by Cabe Sparrow
"Uh, well then I understand the smile and the faint blush on your cheeks. You my dear, get embarrassed far too easily."
For good measure, he reached over and ran his thumb across the apple of her cheek, even hotter to the touch now that he pointed out her condition. Watson had the urge to swat his hand away, childishly cross her arms, and glare out the window for the rest of the short ride, but a part of her wanted to prove to him that concealing how he felt behind endless jokes and deflected conversation did not have to be a full-time job.
She knew that even after how candid he had been with her last night and all the ones prior, Turner still struggled with being honest and open, with letting her see that part of him that he feared she would hate, so instead of perpetuating the levity, she merely squeezed his hand in response and smiled back serenely.
"Thank you for answering all my questions, for not pushing me away."
Turner seemed startled by her honesty, by her straightforward ness, but it quickly subsided and was replaced by understanding, gratitude, and a twinge of acceptance. She didn’t want him to say anything, no explanations, no afterthoughts, nothing.
She wanted to leave his secrets wrapped inside her mind, wanted to leave all talk of the night before behind. Their exchange was sacred, personal, and intimate in a way she had never experienced before, and it ran deeper than any connection she had with anyone in her life. She felt like any more talk, any more allusions to it would tarnish the significance and the singularity of everything Turner had shared with her.
She also kind of liked having the last word.
Before Turner could say anything, though he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to respond, Watson reached up and ran her fingers through his curls one more time. It was a loving gesture, one that was rare for someone who didn’t like public displays of affection.
"Ready?" Watson asked, the paper in her lap now feeling like a ton of bricks as she reminded herself of the task they set out to do. Turner nodded, taking the hand resting on his shoulder and kissing her knuckles.
"As long as you're with me."
And for a moment, she thought she could face anything.
Chapter 22
He was sitting by the window, eyes watching the empty street. The sun pouring into the room hit him squarely in the face, and in his effort to avoid it, he ran the back of his hand across his forehead. The dampness on his knuckles reminded him of the sweat dripping from his hairline, and suddenly the peaceful denial he was in evaporated.
He became keenly aware of the way his leg wouldn't stop shaking, realized that the cold beer in his hand didn’t take the edge off. His eyes frantically surveyed the room for the umpteenth time, but he already knew there was nothing here that was of any worth.
He pawned everything.
The mattress in the corner and the various other personal belongings scattered around the bare room were of no value. With no hope of relief, he tried desperately to quell the desire inside him, the all consuming focus on one thing and one thing only.
He shut his eyes, tries to fight the craving, supplanting one drug for the other by taking a hefty pull from the bottle, but it was no use. There was no substitute for what he needed, what he desired, what he craved.
His eyes glazed over as he remembered his last hit and if he tried hard enough, in the quietude of his surroundings, he could almost imagine the taste of what he so urgently wanted. If he tried hard enough, he could already feel the intense euphoria and indestructibility that only came with his trusted friend.
The fantasy felt so incredibly real, he thought nothing could tear him away, but the distant sound of a car door slamming shut broke the illusion, reminding him of the frailty of his imaginings. He opened his eyes, gazed out the window and spotted a couple across the street. At first, he didn’t think much of them, averting his gaze elsewhere, even though it was clearly obvious that there was an air of authority about the woman that was hard to ignore. The man beside her looked strikingly out of place in a light gray three-piece suit.
That was about all the observation he could muster until the inside of his elbow began to itch again and his fingers wrapped tighter around the beer bottle in an effort not to scratch. It was painful to refrain, but he managed somehow, reminding himself with a brief glance to the puncture mark on his skin that it would likely be infected by now.
He grimaced at the wound, then looked away, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on getting as much pleasure from the alcohol slowly making its way through his empty system as possible. Still, his attention invariably travelled to the window again, and when he noticed the couple cross the street with matched determination and approached the entrance to his rundown duplex, he knew he should be worried.
However, his eyes locked onto something else entirely. The woman was dressed conservatively, hiding what was likely to be a softly curved figure, but his mind didn’t catalogue that bit of information. Instead, he felt a tightening in his belly, the feeling of anticipatory elation in his heart disguised the danger of his thoughts.
The sunlight shone down on her and he quickly detected something sparkling, golden, hanging around the woman's neck. He could't figure out what it is, but it didn’t matter.
He was certain that it was valuable. Nothing cheap shone like that in natural daylight, and without much thought, he dropped the bottle of beer onto the floor. The amber liquid seeped into the carpet as he made his way to the front door, making sure his knife was still in his pocket. After all, he didn't miss the look of focus in the woman's eye; she may not make it easy for him.
He opened the door before the taller, red-haired man had a chance to knock, but his guests didn't appear startled. In fact, he felt the other man sizing him up, while the woman stepped closer to him, extending her hand.
"Are you Robert Evans?" she asked, and he nodded, eyes never leaving the chain around her neck. It was a cross, generic looking, but it would do.
He took a step toward her, but felt the man’s gaze on him, boring into him, body partially blocking his path. Rob looked to his left, brow furrowed as he looked the man up and down.
"What do you want?" he asked, barely restraining his frustration. He didn’t really care what they were here for, could care less what their intentions were, all he wanted was the chain around the woman's neck.
He focused on the necklace again. His hand slid imperceptibly into his pocket as the woman took a tentative step toward him. She used a calm tone, but he was blinded by desire.
"We just want to ask you a few questions, Rob. That's all."
His hand closed around the knife, thumb tracing over the metal, as he nodded his understanding, but it was almost like he didn’t feel himself doing it. He just wanted the damn fucking chain and then he would answer any questions they wanted.
They stood like that for what seemed like hours, until he realized that he hadn't taken his eyes off her neck, and the look the woman sent to the man standing beside her indicated that she recognized his fixation. He heard her coaxing suggestions, asking him if they could come in or if he would prefer to take a walk instead, but he couldn't concentrate.
His vision tunnelled and his mind was made up. Without warning, he lunged towards the brunette. Her eyes grew wide and he realized she must see the knife in his hand, but he couldn't stop himself. He zoned in on his prize, hand twitching at his side to rip it off and find his way to the nearest pawn shop.
Fear flared in her eyes, but she was otheiwise composed and it only encouraged him.
"Watson," he heard the man behind him shout, followed by a rough hold on his shoulder, pulling him back. He was not used to physical violence, but he hadn't had a hit in days. His withdrawal symptoms made him so delirious, throwing him off kilter both mentally and physically. Therefore, even though the man in the expensive suit probably had fifty pounds on him, Turner was no match for the surge of force that rippled through his body, as he pushed the larger man back. To his surpri se, he heard the loud thud as the man's head connected with so
mething hard.
“Turner!”
The woman's eyes grew wide with fear that morphed quickly into anger as she sprinted forward, but he didn’t let her go far. His hands moved before he could even register the thought.
When she tried to push past him, he blocked her path, grabbed her around the shoulders with the hand holding the knife. Despite the proximity of the blade, she tried to break his hold, putting up more of a fight than he expected. However, the adrenaline was still driving him and he was not going to give up. His free hand yanked at the chain, ripping it apart. Clutching it tightly in his palm, he shoved her and tried to run.
He didn’t gain much ground before she was tackling him from behind, trying to wrestle the chain from his fist, but he refused to let go. Before his brain could catch up with his hands, his knife sliced straight through her thigh, vertical cut from hip to knee.
His eyes only barely registered the crimson staining her dark pants, but it was the sight of the silver blade of his knife stained in dark red blood that actually made him acknowledge what he had done.
He staggered back, didn’t even realize that as the woman struggled to stay up, biting her lip against the pain and applying pressure to the wound, his left fist fell open and the necklace, his whole purpose for the last few inconceivable moments, fell to the ground. This time it was not adrenaline, not strength that guided him, but fear. Still clutching the knife in his hand, he took off running down the street.
He ran as fast as he could until his lungs burned from lack of oxygen, his mind trying to erase the image of the bleeding woman. He looked over his shoulder only once, just long enough to realize that she actually had it in her to chase after him, but ultimately collapsed. Her body on the empty sidewalk was too far away from him to assess the damage.
He turned the corner two blocks later, the distance allowed a respite as he slowed down, no imminent danger present.
The craving, which seemed to abate in the frenzy, was now back, more potent than ever and he suddenly remembered the knife in his hand. It was one of his only possessions, one of the only things he hadn't tried to sell yet, but the sight of blood was just too much, even for him. He dumped it in the bushes as he walked, heartbeat returning somewhat to normal.
He didn’t know how much time passed, but as soon as he began to wonder what he would do now that he couldn't even return to the dump he had been living in, a car pulled up to the sidewalk, cutting him off as he tried to cross the street.
He thought nothing of it, until the driver rolled down the window and leaned across the console to smile at him.
The man looked familiar, but Rob didn't dwell on it. Instead his eyes immediately zeroed in on the empty passenger seat where a small packet called to him like a beacon, pushing any apprehension he felf to the very back of his mind.
The yearning only grew when he realized the cure he had been waiting for was finally within reach. When the man asked if he would like a ride, there was no second-guessing. No questioning, no doubt, just reassurance and certainty.
He will have his fix now.
He earned it after all.
Chapter 23
The atmosphere around him in the ER waiting room was hectic, noisy, and charged with anxiety and urgency. People bustled past him with purpose, faces unguarded and mostly grim. Usually, even in a high stress situation, he would be in the midst of the action, or at least actively observing the players. However, he sat engulfed by a numbness that dulled all his senses.
He was impermeable to the cloying hospital odor of antiseptic and sickness. He didn’t see the concerned faces of the nurses as they stared at him. He didn't hear the anxious whispers of others waiting for news. He tasted nothing, because his mouth was parched.
It was as though he had been expelled from the world around him, cut off from everything, leaving him open and vulnerable. He was defenseless against the all consuming burning in his gut, the vines of guilt that wrapped around his heart and refused to let go.
On the outside he was calm, seemingly in his own world, but he could hardly breathe. He didn’t know how his heart could still be beating, how he hadn't already punched a hole in the opposite wall, marring the sickly white paint with his knuckles.
He didn’t know what held him together, but he figured that it had a lot to do with the simple fact that he was not going to lose Watson. At least not physically.
No, she was going to be alright. The cut was long and jagged, but the wound was shallow, and at the first responders initial glance, missed all the vital blood vessels. Still, Turner couldn't imagine how that was possible considering the amount of blood that seeped out of it.
He wished his eyes would close as the image of Watson in his lap, pale as a sheet and unconscious, materialized in front of him, but instead of darkness, he found himself staring down at his lap. It was the first time he noticed the red stains dried into the dark gray fabric of his pants.
Blood.
Watson's blood.
His fist twitched at the thought, as he tried to catch a breath, heartbeat escalating as the vice wrapped tighter around him. The lack of sensation gave way to the prickle of needles all over his body, tormented him with that unwelcomed burning again. However, as he unfurled his palm, the glint of gold shone in his hand and something about the sight of the small and very simple cross, now dangling off a broken chain, placated him.
It should disgust him, this normally insignificant piece of jewelry, but it didn’t. Despite what most would think, the cross wasn't to blame for Watson's condition, he was. He was the reason why she was behind closed doors, unconscious on anesthetic, and being sewn up.
It was all his fault.
Not Evans', not even the Red River Killer's, but his, and he recognized that the moment he had become lucid.
As his thumb traced over the delicate engravings on the gold pendant, he thought it might take some time to accept the fact. Accepting the realization that his single-mindedness, his obsession, and his utter mistrust of everyone around him, had hurt the only person who mattered, the only one who had been his hope for any sort of future. Now, even if she wanted to speak to him afterward, and she would, because she's Watson, selfless and loyal to a fault, there were still far more reaching consequences, ramifications outside of his or her control.
This wasn't a game anymore.
He knew there was no way to avoid the department finding out. Rodrigues and Harper, the men who stood behind the force that defined her career, an entity that had defined who she was, and she had betrayed it in a way, for him.
She did him a favor by risking her professional credibility and aiding in a side investigation that she was aware was in pursuit by Harper. He could spin it any way he'd like, word it in any elaborate form, but he couldn't avoid the simple truth. Watson went out on a limb for him and he put her in the hospital and created God knows what consequences for her career.
Suddenly, he felt helpless. It was an emotion so incredibly foreign to him, that he acutally yearned for the numbness to return, secretly wishing his senses would slip back into oblivion.
He clutched the cross in his hand, eyes shut as he felt the imprint on his palm, worried for a moment that he might bend the precious metal. Still, he regrouped, realizing why it reminded him so dearly of Watson, because it was just as solid and just as resilient. She would pull through as she always does.
His lip twitched upward ever so slightly at the thought, a tiny seed of warmth sprouting. However, it was not strong enough to fend off the guilt he felt, the burning shame that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside of him, pricking his every nerve and leaving him keenly aware of his surroundings now.
He still ached for it back; wished cowardly for a complete disconnect, because this felt so much worse. It was as if his mind had finally caught up, and was forcing him to acknowledge exactly what had happened, how quickly his world spun off its axis.
This had only happened to him once before. He could live with the dull a
che of that memory, but this, God, this pain is so new, so fresh, digging its claws into him, scratching him, and suffocating him. He felt every strain in his muscle now, every jolt of tightness in his belly, and every pull on his heart.
There was a panic in his chest that was unfamiliar, spreading from within, rushing through him like a thousand electric shocks and pulsating all around him. He felt the pressure in his temples, the throb at the back of his neck. He wanted to reach back, run his hand over the source of pain, but all he could do was clench his fist tighter around the necklace, trying to fend off nausea as it sweeped over him as he stared at the red stains on his legs.
An unexpected but gentle hand on his shoulder disturbed his catatonic state. Turning his head sharply to the side, he was not prepared for the sharp pain that ripped through him. Apparently he didn’t hide it well, because even in his perfectly stoic expression, Ng's eyes widened slightly as they connected with Turner's.
However, the Asian man didn’t say anything, his dark brown gaze communicated all the concern he felt, none of which Turner deserved.
"Let me guess, you wouldn't let anyone check you out." Ng's tone was as even as always and Turner was strangely comforted by it.
Still, it was only for a minute, until he felt the weight of reality, of unworthiness enveloping him, and he couldn't keep the self-pity out of his voice.
“Yeah, you know me."
He didn’t look at Ng, simply unclenched his palm and ran his thumb over the cross again, yearning desperately for the numbness to return, that sweet paralysis.
There was a pause, as Ng didn’t say anything, but even in his haze, through the thumping in his head and the rush of blood through his body, Turner could sense when Ng's resolve weakend and he could almost predict what the man would say before he opened his mouth.
His reply was ready as Ng began, "Listen, Turner, I have-..."
Turner was certain he would ask him to relay what happened, or warn him about something, his tone seemed cautioning, but Ng's inquiry was cut short by another voice, a feminine and far more panicked one. Both men looked up, Turner squinting against the bright florescent lights, to see Cranston almost sprinting towards him, calling his name.
