Taste (Endeavour)

[RiversD]

Fanfiction of ITV's Endeavour, featuring a young Inspector Morse (currently a lowly DC). Morse tries to solve a case and ignore a cold at the same time. One-shot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sounds of Wagnerian Opera filled Endeavour  Morse’s small flat, entirely failing to provide the young detective with its usual consolation. He sat with his fingers buried to the second knuckle in his wavy hair, at war with his own mind.

What did you do when the only possible suspect was above suspicion? You looked for where you had gone wrong. But of all the things that Carol Street was known to have consumed that day, arnica could only have gone undetected in the curry she had shared with Helen Freeman. And Helen couldn’t have done it- wouldn’t have, surely? So where was he to turn from there?

Morse angrily ruffled his hair and went to lean back in his chair. Then his face contorted with sudden, urgent irritation, and he bent forward again to sneeze.

“aissch! ihsschoo!”

He groaned. That was another problem. It was damned difficult to think straight, let alone twisty, when your body kept interrupting you like that.

The sneezes had set his nose running. Morse pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose with a grimace of discomfort. He hadn’t been terribly gentle with his nose in the early stages of this illness, and looked set to regret it at length.

Be that as it might, a simple head cold was no excuse for such colossal dunderheadedness as he was certain he was exhibiting right now. The music itself seemed to be mocking him, his ears twisting the familiar words so that they chanted;

“You’re missing some-thing, you’re miss-sing some-thing, you’re miiissing… somethiiiing!”

But what? Had Ms Street eaten something that the police weren’t aware of? It was possible, certainly, but not very plausible. Certainly not worth his ti… his time…

“aitssch! ihsschuh! Ughh…”

Morse worked his still-itching nose between finger and thumb for as long as he could tolerate the pain of doing so. All this achieved was the replacement of the primary itch with a hot prickling sensation that made his throat twinge in sympathy.

Morse slumped back in his chair, legs outstretched, and tried to think, or at least to breathe, whilst the music played on, insisting:

“you’re missing something,

You’re missing something,

You’re missing something…”

Morse jerked awake to the jarring sound of the needle scraping away at the end of the record. He swung himself out of his chair, stumbled the few steps needed to reach the player, lifted the needle, then braced himself against a wall as a wave of dizziness crashed down on him. He rested his head against his arm, feeling sick and unnaturally cold.

“huh-tsschhhuh!”

The peaking itch didn’t give him enough warning to raise a hand, much less find a handkerchief, and he sneezed where he stood, head bobbing against his stationary arm.

Handkerchief location was the next order of business, however. Morse could feel the pressure that had built up in his sinuses while he slept, threatening to precipitate more sneezing at any moment.

He staggered back to his chair but paused with one hand resting on it as a deep, stuttering gasp heralded the inescapable.

“hihh’TSSCHuhh!”

Ears ringing, nose flooding, Morse scrabbled amongst the cushions until he found his handkerchief. Then he perched on the arm of the chair and blew his nose at some length, coughing in between laboured breaths.

When he finally raised it, his head was buzzing, and his nose felt twice its usual size. He leant back slightly, and groaned when he felt the pull in his neck. He was definitely feverish as well, his whole body prickling with self-generated heat. Just a night-fever, he hoped, gone in a few hours. Not that this would do much to help him sleep- he suspected that might be out of reach for the foreseeable future.

Well, if he wasn’t going back to sleep, he ought to try and wake up. Morse forced himself to stand on shivering legs and made his way to his small kitchen, picking up last night’s whisky on the way. He allowed himself the dignity of a clean glass, but poured the spirit neat.

With the extent to which his nose had shut down, the result was all burn and no taste, but Morse was prepared to accept this. Better a pick-me-up you couldn’t taste than a…”

Morse froze, realisation striking him like a drum. Something you couldn’t taste…

Very slowly, very carefully, he put the glass down and raised his wrist to see his watch. 4 a.m. Damn.

He waited at least until the sun had risen before he phoned Inspector Thursday. By the sound of it, it was still earlier than the Inspector had expected to be called at home.

“Who in God’s name-”

Morse didn’t bother with pleasantries. “She had a cold!”

There was an astonished pause at the other end of the line. Then, in a tone of pure exasperation, “Morse?”

“Yes. Sir, Carol Street had a cold.”

“Start from the beginning, will you?”

Morse swallowed, winced at the pain, and tried to straighten out his thoughts for more efficient communication.

“Helen Freeman said that the restaurant was Carol’s choice. And two days before that she begged off sick from choir practise. I think she did choose that restaurant, and she picked spicy food because she couldn’t taste anything less. She’d lost her sense of taste!”

He had to pause for air, chest creaking with phlegm as he averted his face from the mouthpiece for a couple of short, breathless coughs. Thursday picked up his line of reasoning and carried it on.

“So even if our poisoner was stupid enough to feed her arnica in something bland, they could have got away with it. Three days on this case, and we’ve blinkered ourselves this whole time.”

“Exactly.” Morse began to relax a little, having successfully got his point across, but his nose interrupted his temporary peace of mind with a rush of ticklishness that set his nostrils twitching and his breath hitching frantically as he clasped the receiver to his chest to avoid sneezing into it.

“’tschh! hh’tschh!”

As he raised the phone back to his ear, he heard Thursday say,

“Bless you.”

Feeling the colour rise in his cheeks, he muttered, “Thanks.”

He heard Thursday take a slow, thoughtful breath and spared a moment from his own embarrassment to envy his ability to do so.

“Right then,” Thursday declared. “I’m going to get dressed and take this down to the station. You sound like-”

Knowing perfectly well what he sounded like, Morse cut him off. “I’ll pick you up, sir. Call it forty minutes?”

“Morse, you’re sick as a dog. Have you even slept?”

“It’s a cold, sir.” Morse insisted. “Half the station’s had it by now. I’ll be fine.”

Thursday sighed. “Alright then. But see you wrap up warm. My Win will have both our heads otherwise.”

“Yes sir.”

 

[Vetinari]

*Sighs happily*
 

I can completely see the scene. Shaun Evans / young Morse with a cold is just a perfect image. He's got that naturally hangdog, needs looking after look.

 

Thanks for writing. 

[Guest]

Oh wow, I am so here for this. I love Endeavour, love Shaun Evans, and you wrote it so well, the characters really come through. I've often vaguely thought about writing something about him...now I know there is a small interested audience, maybe I'll give it a go too...

 

Particularly loved:

Quote

There was an astonished pause at the other end of the line. Then, in a tone of pure exasperation, “Morse?”

Morse is always doing that, starting in the middle and being incredibly earnest and confusing.

 

On 20/07/2017 at 8:42 PM, RiversD said:

he clasped the receiver to his chest to avoid sneezing into it.

Lovely image.

 

On 20/07/2017 at 8:42 PM, RiversD said:

“It’s a cold, sir.” Morse insisted. “Half the station’s had it by now. I’ll be fine.”

Another great image.

 

Yay, thank you!

[IveGotRedHair]

I loved this ❤️ I have such a soft spot for young Morse.