Author's Note: Well, most of my Javert stories tend to give him a happy ending...but this time I decided to go with the more traditional approach. (I'm sorry, Javert! I swear I don't want you to die!) I was inspired by a short comic of the same title by Hadog on deviantArt. If you get the chance, go check it out.

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis or Javert, so please don't sue me. I don't have much money anyway... :P

Nothing More

Javert stood on the bridge overlooking the Seine, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned upon the railing. He had removed his hat so that a forgiving breeze might soothe the sweat that drenched his brow, the warm June night doing little to relieve his suffering. There was a light mist over the river, the ever-faithful stars obscured by a thick layer of clouds. Unconsciously, he tugged at his cravat. The humidity was suffocating, and a crooked tie was the least of his worries at the moment. His hair, which had long since started coming undone from the neatly tied ribbon that usually held it into place, glistened with a thin layer of moisture that had given it a slight curl. If he had been of a sounder mind, he would have been horrified by his disheveled appearance, the crazed gleam in his eyes reminiscent of a wild animal that had been cornered, a wolf trapped in its own den—which is exactly what he would have been had Valjean not seen fit to release him. His mind wandered back to the criminal's words from earlier that day.

You are wrong, and always have been wrong. I am a man no worse than any other man. And you are free. There are no conditions, no bargains or petitions. There's nothing that I blame you for. You've done your duty – nothing more.

The words were spoken without malice, yet they inexplicably stung as if Valjean had struck him in the face.

"Nothing more?" Javert murmured as he stared into the Seine.

What had he meant by 'nothing more'? Was life really so meaningless that all his hard work—all of his effort to go above and beyond—had been in vain? He had striven for perfection his entire life and had very nearly achieved it—at least by human standards—yet when he finally got the chance to arrest Valjean, the victory had felt strangely hollow and the idea of turning him in seemed suddenly revolting.

He shuddered violently, pulling the greatcoat tighter around his frame despite the heat, and wondered vaguely whether perhaps he was feverish.

He had done everything right, hadn't he? He went to church and followed the law. He prayed. He tithed. He'd never missed a day of work in his life even when he felt like hell and probably should have been at home in bed. He had punished people, but never unjustly….

So what am I doing wrong?

The answer, it seemed, was not in the stars but in the river, the dark reflection of his unkempt appearance on the water's surface bringing to mind the frightened gypsy boy who'd emerged from the prison—a time when he knew hunger and cold abuse just as well as any of the prostitutes or thieves that he'd arrested. And something inside of him crumbled. How could he turn a blind eye to their suffering when so many had done the same to him? If not for the Good Samaritan who had taken pity on him and admitted a boy of questionable background to join the police force, would he have done the same as them? Yes, he had attended mass. Yes, he went to confession. But when had he fed the hungry? When had he clothed the poor or helped the sick? When had he prayed not for the capture of criminals but for the sake of their souls? The love of a woman, of family, of friends—such things were foreign to him, much less the love for an enemy or a stranger that he knew he was supposed to feel. Again and again he had heard the priest proclaim that to attempt to serve God without love was futile, but he hadn't understood what it meant. Javert had never loved anyone or anything, and he had gotten along perfectly fine without it. He was devoted to his job, he supposed, but he did not love it. He was respectful of those with authority, but that wasn't the same thing. He was faithful to attend church services, but only because it was expected of him. He realized, then, that love was a mystery to him, and a sudden, terrible thought occurred to him: If God was love, and he did not know what love was…how, then, could he profess to know God?

A single hot tear rolled down each cheek and dripped off of his chin, dropping into the Seine one after the other until they were indistinguishable from the river. With shaking hands, he pulled himself up over the railing and leaned forward. He took one final breath…and then he let go. When he finally hit the surface, the impact knocked all the air out of his lungs, the waters of the Seine filling his nose and mouth in an instinctive gasp. The sodden greatcoat—once a comfort—now weighed him down, dragging him further and further away from the light. Javert did not fight it, welcoming the blackness that enveloped him with open arms. The last thing he heard was the soft patter of the rain upon the water, the heavens rent asunder as if God Himself were weeping. As he slipped out of consciousness, the quiet whisper of the river seemed to echo with the voice of eternity.

"You've done your duty," it seemed to say, "nothing more."