A/N: This has been in the works for so long that I can't remember when I started it. The story is snapshots from three anniversaries in the holy trinity of MM couples-Jilliam, Gemily, and MTB. After all the beating up of these characters I've been doing, I figure they could use a little happiness. Contains references to the following episodes: The Devil Wears Whalebone, Toronto's Girl Problem, Murdoch in Toyland, and The Filmed Adventures of Detective William Murdoch. And probably a few more whose names I cannot remember offhand.

It fits in nicely with my Common Life AU series, but can stand alone. Unbetaed and complete; all mistakes are my own. Rated for the time honored art of the sensual massage (you'll see what I mean). Happy reading!

Three Anniversaries

April 1907

"One at a time, ladies, one at a time!" The shop's proprietor bellowed from his perch on the front step. All around him, women of all ages were pushing and shoving, trying to get as close to the pane glass windows as humanly possible.

Margaret Brackenreid happened to pass by at that moment, straw basket over one arm on her weekly stroll to the grocer. Never before had she seen the corner store so crowded, even on the days leading up to Christmas. But she knew that on the opposite side of the doors lay a labyrinth of curios and luxury goods; twice she'd purchased gifts for her sons there, and received the undivided attention of the clerk. And that was why this frenzy was strange, to say in the least.

"Pardon me," she inquired of a woman to the outer fringes of the crowd, having to raise her voice over the squabbling of her kind. "What's all this fuss about?"

The girl turned, bouncing on her toes. Clasped to her breast was a crumpled flyer. "The House of Heloise has released their newest corset collection, and word has it that this gentleman has a few."

She frowned, remembering that a few years ago there had been some scandal involving the untimely death of a model. Thomas had told her all about it, using interlacing fingers to demonstrate how the altered corset had cut off the life source of the young girl. For some time people had been wary to purchase her goods, but clearly the public opinion had shifted. Margaret had to admit that after hearing how the latest model created a more streamlined curve to the waist, she would quite like to have one. Assuming it wasn't going to kill her.

And because she was constantly saving up for frivolous purchases like this, Mrs. Brackenreid decided that she would soon be in possession of it.

The inspector's wife joined the throng of women jostling for a position in front of the door. When it finally came open, there was utter pandemonium. Society and working class ladies alike pushed and shoved for a spot in line leading up to the register. Holding her basket in front of her chest like one would a battering ram, Margaret held her breath and pushed forward.

No sooner had she stepped over the threshold then she spotted it on the shelf. It was nearly hidden from view behind a glass case, which was further covered with at least an inch of dust. As soon as she laid eyes on it, her desire for a corset was all but forgotten. Not even bothering to apologize for her forcefulness, Margaret staggered the last few feet to the counter.

"The Martini-Henry, please," she said to the frazzled clerk, and reached for her coin purse.

Back in the family home, Thomas was very near to wearing a track in the hallway carpet with his pacing. He had the afternoon off, but that didn't stop him from agonizing about how the stationhouse was operating in his absence. If he had his druthers, he'd live behind his desk, and the Chief Constable knew it. Inspecting was tiring work, but well worth the lost sleep.

The other matter that had been consuming his thoughts was his impending anniversary; in a little less than a week, he and Margaret would celebrate twenty-five years of matrimony. It was true that he'd forgotten the date in late April once or twice...or three times...but at least everyone would say that this year out of all the others he was prepared. Thomas had let in the cleaning lady shortly after he knew his wife departed for her errands and instructed her to be as careful as possible. The foreign woman nodded silently and set to her work, dusting the furniture in the sitting room with almost martial efficiency. The caterer had stopped by next, but he'd shooed the men out before they could begin to set the table. He knew exactly how she liked the midday meal to be set out, and had even placed a vase of flowers from the garden for good measure. Just because he didn't share Margaret's appreciation for aesthetic touches didn't mean he couldn't humor her.

And then came the piéce de résistance: a velvet jeweler's box tucked away in the breast pocket of his vest. But that would come much later, after he'd indulged in a meal in the company of the woman he loved.

He really did love her, even though with each passing year it was verbalized less and less. More often than not, the Brackenreids existed in quiet symbiosis. But there were the oft occasions where there was a spark of the old magic; he'd catch her admiring her reflection in the mirror and singing to herself, or she would pull him back into the house for one last heated embrace before he headed off to work. Margaret nearly always had a meal on the table when he returned in the evenings, and their home was eternally spotless. Their two sons were compliant and well-spoken, and while he'd like to take credit for their good behavior, he knew that it mostly had to do with the gentle touch with which they were reared. Men of his station were apt to assume that the womanly pursuits weren't challenging, but organizing the day made Thomas believe otherwise.

At last the woman of the hour arrived, backing over the threshold so as to secure the latch behind her. In her arms she cradled an oblong package; from one wrist dangled her basket, noticeably empty.

"Margaret," he greeted her warmly, and moved to kiss her.

She gasped and stumbled out of the circles of her arms, holding up her prize like a shield before her chest. "Thomas," she answered, her voice an touch higher than normal. Their eyes met, and then both glanced down to the box. It went behind her back in a flash, as if that would erase all memory of him having seen it. "I wasn't expecting you home until…"

"They've granted me the afternoon off. But not to worry, I'm sure Murdoch can manage." As he watched, his wife began to edge towards the staircase, facing him the entire time. "Did you go to the grocery today?"

The lady froze, suddenly realizing that in her haste to return home with his present she'd forgotten the sole purpose for going out that day. Gingerly, she lowered the basket to the ground and replied cryptically, "I did not."

"Then what's that behind your back?" Thomas inquired, and she sighed. Her chances of making an escape were dwindling by the second. As a last ditch effort, she turned and stepped into the sitting room, nearly colliding with a stranger in her home.

"Who are you?" She demanded of the woman, who could only gape and attempt to answer the question in broken English mixed with French.

He winced. This was not the reaction he'd been expecting. Somehow they had a way of mucking up every potentially romantic moment that came their way. Swallowing his pride, he hooked an arm around her waist and led her into the dining room. "I've hired the services of a maid for the next week, Margaret. It was meant to be a surprise. You deserve a break."

She made a surprised sound in the back of her throat, taking in the spread of the table. All of the tension left her upper body, and she loosened her grip on the package. "Honestly, Thomas, you didn't have to-"

"I wanted to," he assured her, "Happy early anniversary."

As the box was set down, it made a surprising amount of noise, as if it had some heft to it. But he put very little thought into it as his wife wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him soundly.

"You remembered," Margaret said happily once they separated, bouncing a little on her toes. Then she looked to the side, and continued mournfully: "And all I've got for you is what's in this."

He shot her a reproachful look, as if to say, I'm sure it's great. And then the lid came off and Thomas was treated to the sight of a relic from his not too distant past.

"It's a Martini-Henry gun, just like the one you carried in the regiment. The clerk assured me it's genuine," she affirmed, watching him lift the single-shot rifle by the hilt.

As a young man, the inspector had served a tour of duty in Afghanistan, and went on to chalk his development as a leader to his days sniping among the dunes. Before shipping off to England, his company had been forced to turn in their gear, including the handsome 0.45 caliber shot that had saved his life on a number of occasions. He'd kept an artist's depiction of the gun in his office all of these years under the assumption that he'd never get his hands on one ever again.

He held the rifle lengthwise with the barrel facing the wall, studying how the light glinting off the cartridge. And then Thomas decided that he had never had a finer gift.

"Perhaps you could take the boys duck hunting," she encouraged, a bit concerned that he had yet to say anything. "I know fishing didn't go exactly as planned, what with that dead body washing up ashore, but there's always-"

At that very moment, Margaret was whisked off her feet, spun around, and set back down. Thomas's grin was so broad that she feared it would split his cheeks. He didn't have to say anything, for his jubilant laughter conveyed his gratitude. With the span of his arm, he indicated for her to sit down.

"Don't tell me there's one more piece to the puzzle," she said, chuckling to herself. Really, his joy was infectious.

With some degree of difficulty than all those years ago, Thomas knelt down. The jewelry box came out, and he held it tantalizingly just out of her grasp. "Seeing as it is our silver anniversary, I thought this might be appropriate."

"Well, who told you that?" Margaret countered, surprised he knew of the tradition of giving gifts that corresponded to the length of one's marriage.

"Dr. Ogden and Dr. Grace," he confessed. What's more, the ladies had even accompanied him on the outing, charmed by the potential of such a romantic gesture. His wife was a woman of simple tastes, they argued, and therefore deserved a classically beautiful piece. And he would comply with their counsel, but with one small amendment.

Inside the box lay a delicate silver chain and matching locket. True to her nature, Margaret didn't wait for him to hand it over before she took it in her hand, admiring each immaculately polished link. "Is this real, Thomas?" The only bits of luxury the woman owned were her mother's pearl earrings and her wedding ring, but she was known to covet the trinkets in the jewelry store window from afar.

At his nod, her eyes grew round as saucers. "Open it."

Margaret cracked open the locket expecting to find a bit of engraving, but was treated to an infinitesimally small reproduction of the two of them on their wedding day, taken on the front steps of the neighborhood protestant church. She recalled that photograph being taken; they'd had to stand stock still while the gelatin emulsion plate dried, and all the while Thomas had been whispering little jokes and other lewd comments into her ear. The result had been a slight blur between the two of them, but their faces were mostly clear. They both wore laughter in their eyes, even if their posture was still ridiculously formal. Her mother had nearly had a fit over that, but the memory had always served them well.

"Murdoch's been working on something called photograph transferral and reduction. He told me he could make it as large or small as I wanted, and he made good on his promise," Thomas explained, not mentioning that he'd threatened his good friend with bodily harm should the only copy of their wedding photograph be damaged.

For a hot minute he feared that she didn't like it, and that his gamble had fallen short. But then his wife pitched forward, squeezing his midsection so tight that he almost lost his breath. "Don't ruin this," she chided good naturedly, "and for heaven's sake, don't tell me how much you spent on it."

May 1909

All was quiet in the Crabtree home. And if even for a moment it wasn't, Emily would know.

As is true with mothers all over the world, she slept with, at least metaphorically, one eye open. She did, after all, have three small daughters, any of which could need her in the middle of the night. And while George slumbered away, oblivious to it all, she was ready to act at a moment's notice.

Outside their window, a rainstorm characteristic of the early summer months was shaking the trees of their foliage. From her vantage point in bed, Emily could hear branches scratching along the window panes, their knobby fingers casting grotesque fingers across the floor. Every so often, the clouds would split and impart their rain on the slumbering city below. The intermittent downpour, deafening against their shingled roof, was just enough to rouse any little girl from her slumber. All she had to do was wait.

There was a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder that sounded a little too close to comfort. As if on cue, a plaintive wail began from the other side of the wall. It wasn't enough to wake up George-it was her opinion that he'd sleep through a freight train barreling through their bedroom-but if she waited any longer, her other children would heed the infant's call to action, and then Emily would have to go through the entire bedtime routine once more, including a trip to the water closet and checking under their trundle for monsters. And just as she returned to bed nearly half an hour later, her husband would invariably roll over and ask if she needed help corralling their children. It wasn't a matter of if this would happen, but when. The Crabtrees were nothing if not predictable.

Carefully extricating herself from George's embrace, Emily slid into her slippers and padded down the hallway. Through the partly opened door, she studied the forms of Violet, four years old, and Rose, three just this past August. Thankfully, their features were peaceful and withdrawn as they continued to sleep, without so much as a care in the world. Emily would have stayed in the doorway and observed them, all rosy cheeks and angelic chestnut curls, but Holly's squalling was reaching a fever pitch. Cautiously, she turned and entered the nursery.

In the corner of the room, her five-month-old waved her tiny fists about, having struggled her way out of her swaddlings. While her older sisters had been relatively calm as infants, Holly was a fussy child who still had problems sleeping through the night. She'd been checked out by the pediatrician and diagnosed with simple colic, but her stubborn recalcitrance towards gaining weight troubled her parents. Without hesitation, Emily unbuttoned her nightgown and hoisted the baby into her arms. Holly soon latched onto her breast and fed greedily, all the while maintaining drowsy eye contact with her mother.

Once she was sure the caterwauling had stopped, Emily crossed the room and lowered herself into the rocking chair, all the while stroking the wisps of dark hair on the infant's crown. The child responded with a chirp, pausing her meal to treat her to a two-toothed smile. Emily beamed back at her and gingerly brought her head back down to her chest, where the baby sighed contentedly and settled down to sleep.

"You know," Dr. Grace whispered, absently patting Holly's back, "You'll soon have to be weaned. We wouldn't want you and your little sister or brother fighting over milk privileges, would we?"

Just over a week ago, Emily had been forced to come to terms with a startling truth: after birthing three children in under five years, she was once again pregnant. For two months in a row, she'd suffered from absent menstrual cycles and intermittent morning sickness. She hadn't needed to vomit, but the nausea gripping her gut was enough to tell her that something was afoot.

It wasn't as if she and George weren't careful; they were a modern couple, after all, and fully responsible for their sexual health. But there was was the rare occasion when they got a little carried away with passion, or whatever contraception they were using failed. Whatever the case, she was of the opinion that children were a gift, and wasn't the least bit concerned as to the added strain on their finances. The only missing piece of the puzzle was how she would let her husband in on her little secret.

"Ten years ago if I would have discovered I was pregnant, I would have run screaming for the hills," she had mused, her feet propped up on the couch in her good friend Julia's office.

Dr. Ogden set down her fountain pen for the umpteeth time in the past few minutes before finally giving up on being productive during her lunch break. A lot of things in their lives had changed in the past decade, their familial state notwithstanding. When she'd been with Darcy, Julia never would have imagined that in the future she would be happily married to William with a young son. It really was true that matters seemed truly darkest before the dawn.

"And look at you now," the psychiatrist mused, pouring two cups of tea from the kettle on the center table. After an indulgent sip of her favorite brew, she sat in the armchair from which she usually counseled patients. "But you aren't sure yet if you are truly with child, are you?"

Emily frowned and twisted her upper body to face her. Her former mentor had a point, for a skipped monthly cycle could designate a multitude of conditions, pregnancy the least of them. And until her belly began to swell with new life in the next few months, there was no way of knowing for sure. Pursing her lips together and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she asked, "Do you remember reading about Chadwick's sign?"

The name did indeed ring a bell from their lessons on women's health back at the medical college. All the same, she didn't exactly feel qualified to diagnose pregnancy on a gut feeling. "I'm not a gynecologist," she replied quickly, even though she set her teacup down and went after her bag of examination tools.

"Your instincts have been right before," Emily protested, referring to Julia's use of an old country superstition to discern her baby's gender when she'd been pregnant with Violet. "And it isn't like this is up for interpretation. It's there, or it isn't there."

Julia was now engaged in lowering the blinds on the windows of her office, creating a dusk-like glow within the room. "The swinging wedding band is correct half of the time," she answered automatically, unintentionally echoing William's sentiment when he'd heard of their antics. But it had paid off, in more ways that one. The inspector had been able to alter his bet to reflect the results, and the two were spared the lost wager. Come to think about it...perhaps he should have been a bit more grateful.

Surreptitiously slipping her speculum into the pocket of her skirt, Julia said, "I'll return presently. And when I do, those knickers had better be down."

The two made eye contact in that moment and burst into laughter, taken in by how off-color that request sounded out of context.

The results of their little experiment were in; for the past few weeks, Julia and Emily had discussed how she might go about making the announcement. The first time around, it had just slipped out as she delivered her nightly autopsy reports. There was a desperate intake of air, and then her husband had fainted dead away on the floor, striking his head on the corner of his desk in the process. He still had the scar to prove it when he learned of the second pregnancy, this time at an opulently catered dinner to celebrate his birthday. By the third time around, George barely batted a lash when he dug into his slice of king cake from the French bakery downtown, only to find that there was a ceramic figurine in almost every mouthful.

She digressed. Her detective was an expert in all manners of baby announcements by now, and so Emily would have to go with a grand gesture as Julia suggested. This was fresh in her mind as she awoke in the predawn light. Their morning routine usually consisted of a series of languid kisses engaged in bed, before it became apparent that they couldn't stay in all day no matter how much they wanted to. Eventually, Violet and Rose would enter the room, jumping onto their bed and collapsing in a pile of giggles as their father started to tickle them.

The girls would then run off to dress themselves, only to be redressed by more steady adult hands as they ran downstairs, their aprons on backwards and stockings akimbo. By that time Emily was struggling into her corset with the help of the housekeeper, all the while trying to apply her makeup in a manner that didn't suggest she was a wearied mother of three small girls. When she joined her family in the kitchen, more often than not the girls were sitting on the floor eating their breakfast while their father knelt behind them, forming two neat plaits for each of them with practiced efficiency. An unsupervised Holly would be leaning halfway out her high chair while she flung half eaten bread and jelly pieces everywhere. Then the woman of the house would be charged with mobilizing her brigade, leading the way to nursery school with a daughter on either side.

George would follow a few minutes later on a different path, crisscrossing the maze of suburban streets until he reached the Brackenreid home. There Margaret would take a cooing Holly into her arms, caring for her until either of them were relieved of their duties in the afternoon. Just over a year ago now, her husband Thomas had fallen victim to a cardiac arrest as he sat at his desk. She'd only recently ceased to wear her mourning clothes and adopted a more positive attitude towards her life as a single mother; while her sons would soon leave home for university or work, Margaret entertained the possibility of hosting boarders in the perpetually empty bedrooms upstairs. The company of the baby helped her pass the indeterminable hours of the morning, and reminded her of brighter days.

Soon after Holly was born, it became evident to the Crabtrees that it wouldn't do to keep their daughters at home with the housekeeper. More than once, Emily returned to find the hired help at her wit's end; she simply couldn't understand how the two of them managed alone with three children, the cooking, and cleaning to do. After a moment of thought, she found that she sympathized with the girl's plight; really, she wasn't sure how they did it all. Perhaps it was the fact that after all this time she and George ran the home like a well-oiled machine.

And so after an exhaustive investigation into the facilities in town, a nursery school had been chosen for Violet and Rose. It was mere blocks from the stationhouse, allowing either of them to be there at a moment's notice. This was a frivolous detail, for the girls enjoyed socializing with their peers and appeared very well adjusted. And when the time came, they would be marched right across the street and enrolled in the neighborhood primary school.

Emily's day would end promptly at five in the afternoon; while early in her career, she'd work on an autopsy report into the wee hours of the night, she now had a family to return home to. If no case was keeping him, George would take her arm and they would leave together, rounding up their children for dinner and an evening spent in idle play.

As of now these pleasant activities were a world away, as she jolted awake to the keen knowledge that she would soon be sick. Sensing her movement, her husband rolled over and slung an arm across her abdomen, only to be thrown off roughly. Emily made quick tracks to the lavatory, where she knelt before the toilet and found that the nausea clenching her gut had disappeared just as soon as it had come.

She'd only fallen ill when pregnant with Violet, so this was an unusual occurrence. George greeted her back in the bedroom moments later, holding the covers up to his chin and blinking in a manner she found most charming. "Happy anniversary, Emily. What were we doing five years ago this morning?"

Leaning against the armoire to catch her breath, she replied, "Well, I was recovering from a night spent staring into the bottom of a whiskey bottle." Then the doctor smiled fondly at the memory of the liquor gifted from the aunts, the very same she'd shared with her best friend during a hen party that could best be described as memorable.

"And I was beside myself knowing I'd soon trap the ever-so-elusive Emily Grace into a docile matrimony," he threw back the comforter and climbed out of bed, his shirttails flapping in his wake.

Scoffing, she said, "You were never so lucky."

The two of them shared a kiss of indeterminable length, as both were still unsteadily drowsy on their feet. After a moment, George asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

What with his imploring gaze, he was usually good at getting what he wanted, but Emily was better at maintaining stoicism. There was no way her announcement was getting spoiled before the proper time. Wrapping her arms about his waist and tucking her chin into the crook of his neck, as they had done so many times during their courtship, she mumbled, "I don't think so."

He made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat. "That's odd, because I came home during my lunch hour yesterday to retrieve some files and crossed paths with a delivery man. He was very relieved to see me, as you can imagine, because our housekeeper was out for errands and he needed someone to sign for the crib in his buggy."

"Strange," Emily barely managed to squeak out, silently cursing herself for not following up on her initial instructions to the clerk at the department store. She'd specifically requested a delivery time for the spare during breakfast on their anniversary-now, what part of that had been difficult? "I'll go and rouse the girls."

Her name escaped his lips, and he caught her by the elbow. When she turned around, Emily was shocked to see tears welling up in his eyes. For her sake, she hoped they were tears of joy. "Are we having another child, dear?"

The initial irritation Emily had felt at the failure of her plan fell by the wayside, and she nodded slowly.

To his credit, George managed to get halfway through his next question without breaking out into a broad smile. "How long are we now?"

"No more than three months," she answered, for the little tests she'd conducted with Julia was far from conclusive.

Her detective disengaged from her side, turning about the room with fingers tangled in his hair, as if he wasn't sure how to best express his happiness. After a moment, he wrapped her in his arms, whooping so loudly that it brought their girls running.

Violet was the first to reach the doorway. Leaning against the jamb and sighing raggedly, she shouted, "Don't tell me there's going to be another one!"

June 1911

"...and I'll have the beef," William finished his order and passed the menu over his shoulder to the waiting server.

Clearly her husband wasn't feeling adventurous-he never was. Just as their waiter was about to depart their table side, Julia cut in, "Francois, would you be a dear and bring us your finest bottle of cabernet sauvignon?"

She relished in the widening of her inspector's eyes as her calculated the potential cost of such a request. The attendant dipped his head and moved off with a heavily accented, "Certainly, madame."

Meanwhile, the doctor crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned forward, as if daring her husband to say something. "Don't give me that look. We're celebrating, are we not?"

At last the tension fled William's face. Raising his glass of water, he confirmed, "Indeed we are. Happy tenth anniversary, my love."

Julia mirrored his gesture and wrinkled her nose at him in a way she knew he found most beguiling; certainly, after so long together, she knew how to play to his whims. Their favorite little French restaurant had become routine on their special occasions, and had many pleasant memories attached to it, save for the first time they were interrupted by the details of a case and the ever intrusive Leslie Garland. Whether it be an evening passed in total silence, or a harsh word unintentionally imparted to their five-year-old son, they grew to recognize the signs that a journey uptown was necessary. And it was the little bursts of romance that sustained them through the rough patches, coupled with William's insistence that he would never cease to woo her.

"I do hope that Felix is having a good time with the Crabtrees," she mused after they had completed their toast. "We ought to telephone and ask that George call around tomorrow morning to drop him off."

He smirked, for he'd been lead to consent to this playdate under the assumption that they would retrieve their son after dinner and have him home before bedtime. Obviously, his wife had other ideas.

Their wine soon arrived along with two long-stemmed goblets. As the waiter uncorked the bottle and made a show of filling Julia's glass, William was surprised to feel her hand seeking him out under the cover of the tablecloth, reaching his upper thigh and squeezing gently. Instinctively, he flinched, nearly upending their table and everything on top of it.

Their server scrutinized him with a barely disguised look of consternation, as if he was anticipating the mess he would have had to clean up. "If you would also fill my glass," Murdoch prompted quietly to the surprise of the young man, who knew that this particular regular wasn't a habitual imbiber of spirits. All the while, William's eyes never left those of his wife; she was clearly enjoying this, hiding her wry grin behind the rim of her chalice. By heaven, if the two of them were to make it through the meal, it would be a miracle.

An hour later their plates had been swept away with the promise of dessert. William excused himself to go in search of the restroom, leaving his billfold atop the table.

Julia was initially unaware of this, having hid her face behind the menu as she attempted to decide between mille-feuille or crème brûlée. After a minute or so, another patron rose from her place at a table at the opposite end of the restaurant, nonchalantly opening her fan and using it to obscure her features. Her route was deliberate, dodging waiters with platters held aloft in her path to the door. As she passed the Murdochs' table, she purposefully side-swiped it with her hip, muttering a quick apology. The good doctor spared her little more than a cursory glance and a small smile, just enough to see one of her hands disappear in the voluminous pockets of her coat. Then she had resumed her beeline towards the storefront, her pace considerably faster than before.

Looking up, Julia noticed that her husband's stove pipe hat was missing off the post of his chair. The handwritten copy of their invoice was slightly crumpled, as if it had been hastily disturbed. Having spent most of her life chasing after the less than desirable characters of the city, that was all the evidence she needed. Pushing back from the table, she called out, "Thief!"

The would-be Beatrice Crawford copycat's eyes widened and she broke out into as dead of a sprint as one could manage while wearing heeled shoes. Dr. Ogden gave chase without a second thought, pushing past the finely dressed men and women crowded around the podium of the maitre d'. Outside, the city sweltered under the oppressive heat of the early summer. She was close enough to see that the criminal's skirt was beaded so lavishly that it put any of the fashion in Eaton's shop windows to shame. Finally after the length of several city blocks, during which the lady swindler had hesitated to cross a busy corner, Julia latched onto her coat and wrenched backward, causing the two of them to nearly topple over on top of each other.

The girl's painted face came into view at last, contorted with an odd mixture of rage and fear. Clenching her fist around the pointed end of her fan, she thrust forward, landing a punishing blow to her opponent's stomach.

Gasping for air, Julia reached for her arms, hoping to wrestle her to the ground before the constables on patrol were alerted to her predicament. This resulted in another hit to the abdomen, this time causing her to fall backwards onto the pavement. She landed painfully on the sidewalk's overhang, her upper body hanging out into the street. Although the blood was roaring in her ears, she could have sworn that her something cracked audibly in her back.

The thief turned and made to move off in the opposite direction; with her last bit of coherent thought, Julia kicked out her foot, causing her adversary to trip and fall face first into the pavement. The girl moaned once, maybe twice, and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

A few moments later William arrived, trailed by a handful of constables that had been telephoned for from the restaurant. While the others moved off to arrest the young girl, whose spoils from the evening were spilling from her pockets, he knelt down and seized her hand, exclaiming, "Are you alright?"

The distress in his expression was unsettling to say in the least. Julia squeezed back, for a moment admiring the stars in the sky. "You know what they say, dear. Once a woman of action-" Her attempt to sit up was cut off by a shooting pain in her mid-back that radiated lengthwise up the spine, and she laid back once again with a thump. Her father had been accustomed to these sorts of things, and now-of all days!-it had happened to her.

"Is anything broken? Do I need to take you to the hospital?" William asked loudly, his voice raising almost an octave by the end of the second question. It occurred to her that save for the rather unfortunate mishap where she'd been buried alive, she'd never heard him so concerned.

"There's no need to do any such thing. I've just thrown my back out," she explained through gritted teeth, coming upright with some difficulty.

William seemed doubtful. "Are you quite sure?"

Was she sure! After her many years of medical expertise, he was asking her if she was sure? She sighed; out of the corner of her eye, she watched the girl start to come to. A booking was in her future, followed by an overnight stay in the cells. But as for Julia, she just wanted to go home and relax.

After she expressed this to her husband, he nodded and collected his personal affects from the constables, congratulating them on a job well done.

A carriage was called, and the driver urged to maintain as stately of a pace as possible, and avoid potholes in the cobblestones at all costs. They circled back around to settle the tab at the restaurant-much to Julia's dismay, when he returned to the cab, it was without a dessert wrapped for transit under his arm-and then continued on their way. Upon pulling up to their house on the northern edge of town, the doctor found herself feeling irrationally glad that her son wasn't waiting upstairs with the nanny, anticipating being bathed and tucked in. Right now, she didn't think she could manage any of that without falling over and frightening him.

Following a moment of consideration, William decided that the most efficient way to get his wife upstairs was to carry her across the threshold bridal style. And that he did, increasing the driver's gratuity for having to follow him to the front door and unlock it at his behest. It was not without a good deal of grunting and straining that he made it up the first few steps, and then stopped to catch his breath.

"I can make it up the rest of the way," she assured him, even though that was fairly optimistic at this point. She could have also made a wayward comment about how they weren't as young as they used to be, but wisely chose to keep that to herself.

He shook his head, squared his shoulders, and charged up the staircase as if conquering a mortal enemy. Once in the bedroom, William laid her carefully down on the duvet and began slowly divesting her of her clothes.

There was nothing amorous about the gesture; rather, Julia felt almost like an infant in the capable hands of her husband. All the while she said nothing, holding loving eye contact with him until he disengaged from her and moved into the washroom.

"In the morning, I'll call to Dr. Anderson. He's a colleague that specializes in alternative spinal manipulation," Julia said loudly, snuggling into the folds of her dressing gown. To be fair, she had anticipated returning to the confines of their bedroom with a more amative intent; they'd been so busy at work the past few weeks that she could scarcely remember the last time they made love. If there had been one thing that shied her away from the idea of marriage, it had been the notion that she could wind up in a loveless one for the second time. While this was far from possible when she was with a passionate soul such as William, it still gave her pause to think about.

Rolling over, Julia pressed her face into her pillow, mumbling, "So much for our romantic evening."

There was the slight sound of a creak in the floorboard; turning to the source of the noise, she beheld her husband, now undressed to the shirtsleeves, with a small jar of salve in his hand. Without a word, he clambered into bed next to her, his lips drawn in a thin line of concern.

She soon took the hint and settled back down, only to feel her gown being tugged away from her shoulders. After taking a moment to make sure it was tucked firmly around her backside to protect her modesty, William began a rather clinical assessment of the damage.

Julia couldn't help but exhale as his deft hands massaged her middle back, making quick work of the places where her muscles were all in knots. She felt his fingers in her hair, freeing it of the confines of her elaborate up do. The pins came out one by one, and then her mass of blonde curls were set to the side. And although he knew that nothing could come of it in her present state, William leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the nape of her neck.

"I'm starting to remember why I married you," the doctor fairly hummed; if she were any more relaxed, she would have melted into the sheets. "I mean, besides your intelligence, kindness, and your undeniable charm."

The inspector sat backwards to admire her momentarily, but soon bent to his work once more. "And how is it that I had the fortune of keeping such a sublimely beautiful creature in my home and in my bed?"

"How fortuitous for you," she mused, turning her cheek up to him. "But my son has the privilege of being raised by the best father in all of Ontario."

This could go on forever, the two of them complimenting each other until there was nothing but highly abstract conjecture between them. Her words touched William in ways she couldn't understand, for never in his life had he pictured managing both family and career in spades. There was no sonnet or clever turn of phrase that could express his adoration for the woman before him, so he settled on kissing her cheek and muttering, "I love you."

"And I you, William. Happy anniversary."

It took a nearly herculean effort to rouse himself from bed and continue his nightly routine, but he never slept in his finery out of principle, the staunch propriety with which he lived his life. As she passed the bedside nearest his wife, turning off the lamp to plunge the bedroom into darkness, he was surprised to feel her hand shoot out and deliver a sound wallop to his backside.

"Julia!" He cried, although he couldn't pretend he was scandalized.

The only rebuttal issued from her was the sound of her mischievous laughter, somewhat muffled by the pillow.

The End