In this chapter you guys are going to meet Mary, or in this case Martin. I have already decided he'll look like Micheal Fassbender. So not much really goes on between the two in this chapter, but it won't really happen until the next chapter either. I plan on doing maybe three or four more chapters and then I'll move on to the next part of the series, which will indeed have Sherlock! How to coordinate between all of them will be explained last chapter. Thank you for all the follows, favorites and comments. They're really encouraging and they mean so much!
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of it's previously owned titles.
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A sigh slithers from June's lips, leaning into her seat with an exasperated hunch. Seven months and her emotions were still riding a roller coaster, friction of the past sliding her up several walls. Taking her glass like cup in hand she takes a sip of her coffee. She almost squints, the bitter taste drying her tongue. Either way she takes another.
She couldn't drink tea anymore, she didn't understand why, the aroma plunging her into a distaste. Four months ago she'd be all over it, but now it was just a substance she couldn't nor wanted to have. So here she was now, drinking coffee, the bean mixed water a substitute for her once beloved tea.
There's a knock on her door and she opens it before the person behind the sheet of wood can, greeting the young Braydon into her office along with his father. They do the regular check-up, and afterwards the little boy receives a treat. She goes back to her desk, the father, Michael standing next to her, as if waiting for something.
June, intrigued stares up at him. "I heard you're looking for some help…I mean, with the front desk and all." She shrugs, giving him a small smile. Where had he heard that? Yes, she was looking for some help, but not to the point that it was dire. But it would be appreciated.
"Yes, I am. Where'd you hear about that?" June swivels the chair to face him, crossing her legs.
"I have a friend who's looking for a job." He states calmly and she can't help but notice he'd avoided the question, not that it should bother her, but it does. "He's a nurse right now down at St. Barts. But it just isn't fitting him right now and he's looking for a part timer." June thinks it over. She did need an assistant, things could get overwhelming without one. Like last week. She did not want to revisit that again.
"Nurse?"
"Ah, yes, is that an issue…?" She shakes her head no.
"Of course not. And he's looking for a part time job…here?" Michael shrugs.
"Anywhere really, but I thought I'd help him out." He flashes her a smile, simple and average but charming in its own way. "His names Martin, good guy, has plenty of experience, he's been a nurse for quite some time, maybe seven, eight years?"
"I'll think about it." June stands, giving Braydon one more lollipop for his patience. He gives her a large smile, full of teeth and lip. "Just tell him to come over here on…Tuesday?" She scurries back over to her computer, looking at her set days and times, seeing if she had any explicable free time. And she does. "Yeah, Tuesday at four'o'clock." Michael nods with a gracious smile.
After saying their goodbyes he's out the door with little Braydon in hand. June leans back into her chair, watching as the door shuts and her chest clenches. The more children she saw the weaker she grew to the idea. She loved children. They were bright and full of life, so innocent and caring when it came right down to it.
They loved you unconditionally. That is of course until they hit their teenage years. Indefinitely so, they were a warmth that she encountered every day, something she wanted but knew she couldn't have. Something she shouldn't. She wasn't at all stable, the balance between sanity and it breaking; all of her thinning by the days that had gone by.
Though it had grown stronger, her sense of security and hope, she finally felt as if she could breathe. Those little gasps a victory for everyday life. Though she wasn't saying she was exactly better, there were still times where she thought being a loose end, a cut string would be a better solution than dealing with her day to day life.
It being dull, a blunt blade that rubbed her raw, sank in slowly in the hopes that the pinch would push her when that dreaded sorrow wouldn't. But she had remained strong. Or at least she had tried to do so.
She still stood, her heels digging to the ground with an impregnable, cogent pose. A stance secure and terribly tenacious. She refused to let herself go down, she needed to keep herself up, for the sake of herself, for the sake of her sanity.
As much as she'd like to meet Sherlock, where ever the hell he was, heaven or hell she couldn't. She huffs, because she feels that welling in her stomach, that specific tremble in her knees as she brings up a single thought, idea, theory.
When she was alone, when her thoughts surrounded her she finds that she leads herself to believe that he might still be alive. That this all some sick joke, one she could see Sherlock playing on her, not for a fit of laughs. Not like some twisted inhuman jest.
But as an experiment. But the more she repeated it daily in her judgement, engrossing her assessment of what she had really seen, the more asinine it became. The theory rapidly growing impractical, fatuous, absurd and nonsensical, a fairy tale that had rooted itself deep within herself.
One she'd have to tug, rip and scratch at for years just to get it out. Fictions such as that were unrealistic, even for Sherlock, even for her. She doesn't realize is, but she's scraping her pen into the top of her table to the point of an indent.
She yanks the ink filled capsule from her table top and sighs, leaning over and brushing her hand onto her cheek. The dent is black, full of an ink that will fade in an instance. It will start slow, but eventually it with capsize and diminish in volume. That deep sense of dark just fading away into a gray, and soon a white.
She realizes, sadly, that that was what she was. Right now, she was that grey, and soon she'd be a clean slate of white, waiting for the world to color her in again. That black, that deep dark midnight that sits in the back of her mind suddenly turns awry, frizzed and curled and she nearly slaps herself.
She had been doing so well on keeping him out of her mind, at least in a way that troubled her, and now it was back. That white would settle in soon and all that'd be left would be those rolling curls, that ivory set flesh and those eyes; set ablaze with the fire and ice of a temerarious constellation.
And he didn't even know it, because he hadn't the slightest clue that the earth revolved around the sun, a gigantic star that kept this world and the next all together, because that's what made him…him. Making this incredible man brilliant all at the same time an idiot, both never outweighing the other, a constant variable kept on repeat.
One that kept her hinged and together, something that she had forgotten how to do. June exhales deeply, and all that came from the excess hope is that someday, she might actually see him again, whether it be after her life is over and done with or now, in some crazy, assorted way.
Bringing the pen up, she examines it and finds that it's almost empty of its ink. She'd need a new one soon.
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"No, you can't just…well, you can't just come into work whenever you feel like it." June was irritated, Six people had come for her now well known opening as a nurse to work for her part time and now she's dealing with a forty six year old man who doesn't understand the meaning of job, for it clearly states that you have to work. "It has to be on the times assigned to you." She's steaming on the inside but managed to keep a regal composure.
"Well, what if I just don't show up one day?" June nearly rolls her eyes. No wonder that guy didn't have a job. He was a walking disaster. And she wasn't quiet sure, but by the dark supply of darkening circles under his eyes she could tell he wasn't exactly in a healthy state. His hair was ratted, greasy and nowhere near clean.
He was lean, bones protruding outwards, pushing his skin with it. And his teeth were yellow. Now, if he had been serious about taking this job instead of asking questions, like per-say, how many times a week can he miss work without getting fired she would have looked into it. He was smart, she knew that much and had answered almost all of her questions except for one correctly. He had the schooling necessary for the job, but he just wasn't taking this as seriously as he should. And she couldn't have that.
"Well, I'd have to call you."
"Why, what if I'm sick."
Tapping her foot she leans back into the head of her seat, staring at him dumbfounded. "If you get sick you need to let me know." She states a matter of fact, setting the papers she once had in hand down.
"Why would I want to let you know, that's none of your business." She swears she's glaring now, the feeling of creasing brows notable and the pure entanglement of chagrin swims within her iris.
"Thank you for your time, I'll let you know on Thursday whether or not you got the job." He gives her a nod, standing with a bounce and leaves the room quickly. June crosses her arms atop the table and slams her head between the two, completely halting her forehead from ever touching the flat of the table.
A long, irritated groan escapes her lips and she has to actively refrain herself from screaming at the top of her lungs. Let the pitch ring someone's ears off because she's positive hers have had enough listening to the ludicrous comments some have come in with.
A knock persists at the door, the clunking of knuckle and wood grained with a touch of concentration. "Come in." She lifts her head from the table and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. A man, she recognizes, enters. He smiles over at her confidently and sits himself down.
He hands her the papers she needed before she had even asked and she finds she already likes this one. Thumbing through the application she pauses, her eyes landing on his name and she has to adjust her focus just to make sure she got it right.
Martin Morstan. He hadn't come last Tuesday so she'd assumed he had decided not to come in for the job or something had come up. She takes a quick glance at him before reading through his application. Graduated from college with his master's degree from Columbia University, which meant he had gone to America for his schooling. That was something new she had yet to see and found to be impressive.
She brings her eyes up to observe him, he had a strong cut jaw line, darkened ash locks and deep navy pools that made a statement all on their own. His shoulders were broad, his hands large and had a stern expression about him.
She didn't eye him long enough to make any more obtuse observations and try to be like Sherlock, because lets face it, she was nothing like him. He always claimed he just noticed, that he looked for it and found it. But no matter how hard she tried she always failed. That had been proven on many accounts throughout the time she'd spent with the consulting detective. So many times he'd laughed at every attempt.
With a grain of salt June would roll him off with the bat of her eyes and shoo away the embarrassment that came with the failure. She keeps her attention tracked on the application and moves through his background.
Plenty more was listed, such as working at three separate hospitals. All he had left due to choice, which was certainly an entertained ideal. Better to have quit a job than to have been fired. He has the perfect record as well.
She brings her eyes up to meet his, an assuming merit cheerfully claiming her as its own. "Martin, why do you want to work here?" June finally questions, realizing that she'd have to actually ask a query if she wanted this to be a resolute affair.
"My mother's sick and a patient here." June quirks a brow. That was a valid reason if she'd ever heard one. She rummages through the ward she held within her head and tries to locate his mother, she had heard of the name and wondered if she had ever treated the woman.
"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly does she have?"
"Cancer—Lung Cancer." June clamps her mouth shut. Every time she tries to ask someone something that starts out innocent it turns into a verbal bloodbath. She almost flinches at his words and bites her lip consequentially.
Lying the papers down on her desk and sends him a dejected frown. "I'm so sorry." Martin responds with a caviler shrug, the appearance of his acceptance within this problem had already sunk in and he seems to have grown numb to the issue at hand.
And she can relate. Not fully, but she's half way there to where he stands, though she wasn't quite sure if she'd ever be completely insensible to what had happened.
"Its fine, she's getting better. Well that's what the rest say." Immediately she recognizes who this woman must be. Dr. Monroe had a patient in room 256, floor five. She'd seen a woman in there, hooked up to a machine with tubes wiring her body. All her hair had left due to radiation treatment.
Isabel Morstan if she remembered correctly, that was her name. She was already at stage four. The hopes of that woman surviving were dim and it was obvious he knew that as well.
She remembers the eye contact she had undoubtedly made with the aging female, her eyes glazed in paralyzing dismal. It had thrown her off guard. As many times as she's seen those self-explanatory silent screams of help it never got any easier. The twanged ping of pain, of sympathy for those in need, no matter how many times she'd seen a human life stumped it still brought a sting and an ache, an overturned feeling she had no control over...
June takes one more look at the application, reasoning with tight conservative as she rows the papers in two.
"You've got the job." He gawks at her, shocked and overwhelmed in befuddlement. "You can start tomorrow, I want you here by seven." It seems he's still processing her words. By the time her response grates him to a fine point he smiles graciously and takes her hand, shaking it.
"Thank you so much."
"Of course."