They weren't similar of course, not in looks, or even mannerisms. It went deeper than that.
There was the curse of intelligence that made them remarkable detectives, the immense intuition and formidable memory that had ensnared many a murderer.
The love they shared for poetry, art, the classics, and the horror of grammatical errors.
Where Morse had his real ale, Hathaway had his cigarettes.
They were both private men whose childhoods had been marred by heartbreak. The solace of love denied them in adulthood, tormenting them with loneliness. Would Hathaway, like Morse, find consolation in long hours, becoming tenacious and dedicated in his duty to the denizens of the city he protected? He was certainly more than halfway there already.
Lewis looked across at Hathaway, sat where Morse had once sat and looking out over the same, never changing scene. Even with youth on his side would Hathaway sacrifice himself on the altar of duty, to while away those long hours of loneliness? Nicotine used as a stimulus, but the insidious drug spreading its poison, hiding, waiting to strike. Would Lewis once again be forced to stand beside a grave as dark earth covered the mortal remains of someone who was much more than a mere friend?
Lewis didn't think that he could bear that, not again.
It was only mere similarities Morse and Hathaway shared, not the same fate.
Lewis had failed Morse, he would not fail Hathaway.