Title: Darkness Descending

Author: Ruthiebelle

Rating: T for now. We'll see if this changes.

Warnings: Major spoilers for 11x17 Shadows Falling. You have been warned. Seriously. Trigger for miscarriage and its physical aftermath.

Genre: Angst and Romance.

Summary: "Apparently 'til death do us part' didn't mean one of us, it apparently meant the death of our child instead."

Disclaimer: We don't own MM. Seriously, if w did, one of us wouldn't be watching the calendar until retirement, and the other wouldn't be watching the calendar until summer vacation.

Note: If you like it, we are fairly certain that there will be more following Monday's episode.

With alternating waves of sorrow, hurt, grief, and disbelief washing over her like a torrent of summer rain, Julia didn't know what to think or feel as the door closed behind him.

"Come back," she whispered into her palms that still covered her face. "Please come back. Please don't leave me, William," she whispered so softly even she could scarcely hear it, before she instead choked out a sob. Not that it mattered any bit, as she could have screamed her plea and it wouldn't change the fact that he'd left her.

Rushing over to the window, she parted the curtains to look outside. Surely he would turn around to look for her, surely he would come back if he saw her.

But he didn't even pause, let alone turn around. He walked down the front steps and turned left with no hesitation. As she stood there, she couldn't help but recall his words, cold and uttered without feeling. She felt as though she'd been slapped as she remembered how he'd stepped back from her in revulsion and disgust. Standing there she realized the cold, hard truth. Once upon a time, William had promised her that he'd love her until the stars went out. But he'd lied, as it was strikingly evident. Losing their child had hardened his heart against her. The cold, unavoidable fact remained: he didn't love her anymore.

"He's gone," she cried out to no one but her self, "he's really gone. He's not coming back," she murmured as another wave of pain washed over her and she cried out again.

She wasn't sure if it was her body still recovering from her loss, or her heart actually breaking into a million pieces.

If such a thing were actually possible, she thought with a laugh

With fresh tears stinging her eyes, she walked over to the drink cart and mulling her options of wine, port, or sherry, she wrinkled her brow in distaste as she decided that she wanted none of them. Instead, she picked up the phone and requested a bottle of Irish whiskey to be brought up. Tonight as she drank in memory of their love she wanted a drink that burned as much as her heart did.

Get out!

Get out!

GET OUT!

Julia's demand jarred sharply inside William's skull, repeating and repeating as each step took him further and further away into the fog-swirled darkness. He could not feel his flesh, the uneven pavement, the damp chill against his face and chest, nor notice the passersby who gave odd looks to that man with tears streaming down his cheeks.

He could not afford to feel his head pound or the grinding of his teeth and jaw; could not afford to feel the nausea in the pit of his stomach or the acid rise up his gullet. He didn't know his fingernails were gouging bloody crescents in his nerveless palms, stuffed inside his coat pockets.

…All because he could not bear the frozen vice-grip where his heart used to be. William Murdoch was numb to all of it, unaware as his foot splashed into a deep, oily puddle, as he went marching away, directionless and lost…

…Lost my child, lost my chance at fatherhood, lost my home and now lost my… Everything…

The angry sob erupting from his throat startled a carriage horse, earning him some invective from its cabbie. A lamppost came up too swiftly, tearing at the fabric of his coat as he stumbled along, eyes open yet unseeing. His mind was chaotic. His thoughts could not focus. His legs might as well have been those of an automaton, moving him street by street away. Just away.

Glancing again at the cart, Julia thought back to her own promise that she would never drink scotch or whiskey again after she admitted to hallucinating Eva Pearce during her recovery last year. Not only had she promised herself, she'd also promised William that she wouldn't imbibe that particular spirit again. But if William could break promises, then she could as well.

He isn't here to say anything about it, is he? Besides, seeing as I've lost both my husband and child in the span of just a few days, I think I deserve this.

Gathering her composure, she was determined not to cry in front of the hotel staff, and busying herself, she searched for her reticule and took out enough cash for a tip. Checking her appearance in the mirror, she dried her eyes and wiped the tears from her face when she spied a glimpse of their wedding picture. Not in the mood to be mocked by a happy couple passionately in love and full of promise for the future, she turned the photograph face down. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

Thankfully, the whiskey arrived promptly and Julia tipped the man well before quickly closing the door, ignoring the man's attempts at polite conversation. She simply wasn't capable of it tonight. Locking the door behind him, she exhaled a deep breath she hadn't realized that she'd been holding and gave herself permission to finally let her grief flow in a way that she hadn't been able to since Nate Desmond had come to their door. Forgetting any training about easing down onto a couch with ladylike grace, she collapsed in a sprawling heap and poured herself a drink. Finally alone with her sorrow, this time she did not stop the tears or grief. There was no one to be strong for anymore.

Oh Julia…how could you?

William's grief and sorrow for their child were a bottomless cavern. Impossible to believe, harder yet, he was torn about which was more devastating: that Julia lied, withheld her knowledge about the true connections between the Desmonds and the victim's wife, or how those lies nearly resulted in a gross miscarriage of justice?

He snorted angrily. 'Miscarriage' of justice…No. I never really understood what that meant before…

Was the real grotesquery that she participated in the abortion?

...Or was it the knowledge that the woman he loved and married could actually, apparently proudly, believe that their own, poor, dead, unborn little girl was unworthy of the name 'child,' undeserving of mourning? William shut his eyes against the memory to no avail. His keen visual recollection replayed the scene over and over with painful detail: Julia standing there, prevaricating then defiant.

She did not really deny the truth, either.

Truth.

Before he realized it was happening, he was spewing and gagging on his knees along the side of a building. His retching brought commentary about public drunkenness and a kick in his ribs from a self-righteous citizen who yelled, "Serves you right, you old sot!" as the young man and his friends laughed at William's humiliation.

Yes... he thought. We all get what we deserve… where did I hear that? When did I say that?

Crying, she shook her head as she allowed thoughts of despair and hopelessness to overtake her. Thoughts she hadn't entertained since Eva Pearce had tried to kill her and she'd suffered survivor's guilt returned with full force like a blow to her chest. "I'm sorry I lived, William. I'm sorry I didn't die when Eva shot me. Perhaps you would have remarried by now. Perhaps you might even have the child you so desperately need. I'm sorry I got your hopes up. I let you down again."

She downed her first glass and quickly poured another two fingers as she ignored the sticky discomfort of the blood as it pooled between her legs. Like her heart, her arms ached for the daughter they would never hold. Never would she know the joy of cradling her child against her breast, kissing the top of her head as she sang lullabies. That gift was denied her just as the pleasure of growing old with William by her side now was. She howled in pain and in devastation as the sum total of her losses became evident. She cried even louder if such a thing were possible.

But she gave in, and decided to embrace the grief. Tonight she would mourn. Tomorrow she would rebuild.

After hauling himself up, he cleaned his face with a handkerchief and spat out what he could from his mouth, then wiped his shoes. He peered for a long time at the soiled square of linen, trying to work out what to do with it, his brain refusing to problem-solve. Eventually he shrugged and placed it in an alleyway rubbish bin, unmindful that with just a little water it would be good as new again.

Nothing was ever going to be good as new again, was it? That wasn't a voice, exactly. But he heard it, pushing through the oatmeal that replaced his usually quick mind.

The 'voice' cackled: After all, she threw one baby away.

Memories of so much hurt from so many years ago roiled his guts: Julia explaining about her own abortion. That she did not regret it. That she as not ashamed nor did she feel guilty.

I thought it was in the past. I thought I could understand, forgive her.

William tilted a little off balance, so he leaned on a call box for support, something solid, something he understood. Because he surely did not understand how repulsed he had been by Julia in their suite. She was a stranger to him, an imposter staring out from her blue eyes… He could barely look her.

Now his chest clenched and burned again.

Get out!

…So he went.

He needed to get away. On and on, his feet carried him past landmarks which seemed foreign now; rage and agony blinding him to his surroundings. He was only vaguely aware of heading towards St. Paul's. Unbidden, unguided, he somehow arrived at the bottom of a steep flight of stone steps, the triptych of Roman arches waiting to embrace him if only he could find the strength to put one foot up and then another to go inside. The pews were waiting. The candles. The Blessed Mother. If he only asked, the priest would come to his aide. Yet his enervated limbs would not budge.

William tried to remove his hat to pray right there on the steps, automatically reaching up to take it off…but it was missing. He had no idea where he lost it…probably in that alleyway where he embarrassed himself.

He struggled to remember, his head feeling as foggy as the night air. He tried to clear his thoughts with a rough shake of his head.

What had really happened? He had been so angry, felt so betrayed. Three days ago, Nate Desmond came to his home, begged for his assistance, for his trust. He had set aside his own grief to help, only no one trusted him enough to be honest with him!

Including my own wife! His groan was swallowed by darkness.

So many lies, so many reasons to cover up the truth. Lies within lies. He remembered seeing the guilt on Julia's face, standing there with Rebecca and Nate, down in the cells, sickening him, confirming his suspicions that Julia had helped in the abortion, somehow. By the time he arrested Mr. Luff he had no words for what he felt…it took all he had to contain his emotions, to do his duty amidst so much death.

He needed consolation. He needed confession. He needed…something. Yet he could not bring himself to enter the sanctuary to pray.

He could not go on, could not leave. His legs might have weighed a ton each, hurt and anger chaining him firmly to the walkway. He just stood there in the blaze of Hell.

Julia lied to me; she did not trust me.

His shoulders stiffened, recalling her face, practically proud of the fact she has no moral compunction about abortion at all…

Anger flooded back and his stomach threatened to rebel again. And I see I should not have trusted her, either.

He ran stiff fingers through his hair then pulled his hands in front of his face. In the darkness he examined his them, registering dull surprise at the welts he'd dug with his nails, and the broken knuckles on his swollen right hand from connecting with that constable and that door. William gazed back up at St. Paul's façade, looking for the familiar, for something to anchor himself to. Then he closed his eyes, picturing the quiet interior, the beautiful paintings which usually soothed his troubled mind. He even imagined the subtle smell of incense. Why could he not go inside?

Dear Lord, what am I to do?

Did he believe God was punishing them? Did he?

When Julia threw that at him he'd been speechless. William knew his Bible, easily calling up the scripture, the words which had caused him so much shattering grief: "…The LORD is longsuffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.…"

William exhaled a cloud of warm breath into the cold air. Perhaps it was never up to me to forgive her….

Trembling, William got down, kneeling on a hard slate paver to bless himself, clasping his hands to pray. But no prayers came to his lips. When he opened his mouth, an anguished howl was all that emerged from his throat.

At some point during the night, sometime after she'd consumed a fifth of whiskey, she'd had enough wherewithal to change into a nightdress and drag herself to bed. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought to close the doors to the bedroom and as a result, the morning sun woke her, taking no pity on her pounding head. She wasn't sure how much she'd slept, but it probably wasn't enough as she felt as though a coach traveling at a high rate of speed had hit her.

Deciding that a nice full, breakfast was in order, she stumbled out of bed to call down for breakfast as she realized that while she had thought to dress for bed, she had not changed her rags and she had bled quite profusely during the night. She also requested that her bed linens be changed as she requested that food be sent up.

So much for our vows. In sickness and health, for better or worse…what I fool I was when I believed that you meant it, William Murdoch. I'm still bleeding from the loss of our child, I'm still in pain and the great William Murdoch has left his wife to fend for herself. Upright and righteous man? Most assuredly not. More like hypocritical and judgmental man is more like it, she scoffed as she added her ruined nightdress to the pile of soiled bed linens.

"Why, Mr. Murdoch! Whatever are you doing on my front stoop?" Mrs. Kitchen stood there with bucket and broom, her foyer gaslight making a halo of her hair. "You can't be here for a trim. It's not Wednesday," she said reasonably.

William roused himself from where he had dragged his body to rest. He'd forgotten that Mrs. Kitchen was always up at 5:30 o'clock to wash the front steps before preparing her boarders' breakfast. Everything hurt as he pushed himself upright, his ribs punishing him with every deep breath.

"My hat." He said the first thing that came to his mind. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could have my old hat you were blocking for me?" He stood there, knowing he was ridiculous, hoping the darkness hid his appearance well enough; it would not do to worry the woman. Mrs. Kitchen looked at him, skepticism plainly evident, so he tried a disarming smile.

His face must have scared her because she backed up a tiny bit and was silent for a moment, peering at him on the gloom. She dropped her shoulders and shrugged. "Of course, of course Mr. Murdoch. Er…would you care to come in and have some breakfast? The oatmeal will be cooked soon."

"No…No thank you." He shook his head, shrinking into his coat. "I will take what I came for and leave, thank you."

Hat in hand William bid good bye, walking stiffly to the sidewalk, then turning south down Ontario Street. It was stupid, of course, but he felt marginally better with his hat. Now what? he wondered. The Station House? No. While he was tempted to have a wash up and change his shirt, he was in no mood for questions. No mood for consolation.

Last night he was unable to bring himself to enter Church, only prayed outside until his knees gave out and then a little longer as a martyr to the pain. It didn't help. Nothing changed. No peace. No direction. Once he gave up on that, he had walked slowly towards his old lodgings, tracing a path he knew instinctually. As he did so, he found he was he watching himself as if from a distance, behaving like some sort of homing pigeon, with that mocking 'voice' calling him out for trying to walk into the past, to turn back time in some way in his quest for sanctuary.

Actually seeing Mrs. Kitchen made him realize that he was indeed a fool, and a pathetic one at that. What did he think he was doing there? Practically no one knew they were expecting a child and certainly there was no one with whom he could discuss Julia's actions. Not even his priest. No…There was no one to share his pain with, no one with whom he could make sense out of any of this.

I am on my own…

Again.

An hour later saw fresh linens on her bed, and a full stomach that helped quell Julia's hangover. She'd even called the Inspector to tell him that she wouldn't be in. He'd seemed oddly reticent, but merely bade her a speedy recovery. At least he has enough tact to not ask me the question I know he must want to ask.

Looking about the suite, she thought about how she could spend the day and though her body still hurt and her heart still stupidly hoped for William's return, she'd already resolved to not mourn any more for him. He didn't deserve it, she reminded her heart.

Deciding that she could do something productive, she decided that helping William with gathering his things would be best. This way, if he were to come collect them while she was out or not, it would minimize the time she'd have to see him. Perhaps if I remove all trace of him, I won't be reminded of him so much.

Calling down again for crates and his trunk to be brought up, Julia began by walking to the wardrobe and removing his suits and shirts, grabbing a handful of hangers and all and tossing them onto the bed before walking over to the chest of drawers and clearing them of his undergarments. Soon she was walking around the suite grabbing anything that belonged to him and when the porters brought the trunk and crates up, they even assisted her with packing his belongings away without question. Any pains of longing were deliberately squashed as she busied herself with ridding her life of the detritus of William Murdoch. She would mourn her child; a daughter she would never know. But William Murdoch was nothing to her now, just someone she used to know, and someone she used to love. Nothing less, nothing more.

After they had left, she stood in the living room admiring her morning's work when she was struck by the finality of the matter. Was removing William from her life really so simple as packing him away into a neat pile? "It'll have to be," she murmured to herself in response to her unspoken question. "He's gone, he's left me, he's broken our marriage vows," she whispered. "There's nothing for it."

Apparently 'til death do us part' didn't mean one of us, it apparently meant the death of our child instead. Suddenly any energy she'd had was now gone and the gaping chasm of grief that had nearly consumed her last night threatened to do so again.

Deciding that she could mourn no more at the present for her lost family, love and happy home life, she opted for a sleeping draught after realizing that she perhaps she would be better able to move forward once she was better rested.

Before slipping into bed, she opened her wardrobe and took out the christening gown she'd bought for their daughter. Fingering the soft and delicate lace, her heart burned thinking about how Mary Murdoch would never wear it. Her beaming father would never proudly carry her to the baptismal font. She would never know how much she was loved, and she would never know how much she would be missed.

Clutching the gown to her chest, she slipped under the covers, and as she lay in bed waiting for the draught to take hold, she stared at where William once slept and imagined him there next to her, offering his silent support as they mourned Mary's loss together. Drifting off, her hand absentmindedly stroked his pillow as tears escaped her eyes without permission.

He pushed his way through a crooked doorway into the dark interior, the smell of unwashed bodies, beer and whisky hitting him in the low-ceilinged room. Workers stood three deep at the bar for their morning pint before work to laugh and joke. He waited patiently until the men cleared out for the day-shift and a seat opened up. He scanned the room, hoping Hodge was not at work yet.

He grabbed a stool and stared at the grubby mirror behind the bar. Yes… he identified the profile, the homburg, but he hardly recognized himself, the poor-quality reflection notwithstanding. His face was a rigid mask, his eyes black holes.

"Detective Murdoch! It's good to see you, again. What can I do for you?"

The sudden appearance of Hodge startled him. Belatedly, William patted his pockets hoping he had some money or his wallet on him, rooting around until he found four dollars and some coins. He pushed two-bits over. "A whiskey please, if you will."

The man looked surprised for a brief moment before quickly recovering his composure. "Of course, Detective," he nodded, immediately preparing the drink without further comment.

He considered his resources. It was enough for a few meals if Hodge was kind, and a bed for a week if he were careful with it.

A week… William's eyes filled.

A week ago I heard our baby's heartbeat. 'Our' daughter… A week ago, life was normal. I was normal. We were normal. Then death, distrust and betrayal…If only…

That sneering, sarcastic 'voice' jumped in again with a reminder: Time only goes one way, William. You know that.

William nodded to the reflection behind the bar, wiping his nose and dropping his head in sorrow. The problem is, he answered, as sad, disgusted and angry as I am…

His eyes returned to the reflection in front of him.

The doppelganger in the mirror looked back: The problems is, as sad, disgusted, and angry as you are…

You still love her.