Work Text:
Blindly, Harold clutches John’s hand as they creep along. If they lose each other now, they might not find each other again, not when they’re forced to be this quiet. And they’ve got to keep moving -- get out of here before it’s too late.
John’s firm grip keeps him from panicking, at least -- for the moment -- and John doesn’t go any faster than Harold can follow. With his free hand on the wall, Harold can mostly keep his balance, but it’s difficult. Even on his best days, staying upright is a challenge, and that’s when he can observe the world around him; with no frame of reference, his inner ear is having trouble compensating for the weakness of his gait.
Having spent most of his years in the city, he’s used to the ever-present light pollution, to sleeping with street lights streaming in through the window. But as he thinks back to more rural surroundings -- his farm-boy childhood -- he can’t recall a time when he’s ever been this blind. Even moonless nights let you make out some level of detail. It’s disorienting, being in darkness this complete.
When John stops short, Harold bumps right into him, struggles not to fall over, and, ultimately, has to grab John’s suit jacket to maintain his balance. John stays solid as a rock; Harold does his best to stay silent through all of his terrified flailing. If their enemies knew they were here, this would all be over very quickly; even John’s remarkable skill with combat wouldn’t fare too well against goons with guns, not now.
They’ve only got a few floors to go, to get out of this basement -- and at most an hour before the power comes back on, at which point, if they’re still on the property, the mission is screwed.
John starts moving again, and Harold follows his lead, blindly.