Henry can't exactly deny that he's become far too comfortable working in the morgue. He knows Lucas better than he should, even considering his considerable powers of observation. And then there is Jo, the Detective who watches sympathetically as flashbacks and old ghosts waylay him during every case, the woman who at least suspects that he is older than he seems. He wants Abigail back, he wants her own special brand of unshakable compassion, but there is only Abe left-He didn't need any more than Abe, the man who would always be a boy to him could easily hold him together…but Abe had at best a decade left at best.
It wouldn't be long before Henry was alone again, at the mercy of the hell he called long-term memory. They were all gone, everyone but his son who would leave soon anyway, and there was no point persisting in his dalliance with Jo because she would do the same anyway-
"There's another case."
He turned to face the force of nature who carried him in her wake, a half charming, and half bitter smile at the ready. She saw right through it, and the urge to ask was clear in the quirk of her right eyebrow, but she reigned in the impulse with the self-control that he had taken at least half a century to cultivate.
"Great, I'll grab my scarf."
He doesn't ask where, when, why or how. He will walk to the ends of the earth for this woman, and what is a measly autopsy in comparison? How many people had told him to not just survive, but actually live? Abigail had certainly spelled it out to him enough times, and in the aftermath of her only, final death he had surrendered everything she'd ever taught him to grief. Jo was not Abby, not at all, despite the stubbornness and the power she held over him. He could, should and would love her unreservedly, that much was certain…whether he would tell her or not was another matter entirely.