Morse is throwing on his coat as he runs out of his flat with the words of the doctor still echoing in his head. "You are listed as the contact for Joan Thursday. There was an accident. She is resting and stable." Time goes by in slow motion as Morse enters the hospital, asks for Miss Thursday and is directed to the women's ward. The lights in the hallway pulse and flicker like a kaleidoscope, making it difficult to concentrate. He is brought back to reality by an impossibly tall doctor explaining the situation empathetically. "Her condition is stable. Don't worry, it's nature's way. You can try again in a couple months." Morse tilts his head, processing the information provided in those three short sentences. "She is resting. I've given her something to help her sleep." With a nod of his head, the tall doctor exits.
Morse hears the soft sounds of the heart monitor, and sees the glint of the florescent lights off of the i.v. drip. His breathing is shallow as he processes the details…"Still your mind," his mother used to say, but he was never able to do it.
She was pregnant.
"I love you" comes unbidden to his mind. Immediately his heart stretches and pulls, stops, and begins beating again, urgently. Miss Thursday had said to him "I suppose you don't know until you meet the right one." Morse's thoughts stutter like a smooth, flat stone skipping across the glassy surface of the water. "You mean so much…so much to…to…me."
A crossword puzzle takes form before his eyes.
Eleven down, "Home of the job in the offing," answer, "Tangental".
Six across, "Ends in emotional destruction," answer, "Proposal"
Twelve across, "Stand where outer meets inner," answer, "Coat".
Four across "Loch with a smile," answer "Happiness".
Two across "Court jester, almost," answer "Foolish"
Nine down "Leap and the net will appear," answer, "Risk".
One down "Listing then making it right," answer "Plan".
Morse bends, kisses her head, breathing in the very essence of her. Then, stands, and exits, just as determined as when he arrived. He doesn't notice Tall Doctor's quizzical look. His focus in straight, and clear. He must go back to the station and retrieve his ID. He needs to leave his options open.
Fifteen minutes later, Morse enters the station and the grey, steel, and black ease his mind a bit. He always seems to think more clearly here. No one found his ID, his resignation by proxy. He picks it up, looking into his own eyes from four years ago. Younger. "No," he thinks. "I was never young. Never."
Dvorak's "Venus" runs through his head. The slow, constant rise and fall of the strings always makes him feel like he is turning, a part of the galaxy, a small part of something. Why, then, does he feel like Pluto, with Miss Thursday as the sun?