A/N: Hello, gentle readers! This one-shot-that-grew-into-a-two-shot builds on my earlier story, Vanishing Point, but it stands alone if you squint sideways. FINALE SPOILERS, but only the final scene. Natch. ;)

Here's hoping Forever finds a new on-air home. If not, at least we can keep Henry and Co. alive with fanfic!

"Henry, don't fuss. I'm fine—ow!" Jo winced as she put weight on her left leg.

"Yes, you sound fine," he replied dryly. "Now be a good patient and come sit down." He supported his injured partner around the waist and led her, limping, from the elevator to an empty exam table. It was late, and the morgue was nearly deserted.

Jo grudgingly obliged and hoisted herself up on the polished metal surface. The knee of her left pant leg was ragged and torn, exposing the equally ragged and torn skin beneath.

She tried to hide the pain that shot across her face when she bent her knee, but Henry's sharp gaze caught it. He gathered a handful of supplies from nearby cabinets and pulled up a chair in front of her, then he carefully maneuvered her leg so that her foot was resting on the front edge of his chair and her knee was at his eye level. Hooking two index fingers into the ripped fabric he said, "My apologies, Jo, but there's no saving these." With an efficient tug, he ripped the hole wider to allow him access to the wound.

"It's only a skinned knee," she insisted. "I don't need a doctor—and I hope I don't need a medical examiner."

He ignored her protests and gently probed the edges of the raw, bleeding skin as well as the surrounding bone and tissue. "I'll be the judge of that. How did you manage to ruin your favorite trousers?"

"How did you know these are my fav—never mind, of course you know." She rolled her eyes a little, but one corner of her mouth twitched upward. "I was in pursuit of a suspect. Hanson was circling around to cut him off, but it turns out the guy had an accomplice. The second guy came flying out of an alley and shoulder-checked me as I passed—sent me skidding across the pavement."

Henry looked up from his examination in mild surprise. "They escaped?"

"No, we got 'em," she said with satisfaction. "At least my favorite pants didn't die in vain. We're leaving Wayne Gretzky and friend in holding overnight to ponder how 'Assaulting a police officer' will look on their rap sheets."

Henry looked back at her knee. "Well, Detective, you'll be happy to know that you won't officially become my patient tonight. Your wound appears to be non-lethal."

"That's a relief," she answered sarcastically.

"It's a deep abrasion, and you'll have quite a bruise to go with it, but no serious damage."

"See? I told you." She started to edge off the table, but Henry braced his hands around her shin to halt her.

"Lethal or not, I am still going to clean you up. Stay put." She huffed impatiently but didn't move. With gauze and mild astringent, he wiped away the trails of half-dried blood running down her leg. When the surrounding skin was clean, he began to gently dab at the raw patch itself, pausing occasionally to deftly remove a bit of gravel or fabric with tweezers.

While the astringent bit at her leg, Jo felt an unexpected twinge in her gut at seeing his attention to detail aimed at caring for her. She was also glad that in her rush to get ready this morning, she had taken the time to shave. She knew that was vain and trivial, but there it was.

"You know, considering that your usual clientele couldn't care less, you have a very gentle touch," she observed.

Henry glanced around, but they were alone. "Well, prior to my recent career change, I did treat living patients for over 180 years."

"Wow. I hadn't thought of it like that." She lapsed into thoughtful silence, and Henry continued his ministrations.

It had only been a few months since she had shown up on his doorstep with a watch and a photograph, and between her insistence and Abe's encouragement, Henry had finally told her the truth. The conversation that followed had been the most incredible one of her life, in two senses of the word: it was extraordinary, and it defied belief. It hadn't been easy for either of them, but the strangest part of all was that she did believe him—every word, without doubt. His claims should have sounded ludicrous, but instead they snapped everything into focus. Henry Morgan finally made sense to her. At least, he was starting to.

For the sake of trust and their friendship moving forward, he told her that his past was now an open book to her; she could ask him anything. Jo appreciated the offer, even if she had her doubts that a person as private as Henry could simply flip a switch and share all his secrets. But even if he was willing to do it, where in the world should she start? He had lived—was still living—an impossible life, and she was only starting to realize what questions needed asking. Barely a day went by since "the big reveal" without another little revelation, another piece uncovered of the puzzle that was her partner, a man who was 236 years old. And immortal. And died a lot.

This was one of those mini-revelation moments for her. "Right now I can't imagine being anything but a cop," she said, "but the same career for nearly 200 years? What is that like?"

Henry cocked his head in thought before answering. "I've always considered it more of a vocation. A calling, if you will. It's part of who I am." He finished applying antibacterial cream and covered the injury with an adhesive gauze pad. "I've run from it a few times, but I always end up back here—uncovering the secrets that bodies keep, whether living or dead."

Jo had a sudden image of herself laid bare on this table—not dead, but completely exposed inside and out to Henry's keen understanding. She squirmed a little at the uncomfortable thought and banished it to the corner of her mind. He may have promised her an open book, but she had not promised him the same. Not all at once, anyway. She needed to take things more slowly, reveal herself bit by bit. She did concede—to herself only—that the thought of lying naked in front of Henry might be making her squirm for different reasons as well, but she wasn't ready to think about those yet.

He finally looked up and smiled as he gave the bandage a final check, running both hands with gentle pressure down the sides of her leg. She decided that it must be the raw nerve endings on her wound that were making her hyper-aware of that soft touch of his. Right. He patted her shin in a releasing gesture. "All right, Detective. You are cleared for duty."

She gingerly touched his handiwork. "Thanks for fixing up my knee."

He gave a little nod that she now recognized as genuine, old-fashioned gentleman's manners. "Happy to be of service."

Happy to be of service.

Jo froze. He was waiting for her to stand up now, but she didn't. Trapped by their relative positions, he couldn't move either. He could only watch with curiosity as a strange expression flashed across her face and froze her mouth half-open.

She had lived this moment before. Her knee, Henry's first aid, and now the exact phrases they had just exchanged—they had shaken loose a memory. One more Henry revelation had just locked into place with a mental click. She couldn't believe it had taken her this long to see it.

Happy to be of service, George.

Their introduction last year was not the first time she had met Henry Morgan. Not by a long shot.

New York City

Summer 1985

As she ran the two blocks from the alley back to her apartment, the skin on her knees stretching and bending oddly under the adhesive tape, Jo didn't look back once. She was very proud of that. She wanted to look back; she wanted to stop, turn her head, and see if the doctor with the fancy voice and the fancy watch was real, or if she had just imagined him. That was silly—of course he was real. She only had to look down at the bandages on her knees to know that. Imaginary doctors didn't use real bandages. However, she had decided to be brave now, and with the fierce resolution unique to almost-five-year-olds, she didn't look back.

She climbed the three flights to her apartment with slow, deliberate steps. The man in the alley may have convinced her that it was time to go home and face her worried father, and worse, her stupid twelve-year-old brother, but she didn't have to like it.

I imagine you hurt your knees in a fight with a dragon, so I'd better call you George. You may call me Henry.

What a strange man he was. Grown-ups never treated her like she was one of them. They didn't give her choices, like going home or staying. They definitely never talked about dragons. She suspected that Henry might say just about any crazy thing like it was true—and she might believe him.

She arrived at her front door and paused before turning the knob. Crazy or not, he had helped her. Jo knew how this worked; Papa used to read her fairy tales at bedtime before she had insisted he switch to Nancy Drew. Did saving her make Henry a prince? A knight? A wizard? Some kind of hero, she was pretty sure. But he had said she was the dragon-slayer. Could a story have two heroes?

"Jo? Are you all right?"

Henry's question brought her back to the present, and she blinked down at him. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry." She dropped her foot and stood up, freeing him from the chair. She added, "I was just having a little déjà vu moment." She observed his face carefully for reaction.

Henry stood as well and slipped into what Jo called 'professor mode' as he tidied his supplies. "Freud believed that déjà vu happens when a person is spontaneously reminded of an unconscious fantasy."

Jo crossed her arms and gave him a skeptical look. "You're saying that I fantasize about 18th century men picking gravel out of my knee?"

He shrugged and said, "It's only a theory." After a moment his deadpan tease was betrayed by a quirked eyebrow and a private lopsided smile, and Jo thought that this was starting to feel less like teasing and more like…something else.

She mentally shook it off. Never mind about that. The point for now was that nothing in his response sounded forced or fake. Even if she hadn't known his secret before he told her, she'd always known he was hiding something, because Henry suffered from the honest man's chronic weakness: he was a bad liar. Right now, that meant that he honestly didn't remember meeting her younger self. At least, he didn't realize it had been her.

Jo had a sudden, wicked idea. She willfully relaxed her voice into a casual shape and said, "You know, Henry, I'm having dinner with my family tomorrow night, and they've been bugging me for months about meeting my new partner. How about you come with me?"

This would be fun. Good payback always was.

Conclusion posted soon! Feedback always welcome.