Work Text:
You know what’s always worked for Mike Hanson? The practical life.
You get yourself a steady job, like police work. You put in your time for a while, study up, and you move into a detective position. It just makes sense. You find a girl who likes you—not for the uniform or the gun or the badge—but for you. You get married, have a couple kids and work for them, then go home at night to contented chaos in your suburban three-bedroom house.
It’s a good life.
His life is nothing fancy, but it’s satisfying. It’s… normal. If he wants excitement, he gets plenty of it at work. Something off-beat? Work fits the bill, too. Something downright weird? His job has it in spades.
Especially since Henry Morgan joined the team.
Really, the guy’s a weird magnet. Mike can’t remember coming across so many homicides with odd situations before Henry started working with their unit. Seems like before it was mostly husband-kills-wife, or gangbanger's-career-cut-short, you know, that stuff.
When he thinks twice about it, he wonders—how many of those “regular homicides” had hidden layers to them? How many might have ended differently?
But he has to put thoughts like that away, or he’ll be up nights worrying. That’s not his style. He has a job to do and he does it, the best he can.
Some Mondays, you're just dragging anyway, nothing to do with being up nights worrying. He's already on his third cup of joe, and it's only 9:30 in the morning. He blinks as he reads the lab report from the homicide they started investigating over the weekend. “Is this right?”
Jo takes a few moments to respond, finally looking up from her computer. Her brows crease in the center. "What?"
He pretends that he doesn't notice—she's been particularly distracted lately. Maybe it's just Mondays, same as him. But either she's had a week of Mondays, or it's something else.
He'd bet his lucky poker chip that it has something to do with Dr. Henry Morgan.
Something has changed between them in the last month. When he first said something like, "Everything okay with you two?" she'd just shrug it off or make a joke. He stopped asking after a while. Maybe it’s a romance. Or not. Maybe Henry-Morgan-style romance involves a lot of furtive glances and halting, cut-off sentences.
But Henry's an odd duck. Maybe it's an odd romance.
Doesn't seem like Jo's style, though. He's known her for a while now, and he's always loved how well they work together. She's practical, like him. She's smart as a whip, and she makes connections like nobody's business.
So he’s patient with her. “This lab report. They make a mistake or something?”
He hands her the paperwork, gives her a few moments to read through it. She frowns, for a moment, then her face clears. “I’m not sure what you mean…”
He holds back a sigh, and scoots his desk chair around to come next to her. “This right here. Says we have the bloodwork of our victim, female, traces of alcohol in her system, and then our suspect, male, no chemical traces found.”
She frowns again. “Seems pretty standard.” The ‘So?’ is left unsaid.
“I was expecting a mess, you know, telling blood samples apart. What with Henry getting nicked by the jagged scrap metal in the wreckage. There’s only the two sets of blood work, not three.”
He watches her face, waiting for that ‘aha!’ he’s come to know so well. He gets that look, sure, but then her face goes carefully blank. “Oh, I see what you mean, now. Sorry, I’ve been off my game lately.”
“I haven’t noticed,” he teases, jostling her arm gently.
“Yeah, the lab tech must have made a mistake. Or maybe Henry warned them ahead of time, and they excluded his results.” She shrugs.
It makes sense. He guesses. Not really procedure, but it could have been possible.
Jo hands him the papers and turns back to her computer. “You wanna go with me to interview the victim’s boyfriend?”
“With me? Not Henry?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Henry’s… got something going on today.”
Her tone of voice, that could mean anything. “Something wrong?”
“No,” she says quickly, standing and grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. “I don’t think so, he just called and left a message that he’d be in later.” She yawns then, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
Poor thing. Whatever it is, she’ll beat it. Or pretty soon it’ll be time to start getting nosy.
A couple weeks later, Mike decides to pay the Assistant ME’s office a visit. One faulty lab report is one thing, but two in a month? He’s got that funny feeling, a prickle on the back of the neck—something’s gotta be going on. “Hey,” he calls over to Lucas, who’s bending over a corpse on the table. “Your boss around?”
Lucas turns, goggles obscuring his face. “Hey, good morning, Mike!” He must see something in Mike’s face because he clears his throat and corrects to, “Um, Detective Hanson.” He sets down a scalpel. “No, Henry’s not in yet. There something I can help with?”
Mike considers for a minute. He’s worked a couple cases with Lucas, and the kid’s decent at his job. But what if he’s the culprit behind the shoddy lab work? He might deny it, or worry about a reprimand…
Nah, the guy’s young, but he’s a professional. “Got some questions about this lab work. Can you take a look for me?”
“Sure!” Lucas says, a little too chipper for the early hour or the middle of a morgue. “Give me a minute to look it over…” He scans the page for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth over the page in a random fashion. “Okay, I’m not sure what the problem is. What’s the issue?”
“Did the ME’s office send the samples over or work with them in any way?” Mike’s gotta rule interference out at least.
Lucas frowns. “We… don’t usually have anything to do with samples collected at a crime scene. CSU does all of that in-house. We only really deal with the, you know,” —he bumps the cadaver beside him with an elbow— “the stiffs.”
Mike suppresses an eyeroll. “Yeah, yeah, got it.” He sighs. “Okay, here’s the deal. Dr. Morgan worked this crime scene with Jo and me the other day, right? And you know how they have a record of detectives' prints, DNA samples, etc., just in case there’s contamination with the evidence, so they can rule it out?” Lucas nods along with him, it’s all standard procedure. He points to the pertinent section.“Take another look.”
Lucas squints at the paper for a moment. Then the ‘aha’ he’d expected from Jo a couple weeks ago appears on his face. “No Henry.” He tilts his head. “Is that usual? He’s a pretty meticulous guy, maybe he never left any DNA—he always wears gloves, right?”
“Okay, yeah, I get that. But he’s left traces before, in fact, most of the cases he’s worked on.” Mike pulls out a report from a couple of days ago and passes it over. “No hair, no footprints, no trace anything.” He shakes his head. “Someone over at the CSU is dropping the ball.”
Just dumb luck, then, human error. He’s the practical guy, right? It’s stupid to fixate on this—why does it even matter? He takes the reports back, and starts to thank Lucas for letting him waste his time.
But Lucas shrugs and says, “I can have my buddy over there see if the results just got misfiled or something?”
He’s about to say, nah, never mind, get back to your cadaver there before old Henry catches you gabbing, but something inside makes him say, “Yeah, sure, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“For you?” Lucas says, smiling brightly. “No trouble at all.” Either he forgot the whole hazmat suit incident, or he’s just a generous guy. Better be the second—hope to God it’s the second.
It’s barely the next day—he doesn’t even have time to hear back from Lucas—before something else weird happens. He’s sitting alone, doing some research into the current case when Lieutenant Reece appears at his desk. He looks up, quizzically.
She gives him a brief nod. “Detective.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Have you seen Detective Martinez today?” Her voice is calm, but he can sense an undercurrent… of something.
“Jo’s out interviewing witnesses with Henry.” He frowns. “Isn’t she?”
“Perhaps. She’s not answering her phone.” She glances at the clock—it’s far from quitting time—and then turns to go. “I’ll catch her later. Thank you, Detective.”
“Wait—” She pauses, and he asks. “Is something wrong?”
“Something irregular with the RIAH tests. Not Jo,” she adds at his widened eyes. “It’s nothing urgent.”
He hadn’t been thinking of Jo at all. Jo’s random drug tests had always come back squeaky clean, even in the weeks after Sean’s death. It had to be— “Henry?” It might explain the weird absences, and maybe even the lab reports...
Reece chuckles. “Yes. But not what you’re thinking. Let me know when Detective Martinez returns.”
“Will do.” Now he’s itching to find out just what this is about. Maybe it’s not weed, or heroin, or one of those ‘mundane’ drugs… maybe the guy’s on opium or— one of those other old fashioned concoctions only found in a Sherlock Holmes book.
Then it hits him. "Lieutenant?"
She stops again, a touch of annoyance crossing her face.
"This may seem like a weird question, but, you know, it's Henry..." She chuckles but waits for him to continue. "Was Henry's hair sample... missing?"
Reece frowns. "What do you know about it?"
"Nothing... I mean, I, uh... " He scratches at his head, suddenly feeling very protective of Henry. "I think there's been some miscommunication or breakdown at the lab. I've noticed other missing results..."
Reece raises an eyebrow. "From Henry?"
That protectiveness kicks in again, and he shakes his head. "Just in general. I've been looking into it—maybe there's a new guy over there or something?"
The tension in Reece's body relaxes and she nods. "Then if you don't mind, will you let Dr. Morgan know that unfortunately, we need another sample."
"Sure thing." As she leaves, it almost feels like a bullet dodged. He's got to talk to Henry. Or Jo. Probably both.
Like magic, his phone buzzes with a text from Jo. Gonna be longer than anticipated. Just send me what you find and I'll catch up with you later.
Henry still with you? he texts back.
No. He left. Then a moment later, What did you need?
Should he tell her? Or take it directly to Henry? Everyone close to him seems so protective of him—hell, he protected Henry from Reece just now and he doesn’t even know why. It’s not like there’s some conspiracy to keep under wraps. He shrugs. Jo can get a hold of Henry much faster than he can. Henry’s gotta re-take the RIAH test. Lab results missing.
Instead of a return text, his phone rings. Jo doesn’t bother with a greeting. “Missing? What does that mean?”
He tries to be casual. “You know that random drug test last week? They can’t find his sample or something.”
She’s silent for a moment longer than he expects. “Oh. I’ll tell him, he’s just… gone off on an errand. See you tomorrow.” Then she ends the call.
Mike stares at his phone’s screen, rubbing at his chin unconsciously. Jo’s protecting Henry all right. Now if Mike’s gonna be doing it, too—God help him, he’d better find out why.
He didn’t expect God to be quite so prompt.
The next day, he finds himself kneeling on the rough gravel of an alley, cradling a bleeding Henry Morgan in his arms while Jo begs him, “Try to stop the blood flow, any way you can, I’m going to bring the car around.” Her voice sounds calm, all that police training kicking in, but he knows her too well, she’s panicking.
Then he really hears what she’s saying. “The car—are you crazy? Call an ambulance, for God’s sake!”
“I can’t,” she says, eyes going tight. “Please. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then she takes off running.
A few minutes might be too long. The mugger shot Henry point-blank in the gut and took off, evading capture. Against Jo’s wishes, Henry tried to negotiate—poor stubborn bastard—to get the guy to drop his weapon. Instead Henry is now dropping several pints of blood all over the asphalt and Mike’s clothes. Not to mention the gorgeous blue-gray scarf that will never be the same.
Henry’s eyes are fluttering shut as he loses consciousness, but still he tries to speak. “Detective, I should explain…” He stops, coughing, flecks of blood decorating the corners of his mouth.
“Shh, don’t speak, Henry. You can tell me later, when we get you patched up.” Mike had tried to broach the whole missing-lab-results-what-are-you-hiding thing earlier that morning and had never quite managed to get him alone. It was almost like Jo wasn’t letting Henry out of her sight.
Of course, now he has Henry to himself, all the good that is now.
“I’m sorry,” Henry murmurs, stubborn to the end. Then he goes limp.
“Oh, God, no... “ Is he dead? He can’t be, not now, not when he has no idea what to tell Jo. She is going to be devastated, so is the ME’s office, and poor Lucas… His throat closes up with emotion. Henry might be an odd duck, but he doesn’t deserve this, no one does…
He risks lifting the pressure on the would to check for a pulse, his fingers covered in blood. Is that a slight fluttering? Or are his hands shaking too much? He waits and counts… there’s nothing.
Mike carefully lays the body flat on the ground and slumps beside it, heart a painful lump in his chest. He lifts his hands to look at them, mind going numb with shock. Here’s the missing blood you were looking for, Mike, he thinks nonsensically. It was here all along.
Until it isn’t.
Suddenly his hands are clean as if they were freshly washed. His trench feels dry and beside him—
He blinks.
This must be shock. He’s felt it before, but this is insane. Is he going insane?
Henry is gone, the blood is gone, there’s neither hide nor hair of Henry anywhere. Hanson’s kneeling alone in a dank alley in the middle of a crime scene, and…
He takes a breath. There’s gotta be an explanation. He’s a practical guy, and he’s always believed the world can be explained. Somewhere, someone will know what just happened.
Then he looks down again at his perfectly clean hands, and all rational thought flees.
“Mike?”
The voice behind him is tentative. But it’s not scared, it’s not tearful, or disbelieving.
He turns slowly toward the voice, toward Jo, and all he can do is lift his hands toward her. “They’re clean.”
She kneels down beside him. “I know.” She takes one of his hands, tries to pull him gently to his feet. “The car’s this way.”
He lets her lead him, gets in the passenger seat, rides along as she drives in silence. He doesn’t really know where they’re going, it’s not back to the precinct, just somewhere generally east.
When they do stop, and he looks out the windshield to see the Manhattan Bridge over the East River, his fog lifts. “What the hell?”
“I can’t really explain.” Jo reaches over to turn on the heater, and reaches behind the driver’s seat to grab a blanket and a pair of flip flops. “But seeing is believing.” Leaving Mike inside with the engine running, she gets out of the car and walks to the shoreline.
Mike feels like he’s in a weird alternate universe or something. Nothing has made sense for the past ten minutes, and his no-nonsense dependable partner is making it worse, not better.
Then, in the distance, he sees a figure in the water. The person swims right toward Jo, and she reaches down to give a hand up. She wraps the person in the blanket, waits for them to toe on the flip flops, and then the two start walking back toward the car.
Before the blanket goes around the figure’s shoulders, Mike knows it’s Henry. It has to be. Never mind that his mind can hardly process the truth of what he’s seeing—death, disappearance, discovery in the river—Henry is alive. Mike has to accept it, when the evidence is right in front of him.
After all, Mike Hanson is nothing but a practical guy.
Jo gets back in the car, and Henry slides into the backseat, looking hale and healthy, if a little cold. No blood stains the blanket around his middle and his breathing is normal. “Detective Hanson,” he says quietly.
“Doctor Morgan.” Well, what else can he say? Actually, this: “So you and all your DNA evidence just ends up here? In the East River?”
Henry shakes his head. “Just me.” Before Mike can ask his next question, Henry continues. “As far as ‘how’ or ‘why’—I haven’t the slightest idea. But it’s been happening for over two hundred years.”
“Two hu—” Mike can’t get the words to fully form. He looks over at Jo, who nods. “This what’s had you off your game the past month?” She nods again.
“You are a credit to your profession, Mike,” Henry compliments. “Detective Martinez uncovered the truth almost a month ago to the day.”
“I thought I was doing a better job at hiding it.” Jo’s cheeks flush and she looks angry at herself.
She shouldn’t be. “We’ve been partners a long time. Of course I noticed. I actually…” Should he go ahead and say it? Eh, what the hell, it’s a day for truth. “I even thought maybe you two were dating or something.”
Jo starts to cough, the blush rising higher. Henry is completely unperturbed. “There is that as well.” Jo covers her face.
He feels a weird sense of satisfaction. “At least I figured something out.”
“You figured out a lot more than that.” Jo turns toward Mike, expression serious. “If anyone else realizes Henry’s samples are disappearing, there might be an investigation. And that would—”
“Put Henry in jeopardy,” Mike finishes. “It may already be too late. How much do you trust that Lucas kid? And then there’s the Lieutenant...”
Jo and Henry give each other a look. “It seems you were right, Jo.” Henry’s tone is somber. “We will need to expand our little circle of trust a bit farther.”
Jo starts the car and turns the wheel to get back on the road.
“Wait a second. That’s it? That’s all the explanation I get for all this? Vanishing blood? Two hundred year old British medical examiners? The East River being some kind of goddamn Fountain of Youth?”
Jo and Henry both chuckle. “Of course not,” Henry says. “I promise to tell you everything, right now, if you want. But I must warn you. It’s a long—”
“A long story?” Mike scoffs, settling in. “It flippin’ better be.”