Fic: Save Me (Heroes)
Mohinder returns to his apartment completely exhausted. He drops his bag on the ground, sagging against the wall. He’s glad, glad beyond belief, that Molly is staying with Niki and Micah in their hotel room - they have extra room, with DL in the hospital (oh god), and Mohinder can’t stomach the thought of bringing Molly back here.
The apartment is wrecked, just like Sylar left it, after -
Mohinder takes a gasping breath. He’s tired, so very tired. He could sit against this wall forever, and the last few days have been so long.
“Mohinder?”
Mohinder’s hand goes to his bag, before he forgets that there’s not a gun in there, not anymore. He lost it, and now he’s defenseless - he backs against the wall, on his feet, wild-eyed. “Who’s there?”
The floor creaks, and a shaft of light falls on a girl, a teenage girl, dark-brown hair and eyes that remind Mohinder of -
“Who are you?” Mohinder somehow manages to steady his voice, but his heartbeat hammers, his hands tremble, he can barely stand.
“It’s me, Mohinder,” the girl says. “It’s Molly.”
Mohinder swallows. “Molly is nine years old,” he says. “You’re not.”
“I’m…I’m not from now,” she explains, her mouth twisting. “Mohinder, look in my eyes, and tell me you don’t know who I am. Mohinder,” she repeats, again, catching his gaze. “I’m not going to hurt you, it’s just,” and she stops. “God,” she murmurs, “it’s like seeing a ghost.”
“A ghost?” asks Mohinder, through numb lips.
“It’s all wrong,” says Molly. “The war, the way things happened. You were never supposed to die.”
Die…?
“We have to fix it,” she tells him. “We have to change it, starting now.”
“What,” breathes Mohinder, and Molly takes him by the shoulder.
“Get a first aid kit,” she says. “We’re going out.”
- - - -
“And who is it we’re supposed to be saving?” asks Mohinder, again, as he steps out of the car.
“Don’t forget the kit,” says Molly, pulling up a manhole cover, with a scrape of metal against concrete.
And Mohinder gets it.
“No,” he says.
Molly glances up. “C’mon, Mohinder,” she says. “We have to get down here.”
“For what?” spits Mohinder. “To save Sylar? The man who killed my father, who murdered countless others, including your parents?”
Molly settles back on her heels, her mouth set.
“He deserves to die,” Mohinder snarls. “Bleeding out, as painfully as possible, inside New York’s sewers seems quite fitting to me.”
Molly waits, for a beat. “Are you done?” she asks.
“Yes,” says Mohinder, and he starts back towards the car.
“He’ll survive,” says Molly.
Mohinder stops.
“No matter what you do, he’ll survive.” She cocks her head to the side. “Bleeding, broken and alone, he’ll live, and he’ll hate you all. Revenge is poison, Mohinder, and Sylar will have the biggest dose of any human on the planet. When the time comes, he’ll rise up against you and slaughter you, one by one, because you’ve driven him past redemption.”
Mohinder can’t respond.
“Cheerleader’s saved,” continues Molly. “The world is saved. Now you have to save the one man you hate the most.”
“I can’t,” says Mohinder.
“You have to,” says Molly.
- - - -
The sewer is foul. Mohinder can barely breathe, in the refuse pooled black and oily on the concrete.
“This way,” and Molly steps carefully, leading Mohinder without hesitation further into the sewer.
“How did you get back in time?” asks Mohinder.
“Not now,” says Molly, and she takes his hand, pulling him through the dark.
Eventually, they turn a corner, step onto dry metal grate, and Mohinder’s heart stops.
His hands go to soiled cloth, gentle as he can be, easing the prone figure onto his back. The front of Sylar’s coat is matted with blood, half unnaturally solidified, and he’s dirty, covered in filth.
He’s a murderer, Mohinder thinks, and he tries to be impersonal, undoing the buttons of the coat one by one, pushing it back, finding the skin of Sylar’s chest, but he can’t. His fingers turn soft, and he touches Sylar with care, too much care.
“Careful,” says Molly. “Remember his back is injured too.”
“It’s a miracle it didn’t go through his spine,” murmurs Mohinder.
The tips of Sylar’s fingertips glow, for just a second, and Mohinder retreats. Sylar forces open bloodshot eyes.
“You,” barely a breath, not even a whisper, from Sylar’s throat.
“Don’t try to talk,” says Mohinder, automatically, and he wets a bandage in antiseptic, starting to clean off the half-scabbed, half-oozing blood. Sylar’s jaw clenches, and he’s pale, far too pale, but he probably can’t even tell what’s happening.
Mohinder drops the blood-soaked rags into the sewer, thinking there’s probably worse in there, and then he hesitates.
“It’ll need stitches,” says Molly.
“I can’t do stitches,” protests Mohinder.
“You can draw blood,” says Molly. “You have a steady hand. That’s all it takes.”
“It won’t work,” says Mohinder. “What about internal bleeding, damage to his organs, to his spine -”
“It worked fine for doctors in the nineteenth century,” says Molly.
“The mortality rates where also a lot higher in the nineteenth century,” Mohinder shoots back.
“If he survived on his own,” explains Molly, patiently, “then he’ll survive even better, this way.”
“I don’t have the materials -”
Molly hands him a needle, threaded with a fine cord. “Fishing line,” she says. “The body won’t react against it. I’ve already sterilized it.”
Mohinder takes a breath, and tries not to wince as he puts the needle to Sylar’s flesh. A quick stab, and Sylar jerks, a near-moan torn from his mouth. Mohinder draws it tight, and Molly’s hands move in, holding the halves of the wound together.
Mohinder shoots her a grateful glance - though maybe she can’t even see, in the dark - and he stitches, carefully, until the wound is held closed. He notes, with amazement, that Sylar is still conscious, just barely, his eyelids fluttering between open and closed.
“Sylar,” says Mohinder, his voice more even than he expects, “I need to get your shirt off. Can you lift your arms, just a little?”
Sylar makes an effort - and Molly even helps him, just a little, enough to slip Sylar’s shirt away and turn him so Mohinder can get to his back.
The wound is smaller here, and but there’s even more blood - a deep red, and more flowing free every second. Mohinder starts to clean it, and he realizes, gradually, that his fingers are steady, that his palms aren’t sweating anymore.
Dried blood has collected between his fingers, under his nails, stained the sleeves of his shirt. Sylar has lost a lot of blood - so much blood. How could Molly possibly have been right? How could Sylar survive a wound like that, without Mohinder’s help?
And how could Mohinder have just saved his life?
“Don’t leave me.”
Mohinder presses the bandage to the newly stitched wound. “What?”
“Don’t leave me,” breathes Sylar, and then, “please,” so small, so soft that it breaks Mohinder, inside.
“How are we going to get him back to my apartment?” asks Mohinder, turning to Molly. “Getting him up those ladders -”
“Close your eyes,” Molly tells him.
Mohinder feels a hand wrap around his, soft and warm. Molly’s. It squeezes once, and then it’s gone, along with the echoing damp of the sewer.
Mohinder opens his eyes to see his own apartment, his own bedroom. Sylar is on the bed, a towel underneath his back, unconscious at last. And Molly is nowhere to be found.
Mechanically, Mohinder steps into the bathroom, scrubbing tacky crimson from his hands, his elbows. His cheek.
He collapses onto the couch just as the sun is starting to rise over the city of New York.
- - - -
The phone blares in Mohinder’s ears.
He blinks, long and slow, dry eyelids sticking like glue. The phone rings, again, and Mohinder twists, sitting up, snatching at the noise, before bringing it to his ear.
“Hello?” he asks, blearily, looking to the clock. One PM.
“Dr. Suresh?”
“Bennet?” asks Mohinder, cautiously. “What is it? Is there an update in Matt Parkman or DL Hawkins’ condition?”
There’s a sigh, from the other end of the phone. “From what I hear, both are still critical,” says Bennet. “But I have good news.”
Mohinder stands.
“They found Peter and Nathan Petrelli,” says Bennet. “Both alive, both relatively intact, despite having survived a fall of several miles.”
Mohinder exhales. “That’s wonderful news,” he says, a smile crossing his features.
“I don’t have anything on Sylar, unfortunately,” continues Bennet. “We tracked him through the sewers, but the trail dead-ended, next to an open first aid kit.”
Mohinder cringes, a full-body flinch that reminds him all too acutely of the physical stresses of the day before.
“I hope you find him,” he says, through numb lips, “though he must have died, overnight. The blood loss-”
“Sylar has a way of surviving, even when you least expect it,” says Bennet. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Before Mohinder can respond, there’s a click from the other end of the line.
Mohinder sits back on the couch, awake, now, and he slides his head in his hands, thinking only of the man in the next room.
Save Sylar, save the world.
Mohinder laughs, harsh and low.
- - - -
“Sylar?”
Mohinder tenses, waiting for the attack, waiting for Sylar to wake up alert and fighting - but it doesn’t happen.
Sylar wakes up slowly, with a soft noise of pain, his limbs curling inwards. As though to protect him.
“Easy, easy,” says Mohinder. “You’re safe.”
Safe. Mohinder hardly knows what the word means, anymore.
“Don’t move too much,” Mohinder cautions. “You could tear the stitches, cause more damage than there already is.”
Sylar is fully conscious now, and his eyes dart around the room once, in caution and assessment, before lighting on Mohinder.
“Take these,” says Mohinder, opening his palm to show the pills there.
“What are they?” rasps Sylar - his first words.
“Painkillers and antibiotics,” Mohinder tells him. “The best I could scrounge.”
“Antibiotics?”
“You crawled through a sewer with an open stab wound,” says Mohinder, dryly. “Hardly the best recipe for good health.”
Sylar takes them, but he doesn’t quite meet Mohinder’s eyes. Shame, maybe? Fear? No, Sylar couldn’t possibly be afraid of Mohinder, he could crush Mohinder if he wanted. Probably even resist the pain, escape from the apartment, get into the city and lose himself. Bennet would never find him - and Sylar could strike again, murder someone else -
“Your heartbeat is coming faster,” observes Sylar, clinically.
Mohinder grits his teeth, and he tightens a tourniquet around Sylar’s upper arm, flicking against the crook of his elbow. Sylar watches him, eyes never moving away, as Mohinder slips a needle into Sylar’s elbow, secures it, hooks it to the IV.
“Curare?” asks Sylar, ironically.
“No,” says Mohinder, through clenched teeth. “If you want to use your powers to turn it off, you can go ahead. I, personally, think it would be best if we didn’t feed you any solid food the day after you get impaled by a sword.”
“Mohinder,” says Sylar, just as Mohinder is about to cross the threshold, leave the room.
Mohinder stops in the doorway, his back to Sylar.
“Last time I talked with you,” says Sylar, “you couldn’t wait to dial 911. What changed?”
“Nothing,” snaps Mohinder, and he shuts the door behind him with perhaps a little too much force.
- - - -
When he comes in, later that night, Sylar is pale, and the bandages are too bloody for Mohinder’s comfort. He changes them, using up the last of his antibiotic ointment - he’ll have to buy some more - and when he rests Sylar back against the pillows, there’s a sheen of sweat on his skin.
“Stay,” says Sylar, breathless with pain. “Please stay.”
Mohinder hesitates, but he sits up on the bed, next to Sylar.
Sylar’s hand grasps at Mohinder’s elbow, and Mohinder shifts - their fingers come into contact, somehow, and tangle together. Sylar relaxes, then, his eyes closing.
“When you called me,” Mohinder blurts, “you were afraid of being the bomb that blew up New York. You said killing that many people wouldn’t make sense.” He takes a breath. “So, why did you push Hiro out of the way? Why did you want to let Peter Petrelli destroy the city?”
Sylar turns away from him, fractionally. “I thought it was enough,” he mutters, almost below Mohinder’s hearing. “To be Gabriel Grey, to fix things, one at a time. But it’s not. I’m special.” He turns his gaze on Mohinder. “I could do anything.”
“Play God for millions of people?” asks Mohinder, softly.
Sylar releases a breath, near relief - the pain medication must be working.
Mohinder realizes his thumb is rubbing, just barely, along the lines of Sylar’s palm. He tugs his hand away. “You’re right,” Mohinder says, finally. “Being Gabriel Grey isn’t enough, and you know that.”
Sylar flinches.
“You knew it when you repaired watches,” persists Mohinder. “You wanted to be special, you knew you were special. And you only pulled away when it meant wholesale slaughter.” He grits his jaw. “What changed your mind? What made you decide that those people didn’t matter?”
To his surprise, Sylar doesn’t respond. His eyes are red, and his posture is tight, like there’s something threatening to tear free, and he just can’t let go.
Mohinder stands, and he shuts the door quietly behind him.
- - - -
He wakes when it’s dark, to the sound of shattered glass.
Mohinder is off the couch immediately, in the bedroom an instant after. He flicks a lamp on - low light - and sees Sylar’s eyes, wide open, his breath coming fast. Too fast. A nightmare, then.
“What’s wrong?” asks Mohinder, drawn towards the man on the bed.
Sylar’s hand fists in the cloth of Mohinder’s shirt, pulling him close, burying his face in the curve of Mohinder’s waist.
Mohinder stands still for a moment, in a kind of shock. It's not - not what he was expecting, but he steels himself, urges Sylar a little further over on the bed. The position must be straining his stitches - Mohinder eases onto the bed, next to him, and strokes his fingers through Sylar’s hair. “Sssh,” he reassures, low and comforting, and Sylar cries, sobs into Mohinder’s ribs.
Mohinder stays, as long as it takes, until Sylar sleeps.
- - - -
Mohinder spends the day cleaning the apartment. He reassembles the map - what’s left of it - and throws away the fragments of a destroyed computer. He’ll have to rebuild the list, of course, but he won’t now, not with the boogeyman himself in Mohinder’s apartment.
It takes a long time to straighten everything up - pry glass shards out of the wall (his security deposit is probably a total loss), sweep the floor clean, straighten the shelves and the furniture. It’s sweaty, hard work, but once the room is tidy, the way it was, Mohinder feels lighter.
He gives Sylar the dose of antibiotics and painkillers, changes his IV, and Sylar doesn’t say a word, not the whole time.
- - - -
“You tired of sleeping on the couch?” asks Sylar, that night.
Mohinder half-smiles. “I’m not about to kick you out of the bed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, I just thought,” and Sylar stops. “I slept better when you were here.” He doesn’t meet Mohinder’s eyes.
Mohinder hesitates; later he slips under the covers, next to Sylar.
Sometime during the night, Sylar curls up next to him - Mohinder awakens, briefly. When he falls back asleep, he doesn’t dream.
- - - -
“You can’t stay here,” says Mohinder, the next morning. “You’ve recovered some, but they’ll be here, and Molly -”
Sylar nods, his eyes downcast. “I understand,” he says
Mohinder gives him the antibiotics, the painkillers, some money. And he wonders why it hurts so much, now, to have Sylar walk out the door. How cruel it is to force Sylar to run, this quickly.
Sylar hesitates, on his way to the door, and he turns back to Mohinder. Before Mohinder can react, he steps back, sliding his hand to Mohinder’s neck, and pulls Mohinder into a kiss.
Mohinder’s blood pounds; he feels dizzy, for a moment, and then he meets Sylar’s tongue, feels Sylar’s lips soften against his.
Sylar rests his forehead against Mohinder’s. “I’ll come back for you,” he promises, and a tremor dashes through Mohinder's body.
Then Sylar is gone.
- - - -
“It worked,” murmurs Molly, almost sad.
Next to her, Peter Petrelli nods. “I told you there was more to it than they knew.”
“Will it change things?”
“Yeah,” rasps Peter. “It will.”
Molly takes Peter’s hand, and in an instant, they’re in a graveyard, under dappled shade and golden light.
“What happens to us?” Molly asks, sitting against one of the gravestones. Idly, her fingers trace the engraved name.
“I don’t know,” says Peter, dropping next to her.
Molly’s hand stalls, the stone rough and warm against her fingertips.
“Loving father,” Peter reads, off the tombstone. “I always wondered why you put that.”
“He was my father,” says Molly. “In all the ways that counted.”
On top of Mohinder Suresh’s grave, Molly pulls her knees underneath her, closes her eyes, and waits for the world to change.
The apartment is wrecked, just like Sylar left it, after -
Mohinder takes a gasping breath. He’s tired, so very tired. He could sit against this wall forever, and the last few days have been so long.
“Mohinder?”
Mohinder’s hand goes to his bag, before he forgets that there’s not a gun in there, not anymore. He lost it, and now he’s defenseless - he backs against the wall, on his feet, wild-eyed. “Who’s there?”
The floor creaks, and a shaft of light falls on a girl, a teenage girl, dark-brown hair and eyes that remind Mohinder of -
“Who are you?” Mohinder somehow manages to steady his voice, but his heartbeat hammers, his hands tremble, he can barely stand.
“It’s me, Mohinder,” the girl says. “It’s Molly.”
Mohinder swallows. “Molly is nine years old,” he says. “You’re not.”
“I’m…I’m not from now,” she explains, her mouth twisting. “Mohinder, look in my eyes, and tell me you don’t know who I am. Mohinder,” she repeats, again, catching his gaze. “I’m not going to hurt you, it’s just,” and she stops. “God,” she murmurs, “it’s like seeing a ghost.”
“A ghost?” asks Mohinder, through numb lips.
“It’s all wrong,” says Molly. “The war, the way things happened. You were never supposed to die.”
Die…?
“We have to fix it,” she tells him. “We have to change it, starting now.”
“What,” breathes Mohinder, and Molly takes him by the shoulder.
“Get a first aid kit,” she says. “We’re going out.”
- - - -
“And who is it we’re supposed to be saving?” asks Mohinder, again, as he steps out of the car.
“Don’t forget the kit,” says Molly, pulling up a manhole cover, with a scrape of metal against concrete.
And Mohinder gets it.
“No,” he says.
Molly glances up. “C’mon, Mohinder,” she says. “We have to get down here.”
“For what?” spits Mohinder. “To save Sylar? The man who killed my father, who murdered countless others, including your parents?”
Molly settles back on her heels, her mouth set.
“He deserves to die,” Mohinder snarls. “Bleeding out, as painfully as possible, inside New York’s sewers seems quite fitting to me.”
Molly waits, for a beat. “Are you done?” she asks.
“Yes,” says Mohinder, and he starts back towards the car.
“He’ll survive,” says Molly.
Mohinder stops.
“No matter what you do, he’ll survive.” She cocks her head to the side. “Bleeding, broken and alone, he’ll live, and he’ll hate you all. Revenge is poison, Mohinder, and Sylar will have the biggest dose of any human on the planet. When the time comes, he’ll rise up against you and slaughter you, one by one, because you’ve driven him past redemption.”
Mohinder can’t respond.
“Cheerleader’s saved,” continues Molly. “The world is saved. Now you have to save the one man you hate the most.”
“I can’t,” says Mohinder.
“You have to,” says Molly.
- - - -
The sewer is foul. Mohinder can barely breathe, in the refuse pooled black and oily on the concrete.
“This way,” and Molly steps carefully, leading Mohinder without hesitation further into the sewer.
“How did you get back in time?” asks Mohinder.
“Not now,” says Molly, and she takes his hand, pulling him through the dark.
Eventually, they turn a corner, step onto dry metal grate, and Mohinder’s heart stops.
His hands go to soiled cloth, gentle as he can be, easing the prone figure onto his back. The front of Sylar’s coat is matted with blood, half unnaturally solidified, and he’s dirty, covered in filth.
He’s a murderer, Mohinder thinks, and he tries to be impersonal, undoing the buttons of the coat one by one, pushing it back, finding the skin of Sylar’s chest, but he can’t. His fingers turn soft, and he touches Sylar with care, too much care.
“Careful,” says Molly. “Remember his back is injured too.”
“It’s a miracle it didn’t go through his spine,” murmurs Mohinder.
The tips of Sylar’s fingertips glow, for just a second, and Mohinder retreats. Sylar forces open bloodshot eyes.
“You,” barely a breath, not even a whisper, from Sylar’s throat.
“Don’t try to talk,” says Mohinder, automatically, and he wets a bandage in antiseptic, starting to clean off the half-scabbed, half-oozing blood. Sylar’s jaw clenches, and he’s pale, far too pale, but he probably can’t even tell what’s happening.
Mohinder drops the blood-soaked rags into the sewer, thinking there’s probably worse in there, and then he hesitates.
“It’ll need stitches,” says Molly.
“I can’t do stitches,” protests Mohinder.
“You can draw blood,” says Molly. “You have a steady hand. That’s all it takes.”
“It won’t work,” says Mohinder. “What about internal bleeding, damage to his organs, to his spine -”
“It worked fine for doctors in the nineteenth century,” says Molly.
“The mortality rates where also a lot higher in the nineteenth century,” Mohinder shoots back.
“If he survived on his own,” explains Molly, patiently, “then he’ll survive even better, this way.”
“I don’t have the materials -”
Molly hands him a needle, threaded with a fine cord. “Fishing line,” she says. “The body won’t react against it. I’ve already sterilized it.”
Mohinder takes a breath, and tries not to wince as he puts the needle to Sylar’s flesh. A quick stab, and Sylar jerks, a near-moan torn from his mouth. Mohinder draws it tight, and Molly’s hands move in, holding the halves of the wound together.
Mohinder shoots her a grateful glance - though maybe she can’t even see, in the dark - and he stitches, carefully, until the wound is held closed. He notes, with amazement, that Sylar is still conscious, just barely, his eyelids fluttering between open and closed.
“Sylar,” says Mohinder, his voice more even than he expects, “I need to get your shirt off. Can you lift your arms, just a little?”
Sylar makes an effort - and Molly even helps him, just a little, enough to slip Sylar’s shirt away and turn him so Mohinder can get to his back.
The wound is smaller here, and but there’s even more blood - a deep red, and more flowing free every second. Mohinder starts to clean it, and he realizes, gradually, that his fingers are steady, that his palms aren’t sweating anymore.
Dried blood has collected between his fingers, under his nails, stained the sleeves of his shirt. Sylar has lost a lot of blood - so much blood. How could Molly possibly have been right? How could Sylar survive a wound like that, without Mohinder’s help?
And how could Mohinder have just saved his life?
“Don’t leave me.”
Mohinder presses the bandage to the newly stitched wound. “What?”
“Don’t leave me,” breathes Sylar, and then, “please,” so small, so soft that it breaks Mohinder, inside.
“How are we going to get him back to my apartment?” asks Mohinder, turning to Molly. “Getting him up those ladders -”
“Close your eyes,” Molly tells him.
Mohinder feels a hand wrap around his, soft and warm. Molly’s. It squeezes once, and then it’s gone, along with the echoing damp of the sewer.
Mohinder opens his eyes to see his own apartment, his own bedroom. Sylar is on the bed, a towel underneath his back, unconscious at last. And Molly is nowhere to be found.
Mechanically, Mohinder steps into the bathroom, scrubbing tacky crimson from his hands, his elbows. His cheek.
He collapses onto the couch just as the sun is starting to rise over the city of New York.
- - - -
The phone blares in Mohinder’s ears.
He blinks, long and slow, dry eyelids sticking like glue. The phone rings, again, and Mohinder twists, sitting up, snatching at the noise, before bringing it to his ear.
“Hello?” he asks, blearily, looking to the clock. One PM.
“Dr. Suresh?”
“Bennet?” asks Mohinder, cautiously. “What is it? Is there an update in Matt Parkman or DL Hawkins’ condition?”
There’s a sigh, from the other end of the phone. “From what I hear, both are still critical,” says Bennet. “But I have good news.”
Mohinder stands.
“They found Peter and Nathan Petrelli,” says Bennet. “Both alive, both relatively intact, despite having survived a fall of several miles.”
Mohinder exhales. “That’s wonderful news,” he says, a smile crossing his features.
“I don’t have anything on Sylar, unfortunately,” continues Bennet. “We tracked him through the sewers, but the trail dead-ended, next to an open first aid kit.”
Mohinder cringes, a full-body flinch that reminds him all too acutely of the physical stresses of the day before.
“I hope you find him,” he says, through numb lips, “though he must have died, overnight. The blood loss-”
“Sylar has a way of surviving, even when you least expect it,” says Bennet. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Before Mohinder can respond, there’s a click from the other end of the line.
Mohinder sits back on the couch, awake, now, and he slides his head in his hands, thinking only of the man in the next room.
Save Sylar, save the world.
Mohinder laughs, harsh and low.
- - - -
“Sylar?”
Mohinder tenses, waiting for the attack, waiting for Sylar to wake up alert and fighting - but it doesn’t happen.
Sylar wakes up slowly, with a soft noise of pain, his limbs curling inwards. As though to protect him.
“Easy, easy,” says Mohinder. “You’re safe.”
Safe. Mohinder hardly knows what the word means, anymore.
“Don’t move too much,” Mohinder cautions. “You could tear the stitches, cause more damage than there already is.”
Sylar is fully conscious now, and his eyes dart around the room once, in caution and assessment, before lighting on Mohinder.
“Take these,” says Mohinder, opening his palm to show the pills there.
“What are they?” rasps Sylar - his first words.
“Painkillers and antibiotics,” Mohinder tells him. “The best I could scrounge.”
“Antibiotics?”
“You crawled through a sewer with an open stab wound,” says Mohinder, dryly. “Hardly the best recipe for good health.”
Sylar takes them, but he doesn’t quite meet Mohinder’s eyes. Shame, maybe? Fear? No, Sylar couldn’t possibly be afraid of Mohinder, he could crush Mohinder if he wanted. Probably even resist the pain, escape from the apartment, get into the city and lose himself. Bennet would never find him - and Sylar could strike again, murder someone else -
“Your heartbeat is coming faster,” observes Sylar, clinically.
Mohinder grits his teeth, and he tightens a tourniquet around Sylar’s upper arm, flicking against the crook of his elbow. Sylar watches him, eyes never moving away, as Mohinder slips a needle into Sylar’s elbow, secures it, hooks it to the IV.
“Curare?” asks Sylar, ironically.
“No,” says Mohinder, through clenched teeth. “If you want to use your powers to turn it off, you can go ahead. I, personally, think it would be best if we didn’t feed you any solid food the day after you get impaled by a sword.”
“Mohinder,” says Sylar, just as Mohinder is about to cross the threshold, leave the room.
Mohinder stops in the doorway, his back to Sylar.
“Last time I talked with you,” says Sylar, “you couldn’t wait to dial 911. What changed?”
“Nothing,” snaps Mohinder, and he shuts the door behind him with perhaps a little too much force.
- - - -
When he comes in, later that night, Sylar is pale, and the bandages are too bloody for Mohinder’s comfort. He changes them, using up the last of his antibiotic ointment - he’ll have to buy some more - and when he rests Sylar back against the pillows, there’s a sheen of sweat on his skin.
“Stay,” says Sylar, breathless with pain. “Please stay.”
Mohinder hesitates, but he sits up on the bed, next to Sylar.
Sylar’s hand grasps at Mohinder’s elbow, and Mohinder shifts - their fingers come into contact, somehow, and tangle together. Sylar relaxes, then, his eyes closing.
“When you called me,” Mohinder blurts, “you were afraid of being the bomb that blew up New York. You said killing that many people wouldn’t make sense.” He takes a breath. “So, why did you push Hiro out of the way? Why did you want to let Peter Petrelli destroy the city?”
Sylar turns away from him, fractionally. “I thought it was enough,” he mutters, almost below Mohinder’s hearing. “To be Gabriel Grey, to fix things, one at a time. But it’s not. I’m special.” He turns his gaze on Mohinder. “I could do anything.”
“Play God for millions of people?” asks Mohinder, softly.
Sylar releases a breath, near relief - the pain medication must be working.
Mohinder realizes his thumb is rubbing, just barely, along the lines of Sylar’s palm. He tugs his hand away. “You’re right,” Mohinder says, finally. “Being Gabriel Grey isn’t enough, and you know that.”
Sylar flinches.
“You knew it when you repaired watches,” persists Mohinder. “You wanted to be special, you knew you were special. And you only pulled away when it meant wholesale slaughter.” He grits his jaw. “What changed your mind? What made you decide that those people didn’t matter?”
To his surprise, Sylar doesn’t respond. His eyes are red, and his posture is tight, like there’s something threatening to tear free, and he just can’t let go.
Mohinder stands, and he shuts the door quietly behind him.
- - - -
He wakes when it’s dark, to the sound of shattered glass.
Mohinder is off the couch immediately, in the bedroom an instant after. He flicks a lamp on - low light - and sees Sylar’s eyes, wide open, his breath coming fast. Too fast. A nightmare, then.
“What’s wrong?” asks Mohinder, drawn towards the man on the bed.
Sylar’s hand fists in the cloth of Mohinder’s shirt, pulling him close, burying his face in the curve of Mohinder’s waist.
Mohinder stands still for a moment, in a kind of shock. It's not - not what he was expecting, but he steels himself, urges Sylar a little further over on the bed. The position must be straining his stitches - Mohinder eases onto the bed, next to him, and strokes his fingers through Sylar’s hair. “Sssh,” he reassures, low and comforting, and Sylar cries, sobs into Mohinder’s ribs.
Mohinder stays, as long as it takes, until Sylar sleeps.
- - - -
Mohinder spends the day cleaning the apartment. He reassembles the map - what’s left of it - and throws away the fragments of a destroyed computer. He’ll have to rebuild the list, of course, but he won’t now, not with the boogeyman himself in Mohinder’s apartment.
It takes a long time to straighten everything up - pry glass shards out of the wall (his security deposit is probably a total loss), sweep the floor clean, straighten the shelves and the furniture. It’s sweaty, hard work, but once the room is tidy, the way it was, Mohinder feels lighter.
He gives Sylar the dose of antibiotics and painkillers, changes his IV, and Sylar doesn’t say a word, not the whole time.
- - - -
“You tired of sleeping on the couch?” asks Sylar, that night.
Mohinder half-smiles. “I’m not about to kick you out of the bed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, I just thought,” and Sylar stops. “I slept better when you were here.” He doesn’t meet Mohinder’s eyes.
Mohinder hesitates; later he slips under the covers, next to Sylar.
Sometime during the night, Sylar curls up next to him - Mohinder awakens, briefly. When he falls back asleep, he doesn’t dream.
- - - -
“You can’t stay here,” says Mohinder, the next morning. “You’ve recovered some, but they’ll be here, and Molly -”
Sylar nods, his eyes downcast. “I understand,” he says
Mohinder gives him the antibiotics, the painkillers, some money. And he wonders why it hurts so much, now, to have Sylar walk out the door. How cruel it is to force Sylar to run, this quickly.
Sylar hesitates, on his way to the door, and he turns back to Mohinder. Before Mohinder can react, he steps back, sliding his hand to Mohinder’s neck, and pulls Mohinder into a kiss.
Mohinder’s blood pounds; he feels dizzy, for a moment, and then he meets Sylar’s tongue, feels Sylar’s lips soften against his.
Sylar rests his forehead against Mohinder’s. “I’ll come back for you,” he promises, and a tremor dashes through Mohinder's body.
Then Sylar is gone.
- - - -
“It worked,” murmurs Molly, almost sad.
Next to her, Peter Petrelli nods. “I told you there was more to it than they knew.”
“Will it change things?”
“Yeah,” rasps Peter. “It will.”
Molly takes Peter’s hand, and in an instant, they’re in a graveyard, under dappled shade and golden light.
“What happens to us?” Molly asks, sitting against one of the gravestones. Idly, her fingers trace the engraved name.
“I don’t know,” says Peter, dropping next to her.
Molly’s hand stalls, the stone rough and warm against her fingertips.
“Loving father,” Peter reads, off the tombstone. “I always wondered why you put that.”
“He was my father,” says Molly. “In all the ways that counted.”
On top of Mohinder Suresh’s grave, Molly pulls her knees underneath her, closes her eyes, and waits for the world to change.