Malcolm complies dutifully as Gil leads him outside to the ambulance.

The cold air isn't much of a shift from how the basement had felt, and he finds he'd much rather be inside again with the heat blasting. It's not quite a comfort to know the hospital is where they're heading now, because they seemingly keep that place as cold as they can - but either way, he knows better to argue or object when Gil gets that look on his face. Now that he's not so focused on Martin now, and rather hyper-aware of the erratic, unsteady pounding of his heart, he does recognize that maybe he does need to go, anyway. He can still feel the electricity sparking through his veins - and furthermore, he knows damn well his heart can't take that. Truthfully, he's not quite sure how he's still up and on his feet right now. He's not quite steady; he can hardly feel his legs and Gil is about ninety percent of his physical support right then, and it's a wonder he's even standing at all. He's gone into cardiac arrest for a lot less than this.

Of course, that was back in DC, when a simple nightmare could scare him into a good day-or-so visit to the hospital. He'd tried switching around his meds a little, spreading them out, knocking some off altogether, and for the most part, he'd been okay. He hadn't had an incident since he'd returned to New York. But, then, he also hadn't been electrocuted about a dozen times yet, so…

"Are you alright?" Gil's voice draws him from his thoughts a little abruptly as he surrenders the younger man over to the paramedics, letting them take him and lay him onto the stretcher.

"Yeah," is all he can murmur in response, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn't fade, that same sticky feeling he'd been stuck with since they left the basement. Remembering what he'd done - or what he didn't do - back there causes his heart to instinctively pump a little quicker, harsh and frantic and uncontrollable, pounding against his ribcage with a rhythmatic but irregular series of ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-ba-bump- and Malcolm knows going to the hospital is a good idea, now more than ever. The sooner he gets out of Gil's sight, the better. The pure guilt and shock of what he'd done is making him increasingly nauseous.

He can't stop asking himself why. Why he hadn't said anything. Why he hadn't done anything. Martin had every chance to escape from Claremont - a known serial killer, the Surgeon himself - and Malcolm could have stopped it, but he hadn't. He'd just let him walk off with the key card.

His heart rate picks up. This time he can hear the beeping on the monitor.

Gil's expression shifts suddenly, climbing into the ambulance with them. The paramedics suddenly look horrified, stunned, frozen for a second - Malcolm doesn't know what the big deal is until he twists his head around to look toward the monitor they'd hooked him up to, head whirling dangerously for a second as he sees that his heart rate had skyrocketed right up into the two-hundreds and was still climbing higher. Higher, and higher, and he was lightheaded and-

"Oh," he manages to breathe, "that's not good."

"Bright-"

"Sir-"

He doesn't respond. Can't respond.

Heart rate still climbing steadily, Malcolm lets his eyes drift shut, and they don't open again.


It's not his first time waking up in a hospital, but it's the first time he wakes up without being startled from a nightmare. Actually, his waking is surprisingly peaceful; after the night he'd had, one would have expected him to plunge straight into the horrors of his subconscious, for his mind to turn against him like usual. But everything was blissfully dark and numb and nothing. He wakes up slowly, drawn from his slumber by a steady staccato of beeps, the gentle pulsing of his heart - under control now, no longer pounding as furiously and uncontrollably as before. The moment he manages to pry his eyes open, a familiar face is up and at his side, a hand on his arm, and a voice with a concern he doesn't deserve is saying, "Malcolm? Hey, kid, you okay?"

Malcolm breathes in, chest tight, shuddering with the force it takes just to inhale, and nods. "I'm," he starts and stutters out again, staring at Gil for a moment, and shivers. "I'm sorry."

Gil's eyebrows furrow slightly, squeezing his arm. "Sorry for what?" He asks dubiously, but Malcolm only shakes his head, mouth dry, and doesn't say anything else after that. Again, he knows he should. He knows he should be spilling his guts right now, but god help him, he can't. A part of him hopes Mr. David or someone will find the card before any harm can be done. Almost every part of him does. Except one part. One part. The part of him that had snuggled up close to his father, held on tight and buried his face into his shoulder and told him he loved him.

That part of him wants his dad, Surgeon or not.

That part of him scares him silent for the rest of his time in the hospital.


A whole week passes. Malcolm does his best to convince Gil that he's okay, and he stays about as far away from Claremont as he can even long after they let him leave the hospital, a day after he'd arrived. He doesn't mention his father, and he appreciates that Gil doesn't bring up or ask about what happened down there in the basement during the time he was stuck with Martin.

Guilt and fear keeps him locked in his apartment for the first few days.

The day after he leaves the hospital, Jessica calls him to the mansion. She sits him down at the table, and they pass glasses back and forth while Malcolm watches her pour water, absently listening to her talk about the day she'd had, about Hans, about a rabbit hole, and then she-

She hands him a glass and he reaches out to take it, open mouthed to thank her - until, with a smile on her face, she tells him, "I actually thought that you might have killed Nicholas Endicott."

(His sister's bloodstained, wild-eyed face flashes in his mind, the knife dripping with blood.)

Funny, isn't it? His own voice chuckles in his head, mocking him, taunting him. Malcolm can do nothing but stare at Jessica as she pulls her hand away from the glass, watching him intently. She's expecting a reaction. Maybe expecting him to laugh it off, to tell her that's ridiculous. But the only thing he can do is stare. His hand, still curled around the top of the glass, begins to shake and tremble, the water inside sloshing against the sides, and Jessica's pleasant expression quickly withers into something a little more troubled. You're protecting two killers.

Malcolm flinches. The glass slips from his fingers and crashes to the table, luckily not shattering. But it tips over and the water spills out across the table, over the sides of it, onto the floor. Jessica jumps a little, sucking in a shaky breath, eyes snapping down to the glass and then back up to Malcolm's pale face as he clutches his shaking hand to his chest and shrinks back.

"Malcolm," she breathes, a horrified whisper, disbelief etched across her face. "You didn't…"

He stares at her for a moment, guilt-ridden, scared, then pushes his chair back and scrambles to his feet. Jessica watches with wide eyes, pupils barely pinpricks as he stumbles back.

"I'm sorry," is all he can say, stammering as he staggers backwards. "I'm sorry-"

Jessica doesn't say anything. She just covers her mouth, staring at him.

Malcolm feels like he's gonna throw up. The room is spinning, he's dizzy, he's cold. She knows. Well - no, she doesn't know. She doesn't know the truth. She thinks he killed Nicholas. And that's- that's good. That's really good. She needs to think that. She can't know it was Ainsley.

But he needs to get out of there.

So he does.

He leaves.

He runs.

And he hasn't talked to his mother since that night.


After a few days of shutting himself off in his apartment and ignoring everyone else's phone calls, Malcolm comes to the conclusion that nothing is going to happen concerning his father. As far as everyone is concerned, the Surgeon is still locked away safely in Claremont. Malcolm still refuses to visit, but Martin calls him regularly - and although Malcolm doesn't answer, he still takes comfort in each phone call he receives, recognizing the number from Claremont easily. It's nothing but a comfort to know that Martin is still locked away where he can't hurt anyone.

(At least, that's what he tells himself.)

And still, he's… on edge. He's erratic. He flinches each time his phone rings and his tremors are worse, and his nightmares are worse, and he can't sleep, and he hardly leaves his place now. His apartment is a mess because he can't bring himself to clean up after himself anymore, clothes strewn over the floor, dirty dishes and empty champagne glasses on the counters.

Ainsley comes by to check on him. Malcolm doesn't let her past the doorway.

He goes to work, tries to focus on a case to keep himself busy. JT finally comes in, happily showing them photos of little JT Junior as they work the case, and Malcolm tries - he really does - to get as excited as Dani and Gil do, to get into the case, to be there. But he can't stop checking his phone. Phone calls from Martin pile up. Paranoia eats at him with each passing second. He feels like he's on the verge of an impending breakdown, one step from the edge.

He's not all there. He's on autopilot, going through the motions.

The others know it, too. Dani keeps glancing at him, worried looks cast in his direction. Gil asks him if he's okay every few minutes. JT doesn't say anything, but once, when they close up the latest case, he claps a hand over Malcolm's shoulder from behind as he's passing somewhat casually, kind of a congratulations of sorts, and he flinches. Violently. His body shudders under the touch and JT's hand freezes in the air as it lifts. For a second, he's not even sure the man saw - but then he turns to face Malcolm with a rare spark of concern in his gaze. "... you good?"

Just like that, it's like whatever tether was holding him together inside just suddenly snaps. He doesn't even know why. It's such a simple question, but he freaks out. "I don't know, okay?!"

JT's shoulders jerk a little, staring at him, but to his credit, he doesn't move or step back.

The concern in his gaze intensifies.

Malcolm blinks a few times, struggling with the panic pounding strong through his chest, and realizes what he'd done a little too late. Guilt overtakes him at once, and it must show on his face, because JT's usually stoic expression falters into something a little softer, the concern moving from his eyes to shadow over his features completely as he steps closer to the man.

"What's goin' on?" He asks, quietly, as if he doesn't want anyone to hear.

Like it's a secret that Malcolm's falling apart at the seams.

Despite himself, he laughs. Soft and sharp and breathless and pained.

"Nothing," he manages, "nothing, that's the problem."

He leaves without elaborating, and he can still feel JT's gaze fixed on his back as he retreats.


They're at the precinct, a week later, eight-o'-clock sharp in the morning, when the news comes in. Dani, JT and Gil are discussing the latest case while Malcolm sits at the table with his face in his hands. Today is just one of the days where he's just completely, utterly exhausted. Something's wrong. Something's wrong with him. It's been a week since everything at Claremont had gone down. Martin had stopped calling him a few days ago, which was scary enough in itself, but he'd been keeping an eye on the news and so far nothing had come up.

But something's still wrong. He can't shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the constant pain and guilt and anger and fear. It's eating him alive, destroying him from the inside out. He's tired, he's grumpy, he can't think straight. He doesn't even want to work. Solving cases isn't the distraction it used to be. All of his coping mechanisms are flopping, falling completely flat, and-

And he's losing his mind, he's losing his mind, he's losing his fucking mind-

"Bright, you with us?"

"Mhm," Malcolm hums, but he's not. He hasn't heard a thing they've been saying. A shudder rolls through him, hands shaking as he runs them through his hair and lifts his head up.

Gil looks at him for a long moment, exchanges a glance with the other two, and goes, "... mayb-"

Edrisa bursts in before he can finish. Glasses crooked, hair a mess, her expression a startling mixture of elation and panic. Malcolm's gaze lands on her and his stomach shrivels up before she even catches her breath to speak. He knows. He knows before she even opens her mouth.

"The Surgeon-" She gasps, "-the Surgeon just escaped Claremont."


The precinct goes into a complete panic.

Excusing himself to go home, check on Sunshine and lock himself in, Malcolm leaves.


For the first time in a week, he answers a phone call from Jessica, practically screaming at him to get home and stay inside and get to safety. Malcolm tries half-heartedly to reassure her that he's fine, and offers her the same advice, telling her to lock the doors and keep herself and Ainsley safe. He wants to go there, but he can't bring himself to. Gil calls when he's about halfway to his apartment and tells him he's sending a team over to watch the mansion and make sure Martin can't get to Jessica and Ainsley. Malcolm does his best to assure him, as well, that he'll be okay, and that he doesn't need anyone to watch his apartment. Gil doesn't agree, genuinely fighting him for the first time in a long time, until it escalates to the point where Malcolm just hangs up on him, feeling as if the edge had completely vanished from under him.

His door is cracked when he gets to his apartment.

He stands outside for a long time, just staring at it. He knows he should call someone. Call Gil. Call for backup. Get the team down here. Do not fucking go through that door, Malcolm Bright.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Malcolm flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

Don't go in there

It's just your dad

He's a serial killer

Ainsley's a killer

He's the Surgeon

He's your father

He's a monster

There's no such thing as monsters

He's a liar

You've never lied?

He's dangerous

Like father, like children

He's a predatory sociopath

He loves you

He's incapable of love

You love him

Malcolm shudders, a cold prickle down his spine, and presses forward. Moving without permission, the world blurring and spiraling into nothingness around him as he pushes the door open completely and makes his way up the stairs, shutting the door tight behind him. He doesn't scale the steps slowly, no; he's quick to make his way up into his loft. Sunshine is in her cage, surprisingly content - a sharp contrast to how frantic and angry she always seems whenever Jessica enters his apartment when he's not home. She's not chirping or fluttering around or rattling the cage. She's perched calmly, preening her feathers when Malcolm enters, and offers only a quick trill to him as a hello, and he wonders for just a second if maybe he was wrong-

Then the smell of tea floods his senses, nearly choking him, rendering him breathless, making his throat hurt, and he turns. Martin's there, standing on the other side of his counter, wearing that same leather jacket, clutching a beanie in one hand and a steaming cup in the other.

"Malcolm, my boy!" He exclaims, warm, happy, excited. "Welcome home."