AN: From this point, you will read something that you may take exception to. I'm expecting that, especially in the last two chapters. Just... remember to keep an open mind, alright?
Reminder: There are triggers in this story. Maybe toward the end of this chapter, but I didn't realize until I actually started typing it all that certain things might come up.
The story is all finished. It's all written out. It should all be up by Wednesday.
Part Two: Marcus
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
The words echoed with every heartbeat as he breathed.
A reminder, an anchor.
We're okay.
He'd been unable to get to the Towers because he'd constantly been sent elsewhere to fill in for others as they scrambled to fill other spaces while everyone else raced for the stricken buildings.
But he'd found himself a little closer than most as he helped at the docks in New Jersey.
He'd seen minor injuries and massive numbers coming off boats and ferries in shock, tears and just bafflement at the surreal scenes they'd barely escaped from. He'd seen the clouds racing all over Lower Manhattan and then people started coming off covered in dust, debris, tears running down their faces as they clung to others in helpless panic.
And the stories…
All of this was going on and he was stuck with babysitting?
But he did it, much as he itched to abandon his post, head over there and do something.
He stayed and did his job and then did whatever he was supposed to do in the aftermath.
He'd been young, a kid really, and – despite the empty chairs, despite the funerals – a part of him had envied those who got to be there.
Who got to, in some way, participate.
And he'd hated it. Kind of resented it, to some degree, but he'd decided then and there that he was going to make Detective and then he would have to be sent to the action.
It hadn't mattered that the Shield carried its own responsibilities and its own pressures and its own brand of action.
If only to have a taste of 9/11, however small and diluted it was, so be it.
And you know what? That's exactly what he got, one week ago today.
You know that cockamamie question about writing to your past self that you would do for easy credit? If he honestly could write to his 9/11 self, he would be the first to dissuade the kid, tell him to be grateful that he wasn't anywhere near the events that day because he'd gotten just a small taste of it and how it must have felt.
It was the single most fucking terrifying thing he'd ever experienced in his life.
He'd thought he could take it, whenever it came, because he'd solved the most gruesome murders no one should have had to bear witness to. He'd heard the stories that came out of Ground Zero, stories that eventually became just another horror story in his line of work.
Body parts, falling bodies, you know. Just another day.
Despite all the stories, however, everything he'd seen and done in the years since, nothing had prepared him to actually find himself staring at what used to be a building with a silent radio in his hand.
That… that changed things.
Because if he'd thought he really could handle the reality, the nightmares trounced that.
Yeah, he'd had nightmares before – all part and parcel of the Shield -, but nothing like this.
In the week since, in every combination, he and at least one other would be helpless and too far away and not enough to be able to reach the other two.
He and Gregson would be waiting for Holmes and Joan to land so they could sent along information, but the flight would crash in a field.
He and Joan would be holding down the fort while Gregson and Holmes went to some kind of meeting or conference or interview and end up wildly off course in DC.
Sometimes, he would be alone and sometimes he wouldn't, but the most terrifying scenario of them all was –
He choked on the thick dust that blanketed everything in sight.
The darkness all around him was completely, horribly, silent as it hid things he'd never imagined.
A hand was gripped tightly around his, trying to pull him in the right direction now that the cloud(s) had rolled through.
His other hand was gripping a radio.
'Captain! Come in!'
'Joan! Do you read?'
'This is Marcus and Sherlock! Where is your location?'
'Tommy! Joan! Please respond!'
'Please respond!'
He didn't go back to sleep after that.
He couldn't.
No way in hell.
Because all he could think about was that radio.
The one that never answered back.
How is it that – from all the stories he'd listened to, stories about what was seen and smelled and witnessed, from civilian to First Responder – no one had ever warned him about the most horrific silence of all?
And knowing that two of his best friends were on the other side of that silence when every other radio was blowing up…
What the hell kind of person was he, thinkin' he'd be able to handle that – handle having his heart torn out like that – and resenting the fact that he wasn't witness to any of that for himself?
Because no one could handle that.
The loss of someone he thought would always be there, someone taken for granted, someone who seemed larger than life and in-fucking- vincible.
The radio silence that went on and on and on.
He'd tasted that.
A miniscule taste, diluted by time and history.
If he was still reeling from that, no way in hell could he have taken the Actual Event itself.
And that was after knowing what happened.
The ones who were actually there had no idea of what would befall them or the long reaching effects that were still rippling through a country's psyche all this time on.
For the first time since 9/11, he wished he hadn't been anywhere near it.
Maybe that would make it better, would've made him better able to… to deal with the bombing's repercussions.
Maybe. Maybe not.
What if.
Hindsight was always 20/20.
A beeping noise had him almost jumping through several layers of ceiling before he managed to get himself enough together to recognize the alarm he'd set on his phone.
A glance at the time showed almost an hour before the dinner reservation Chantal had made for their one year anniversary. The night had been anticipated for weeks and he wanted to spend time with her, he really did.
Despite that, he still had the panicked urge to stop by the Brownstone to see if they needed back-up or an ear or a sounding board or even a damn mock victim for one of those stupid mock crime scenes that almost gave him a heart attack the first time.
Maybe even call the Captain to see if there was anything that needed doing.
But he had to tamp down that knee jerk reaction to every thought because it was the First Year Anniversary and that had to take some kind of priority, right?
He wasn't dating Holmes, Gregson or Joan – didn't plan to -, so he had to stop worrying about them.
9/11.
It happened.
It happened and the Freedom Tower took the Twins' place.
That was the knowledge he clung to as he finished getting ready.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
The mantra stuck with him as he left his apartment, got in his car and made his way to their pre-arranged location.
Chantal was gorgeous as always, even when having left the office only minutes before, but his attention didn't stick to her as easily as it usually did.
His cell and pager were both on vibrate and high volume in case he had to run off and he absently kept touching them as he presented a single specimen of her favorite flower. He might actually have been paying attention last month when Holmes had been snooping around on his own case and their paths had crossed as Marcus and Chantal had been out and about.
He still wasn't sure how they ended up being philosophical, but there'd been something that stuck about flowers and fleeting memories and Chantal had certainly remembered, too, if the soft smile was anything to go by.
"It's beautiful," she pressed a light kiss to his cheek as they linked arms, Marcus hefting her work bag as they turned toward the restaurant. "Funny how inspiration comes from the most strangest places."
Marcus simply nodded and they slowly made their way to the restaurant, her chatting about her day and him passively listening while glancing around with alert senses.
Having a plane fall out of the sky and into a building wasn't actually off the table and he knew that the Captain would probably be among the first on the scene since the older man didn't seem all that inclined to sleep in much the same fashion as he did. Come to think of it, Gregson was probably still at the office, too.
And it didn't matter where Joan and Holmes were, because they would probably drop everything to double-time it to the place where they were most needed. Joan would, anyway. Holmes would know his partner and want to tag along to try to keep her from harm in that sometimes overbearing way he had.
Their arrival to their reserved table dragged him back to the present and he managed to keep his attention there as they ordered drinks and food.
Three courses, that's what they agreed, so three courses they would have and it was when they were waiting for their appetizers that he realized Chantal had quieted.
He looked across the table at her and found her looking thoughtfully back. "Somethin' wrong?"
"You don't want to be here, do you?" she asked simply.
No, he kind of didn't, but that wasn't fair to her.
"Of course, I do," he smiled, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I was looking forward to this."
And he honestly had, too, until last week.
Before –
"Captain?"
"I think I was, too," concern tinged her features, "until last week."
"What?" he straightened. "What happened last week?"
"Marcus, is everything alright?" she watched him with warmly concerned chocolate eyes. "You were really distracted at lunch and, you know, I thought it was the job and figured you just needed to work it out yourself and you would be fine. Looking at you now, though, I'm not too sure. No, listen," she raised a finger at his opened mouth. "You went off to work after the lunch before last, remember? And you were… you were the confident junior Detective I started dating. But then, last lunch, you were distracted and actually kind of rattled and I thought you just got off a serial case - which I totally get – and you sounded fine when I talked to you since.
"But tonight… I think that case rattled you more than I thought. You're just so tense and kind of… Kind of lost, I guess. And – and I'm not gonna lie, Baby – I don't like seeing you like this. Now, I understand that it's still too… early for you to really trust me, but you don't even have to talk to me, specifically. I think… I think you need to get something out, but no pressure," she firmly reassured. "Just… I don't know. Maybe you don't need to say much, but I think you need to say something to… to settle at least a little bit. Maybe just talk a little about the case? If you want."
Marcus let his back hit the backrest as he stared at the table surface.
He was aware of Chantal watching him, both of them silent as the appetizers were laid down in front of them.
It was a long moment before she offered, "Or I could call Joan, if that would help. I'm sure she could at least hint, if I asked her to."
"Joan! Joan, it's Marcus, do you read?"
Panic rose the longer they tried until a hand suddenly gripped his as it held the radio, turning it elsewhere and a British accent sharply spoke into the device. There was this strange buzzing noise in his ears.
"Watson, do you copy? Respond!"
"Joan, it's Marcus and Sherlock," he couldn't get air into his lungs as he gasped with a British echo, "Please respond."
"It wasn't a serial," the words seemed to appear of their own accord. "But… I think I wish it was."
He felt himself breathe as he stared at the table without seeing it, the case coming back to him in crystal clear detail as if he wasn't allowed to ever forget.
Not that he could.
"We were approached by a building owner, who was getting threats. Threats against one of his properties, which are scattered all over the City. We couldn't figure out which property, so we got Holmes and Watson to come in to help. We had four days, but we also had high rise buildings in danger of damage either way. Intentional or collateral. We had to actually find the perp behind the threats and that in itself was a job, considering the amount of people who wanted to intimidate him for one reason or another."
It had been Holmes who accompanied him as they talked to a few witnesses.
Joan had been running down a few clues and leads as the Captain dealt with things like red tape.
One of the theories tossed around was that it had all been some kind of hoax to make some kind of trouble, so they went to talk to the family who owned the properties in question.
Marcus himself hadn't gotten anything from the family; the property owner was a clean by-the-book kind of guy, wife sometimes had migraines and the adopted nephew that had been orphaned again was a quiet kid who was shy but no trouble.
In the days leading up to the bombing, "We had nothin'. No clues, no leads, no idea of the property bein' targeted or if it was all of them. Three days weren't enough time, but we started clearing some of the properties and crossin' them off. We started thinkin' about clearin' the surrounding blocks, but the problem was that we still didn't know what property to focus on. Or why, but it was near the second day – near midnight – that another letter revealed that there was probably some explosives involved."
Naturally, that made the effort that much more urgent to find and evacuate the property in addition to any surrounding areas.
It definitely put pressure on him, Joan and Holmes to find the guy.
The very last day, it was Joan who figured out which building was the target and Gregson shifted the entire operation to the place she directed them to as he also began calling for a mass evacuation of the immediate area.
Meanwhile, Marcus went with Holmes, who'd finally figured out the guy behind the threats.
"And it was the damndest thing," he shook his head. "Guy had a clean record, no one hated him more than usual, but turns out the guy's a homophobe, right? Wanted to teach the owner a lesson about supportin' his nephew's 'unusual' ways."
"That poor kid," Chantal shook her head with sympathy. "He must've felt horrible about all this."
"Yeah. I'm sure the kid would be feeling even worse if he actually was gay."
And wasn't that the kicker?
It was damn near hysterical now that the immediate danger was over, but it hadn't been the least bit amusing at the time.
"You're joking," her eyes widened in disbelief. "All of that and the kid wasn't even gay?"
"Not even. Turns out, he's sweet on a girl in his neighborhood, who goes to a private school. Both of them were still dancin' around each other last I heard, but the family – livin' and deceased – were all straight."
"I don't believe this. Okay," she rubbed her temples. "If he wasn't gay, then how in the world did that idea come about?"
"I think because the poor kid 'acted more like a sissy than a real man' were the exact words."
"Typical," she scowled down at her drink. "Have a solid idea about what something is and incorrectly label those who don't cut it."
"The property owner and his family are cool with bein' gay, but none of them actually are. Some guys are more desirable to women because they act like a 'sissy', whatever that means."
"I'm not sure what 'sissy' behavior would include, but you're the right mix," she assured with a warm smile. "But that's not the end of the story, is it?"
"Holmes confirmed that there most certainly were explosives."
While Marcus couldn't claim to by any kind of explosives expert, he knew what a lab looked like and the right materials scattered all around.
"Good thing Joan was right," Marcus shook his head as he hung up the phone. "They just got done evacuating the building the explosives are in. They're almost done evacuating a one block radius around the place and in the middle of evacuating another."
Holmes seemed to be listening with half an ear as he moved around the space, sharp eyes tracking everything the way only he could.
"How many explosives we lookin' at here?" Marcus did his own sweep.
"One does not quite require a vast quantity to bring something down," he absently answered. "Certainly not an eleven story building."
He suddenly stilled in a way Marcus hated to see.
"What?" he stiffened in response, ready to spring into action.
"Not a vast quantity," he said almost to himself, "but certainly enough to compromise its infrastructure. Not just centralized points, but scattered all over. Marcus," he whirled around with wide eyes. "Alert the Bomb Unit to get out of the building. Everyone needs to be out. The building is coming down and everyone needs to be clear of it when it does."
"What about the timer?" he immediately followed as the taller man turned to the door. "Stop the timer -"
"Not a centralized location!" Holmes shouted as they picked up the pace. "Disabling the timer will do just that, disable the timer! It will not stop what's already been triggered."
"You mean the timer's a fake?" he threw himself into his car and barely waited for Holmes to shut the door before they were tearing down the street with lights on high, a couple cruisers following with their own lights and sirens to help clear the way.
"Not quite a fake, but it's not attached to any amount of explosives that will do a bloody lick of good. If it's attached to anything, it'll be a fuse that's already been lit. It's possibly a chain reaction after that."
Marcus was already on the radio, telling everyone already on the scene to get away from the building – including all the officials in the building itself. "Get everyone as far as they can get in any direction!" he barked into the device as he took a corner too fast. "Don't focus on one exit!"
"Because that's what everyone thought, you know?" he shook his head as he remembered the rush of urgency that pushed him on faster and faster.
Because he knew – they both did – that the Captain had been in the building and there was the very likely possibility that Joan wasn't just going to up and leave without him if there was the slightest chance that he would make it to safety.
Looking back on it now, knowing at least a little more about the circumstances, he couldn't help strongly suspecting that Joan's motivations were blanketed in the dust of the World Trade Center and the knowledge that at least one cop wouldn't be ending his Watch alone. That if it was time, then someone he was close to would be right alongside.
He and Holmes had ditched the car and ran the last few minutes to the perimeter to make sure Gregson and Joan would be there if they'd gone out the front, a radio being pushed into his hand with the Captain's frequency.
"Me and Holmes got to the front facing side of the perimeter," Marcus couldn't stop the slightly humorless smile as it crossed his face. "And the building fell."
They'd first believed that the building would fall toward the front, so everyone stared in complete silence as the building toppled backwards, the back half going first before taking the front half with it.
Marcus was hardly aware of the fingers fisted in his jacket as the others began to realize that the building fell the wrong way and they had no idea where anyone was.
He looked away from the devastated building and glanced toward a senior firefighter as he stared at the ruins with horror, the color rapidly leaving his face.
"Somebody answer me!" another voice shouted above the rising chatter, unadulterated panic coloring the words.
That panic was infecting everyone else as they began diving for their radios and frantically trying to check people in and Marcus felt that same panic ringing inside his own body as he looked around for the Captain or Joan and realized –
"They went out another way," Holmes supplied, gaze turning slightly frantic as he too scanned the crowd. "They didn't come out the front doors."
If they'd come out the front doors, they would have either dived to the side or kept running toward them with scant seconds to spare.
They'd had time.
At least if the building fell forward, then everywhere else would have been safe.
But it didn't, which meant –
Everyone who'd thought running toward the back would be safe had inadvertently put their lives in jeopardy and Marcus suddenly realized that his radio was still silent. One by one around them, radio calls were shakily answered and people were dumped on their knees or the ground by their overwhelming relief.
"You son of a bitch!" someone laughed into his radio, swiping at teary eyes.
"I hear that!" a voice answered back. "But, hey. If the Twin Towers falling on my head didn't kill me, this stack of pancakes didn't stand a chance!"
And that –
That did something.
Because the scene in front of him was no longer just the wreckage of one building.
No longer 'just' eleven stories.
There were tons and tons and tons of concrete rubble and miles of twisted steel as far as the eye could see, dwarfing him by miles and how could anyone still be alive under all that and –
"Tommy! Joan! Somebody answer, damn it!"
But the radio just
didn't
answer
back.
"And there were no serious injuries or fatalities?"
He jerked back to see Chantal hanging onto every word, like a child listening to a brand new bedtime story.
"No, uh, no," he swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "Every… everybody made it."
"Somebody pick up the bloody fucking radio and respond!"
No.
No.
NonononononoNO.
Not them. Not them.
Please, not them.
"Tommy! Joan!" his heart wanted to stop and speed up at the same time, the lighter hand encircling his own squeezing with a punishing grip as they unsuccessfully took turns trying to get a response.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Oh my god, no.
No, not them.
Not them.
Not them.
Those fucking Towers went straight down on top of them, burying them under miles of wreckage and no way in hell could he get to them.
Not with all this dust wrapping skinny fingers around his throat, streaming into his lungs and preventing him from taking a breath of clean air that couldn't be found in any direction.
Any rational thought was as white as the smoke surrounding him, entering his nose and wrapping around his brain so it could suffocate him just like the dust clogging his lungs.
"Marcus!" a yank almost ripped his arm from his socket as an unshakable force suddenly started pulling him along and he had no choice but to follow.
The dust was too thick to have anything penetrate it, but the hand on his seemed to know where it was going and he trusted it to help him.
But he couldn't lose it because he would be lost and completely alone and he couldn't grip back because his hand was already gripping something – a completely silent something that should've started talking by now, why was it silent? – and the bruising grip on his hand didn't feel like it was going to let him slip away.
He didn't know where it was leading him and it was long minutes – hours, days? – before they suddenly stopped.
A voice was saying something, but he didn't understand because the device was silent in his hand and he was willing it to do something because the silence was bad – the silence meant that half of his world was gone, gone, gone and he can't handle the reality of knowing there were only two now out of their four – two out of three that he never wanted to live a day of his life without –
"Marcus! Marcus, it's okay!" the voice was almost shouting in his ear. "Look! Gregson and Watson! They're fine! They're fine, Marcus! They're bloody okay!"
He was pulled to his knees and a hand was forcing his head down as another voice slowly began to penetrate the dust like a shaft of sunlight.
"We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay."
He clung to that voice as words began to make sense and then the dust was receding.
The air was suddenly clear and he gulped beautiful lungfuls of it for long moments before the pressure on his hand eased.
He glanced up, fearful that the familiar pressure would disappear, too, but his eyes were drawn to the entwined figures in front of them and he could see nothing else but that familiar figure wrapped so completely around the other, smaller, equally familiar figure as those words again penetrated.
"We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay. We'reokay."
He'd never heard a sound so beautiful as Joan Watson's voice.
He drank sight and sound in, all now right with the world, as Joan's words slowly began to echo with a British accent that Marcus' heart would've broken hearing without.
"We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."
Marcus would sit there and listen all day to the duet, but he couldn't just sit. He had to get closer and closer, seeing the makeshift ball tremble violently and his hand was suddenly buried in short strands as another voice joined in. He wasn't sure why the new voice sounded so familiar, but he clung to the words.
Those two words spoken with slowly gaining confidence.
"We're okay. We're okay. We're okay."
Three voices in unison, keeping perfect time as Marcus felt his other hand move and suddenly a pulse was thrumming against his fingertips that settled something deeper inside.
He looked down at the tan wrist attached to a hand that gripped another with white knuckled ferocity, his eyes moving along that other hand and up the arm until calm blue-green eyes met his in a steady hold that told him it was real.
Everything was fine.
It was alright.
The air was clear, fires were doused.
Time stood still, but this stillness was freeing now. A moment to sit and breathe and revel in his complete world.
One that had become buried in fire and rose from the ashes.
Because of one beautiful, freeing, crystal clear, life affirming fact:
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
"… okay?"
Marcus blinked, drawn out of the past and back to the restaurant. "Huh?"
"Everyone was okay?" Chantal repeated. "Sherlock, Joan, the Captain?"
He stared at her for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, we're okay."
"Right," she tilted her head and studied him as she nibbled on a piece of appetizer. "I think I'm missing an overarching element here," she sipped her drink for a long considering moment. "So, there was a bombing that no one could stop in time, but no casualties and everyone was fine. So…"
She was thinking pretty seriously about it, but he wasn't going to say anything else.
He couldn't.
Not without flashing back to seeing the wreckage and feeling the panic that even now still clawed at him and the radio staying still and silent and the worst realization – the chilling, heart-stopping realization – that a person could have as a result.
"And you know the most frustrating thing?" Chantal scowled at the table. "It feels like I should know what I'm missing. There's this… this alarm bell or something that keeps going off and I know I'm going to kick myself for it later, but I just can't pin it down for some reason."
"Well, maybe it'll come to you," he suggested, absently drinking his water.
"Which it probably will as soon as I go to bed next week."
"Probably."
They sat for a moment before she tipped her head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Well," she lowered her head again with a sheepish smile. "This wasn't the atmosphere or subject that I really wanted. You know what? Let's talk about something else. Something.. positive."
He started on his neglected appetizer as she finished hers with another thoughtful frown.
"Well, maybe not exactly positive, but…" she sheepishly amended, having come up with an idea. "I haven't heard from Joan at all lately. Have you seen them recently?"
"Yer, yesterday. Oh, and Gregson," since he'd taken the day off tonight and couldn't really settle after having no visible evidence of their still being hale and healthy. "Haven't seen Holmes for a while, though," he frowned. "Joan hasn't, either, but says he's been on some sort of research project. Whatever it is, though, he's not tellin' anyone. Not unusual with him, but Joan's on the fence about whether she should push or not."
He hoped everything was alright with the Brit, because Joan had expressed some concern about her partner after he came back from a trip to locations unknown.
'Rocked to the core' was the gist and Marcus once again wondered what could've done that to the usual stoic, 'stiff upper lip' Brit.
Whatever it was, it had to be Irene Level big.
Hopefully not literally, because Irene hadn't actually been a real person and then there was that whole thing with Jamie Moriarty and Irene actually being Moriarty – or the other way around because he could never quite figure that out – and no one had actually had more of an impact on Sherlock Holmes more than J. 'Irene' Moriarty.
Except for maybe Joan Watson, but that was a relationship that gave him headaches trying to understand. He eventually just came to accept the complex relationship and its quirks because it was easier for all involved.
"I hope things work out," Chantal frowned, knowing enough about Holmes and his background to have suspicions.
"Joan'll reach out if she's in over her head," there wasn't a doubt in his mind that his or Gregson's number would be the first on her speed dial in such an event where she needed help, especially if it was Holmes related.
Chantel tilted her head and opened her mouth before closing it thoughtfully.
"What?" he coaxed.
"On the one hand," she finally answered, "I think Joan would fall apart before looking for help, but something tells me that you and the Captain would just have to corner her in some sort of tag-team and she'll start talking. I don't know, it's like the four of you are your own unit or something. It's not bad," she assured, "but I wonder how well all of you know each other. I know you don't think you know a lot – and heaven knows that none of them are exactly open -, but you know more than anyone else does about them. Everyone knows that you're the favorite with the Captain and I heard how Sherlock refused to stick with any Detective after you got shot."
"Probably because they did something that annoyed him," he shrugged. He'd heard those stories, too, but didn't think there was any difference even with their 'partnership' restored.
"He kind of reminds me of a feral cat," she mused. "You remember one of my high school girlfriends moved, right? To Philly. We talk a lot and she said the other day that one of her co-workers was complaining about a feral cat in her neighborhood that suddenly decided to start living under her front porch. It keeps watching her, so she asked around and found out that the cat never really stayed in one place since before she moved there. Out of all the places the cat could've chosen to essentially move in with, it chose her."
"You're sayin' Holmes chose to live under my front porch?" he snorted.
The cat part, actually, seemed about right. Then what would that make Joan? A black cat who decided to keep an eye on the Catnip addict?
Gregson would get a kick out of that.
"Something like that, yeah," she shrugged. "Is that really such a crazy idea?"
She excused herself to the restroom a moment later as Marcus amused himself with the thought of Holmes and Joan running around the station as felines constantly getting underfoot.
Damn sight better than thinking of a radio in his hand that wasn't answering his calls.
He was snickering at the idea of a feline Holmes in a chicken costume when his phone buzzed in his breast pocket.
The contact number was from one of the other Detectives, but the smile dropped from his face when his eyes locked on the message:
'Brownstone. NOW'
He was diving into his car seconds later and the drive was one blur after another – at one point there might've been a cruiser siren behind him, but he didn't remember – until he was parking and staring in horror at the row of houses alight with flames and smoke pouring from the familiar block.
"Marcus!" a hand almost yanked his arm from its socket as he darted past. "Stop!"
"Let me go!" he snarled, trying to yank his arm back, but found himself pinned face first into a building down the street from the place he and Gregson had gotten so familiar with the past handful of years.
The Brownstone was just as much a part of Holmes and Watson as solving puzzles were. It had become part of their identity and – and now…
"Marcus Bell, snap out of it and listen to me," the voice almost yelled into his ear. "Gregson's about to pull up now, but Holmes and Watson are alright! We have eyes on them, Watson just got in. Both are fine."
The panic was trying its damndest to pull him under, but the wall his face was being forced into was helping reason fight back as the rough surface gave him friction to focus on. He might be plucking hair out, but the more sensation he got, the more focus his mind had.
"That's it," the voice encouraged, Marcus' mind clearing enough to recognize the voice as one of the older Detectives from the 11th. "You're getting there."
The man's weight managed to ground him, but he still had to see Holmes and Watson for himself to make sure they were alright.
There was a commotion nearby a few moments later, signaling Gregson's arrival.
"Captain!" someone called. "Bell is over here!"
"Marcus," the older man suddenly materialized next to him as he was finally released.
"Hey, Captain," he greeted, keeping his side propped against the wall as he turned to see barely contained panic and worry clashing with exercised professionalism as his eyes moved constantly from one point to another.
"Seen 'em yet?" a hand clamped on his arm as they moved more toward the Brownstone and he let that grip more or less keep him up as his legs felt like jelly.
"No, but someone has," he was vaguely aware of answering. He, too, searched for two familiar figures in the crowd of activity, his very self pleading with something he wasn't actually sure he believed in to find them in one piece.
The fire ran hot as they watched the firefighters try to tame it. The smoke billowed into the night sky that had already seen too much.
Too much loss, heartbreak, tragedy.
Doubtless how much more it would see in the centuries to come.
The smoke, though, looked like rolling clouds and Marcus' mind couldn't help flashing to other images – these in daylight against a beautiful blue sky -, smoke rolling over the top of one antennaed Tower before the last collapse in a chain of events that lasted at least two hours.
We're okay.
We're okay.
He wrenched his mind back to the present as he scanned the faces around them, refusing to look back at the carnage.
His eyes slid past the crowd around him several times, panic growing the more he failed to see two familiar faces that should've met them already, and it seemed pure luck that someone further down caught his gaze and waved frantically.
He was tearing past EMS, onlookers, cops, firefighters, hoses, equipment – hell, an ostrich for all he cared -, before slamming to a halt and spying two figures struggling with each other on the ground. Something clenched as his eyes locked on them and someone was yelling into his ear, then he was hitting the ground on his knees right next to them.
Marcus maneuvered into Holmes' line of sight to see unfocused light eyes – or maybe not completely unfocused as Joan tried to escape her partner's iron grip. He found his fingers buried in soft hair as he tried getting the other man's attention, Joan's attention so completely on the Brownstone that he didn't think he would be able to get her attention.
Holmes' eyes were locked on him, his lips moving around what looked like familiar words the longer Marcus watched him. His hearing was strange, though, so he couldn't hear even if he wanted to.
"Joan," his attention went to her as his free hand gripped her shoulder. "Joan!" he slightly shook her, but his hearing was muffled still. Her mouth was moving as tears streamed from her eyes, but Marcus just couldn't hear as he tried to bring her attention to him.
He didn't even know if he was saying anything and wasn't sure if that was just him or not. He looked at Holmes, but Joan jerked and was suddenly scrambling up.
"Joan!" panic had him diving after her, not hesitating to haul her back into him, but she was actually stronger than she looked. It didn't help that she seemed hell bent on getting to the Brownstone as it burned.
He was just as hell bent on keeping her away from it, but she fought him so ferociously that he kept losing his grip and she managed to overbalance him, his heart stopping as she slipped away.
"JOAN!" something popped in his ears and he was suddenly hearing a whole cacophony of sounds, but he was fixed on Joan as she tried to race toward the Brownstone.
Luckily, a figure stopped her by stepping into her path so that she crashed into him.
Unluckily, Marcus couldn't stop before slamming into the pair of them and he'd gotten his arms around the struggling figure before realizing that Gregson was on her other side.
"Hold her!" someone yelled as Marcus gripped her with everything he had. A pair of arms gripped him around the bac, pulling him in, as others surrounded them. Almost instantly, the fight began leaving Joan's slight frame and her heartbreaking sobs were muffled into Gregson's shirt as she slid toward drugged sleep.
Eventually, Marcus and Gregson were the only things preventing her from slipping completely to the ground as others stepped back, but Marcus only pressed closer to Gregson as his own legs started going a little unsteady.
"Hey," a voice rumbled in his ear. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just…" Marcus tightened his grip on Joan as Gregson tightened his grip on him. He breathed Joan's shampoo, with hints of either lotion or a slight perfume, mixed with Gregson's light aftershave and felt his racing heart start to calm.
'We're okay,' he reminded himself. 'We're okay. We're okay.'
Gregson seemed to know what Marcus needed and stood solid as he leaned his and Joan's weight into him.
He reluctantly stepped back long minutes later, keeping his grip on Joan's unconscious body as he did so. "What was that all about?" he asked as a few Uniforms from the Department came forward to take her.
Gregson absently dismissed them as he scooped her up himself. "Hell if I know."
"Uhm, sir?" one of them spoke up uncertainly. "I don't mean to… well, from what I understand, it… it seemed like she wanted to retrieve something."
"Nothin' could be that important," Marcus frowned. "Enough to get yourself toasted over."
"You would be surprised," Gregson quirked a smile as he got a better grip on their Consultant.
"What, you got somethin' you'd run into a burning building for?" he quirked a disbelieving brow.
"You don't?"
"Sirs?" one of the female Uniforms got their attention, amazement and disbelief coloring her features. "What… um, what are we going to do with Holmes?"
Marcus looked over Gregson's shoulder. "I don't know," he watched the fire, Gregson turning slightly to follow his gaze. "I guess the Brownstone's history," and that…
He was probably in shock, because he should feel something about that.
Instead, all he could really think was, 'Hudson's gonna kick someone's ass for this.'
"No, it's – it's not that. I mean, that's part of it, I guess?" Marcus turned back to see her helpless shrug. "It's just… he's over there," she pointed at the figure still on the ground, two other Unis standing sentinel over him. "He's… he's probably fine, but –"
"Spit it out, please," Gregson ordered to cut into the matter.
"He's either passed out or… asleep."
"… what?"
Marcus blinked up at the ceiling with an arm tossed over his chest and an unfamiliar mattress against his back.
He blinked a few times, turning his head to the right and tracing the arm back to a mop of long black hair. Beyond that, a mop of shorter lighter hair was buried in the pillow.
"Mornin'," Gregson greeted as his figure ambled into view above him when he looked back. The older man looked like he'd gone on an overnight bender, complete with mussed hair and bruised eyes over rumpled clothes. "You passed out in the car."
He stared for a long moment before memories started trickling back.
"The Brownstone," he brought a hand up to rub his eyes. "Hell."
"My exact thoughts," Gregson sat on the chair next to the bed Marcus had been piled onto. "Can't believe it," he sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "We don't know what happened, but we're taking precautions considering their other clients. From what we've gathered, Joan just wrapped up a burglary case and Holmes was off doin' God knows what. Hudson called. The turtle and the bees are fine."
"That's good to hear," Marcus knew how much bees meant to Holmes and he himself felt relief that he wasn't going to have to break the 'about your turtle' news like one time back when he worked Patrol. And he supposed he could admit to being fond of the small pet that sometimes sat by his shoes and once let him feed it a lettuce leaf.
"Yeah, well," Gregson huffed a slight sigh. "Bad enough we're gonna have to break the 'about your Brownstone' news if they don't already remember."
A pulse thrummed under his fingers and he blinked down to see his own hand wrapped around the limp wrist over him.
'We're okay,' he decoded, his heart thrumming the same. 'We're okay. We're okay.'
"Bad enough we'll have to break that news," Gregson leaned back and crossed his arms. "Just didn't expect to feel torn up about it."
The Brownstone was part of the dynamic that was Holmes and Watson, and basically the center of their crazy world.
Strangely enough, Marcus understood what the Captain meant, because knowing that he'd never walk through the cluttered halls and rooms and look over Manhattan from their rooftop again…
Knowing late nights and easy nights and unintended nights on the floor with Gregson, Watson – sometimes Alfredo and Kitty once or twice -, Clyde shuffling over his legs and Holmes watching them sleep. It honestly should've been creepy as hell, but there was a – a comfort in knowing someone he trusted was keeping watch.
Knowing a quick stop lasting well into hours, knowing he wouldn't knock on that door again, knowing picking up people or things and celebrating holidays and birthdays and once even a toy poodle's adoption day and seeing Holmes stare at his 'wall of crazy' and Joan sliding his 'Good Luck' mug in front of him.
All of it.
Just…
Gone.
Knowing none of that would ever happen again in the Brownstone made emotions well up that made him blink back tears and sobs that suddenly wanted to bubble up.
Maybe it hadn't been home, exactly, but it was close enough.
Gregson reached out and squeezed his shoulder in understanding. "I know. There's just something…"
He let the touch and the pulse against his fingers ground him, the reminder that the ones who had made the Brownstone what it had been were still there.
"Looks like we'll be here for a few days," Gregson spoke after enough time had passed. "At least until we figure out what caused the fire."
Marcus nodded, throat raw from the emotional outpour – which didn't make much sense because he hadn't lived there -, and levered himself up slightly to see his bedmates. "How're they?" he rasped.
"Not entirely sure," Gregson admitted, his hand staying in place to assist his movements. "Joan's still sedated and who knows what's wrong with the other one. Looks like hell, though."
"Case?" he eyed the Brit as he slept on completely unaware of his surroundings.
"We'll have to ask. If it was, it's not one of ours."
Marcus slowly sat up, holding Joan's wrist a second longer before setting it gently against her side and swinging around to sit on the edge, pausing before pushing upright on two legs that almost dumped him right back down again.
"Easy," Gregson supported him as they made their way to the three person table in front of the sofa. The curtains were drawn except for a stripe in the middle that let enough light in to see. "I'll go get some breakfast. Can you keep an eye on things?"
"Go," Marcus nodded. He was left with a bottle of water, a roll of paper towels and two Consulting Detectives who slept on.
The bottle was half done by the time he remembered the phone in his pocket. Missed calls were from a variety of people – mostly from everyone who knew Holmes and Joan and heard about the fire -, and Gregson probably started spreading the word because the calls stopped after midnight.
Really, the most recent call was at one by –
Chantal.
Oh no.
He winced as he night's memories rolled over him.
Bad enough he ran out on the date – the First Year Date, no less -, but she'd more than likely had still been in the bathroom when he left.
He looked at her name on the screen for a long moment before letting out a sigh and deciding to get it over with. 'How upset are you?' he ventured through text.
'Marcus?' came her immediate response, almost like she was waiting for some kind of contact from him. 'Is everyone in one piece? I heard on the news.'
'We're okay,' he assured. 'I can't tell you were we are, but we're safe right now.'
'Joan and Sherlock?'
He glanced over at them and sighed. 'Joan was more affected than he was. We think he's been on some kind of case. They're both asleep."
'And Clyde? The bees?'
Gregson said they're okay, too. No one or thing had been home at the time.' That was probably the luckiest timing he'd ever seen.
'I get Joan and Sherlock being out, but the animals?'
'Just adds to the question pile.'
'I'm glad everyone's alright. Can you talk?'
'Not at the moment,' he decided. 'Not physically, anyway. Listen, I'm sorry about running off last night.'
'Do you regret it?'
That was an odd thing to ask.
'Regret missing a milestone?' he checked. 'Sure.'
'That's not what I asked and you know it.'
Chantal was wonderful and he could see them together for at least a couple more years – if nothing else happened before then. And after? Who only knew -. She was smart and gorgeous and funny and he felt very comfortable with her.
And yet…
'Well, okay. Let me rephrase,' Chantal suggested. 'If we finished the night under different circumstances – after a serial case -, what would be your reaction to hearing about the Brownstone?'
Had it been a serial case, instead of a bombing case, year, he'd be concerned about Holmes and Joan. They were his friends – as strange as that was – and he would want to know they were alright.
Since there was a distinct possibility that it could be arson, anyway, he would be concerned had he not shown up to the fire. The two would've been missing and he would probably push to know their location, but…
'I wouldn't have left, I guess,' he answered.
'Fair enough,' she accepted. 'But it wasn't a serial, was it? It was a bombing and the building collapsed.'
And it was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, the deafening silence as the wreckage settled.
The deafening silence coming from the radio he held.
There was only one reason why Gregson or Joan wouldn't answer and his world was falling apart as a hand squeezed his just as hard as something squeezed his chest and there was dust in the air and he couldn't breathe.
"Bell? Marcus?" he was suddenly taking deep breaths as a pair of blue eyes swam into focus. "With me?" Gregson was squeezing his shoulder.
"Yeah," he choked, eyes we from the coughing, dust, panic. "Fine."
"Not sure if this is going to help, but I think you need it," a warm cup was in his hands and he closed his eyes at the first sip of caffeine just the way he liked it. "Just sit and breathe."
His friend's hand stayed on his shoulder as he worked his way through a fifth of the cup before his phone buzzed a few times with new messages.
'I thought so,' she'd replied when he didn't answer. 'I'm not a cop and I was out of town, but I can only imagine what happened on 9/11. Figured out the missing element, by the way. You can imagine how hard I'm kicking myself.
'I think you should know that I was actually on my way back to the table when you to a text message. Knew right away that it was either Gregson, Joan or Sherlock because I've seen your reaction to news about your actual family and neither one has ever made the color drain from your face that quick.
'Take care of them, okay? We'll make up last night in a month, which should give you some time to see what the situation is. Worst case scenario, we have the First Year Anniversary a week before our Second. Don't worry about anything from my end. Just focus on them.'
Just focus on them.
He looked past Gregson to the lumps he'd left on the bed and what he wouldn't give to be back under Joan's arm in that bed, her pulse soothing him.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
He would probably never know if he would've come to a similar conclusion at a different time, but it was all academic now. For the three people in front of him, he would walk through literal fire if he had to and he couldn't recall off the top of his head if he would do the same for anyone else.
He had a feeling he wouldn't.
"Nothin' means the same when it's someone you're in the habit of seein' every day," he swallowed. "Then everything you thought you knew – everything you wanted to think you knew – just gets jumbled up."
Had it been anyone else on the other end of that radio, he wouldn't have been personally affected to such a sever degree. Probably would've gone right on thinking someone like him would've been able to handle 9/11 if that was the case.
But it hadn't been and he was stuck with nightmares he didn't have any business even having, never mind how Gregson did it.
Marcus may have – at one point – wanted to be a 9/11 Responder, but not anymore. The real ones were like this exclusive club he didn't have a chance to be part of.
He didn't want to be, he knew that now.
"You were there on 9/11," he spoke almost absently, brown eyes meeting blue. "You have nightmares. When did you start subbing one of us in those nightmares?"
"A week ago," he smiled slightly. "I have the nightmares, sure, but not until last week that they got worse."
"Am I allowed to have those, too?" he couldn't help asking.
"What, and leave me alone to deal with them?" the smile turned warm. "You can have nightmares about anything you want."
He felt a little better about it as he turned his gaze back to the sleeping pair.
"We're okay," Gregson squeezed his shoulder a little tighter. "We're okay."
"We're okay," Marcus echoed, holding onto that with desperation. "We're okay."
We're okay.
We're okay.
He turned back to his phone and typed, 'No, I don't.'
'Good,' she answered a moment later. 'I'd have shot you with your own gun if you said you did.'
He would've gladly let her.
'I'm not sure when I'll be able to meet up again,' he warned her. 'We don't have a lot to work with right now.'
'Well, I hope you get answers soon. We'll need to start rebuilding the Brownstone pretty soon, once everything is cleared up, I mean.'
'Rebuild?'
'Of course,' as if there was any doubt. 'The Freedom Tower didn't just build itself, you know. We'll rebuild the Brownstone and everything will more or less get back to normal. We rebuilt after 9/11 and we can rebuild after this, too.'
Marcus nodded slightly and sighed. 'Okay.'
'Good. I have to go, but we'll talk again soon.'
'Have a good day,' he bid her before she went silent.
"Well?" Gregson was watching him.
"Uh, that was Chantal. She said that we're going to rebuild the Brownstone."
"Alright," he nodded, settling back on his heels. "Then that's what we'll do."
That's what we'll do.
The Freedom Tower didn't just build itself.
We rebuilt after 9/11 and we can rebuild after this, too.
That's what we'll do.
We're okay.
"Alright," Marcus nodded, watching their Consultants.
That's what we'll do.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We'll rebuild, because we're okay.
If we aren't right now, we will be.
"Here," something was shoved in his hands and he started eating without looking away from the two on the bed.
We're okay.
They were all together and that would make it okay.
"We're okay," he mumbled around the food he was eating.
"We're okay," Gregson agreed, a hand squeezing his shoulder again.
We're okay.
We're okay.
We're okay.
End Part Two
** Next Chapter Peek:
"My sincerest apologies for my earlier... transgression."