Title: Owed to the Ferryman

Author: RuthieBelle

Rating: T version

Notes: This is Fallenbelle and RuthieGreen's attempt to come up with ending that solves the dilemma William seems to have found himself in at the end of episode 10x18 as well as address a few other nagging details that bothered us about season 10.

Warnings: Death, discord and drama. Oh, and angst too. Seriously, if you're trying to be unspoiled for 10x18, avoid this fic for now.

Sunday Night

…Julia fought her captor, who had one cruel hand over her mouth and another one around her waist, but the brute paid no attention, as if she weighed nothing, was nothing more troubling than an insect. Was, in fact….Nothing…

…Gunfire erupted from the Heavens, mowing three men down to the hard, unforgiving sanctuary floor. A thunderstorm of deafening noise echoed off stone church walls, hot metal rained like the wrath of God…

…Thomas felt the hard pressure of Chief Davis' gun barrel on his skull. His first thought was: Too late! God dammit, too late!

He stiffened and growled defiantly: "I'll kill you!"

His executioner expressed doubts about that. Thomas heard the noise of a gun cocking above the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

'Margaret' was the last thought which crossed his mind just before the gun went off…

Detective Llewellyn Watts waited until Robert Graham had departed the cells, noting the smug, satisfied grin on the man's face.

What a nefarious bastard, Watts thought. No doubt the man was up to something, and it is my intention to find out what...

Making sure that the businessman had left the station, he picked up the telephone and called the operator, asking for the exchange the tall stranger had given him. "Now," Watts said cryptically as he hung up the phone and walked to the cells preparing himself for the worst. No doubt that the businessman would have been less than kind to Detective Murdoch.

Watts observed that while the prisoner hadn't been physically harmed, whatever Graham said had shaken the detective to his core, as Murdoch sat forlornly on the bunk and shook, breathing heavily in an effort to not sob out loud. Watts was concerned with the transformation: That is not the assured man with whom I am acquainted.

Making sure that his voice would convey strength yet warm sincerity, he walked up to the cell and made sure that he had Murdoch's attention, "Detective Murdoch, it appears you are going to need some help," Watts stated.

Making a supreme attempt to govern his emotions, Murdoch took another deep breath before speaking. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Remembering to keep his face neutral, Watts nodded. "Statistically it is I who should doubt you-you seem to get the people who help you killed, Detective." Waiting to see if Murdoch had an answer for that, Watts waited in vain.

"Don't you have anything to say? A compelling argument to induce me to help you?" he prompted.

Visibly defeated, Murdoch shook his head, exhaling raggedly. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper of agony: "There isn't any argument I can make. I have nothing to offer and no defense. The truth is I am not sure I deserve any help. My wife…my men, the inspector, everyone, is dead...all because of me. Because I still haven't learned that others fear the truth because they have dangerous things to hide…" he rambled on, clearly growing more distraught.

Watts observed the situation critically: Oh, to be able to inspire that loyalty in those who are both above and below you. No wonder those ratbags are desperate to discredit the poor man, he has far more strength and character than all of them will ever have. Of course they went for his most vulnerable weakness - his friends and his wife.

It's time to nip this in the bud now, Watts thought. Sorrow or guilty feelings aren't going to help anyone here.

"Murdoch. Your freedom is at stake. Each man has to create himself and then live in accordance with this self; you are only responsible for your values regardless of anyone else's. Freedom, in fact, requires such responsibility, if you are to be and act as your …"

William put his head in his hands and groaned, cutting the other man off. "Detective Watts! Please. I am not in any state to engage in a philosophical discussion. Please. State plainly why you are here, or leave. Now."

Watts squinted quizzically. Perhaps there is some fight left in him if I can bring it out… "So that's it? Fake news appears in all the papers and you're just going to give up and let them convict and hang you for a crime that you say you didn't commit? A crime that your wife and your friends—who are no idiots mind you- didn't think you committed either? They risked every...going so far as paying with their lives to prove you innocent. So, you'll have let them all die in vain? Or are so you despondent that you now want to join them?

William said nothing as he stared blankly into space.

No doubt what Graham just said to him was devastating. But Watts pressed on. "Surely you are not pretending your choices are meaningless or random, or you are a victim of forces which have predetermined your fate? I thought you were a man of reason. That you would see that that conniving bastard was lying to serve his own ends because he has nothing else of evidence against you. Furthermore, although I am no Catholic, I thought you would have faith that maybe there's a reason you have survived to this point because God has a purpose for you, and you haven't completed it just yet. Maybe you were meant to take these people down, and that's why you haven't been disposed of yet."

Murdoch looked him directly in his eyes and Watts saw anger reflected there. Good, an angry Murdoch is better than a defeated one.

Knowing he had the man's full attention, he went on. "You have been with the constabulary for many years, Murdoch. There must be someone who you can call on for help."

William shook his head. "Haven't you seen what's been happening to everyone else? They're dead or missing because they tried to help me, so perhaps you should reconsider; you did point out that risk at the start of your proposition to me. Helping me will put a target on your back."

Watts countered. "Because I'm an outsider, everyone assumes I have no 'horse in the race' as it were, so I've overheard many of Mr. Graham's conversations the past hour as well as what he told you. He doesn't have anything to prove that the people you care about are dead, so he was bluffing to you just now. Why wouldn't he have been lying about that as well? Have faith, Detective. Give me a name, someone who can help you."

A long silence stretched between them, each man latched on to the other's eyes in a wordless tug of war. William ran the list of individuals who could and would provide practical assistance and weighed it against the risk of doing so, as well as giving that person's name to Detective Watts. He pared each name off the list until it finally came down to only one. Reluctantly, he spoke it, seeing the surprise on Watts' face.

"I'll contact you shortly with anything I find," was all Watts stated as he left the cell.

Standing up and pacing his cell, William's mind struggled to make sense through his grief and anger of all that had happened in the past week, pondering what Watts had just said. What if Watts is right? Is Graham bluffing? Trying to use his leverage to get me to confess knowing he has nothing? But Julia? The Inspector? George? Despair overtook him again and he crashed back onto the bunk. George had still had a pulse last I checked, but Jackson and Higgins? Where was Julia? Has the Inspector found her?

Fatigue and emotional distress made it difficult to think logically but Watts had a point. He didn't know if the other detective could be trusted, but did he have a choice? I am running out of friends and Lord knows I could use one right now. His eyes rested on a wad of newspapers flung on the cell floor, and he tried to smooth them out to read for distraction. The business page focused on nothing that hadn't been reported on at length: Pronouncements from the Colonial Secretary, the usual trade and construction news, something about vessel and railroad transshipping, a warning about labour unrest, but he found his mind would not bend to his will so he set it aside in disgust.

William's head ached ever since he'd been knocked out, and it usually got worse as the day progressed. Lying down, he rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes to rest, the familiar station house smells not providing any comfort. The days and nights had blended together and he honestly didn't know the date any longer nor the last time he'd slept for more than a couple hours' stretch. If he could just get a few hours, perhaps his mind could function properly and he could decide what options (if he had any) were available.

He curled up on the bunk - hard as it was, it was better than he'd had to rest upon on over the last week. Instead of sleep though, it only reinforced Julia's absence and the loss of her comfort. The pang that Julia was possibly dead because of him tore his wounded heart asunder once again and in the quiet solitude of the cell, he didn't bother to hide his tears. He despaired at the thought of never holding his wife again, never again to see her smile at him; all he was left with was the final kiss shared in the morgue shortly before she left for Chicago…the final memory of her brought him to weeping that much harder as he realized it. He also sobbed for anyone else who was now dead because he couldn't heed the Inspector's warning to tread carefully in Dobbs' murder; his stubborn need to pursue the truth at all costs had once again destroyed lives—this time more than just his own. He'd had everything, and he'd lost it all; Julia's death assured pain that would never, ever end.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Father Clemens admonishing him for his despair, acknowledging that Detective Watts had a point when he had said that perhaps there was a reason he wasn't dead yet—that perhaps he was supposed to bring these people down. But William didn't feel particularly brave at the moment; he was far too heartbroken and exhausted for such adventures. Instead he felt like Job, a good man whose ruin was brought forth to demonstrate loyalty and steadfastness to God, and William wasn't as sure of his faith as he wanted to be, to serve a God who had foisted such a challenge on him.

He immediately halted those thoughts. Or perhaps not Job: being vexed with God is shameful. Instead, a Greek tragedy, something from Euripides where the supposed hero plants the seeds of his own destruction. In honesty, he thought he might possibly welcome death at that moment. He was already a dead man walking legally and emotionally; physically wouldn't be that much more.

Lost in thought, William heard the door open and heard the footsteps, but he didn't turn around. If it was Davis or Graham returned to taunt him some more, he wasn't in the mood. If it was Watts returned to offer some more philosophical drivel, William hoped that Watts would think he was sleeping and take pity on him. If it was a hired man sent in to kill him, William preferred not to see his murderer. Instead, he remained facing the wall, resolutely ignoring his visitor and instead offering up his final prayers in a sort of self-administered attempt of his last rites. As he confessed his sins he stopped as he couldn't help but recognize the unmistakable scent of expensive Cuban tobacco. His eyes squeezed shut in desperation.

It couldn't be. Not now.