Author's Note: I did more borrowing here than usual, so just to be clear, only the expansion of the televised storyline is mine, the rest belongs to some very talented actors and writers. The italics within the story denote quoted lines; the descriptions of actions and thoughts are my own, so if they vary from the performances, that is all my fault (as are any other mistakes).
oOo
His eyes grew wide. What had he just done? A man lay dead before him. What was he supposed to do now? There was something he should do. Anna spoke but it took him a moment to register her presence. He looked to his side. "Are you alright?" He shifted the firearm to his other hand so that he could wrap his right around Anna. She asked something but he barely heard enough to reply, "Yes, I'm just glad you're alright." It was over a minute before he finally remembered to lower his extended arm.
After the others arrived, he approached the young coroner almost shyly and lowered himself to his haunches as he had next to so many other corpses, as if he were seeking clues. But he knew exactly how this had come to pass. He had done it himself. A constable had already gathered the weapon the attacker had dropped on his way to the floor.
He rose as Brackenreid approached. His eyes still a little too wide, he tried to explain, "I'm sorry, Sir, I've never …" but he lost the words to finish. He lifted the revolver, broken open, out toward his superior; he wanted to get it away from him, as far away as possible. "If you could please return this to the armory?" As the inspector grimaced, turned and walked away with the offensive object, the detective vaguely feared he had disappointed the man in some way.
oOoOo
"Sit down and drink that. No arguments on it tonight, Murdoch, just drink it," the inspector quietly insisted. "You did what you had to do."
"Sir, I know, but …"
"No buts, you took one life, but you saved two."
"But then I froze, Sir. I couldn't move. I ..." he lowered his head, so he wouldn't meet the man's eyes, and nervously rubbed the temple where a headache seemed to be coming on.
"Perfectly normal. I saw it happen in the wars, too. Just be glad there weren't others with him." He slammed his own glass on his desk and continued, "Damn the pinheads, they can train a lad to fire the bloody things at their fellow man, but still have no way to get him past the doing of it. Now down that, and then I don't want you here until noon tomorrow."
Still partly in shock at his actions of the evening, Mudoch lifted the nearly full tumbler to his lips and sipped, automatically following instructions. He lowered the glass, turning it, staring into it, studying the refracting light on the ripples and the cut crystal, before lifting it again, and again.
"The lads and I will finish writing up this incident. You can begin your inquiries into the reasons behind the attack tomorrow afternoon," the inspector assured his man with a firm hand on his shoulder. Murdoch explained as much as he already knew or at least suspected and the inspector muttered, "Bloody hell."
When Murdoch left the station certainly as upright, but ever so slightly slower than usual, a moment later the inspector approached a constable, "Higgins, follow Murdoch. Make sure he gets home."
oOoOo
Murdoch groaned and thrashed in his whiskeyed sleep. Here he was again picking the lock to let himself into the library, rounding the shelf, shoving Anna out of the way. He faced the gunman, aimed his own weapon and fired. The man crumpled dead before him.
He turned to check on Anna, but Julia was now beside him. What was she doing here?
He squatted next to the man bleeding on the floor to see if he could put a name to the face. Yes, he could this time – Doctor Garland. Murdoch sat bolt upright, gasping for air. So much for resting or getting a good night's sleep.
He thought about consulting Father Allensen or Father Clements. But the last time he had tried to confess evil thoughts from his dreams, they had sent him away unshriven. Something to do with dreams being unconscious thoughts that did not constitute sin. He certainly felt guilty! What must be wrong with him to imagine such things?
oOoOo
"William, this is a surprise!" The light left her face when she registered the hollow look on the man who had just rapped lightly on her office door.
"I'm sorry to intrude, Doctor. But I, I need you to refer me to one of your colleagues. Please."
"I'd be glad to see you myself. Take a seat. What's bothering you?"
He remained standing in the doorway, "Please, it might be better for me to speak with someone else. I do not want to cause offense to your ..."
"Nonsense, Detective! You look like you've seen a ghost."
"No, more like, I have created a ghost. And have had unsettling nightmares since. Please, Doctor, the name of a colleague."
"Is this related to your rescue of Miss Fulford at the library? It was in the paper this morning.
"William, remember what you told me after I had killed a murderer masquerading as a detective? 'You were simply defending yourself.' And, I might add, in this case, you were defending someone you care for as well. There is no shame in that, is there?"
"Thank you," he lowered his head, and sighed. If only his dilemma were so straightforward, but apparently it would have to wait, like so many other things. He looked up with a pained smile and said softly, "If only I could find a suitable venue for a dance. Good day, Doctor." He set his hat on his head, turned and walked away.
oOo
Author's note: Sorry readers, my bad imagination ran away with me.
Now that he knows he could shoot someone, perhaps he's afraid that he might. And now that he has imagined it, it's easier for him to suspect that someone else's mind might take the same dark path.