And If Thou Wilt, Forget

The warehouse was empty. That was the first thing Tim, always on the alert for changes and alterations and potential new dangers, noticed as he took up his accustomed place. It was still there, still very present, but it obviously held nothing of value anymore. Well…empty was probably the wrong word. He could hear the crying, the chanting, and the shouting, all faint and muffled and distant but still very much there. But he knew, without having to step through the door ajar in its side, that the person they normally followed was nowhere within its depths.

Jon looked at it, or at least towards it, his eyes flicking back and forth in confusion, but he didn’t attempt to approach. A part of Tim was surprised by that, just as he’d been the first time Jon turned away from the crumbling hospital without investigating it, or from the scrapyard with the heavy tread of footsteps and flash of security cameras coming from within its tall, solid walls. A bigger part of him was relieved. The warehouse was one of the places he was most on edge, and without its usual focus, there was too much risk that the other things there would notice them. If Jon wasn’t keen to see why she wasn’t there, Tim wouldn’t press things.

Instead, Jon turned away, and Tim silently shadowed him, keeping him just within arm’s length but keeping his hands to himself as they walked towards the first of the occupied areas. It was simple and stark, a dark office illuminated only by the screen of a computer. A thin, haggard woman with long, unkempt hair sat at the desk, hunched over it, staring desperately at the screen and typing. She looked up as they came in. As usual, she didn’t notice Tim, which was fine; she didn’t need to notice him, she was no danger, no threat. She only stared, glared really, at Jon in anger and hatred and defiance, as she kept typing, over and over, IT HURTS. Whether she wanted him to stop the pain or stop her from typing, it didn’t matter. Jon stayed safely back, watching her without speaking. Her fingers flew across the keys, seemingly compiling complex codes or a detailed manifesto, every press of the key abrading a little bit of her fingers away, and still the screen said only, IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. Finally, the words still scrolling across the screen faster and faster, she picked up the keyboard and, staring Jon down, took a bite, the plastic crunching and making her mouth bleed almost instantly.

Jon turned away, ignoring Tim as normal, and kept moving. Their next destination was not quiet. A woman ran across a fog-heavy moor, stumbling from broken tombstone to broken tombstone, disorientated and panicked. She, too, spotted Jon, and started towards him. Tim tensed, even though he knew she was only incidentally dangerous.

“Help me!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Help, please—help—“

She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell headlong into an open grave. Her scream was even louder as she vanished, her hands clutching at the edge of the grave desperately, clumps of grass and mud coming up in her hands. She managed to get her eyes above the grave, scanning frantically, but she no longer seemed to be able to see Jon.

“Hello?” she called, the note of panic even stronger now. “Where are you? Help! Please, I don’t want to be here anymore, I want it to stop…”

Jon shifted slightly, looking as though he wanted to move nearer, to help, but he stepped no closer. It was as though there was an invisible line, a perimeter he couldn’t cross or at least knew to stay back from. The fog grew thicker, temporarily obscuring the grave, and his line of sight broken, Jon turned away and moved on. Tim hung back for just a second, scanning the fog until he was satisfied no one would follow them, and took a few longer strides to catch up.

He almost slammed into Jon’s back, because Jon had stopped dead, staring at the doorway in front of him with the same combination of confusion and fear he’d looked at the warehouse with. Tim could understand that, though, because this door was new, one he’d never seen before. Not a new door like the yellow one was a New Door—it was not a door that was not meant to be there—but it was new to them, and that was worrying.

He wanted to stop Jon from going into it, at least until he had checked it out. At least until he was sure. But Jon’s hand was already on the handle, and he was already opening it, and there was nothing Tim could do but follow.

It was a dissection room, cold and clinical. From the words written on a whiteboard in one corner, Tim could deduce that this was a university of some kind, not one he’d visited before. There were several tables laid out, all of which were pushed to the sides and empty, and a number of grey, silent figures lying on the ground as if they had fallen there. Standing in the center of the room was a woman. She was the only spot of color in the room—her chic pixie cut the bright copper of a polished coin with a single streak of bright purple, her flowing blouse splashed with large pink hibiscus flowers, two gemstones sparkling from her left ear and an emerald teardrop dangling from her right—and another grey, pallid figure leaned over, whispering in her ear briefly before sinking slowly, almost gracefully, to the ground. The woman’s expression never changed as she listened. Not at first.

Then her eyes fell on Jon’s, and they widened, just for a moment. “Jon? What are you doing here?”

Her voice was familiar, and after a second, Tim recalled her putting on a spooky affect and describing a supposed paranormal event that she went on to more or less debunk; he’d listened to it to get an idea of whether her setting a servitor of the Stranger on another woman was intentional or carelessness. He’d never quite worked out which it was. Evidently she knew Jon, or at least recognized him. Jon looked as though he wanted to say something to her, but he stood as he always did, just on the edge of whatever was happening. Watching. Just…watching.

“You need to leave,” the woman said. She didn’t sound afraid, she merely sounded…concerned. Tim’s nostrils twitched, but he couldn’t smell anything other than cold and metal and, weirdly, tinned tuna. No fear. Disappointing, in a way, because it meant this was largely useless to them, but at the same time, it was…intriguing. There was a lure in the curiosity of why she wasn’t afraid. She certainly should be.

Jon didn’t move, despite her telling him to. Tim wasn’t sure if he was unable to, or if he didn’t want to, and he considered putting his hand over Jon’s eyes to break his line of sight, but in the end, he didn’t need to. The woman simply…faded away into nothing, like a dream.

As if in a trance, Jon moved on, and Tim was again his silent shadow. The sound of the rain reached his ears before they stepped outside, and he gritted his teeth. Fucking…naturally. Rain meant…her. Usually.

Think positive, Tim told himself. Maybe she wouldn’t be there.

They stepped out onto the street, and there it was—the van pulled over on the side of the road, the police lights flashing, the wooden coffin resting in the back and singing its eerie song, the two figures still as statues flanking it on either side. They might actually have been statues, for all Tim knew. Certainly they showed no reaction to the pouring rain or the humming coming from the coffin. Nor did they react to the figure slowly stalking towards them, attention seemingly fixed on the coffin.

Seemingly.

Tim tensed, instantly on the alert. They were here to watch, that was all. Just to observe, not to interfere. And she was facing in the other direction. There was a good chance she would be too focused to look around, and they could get away safely. They could both get away safely.

But she, too, had her senses, she had her skills, she had her awareness, and she had her anger. Something caught her attention and she paused, one foot on the ramp to the back of the van, straightened, turned, and laid eyes on Jon.

“You,” she growled.

Jon flinched and sucked in a breath, but he didn’t move, the idiot. Tim felt a low growl beginning in his own throat, low enough that it likely couldn’t be heard over the sound of the rain unless you were listening for it, but she had to be, she had to know, she had to hear the warning. Whether she would heed it or not was another matter entirely.

She saw him. Unlike the others, unlike anyone else they had encountered, she cut her eyes away from Jon and fixed them on Tim, and her snarl was one that would put fear in the hearts of anything remotely monkey brained or prey coded. Tim, however, was neither, and he responded with a loud snarl of his own, one that would tell any predator in the area to stand down or die.

She did not stand down.

With a howl that curdled the blood and chilled the spine, she bulled forward, charging not for Tim but for Jon, and Tim bellowed his own challenge and warning cry all in one as he sprang past Jon, shoving him to one side to get him behind him and out of harm’s way, teeth bared and shoulders hunched, flying to put himself between his herd, his flock, his Archivist, and the teeth and claws and blood that sought to rend and tear and destroy for the crime of being there when she was hungry—

—and his eyes snapped open, leaving him staring at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling.

He lay there silently, listening to Gerry snore softly from where he had his face buried in Tim’s chest, and ran over the dream. He was largely used to it by now, honestly; he’d had variations on the same theme for weeks now. Always it went more or less the same. He would be standing somewhere, a field or a street or a building, and Jon would be there, and he always knew he had to protect him from whatever was in those places. The people never seemed to notice Tim, which…probably made sense. It was a dream, after all, he wasn’t really there. But they all seemed to see Tim, and he always hated it.

It wasn’t the same areas every night. They were all there…usually…but it was like the map screen in an open world video game. Jon could pick and choose where he went. Most nights he drifted through two or three at best before his distress got too great, and when he was visibly too upset to, well, enjoy what he was seeing, that was when Tim woke up. There’d been a couple tonight he was glad they hadn’t messed with—the woman slowly being crushed to death while Jon stared at her and Tim stood over him like Atlas bearing the weight of the sky to keep it from burying him too, the yellow door with its kaleidoscope of confusion and laughter, and the burning, oh, God, the fire and the flames and the woman who had laughed as she directed it at Jon. That had been another night Tim had had to intervene—the woman hadn’t seemed to see him, nor had Jon as he cried out and turned his face away in fear, but he’d tried to make a barrier between them anyway. He swore he’d actually felt the flames licking at his face and arms and eyes before he’d bolted upright in bed.

Gerry hadn’t pressed him about what he’d been dreaming about, but he’d seemed pretty worried until they went down to the tunnels and had the revelation about the rituals and got distracted.

Tonight, though…Tonner had seen him. He knew, somehow, that it hadn’t been a coincidence, that she’d specifically spotted him, and that while she was still intent on Jon she was aware Tim was there. And yet she’d still tried to go after Jon, like an idiot. Either she didn’t think Tim was that big of a threat or—more likely, she’d wanted to punish him…

He shook his head impatiently. This was…stupid. It was a fucking dream. He was ascribing real life motivations to a figment of his subconscious. Like the dream he’d had about Gerry being skinned and turned into a doll and Danny coming back to chase him about it, it was just his brain trying to make sense of all the bullshit he was dealing with. Maybe he didn’t understand where some of it came from, but that didn’t mean it was…well, anything real. Or important. They were just dreams.

Gerry stirred and blinked slowly up at him, then gave him a sleepy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, babe.” Tim couldn’t resist smiling back. “Go back to sleep, it’s okay.”

“What time is it?” Gerry rolled over to look at the clock; Tim bit back a grunt of pain as one of his piercings got tangled in a bit of chest hair and yanked it out. “Eh, close enough to five that I might as well get up with you. Too early to take Rowlf out for a run, you think?”

“No, I could use the fresh air myself,” Tim murmured. “Are you coming, or just me?”

Gerry studied him, then patted his chest. “You go ahead. I’ll start breakfast so you have something in your stomach while I yell at you for not telling me what’s bothering you.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Tim decided it wasn’t worth arguing about before he’d even showered.

Rowlf, of course, was delighted with the early morning outside. He’d also apparently picked up on Tim’s mood, because once he’d done his business, he nudged the back of Tim’s knee with his nose and looked up hopefully, tail wagging slightly in anticipation. Tim couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, boy, we’ll go for a nice run, just the two of us. We’ve got the time.”

They passed a few other early morning athletes—a couple in matching body suits jogging in step, a man on a bicycle tossing copies of the London Times onto porches, and a couple of other people with dogs—but none of them did more than share a wave or a nod before passing on. The exception was an elderly woman with an equally elderly spaniel, who apparently decided she was Rowlf’s long lost mother; he bore up under her attentions with remarkable patience while Tim made small talk with the owner. At last, they managed to extricate themselves and headed back home.

The smell of bacon hit as soon as Tim opened the door, and when they made it into the kitchen, he saw Gerry toss a pancake into the air, then catch it deftly in the pan. Tim couldn’t help but be impressed. “I never got the knack of that.”

“It’s all in the wrist.” Gerry glanced over his shoulder at Tim. “Go grab your shower. This should be ready when you get back.”

Buckwheat pancakes, Tim noted. And from the looks of the bowl sitting next to them, he was planning to make eggs as well, probably scrambled. Yeah, this was going to be a serious dressing down. He sighed and dutifully went to take his shower.

He was more careful about selecting his outfit today—not that he cared about being professional, just that he didn’t want to risk turning up in a shirt proclaiming that BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES two days running—and decided, on a whim, to at least do his eyes. Thus fortified, he went into the kitchen to meet Gerry.

He’d made coffee. Poured two glasses of orange juice. Set the table. Even found a squat vase and a couple of dusty fake carnations as a centerpiece. Tim stared at the spread on the table for half a second, then crossed over to Gerry and hugged him tightly.

“It’s really not that serious, Gerry,” he said quietly. “It’s nothing dangerous. I’ve just been having a lot of really weird dreams. I didn’t bother telling you about them because that’s all they are, are dreams.”

Gerry sighed heavily, and leaned against Tim, and didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t upset. “Is that why you didn’t sleep the other night? Because you didn’t want to dream?”

“Babe, believe me, I tried to get to sleep. I literally couldn’t.” Tim tucked his chin over Gerry’s head. “Did I enjoy having a night without following Jon around while he watched people suffering? Yeah, that was great. Won’t pretend it didn’t worry me, but…”

“Wait, what?” Gerry pulled back and studied Tim’s face. He blinked, momentarily distracted. “You put on the eyeliner. I like it.”

“Thanks. Did it for you.” Tim kissed Gerry quickly. “Let’s eat before this gets cold.”

Gerry turned to look at the table and nodded, then took his seat. Tim sat down, too, and served himself, then resumed the conversation. He knew Gerry would be furious later if he didn’t. “The dreams have all pretty much been the same for…shit, since before the murder, maybe? Not exactly the same every time, but the same general themes. Jon’s always standing there, watching some amplified version of one statement or another. Usually a couple of them, honestly. They always call to him for help, or mostly, anyway, but he never answers…and I just stand there and watch, too, but I’m not exactly watching the same thing. It’s more like I’m…watching for whatever is after them. I have to make sure it doesn’t come after Jon.”

“What happens if it does?” Gerry asked, neutrally.

“I mean…it’s going to hurt him. Some of it’s already hurt him once, and I’m terrified that it’s going to get him again.”

“How often has that happened? That it’s gone after him?” Gerry paused, then added, “In the dreams, I mean.”

Tim frowned, trying to think, then shook his head. “Only once. A few nights ago…Friday, maybe? Woman I couldn’t quite place. She was the only one that wasn’t really entirely a victim, but she’d definitely gone over to the Desolation, and she was trying to use it on Jon. Whatever night it was I scared you waking up all sudden like that. I felt like she might have actually set me on fire.”

“Was that the day you woke up with a little bit of a fever?”

“Yeah, you know what, must have been that night,” Tim mused. “Last night Tonner went after him, but she wasn’t…she’s not what I’m usually watching for. It’s the Buried, and the Stranger a bit.” Tim gestured with a piece of bacon. “She usually leers at Jon, but she’s never actually gone for him, not until last night. And only after she saw me. That was unusual. Nobody’s ever seemed to notice me before.”

Gerry shrugged. “Well, it’s Tonner. She doesn’t much like you. And you did just about disembowel her in front of what passes for a friend with her yesterday. Maybe your subconscious is just picking up on the fact that you really are worried she’s going to hurt Jon to get back at you.”

“Maybe.” Tim wasn’t entirely convinced. “Think I’m going to go in a bit early. Jon’s going to be back full time today and I want to make sure he’s not camping out in the courtyard waiting for me. Or worse, creeping around the tunnels. I’m not sure he knows where the other entrances are, but just in case.”

“Okay. I’ve got someone coming by about a commission. Not a portrait this time, so I can work on it at my leisure, just in case things start going to shit faster than normal.” Gerry stood up and kissed Tim on the top of the head as he passed by. “Call me if something catastrophic happens.”

Tim drained the glass of orange juice, shrugged into the black leather jacket he rarely wore anymore, crammed a wool felt fedora on his head, and set out for the Institute. There was a bit of a drizzle going, but he knew without having to think about it that it would burn off soon enough, leaving the air cool and cloudy but not worth worrying about an umbrella over.

He was so busy running over his plans for the day that he almost missed the other person sitting at the station, slumped over and half asleep on a bench. Then he did a double take, strode over, and shook his shoulder gently. “Martin?”

Martin started and flinched, half throwing up his arms over his face as he hastily mumbled apologies in a way that made Tim want to commit very specific and precisely applied homicide. Then he slowly blinked and focused as he came awake. “O-oh—Tim?”

“Martin, what are you doing here? It’s six in the morning.” Tim ran a practiced eye over Martin. He was wearing a different shirt than the day before, but the first train to reach Morden wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes, which meant he’d been here since at least one o’clock the previous night. His curls were damp and clung to his scalp, and he looked…well, pathetic. “If something’s wrong at home, you’re always welcome to come over, you know that.”

“No! N-no, it’s, it’s fine.” Martin rubbed at his face and took his glasses off to wipe them dry. Tim fished a handkerchief out of his jacket and handed it to him. “I just—I wanted to, you know, be sure I didn’t miss you. I wasn’t sure what time you were planning to get into the Institute today, and…”

“And so you decided to camp out at the train station and get pneumonia in case I took the first train out?” Tim supplied. He sat down next to Martin. “He’s fine, Martin. He’s perfectly safe. Probably had a shitty, restless night, what with everything going on, but he’s okay. And yeah, he’s probably going to be a bit early this morning, but he’s not going to immediately disappear again the second you take your eyes off him.”

Martin’s cheeks turned a bright and furious shade of pink. “Christ. Am I that obvious?”

“Yeah, you kind of are,” Tim drawled. “It’s okay to have a crush, you know.”

“I—I don’t—y-you’re being ridiculous,” Martin sputtered, his blush deepening. “I’m, I’m just, I’m worried about him. He doesn’t take care of himself, and then he disappeared and he was accused of murder and we didn’t know where he was, and then when he comes back he’s, he’s covered in blood and his hand is all wrapped up a-and he won’t tell us where he was and…I’m worried.”

Tim sighed. “Can you at least trust me when I say I’d know if he was in danger?”

Martin stared at him, then swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I—I can. You were pretty ready to rip out Daisy’s throat when you found out she’d hurt Jon, so…I mean, I was too, inside, but you looked like one of those videos you see of those big white dogs with the gigantic spiked collars going after wolves trying to attack a flock of sheep or something. I really expected you to kill her. And you were like that when you came charging down to the Archives after…you know. So yeah, I reckon you’d know.”

Martin was far more observant than he let on. Tim was still chewing on that when they arrived at the Sloane Street station. Somehow, he was completely unsurprised to see Jon crossing the platform, even before Martin’s face lit up at the sight of him. He looked…exhausted wasn’t the word. Miserable came closer, although he straightened up and tried to control his face when he saw them. Tim didn’t bat an eyelash. “Morning, boss. Eager to be back?”

“I—yes. I’ve missed having something to do,” Jon confessed. He fell into step with them as they headed out the door. “Other than worry, that is.”

Tim hummed. “How’s the hand?”

Jon held up his hand, which had been rebandaged much more neatly. “It’s not infected. Dr. Early said it’s likely to heal more or less cleanly.”

“And your throat?” Martin asked, his voice a bit strangled.

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon assured him. Tim saw the flash of naked fear in his eyes, though. “Just…just a small cut, really.”

Martin made an unhappy sound in the back of his throat but, thankfully, let it drop. Tim shifted once they got outside so that Jon was between him and Martin. “Come on. For goodness’ sake let’s hurry up and get out of this rain…pain levels okay? No trouble sleeping?”

There was a short pause before Jon answered. “The pain didn’t keep me up, no. I…slept through the night.”

Martin frowned. “You don’t sound sure about that.”

“It also didn’t answer my question,” Tim said. “Or maybe it did. I’m guessing your sleep maybe wasn’t so restful?”

“It’s…nothing. Just dreams.” Jon hunched into the battered, hot pink coat he was wearing, which he didn’t seem to enjoy. “I overdid it a bit yesterday, too. Probably shouldn’t have come in today, but…I want to be back. And I really need to be out of Georgie’s flat.”

“Georgie?” Martin and Tim said in unison.

Jon looked embarrassed. “Ah, Barker. W-who does ‘What the Ghost’?”

“Oh, right, the one who handed Melanie to Sarah Baldwin on a silver platter?” Tim said with a bit of acidity in his voice. “Didn’t know you knew her.”

“It w—um, yes. Yes, we met in university.” Jon didn’t seem quite able to meet their eyes. “She’s been letting me stay with her since…you know. We hadn’t talked in a while. I wasn’t sure she’d let me in, but…it seemed like the last place anyone would look for me.”

“And I presume she didn’t know you were wanted for a murder you didn’t commit. Watch your step.” Tim hooked his hand under Jon’s elbow and yanked him back before he stepped off the curb directly into a puddle, then stepped in front of him and turned his back as a car came speeding down the street, sending up a rather impressive spray of water for how little it was actually raining. He shook his fist at the car’s tail lights as they vanished into the distance. “To matri scuppia la gaddina nta l'infernu!”

“Not until last night, no.” Jon waited until they were on the other side of the road to continue. “I suspect that’s part of why I had a difficult night last night. She, ah, she had a statement that…wouldn’t go on the computer, even if I’d had one, and it got into my dreams somewhat.” So softly Tim almost didn’t hear it, he added, “Better than the rain and the road, though.”

Tim shot Jon a sharp look, but didn’t say anything. Not then.

They made it to the Institute in one piece. All the windows were dark, but that was hardly surprising; Rosie didn’t usually arrive for another twenty minutes. Tim unlocked the side door to the Archives and guided the other two down the steps, then headed across the floor to the light switch.

“How long did it take you to learn the layout down here well enough that you could do that without tripping over something?” Martin asked.

“I’ve got good night vision.” Tim hung his coat and hat on the rack and unlocked the inner door.

Martin hung his jumper next to it; it hung heavily, weighed down with the dampness that had soaked into its fibers. “I’m going to go make tea. Back in a flash.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon said, softly but gratefully. Martin’s cheeks turned pink again as he bustled off.

Tim took Jon’s presumably borrowed coat and hung it up. “What was Miss Barker’s statement about? If you don’t mind my asking. I assume we’re going to need to research it.”

“I—n-no. No, there’s not…really a point? I don’t know.” Jon sighed. “Her first year of university—a couple of years before she and I met—she had an…encounter. A woman who should have been dead, because she was one of the cadavers used for dissection, got up and spoke to her and—” He looked up at Tim and faltered briefly. “Are…you wearing eyeliner?”

“And shadow. Figured I’d doll up a bit.” Tim frowned. “When you dreamed, were you in her place?”

“No,” Jon replied immediately. His eyes took on a distant, almost glazed expression. “I was…watching. Just watching.” He refocused on Tim, looking somehow both worried and awed. “She told me to leave, but I didn’t—I couldn’t. I just stayed and watched until she faded away, and then…on to the next dream.”

“The road and the rain,” Tim said slowly. A feeling of dread began to creep up his spine.

Jon immediately looked embarrassed. “I didn’t think you heard me.” He rubbed at his arms briefly, then let them drop and balled his hands into fists at his side. “Honestly, that part was a bit worse. I—D-Daisy gave a statement, a few months ago, and…I suppose it fascinated me somewhat. She ran into the two delivery men we keep coming across in our statements, with the coffin from Joshua Gillespie’s statement. Last night I dreamed I was standing there watching her, and then she saw me and…she tried to attack me. I thought she had me for a minute, actually, or maybe that she had an accomplice—it felt like something shoved me, something that looked like a—a big dog or a beast of some kind, but I must have been tossing and turning. I-I fell out of bed and woke up.” He winced and looked up at Tim. “I—I apologize, Tim, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Tim said easily. He wasn’t sure if it was—no, that wasn’t true. It both was and wasn’t a lie. It was true that Jon telling Tim about his dreams was fine. It wasn’t true that what it meant was fine. “When Martin gets back, we’ll have a nice cup of tea and take a few minutes to relax before Typhoon Melanie arrives, and then you can go turn in your form and be all official and stuff, and then we can all lie to each other about what we’ve been up to and get mad at each other about it and spend the day ignoring each other while pretending to work.”

Jon actually laughed at that, which Tim took as a victory. When he turned away to look at the files on the desk, though, Tim took the opportunity to send a quick text to Gerry: [It’s not an emergency, but we need to talk after work.]

Somehow, he got through the day without incident. Basira showed up, but spent the day sitting in the corner with a book she’d apparently found in the library; Melanie and Martin nearly got into another fistfight over the statements until Tim physically pulled them apart and sent them to opposite ends of the shelves with specific things to look for; Jon holed up in his office with his laptop and the statements they’d been researching, which Tim only allowed him after emphasizing that he and Martin had already recorded all the real ones and Jon was not to listen to those tapes. For a wonder, he actually listened. Tim spent what time he wasn’t riding herd on the others in working on the database, which wasn’t really necessary but might at least give him some hints for later. At the end of the day, he walked Jon—and Martin—to the Tube station. Jon turned out to be staying in Lewisham, at least for the moment, so they were able to ride together a short way before parting, and Martin at least seemed a bit more relaxed than usual at letting him go in the end. Certainly he was more cheerful as he waved goodbye to Tim at Stockwell.

Tim, for his part, didn’t bother keeping the facade up once Martin was no longer there. He sat back, twisting his (thankfully still loose) ring over and over as he waited impatiently for the Morden stop. Once he got off, he expected he would run home, but instead, he simply…walked. As if in a daze. He trod the familiar streets, climbed the steps to the flat, let himself in, and crossed the floor in his stocking feet without being fully aware of the stages in between. Not until he walked straight into Gerry’s arms did he finally feel like himself again.

“It’s worse than we thought,” he murmured into Gerry’s shoulder.

Gerry clutched him tightly. “We’ll fix it. We always do. What is it? Jon? The Unknowing?”

“No, babe. It’s me.” Tim pulled back, but kept a tight grip on Gerry’s hands and stared into his eyes. “Jon had bad dreams last night. I get the impression it’s not the first time. But, Gerry…he was dreaming about the statements. I didn’t want to push too hard, but from what he described…fuck. We’re having the same dreams. I don’t think he knows I’m there, but they’re the same.”

Gerry’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Statements?”

“Yeah, how’d you guess?”

“Gertrude. When we were in New Zealand, there was a statement she took—she was annoyed that she had to write it down for the man. Not because she hated writing, she told me, but because she didn’t want a monster pig in her dreams. I think that was why we lit out for America right after, so she’d be on the other side of the world and not likely to sleep at the same time as him.” Gerry pursed his lips. “But you were never in any of her dreams, were you?”

“No,” Tim said slowly. “I told you, I didn’t start dreaming until kind of recently. Not until after I knew Gertrude was dead. Now that I think about it, it was after he took the statement from the exterminator—the first live statement he took after Prentiss attacked that wasn’t from one of us—Jesus, that’s why the warehouse was empty. It was Basira’s statement, and she’s in the Archives now. Danny was never in my dreams after I joined the Archives until after Gertrude died. Jon doesn’t have my statement.”

Gerry took a deep, obviously steadying breath. “Tim, you’re starting to lose me. Slow down. Why are you dreaming Jon’s dreams?”

Tim bit his lip as the pieces fell into place with cold, dread certainty. “You know how I told you last night I dreamed Tonner went after Jon? I shoved past him to get to her, stop her from attacking him, and then I woke up immediately. Jon mentioned that something shoved him, and he just assumed it was him tossing and turning because he fell out of bed and woke up—right at the same time I did, so I must have actually jostled him out of his dream. But he also said it was…like a big dog. And you’ve teased me about the growling thing—you heard what I sounded like on that tape. Fuck me, Ger, it’s not a metaphor. I am his guard dog, and it’s my job to protect him—waking or sleeping.”

The words bubbled up on his tongue, the knowledge unfolded in his brain, and he looked Gerry dead in the eye and spoke with more certainty than he had ever felt anything in his life. “I am the Guardian.”