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It’s too dark at night to see a thing, or at least, any details. The branches obscure the view, but if they aren’t hidden, there won’t be any point at all. They’ve been crouching here for the better part of two hours—three, according to George—and Henry’s knees are aching in the dirt. Another few minutes and he strips his helmet off, because it’s heavy and pointless. How Detective Murdoch comes up with these things, he has no idea, but it’d be nice if for once the detective did his own dirty work instead of leaving it to Henry and George.
He’s barely placed his helmet amidst the roots before George hisses, a meter and a half away, “Higgins, we’re on duty!”
When Henry turns to roll his eyes, he can barely see George through all the foliage. They’re hidden amongst separate trees, staring out at the green fields of Queen’s park, watching the one bench still flaked with stray blood. When Murdoch found the killer’s pin at the crime scene, he made sure they didn’t tell a soul, he took a sketch and he left it there, so sure the killer would realize the mistake and come to collect it.
But they’ve had constables watching the bench all day, nothing’s happened, and apparently they’ll be doing it all night. Henry’s only saving grace is that he’s wanted more time alone with George (he always does, whatever he says, how could he not?) but this isn’t what he meant. He would’ve liked them to catch lunch, or go for a stroll, or even sit on George’s couch and listen to more of that god-awful pharaoh novel, anything not this, where they can’t talk properly and can barely even see each other. The worst part is that George was too stubborn to listen to Henry’s advice to grab his gloves and scarf, and he’s been shivering like a fawn all shift. It’s both adorable and pitiful, and Henry’s vindictive, I-told-you-so satisfaction is outweighed by his sympathy. After another few minutes of nothing, he whispers, “Do you want my hat?”
“What would I want your hat for?” George asks, looking over, face scrunched up in that too-cute way it does when George is confused.
“Well, I don’t know—to put your hands in or something. I can hear you shivering from here.”
“Well, it’s cold, Henry—I can see my breath and everything.”
“You should’ve—”
“Oh, don’t you start about the scarf again. You know it was warm when we left the station.” Only it wasn’t, and when Henry’s too exasperated to reply, George goes back to glaring into the darkness and shivering conspicuously. If the trunks of their trees were big enough, Henry would creep closer and loop an arm around George’s shoulders, pull him in tightly to keep him warm, hold him against the night under the guise of kindness. But he can’t afford to think about holding George right now. Not when they’re together like this, and Henry’s tired and weak; one day he’ll mess up, he’ll be needling his best friend like he always is, and one too many words will slip out of his mouth and he’ll shatter their friendship forever—
A branch cracks behind Henry. It’s the first sound (other than George’s accent and restless shivering) he’s heard all night, and he whirls around, just in time to get smacked in the face with a knee. Stunned, he’s knocked to the ground, stray branches swinging into his face, while legs spring right over the hedge, and George bursts into his vision and ears, shouting, “Stop! Toronto constabulary!” like that ever works.
Henry pushes up on his arms, ready to shout for George to stop, that’s so stupid; announcing his presence to a murderer will only make him a target, but it all happens so fast. Henry barely gets one look at them before George is whacked in the chest with a long, slick pole that might be a cane, a baton, could be anything in this light and speed. George topples to the floor, and the dark figure above him spins to bat at his legs, smashing into his thigh—George shrieks in pain and curls in on himself. Another blow straight to George’s head, and the man spins on the spot and bolts for the bench. Henry barely looks at him—all Henry can see is George, lying still in the grass, blood on his face. By the time Henry is at his side, the suspect’s long gone.
George, groaning on his back—and conscious, Henry takes in with a great sigh of relief—coughs around the blood trickling out of his nose. “Henry,” he rasps, “the murderer,” and he tries to point off into the night like Henry could possibly give a damn.
The medical training they get isn’t enough. Henry can’t see much in this light, but he flattens his hand over George’s chest, runs down it to check: nothing’s torn, and there isn’t any blood. On the outside, at least. He could have all his ribs broken inside, for all Henry can tell. Henry checks George’s leg, and George hisses in pain when Henry touches his thigh, no more ripped. George licks his lips and still tries to insist, “Hurry—”
“He’s long gone, George,” Henry mutters. “And you’re here and you’re hurt.” The hospital’s too far. The stationhouse is closer. The morgue would be better, but there’s no way to tell if anyone will be there. At the stationhouse, George can rest safe, and Henry can call for help. But he can’t leave George in the open. As the shock wears off, George’s body starts to tremor again, and George’s breath is visible when it leaves his lips. With a grunt of frustration, Henry rips the scarf from his throat and carefully, gently lifts George’s head, so he can wrap the thick, black material around his friend’s neck. George opens his mouth but smartly doesn’t protest.
He just mumbles, “Thank you, Henry.” It’s small and wheezing; Henry’s chest constricts. And he thought it was hard to hear George shiver...
“C’mon. We have to get out of here.”
When George tries to sit up on his own, one arm gives out, and his eyes go wide as he falls, Henry catching him and helping him. He’s clumsy on a good day, but now he’s breathing hard, and he winces with half the movements Henry bends him into. It takes a bit of stumbling to get him on his feet, and he trips again, caught at Henry’s side, his hands darting to clutch at Henry’s uniform. Henry’s had too many daydreams of George clinging to him, but never like this. He feels guilty for enjoying the little touches, and he wills himself to focus; he loops his arm around George’s back, lets George lean on his shoulder, and helps push them forward in an awkward, three-legged step. It takes an incredible amount of love not to scold George for being an idiot, pouncing like that. He’s too naïve for his own good.
He complains on the way back. Of course he does. When they finally get out of the park and reach the road, he says, “I can manage,” but he barely gets half a step before he’s toppling over, and if it weren’t for Henry, he’d be splitting his head open on the pavement. Henry keeps his eyes and ears peeled for a carriage, but they aren’t having any luck. George gets heavier the further they go, leaning on Henry more, holding him tighter, until Henry may as well be carrying George, and the worry is crushing all Henry’s enjoyment. As they totter up the steps, George mutters, “Your hat...” and Henry just ignores him. He’s still conscious, at least. That must be good.
But the station is empty. Henry doesn’t get him past the front, just helps him onto the bench in the waiting area. George tries to get up and follow him when he goes for the phone, but groans and collapses back down a second later. Henry watches George the entire time he calls the morgue, the receiver trembling in his grasp. Dr. Grace is there and says she’ll come right over. She’s the best doctor Henry knows—excluding Dr. Ogden, of course—and for once, Henry won’t even mind having to share George with her. He’s back to the bench as soon as the call’s done, and he licks his lips, searching for what to say—it’ll be alright? Emily’s coming, she always makes you feel better? I can fetch your gloves.
But George reaches out for him first, mumbling, “Still cold.”
So Henry puts his arms back around George, helping to hold him up. George slumps instantly in Henry’s grip, hiking his legs onto the bench and curling up against Henry’s chest. He rests his head on Henry’s shoulders, breathing shallow. It’s like a scene from one of Henry’s daydreams, though this isn’t at all how he wanted it to go.
At least he can keep George safe. Warm. George murmurs, sounding half asleep, “You’ll stay with me until the doctor gets here, won’t you?”
Henry says, “Of course, George,” like George is being silly. Because he is. As George slips off in another dizzy murmur, Henry brushes back his dark hair and presses a kiss to his forehead, just a short, chaste thing, like comforting a child. He prays Dr. Grace will hurry, though he cherishes every second he gets with George in his arms, his stupid, stubborn George, who’ll have to laugh with him when this is all over, and maybe Henry will even let him read out that final pharaoh chapter that Henry’s secretly devoured on his own.