(no subject)
Title: That sound in your heart... 3/4
Chapter: 3
Author: Carmexgirl
Rating: PG-13 for nasty murdering stuff and a minky bit of swearing
Summary: Completely AU. New York 2008. Or could it be London, Whitechapel 1888? Things go from bad to worse.
A//N: This was also longer than expected...
Previous Chapters: Chapter one | Chapter two
“We have to be sure we’re on the right track,” said Mohinder, sifting through the pages of a rather thick book on the Ripper murders. “I’m certain that if we get the facts right, we can head this Sylar off at the pass and save lives.” His eyes were full of earnest determination, and Matt suddenly felt a small twinge of joy at finally having someone determined to take decisive action.
Mohinder opened the book and pointed to a black and white photo of a woman’s neck and head, obviously a very old mortuary picture. “Elizabeth Stride. Found in Dutfield’s Yard off Berner Street with a cut throat - no other injuries. She was 45 when she died.”
“Right.”
“So we need to find Berner Street.”
“Ah, that’s tricky. There is no Berner Street in New York”
“How about a Dutfield’s Yard?”
“No, not that either. What a second. Dutfield? There’s no Dutfield’s Yard, but there is a Duffy’s Yard. It’s just a couple of blocks from here”
“There was another murder on the same night as Elizabeth Stride’s. A Catherine Eddowes. Her face was also mutilated, and her right ear was hacked off. Her abdomen was cut open, with the killer stealing a piece of her kidney.”
“Sick bastard.” Matt thought that could well be his new catchphrase. He stood up forcefully. Determination had gripped him. Dammit, he was not going to sit and wait while two more innocent women died.
He got up and paced the room a few times, before arriving back to the table to look Mohinder straight in the eye. “This is what I’m gonna do,” he said, voice hardened and resolute. “I’m going to talk to every hooker, madame, rent boy and whoever out on the street, and tell them to stay indoors until we catch this bastard.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Mohinder, the determination in Matt’s eyes now matched by his.
“No Mohinder, you can’t. It’s your third day as an M.E. You should be looking at corpses, not getting involved in this stuff. It’s dangerous.”
“I know, but I am involved now, and I’m not going to leave it. I have to do what’s right, Matt, and if that means putting myself in danger, then so be it.”
Matt looked at him, and felt that twinge again. He had only known him for three days, yet he felt he had never met anyone with so much moral clarity as Mohinder. It seemed that once he knew that something was right, he followed it through to the end.
Chief Swanson said no. He said no a thousand times, and threatened Matt with the sack for even suggesting that he put his officers guarding some damn yard because of some stupid rookie M.E’s theory. It was only when that stupid rookie M.E. threatened to take the letter and the photos of the victims to the papers that he relented, before making it perfectly clear that if Matt was wrong, his detective, no his policing days were over with.
Four officers stood guard at the entrance, exit and loading bay of Duffy’s Yard, each one harbouring just a little bit more resentment for Matt and Mohinder as the nights grew colder and wetter.
Not that they cared. Matt and Mohinder spent every day in the more dubious parts of town, talking to hookers and trying desperately to convince them to stay indoors. The task was an arduous and more often than not, fruitless one. Over the following two weeks they trawled the streets looking for Elizbeths, Lizzies, Beths, Catherines and Kates. This was no mean feat - many of the prostitutes, if they wanted to talk to them at all, refused to give their real names.
It had been two weeks since the last murder, and there were no developments. No murders, no notes from the killer, no more clues. The trail had gone cold, and it felt that the killer had slipped out of Matt’s grasp once again. He worked on other cases, and managed to put the murders to the back of his mind enough to get on with his life.
He started to socialise. Mainly with Mohinder, because he felt he was starting to enjoy the company of someone who wasn’t a Neanderthal cop, whose idea of a good time was to get off his face and bag a hooker for the journey home. He began to look at himself more critically - he lived on his own in a dingy first floor apartment; he couldn’t cook; he probably drank too much; and he hadn’t been with someone, either in a proper or improper sense, for some time. Yet, something new was stirring in him - something that was scarily like personal pride. He started to take more care of his appearance -he actually bought an iron to take the somewhat permanent creases out of his clothes. He washed more frequently, and shaved regularly. Sometimes he even put on cologne. Mohinder had noticed the change in him, and had commented on how smart he looked, how good he smelt, or if he had lost weight. Of course, a number of other people had commented too, so why were his the only ones that made his stomach jump?
He too had noticed a change in Mohinder. Gone was the uncertainly of his first day, to be replaced by steely determination at the task in hand. His dedication to the cause was a thing of marvel - the way he could stick to something because he felt it was right. He saw the compassion and determination in his eyes, and it made his heart beat with a mixture of pride and…and…
Of course, just when things had calmed down, something happens to upset them again. After yet another day on the streets, Matt returned to his office with Mohinder in tow, ready to go out for a drink in order to forget the frustrations of the day. He froze as he saw an envelope, covered with a familiar red scrawl, lying on his desk. He opened up the envelope to reveal a postcard of Los Angeles, complete with scrawl on the back.
Parkman,
I see you have become wise to my games. I may have to change tactics - you will see soon enough. We shall meet, I am certain. I look forward to meeting my old friend. I must say, time has not been kind to your waistline. I doubt you could chase me across MacArthur Park now. Mother would be so proud.
Yours Truly
Sylar
Matt slumped down in his chair, head in his hands. “Oh god” he said, “Oh god oh god oh god!” He started to breathe heavily, faster and faster as though he was about to have a panic attack.
“Matt. What is it? Matt. Matt!” Mohinder rushed to him, bending down so his eyes were looking straight into his. He put his hands on his shoulders and shook him. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Matt shook his head, and tried to compose himself. He tried to say something, the sound got caught in his throat. “G….g…… Gabriel Gray” he said, breathlessly. “The killer is Gabriel Gray.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Because he was the one I chased across MacArthur Park.” He leapt up out of the chair, and begin to pace the room, worrying his hands through his hair, eyes fixed permanently on the floor.
“Matt. I’m going to get you some coffee, and then when you’ve calmed down, you must tell me everything.” Mohinder’s eyes, and the tone of his voice, indicated a deep concern.
He returned with the coffee, and sat nursing a cup while Matt explained.
“Gabriel Gray was…is…a murderer. Classic case - loner, felt rejected by society, had delusions of grandeur, always felt he was destined for something better. It was a six years ago - I was a rookie then, back in Los Angeles. We were called to a disturbance down on 6th Street, some domestic, or so I thought. I get there, and there’s no-one home. I break in, and the place is quiet, really quiet, so I look around. There’s all these clocks and watches everywhere, all over the house. I go upstairs and there’s a room full of photos, some with the faces ripped out, others covered in red marks.”
“Like graffiti helix we found?”
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Mmmm kind of, not exactly. He must have refined the design.”
“So what happened?”
“I get to the main bedroom, and the floor is soaked in blood. Soaked, to the point of bubbling up when I trod on the carpet. I then see Mrs Gray face down on the floor. She had been stabbed in the chest. I hear a noise outside, and look to see Gabriel, covered in blood, trying to wash some of it off with a hose. Why he would do that in broad daylight I don’t know, but I think his arrogance had made him careless. I called for back up and gave chase, catching him in MacArthur Park. He was sent to prison and deemed mentally unstable. I thought he would stay there.”
“So how can you be sure it’s him?”
“I can’t - I just know. Plus, he mentioned MacArthur Park and…and…Wait a second. ‘The trade name.’”
“What?”
“The first letter said ‘Don’t mind me giving the trade name’. ‘Sylar’ is a make of watch. Gabriel Gray was a watchmaker - it all makes sense! It’s him Mohinder, I’m certain. We have to find him. This postcard means he’s planning something.”
They renewed their duties with a new vigour, trying desperately to track down Gabriel Gray. It seems that he had been released from prison, being deemed fit enough to join normal society, but after that the trail went cold. Chief Swanson gradually lost patience as the weeks went by, and started to withdraw officers from their guard duty at Duffy’s yard. Soon, just one solitary officer, with only a radio for company, stood guard at the entrance.
Nearly a month after the killings, most of the prostitutes around Duffy’s Yard had moved, not appreciative of all the police attention it had been getting. Matt and Mohinder still attempted to talk to the few who remained, but pretty soon gave up after yet more abuse and resentment. After one rather long and equally joyless stint, they got back into the car, Matt biting his lip in frustration.
“Man, I wish I knew what he was up to. What’s he playing at?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s finished taunting you and disappeared.”
“No. He’s up to something. You read the postcard - he’s changing tactics. He’ll come up with som…”
Suddenly an explosion rocked the car. Smoke and debris flew from the back of one of the factory units. Matt leapt out of the car and ran headlong into the melee, Mohinder trying his best to follow Matt’s figure as it gradually disappeared into the smoke. Matt rushed into the back of the factory to check for anyone who was injured. He tripped over shards of glass and brick, fighting the thick most that seemed to be sticking into his lungs. He could hear a coughing behind him, and knew that Mohinder was close by. He tripped again, over something large and heavy this time. It was a body.
Mohinder crashed into him, and looked down to see the mutilated face of a young woman. He gasped - part of her ear was cut off, and her semi-naked body bore all the hallmarks of someone in the midst of a frenzy. Like the rest of them, the top of her head had been levered off, but added to this, the killer had removed part of her womb. Matt appeared through the smoke, face red and angry, eyes pricked with tears. “The bastard got her” he said, and handed Mohinder a dog tag with the name “Kate Conway” on it. “Kate Conway was an alias of Catherine Eddowes.” Mohinder said quietly, though he knew he didn’t need to say it at all.
Suddenly there was a scream, and both men leapt up to run out of the factory. Through the smoke Matt could see two shadowy figures - one slumped to the floor, the other standing tall and holding a sharp object. Matt cried out, and the killer looked at him. He was a little leaner, his hair more unkempt, and stubble now caressed that once smooth chin, but Matt was certain. It was Gabriel Gray alright. He instantly let go of his victim, who slumped to the floor, and took flight out of the yard. Mohinder ran to the stricken woman, while Matt remained frozen to the spot. He heard him cry, “She’s still breathing!” and this seemed to break him out of his reverie. He tore after Gray, big bounding strides that covered a lot of ground. He heard his evil laugh echoing down the empty street, and ran at full speed, gradually catching up with him. He started to get breathless, and felt a pain in his chest, but still kept on running, steps gradually slowing. Gray suddenly stopped and turned around, face twisted into a grin, before resuming, quicker than before. The pain in Matt’s chest intensified, until the point where he couldn’t take it any longer. He stumbled blindly, and crashed against a factory gate, Gray’s laughter echoing in his ears as he sped away..
He stumbled back to Duffy’s Yard, where he found Mohinder slumped over the second body, hands and face covered in blood. There were tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t do it Matt…I tried. The cut was too deep… I couldn’t stop it.” Matt wanted to reassure him, but the words were stuck in his throat. So he stood there, wide eyed and shaking.
They arrived at Matt’s apartment, much later. It was Mohinder who had called for back up, and officers had swarmed the site, looking for clues. ‘Too little, too late’ Matt thought, bitterly. Mohinder had picked himself up enough to give an extremely accurate account of what had happened, before being told to take Matt home for the evening.
They sit down, and Matt regains his composure enough to offer Mohinder a drink. He makes then both coffee, before sitting back down in his chair, not drinking, just staring into the mug.
Mohinder was the first to speak. “It’s been a hard day” he said, before realising how utterly ridiculous that sounded.
Matt sighed. “I think you should find a new partner” he said absently.
“What?”
“I think you should find a new partner. Someone who won’t fuck things up. You’ve still got a whole career ahead of you. Mine’s finished. I don’t want to drag you down to my level.”
“If ‘your level’ means someone who will do anything in his power to save lives, then I’d quite like to be dragged down there.”
“Come on Mohinder!” Matt cried, a sudden desperation in his voice. “Who have I saved? Those women? The one who’s ear was missing, or the one who bled to death in your arms. Who have I saved?” Mohinder heard the pain, and he couldn’t stand it.
“Hundreds. Those two died, but think of the hundreds we’ve spoken to, and warned, and convinced to stay indoors. That’s not failure! Sylar could have killed many, many more if it wasn’t for you.”
“Oh let’s face facts Mohinder! He’s won. He said he’d change his tactics and he did, and I was fooled. It’s not like before when I got lucky, he’s playing me. He’s playing me and he’s winning. I should just admit defeat and forget about it.”
“He will never win. Not while we’re here, and we’re determined to stop him. You’re better than that Matt. My time here has taught me that there are those who do a job, and those who truly believe in what they’re doing. You believe. You want to make a difference. Don’t lose that fire Matt - I couldn’t stand it.”
Matt looked at Mohinder, his eyes full of determination. He wanted to say something to him, to convince him he was wrong and they should just forget everything, but suddenly Mohinder was walking over to him, putting his hands on his shoulders, and pulling him into a deep, insistent kiss.
He pulled away suddenly. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen, not here. Not like this.”
Matt stared at him, unsure of what to say or what to do for a moment. He then pulled him back, and they kissed again.
“Matt” Mohinder said breathlessly, “you don’t have to…”
“I want to.” He said, looking at him with an expression of pained resignation. “I’ve wanted this since I met you, but I don’t know what to feel and it scares the hell out of me. Maybe when all this shit is over, we can figure this mess out and be normal, and in love, and everything else that goes with it. But right at this moment, I want to feel something other than pain and hurt and guilt and regret. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
His eyes were full of pleading and spiked with pain. Mohinder nodded, and pulled him in closer for another kiss.
They fell on the bed, Mohinder kicking off his shoes before curling himself around Matt. Soon they were asleep, but neither could rest fully. Matt twitched and moaned, dreams tortured with images of the two dead women, while Mohinder shook slightly and held Matt closer to his chest.
He awoke some hours later to the clatter of the letter box. He extricated himself from Mohinder’s warm form and went to see what the post had brought. Another envelope, with a familiar scrawl lay on the floor. It was postmarked “From Hell.” He tore it open angrily, and read the contents.
Parkman,
I hope you liked my latest game. I rather enjoyed it. Next time will be according to plan though. We can’t go deviating on a winning formula. Please come along. Oh, bring your handsome lover too. I would very much like to look at his brains.
Yours truly,
Sylar
Matt stared at the letter, fear dissolving, replaced instead by anger and determination. He looked over at Mohinder’s sleeping form. There was no way Gabriel Gray would hurt anyone, especially someone he sensed he was beginning to…to… This time he wasn’t going to win.
Something else plopped out of the envelope. It was part of a human ear, caked in dry blood.
“I’ll get you, you fucker.”
Fin
Next chapter: Will history repeat itself?
Chapter: 3
Author: Carmexgirl
Rating: PG-13 for nasty murdering stuff and a minky bit of swearing
Summary: Completely AU. New York 2008. Or could it be London, Whitechapel 1888? Things go from bad to worse.
A//N: This was also longer than expected...
Previous Chapters: Chapter one | Chapter two
“We have to be sure we’re on the right track,” said Mohinder, sifting through the pages of a rather thick book on the Ripper murders. “I’m certain that if we get the facts right, we can head this Sylar off at the pass and save lives.” His eyes were full of earnest determination, and Matt suddenly felt a small twinge of joy at finally having someone determined to take decisive action.
Mohinder opened the book and pointed to a black and white photo of a woman’s neck and head, obviously a very old mortuary picture. “Elizabeth Stride. Found in Dutfield’s Yard off Berner Street with a cut throat - no other injuries. She was 45 when she died.”
“Right.”
“So we need to find Berner Street.”
“Ah, that’s tricky. There is no Berner Street in New York”
“How about a Dutfield’s Yard?”
“No, not that either. What a second. Dutfield? There’s no Dutfield’s Yard, but there is a Duffy’s Yard. It’s just a couple of blocks from here”
“There was another murder on the same night as Elizabeth Stride’s. A Catherine Eddowes. Her face was also mutilated, and her right ear was hacked off. Her abdomen was cut open, with the killer stealing a piece of her kidney.”
“Sick bastard.” Matt thought that could well be his new catchphrase. He stood up forcefully. Determination had gripped him. Dammit, he was not going to sit and wait while two more innocent women died.
He got up and paced the room a few times, before arriving back to the table to look Mohinder straight in the eye. “This is what I’m gonna do,” he said, voice hardened and resolute. “I’m going to talk to every hooker, madame, rent boy and whoever out on the street, and tell them to stay indoors until we catch this bastard.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Mohinder, the determination in Matt’s eyes now matched by his.
“No Mohinder, you can’t. It’s your third day as an M.E. You should be looking at corpses, not getting involved in this stuff. It’s dangerous.”
“I know, but I am involved now, and I’m not going to leave it. I have to do what’s right, Matt, and if that means putting myself in danger, then so be it.”
Matt looked at him, and felt that twinge again. He had only known him for three days, yet he felt he had never met anyone with so much moral clarity as Mohinder. It seemed that once he knew that something was right, he followed it through to the end.
Chief Swanson said no. He said no a thousand times, and threatened Matt with the sack for even suggesting that he put his officers guarding some damn yard because of some stupid rookie M.E’s theory. It was only when that stupid rookie M.E. threatened to take the letter and the photos of the victims to the papers that he relented, before making it perfectly clear that if Matt was wrong, his detective, no his policing days were over with.
Four officers stood guard at the entrance, exit and loading bay of Duffy’s Yard, each one harbouring just a little bit more resentment for Matt and Mohinder as the nights grew colder and wetter.
Not that they cared. Matt and Mohinder spent every day in the more dubious parts of town, talking to hookers and trying desperately to convince them to stay indoors. The task was an arduous and more often than not, fruitless one. Over the following two weeks they trawled the streets looking for Elizbeths, Lizzies, Beths, Catherines and Kates. This was no mean feat - many of the prostitutes, if they wanted to talk to them at all, refused to give their real names.
It had been two weeks since the last murder, and there were no developments. No murders, no notes from the killer, no more clues. The trail had gone cold, and it felt that the killer had slipped out of Matt’s grasp once again. He worked on other cases, and managed to put the murders to the back of his mind enough to get on with his life.
He started to socialise. Mainly with Mohinder, because he felt he was starting to enjoy the company of someone who wasn’t a Neanderthal cop, whose idea of a good time was to get off his face and bag a hooker for the journey home. He began to look at himself more critically - he lived on his own in a dingy first floor apartment; he couldn’t cook; he probably drank too much; and he hadn’t been with someone, either in a proper or improper sense, for some time. Yet, something new was stirring in him - something that was scarily like personal pride. He started to take more care of his appearance -he actually bought an iron to take the somewhat permanent creases out of his clothes. He washed more frequently, and shaved regularly. Sometimes he even put on cologne. Mohinder had noticed the change in him, and had commented on how smart he looked, how good he smelt, or if he had lost weight. Of course, a number of other people had commented too, so why were his the only ones that made his stomach jump?
He too had noticed a change in Mohinder. Gone was the uncertainly of his first day, to be replaced by steely determination at the task in hand. His dedication to the cause was a thing of marvel - the way he could stick to something because he felt it was right. He saw the compassion and determination in his eyes, and it made his heart beat with a mixture of pride and…and…
Of course, just when things had calmed down, something happens to upset them again. After yet another day on the streets, Matt returned to his office with Mohinder in tow, ready to go out for a drink in order to forget the frustrations of the day. He froze as he saw an envelope, covered with a familiar red scrawl, lying on his desk. He opened up the envelope to reveal a postcard of Los Angeles, complete with scrawl on the back.
Parkman,
I see you have become wise to my games. I may have to change tactics - you will see soon enough. We shall meet, I am certain. I look forward to meeting my old friend. I must say, time has not been kind to your waistline. I doubt you could chase me across MacArthur Park now. Mother would be so proud.
Yours Truly
Sylar
Matt slumped down in his chair, head in his hands. “Oh god” he said, “Oh god oh god oh god!” He started to breathe heavily, faster and faster as though he was about to have a panic attack.
“Matt. What is it? Matt. Matt!” Mohinder rushed to him, bending down so his eyes were looking straight into his. He put his hands on his shoulders and shook him. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Matt shook his head, and tried to compose himself. He tried to say something, the sound got caught in his throat. “G….g…… Gabriel Gray” he said, breathlessly. “The killer is Gabriel Gray.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Because he was the one I chased across MacArthur Park.” He leapt up out of the chair, and begin to pace the room, worrying his hands through his hair, eyes fixed permanently on the floor.
“Matt. I’m going to get you some coffee, and then when you’ve calmed down, you must tell me everything.” Mohinder’s eyes, and the tone of his voice, indicated a deep concern.
He returned with the coffee, and sat nursing a cup while Matt explained.
“Gabriel Gray was…is…a murderer. Classic case - loner, felt rejected by society, had delusions of grandeur, always felt he was destined for something better. It was a six years ago - I was a rookie then, back in Los Angeles. We were called to a disturbance down on 6th Street, some domestic, or so I thought. I get there, and there’s no-one home. I break in, and the place is quiet, really quiet, so I look around. There’s all these clocks and watches everywhere, all over the house. I go upstairs and there’s a room full of photos, some with the faces ripped out, others covered in red marks.”
“Like graffiti helix we found?”
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Mmmm kind of, not exactly. He must have refined the design.”
“So what happened?”
“I get to the main bedroom, and the floor is soaked in blood. Soaked, to the point of bubbling up when I trod on the carpet. I then see Mrs Gray face down on the floor. She had been stabbed in the chest. I hear a noise outside, and look to see Gabriel, covered in blood, trying to wash some of it off with a hose. Why he would do that in broad daylight I don’t know, but I think his arrogance had made him careless. I called for back up and gave chase, catching him in MacArthur Park. He was sent to prison and deemed mentally unstable. I thought he would stay there.”
“So how can you be sure it’s him?”
“I can’t - I just know. Plus, he mentioned MacArthur Park and…and…Wait a second. ‘The trade name.’”
“What?”
“The first letter said ‘Don’t mind me giving the trade name’. ‘Sylar’ is a make of watch. Gabriel Gray was a watchmaker - it all makes sense! It’s him Mohinder, I’m certain. We have to find him. This postcard means he’s planning something.”
They renewed their duties with a new vigour, trying desperately to track down Gabriel Gray. It seems that he had been released from prison, being deemed fit enough to join normal society, but after that the trail went cold. Chief Swanson gradually lost patience as the weeks went by, and started to withdraw officers from their guard duty at Duffy’s yard. Soon, just one solitary officer, with only a radio for company, stood guard at the entrance.
Nearly a month after the killings, most of the prostitutes around Duffy’s Yard had moved, not appreciative of all the police attention it had been getting. Matt and Mohinder still attempted to talk to the few who remained, but pretty soon gave up after yet more abuse and resentment. After one rather long and equally joyless stint, they got back into the car, Matt biting his lip in frustration.
“Man, I wish I knew what he was up to. What’s he playing at?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s finished taunting you and disappeared.”
“No. He’s up to something. You read the postcard - he’s changing tactics. He’ll come up with som…”
Suddenly an explosion rocked the car. Smoke and debris flew from the back of one of the factory units. Matt leapt out of the car and ran headlong into the melee, Mohinder trying his best to follow Matt’s figure as it gradually disappeared into the smoke. Matt rushed into the back of the factory to check for anyone who was injured. He tripped over shards of glass and brick, fighting the thick most that seemed to be sticking into his lungs. He could hear a coughing behind him, and knew that Mohinder was close by. He tripped again, over something large and heavy this time. It was a body.
Mohinder crashed into him, and looked down to see the mutilated face of a young woman. He gasped - part of her ear was cut off, and her semi-naked body bore all the hallmarks of someone in the midst of a frenzy. Like the rest of them, the top of her head had been levered off, but added to this, the killer had removed part of her womb. Matt appeared through the smoke, face red and angry, eyes pricked with tears. “The bastard got her” he said, and handed Mohinder a dog tag with the name “Kate Conway” on it. “Kate Conway was an alias of Catherine Eddowes.” Mohinder said quietly, though he knew he didn’t need to say it at all.
Suddenly there was a scream, and both men leapt up to run out of the factory. Through the smoke Matt could see two shadowy figures - one slumped to the floor, the other standing tall and holding a sharp object. Matt cried out, and the killer looked at him. He was a little leaner, his hair more unkempt, and stubble now caressed that once smooth chin, but Matt was certain. It was Gabriel Gray alright. He instantly let go of his victim, who slumped to the floor, and took flight out of the yard. Mohinder ran to the stricken woman, while Matt remained frozen to the spot. He heard him cry, “She’s still breathing!” and this seemed to break him out of his reverie. He tore after Gray, big bounding strides that covered a lot of ground. He heard his evil laugh echoing down the empty street, and ran at full speed, gradually catching up with him. He started to get breathless, and felt a pain in his chest, but still kept on running, steps gradually slowing. Gray suddenly stopped and turned around, face twisted into a grin, before resuming, quicker than before. The pain in Matt’s chest intensified, until the point where he couldn’t take it any longer. He stumbled blindly, and crashed against a factory gate, Gray’s laughter echoing in his ears as he sped away..
He stumbled back to Duffy’s Yard, where he found Mohinder slumped over the second body, hands and face covered in blood. There were tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t do it Matt…I tried. The cut was too deep… I couldn’t stop it.” Matt wanted to reassure him, but the words were stuck in his throat. So he stood there, wide eyed and shaking.
They arrived at Matt’s apartment, much later. It was Mohinder who had called for back up, and officers had swarmed the site, looking for clues. ‘Too little, too late’ Matt thought, bitterly. Mohinder had picked himself up enough to give an extremely accurate account of what had happened, before being told to take Matt home for the evening.
They sit down, and Matt regains his composure enough to offer Mohinder a drink. He makes then both coffee, before sitting back down in his chair, not drinking, just staring into the mug.
Mohinder was the first to speak. “It’s been a hard day” he said, before realising how utterly ridiculous that sounded.
Matt sighed. “I think you should find a new partner” he said absently.
“What?”
“I think you should find a new partner. Someone who won’t fuck things up. You’ve still got a whole career ahead of you. Mine’s finished. I don’t want to drag you down to my level.”
“If ‘your level’ means someone who will do anything in his power to save lives, then I’d quite like to be dragged down there.”
“Come on Mohinder!” Matt cried, a sudden desperation in his voice. “Who have I saved? Those women? The one who’s ear was missing, or the one who bled to death in your arms. Who have I saved?” Mohinder heard the pain, and he couldn’t stand it.
“Hundreds. Those two died, but think of the hundreds we’ve spoken to, and warned, and convinced to stay indoors. That’s not failure! Sylar could have killed many, many more if it wasn’t for you.”
“Oh let’s face facts Mohinder! He’s won. He said he’d change his tactics and he did, and I was fooled. It’s not like before when I got lucky, he’s playing me. He’s playing me and he’s winning. I should just admit defeat and forget about it.”
“He will never win. Not while we’re here, and we’re determined to stop him. You’re better than that Matt. My time here has taught me that there are those who do a job, and those who truly believe in what they’re doing. You believe. You want to make a difference. Don’t lose that fire Matt - I couldn’t stand it.”
Matt looked at Mohinder, his eyes full of determination. He wanted to say something to him, to convince him he was wrong and they should just forget everything, but suddenly Mohinder was walking over to him, putting his hands on his shoulders, and pulling him into a deep, insistent kiss.
He pulled away suddenly. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen, not here. Not like this.”
Matt stared at him, unsure of what to say or what to do for a moment. He then pulled him back, and they kissed again.
“Matt” Mohinder said breathlessly, “you don’t have to…”
“I want to.” He said, looking at him with an expression of pained resignation. “I’ve wanted this since I met you, but I don’t know what to feel and it scares the hell out of me. Maybe when all this shit is over, we can figure this mess out and be normal, and in love, and everything else that goes with it. But right at this moment, I want to feel something other than pain and hurt and guilt and regret. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
His eyes were full of pleading and spiked with pain. Mohinder nodded, and pulled him in closer for another kiss.
They fell on the bed, Mohinder kicking off his shoes before curling himself around Matt. Soon they were asleep, but neither could rest fully. Matt twitched and moaned, dreams tortured with images of the two dead women, while Mohinder shook slightly and held Matt closer to his chest.
He awoke some hours later to the clatter of the letter box. He extricated himself from Mohinder’s warm form and went to see what the post had brought. Another envelope, with a familiar scrawl lay on the floor. It was postmarked “From Hell.” He tore it open angrily, and read the contents.
Parkman,
I hope you liked my latest game. I rather enjoyed it. Next time will be according to plan though. We can’t go deviating on a winning formula. Please come along. Oh, bring your handsome lover too. I would very much like to look at his brains.
Yours truly,
Sylar
Matt stared at the letter, fear dissolving, replaced instead by anger and determination. He looked over at Mohinder’s sleeping form. There was no way Gabriel Gray would hurt anyone, especially someone he sensed he was beginning to…to… This time he wasn’t going to win.
Something else plopped out of the envelope. It was part of a human ear, caked in dry blood.
“I’ll get you, you fucker.”
Fin
Next chapter: Will history repeat itself?