Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by David Hoselton, David Titcher, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and various publishers including, but not limited to, FOX, Global TV, and ITV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's note: This story takes place during the last episode of season one (because I refuse to believe there won't be another season of this glorious show), The Pall of LaPier. This happens after Doyle has been shot, but before the final scenes on the boat.

I've never written these characters before and I hope I do them justice. Please let me know what you think if you end up reading this!

I have no idea how long this will be. I just started writing without any clear idea of where it was going and it started to get out of hand (as all my stories do). I'm just going to keep writing until it decides it's over.

Mein Hertz
Chapter 1 – Façade

Sighing heavily, Harry paced the waiting room of the hospital for about the millionth time. When he reached the end again and came face to face with the door that led to the emergency area, he stopped, placing his hands on his lips. Nothing happened. He almost expected that if he waited and stared long and hard enough, the nurse would appear and tell him Doyle was okay.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the doorknob, like it was something that had offended him greatly. Somewhere, very far in the back of his mind, Harry kept imagining that he could make the door open by force of his mind. He knew that was silly, like when he had heard his mother's voice through the necrophone. It was simply the power of suggestion and the power that grieving could have over someone. Nothing more.

Besides, that was something that Doyle always relied on. Not him. If the situation was reversed – if Harry was the one lying in the hospital bed and Doyle was the one pacing around out here – Harry could fully see him staring at the doorknob, expecting something to happen. It was Doyle's go-to crutch for everything, and it absolutely drove Harry mad.

Such things just weren't empirically possible, and the sooner Doyle accepted that, the better off he would be. It only led to false hopes and eventually to heartbreak. Sometimes even thoughts of lunacy. It wasn't so very long ago that Harry had spent a good portion of the night drinking in his room, because he had almost been convinced that his dead mother had been talking to him. Almost.

In fact, if he admitted it to himself, he had almost been hoping that what had happened had been real. He would give nearly anything to be able to talk to his mother again, and for a very precarious moment, the necrophone had presented that option to him. Doyle had been right about that much. Harry had let himself believe, if only briefly, that the necrophone would be able to grant him his wish. The rational part of him knew it was still impossible, but it didn't stop him from latching onto this insane urge to at least give it a chance. It had fascinated him, just as Doyle had said.

And then Harry had allowed himself to believe that he had heard his mother calling out to him. For one thing, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it couldn't have been a hoax, that it couldn't have been a show put on by someone. He had distinctly heard the name, "Ehrie." That was his family's childhood nickname for him, derived from his birth name of Ehrich. His mother was still fond of calling him that. How many people in his life now knew that? Not many, except for Adelaide and Doyle, and he knew they hadn't shared that information with anyone. They would have no reason to, and certainly no one else present knew that, so that left two possibilities – it had either been his mother or Harry was simply going crazy.

Harry wasn't quite ready to fully believe either one of those things, so it had to be the power of suggestion, didn't it? That's what he had told Adelaide when she'd come to his room that night. It's what he would always insist on when asked. It was what he always blamed this sort of thing on when people claimed they'd heard or seen things that simply weren't possible. Suggestion. That was all. Nothing more.

But none of that really mattered right now. Whether or not he was really going crazy would have to be dealt with later, because there were much more pressing things to worry about at this moment, even more so than his sanity.

Doyle had been shot by Adelaide's husband of all people, and as of right now, Harry had no idea what was happening to him. He could be dying for God's sake. In fact, he could already be dead right now, and Harry didn't know. He wouldn't know until someone came out of the emergency area and told him.

That thought made Harry feel sick to his stomach. Like someone was punching him there over and over again. Almost instinctively, Harry wanted to tense up the muscles in his abdomen in order to protect himself against it, but he knew that wouldn't do any good. The source of the pain was something that couldn't be helped. The source of his pain was in knowing that Doyle lie in such dire circumstances and Harry couldn't do anything about it.

Unable to stand there, staring at the unmoving door handle any longer, Harry once again resumed his pacing across the white tile of the waiting room. He made his way to the other end of the room, to the bank of windows that lined the wall. He stared out at the cobblestone lot where horses and buggies as well as a few cars were coming and going. Harry hoped that the sight of something different might take his mind off what was currently happening elsewhere in the hospital, but of course, it didn't.

Doyle could be dying – could already be dead, in fact – and that thought, almost more so than the thought of hearing his dead mother, felt like it was driving him absolutely crazy. Harry was a take-charge sort of person. He liked to be the center of attention, liked to command an audience, and this was just something he had no power over. He wasn't a doctor. He had no place in the operating room, in barging in and trying to see what he could do to help Doyle. It was what Harry was accustomed to doing, but none of that would help him now. Would help Doyle.

Harry could feel his face scrunching up in fear, in pain. Could almost feel the unshed tears burning his eyes, but he refused to give into it. Because he would never admit to anyone that Doyle was one of the last people he had left in the world. He would never admit that Doyle might even be his best friend in the world.

That thought was crazy, wasn't it? As Adelaide had said to him not very long ago, he was one of the greatest entertainers in the world, beloved by millions. He should have no shortage of friends or people to spend time with. There were probably countless people out there who would give anything just to meet him, let alone befriend him. And yet, his best and only friend had been his mother.

Now that she was gone, who else did he have? He barely even spoke to his family, and the only friends he really did have were Adelaide and Doyle. How on earth did that happen? He should have a large pool of potential friends, ready to be handpicked…so where were they?

Harry, of course, knew the answer to that. It was hard for him to get close to anyone and he freely admitted that to himself. When it came right down to it, it was difficult for him to trust anyone, and that was really the source of the problem. For any new acquaintances that came into his life, it was hard for Harry to ever know if they were being genuine. Were they really all that interested in him as a person, or were they simply looking out for a bit of his fame and money?

Harry loved being who he was, but more often than not, he was coming to realize just how difficult it was for him to find anyone he could truly connect with. Harry loved his money, he loved his fame. He loved not being able to walk down the street sometimes without someone coming up to him, wanting an autograph or simply to talk to him. Harry reveled in that. He loved to be loved, but…it was an empty sort of love. None of those people really knew anything about him – about the real him – and it made his private life almost unbearably lonely. It was funny, wasn't it? Harry had every material possession he could possibly wish for. There wasn't anything out there he wouldn't be able to buy himself, and yet…it was almost the money itself that made everything else so difficult.

Money and fame – the root of all evil. Isn't that what people said?

The only person Harry had met in quite some time who could understand all of that was Doyle. He could understand the fame and the money issues, he could understand the problem of people being disingenuous just to get at a piece it. All too well.

Still, Harry had done his best to keep Doyle at arm's length. Harry was his usual annoying, insolent self, and he had always relied on that to keep people away. To keep them from getting too close or wanting to get to know him, even if only for his money. It protected him. And yet, Doyle was the first person in a long time who didn't let Harry's shenanigans get to him.

Oh, Doyle was often just as irritated by Harry's smart mouth as everyone else, but still, he stuck around. He didn't have to. Sure, they had put together sort of an impromptu detective team, but it wasn't like they had any obligation to keep at it or to keep doing it together. And yet, here they were. They had fallen into a sort of a routine, and Harry for one was beginning to like it. They hadn't known each other for very long at all in the grand scheme of things, but Harry had a difficult time imagining his life without Doyle. Without these ridiculous situations that they often found themselves in.

If Harry was lucky, Doyle felt the exact same way about it. But Harry wasn't sure he did, and Harry would rather completely hide his feelings just like he always did rather than come right out and ask. Perhaps Doyle had just fallen easily into a routine. After everything the poor man was going through, it wasn't all that hard to see why he might like their little adventures together.

This all probably helped Doyle to keep his mind off Touie, and he probably felt almost comfortable in finding some sort of routine again. That was probably something that he hadn't had in quite some time – a routine. Even Doyle's writing patterns had taken a bit of a detour lately, and sometimes it was nice to find something that could become familiar.

That was what Doyle was becoming to Harry, after all – familiar. Harry was almost coming to love certain things about the man. The way he rolled his eyes at Harry. The way he pursed his lips and gave Harry a sideways stare whenever Harry said something smug or boastful. The way Doyle was coming to ignore all of that sometimes in order to press on with business.

That was what Harry really loved about him. Harry's attitude often became a sticking point with most people, the point where they would throw up their hands in frustration and be done with him. That was what Harry relied on. He would never have to worry about anyone getting too close to him in that case. Except for Doyle. And Adelaide.

Harry hadn't been planning on it, it had just happened. The three of them had been thrown together in the most unlikely of circumstances, and Harry hadn't been expecting it to become anything resembling long-term. He kept expecting them to go back to their separate lives, just like he and Doyle had done before. But yet, every single time they solved a crime, every single time they thought their adventures together were at an end, something else came up. And even when they didn't, that didn't stop them from spending time together. It was the oddest thing.

Even when they didn't have any pressing cases at the moment, they were tending more and more to have meals and tea times together. Adelaide had also dragged them to a few plays in London. She had told Harry that it was the least he could do after all they put up with from him. And yet, they never seemed to want to cut Harry out of their lives like he was accustomed to. For all the endless ribbing they did about him, Harry was beginning to think that a part of them enjoyed his company. That wasn't so hard to believe, was it? That he had finally met a couple of people – other than his own mother – who didn't absolutely dread being around him?

As much as Harry did to push people away and as hard as he tried to build a wall to keep them out, it felt nice that some people did seem to care enough to break down his defenses. That, he knew, was when he could rely on the fact that they were people who truly did care about him. Not his money or his fame, but him. And he felt no need to put those walls back up, at least not where Doyle and Adelaide were concerned.

This was quickly becoming his new way of life, and he liked it. He liked every moment when Doyle stopped by his hotel room to see if Harry wanted to get a quick bite to eat, but that might never happen again. He would never again see Doyle in his less-than-stellar suits standing in his hotel room doorway. He would never again see Doyle in his ridiculous nightshirts that he insisted on wearing. He would never again have to put up with Doyle's God-awful pipe. As silly as it sounded, Harry found his heart hurting when he thought about the fact that none of those things might ever happen again.

Harry had just lost his mother, after all. He couldn't lose Doyle now too. Not so soon after. There was only so much one person could handle at a time. Adelaide and Doyle were absolutely all he had left. This was what his family consisted of now, and Harry couldn't imagine that entire family being decimated to one member in a matter of weeks. He couldn't. He wouldn't believe that the universe hated him that much.

It was then that he felt the pesky sting of tears in his eyes even more strongly than before. A moment later, his bottom lip gave a quiver. Harry raised his right hand in a fist, pressing his thumb and index finger against his mouth in an attempt to quell the movement. He only felt the corners of his mouth pull down even farther and then his nose began to burn as well.

Harry shut his eyes, trying his very best to think of something happy. To think of the last time he had sat with his mother, talking to her about taking her to Coney Island and eating saltwater taffy, but latching onto that memory only served to make him feel worse. That was the very last happy memory he had of her, and it only reminded him that things like that would never happen again.

Try as he might, as hard as he pressed his hand against it, he couldn't stop his mouth from coming open in a sob. He let it out shakily, looking up at the ceiling, as if praying to some unseen power that he wouldn't stand there crying in public. That he wouldn't make a fool of himself in a place where everyone could see him. Even though he was alone in the waiting room at the moment, it wouldn't do for someone to walk in and see the great Harry Houdini sobbing like a child.

Even though that would be perfectly understandable, wouldn't it? Wasn't it perfectly natural for someone to cry when their friend might very well be dying? But Harry found it hard enough to break down when he was by himself, let alone when he was in public. It wouldn't do for him to make such a scene in a hospital of all places. It wouldn't.

Just then, he heard a door on the other end of the room open. Harry took a quick deep breath in order to calm himself, then he ran his hand harshly over his eyes in an attempt to wipe away any moisture that had settled around them. Turning on his heel, he glanced at the door to the emergency ward, desperately hoping to see a nurse or someone coming to give him some news on Doyle. But no. That door stood still and closed just like it had done for the last hour.

It was the door on the wall to his right that had opened, the one that led to the lobby. There stood Adelaide, and God, it was so nice to see a friendly face. A part of Harry wanted to go to her, wanted to wrap his arms around her in a tight embrace. He almost wanted to kiss her again, but he knew that wouldn't be welcome. After everything that had just happened, it would probably be a very cold day in hell before she let him get that close to her again. And that made his heart hurt too.

"I got here as soon as I could," Adelaide said, seemingly unaware of the feelings warring on inside of Harry. "How is he?"

Harry only shook his head, not quite able to find his voice at first. "No change," was all he could spit out at first, but then he realized that that bit of information wouldn't quite do Adelaide any good. Harry desperately glanced at the door to the emergency ward again, still clinging to the hope that it would open. That someone else would join their conversation and explain things to Adelaide so he didn't have to.

"He's still in surgery," Harry continued, facing Adelaide again. "They're trying to get the bullet out, but…he's lost a lot of blood and…" Harry let out a funny noise, a sort of a snort, but it was mostly in an attempt to mask the sob that he'd felt rising up in his throat. "After I told him that I'd lost more blood than that shaving. They didn't know if he'd bleed to death or not, but…" Harry trailed off, taking a moment to pull his pocket watch of his waistcoat pocket. He made a show of opening it and looking at it, hoping that the next time he spoke, his voice wouldn't be shaking quite so much. "That was over an hour ago. I haven't heard anything since," Harry finished desperately.

A part of him almost wanted to wrench open the damn door, march into the emergency ward, and just demand some answers already. This was getting a big ridiculous, and he didn't know how much longer he could take this uncertainty.

Adelaide let out a heavy sigh, making her way across the room to join Harry at the windows. She stared out, then said, "This is my fault."

"What?" Harry incredulously. "You saved his life!"

Adelaide gave him a sideways stare. "Are we sure about that?"

"Well," Harry conceded, "you stopped him from being injured further at any rate. If you hadn't…done what you did, he very well might have been dead before help arrived. You know that. You know it could have been so much worse than it was."

Adelaide shook her head defiantly. "But I knew it was dangerous for you to be there! That was why I didn't want the two of you to come along in the first place. I knew something bad was going to happen to one of you, and I still let you join me on what should have been my undertaking."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Harry replied, feeling a tiny bit of his attitude returning, "we've been joining you on your jobs for some time now. That's never stopped us before, and besides, we have a tendency to do whatever the hell we want. Short of locking us up, nothing could have kept us away. And even then, you know I would have made it," he said proudly. He stuck his thumbs in his belt and puffed out his chest.

Adelaide scoffed softly and rolled her eyes. "I know," she said tiredly, "nothing can hold you. But maybe I could have convinced Doyle to go home and to-"

"He's the one who saved McKinley," Harry reminded her. "Without him up on that balcony, there wouldn't have been anyone to stop Benjamin from getting at least one shot in at the president. It was only because of Doyle that I even knew Benjamin was the assassin. If Doyle hadn't caused the commotion he did, I never would have had the time to push McKinley out of the way. Everything would have been for naught."

"Perhaps," Adelaide whispered, hanging her head, "perhaps not. If this has taught me anything at all, it's that try as you might, you can never prepare yourself for what's going to happen. We tried our hardest to save McKinley and still, it came so close. I wanted so badly to believe that Benjamin wasn't in on this and-" Adelaide broke off, a sob swallowing up her own words.

"Hey," Harry said softly, gently. He turned to face her fully and reached up his left arm. He had intended to rest it comfortingly on her shoulder, but then he realized that he didn't know if that would be a welcome gesture or not. He closed his hand into a fist instead, dropping it down to his side again. "You loved him. You wanted to believe the very best of him. There's no shame in that. We always want to believe that our loved ones are capable of honorable actions."

Shaking her head again, Adelaide said, "But I knew. You pointed that out to me before we left Canada – that I didn't trust him. He had already lied to me and broken my heart." She glanced up at Harry, her eyes glistening with tears. "How could I believe anything he said to me ever again? Even though he claimed he did it for noble reasons, he left me to grieve his death. How could anyone do that to someone they claim to love?"

"Even so," Harry told her, "you did love him and trust him very much at one point. That doesn't just go away overnight. There's nothing wrong in still wanting to believe the very best of him. That's something we're all accustomed to, I think – giving our loved ones the benefit of the doubt, even when they might not deserve it.

"Besides," Harry tried next, not seeing any change to her expression, "Doyle is a grown man. As you're so fond of saying, he is quite capable of taking care of himself. And I am too. We hardly need protection."

Adelaide frowned deeply, still not lifting her head from head from its hanging position. "I know you don't, but that still doesn't stop me from feeling guilty. It still doesn't stop me from feeling like I could have – should have done something."

"Like what?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely curious. "What could you have done? I think we all can agree that our priority was saving the president. That's what it should have been. That's why we were all there. That's why you couldn't have kept neither me nor Doyle away even if you had tried. Doyle's important too, of course, but…" Harry trailed off, finding his words dying in his throat.

"But you don't know if McKinley is more important in the grand scheme of things," Adelaide said, finally glancing up at Harry. "You can't say that, can you? Doyle's more important to you and that's all that really matters right now. That's all that should matter."

"The president dying would have thrown the country into chaos," Harry protested, even though his words were half-hearted. He didn't really believe what he was saying, because deep down, he knew that Adelaide was right. Doyle was more important to him and Doyle's well-being was all he cared about at the moment. Everything else was inconsequential to him, as selfish as that was.

"Doyle dying would throw things into chaos too," Adelaide insisted. "Maybe not as many things as McKinley's death, but things nonetheless. Doyle has Touie – an invalid – and Mary, and Kingsley. Who would take care of all of them something happens to him? McKinley's children died when they were all young, as far as I'm aware."

Adelaide stopped for a very long time, watching Harry closely. He was staring straight ahead, seemingly enthralled at something outside, although Adelaide couldn't see what might be holding his attention. He didn't seem to be registering anything anyway. It was like he was looking at things without really seeing them, almost like he was looking through them, at something beyond.

When he didn't reply or even made any acknowledgement and he'd heard her, Adelaide finally asked, "What would happen to you?"

Harry blinked and looked around wearily, as if he had awoken from a deep sleep. He must have been lost in his memories of things long past. When Harry finally focused on her again, he asked, "What? I'm fine. I'll be fine." His gaze went right back to the window, but it was still focused far away and unseeing. "You don't need to worry about me." He had attempted to sound like his usual assured and confident self, but it didn't quite work.

Not wanting to state the obvious, Adelaide fumbled around with her words for several seconds. When she did speak again, she settled on, "Then why did you appear to be on the verge of tears when I came in? Why could you barely form a coherent sentence? I'm a police officer. I may not be as observant as you at some things, but I'm not entirely oblivious to them either."

"You don't have to be so blatant about it," Harry said. He made a show out of adjusting his waistcoat and suit jacket, trying as ever to make himself appear well put-together. "Anybody with any tact would have pretended they hadn't noticed at all."

"Tact," Adelaide repeated, "something you obviously don't know anything about, so who are you to talk?"

"I resent that remark," Harry grumbled. "I know what tact is. I just choose not to use it. Being blatantly in your face is a lot more fun."

In any event, Adelaide's words had the exact effect that she had been hoping for. It got Harry off the topic of Doyle for just a moment, long enough for Harry to smile briefly before letting out a sigh again.

"Okay," Harry admitted then. "So I may have been teary-eyed. So what?"

"So nothing," Adelaide said, tilting her head towards him sympathetically. "I told you before – it is okay to not be strong all the time. It's okay to be sad. It's okay to be hurting when your friend is in the hospital and you're not sure what might happen to him."

It was her turn to face him and once again, they were caught in that awkward dance. She raised her hand to rest it on his shoulder, but she paused just as he had not so very long ago. Adelaide lowered her hand and cleared her voice before she repeated, "It's okay."

"Except when it isn't," Harry replied defiantly. He tilted his head back, still clinging to that imagine – the one he had come to perfect of standing on the stage with his chin out and chest puffed out. The one that was meant to convey that nothing in the world could possibly hold him down, could possibly defeat him. Nothing. "I've built a career on being able to escape – on being able to survive – anything. I can't let that illusion crumble because-" Harry stopped, unable to form the words. He simply gestured back towards the door to the emergency ward, the one that still remained maddeningly closed.

"And as you just said," Adelaide pointed out, "that's an illusion. It's a character. I would hardly think that anyone would expect you to be this great, towering pillar of strength all the time. I also hardly think anyone would judge you for showing that this is affecting you. If anything, they might judge you even more harshly for pretending to have no emotions whatsoever when your friend may be dying."

Adelaide paused, watching Harry for any signs that her words may be sinking in. When she still saw no flicker of emotion, she added, "This is Arthur." She made a show of pointing to the emergency ward door, of trying her best to get Harry to look at it. When he still didn't budge, she said, "I know you two are men – worse yet, men in the public eye – and that you have this misconception that you have to keep up appearances. That you're not supposed to show your emotions or reveal the fact that you have very real feelings. But you do. Everyone does and everyone knows you do. It's a very human thing, so stop acting like you're made out of the same metal all of your shackles are made out of! Stop pretending like you don't care. Because I know you do."

For a moment, Harry thought he was going to get away with it. He stood there staunchly, continuing to act like Adelaide's words weren't affecting him. And then it happened. His bottom lip quivered again, and try as he might, he couldn't keep his breathing steady. He gasped in a sharp breath which came out in a ragged sob. His eyes began to burn again and that was when he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't continue to stand there and act like none of this was bothering him. He couldn't pretend that if Doyle died, that Harry would return home and act like nothing had happened at all. Harry's entire career was based on an act – an act he had built up around himself like yet another wall. But here, when it mattered the most, he found his entire façade shattering before him.

If Doyle was there, he would probably tell Harry to give it up already. That Harry wasn't fooling anyone. And perhaps Harry was tired of trying to trick people, of trying to convince them that they saw things that weren't really there. He was just tired. Of always being his best, of always being en pointe. Of always being…perfect.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately not to let the tears fall, but he couldn't quite do it anymore. Images flashed through his mind of Doyle bleeding out in his arms, of the last time Doyle had looked at him before losing consciousness. Then Harry's mind began to delve into even darker things like Doyle lying motionless in his hospital bed, and Doyle's casket being lowered into the ground. They were there before he could stop them, and he pressed a hand against his eyes as if that might keep him from seeing what was already inside his mind.

"He's my best friend," Harry whispered, and he was almost shocked when he realized that the words had come from him. He hadn't intended to say them, they had just come, like the images in his mind that he was praying would stop.

And then the very thing that he'd wanted to do this entire time happened, although now it was for entirely the wrong reasons. Adelaide's hand was on his back, pulling him a little bit closer. She pressed her chin against Harry's shoulder in a sort of awkward, one-armed hug.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Not even close. He was the one who was supposed to be comforting her, not the other way around. And besides, Harry's body burned with the desire for much more than a reassuring but sloppy embrace.

"It's okay," came Adelaide's voice in his ears. "It's okay to not be okay," she whispered, although Harry was pretty sure it wasn't.

To be continued…