Jo smiled, watching the M.E. as he hushed the infant down the aisle.
They had come to the shopping centre to investigate a murder – someone had come up to and shot a random man before fleeing – and the store had been cleared of all except for witnesses by the time they had arrived. The only witnesses were two teenager twins, girls; and a single mother with a month old child that was fussing constantly. While others had heard the gunshot, no one had seen it as the aisle was isolated.
When they had entered the store, Henry had stopped and looked around. She had assumed that he was looking at the scene, evaluating what happened, getting ready to tell her that countless of her assumptions were wrong; but then he walked straight for the infant. The mother was frazzled, and expected him to ask her for her statement again; but he cut her off and asked to hold the child.
Jo's smile spread as she remembered the scene. The mother – Hannah Morris – had been indignant, and would have slapped the Doctor had she a hand free. Eventually, Henry must have said something that reassured the lady, because she handed the child to him with an audible sigh of relief. The babe had started wailing at being in a stranger's arms, but Henry soon calmed her.
Now, he cradled the nearly-sleeping child in his arms as he walked up and down the aisle. He had sent the mother off with a constable for some tea or coffee, and something to eat; and she still hadn't returned. Henry had already examined the body, quickly looking it over and filing all information away; and it had already been bagged up and returned to the morgue.
Her smile faltered a little as she watched how the Doctor was treating the child. He wasn't just holding and comforting her, he was almost clutching her to him – shielding her. Obviously, he knew what he was doing with the child; but it was if he knew from experience. And not the experience one gains for raising younger siblings – it was more as if he raised a child of his own, but lost it.
The babe had fallen asleep, clutching Henry's scarf in its tiny hands. He had stopped walking, merely standing still and staring at her with a look of absolute wonder – and sorrow – on his face.
There was so much to Henry – so many layers to him that he never let anyone see or get through. What had he gone through in life; what made him so aloof and guarded? What secrets did he hide in his heart and try to bear on his own?
Sometimes, she just wanted to wrap him up in blankets and shield him from the world. He seemed broken and tired – so old. There was a lot he didn't tell her, many secrets in his past that he had buried; but she didn't mind. They were his, and a heart once locked is even harder to open again.
The mother came back, looking refreshed and relaxed again, and she went over to Henry. They talked for a few moments, and then Henry reluctantly handed the infant back over. She refused to let go of Henry's scarf; so, instead of risking her awakening, he simply took it off, giving it to the mother. Since she had written down her statement and filled out the forms, she was free to go.
Henry still hadn't seen her, hadn't noticed that she was watching him – which surprised her, but nevertheless. He brought his arms up close to his chest, and hunched over a little. When his shoulders began shaking, she shut her eyes and looked away.
He didn't deserve it – whatever had hurt him, he never should have had to go through it. Hearing Henry struggle to collect himself, to pull his mask back together long enough to make a clean escape, she swallowed her own tears that threatened.
If anyone had a heart of gold, it was Henry Morgan. It was the eccentric city medical examiner, with too much trivial knowledge, too much interest in death, too little self-preservation, and too little relations. It was the man who was broken-hearted over something, but refused to burden anyone else with it; instead insisting on dealing with it himself. Underneath the medical savant and the aloof, eccentric doctor, there was a man – and that was something that many forgot.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is new does not wither – deep roots are not touched by the frost.
AN: Thank you so much for reading this! Gramercy and God bless! Namárië!