#started any research for it bc again i’ve barely touched work in the last three days

[mielgf]

experiencing i think burnout for the first time in a couple of years and i did not miss this :))))

[athina-blaine]

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to my channel. My name is Maggie Abernathy and today we will be continuing our investigation of the, uh, eldritch monster slash English teacher who calls itself Jonathan Sims.”

-

Maggie is determined to catch Mr. Sims via her channel, and then everyone would see how cool and smart she was, right?

For @skyberia​, check out their amazing art!

Chapters: 1/1 [Complete]

Words: 5,998

Tags: POV Outsider, Teacher AU, 160 Never Happened, Scotland, The Eternal Struggle for Validation, Statement-Related Trauma, this ended up being a little less crack humor than i had first intended lmao, i blame jonny

~

The video opens to the image of an empty school courtyard. There’s a grunt, and then a young girl runs into the frame, turning to face the viewer. She has wild hair and even wilder eyes and is patting the wrinkles out of her grey, baggy hoodie. She couldn’t be more than 13.

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to my channel. My name is Maggie Abernathy and today we will be continuing our investigation of the, uh, eldritch monster slash English teacher who calls itself Jonathan Sims.”

Cut to a classroom, the camera peeking through a zipper.

A man with dark hair and nice clothes was standing at the front with his back to the other students, writing on the board.The video quality drops sharply, a faint whine humming in the background.

A low-quality dub begins playing over the image.

“Jonathan Sims came here in September of 2019. After some investigation, I have discovered that he previously held a position at the Magnus Institute in London, which investigates paranormal activity. Coincidence?”

There's a shift, and a voice from within the video speaks out.

“Mr. Sims, I have a question!”

The man turns, and there’s an touch of impatience to his expression.

“Miss Abernathy, this is not the time for—”

“Where’s the ark of the covenant?”

A sigh. “It was dismantled and melted down in 588 BC. Miss Abernathy—”

“What’s written on the Voynich manuscript?”

“Astrological readings and herbal recipes.”

“Who killed—”

“Miss Abernathy,” the man says, stringent, “please stay focused on the lecture. I’ll answer any questions at the end of class.” He turns back to the board. “And put away your phone.”

A hand appears over the camera, shoving it deeper into darkness. Another fuzzy dub plays over the image.

“Mr. Sims knows all these things he shouldn't know! Everyone says he's just joking, but I think it's something else. Maybe he's an immortal?"

Cut to a bustling lunchroom.

T he camera stares between a carton of milk and an orange, pointed towards a table filled with adults. One of them is the man from before, sipping from a porcelain mug. His back is to the camera again.

Suddenly, a mysterious object sails through the air. It’s a cup of vanilla pudding. The man turns sharply, eyes landing on the incoming projectile, before it hit him square in the face.

“Did you see that!” a voice hisses as the man scrambles for napkins. “There’s no way he could have known what was coming unless he literally has eyes in the back of his head! Researcher’s note: he might literally have eyes in the back of his head. Investigate further.”

“Miss Abernathy—”

The camera spins to an older man with graying hair walking into the frame, and, with a bitten off swear, the image spins away entirely.

Cut to an empty, school hallway. The camera is facing the door to a classroom.

“Every day, at the same time, give or take an hour, Mr. Sims returns to his classroom for some reason. He always makes sure no one's nearby before going in and locking the door. What's he hiding?"

The man walks into frame, glancing up and down the hallway, before walking inside, closing the door behind him.

“I bet he's doing some kind of dark ritual or something. I swiped a key from the teacher's lounge," the camera points down to a hand clutching a silver key, "so let's bust him."

With a jerk, the camera rushes towards the classroom and bursts into the door.

“Mr. Sims, Mr. Sims, there’s an emergency!”

The man shouts, dropping a bag full of tapes and papers.

“Miss Abernathy, please,” the man, startled. “Where did you get that key?”

Another dub plays.

“Okay, so I didn't catch him doing anything weird, but it's only a matter of time, right?"

Cut to a pair of feet walking across the sidewalk, the camera rocking back and forth.

“Every Friday, Mr. Sims leaves the school grounds and goes into town. He might be meeting some other eldritch thing. Hopefully, we'll find out.

The camera peeks around a stone wall. At the end of the sidewalk, there’s the man talking to another man with short hair and glasses. They seem friendly. The second man glances directly into the camera, then lifts his hand and waves.

The first man whirls around and, with a tight mouth, begins storming over. There’s a muffled shriek and the image blurs, footsteps clacking wildly on the pavement.

“He does have an accomplice!” the girl says, panting.

Cut back to the courtyard. The girl is wringing her hands, and she clears her throat.

“So, I haven't found anything substantial yet, but I think I'm getting close. Remember to, um, like, comment, and subscribe, everyone, and I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

She walks out of frame and the camera is jostled. The video ends.

 Maggie’s alarm was going off. Reaching over, she tapped around for the snooze button. Five more minutes.

Failing to find the button, she groaned, and lifted her head.

6:43.

Her alarm was set to go off at 6:15. School started in 17 minutes, and it was a 20-minute bike ride, minimum.

Swearing, she ripped off her bedsheets and ripped clothes off their hangers in her closet. No, no, she already had detention this weekend for the pudding cup thing. She couldn’t be late today. Crap, where was her backpack? She plucked it out of a pile of discarded clothes on her floor, threw on her hoodie, and ran out her bedroom.

Speeding through her bathroom routine, she ran into the kitchen, snatching up a granola bar, before tearing through the living room. The sound of deep, rumbling snores stopped her.

Dad was sprawled on the couch, still wearing his work clothes, blanket knocked aside. He hadn’t even taken off his watch and his work boots were caked with mud. Maggie had been up until 3 AM editing her video, which means he must have come home even later.

Jeez.

She fixed the blanket and shoved a pillow under his head and he barely stirred. He must have been really exhausted. Maggie dropped a kiss on his head before sprinting through the door and clamoring onto her bike. If she really pushed herself, she might make it before attendance.

By the time she rolled into school, the second bell was ringing. Her name was second on the attendance sheet. She wasn’t going to make it.

Dumping her bike near the rack, not even bothering to lock it up, she burst through the double doors and raced up the stairs, throwing open the door to her first period classroom.

“—Abernathy.”

“Here!” she said, squeezing the word out of her overwrought lungs.

Mr. Sims looked up from the attendance sheet.

“Welcome to class, Miss Abernathy," he said, unperturbed. "Right on time."

It wasn’t. It was, in fact, five minutes after attendance was usually taken. Maggie didn’t have the energy to process that, though, slumping into her seat with relief, heart racing in her chest. Ugh, she was sticky and sweaty and felt gross. She hated cardio.

Mr. Sims finished taking attendance shortly after, and then asked for the class to turn in last night’s homework. He went from desk to desk collecting their papers, and he slowed when he reached Maggie.

“I would ask that you not stay up so late in the future."

He said it with a gentle, knowing curl of his mouth.

Maggie stared up at him. Any other time, she would have pulled out her notebook and jotted down such obviously suspicious activity, but, for now, she let herself savor the fact that she wouldn’t be having double detention this Saturday, and shrugged, pulling out her English journal.

There was time for investigating, later.

 It was pizza and green beans for lunch today. Maggie scanned for available seats. Today, she was lucky. There was a seat open by Cynthia, from math class.

“Um, hey,” she said, approaching the table. There was a hushed silence as eyes swiveled towards her, and she swallowed, nervous. “Can I sit here, today?”

One of the boy’s eyes shot towards another, who shrugged.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said.

Pleased, she sat down. Usually, she’d have to sit in the far corner of the cafeteria. It was much colder over there.

“So, I, um, posted a new video last night, on my YouTube channel,” she said to Cynthia, stirring her green beans, “if you guys wanted to check it out.”

“You’re still making those things?” said Cynthia with a raised brow.

“Oh, uh,” she said, pausing at the tone of her voice as she said things. “Well, yeah. I’ve gotten, like, three new subscribers.”

“You’re so obsessed with him, you know that? It’s kind of creepy.”

Maggie barely held back her flinch. “I’m not obsessed, I’m investigating—”

“Isn’t he married?” said one of the boys. “I think I met his husband at the bake sale last month.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Cynthia. “My mom sees them both all the time in the café. Won’t shut up about how cute they are. Oh, that reminds me, we had this customer the other day—”

“I bet he’s doing something really freaky during study hall,” Maggie said. If she could just get them to care … “You know, whenever he goes back to his classroom? He always looks around to make sure no one’s watching and locks the door. Isn’t that suspicious?”

“Yeah, sure, weird,” said Cynthia, turning to the boy across from her. “So, we had this customer, and I think he must have been from Wales or something …”

Maggie opened her mouth, but nobody was looking at her. Embarrassment flushing her face, she stared down at her food, because still, still nobody cared about her videos. She briefly fantasized about huffing and picking up her tray and dramatically storming off, but there was nowhere else to sit. Nowhere but that cold back corner of the cafeteria.

She’d just need to dig up something more exciting to put in her videos. For instance, what it was that Mr. Sims got up to during study hall. Then they’d check out her videos. Then they’d see what a good detective she was.

She plucked up one of her green beans, but found she wasn’t hungry.

 Maggie knew there was something weird about Mr. Sims since pretty much the moment she met him; when the principal was introducing him to the class at the start of the semester, and he was taking attendance.

“Maggie Abernathy,” he had said, and Maggie’s eyebrows shot up, stunned.

“Um. Here?”

He didn't react to her surprise, moving on to the next student. At the end of class, she walked up to his desk, fidgeting with her hands in front of her chest.

“Why did you call me Maggie?”

Mr. Sims looked up, one brow raised. His expression was so severe and dignified that Maggie had to look away, too intimidated to make eye contact.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Actually, my name’s Margaret.”

“Oh, that’s,” he lifted the attendance sheet, squinting. “Yes, that appears to be the case. I apologize.”

Well, she didn't know about all that. Yes, Margaret had been her name, but she hated it. It was so old and came from her grandmother, who yelled at her all the time. She’d always wanted to have people call her Maggie, but she had this terrible vision of people calling it stupid. Only her diary knew what she really wanted.

Mr. Sims smiled, his expression gentling. It made him look a lot younger, and she flushed.

“Unless you would prefer to be called Maggie, Miss Abernathy?”

The heat on her face became that much worse, and she fixed her hair.

“Um, yeah, that would be cool.”

At home, Maggie was working on her new video and decided talk about her new teacher. She had titled it, My new teacher’s a cryptid!, half-jokingly, but it had received the most views she’s ever had. Almost 200! She had received one comment, the only one she'd gotten that wasn't from her dad, and it had said she should keep investigating.

So, she just sort of … started investigating. She hadn’t really expected anything else to come of it, but then Mr. Sims just kept acting strangely. Nothing to prove anything, not really, but just enough to make Maggie wonder that, maybe, there actually was something more going on here. And if it got her videos more views, then, well, she supposed it was a win-win.

It was more than just the name thing, after all. She always got the feeling Mr. Sims was … watching them, somehow. Even when his back was turn to the class. He always knew who was playing with their phone under the desk, who was cheating, etc.

Even outside of class, she sometimes got that feeling. It only became more obvious when the feeling went away; it felt like taking her backpack off at the end of the school day. That’s how she knew the best times to continue with her investigations. Like now, for instance.

Maggie waited until Mr. Sims left before sneaking over to the classroom. She could have anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour, so she needed to be quick. He locked the door, but Maggie had just swiped the key from the teacher’s lounge, again.

It’s not her fault they just left them dangling on a hook where anyone could grab it.

As quietly as she could, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Now, to investigate.

Pulling out her phone, she cleared her throat.

“Okay, um, hey, guys,” she said, voice low. “I’ve successfully infiltrated Jonathan Sims’ classroom. Hopefully, we’ll discover more information about whatever it is that’s happening here.”

Reaching for the desk, she froze. She hadn’t had a problem imagining going through his desk, but being here, actually faced with doing it, she found it much harder. This was his desk. What if he had something ridiculously private in here?

Come on. The camera’s rolling.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the first drawer, but found it to be locked. She tried all the drawers, but they were all locked. Dammit. What was she supposed to do now?

She scanned the desk with her camera just to have something interesting to put in the video.

“What’s with this weird tape recorder?” she mumbled, fingers brushing the buttons. “Looks ancient.”

Then, she heard a voice. Mr. Sims.

Crap. It would be suspension for sure if she was caught having stolen the key again. Trying not to move anything out of place, she sprinted towards the back of the classroom and into the closet. She could see though the slit panels as Mr. Sims entered the room, talking on the phone.

“—go straight home,” he said, taking his seat. “If you buy one more scented candle, I’m going to—”

He sighed.

“Yes, alright, fine. I love you, too.”

He hung up, and then pulled the tape recorder closer to him, grabbing a file from the stack of papers. Intrigued, Maggie held up her phone, still recording. Perhaps this wasn’t a waste of time after all.

Mr. Sims cleared his throat, and then pressed a button on the recorder.

“Statement of Timothy Dale regarding an appointment with his acupuncturist. Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, former Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. He was taking a statement? Like some kind of cop? He had mentioned the Magnus Institute just now. Did this use to be his job?

How … boring. No wonder he left if this is what he did all day.

Mr. Sims took a deep breath, and then his voice … changed.

“I didn't think I had so much blood,” he said, softly. “I don't think I have so much blood. I don't know how I'm alive.” He paused, seeming to collect himself, before continuing, “It started when I went to visit my acupuncturist. I’m a pretty stressed out guy, you see. It’s funny, how something can sound so painful, like being stabbed with dozens of needles over and over again, can actually be quite relaxing, but Mrs. Lloyd had a magic touch.”

Maggie shuddered. Gross. She hated needles.

“Mrs. Lloyd wasn’t there that day, though. Instead was a strange man who called himself Mr. Bail. I asked where Mrs. Lloyd was and he said she was on an extended leave of absence, but that he would be able to provide a level of care even better than Mrs. Lloyd, if I was interested. Obviously, I was interested, I had been looking forward to this appointment all well, and I figured he was trustworthy since Mrs. Lloyd left her facility in his care, so why not?”

It may have just been the needles, but Maggie was starting to feel weird. Unpleasant. Maybe recording this was a bad idea, after all? But even though she thought about it, she couldn’t bring herself to lower the phone.

“The procedure began, and it didn’t hurt, but it felt different. Everything was fine until the end, when I noticed that some of the puncture marks were bleeding. I hadn’t even felt it. I confronted the man, enraged, but he said it was all a part of the healing process. He said it all with a smile. The front desk person was sensible enough to give me a refund. They were lucky I didn’t call the police. But something wasn’t right. The marks wouldn’t stop bleeding. No matter how long I kept the bandages on, they kept bleeding. Days went by and they just kept bleeding.”

This was gross. This was really, really gross. Did some guy really go to the Institute and make this kind of statement? It must have been a prank. Mr. Sims had to know he was being pranked, right?

She didn’t think he knew, though. He sounded scared. Why was he reading it if he was so scared?

She needed to get out of here. She might be suspended, but she didn’t care anymore, she just wanted to get away from this awful, awful story. But when she tried to move her legs, she found, with a sinking feeling, that they wouldn’t go. She willed herself to open the closet door, but it was like she was encased in a stone mold. She couldn’t even lower her phone.

The only thing she could do was shake, and breathe.

“I’ve lost so much blood these last few weeks. I don’t know how I’m still alive. My chest hurts and my breathing’s shallow and I’m so pale and cold, but more just keeps coming out. It’s gotten on everything; my clothes, my bed, the walls. And the smell …” Mr. Sims frowned. “Have you ever been around that much blood before? You can taste the metal in the back of your throat, all the time. It doesn’t go away.”

Stop.

Please stop ...

“And it just keeps coming.”

He talked and talked and talked, until Maggie’s eyes burned and her legs cramped. She was shaking so hard, she thought that at any minute Mr. Sims would hear her and save her from whatever this was. But he just kept reading.

Finally, Mr. Sims' voice returned to normal.

“Mr. Dale committed suicide shortly after this statement. Due to the amount of blood discovered in his home, the police initially suspected a burglary gone wrong, but there were no signs of forced entry. There’s little else to be gleaned from scanning through online archives.” He sighed. “Even the statement file had blood on it. It sounded like a pained existence. End recording.”

Maggie slapped a hand over her mouth to hold back her gulping gasp for air.

It was over.

Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Sims let out a long breath. The lines on his face seemed deeper. More tired than before. But there was something else. Something … satisfied. Nausea curled in Maggie’s stomach. He looked as if though he had just had a big dinner.

At last, Mr. Sims got up to leave, and she could have cried. She so, so desperately wanted to get out of this closet. She wished she had never come here in the first place.

But then, just as Mr. Sims fingers brushed the handle, she saw something on the back of his hand. Some kind of wrinkle, gnarled and ugly. How had she never noticed such an eyesore before?

But then, it opened.

It was an eye, bright green, and it was staring right at her.

When Mr. Sims closed the door, she slid to the floor, arms and legs wracking with tremors. Tears streamed down her face.

What did she do? What did she do? Lifting her phone, she tried calling dad, knowing full well he was likely in the middle of his shift, but she needed him.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she whispered, biting her lip. It went to voice mail, and she buried her face in her knees, tears trailing down her cheeks in thick globs. “Please …”

She needed to get out of here. When the shaking subsided and Maggie felt like she could move again, she stumbled towards the school entrance, not even stopping to grab her bike.

She wasn’t sure where she was going, but anywhere was better than here.

 The 403 bus would be coming in another 34 minutes. It could take her to the Glasgow airport. She didn’t know exactly what to do with this information, although a vague plan of buying a ticket back to America was forming in the back of her head. Mom would probably be mad to see her, but there was nowhere else that Maggie could go.

A bus pulled into the stop, but it wasn’t hers. It was still another 23 minutes. She really hated living in the countryside, sometimes.

“Excuse me.”

She looked up. There was a man with soft brown hair and glasses standing near the bench. He must have just gotten off. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

He smiled.

“Are you Maggie Abernathy?”

She straightened up with shock.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up a hand. “I’m a big fan of your YouTube channel. Your videos are very good."

Maggie's jaw dropped. Well, that was certainly ... unexpected. She tried to say something, but it kept getting twisted up by her tongue. She’s been so desperate for anyone to take even the slightest interest in her videos, that, now that she was given the chance, she didn’t even know where to begin.

“I, um, not really,” she said, tracing the pattern of her jeans. “I just copy stuff I see from other channels. You know, BuzzFeed, Ghost Hunt UK, and stuff.”

“Oh, Melanie King fan, are you?”

“I mean, yeah. She’s only got the best ghost hunting channel online. People say its Franco Overton’s channel, but they just like his dumb humor." She kicked at the gravel with a pout. "King has the real stuff.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along the compliments.”

It took a moment for her to process the implication, but when she did, it hit her like a brick wall.

“You’re friends with Melanie King?”

“Well, ex-coworkers, really,” he said, scrubbing the back of his head. “Although I’ve been trying to get her and her partner up for Christmas. She and my husband don’t really get along, though.”

Maggie only knew of two out gay couples in town, and, with a sinking feeling, she figured this man wasn’t Mrs. Adair. He wasn’t wearing nearly enough hair spray.

“You’re Mr. Sims husband, aren’t you?”

“Oh, does my reputation proceed me?” he asked, smiling. “My name is Martin Blackwood. It’s nice to meet you.”

Maggie lifted a hand in greeting, too stunned to form a polite response. If Mr. Blackwood knew about her videos and was watching her videos, that must mean …

“Does … does Mr. Sims watch my videos, too?”

“Sometimes. I keep telling him to talk to you about it, but he says to let you have your fun.” He laughed a little, “Honestly, I think you intimidate him."

Somehow, she had never considered that Mr. Sims could be watching her videos, too, and all the terrible things she did and said. Mr. Blackwood was watching them, too, who seemed so awfully nice.

Now Maggie remembered where they had properly met before, outside of her ambushing. It had been at the bake sale last month. Maggie had brought scones, but they were wrinkled and soggy, even though she thought she had stored them correctly.

Mr. Blackwood had advised her to sprinkle her scones with flour before putting them in the oven, that way the glaze would set in right. He still ate one, and said it was delicious.

What was such a seemingly normal man doing with ... whatever Mr. Sims was? Had she made some kind of mistake? But that was impossible. Even now, she could see the image of that, that thing on his hand.

Another image came to her, though. Mr. Sims had tried one of her scones as well. His eyes had widened, exclaimed them to be "Quite good" and asked what she had put in them, to which she said orange zest. At the end of the day, he had come back for a second scone.

Maggie's video that week had been all about how Mr. Sims seemed to have some kind of compulsion power, and all the malicious ways could potentially use it.

Maggie lowered her face in her hands, her stomach roiling so badly she thought she might vomit.

“Are you okay?” said Mr. Blackwood, taking a seat next to her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to …” She trailed off, not even sure what she had even meant to do. “I just wanted to do something cool.”

“I think your videos are pretty cool.”

“No you don't," she said, under her breath. "No one does. Everyone at school thinks I'm creepy."

“I suppose you do get a little intense, sometimes. Although, I was really impressed how well you aimed that pudding cup.”

Her face flushed bright red, more embarrassed than she had ever thought possible.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled, wiping her face. “I don't think those things about Mr. Sims. I just thought this channel would make people want to talk to me.”

Mr. Blackwood hummed, looking out towards the road.

“Well, I think you have the right idea, personally,” he said. “If you do the things you love long enough, you might meet people who love those things, too. And they might want to be friends.”

Maggie looked down at her feet. It was hard to process anything with how much was stuffing her brain. But Mr. Blackwood was nice. She liked the sound of his voice. Having him sit next to her, silent and patient, helped her senses settle themselves.

She grimaced. Had she really been thinking of flying back all the way to America?

Seeming to sense her struggle, Mr. Blackwood turned towards her.

“Is it alright if I ask what you’re doing out here?”

She futzed with her hands, trying to find the right words. This was Mr. Sims' husband, after all. “I saw Mr. Sims reading something. I think he called it a statement.”

Some of the color drained from Mr. Blackwood’s expression, and she fully expected him to call her crazy, because, yes, it was a little crazy, but instead, he said,

“That must have been rather frightening.”

Maggie blinked. He knew.

Mind racing with questions, she started with, “Why did he do that? It looked like he enjoyed it or something, but also like he didn’t. Like he was, I don’t know,” her nose twisted, “eating it.”

“It’s complicated,” he said. “He doesn’t enjoy it, though, but if he doesn’t do it, well,” he glanced down at his feet, “he won’t feel so good after a while.”

Maggie leaned back, considering the trees on the other end of the road. It sounded awful, having to read those terrible stories all the time. No wonder Mr. Sims looked so old.  She’d only listened to one, and she was pretty sure she was going to have nightmares for weeks.

A noise caught her attention. A car was pulling up to the bus stop, and when the door opened, every muscle in her body stiffened. It was Mr. Sims.

“Jon,” Mr. Blackwood said, rising to his feet and Maggie jumped up alongside him. Mr. Sims glanced at him, surprised, but his attention turned back to Maggie. She glanced at his hand, but nothing was there.

“Miss Abernathy,” he said, voice laced with distress as he closed the car door and began approaching them, “you can’t just disappear like that. The entire school is—”

Mr. Blackwood pressed a hand to his husband’s shoulder, leaning in close and whispering something into his ear. The expression on Mr. Sims’ face shifted from barely concealed concern to stark horror, the color draining from his face.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Miss Abernathy, are you—”

“I’m fine,” she said, quickly. Mr. Sims didn't seem to think it was fine, though. It unsettled her, seeing that fear in his eyes.

“I am so sorry," he said, holding his hand out, as if he were placating a wild animal. "You were never supposed to see that.”

“Is …” She hesitated, picking at a frayed thread in her hoodie. “Is it okay if I go home early today?”

Mr. Sims didn't seem capable of formulating a response. Mr. Blackwood squeezed his husband's shoulder, and smiled at Maggie.

"I'm sure that will be fine. How about we go back to the school together and wait for your parents?"

Her eyes slid over to Mr. Blackwood before returning to Mr. Sims. Both of their eyes held nothing but concern. Mr. Sims had brown eyes. Not green. She hadn’t noticed that before.

She nodded.

 Maggie got to stay home for the rest of the week.

After her voicemail, dad had lost his mind. She said she just had a bad nightmare after falling asleep in class, but that didn’t seem to be what was troubling him.

It was only later that day, towards the end of dinner, that he gently admitted he was furious at himself for missing such an important call. She told him it was fine, he was working, she knew that, but that didn’t seem to make him feel better.

He even took a few days off to spend time with her, make sure she was okay. They watched TV and played board games together. It was the most she'd seen him in months.

And she didn't have to go to school! Much as she loved her dad, that was still probably the best part. She had all her assignments emailed to her and she would sleep in until noon.

There was still her channel, though. During a bout of intense guilt, she had deleted it, barely giving herself time to second guess. She just couldn't stand the thought of all the things she'd said and done being bared before the world. Then, she turned to her phone. 

It took her hours to build up the courage, but when she finally played that video, she was almost disappointed to find that it was distorted beyond all recognition. She deleted it.

By the time the nightmares finally abated by the time Monday rolled around, she was actually starting to feel better, just a little bit.

 Maggie was in the school library when she saw Mr. Sims again. She had been in the middle of staring at the tail of a mountain hare, scratching her chin, when the door closed. She looked up to see him juggling an armload of books.

“Hey, Mr. Sims!”

He jumped, the books tumbling out of his arms and onto the floor with a loud crash. Maggie winced, and shot up from her computer, but Mr. Sims held out his hand.

“That’s alright,” he said, leaning down to begin picking up the books. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Abernathy. How are you feeling?”

“Better."

“I’m glad to hear it.” As he straightened up, dusting off the sleeve of the books, his expression shifted to something a bit more unpolished. “I should have told you this much earlier, but I wanted to apologize for frightening you so badly.”

Sheepish, Maggie soothed down a loose strand of her hair. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Mr. Sims frowned, clearly deciding it mostly certainly wasn't okay. “Still, you can rest easy knowing I won’t be taking statements on the school premises any longer.”

"I shouldn’t have snuck into your classroom in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault, it was mine for not being more diligent."

Still, it must have been awfully inconvenient for him, but the way his lips curled downwards made her think he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She cleared her throat.

“I’m also sorry about filming you,” she said. “And stalking you. And throwing food.”

“It's alright. I’ve been through much more harrowing experiences than a wayward cup of pudding.”

Maggie had no trouble believing him, fully aware of the rumors of the scars that pocketed Mr. Sims skin, but she was pulled from her musings when Mr. Sims glanced down at her monitor.

“What are you working on?”

“Oh, um,” she fixed her hair, blushing, “the multimedia club asked if I could put together something for morning announcements. They wanted a segment on the rabbits that live nearby.”

“Did you get these images yourself?”

“No, I’m just editing it. Frank is the one who films it. He’s got this amazing camera his dad got him for his birthday.”

“Seems like it’s coming along nicely.”

“Thanks,” she said, taking her seat, picking at her cuticles. She wasn't quite sure what exactly the boundaries were, but she couldn't know until she asked. “So, like, you know everything, right?”

Mr. Sims raised a brow.

“Do you know when Brendon Urie is dropping his next album?”

“Unfortunately, precognition is not among my list of skills.”

Maggie pouted. Mr. Sims looked torn for a moment, before sighing.

“I believe there’s talks for a holiday release, however.”

“No way,” she said. “Do you know when he’s going on tour? Is he gonna come to London again, or maybe Glasgow? Is it—”

“Have a good day, Miss Abernathy,” said Mr. Sims, continuing further into the library. Maggie huffed, but returned to the monitor. The school had way better editing software than what she had at home, so she was hoping to finish this before school ended.

“Hey, Maggie.”

She turned. Frank lifted a hand in greeting, dropping his computer bag on the table and she smiled.

“Hey there, Frank. You got some really great footage today.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” he said, a light red staining his cheeks. “It’s hard to take a bad picture with this camera, though."

"No way, you've got a real knack for it." She pulled up an image of two rabbits cuddling next to each other. "This looks so good! You must have waited around for hours to get a shot like that."

Frank scrubbed the back of his head, the flush  of his face growing bright. "Yeah, I had to work for that one a bit. By the way, Alice is inviting the club over to her house later so we can go over our videos together. Her mum’s bringing snacks. You wanna come with?”

Maggie's hand paused on the keyboard. “Oh, um ..." Be cool. "Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“Great. See you there.”

Frank waved and Maggie waved back. Oh, shoot. Now she’d really need to finish the video before school ended if she wanted it ready to share with the rest of the club.

Pulling out her phone, she sent her dad a quick text about her plans, before turning back to the monitor.

[beanarie]

⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐ (or talk more about and/all of your Elementary WIPs/ideas bc I want every single drop I can get)

so i totally wrote about joan having breast cancer a couple years ago. here’s the bits i cobbled together, some of which also disappeared from my phone, which tells me i need to back my shit up more often!

~

The call comes while her stitches from her lumpectomy and lymph node removal are still in place and hurting like a mother and she's only too aware of Sherlock, his terror an acrid smell in her nose. She's told it's not what they hoped, but it's not hopeless, and she barely pauses at all before she looks at Sherlock, smiles, and says, "It's fine."

He's so grateful he takes her out for lunch. They go to a cafe with an outdoor area that he knows she's been eyeing for months.  She orders a giant salad with extra pecans and he wrinkles his nose before telling a story about Thomas Jefferson's penchant for giving pecans as gifts.

The call comes while her stitches from her lumpectomy and lymph node removal are still in place and hurting like a mother and she's only too aware of Sherlock, his terror an acrid smell in her nose. She's told it's not what they hoped, but it's not hopeless, and she barely pauses at all before she looks at Sherlock, smiles, and says, "It's fine."

He's so grateful he takes her out for lunch. They go to a cafe with an outdoor area that he knows she's been eyeing for months.  She orders a giant salad with extra pecans and he wrinkles his nose before telling a story about Thomas Jefferson's penchant for giving pecans as gifts.

[the truth comes out in a week or so!]

"We should talk about this."

He closes the file in his hand and tosses it on the stack. 

"I-I'm sorry I kept you in the dark. I needed to get the full results and figure out what to do next, without... I don't know. Background noise."

"It's not that serious. People with results like mine have a ninety-three percent chance of remaining cancer-free after treatment. Really, it's barely cancer." 

"I mean, yes. Several weeks of radiation, sprinkled with tests and maybe a PET scan or two. Still, not particularly life-derailing. I'm going to work. The only real change will be to my availability. And I won't be able to leave the city, except maybe on the weekends. Overall, we'll simply get more use out of face-time than we did before."

A series of short, shallow nods urges her to let the other shoe drop.

Joan adjusts her gaze to slightly beyond his left ear. "I've asked Lin to help me find a place to sublet for the next two months."

His only reaction is the barely perceptible droop of his shoulders.

"I'm not leaving you." The first time she meant to leave the brownstone, he abducted a contract killer, then tortured and stabbed him. The second time, he went back to London for almost a year with no notice beyond a short Dear Joan letter. She can't handle one of his signature extreme overreactions. "Sherlock, it's really important you absorb that, if nothing else."

"But you do plan on leaving."

"It's the least disruptive option for both of us. And it's only temporary."

[the next day, joan gets home and in the library there's a stack of books, dvds, and cd's on wellness-type things and other stuff, like a giant fluffy orange blanket on the couch. sherlock explains he did some research, orange is a calming color. also OK HE RESPECTS HER CHOICES but. she's not a disruption, she's family. also also moving is one of the most stress-inducing acts a person can put themselves through and it wouldn't be good for her recovery to do that twice in as many months. anyway, she stays.]

"We should formulate a safety plan."

Joan finishes the line she was working on and clicks save so she doesn't have to end up doing this report all over again. This has his second sponsor written all over it. Rashida, having completed her PHD, has been taking classes in behavioral science possibly with an eye for a new specialty. She means well, and she and Sherlock get each other like a pair of esoteric intellectuals only could. It's still strange to get confirmation that he talks about her illness with other people. "A safety plan."

"Yes! A short, memorable list of agreed upon actions in the case of emergent medical and/or emotional, um, turmoil."

"We never had a safety plan for you."

 "Didn't we?"

"Fine, so you'll let me pass out wherever I drop and just leave a protein bar by my head so I don't die of hypoglycemic shock when I wake up two days later."

"That's all you did?"

"So I'll let you know if I'm not feeling well and up to whatever's going on." His expression is unreadable, which is rare. "What? You implied pretty heavily that you wanted me to."

Incomprehensibly, his expression becomes almost sad. "That's why you remain so closed off, because of my history of resistance to..." 

"Okay, this conversation swerved past making sense. I tell you things all the time. This morning, with your cereal?"

"When *truly* bothered, you keep it to yourself and speak to no one, unless I draw it out of you."

"I speak up when I have something to say. And, I will."

-

"Have you considered cutting your hair?" 

"I'm not getting chemo, Mom. I told you."

"I know. It's just so much to take care of. My cousin Darlene, she had radiation. It drained her. You'll be tired."

"You've always wanted me to cut my hair."

Her expression grows softer, more wistful. "I do like it shorter." 

"I remember." Ruefully her entire catalogue of school photos scrolls through her memory. Mom's rule had been adamant and easy to follow: Never past the chin. "I'm not doing that again."

"Okay. Your choice." 

Joan doesn't rise to the hint of passive-aggression. 

A few hours later, she gets home from treatment, she takes a shower, and she tries to see tonight playing out in a possible near future. She adds imaginary weights to her wrists and ankles, and the almost unbearable weariness after watching a murderer get to go home scot-free. 

"Fine," she tells her reflection. 

She puts her mom on FaceTime, so she can see the results.

Her mom squints. "You didn't cut that much."

"Four inches." Just enough so she doesn't have to strain to get the brush through while she's blow drying.

“Hm.“

“Anyway, I’ll see you Thursday for tea, Mom?“

-

Lord save her from aspiring criminals who think they're too cool for the interrogation room. Anthony Raymond has been stonewalling them since Bell brought him in. What makes this especially annoying is he won't even ask for a lawyer. They'd tell him to spill his guts, or at least start negotiations for a deal. This nothingness isn't ideal when she has to take off for treatment soon. If she doesn't get this nut cracked before she goes, it'll be hanging over her head for the rest of the afternoon.

The door opens. Anthony doesn't move a muscle. Gregson enters bearing an extra-large fountain drink, a pen, and a piece of paper. He sits, thoughtfully configuring these objects around his immediate space. It takes a full thirty seconds, during which he doesn't acknowledge Anthony at all. He slides the paper toward Joan.

'Paige made you a smoothie. Not sure what's in this, but she swears by it.'

Joan glances at Anthony as though she learned something important, then looks back at the note. "Hm." She takes the pen. 'I'm good. Thank you both.'

'Holmes said you haven't really eaten yet.' He pushes the drink about an inch in her direction.

Joan makes two straight lines, one each for 'I'm' and 'Good'. 

[perp eventually cracks because their note-passing is freaking him out]

[slightly later, joan brings the smoothie into gregson's office. he asks what she thought of it. she says "i didn't try it" and throws it in the garbage.]

-

It's Saturday, the end of her first week of treatment, and there aren't any murders. Joan texts the guy she liked from TrueRomantix, the one who came to check that she was safe when Everyone doxxed her and hacked her profile. He's still cute. She can't remember exactly why they didn't sleep together the last time, something about it not feeling right. Meanwhile he fosters seeing-eye dogs and he has the best pectorals she's ever seen.

She takes off her bra, but leaves the camisole. It's dark in his bedroom, but not too dark for either of them to see her scars or the semi-circle constellation of radiation tattoos. At one point she guides his hand underneath to her right breast. When he goes for the left, she distracts with a move that almost has his eyes bugging out of his head.

"Wow," he breathes.

When they're done, he doesn't push her to leave *or* ask her why she isn't staying. They'll be doing this again sometime.

-

[another patient in the waiting room at the radiation clinic starts having a medical emergency. joan immediately jumps forward to help and the patient's mom looks at her like who the fuck are you. it sticks with her the whole rest of the afternoon.]

She's been in a position where people have doubted her expertise before, many times. But never because she was meant to be on the other side. She's a patient, that's her role now.

Briefly she considers lying. The Uber app is acting weird, something like that. She settles on a simple, 'Are you busy?'

She gets her reply in less than thirty seconds. 'Need a ride?'

When Marcus arrives at the clinic, he touches her arm and kisses her cheek, a note of intimacy between close friends. It feels natural, even though his customary greeting, usually at crime scenes or the bull pen, is a brusquely friendly "Hey." They communicate mainly in nods and smiles intended only for each other, cups of coffee as close to the way they like it as limited resources will allow. 

After they settle into the car, he doesn't turn the engine on right away. He waits, unobtrusively.  

"I don't want to disrupt any plans you might've had for today," she says.

He lifts one shoulder. "Just a pickup game. Nothing I can't put off for another week."

"Actually..."

He turns his head. "Hm?"

She was warned not to expect anything fancy. No bleachers, not much crowd. Kids of varying ages drift by, many popping in and out of the tiny storefronts. 

She can't remember the last time she simply existed in public when she wasn't jogging or staking out a criminal. The open air feels refreshing. Not one of these people care that she used to be a doctor.

After the first quarter, she asks to borrow the chair of a guy selling hats, scarves, and phone chargers from a folding table. He was spending most of his time at the halal cart talking to the man stuck inside anyway.

-

The chair is comfortable. The lighting tasteful. Joan's shoes feel fine. The mid-level exec at the other end of the table isn't stonewalling in the slightest. His voice could almost be called soothing. 

All those other things aside, if this meeting doesn't end in the next few minutes she is going to jump out the window. 

Her knee bouncing, she shifts her upper body in a way that's hopefully not that visible to anyone else. It doesn't help, in fact the resulting movement of her bra over her left boob makes her want to scream.

"We appreciate your elucidation on Mr. Wallach's movements last Tuesday." Joan nearly bites her lip at the growing light at the end of the tunnel. "Now if you could tell us about the lawsuit from three months ago. Sexual harassment, was it not?"

Joan gets to her feet with a repressed groan. Then she runs for the receptionist. "Restroom?"

She's just stepped inside the single stall and slid the lock into place when she hears the deathly urgent, "WATSON???"

She curses fluently inside her head and undoes the lock, just in case. "Sherlock! I'm o-"

And he's barreled through the open door.

"What the hell!" She pulls together the unbuttoned half of her shirt. 

"I thought-" Over Sherlock's shoulder, a security guard starts coming into view. "What-what are you doing?"

"Sorry." Her face will probably remain this garish shade of red for...ever. "I'm, uh, peeling. Itch is driving me crazy."

He blinks, adrenaline making him shake slightly and keeping him from comprehending. "What?!"

"The only emergency right now is my imminent death by mortification." Her left hand tightly curled to protect her modesty, she makes a shooing motion with her right. "Go away."

He turns toward the door, then stops. "I've done the reading. If you have developed a rash, or the beginnings of dermatitis, scratching is highly inad-"

"OUT."

-

Lin greets her at the bar in her signature neurotically enthusiastic way. After tilting her head a little, she agrees to sit at a booth rather than stay near the bartender, where she loves to try out her charms to get free drinks for the two of them.

"I've never seen you go hard like this." She's waiting on the server to bring her second martini and Joan's third whiskey. "You look tired."

Joan waits until after the drinks have arrived. "Thanks, I had cancer."

"What?"

"Had," she repeats. "Had. As of yesterday, it's past tense. When I'm done with this course of radiation, I'll be free." She knocks on the table. "Until the follow-ups." 

Lin gets up to go to the bathroom without a word. Joan downs her drink and orders another round. To Lin's credit, she beats the server back to the table.

"So those times you said you couldn't meet up because you had cases..."

"One, oncologist appointment and two, actually a case. Sorry."

"You told your brother, didn't you?"

Because Joan is three drinks in, she doesn't hold anything back from her eyeroll. Her siblings having no relationship with each other is not on her. "That's different."

"Because he's real."

"Because he lives two hundred miles away! I didn't have to see...that. That expression, in my face, all the time."

"You could've died and I would never have known you were sick."

Joan snorts. "I was never *dying*." There was that period between her biopsy and the results of her lumpectomy, when decades-old memories of various patients, poor souls fading in front of her eyes, resurfaced every hour. Lin didn't need to be there for that.

"Look." Joan kisses Lin noisily on the cheek. "I just got the best news of my life and I wanted MY SISTER here with to celebrate being Officially. Cancer. Free!"

A table of young men nearby let out a cheer. Lin smiles in spite of herself.

-

Joan wakes up naturally. 

She spends a few minutes watching him. Many people say they'll sleep anywhere, but Sherlock actually will. And he never shows a single sign of stiffness or back pain. She envies him that, even as she acknowledges that she'd still prefer a bed, even if there were no consequences to sleeping on the floor. 

"Is this just the first time I caught you?" Her voice is husky from sleep. 

He springs to his feet. "Oh!" He runs off, returning no more than six minutes later with breakfast.

After placing the tray on the bed, he stands at her side, stiff and silent like a brooding Lurch. "What, no speech?" she teases.

He takes in a shaky breath. "It has been quite some time since I lost the ability to imagine a life without you in it. Gratitude isn't sufficient enough to describe how it feels to know this is a concern I can put off for another day."

"Oh, Sherlock." 

"These past few weeks have been fraught, for you." She gives a start. This has taken an unexpected turn. "Full of pain and fear, the reopening of old wounds. You've conducted yourself so admirably. My respect for you, which had appeared to reach its zenith years ago, I find had untold heights yet to climb." He leans toward her, his hand cradling the back of her head while his lips press against her hairline. 

He disengages, turning his back and she makes a tentative grab for his hand. He freezes in place, not resisting. "I love you, too," she says thickly, shoving aside tears.

Joan doesn't remember having done anything remotely admirable. She's been tired and snappish, she forced everyone to cater to her, she stopped doing her fair share of the work. The one person she tried to help didn't need her. It's been weeks since she felt like she existed for any worthwhile reason. 

Maybe that's why it's good to see herself through his eyes, just this once. She squeezes his hand, then quickly lets go, taking pity on him. Plucking the cloth napkin from the tray and pressing it against her eyes, she laughs. "So this was your plan for my last day? Get my face all blotchy just in time to go in there and say goodbye to all those people?"

"What does it matter? You'll never see them again.