Hooray, I've finally started!

I've decided to write myself a little fanfiction for Murdoch Mysteries… there don't seem to be many fans of this lovely little show out there, aye? Regardless, I love this show, and I've had this little idea floating around in my head since this episode aired.

A quick warning to diligent watchers of the show…

If you have not yet seen the 12th episode of the 4th season, I strongly urge you to watch it before this fanfiction. Not only does this contain massive spoilers early in the fic, but it would also help it make sense. This fanfiction follows the plot of this episode.

Now, let's tip our hats to Glynn and Higgins, some greatly underappreciated reoccurring characters.

Enjoy~

Dear Miss Maple,

My son plays outside with his friends and, much to my dismay, often comes come covered with mud and grass stains on his trousers. Could you kindly provide me with tips on removing such stains without damaging the fabric?

Sincerely, Cyndi Arden.

Agatha sighed in exhaustion, raising a clammy palm to her forehead.

As of this day, she had officially been working for the Toronto Gazette for a year. Not saying, though, that this was an especially joyous occasion for her. All this long year, she had been stuck writing the 'Miss Maple' column – a bland, femmy housekeeping advice column that appeared in the back of the newspaper in the first weekly edition. For most people, a job writing such an easy article and making such a steady wage wouldn't be a problem. For the most part, this was the case with Aggie. She couldn't help, though, feeling jealous at times of the significantly more important individuals buzzing around the Gazette office – the ones reporting real news.

When she had first walked into the office all that time ago, becoming such a reporter was her intention, though she quickly realized that she had not even a breath of a chance.

She was young, inexperienced, quiet and unassertive, and, well, a she. Fortunately, this was just the right formula for the lovely Miss Maple, whose writer had recently quit.

Better than nothing, she had thought. So, here she was: Agatha Twain, 23 years old, the not so known writer for the not so read column.

Better than nothing, but not really something.

She read over Mrs. Arden's letter once more and managed another exasperated sigh before arming herself with her typewriter. She could hear all the other columnists clacking away, so she figured she should be getting done. Laying her hands on the keys, she was just about to start –

"Miss Twain, slacking off on the job again, are we?" A mocking voice rang from behind her. She shifted in her seat, turning.

"I, uh.. I… no, sir. I was just about to begin, Mr. Glynn." She sneered.

Paddy Glynn, the infamous journalist, smiled and laughed playfully.

"I'm just toying with you, Miss Twain. No need for such a tone!" He raised his hands and she smiled.

"Yes, I'm quite aware, Glynn."

He shrugged. "so, what kind of sanitary disasters have you got on your plate this week?"

Aggie groaned. "Grass stains!" she said with a disgustingly fake tone of glee in her voice.

Glynn raised an eyebrow. "I'm shaking with anticipation! I simply must know how to remedy this catastrophe."

Aggie smiled. "Ah, then be a dear and read my column." She attempted an awkward laugh, seemingly amused by her comeback. "So what about you, Mr. Glynn, the intrepid reporter?"

Glynn narrowed his eyes at her remark. "I've recently written on the exciting topic of vampires. I, er… remember, the murders and such?"

"Vampires. Indeed, Glynn."

"Well… I may have spiced it up a tad bit, but that's the fun."

"Spicing it up and harassing those poor constables. I know, Glynn."

Seizing a moment of silence, she began to type.

Dear Mrs. Arden,

The tricks to remedying those nasty stains are –

"More soap?" Glynn chirped dumbly. Aggie cleared her throat forcefully.

"No spoilers, Mr. Glynn. Off with you."

He smiled, patting her shoulders and running off. Aggie paused for moment, holding her breath and watching him until he was out of her sight.

In all her time working for the paper, she had encountered one vaguely nice thing: Mister Patrick Glynn – or Paddy, as he liked to be called. In all honesty, he was actually quite a pushy, annoying, slimy little thing (to put it lightly) but she had none the less struck up a friendship with him, among other things…

Actually, though she wouldn't admit it to herself, she had actually quite fallen for him. Paddy wasn't necessarily a fantastic looker, or really the most talented, or the nicest…
Well, he wasn't much of an anything, but none the less, Aggie had come to feel that way about him. She could only assume that the heart will want what it wants.

She'd never speak of this with him, anyhow, he excuse being she was busy, and had no reason to sully her decent life with romance or other such issues.

Especially with him.

She thought herself a practical woman, and practical women had no need for affairs of the heart. Besides, it's not like she was a jaw-droppingly beautiful girl, or had an especially unique personality, in her opinion. She looked, at the moment, quite plain…

A snug brown skirt with a white blouse tucked in at the waist, mousy brown hair worn up in a bun, and dreadfully boring gray eyes – she had never come to think of her presence at the Gazette rivaling anything but furniture. She liked to think of herself as an insignificant cog in an important machine, because really, that's all she was. Somewhat essential, but no one was going to notice that one little cog. That cog touched ends with bigger cogs, and constantly witnessed the important currents and steams of the machine pass it by, but it only exists to hold things together. That was it.

She was the writer of an unread column for women. It was there for ratings.

This didn't matter, though. She had a job, she had a salary, she had a friend… what else could a practical woman require for a practical life?

Dear Mrs. Arden,

The tricks to remedying those nasty stains are actually quite simple. For the grass stains, you can rub butter or the juice of a lemon into the effected spot, and then simply lay it out in the sun before washing it next. As for the mud stains, it's as easy as rubbing a square of flannel onto the dark spots, and voila!

~Miss Maple.

Aggie pulled her last sheet of the day from the typewriter and made her way to the front desk, dropping it off for print the next day.

"Thank you, Miss Twain. Good afternoon." The man behind the counter said, quickly flipping through her work. Agatha nodded her head and fashioned her hat on her head. "Good afternoon, sir."

She made a swift bee line for the door, eager to get home and make herself a nice, hot cup of tea. She felt as if she had had a long, stressful day, and really wanted nothing more than to relax.

"Oh, you're gone so soon?" A familiar voice cooed a bit too close to her head. Aggie turned around slowly and smiled.

"Yes, Mr. Glynn. You may not be aware of this, not having much of one yourself, but I happen to have a life at home."

This time, he giggled quietly at her snide remark. "I do in fact have a life, ma'am."

Aggie shrugged. "As you please. I'm going to be heading to the bank before I head home. I have myself a note to cash. My pay."

Glynn swallowed hard. "I, er... which bank?"

"Is that you business, Mr. Glynn?" Aggie remarked sternly. He raised his hand in defense again, taken down once again by her blunt way of speaking.

"Ah… well, then, Ms. Twain. Good afternoon. Hope to see you soon." He said, backing up, and turning to head down the street opposite from her. Aggie waved sweetly and turned to walk her way.

"Good afternoon." She said quietly, even though he probably couldn't hear her.