Note: Hi everyone, here comes a pretty fast update:) A special thanks to the guest who left me a really lovely review for the first chapter! Your comments really made me smile and motivated me! Also please notice that English is not my first language! I try to check everything, but some mistakes might last, so excuse me! Anyway, I hope you all will have fun with this chapter!

TW: Suicide

Inner wars

I got Nightingale and me a cup of this awful vending machine coffees, which brought overworked nurses and researchers regularly through the night shifts at University College Hospital, as well as a little tiny piece of reality to countless shocked relatives.

Since I was neither of the above, it only helped me against the winter cold.
We sat side by side on uncomfortable plastic chairs in one of the hallways, although I would have preferred to wait in Dr. Walid's office, but I realized that it was safest to wait outside the examination room. Since Dr. Walid usually performs CT scans on dead bodies, he was very pleased to receive our call, since our small database of Fae and everything else the demi-monde brought with it grew very slowly, but at least steadily. The prospect of getting someone who is also aging backwards or who had died and was resurrected or perhaps even a time traveller under his expensive apparatuses had encouraged him so much that he immediately took Mellenby with him without even greeting us.

That was quite right for me. The drive to the UCH was incredibly unpleasant and I was glad Nightingale let me drive, because all the idiots on the streets of London these days offered me an excellent distraction. David-I-came-back-from-death-Mellenby had been muttering the whole time, while he was staring at every neon billboard, donkey shop, and surveillance camera with a stunned expression. He had tried to talk to Nightingale a few times, but he never responded.

I don't know what was more alarming to me: that my boss still wore that inward, totally shocked expression or forgot his manners. He didn't even thank me for the coffee.

"So, what do you think is he?" I finally burst out. As you may have noticed, I can't handle awkward silence very well.

If Nightingale had heard me at all, he wouldn't show it. He just sat there, staring straight ahead, while warming his hands on the cardboard cup. He actually made such an apathetic impression that I was half tempted to wiggle my hand in front of his face or call in the half of the medical staff immediately to make sure that my boss isn't currently dying secretly from shock.

"I mean, we know he's the real one", I corrected in a hurry, ignoring my growing concerns. "But what else? Do you think he's started aging backwards too, sir?"

"I don't know."

Nightingale's voice sounded strange, as if he was speaking from afar in a language he only half understood, so it took him a lot of concentration to formulate sentences. That should have made me worried, but I was too relieved that he was finally talking again.

"I already have some theories. So, if he's a time traveller, he somehow came here by accident since he didn't know what year we're in... But according to current data, time travel is theoretically only possible in the past, so I think that's not the case. I've been thinking, though, if you steal someone's magic, can you keep their signare? We should check if" –

"I assure you... it's him."

"Do you think he has a reason to return to the Folly?" Nightingale finally looked at me, but before he could answer, I had more questions. "How did he do that? I mean, how could he have survived that? The only explanation is that he didn't... Did you see his body?"

This came to my lips too quickly, I realized as Nightingale visibly flinched.

"I-I'm sorry", I said, after noticing my mistake, grabbed my coffee, took a sip, and burned my tongue. "It's just- can we trust him?"

"Peter", Nightingale said in that gentle tone he had used last at me in the night when I returned from my adventure in North-Herefordshire with a couple of new traumata. But now it didn't calm me down, on the contrary, and when Nightingale tried to smile, I found only pain on his face. "I simply have no explanation for this."

The distant ringing of the elevator released us so that we could both stare straight at the wall again, while a couple of nurses pushed a hospital bed through the hallway without noticing us. Although I still wanted to express my thoughts, I knew that Nightingale didn't know what was going on. Would I still try to find an answer if it was Simone who came back? But it wasn't Simone Fitzwilliam who was being examined by Dr. Walid, it was David Mellenby. It wasn't my turn to be shocked, sad or angry. It was Nightingale's. My job was to shut up and listen if he wanted to talk. But since we were English man, we sat there for quite a while until we finally got to the talking part.

"I last saw him on March 4, 1945", Nightingale began, without looking at me. "After I made it out of Ettersberg, I was finally transported to London in February, where I recovered from a gunshot wound in the hospital. David visited me every day until... It was a Monday and on the radio was a report about the bombing of Chemnitz, it was suddenly Hugh who came to see me because David... because he..."

Nightingale suddenly buried his face in his hands and said nothing more. I reached out, perhaps to pat his arm clumsily or to finally give in to the urge to take him in my arms, but I couldn't over cross this invisible wall between us.

Finally, I realized that he was looking at me.

"If we had switched places", Nightingale said calmly. "If I were the one to be declared dead and went back to him... he would have reacted differently than I did. David would be happy, he would thank every higher power, even though he believes in science. He would be here with me."

I looked away when I noticed his glassy eyes.

"Why can't I be that for him?" Nightingale's voice broke a little. "There is so much I used to feel and now there is just shame and anger…"

"Sir", I said, as I noticed, quite sharply, but I couldn't sit here doing nothing while he was obviously drowning in survivor's guilt. "I'm sure Mellen- David, would react very similarly and" –

"No, he wouldn't", Nightingale said vehemently. "I can assure you that because it already happened. By the time I got out, I was declared dead, but when I saw David again, he told me that he was waiting for me and that he" –

Nightingale interrupted himself and suddenly looked at me.

"Listen", I said slowly. "Maybe he waited for you, sir, but he could only do that because you sacrificed yourself for him. You gave him your seat, didn't you?"

"Yes", Nightingale said, frowning, then shook his head. "You don't understand, Peter. He has always been better than me with these... things. He took such good care of me when I was in the hospital. He always took care of everyone."

Until he left you alone with all of this, I didn't say 'cause it wasn't fair. Because people who committed suicide needed help and because I didn't know what those things in the Black Library did to David. After the war, there were hardly any wizards left in England. Many had fallen, were too injured or had gone mad. David was just one of the many names that Nightingale had carved into the wall at Casterbrook, and whether they had fallen at Ettersberg or in the battle that was only in their heads, it didn't change anything. They were all victims.

Still, after all what happened Nightingale had stayed and maybe we would have fewer problems today if he hadn't been alone back then.

But I couldn't say that. So, I kept quiet while we waited.

It turned out that Mellenby's scans only proved he was using magic, but there were no other anomalies to be found. Dr. Walid was waiting for the results of the DNA and blood tests, but I doubted he would find anything. In addition, Walid informed us that Mellenby had some massive memory gaps and could only remember fragments of what had happened after Ettersberg and had suddenly found himself at the door of the Folly.

When we got back, Nightingale quickly disappeared to the upper floors and Molly, who was walking down the hallway with Toby on her arm, stared at Mellenby in disbelief, as if she couldn't imagine he was standing in front of her again. But honestly, who could blame her?

With a soft hiss, she walked away, and I realized I was once again the last one to escape from the sinking ship, so I sighed instead.

"Come on, sir, let's check which room we can get you."

I gave him the room at the end of the hall where Nightingale lived, partly because I didn't want to let him sleep in a room next to my boss (to whose safety remains questionable) and partly because I didn't want to be attacked first when Mellenby suddenly decided to do the Lesley. Fortunately, he didn't mind when I told him that I would probably see him at dinner and then went to the coach house, although I'm pretty sure he wanted to ask me some questions. My headache had subsided a bit, but I decided that a little nap would not hurt my hungover mind, so I turned on the TV and slept.

When I woke up, Molly's face was hovering over me, and on TV there was some cooking show on a channel that I probably hadn't put on, which calmed me down a bit, because so I knew that she didn't come for me because something else had happened. A hiss, however, told me that she wanted to see me in the dining room. Now.

Back in the house, I thought David was the only one who was already sitting. However, as I sat across from him, I saw Nightingale peeking out from behind the kitchen door. Only as he had noticed my gaze, he walked in. At least anyone who didn't know him would describe it as walking. However, I thought I could almost see a little slurry as he walked past Mellenby and sat down next to me.

"Thomas…", Mellenby said, but Molly, who brought the food in, kept him quiet.

For a moment, everyone was just busy with their plate, then Nightingale finally broke the silence:

"I've been thinking about how we can bring the best out of this situation and I'm counting on all of us to learn from the coming days and to do our part to support each other."

It took me a moment to process Nightingale's words and wondered Mellenby was doing the same. I would like to point out here that I was most likely the guy who makes plans or at least gives an idea for a plan. Nightingale, however, perfects it mostly and makes sure everyone comes home safe in the end. It was very like him to have immediately devised a battle plan, instead of continuing to live in that awkward silence. That's something I like very much about him. He cares about you, but retains enough authority to force you to continue, even if your best friend betrays you. He's not the type to give up or break down in front of you... which is why the last few hours with him, and the little impressions of his emotional world really scared me.

"Well, David", Nightingale continued. "I'm sure you have some questions, because Peter and I certainly do."

"The doctor told me that he has no idea what happened to me, Thomas", said Mellenby. "So, please believe me, I have no explanation why I'm sitting here now, either. The doctor – Walid, was his name? - he also told me that you started to age backwards and now you're here, looking like the man I saw 75 years ago. Is there an explanation for that?"

Nightingale shook his head. I thought of Varvara, who shared Nightingale's fate and probably started to go young again in the same year, but kept my mouth shut. We didn't have to tell David every secret right away.

Mellenby blinked once before pointing his fork at me.

"You have told me before that you never wanted an apprentice. How did that come about?"

That surprised me. Not what he said about Nightingale never wanting an apprentice, but that I suddenly became the subject of conversation. Nightingale looked at me from side.

"Peter has been with me in training for years now and has never let me down."

Approval from Nightingale was rare but each time a uniquely satisfying experience. But this time, the name Lesley May was hanging over our heads and suddenly I wondered if Nightingale had ever regretted taking me in. Maybe he even blamed himself for Lesley's betrayal and all its' consequences.

"There was no one left", I jumped in. "That's why I got in. Right, guv?"

"Yes." Nightingale looked at me thoughtful. "And because I liked the way you think. Always in the present. That's what the Folly missed."

Nightingale never told me that. It moved me, but at the same time it was only half the truth. The Nightingale I knew now was much more advanced than then (he uses his phone when he has to and I've caught him doing a Google search a few times, even though I secretly believe he thinks real people answer the search query) but he wasn't completely out of the world when we met for the first time, even though it seemed to me that way. He was always watching and adopted things he felt useful long before we met. But now I remembered our speeches about terms like black wizard and how he listened to me when I talked about my experiments with the microchips, even though he probably only understood half of it. Maybe that's what he meant.

Mellenby was silent for a moment and stared back and forth between Nightingale and me before he said:

"It must have been difficult to manage the whole Folly alone."

"We are a good team", I said soberly. That was admittedly very risky, but the soft "we are" that Nightingale replied and the small smile on his lips created a warm tingling sensation in my stomach.

Mellenby said nothing and for a moment only the rattling of the cutlery broke the silence, although I could sense that there was something else, he really wanted to get rid of.

"You asked your questions, David", Nightingale said solemnly as Molly had already put away the dishes. "Now please answer ours as best you can. What exactly do you remember?"

Mellenby had frowned during Nightingale's speech, but on this question a soft expression appeared on his face.

"I remember everything, Thomas", he said as he watched Nightingale. "The seating arrangement in the first year, Pascals stupid jokes, the final exams, the summer night in July 1916, the experiments I was working on when you were in India, your letters" – Nightingale started to say something, but Mellenby just kept talking as if he hadn't noticed. – "My mistakes. Ettersberg, the bombing and your last words towards me there as well as your first words in the hospital. I remember everything and then suddenly nothing, as if someone had cut out a part of my memories, leaving only a print."

Mellenby was silent and Nightingale's face was empty, but in his eyes was this hurt again. I knew what was going on in his head, just as I knew this question had to be asked, so I did.

"Do you know what you did on March 5, 1945?"

"I killed myself", said Mellenby, but without the defeated tone, it would have sounded like a question. "The doctor told me I did this, and now I understand why you wanted to arrest me, young man." – He nodded at me. – "But I can't remember why I did it, if there's even a simple answer to these things... I can remember feelings, but I can't remember pictures. I felt relief, fear, shame and... love."

Mellenby leaned back in his chair to look to Nightingale, and I did the same.

"Well...", Nightingale finally said, his face told me nothing about his current feelings. "This day has certainly been exhilarating, but that shouldn't be a problem, which we can't overcome. Still, I think we're all exhausted and need some rest. I guess Peter has already given you a room, David?"

I nodded because Mellenby didn't seem to want to answer.

"Excellent", Nightingale continued. "However, if you're worried about your belongings, you can move into your old room tomorrow, I'm afraid it needs a cleaning and some fresh sheets. It's been some time after all."

"You kept it?" asked Mellenby in astonishment.

I couldn't blame him. I didn't know anything about this until now. However, I have never bothered to search all the rooms of the Folly for possessions of deceased people, and I highly doubt that Nightingale did this service for other dead colleagues as well.

"I did", Nightingale said, and I noticed that brief hesitation in his voice and wondered if Mellenby did it as well. "I left it the way it was. I'm sure it will be comfortable for you."

I thought of the red scarf, Simone had left in the Tech Cave, which had been lying on the back of the sofa for a month after her death without me or Molly taking it away, and the picture of Lesley and me, which was still in the bottom drawer of my desk.

It's hard to let go of someone you love, and if I'd known Nightingale, Lesley, or even Simone since we were kids, I wouldn't know if I could ever throw away anything of them if they left me. Or even thinking about leaving them.

But that's what Mellenby has done to you, I thought. Again, I'm not proud of it.

I found myself in front of the Café de Paris and the same drizzle was cleaning the streets of London as on that certain day. I knew what was waiting for me behind the glass door, because after Simone's death, my dreams had taken regularly place here. But when I went in this time, Simone's cold body, collapsed on the table, had a different company.

The three held hands just as Simone and her sisters had done in their final moments. But Simone's face seemed strange to me, almost blurred and after all these years and I couldn't tell myself whether the features belonged to her or to another woman. But I definitely recognized Lesley. Not the Lesley who wore a mask and tasered me in the back in Sky Garden, or the Lesley without a face who was bleeding to death on a street without me being able to stop it, like in my other nightmares. It was just Lesley's pretty face lying there on the table, so peacefully as if she were just taking a nap.

Nightingale didn't look like he was sleeping. I knew this because I found him sleeping more than once in the library and the Tech Cave while he was recovering from the gunshot. When Nightingale sleeps, he lets a tiny bit of his guard down and looks much younger. Vulnerable even, because in this state, every emotion on his face would simply be visible, instead of hidden behind this constant reserved look as usual.

Dead, collapsed on a wooden table in the blue and red lights of the Café de Paris, I thought I could almost find sadness on his fine features. Even though in this dream the can of sleeping pills was also on the table, Nightingale's blood had soaked almost the entire back of his suit, and in the harsh lighting of the jazz club it seemed almost like a shadow wrapping around him.

Mr. Punch's crazy laughter echoed in my ears, and even when I found myself back in my bed, it wasn't quite gone.

Nightingale sat on one of the armchairs in the library and stared at the fireplace. He noticed me very late, which is unusual for him, since he usually can feel when Molly is entering the room without even looking at her. Half a smile formed on his face.

"Still awake?" Nightingale asked as I sat down with him.

Only now I noticed the cup of tea and the pile of paperwork on the sofa table.

"Nightmare", I admitted, while stifling a yawn. "Haven't slept very long."

"Me neither."

I grabbed one of the papers and realized after a quick reading that it was a list. It had to be part of one of the apartment resolutions we were currently investigating to track down a cursed set of silver cutlery. We knew it had once belonged to a Rose Tarence, who had passed away last year and bequeathed it to one of her friends a few years earlier. We already had visited some relatives and seniors to find the cutlery before Christmas, as we feared that a certain Christmas dinner might otherwise get very out of hand. Just last night, we were both sitting here working ourselves halfway through the library to find out how dangerous the objects we were looking for really were.

Yesterday, Nightingale told me about one of his colleagues, who ones had stolen the toupee from one of the masters in Casterbrook. Aside from it being a pretty funny story, Nightingale didn't get that sad expression for once, but seemed to enjoy the shared time just as much as I did (except that his heart probably didn't leap because I don't have cute little dimples when I smile).

Now everything felt different.

To be honest, I can't tell you when I started to want to be more than a friend for Nightingale. I'd like to say it didn't happen until Beverly and I decided that it wouldn't work out between us, but I can't totally deny that there hasn't always been a bit of attraction.

Sometimes I hoped it would snow for Christmas... who wouldn't welcome a White Christmas for London? But the truth was that some of the scenarios, of me finally making a move, played in the magic of a snowy London. And now, apart from the only 9 percent high chance of a White Christmas, I could totally forget that, when our lives were already messed up enough by Mellenby's appearance.

"I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier", Nightingale said. "I didn't mean to bother you."

Nightingale's face carried that restrained look again, as if that outburst of emotion he just apologized for had never happened.

"It didn't bother me at all", I said, swallowing an "Are you okay now?", I would have only received a mechanical "yes" anyway.

"I also regret all what we are going to conquer in the future because of this."

"Stop apologizing, sir", I said, and Nightingale looked at me doubtfully, as if he was wondering if a David Mellenby ringing our doorbell 75 years after he committed suicide could really be his fault. "We can handle this, right?"

Everything is going to be alright.

Right after Lesley's betrayal, Nightingale avoided me. The Folly suddenly appeared to me, more like the big old house full of memories of dead people that it was, than the home it became to me in those two years. Everywhere I found something that reminded me of Lesley. A pack of cleaning wipes in the library, a hair tie that she used as a bookmark, or the two stacked beermats I found in the Tech Cave – memories of her and what she had done.

At that point – it has to be said – I was also quite angry. I misinterpreted Nightingale's absence as him being carefree, and when I finally confronted him – perhaps a little drunk – it quickly became clear that Nightingale was afraid that I would blame him for Lesley's betrayal. It also hurt him, even though I had never thought about it before because sometimes his posh, reversed manners let you forget, that he is just a human being.

That night he promised me everything would be okay and although it was more like comforting children with empty promises, I believed him and hoped he would believe me now.

"I should be happy", Nightingale looked at me and bowed his head slightly, formulating the sentence into a question.

You spent 75 years saying goodbye to someone, I suddenly understood. After a certain time, the bad memories you shared with someone all fade away, so that we only carry the good old days in our hearts.

"I just need time... We just need time to sort ourselves out", Nightingale muttered and then stared at me as if he had forgotten I was there. Suddenly a little grin formed on his face. "Roma non uno die aedificata est."

I moaned dramatically and Nightingale patted my shoulder before he handed me my half-finished translation on the use of cutlery over the centuries over and we threw ourselves into paperwork before we turned back to bed.