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The last time he fainted at a crime scene, Max threatened him with a Medical ID bracelet – FAINTS AT BLOOD • GORE • HEIGHTS; DO NOT DISTURB, DO NOT OFFER ALCOHOL. At the time it had seemed less than humorous, but waking up on the roof of St Oswold’s to find Lewis hovering over him like an anxious schoolboy it occurs to him that anything which would have mitigated this scene would have been worth it.
“Sir! You –” begins Lewis, still hovering.
“Yes, yes.” Morse brushes him away testily. “I’m fine.”
Fine is a generous summary; his head is spinning even resting flat against the roof, and his gut is roiling, stomach twisting itself into tight nauseating knots. Lying on the black lead roof he feels as though he’s roasting in the hot afternoon sun, skin covered in a prickling, uncomfortable sheen of sweat. He sits up and the world tilts sickeningly, stomach giving a very explicit warning convulsion. He closes his eyes and waits for the unpleasantness to recede; it lessens slightly but remains very present. He knows from past experience it will be inescapable as long as he remains on the roof exposed to the smell of roofing materials and gravel, with the breath of the wind in his hair and the heat of the sun on his skin.
“I would like to go down now,” he announces with dignity, as though his sergeant hadn’t just watched him faint at the sight of a corpse and – judging from the soreness growing in his hip and shoulder – failed to catch him. “Let’s go, Lewis.”
“Are you sure you – alright, easy.” Lewis’ doubtful nagging is silenced by the simple expedient of latching onto him and using him as a ladder; Morse pulls himself up and waits for the second round of dizziness to subside. It’s much stronger, wrecking almost the entirety of his balance and leaving him struggling to hide his tremors, utterly wretched and ill. He’ll never make it back across the roof alone, not when he barely managed it the first time.
“You can make yourself useful, Lewis, since you insisted on coming up here.” He links his arm through his sergeant’s, leaning as much of his weight as he dares up against the younger man’s shoulder.
“I don’t actually think that was me, sir…” protests Lewis, as they start staggering towards the stairwell, Morse trying to lead by memory more than sight, Lewis continually trying to correct him and instead sending them off-course. He keeps up a constant, overly-cheerful litany of reassurance in Morse’s ear, “That’s it sir, nearly there, you’re alright –”
“You keep on nattering in my ear and neither of us is going to be alright much longer,” threatens Morse as they round a corner and his gut gives a tight, slippery twist. He feels the heat of the sun disappear as they step into the shade of the building and lunges sickly forward, craving the cool darkness beyond. His foot catches on a ridge and he stumbles, Lewis cursing as he grabs Morse and catches his weight.
Morse’s perception of the world slips away for a few moments, everything caught up in a tight, relentless spinning that makes him sweat and pant for breath, heart racing. When the whirling finally slows he finds that he’s propped up against a cool stone wall, hand clenched over Lewis’ arm as though it were a lifeline.
“Look sir, if we keep on like this you’ll have us both down the stairs,” says Lewis, earnestly. “For once, can’t you just trust me?”
Morse just stares at him, then sighs and closes his eyes again in resignation. Lewis pulls Morse’s arm over his shoulder as though he had a game leg, taking the lead of their awkward advance and the ability to catch Morse if he trips again. Morse keeps his eyes firmly closed and leans into his sergeant’s support; lets Lewis guide him as he asked. They shuffle forward into the circular stairwell.
“Here’s the first step sir, step down now,” instructs Lewis, keeping to the inside of the spiral so Morse has the larger outer portion of the step. Morse lets himself be shepherded down, around and around the twisting turret, trying to keep his mind off the spiral as the dizziness fights for any opening.
Finally, after what seems like an endless trek, Lewis announces the last stair and Morse steps off shakily onto terra firma. There’s a bench nearby and Lewis leads him to it, Morse collapsing onto the firm wooden slats as though they were down-filled cushions. “Never again,” he vows fervently, feet pressed firmly to the ground.
“You really are scared of heights, aren’t you?” says Lewis, wonderingly.
Morse opens his eyes to glare at his sergeant. “Lewis, what have I told you?”
Lewis looks back at him in sudden, wide-eyed uncertainty. “Dunno, sir. You tell me a lot of things.”
Morse sighs and leans his head back against the back of the bench. “If you can’t say something clever, don’t say anything at all.”