something wrong with me

I'm the widow of a drug dealer; I own property in Central London; and for the last bloody time, I'm not your housekeeper!

indie mrs. hudson rp blog. primarily bbc sherlock based.  (currently a sideblog to somethingwrcngwithme)

Punishment?  Paul could only imagine (all too well, much too clearly) what sort of things a city cop had seen.  What failures and almosts would be resting on his shoulders.  Paul knew how badly the system could fail people; it was a machine, with too many moving parts and not enough heart.  But…

“You’ve done your best.  And you can’t spend your whole life living for penance.”  He sighed, and leaned a little closer so he could peel back the edge of the bloody paper towel.  It was slowing, but even in the dim light he could see the way the blood still welled to the surface.  Folding another few sheets together, he pressed it back to the wound.

“A statement?”  He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but he could understand the necessity of it.  This wasn’t the same as last time, Paul reminded himself severely; he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and seen the crime in progress.  Nothing personal.  Nothing suspicious, even.  They had the guilty party in custody, and now they just had to keep him there.

Breathe, damnit.  You’re fine.

With a sheer force of will, Paul pushed down the shards of stillborn panic, and nodded shallowly.  “Yes, I suppose I should…  Just keep a hand on this, and I’ll go fetch my jacket from the back.  There’s not much good lucking the door on this place when the front window is broken, is there?  I’ll have to call the glazier in the morning…”

He lifted his lips in a half smile, unable to shake the melancholy that clung to his bones. He didn’t feel quite so optimistic anymore, years of working in CID did that. Louise Iver did that. Even the thought of the little old woman sent shivers up his spine. How one elderly lady could set up so much madness and mayhem, he’d never understand. 

“I guess so,” he said in regards to living in penance, the rise and fall of his shoulders in a shrug accompanied the words. He felt a little more human, less dizzy and he felt that he could probably risk standing without falling over. Maybe just a minute or two more to gather his wits first. The press of the towel against his wound again made him wince, but the pain was muted, less startling than it had been before. Still there, though. 

He nodded, “Just a statement, proper boring stuff I promise, but it’ll help things move along a bit quicker.” Plus he can at least book the guy on assault for a Police Officer.That’d give them some time to finish collecting physical evidence. 

He pressed fingers to the paper towel, more cautious this time, he didn’t fancy being berated for hurting himself again. “Dunno,” he couldn’t decide, locking it did seem a little counterproductive with the gaping hole in the window, but on the other hand, the copper in him thought it was probably a good deterrent for most of the low life. “Might be worth locking up anyway.” He said, free hand pressed against his knee as he forced himself out of the seat. He swayed slightly, pinned his gaze to one of the walls and steeled himself.

Paul’s chest clenched at the way the cop dragged his breath across his teeth.  In the half light from the single, bare bulb it hadn’t looked like it would need stitches (despite the criminal’s best attempt at knocking his head from his shoulders) but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.  Or bleed all over the place.  Head wounds were bad like that.  “Don’t thank me, I’m here to help.”

Literally.  Calling and profession all rolled into one, and branded with the slightly lopsided white collar at his throat.  Which was usually much neater, but nobody looked their best after a day of scrubbing!

“Come on,.. there’s a chair over here, away from the broken glass.”  Paul fussed quietly, his warm fingers curling against Kent’s elbow to guide him around the worst of the shattered window.  One more thing to add to the list of things to get fixed around here.  He wasn’t sure if it was God testing him, or just attempting to keep the servicemen busy, but this building had been nothing but trouble since he’d been relocated here.

It was a far cry from the coast, that was for sure.  But if the church thought he could do his best work here..?

“Gentle with yourself, officer… you need to keep pressure on the wound, not punish it any further.”  The corner of Paul’s mouth quirked a little, as he batted Kent’s hand away to do it himself.  “It… looks like your friends have him well in hand.  You can sit a moment and wait for this to stop bleeding.”

“Yea, well,” it was a half start, and he could almost hear DS Miles in his head, telling him ‘get on with it then, Kent. Not got all day.’ “People don’t always do what they’re here for do they.” He supposed, that Coates had seen the worst of people too. Kent certainly had. They just kept surprising him with how low they could stoop. He had to remind himself good people existed. 

He was just not sure he’s one of them, the good. He tried. He did his best, but there was a nasty streak in him that had flared up with Mansell and refused to quieten. He could barely look at his fellow DC without glaring. If Kent thought anything of the askew collar, he decidedly didn’t comment. He wasn’t Chandler, (no matter how much he tried to be like him, organised his desk like him too) he could cope with mess. 

The warmth in the hand, and the kindness in the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Kent. He might tell him it was what he was here to do, but it still warmed Kent to know that there were people willing to help with no incentive to themselves. Guided towards the chair, he’s glad of the solid furniture beneath him, it helps with the dizziness too. He muttered under his breath, something about deserving the punishment. His list of crimes, self judged, seemed to be adding up recently. Morgan, Mansell. Things aren’t quite the same at the station anymore. All too often awkward silences come over the team, filled with memories that Kent thinks aren’t quite forgiven. 

Who knew that an outreach program could be so dangerous?!  Paul had only been in the city for 48 hours, mostly mucking out the old building that would be the St. Lawrence Mission (when the electrician had been in, and he’d finished with the worst of the mess), when a fleeing criminal– and was it fair to assume he was a criminal?  He was running from the police, but..

Either way.  He’d thrown a rock through the front window, obviously hoping to escaping through the back door of the run-down building.  “Tissue?  Tissue!  Right, God, yes, sorry.” Paul fumbled, giving himself a hard shake.  One minute he’d been scrubbing walls, and the next, there’d been a shatter of glass and people jumping through the window!

There were rags that he’d been using, but they were filthy and.. paper towel!  Yes!  With a jolt, Paul grabbed the roll from the end of a counter and tore off a few sheets.  “Sorry, this might sting a little, but it’s clean.”  He added under his breath, and pressed the paper tower to the cut over his eye. “Just hold it there, put some pressure on it.”

It was almost enough to make him smile through gritted teeth, something about the man’s fumbling just made him likeable. He felt fleetingly bad for swearing, when he saw the collar of the other’s shirt. Is it blasphemous to swear? He felt like he should have paid more stock to the church sermons he went to with his friend as a kid. Heaven knew he needed someone looking out for him now he spent most of his time chasing down criminals. That was how it worked right? You prayed and hoped that someone up there would take notice? 

He could only hope that one of the PO’s on the street have caught up to the suspect. Skip had told him to bring back up. No, he’d insisted, said he’d be fine. It was only one guy and he wasn’t even the worst of the bunch. They seem all the less dangerous when you’ve faced down murderers and gangsters. He should know, out of all of them. He should know not to let his guard down. 

It’s not a risk free job, being a DC with the Metropolitan police, but still the swing of a fat fist takes him by surprise. So much so, he has no time to react till the fist collides with his skull with such force that he swears his ears are ringing. “Fuck,” he mutters as the offending suspect is led away. Raising his hand, Kent gingerly presses clumsy fingers to where his face is throbbing. He’s not surprised when he sees the red tinge of blood on his hands, the bloody twat had been wearing rings.