of money and furniture polish.
Cabinets cover the walls, the glass doors showing artfully displayed pieces that twinkle and shimmer, their brilliance off set against the dark felt in which the jewels nestled. Gordon isn't really comfortable in places like this but he had a job to do and this was Penny's favourite.
"Good afternoon, gentleman." A really well put together lady says with a welcoming smile as she approached, strategically dressed to suit the expectations of customers, but not outshine them. "My name is Claire. Are you looking for anything in particular today?"
Gordon clears his throat awkwardly. Suddenly he feels very underdressed: though his jeans are smart and his sweatshirt brand new, he doesn't fit. John doesn't stand out – the casual yet collared shirt and chinos are perfect for some upmarket shopping, looking very much like his father's son. How does he always manage to judge these things right? "Yes, err. I'm looking for an engagement ring."
"Of course!" she beams, not letting his state of dress put her off, and somehow being even more welcoming. "Step this way and I can show you some options. I love it when people come in for engagement rings, I'm a romantic at heart. Your fiancee...?" Claire walks them to an ornate walnut desk on one side of the shop, several plush chairs surrounding it.
"She couldn't be here today so my brother is helping me pick something out."
Claire smiles again and they all sit. Did she ever get tired at smiling like that all the time? "Wonderful. What sort of thing are you looking for?"
"Well... I don't really know. I don't have anything in mind." There was only one thing he could think of really, but that wasn't actually a possibility.
"Are you looking for a classic diamond solitaire? An intricate band." She sees the blank look on his face and prompts further. "Does the lady prefer gold, silver or platinum?"
Did Penny have a preference? He hadn't really noticed to be honest. He didn't look at her jewelry. How could he when she eclipses anything she wears.
"Don't worry." Claire kindly takes pity on him. "I'll pick out a few pieces and we can go from there."
"Urgh... why is this so complicated. I have no idea what I'm doing." he whispers to John, as Claire moves slowly around the room opening and closing the display cabinets.
"Much like normal then." John says, leaning back in the chair with a smirk.
"Haha. I'm serious. I have no idea what Penny wants in the way of a ring."
"Haven't you talked to her about it?"
"Of course, but she just said that she trusted me. She could buy anything she wants already, so how am I supposed to guess what that is?"
"Because you know her."
"Sure, but what if I get it wrong? This is meant to be a pretty important piece of jewelry as these things go."
"You're not going to get it wrong."
"How do you know?"
"Because she doesn't want an engagement ring because she wants another piece of jewelry. She wants one because she wants to marry you. And she wants whatever you choose because it's you that chose it."
"Huh." He hadn't thought about it that way. "When did you get that smart?"
John frowns. "I've always been smart."
"About this sort of thing?" As far as he knows John hasn't had any sort of relationship beyond light flirting since he started up on Five - not that he pries, that sort of information just gets around – but it feels rude to say it so bluntly.
"Oh, just because I've never proposed to anyone that means I don't know anything?"
"That's not what I meant. Sorry."
John gives a lilt of his head to accept the apology. "It doesn't matter a damn about the status of my love life, I'm here because I know Penny, right?" Gordon nods. Any one of the others would have been happy to accompany him today, but Penny was closest to John than the others, and he needed to leverage that knowledge. "So, trust me when I say she will love whatever you pick."
Claire rejoins them, carrying a small tray holding a dozen rings in varying styles. "There's another couple that I want you to see, but Charles is showing them just at the moment," she nods in the direction of her colleague who is having a similar consultation with a young couple at another desk on the other side of the shop. "So, we'll start with these."
She talks through each one – some with diamonds, some with another stone front and center. Some were solitaire, some have multiple, some had no stones at all. She's bought a variety of metals and finishes and level of detail, studying Gordon's reactions as she goes.
They are all well-made, beautifully designed but they aren't ... the one.
"Don't worry," Claire smiles, "You'll know it when you see it. Oh, I think Charles is done, I'll just fetch those others."
He would know it when he saw it. Unfortunately, he's fairly sure he's already seen it.
"What are we doing here Gordon?" John says, idly studying the cases beside him, filled with strings of pearls.
"This is the best jeweler in the country. If I'm going to find anything it's going to be here. Though I do feel like I'm going to be thrown out if I leave behind so much as a smudgy fingerprint." The greeter has everyone in the shop under scrutiny, no doubt looking out for the merchandise, and he's polite but not as customer friendly as Claire. The buzzer rings out and another customer is ushered in with every courtesy.
"No, I mean there is a ring sitting in the safe at home. Why aren't you using that?"
Mom's ring.
Gordon shrugs, uncomfortable. He had thought about it. A lot. Unfortunately, it was as perfect as Penny. Every time he thought of proposing to Penny he thought about that ring, and he thought about all the other people who had a prior claim to it.
"I just want my money back." A raised voice from the other side of the shop, drags their attention across. The man who's just entered is angry, getting into Charles' personal space, waving his arms and gesticulating wildly.
Gordon doesn't realise he's on his feet and is moving to intervene until John pulls him back.
"They've got this," he says. The greeter / security guard is indeed moving in, trying to get the increasingly irate man to step back.
"It can't be that hard, you're lying." The man shouts, fishing around in the bag he was carrying and drawing out what looked like a pistol.
The room takes a collective inhale at the appearance of the weapon. It's obviously old, made of wood and metal, any shine dulled under layers of grime. The man holds it clumsily, adjusting his grip frequently as he waves his hands around, yelling about returning something or other. Charles is stunned, wide-eyed. Claire is making soothing motions, palms out, but whatever she's saying is drowned out by the increasingly incomprehensible shouting.
Gordon still wants to intercede, to calm the situation down for his heart takes a leap every time the weapon makes another pass around the room. John's hand is tight on his arm, grip solid. He might look like a beanpole but there enough muscles under there that Gordon can't move a step.
"They don't look like they've got this, we should - "
CRACK
Gordon is cut off; he swallows the rest of the sentence as gunshot - deafeningly loud in the small space – freezes everyone in the room, all equally shocked, even the man staring at the gun in his hand.
"If you're going to get a gun out, at least control the damn thing." Gordon bursts out, outraged by the pure carelessness. Carrying a loaded weapon is a serious responsibility, and having it go off accidently meant you aren't handling it properly.
"Gordon."
"I - I just wanted to return them." he says, looking past Gordon, eyes wide.
"Gordon."
"I didn't mean to... I just... I've had a bad time and..."
"Gordon."
"I don't care how bad it is - ."
" - Gordon."
"What, John?" Gordon turns slightly, looking toward his brother.
"I think - " John's looking puzzled, his fingertips – the ones not still clutching onto Gordon's arm – are painted in red. His neat shirt is slightly mussed, pulled away from his waist band, a smudge of blood on the edge, a neat hole in the center of a spreading stain. "I think - "
John's knees buckle and he crashes into the display case, the glass doors clattering as he slides slowly to the floor. Gordon's not fast enough to catch him. John flings a hand out to steady himself but misjudges, it having no effect on how heavily he clatters into the furniture.
"Shit." Gordon's kneeling next to him in an instant, pulling John's shirt up to expose a spring of thick red blood oozing from a neat round bullet hole sitting just above his hip. Oozing, not gushing, that was something. Gordon feels around John's back but there's no exit wound. The bullet is still inside.
"I need to put pressure on it," he tells John, who nods shakily. Claire appears at his side, a pile of cloths in her hand: the towels offered at the door.
"Call an ambulance," he instructs, all business, then he lets the rest of the world fade away, ignores the commotion behind him, and focuses only on John. He folds up one towel and in a quick motion presses it against the wound. Hard. You can't just rest it on there, you have to push hard to apply enough pressure to affect the rate of blood loss.
John flinches and jumps, trying to squirm away through the wall so hard he rattles the glass again.
"Hey, stop that. I know it hurts, but you have to stay still for me."
John screws his eyes tightly shut, gripping Gordon's wrist to pull his hand away, but he's not as strong as a few minutes ago. His breath is coming in short, sharp, shallow bursts, much too close to hyperventilating. Gordon feels bad enough that he doesn't let this affect how firmly his is pushing, and in fact he follows John as he moves. With his spare hand Gordon grasps the back of Johns' head, feeling in passing the frantic throb of John's pulse.
"John, look at me. Come on, look at me." He only lets up his encouragement when John does as he's told, opening his eyes and Gordon leans in close until his face would be practically the only thing he could see. What Gordon can see in his brother's eyes freaks him out a little – John is scared, pupils blown wide and desperate.
John is never scared. Never. Not when he's hurtling through space without a tether. Not when navigating a killer seed vault. Not when stealing the last pancake from under Virgil's nose. John is bravery personified: always calm, never wavering.
Gordon makes sure John is staring him right in the eye. "You need to calm your breathing down, and bring your heart rate down too. Follow what I do. Breathe in for four," he takes a long slow breath "and then out for four. Through your nose. In for four, out for four." Gordon repeats, demonstrating until John follows his example. At first John is still gasping but gradually his breathing evens out into something better resembling a functional person.
"Sorry." John mutters, once he can speak.
"Don't apologise. Let me know if it starts to happen again." The cloth he's holding is almost soaked through, so he quickly changes it for another from the pile. "I never thought I'd have to talk you out of a panic attack."
"Yeah, it always used to be Virgil."
"What?" Gordon is flabbergasted. "You've had them before?"
John frowns at him slightly, puzzled. "The first two months on Five, I'd have one every morning when I woke up. It almost got me permanently grounded. I thought everyone knew."
Gordon shakes his head. "What … I mean, why... errr..."
"Because I was waking up in space! Surrounded by a complete vacuum, relying on a lump of metal and wires to keep me from disappearing into the void or plummeting thousands of feet through the atmosphere. There's no one for literally miles around. It still freaks me out a little every morning but I'm used to it now."
"But you love it up there."
"I do. Doesn't mean it's not terrifying though."
"Huh." Gordon wonders how he would cope waking up in such a hostile environment every day. Sure, he's spent some extended periods under the surface for a couple of research projects, but not semi-permanently. He loves the sea, but also loves home comforts.
"I went through periods where I imagined everything that could go wrong. I lost a lot of sleep over that until I put in place some contingencies." John hisses as Gordon changes the towel and pushes down again.
"I thought the elevator was already part of the plans when you went up there."
"It was. I mean the other contingencies. I've spent a lot of time building up contacts –Global One, the Deep Space project, Communications International. I have accumulated a lot of personal favours too, just in case."
"I never realised that."
"I don't just float around up there all day you know."
"I thought you just created computer programmes and ate bagels."
John snorts in laughter, then groans at the movement.
Gordon risks a glance behind him – the shooter is pacing in the doorway, still waving that damn gun; everyone else is crouched on the floor.
"How long until the ambulance gets here?" he asks to the room at large.
"He wouldn't let us." Claire speaks up, gesturing with her head at the man looming over her, who is muttering to himself.
"EOS" John whispers under his breath, and for once the AI demonstrates an instinct for tact, for she replies just as softly.
"Emergency services are on the way, I dispatched them myself."
"Excellent. We'll have you out of here lickity split." Gordon says, putting as much confidence in his voice as possible, and tries not to wonder if EOS was already integrated into the country's emergency dispatch system, or whether she'd done that today. That would be Scott's problem.
"Good. Because I'm not feeling so good."
"No shit."
"No, I mean I'm feeling quite light headed."
"You're looking an interesting shade of gray. Think you can lie down?"
For an answer, John's eyes roll and his head lolls slightly, sinking down like a ragdoll flung into a corner.
"Ok, yes, let's get you down." It's hard to keep the pressure on with one hand while easing John to the floor with the other, and in truth he falls more than anything. Gordon winces as John's head hits the polished wooden floor with a thud and he spares a second to awkwardly shuck out of his sweatshirt to fold it into a pillow.
"That should be better." No response so Gordon taps his cheek lightly. "Wake up. No napping."
John starts awake. "Sorry." he says thickly, which makes Gordon sigh.
"It should be me apologising. I'm the reason we're here."
"Why are we here?" John swallows hard. "Why are we here when you could be giving Mom's ring to Penny."
That was the question, wasn't it, all wrapped up in layers of doubt.
"It's not exactly mine to offer her," he says, pulling John's shirt up slightly higher to clear the wound so he can get a better look.
"It could be." John says, with a surprisingly firm glance considering his brief nap.
Gordon shakes his head as much for that as for the ragged wound in his brother's side, and the dark blood oozing from it. "There are too many previous claims on it."
"You think? I don't see that any of the rest of us have particularly good prospects right now. If you want to use it …. just ask. Do..." John gasps, before continuing. "do... you want to? Use it?"
"She probably wouldn't like it. It's not as fancy as she's used to." It was relatively plain as these things go, the diamond small if perfect. It reflected the limited disposable income of Mom and Dad when they were a young couple just out of high school. It hadn't been any less cherished for that fact, before or after Mom's death.
"Come on now." John – the idiot – tries to sit up. "That's surely not it. I... " John gasps again and falls back, gritting his teeth as Gordon once more changes the compress. He's forming a rapidly growing pile of damp clothes by his leg, and his hands are red across the palms. Gordon's trying to ignore how many towels he's used, telling himself that he's only having to change them so frequently because they are so small.
"Don't do that." Gordon admonishes his brother.
"Then you don't do that."
"Do what?"
John hesitates, confused. "I'm not sure." He closes his eyes heavily, opening them slowly. "It's getting difficult to think. Sorry."
"Stop apologising." Gordon's tired of hearing it. "EOS. Are emergency services here yet?"
"Yes. They are positioned outside, though have instructions not to approach until the arrival of a hostage negotiator."
Gordon bites back something that would get his mouth washed out if Grandma was here. A negotiator means they were going to take it slow, which means that Gordon will be going through a lot more of these little towels. He doesn't have an endless supply and though John's blood loss has slowed somewhat that isn't an endless supply either.
"Find out what you can about him EOS." John whispers, eyes drifting closed, face much paler than normal as she bleeps in acknowledgment.
"No, you've got to stay awake John." Gordon says stern and desperate.
"Sure." John's eyes flutter, he was obviously trying. "Tell me. Mom's ring. Why don't you want to use it?"
"I do. But," the horrible truth. "What if it just reminds her every day that she's a Lady and I'm not. She has a blood line, and a coat of arms and I'm just... just..."
"Kind. And brave. And working to make the world a better place?" John takes a few deeper breaths. "If she wakes up one day and doesn't love you any more it won't be because she has suddenly remembered that you don't have a title. It'll be because of those horrible shirts."
"My shirts? My shirts are great."
"They're awful."
"You're one to talk."
"You're not allowed to be mean to me. I'm shot."
"I know. Hang on ok, I need you to be at my wedding. Promise me."
"I promise I'm trying." John manages, and a chill shivers it's way down Gordon's spine. He remembers all the times he's subbed John a few shifts on Five - so he can get some sun on his pasty skin and wind in his hair - and how each time after he's gone through all the safety protocols John has emphasised his one golden rule of emergency dispatch: don't make any promises you can't keep.
"I have gathered approximately twenty-three terrabites of information." EOS interrupts.
Gordon waits. And waits. "Well?"
"She's good at data collection but not at interpretation. You need to... direct... her." John manages, before heaving in a moment of pained coughing that washes even more colour from his face.
"Okay," Even though this was John's area of expertise, he clearly isn't up to it. "Let's start with his name, age, occupation."
"David Brown. Thirty Six. Former realtor."
"Former?"
"He was made redundant eight days ago."
"He wanted a refund. Did he make a purchase here?"
"Earrings. Sapphire. Two weeks ago."
"He has a girlfriend then?"
"Had. Social media accounts show they stopped co-habiting three days ago."
"Ouch. So out of a job and wants money back from an expensive gift. So far so normal. Why'd he bring the gun then?" That last was half to himself, knowing that EOS wouldn't actually be able to make a leap in logic like that.
"EOS. License? Range? Service?" John coughs out the words, going paler with each one.
"He has no firearms license. He does attend a shooting range. He has not carried out any military service."
No reason for him to have it. "What about family, does it belong to any of them?"
"Records show his grandfather owned a firearm, a pistol. No record of what happened to it after his death."
"Family heirloom then."
"Next..." John gasps, shaking.
"Don't try and talk." Gordon pushes down harder on the bullet wound again, wincing along with his brother whose eyes are drifting closed.
"Next... door."
"Next door? EOS, what's next door?"
"Next door is a dealer of antiquities. Cross referencing. David Brown has an appointment there this afternoon."
Gordon isn't as good at reading people as John. Sure, he could tell if someone likes him or not, but John could pick apart someone's whole life and personality with a few dozen data points. John didn't think it was very impressive, but to Gordon the ability to guess where exactly this frightened child would run to was a form of magic.
"What does it mean? John?"
He lays a hand on his brother's chest and shakes it slightly, just to get him to open his eyes. John's brow crumples in effort, he mumbles something intelligible, but remains resolutely less than conscious. Gordon pushes two fingers against John's neck, not reassured by the erratic pulse there, or the faint sheen of sweat that's sprung across his nose. Shock. Blood loss. Medical Emergency.
Shit.
"EOS? How does John do this? How does he put the pieces together?" Gordon whispers, bowing his head as he tries to collect his thoughts.
"I don't know. I've asked so I can be more of assistance, but he says it's just his gut. Which is troublesome as I don't have a gut."
Gut? Not logic and math and probability? Gordon's got plenty of gut, sometimes he acts one hundred percent on instinct. Right now, his gut is screaming at him that David Brown didn't come here to hold up a jewelry store. He wasn't dangerous, he was just in a bad place. It was a mighty high conclusion to jump to, but it felt right.
His gut is also screaming that John was in danger, skin clammy and cold, heart and lungs struggling against falling blood pressure. He needs medical attention and he needs it now. Gut it is. He makes his decision.
"Never fear, Gordie's here." he mutters, grasping John tight and in a smooth practiced motion heaving him over one shoulder in the classic fireman's carry, steading himself just for the moment as he balances against the increased weight on one side, and heads for the door.
"Wait!" Brown yells, still waving the damn gun around, panic pitching his voice upwards. "You can't. You - "
"I'm leaving." Gordon says flatly. He doesn't feel worried to stare down the man who's shot his brother, doesn't allow himself fear when John's life in on the line. "My brother needs help and I'm going to get it for him. I think you've had a really bad couple of weeks and didn't even know that gun was loaded. I don't think you meant to hurt anyone which is good for me, because the only way you are going to stop me leaving is to shoot me in the back. Buzz me out please Claire."
Gordon turns, with an itch between his shoulder blades and it's with equal surprise and relief that he hears the bzzzz of the door release. He kicks the door open, arms full, and follows it's swing closely. Vaguely aware of some sort of commotion involving police he veers straight towards the waiting ambulance, swinging John down from his shoulder onto a gurney, a hand on the back of his head to ease it down gently. John is covered in a flurry of paramedics, shouting information at each other, assessing, diagnosing. Then, sirens blaring, he's rushed away, leaving Gordon standing in the middle of the street, John's blood soaking his shirt.