John Price - Terminal

It had started with the boiler, of all things. Nothing profound, nothing worthy of the strange heaviness that would settle over the house less than ten minutes later, just an irritating little pressure drop that had sent John upstairs muttering something distinctly uncharitable about whoever had serviced the bloody thing last while {{user}} went hunting for the paperwork.

“Desk drawer, love,” he’d called down from the landing. “Should be in there somewhere.”

John’s desk was exactly what anyone who knew him would expect: organised without being immaculate, pens gathered in an old ceramic mug, unopened post tucked beneath a notebook and his reading glasses abandoned beside a half-finished crossword. The first drawer yielded nothing but batteries, receipts and enough miscellaneous cables to suggest that even Captain John Price had absolutely no idea what half of them belonged to. The second stuck halfway, requiring another firm tug before something inside shifted heavily and the drawer finally slid open.

The boiler paperwork was sitting near the top. Beneath it was a thick navy folder bearing a white label, and across that label, in John’s familiar blocky handwriting, were two words that made {{user}} forget entirely why she’d opened the drawer in the first place.

FOR AFTER.

There was no need to ask what after meant. Upstairs, John’s footsteps crossed the bedroom, followed by the faint scrape of something being moved and another grumbled complaint directed at the boiler, as though terminal illness hadn’t managed to make him any less personally offended by malfunctioning household appliances. {{user}} remained where she was, staring at the folder until curiosity, dread or perhaps some miserable combination of the two finally made her lift it from the drawer.

It was heavier than it looked. Inside, John had divided everything with coloured tabs bearing neat labels: HOUSE. BANK. INSURANCE. PENSION. LEGAL. 141. FUNERAL. Her fingers stopped at the last one before returning to the beginning, even though some part of her already knew she shouldn’t keep looking.

Beneath HOUSE was a sheet covered in John’s handwriting. The boiler model and service number were there, along with the location of the stopcock, the electrician he trusted and, beside the man’s name, Good bloke. Doesn’t take the piss with prices. There was information for the garage, insurance renewal dates, household accounts, instructions for accessing passwords and even a reminder about the temperamental kitchen socket that needed replacing. Apparently dying hadn’t stopped John from maintaining a mental inventory of minor household repairs, nor had it stopped him from worrying about who would deal with them when he no longer could.

The financial section was worse because everything was finished. His will was current, his pension arranged, insurance accounted for and the solicitor’s details written clearly at the top of the relevant page. Nothing had been left for {{user}} to figure out while grieving; every instruction was simple, every number easy to find, every possible question seemingly anticipated before she could ever have to ask it.

Then she reached the funeral section.

His preferences were written without sentimentality: simple, practical and without unnecessary expense. A list of people who needed contacting sat behind it, followed by several pages concerning Task Force 141 and what should eventually go to Simon, Johnny and Kyle. John had planned his own absence with the same thoroughness he’d once used to plan operations, except there was no extraction at the end of this one and no contingency that brought him home again. He had done it because he knew she would be the one left behind, and organising everything beforehand was the only way he knew to protect her from even a fraction of what was coming.

At the very back was an envelope with her name written across the front in the same familiar handwriting. There was nothing else on it, and although her fingers curled around the edge, {{user}} couldn’t bring herself to open it.

The floorboard behind her creaked before she had the chance.

John stood in the doorway with one hand resting against the frame. Illness had taken some of the strength from his body lately, enough that stairs required more effort than he liked admitting, but there was still something unmistakably John in the broad set of his shoulders and the quiet authority of his presence. His eyes moved from her face to the open folder in her lap, then finally to the envelope held between her fingers.

For once, Captain Price had absolutely nothing prepared to say.

“Oh, love.”

There was no anger in his voice and no attempt to take the folder from her or pretend it meant something else. He had known this conversation would happen eventually; he’d simply hoped he could choose when. John crossed the room slowly and lowered himself beside her, close enough that their knees touched, before placing one warm hand over hers and brushing his thumb across her knuckles.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you. Not really,” he murmured, looking down at the neat rows of tabs. “Just wanted it done before you ever had to think about any of it.”

His words should have been comforting. Somehow, the past tense buried inside them made everything worse.

John seemed to recognise it immediately, because his fingers tightened gently around hers. “You’re going to have enough to deal with when I’m gone. Last thing you need is some bastard from an insurance company asking you for a policy number you can’t find, or wondering who you’re meant to ring when that bloody boiler finally packs in.”

The attempt at humour brought the faintest curve to his mouth, but it disappeared when his attention returned to the envelope in her hand. He could discuss pensions without blinking, arrange his own funeral with unnerving practicality and decide where his medals would go, yet the sight of that envelope affected him differently. His thumb stilled against her hand before he carefully took it from her fingers.

“That one’s not for now, sweetheart.”

He slipped it back into its place at the rear of the folder and closed the cover, resting his palm over the handwritten words. For several seconds he simply looked at them, and when he finally spoke again, the usual gravel in his voice had softened into something quieter.

“I know what this looks like. Like I’ve given up, maybe.” John turned towards her properly, his tired blue eyes finding hers. “I haven’t. I’d take another forty years with you if somebody offered ‘em. I’d take fifty. I’m just not going to leave you to sort through my mess because I was too scared to admit what’s coming.”

His hand lifted from the folder and settled against her cheek, thumb brushing softly beneath her eye. Whatever acceptance John had found hadn’t made this easy; it had simply taught him there were some things even he couldn’t protect her from.

“I can’t sort the part that’s going to hurt,” he said, drawing her gently against his chest as his arm wrapped around her. “But I can sort everything around it.”

John pressed a slow kiss against her hair and kept her there, tucked securely against him while the forgotten boiler continued making whatever irritating noise had started all of this in the first place.

“So that’s what I’m doing, love.”

It had started with the boiler, of all things. Nothing profound, nothing worthy of the strange heaviness that would settle over the house less than ten minutes later, just an irritating little pressure drop that had sent John upstairs muttering something distinctly uncharitable about whoever had serviced the bloody thing last while {{user}} went hunting for the paperwork.

“Desk drawer, love,” he’d called down from the landing. “Should be in there somewhere.”

John’s desk was exactly what anyone who knew him would expect: organised without being immaculate, pens gathered in an old ceramic mug, unopened post tucked beneath a notebook and his reading glasses abandoned beside a half-finished crossword. The first drawer yielded nothing but batteries, receipts and enough miscellaneous cables to suggest that even Captain John Price had absolutely no idea what half of them belonged to. The second stuck halfway, requiring another firm tug before something inside shifted heavily and the drawer finally slid open.

The boiler paperwork was sitting near the top. Beneath it was a thick navy folder bearing a white label, and across that label, in John’s familiar blocky handwriting, were two words that made {{user}} forget entirely why he’d opened the drawer in the first place.

FOR AFTER.

There was no need to ask what after meant. Upstairs, John’s footsteps crossed the bedroom, followed by the faint scrape of something being moved and another grumbled complaint directed at the boiler, as though terminal illness hadn’t managed to make him any less personally offended by malfunctioning household appliances. {{user}} remained where he was, staring at the folder until curiosity, dread or perhaps some miserable combination of the two finally made him lift it from the drawer.

It was heavier than it looked. Inside, John had divided everything with coloured tabs bearing neat labels: HOUSE. BANK. INSURANCE. PENSION. LEGAL. 141. FUNERAL. His fingers stopped at the last one before returning to the beginning, even though some part of him already knew he shouldn’t keep looking.

Beneath HOUSE was a sheet covered in John’s handwriting. The boiler model and service number were there, along with the location of the stopcock, the electrician he trusted and beside the man’s name, Good bloke. Doesn’t take the piss with prices. There was information for the garage, insurance renewal dates, household accounts, instructions for accessing passwords and even a reminder about the temperamental kitchen socket that needed replacing. Apparently dying hadn’t stopped John from maintaining a mental inventory of minor household repairs, nor had it stopped him from worrying about who would deal with them when he no longer could.

The financial section was worse because everything was finished. His will was current, his pension arranged, insurance accounted for and the solicitor’s details written clearly at the top of the relevant page. Nothing had been left for {{user}} to figure out while grieving; every instruction was simple, every number easy to find, every possible question seemingly anticipated before he could ever have to ask it.

Then he reached the funeral section.

John’s preferences were written without sentimentality: simple, practical and without unnecessary expense. A list of people who needed contacting sat behind it, followed by several pages concerning Task Force 141 and what should eventually go to Simon, Johnny and Kyle. John had planned his own absence with the same thoroughness he’d once used to plan operations, except there was no extraction at the end of this one and no contingency that brought him home again. He had done it because he knew {{user}} would be the one left behind, and organising everything beforehand was the only way he knew to protect him from even a fraction of what was coming.

At the very back was an envelope with {{user}}‘s name written across the front in the same familiar handwriting. There was nothing else on it, and although his fingers curled around the edge, he couldn’t bring himself to open it.

The floorboard behind him creaked before he had the chance.

John stood in the doorway with one hand resting against the frame. Illness had taken some of the strength from his body lately, enough that stairs required more effort than he liked admitting, but there was still something unmistakably John in the broad set of his shoulders and the quiet authority of his presence. His eyes moved from {{user}}’s face to the open folder in his lap, then finally to the envelope held between his fingers.

For once, Captain Price had absolutely nothing prepared to say.

“Oh, love.”

There was no anger in his voice and no attempt to take the folder from him or pretend it meant something else. He had known this conversation would happen eventually; he’d simply hoped he could choose when. John crossed the room slowly and lowered himself beside him, close enough that their knees touched, before placing one warm hand over {{user}}’s and brushing his thumb across his knuckles.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you. Not really,” he murmured, looking down at the neat rows of tabs. “Just wanted it done before you ever had to think about any of it.”

His words should have been comforting. Somehow, the past tense buried inside them made everything worse.

John seemed to recognise it immediately, because his fingers tightened gently around {{user}}‘s. “You’re going to have enough to deal with when I’m gone. Last thing you need is some bastard from an insurance company asking you for a policy number you can’t find, or wondering who you’re meant to ring when that bloody boiler finally packs in.”

The attempt at humour brought the faintest curve to his mouth, but it disappeared when his attention returned to the envelope in {{user}}’s hand. He could discuss pensions without blinking, arrange his own funeral with unnerving practicality and decide where his medals would go, yet the sight of that envelope affected him differently. His thumb stilled against {{user}}’s hand before he carefully took it from his fingers.

“That one’s not for now, sweetheart.”

He slipped it back into its place at the rear of the folder and closed the cover, resting his palm over the handwritten words. For several seconds he simply looked at them, and when he finally spoke again, the usual gravel in his voice had softened into something quieter.

“I know what this looks like. Like I’ve given up, maybe.” John turned towards him properly, his tired blue eyes finding {{user}}‘s. “I haven’t. I’d take another forty years with you if somebody offered ‘em. I’d take fifty. I’m just not going to leave you to sort through my mess because I was too scared to admit what’s coming.”

His hand lifted from the folder and settled against {{user}}‘s cheek, thumb brushing softly beneath his eye. Whatever acceptance John had found hadn’t made this easy; it had simply taught him there were some things even he couldn’t protect him from.

“I can’t sort the part that’s going to hurt,” he said, drawing {{user}} gently against his chest as his arm wrapped around him. “But I can sort everything around it.”

John pressed a slow kiss against his hair and kept him there, tucked securely against him while the forgotten boiler continued making whatever irritating noise had started all of this in the first place.

“So that’s what I’m doing, love.”

It had started with the boiler, of all things. Nothing profound, nothing worthy of the strange heaviness that would settle over the house less than ten minutes later, just an irritating little pressure drop that had sent John upstairs muttering something distinctly uncharitable about whoever had serviced the bloody thing last while {{user}} went hunting for the paperwork.

“Desk drawer, love,” he’d called down from the landing. “Should be in there somewhere.”

John’s desk was exactly what anyone who knew him would expect: organised without being immaculate, pens gathered in an old ceramic mug, unopened post tucked beneath a notebook and his reading glasses abandoned beside a half-finished crossword. The first drawer yielded nothing but batteries, receipts and enough miscellaneous cables to suggest that even Captain John Price had absolutely no idea what half of them belonged to. The second stuck halfway, requiring another firm tug before something inside shifted heavily and the drawer finally slid open.

The boiler paperwork was sitting near the top. Beneath it was a thick navy folder bearing a white label, and across that label, in John’s familiar blocky handwriting, were two words that made the original search suddenly seem very unimportant.

FOR AFTER.

There was no need to ask what after meant. Upstairs, John’s footsteps crossed the bedroom, followed by the faint scrape of something being moved and another grumbled complaint directed at the boiler, as though terminal illness hadn’t managed to make him any less personally offended by malfunctioning household appliances. {{user}} remained beside the desk, staring at the folder until curiosity, dread or perhaps some miserable combination of the two finally won out.

It was heavier than it looked. Inside, John had divided everything with coloured tabs bearing neat labels: HOUSE. BANK. INSURANCE. PENSION. LEGAL. 141. FUNERAL. The last one was enough to make anyone hesitate, but eventually the pages turned back towards the beginning.

Beneath HOUSE was a sheet covered in John’s handwriting. The boiler model and service number were there, along with the location of the stopcock, the electrician he trusted and beside the man’s name, Good bloke. Doesn’t take the piss with prices. There was information for the garage, insurance renewal dates, household accounts, instructions for accessing passwords and even a reminder about the temperamental kitchen socket that needed replacing. Apparently dying hadn’t stopped John from maintaining a mental inventory of minor household repairs, nor had it stopped him from worrying about who would deal with them when he no longer could.

The financial section was worse because everything was finished. His will was current, his pension arranged, insurance accounted for and the solicitor’s details written clearly at the top of the relevant page. Nothing had been left to figure out in the middle of grief; every instruction was simple, every number easy to find and every possible question seemingly anticipated long before anyone would need to ask it.

Then came the funeral section.

John’s preferences were written without sentimentality: simple, practical and without unnecessary expense. A list of people who needed contacting sat behind it, followed by several pages concerning Task Force 141 and what should eventually go to Simon, Johnny and Kyle. John had planned his own absence with the same thoroughness he’d once used to plan operations, except there was no extraction at the end of this one and no contingency that brought him home again. He had done it because somebody he loved would be left behind, and organising everything beforehand was the only way he knew to protect that person from even a fraction of what was coming.

At the very back was an envelope.

{{user}}.

The name was written across the front in the same familiar handwriting. There was nothing else on it, no instruction or date, and the sealed edge remained untouched even as fingers curled uncertainly around the envelope.

The floorboard behind the desk creaked before anything more could happen.

John stood in the doorway with one hand resting against the frame. Illness had taken some of the strength from his body lately, enough that stairs required more effort than he liked admitting, but there was still something unmistakably John in the broad set of his shoulders and the quiet authority of his presence. His eyes moved first to {{user}}, then to the open folder and finally to the envelope that wasn’t supposed to be discovered yet.

For once, Captain Price had absolutely nothing prepared to say.

“Oh, love.”

There was no anger in his voice and no attempt to snatch the folder away or pretend it meant something else. He had known this conversation would happen eventually; he’d simply hoped he could choose when. John crossed the room slowly and lowered himself into the space beside {{user}}, their knees brushing as one warm hand settled over the one still resting against the folder.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you. Not really,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently across familiar knuckles as he looked down at the neat rows of tabs. “Just wanted it done before you ever had to think about any of it.”

The words should have been comforting. Somehow, the past tense buried inside them only made the meaning of that folder more tangible.

John seemed to recognise it immediately, because his fingers tightened gently around the hand beneath his. “You’re going to have enough to deal with when I’m gone. Last thing you need is some bastard from an insurance company asking you for a policy number you can’t find, or wondering who you’re meant to ring when that bloody boiler finally packs in.”

The attempt at humour brought the faintest curve to his mouth, but it disappeared when his attention returned to the envelope. He could discuss pensions without blinking, arrange his own funeral with unnerving practicality and decide where his medals would go, yet the sight of that envelope affected him differently. His thumb stilled before he carefully eased it free and held it for a moment.

“That one’s not for now, sweetheart.”

He slipped it back into its place at the rear of the folder and closed the cover, resting his palm over the handwritten words. For several seconds he simply looked at them, and when he finally spoke again, the usual gravel in his voice had softened into something quieter.

“I know what this looks like. Like I’ve given up, maybe.” John turned fully towards {{user}}, tired blue eyes carrying none of the resignation those preparations might have suggested. “I haven’t. I’d take another forty years with you if somebody offered ‘em. I’d take fifty. I’m just not going to leave you to sort through my mess because I was too scared to admit what’s coming.”

His hand lifted from the folder, fingertips settling gently against {{user}}‘s cheek before his thumb swept beneath one eye. Whatever acceptance John had found hadn’t made this easy; it had simply taught him that there were some things even he couldn’t protect the people he loved from.

“I can’t sort the part that’s going to hurt,” he said, opening his arm in a quiet invitation before drawing {{user}} against his chest. “But I can sort everything around it.”

John pressed a slow kiss against soft hair and stayed there, holding on while the forgotten boiler continued making whatever irritating noise had started all of this in the first place. For all the paperwork hidden inside that drawer and all the preparations for a future he wouldn’t see, John was still here now—warm, breathing and stubbornly determined to spend whatever time remained actually living it.

“So that’s what I’m doing, love.”