Summary: Henry learns that a new TV show called "The Morgan Chronicles", based on the history of his family in England and Wales, is being filmed in his childhood home in London.

Notes: I do not own "Forever" or any of its characters.

vvvv

"Morning, Pops," Abe greeted his father. He pointed to the bacon and eggs on the warming tray, never lifting his eyes from the newspaper article he was reading.

"Good morning, Abraham," Henry cheerfully replied. He quickly grabbed a plate from off of the counter and filled it up with two each of the bacon and eggs and slid into the chair at the small kitchen table opposite his son. "Pray tell, what has grabbed your attention so much this morning that you can't lift your eyes from the newsprint for even one second?" he teased.

"Oh, sorry, Dad," Abe replied, his eyes still darting back and forth and down as he read the remainder of the article with a frown. He then widened his eyes, puckered his lips and let out a low whistle. He softly guffawed and threw the paper down on the table between them. "You'd better read that," he said, pointing at a bold headline near the bottom of the page: "New BBC Drama 'Morgan Chronicles' to Rival Downton-Abbey".

Henry took a bite of buttered toast before picking up the paper and perusing the article. Paper in one hand and coffee cup in the other, he sipped and frowned more and more as he finished reading. The paper plopped from his hand back onto the table between them. "Hmmm." He calmly resumed eating his breakfast.

Abe watched him at first excitedly then sat forward in his seat, confused. "Is that all you've got to say is 'Hmmm'?"

"Just what do you expect me to say?" his attention fully on consuming his meal.

Abe flustered for a response, waving his hands in front of him. "Well, uh ... aren't you the least bit interested? The TV Drama is going to chronicle the Morgan family, your family, our family from their rise to power beginning in the 1700's to their gradual decline in the 1970's."

Henry listened attentively, nodding his head and eating. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and sipped again from his coffee cup. "And why would that be of interest to me - excuse me, to us?" He placed the cup back in the saucer, tilted his head to one side and locked eyes with Abe.

Abe spread his hands with his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly ajar, his head shaking. He picked up the paper again and read the article. "This is why: 'The series begins with Peter and Anna Morgan in 1771, but the central character is their elder son, Henry, born 1774'. Those are your parents and the son is you!" He jabbed his index finger at Henry. "Never mind that their names and your birth year are off a little, it's your family, your life that will be ... spewed out once a week for the whole world to see."

Henry grimaced slightly and replied, "Spewed, agghh, you make it sound so distasteful - which it is," he added, rolling his eyes and spooning the last of his eggs and bacon into his mouth.

Abe waved a hand dismissively and said, "Okay. Make jokes. But you'll be sorry when this thing airs on the BBC America Channel this Saturday, tomorrow night." He wagged his finger and squinted an eye at him. "Very sorry."

"Look, Abraham, what am I to do?" he sighed, leaning back and smoothing his hands down the front of his waistcoat. "It's not like there would be anywhere in the world that I could hide if the show is aired in the U.S., and abroad. Besides, do you know how many people in the UK carry the Morgan surname? It's the most - "

" - common surname in Wales, this I know," Abe dryly finished, nodding his head. He'd heard the lecture from his youth and knew it well.

"And Peter, Anna, Henry, those are common given names." Henry wiped his mouth one last time with his napkin and placed it beside his empty plate. "And," he hung on the word as he checked the time on his pocket watch, "it's a television show. Another amateurish attempt at dramatization of life in that era, this time for a fictitious family bearing the surname Morgan." He stuffed his watch back into his waistcoat pocket.

"Besides, my parents' names were Robert and Martha; and I was their second son. You and I have absolutely nothing to worry about," he reassured him. With that, he rose from his chair and walked over to the coat rack and plucked his outer coat and scarf off of it and put them on.

"Don't wait dinner for me, Abraham," he smilingly advised as he walked back over to him. "Jo and I have a date; dinner and a movie." He then leaned down, hugged his son around the shoulders and headed for the stairs.

Abe crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "What? No phone call from Jo about a dead body?"

"No," he said, pausing on the third step from the top. He turned slightly back around and added, "We closed a rather difficult case two days ago. Things have been pretty quiet since then. The lull in which people feel the need to end someone else's life is most greatly welcomed."

Abe watched his father disappear down the stairs and out of the shop. He turned his attention back to the NY Times article and re-read it. "I certainly do hope you're right, Pops," he murmured to himself. He then tossed the folded paper into the adjacent sitting room where it landed squarely on the coffee table. "Eat your heart out, Larry Byrd."

vvvv

"Hey, Henry." Jo greeted him as he strode towards her desk in the 11th precinct's bullpen.

"Hello, Detective," he replied and sat down in the metal chair next to her desk.

"Where are your dark glasses?" she jokingly asked.

He smiled, furrowing his brow and darting his eyes back and forth. "Dark ... glasses ... ?" He rolled his shoulders quickly back, clasping his hands in his lap. "Whatever do you mean, Detective?"

Still smiling, she pulled out her personal cell phone and tapped on it to reveal an email notification from the online version of the NY Times. "Read," she instructed, handing the phone to him. She pulled her lower lip in, licking it as she watched him.

He sighed and handed the phone back to her. "Oh, that," he flatly replied, his cheerful manner tempered a bit.

"Well, isn't that about your family? You're like ... a celebrity," she laughed, "and celebrities wear dark glasses so they're not recognized and won't get mobbed for autographs." She continued in a teasing vein. "Some guy, a Sir or Duke, claims to be a descendant of Peter Morgan through his son, Henry, and could be your twin brother." She turned the phone off and placed it back into her top desk drawer."

His playful frown turned serious as his eyes darted around the room but not at her. "Well, I suppose it's possible that, uh, he could be related ... " His voice trailed off as he searched his memories for any clue, any possibility that he and Nora ... no ... There was now a sinking feeling in his stomach that threatened to hurl his breakfast back up. His older brother, William, had died in the Napoleonic Wars, leaving neither wife nor offspring. Could Nora have actually given birth to their child without his knowledge? Could Abraham have been right in that there was reason for concern about this rubbish of a TV show airing?

"How about a raincheck on our date tonight?" she proposed. "Let's eat in, my place, and watch it."

He chuckled nervously and replied, "It doesn't air until tomorrow night."

"Officially," she said. "But tonight is an interview with your 'twin'." She covered her giggles with the side of her hand and hunched her shoulders. "He's going to conduct a tour of the estates and hint at some family secrets. The cache of letters and portraits that were uncovered at a cottage in Rooks Nest in ... somewhere ... are going to be examined." When he didn't immediately respond, she urged, "C'mon, it'll be fun seeing how your ancestors lived hundreds of years ago; got rich, made bad choices, got poor." As she spoke, she shook her shoulders and smiled playfully.

Really enjoying herself at my expense, he glumly noted. A house in Rooks Nest? It had been centuries since he'd heard anything about that place. Nora's family, the Perth family, had owned a great deal of land there. Her father, Sir Samuel Perth, had proudly commissioned their wedding portrait to be painted in that very cottage. He forced a smile, stood up and turned around stiffly to face her.

"Tonight, then." He nodded and made his way out of the bullpen and down to the safety and solitude of his office in the morgue. Once there, however, he received basically the same teasing from Lucas. Closing his office door and the blinds did little to ease his sense of foreboding about viewing the TV program that night with Jo.

vvvv

Jo nestled back into Henry's arms as they sat on her couch watching the opening credits and accompanying music of BBC America's special presentation of "The Making of the Morgan Chronicles". She hugged the large bowl of popcorn to her so that they both would have easy access to it.

"Aren't you excited?" she asked him, nestling deeper, nudging the bowl of popcorn at him. "We're both gonna learn a lot of things about your family and its past. Who knows? Maybe you'll find out that you're related to the Royal Family or something."

He smiled but not with his eyes, as he briefly eyed the popcorn. The distinguished, white-haired host, Cyril Marbeth, appeared onscreen, eloquently welcoming the viewers and introducing Lord Henry Morgan, who would graciously allow their cameras into his private residence for the first time ever. The Lord's physical appearance drew more from the red-headed, fairer skinned Perth family than from the darker, curly-haired Morgan family, he clinically observed. But the lilt of the voice, his accent, definitely Welsh. Henry listened closer as the cameras followed the man onscreen past the massive entry door into an expansive entry hall and the music swelled. The titled man turned to the camera and extended his right arm up and back. As he bowed ever so slightly from the waist, flashing a most dazzling smile, he bid, "Welcome to my home, Trillingham Manor."

The broadcast cut away to no less than five back-to-back sponsor announcements and commercials; then returned all too abruptly for Henry's liking, to find the TV host and His Lordship standing before a large painting that he recognized as one that had hung in his father's study shortly before he'd died of consumption in 1814. Why did he feel such a tightening in his chest? Why did he feel so threatened by the public airing of these long-forgotten artifacts? No one alive today could possibly know that he was the little boy standing in the forefront left of his mother in that large portrait. No one could possibly know, not even his onscreen namesake.

" ... his wife, Martha," Lord Henry was saying as he pointed to the figure of a woman in the painting, "seated and holding their youngest child, Sarah." He continued, naming each of the other painted figures and then pointed to the young boy in the forefront. "This is their son, Henry David Longworth Morgan, the central figure in the saga."

Jo's jaw dropped and she turned a surprised but happy expression to Henry. "That's your full name, too, isn't it?" She nudged him in the ribs and grinned, returning her attention to the broadcast. "You know you're related to them!"

"So, the mother's name was actually Martha, not Anna?" the TV host inquired for clarification.

Annabeth was her middle name, Henry recalled, frowning. She never cared for the 'beth' tacked onto the end of it. Over time, she'd convinced everyone that her middle name was simply Anna. He cringed when Lord Henry gave an almost verbatim reply. How in the world did he know that?! Was this some kind of elaborate joke being played on him? He shook his head slightly, causing Jo to turn her gaze away from the TV screen and to him.

"You okay?" (Yes.) "You cold?" (No.) "I can turn up the heat."

"No!" He swallowed and apologized for having startled her. "I'm fine, Jo. Really." He forced a weak smile and threw a small handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Back from another onslaught of commercials, the onscreen duo was still in his father's study. The camera panned back and around the room, closing in on the massive wooden desk his father had spent so many hours behind when he was at home. The camera pulled back to allow the viewers to take in the size and beauty of it. Tears smarted at the backs of his eyes as he recalled the time he'd argued with him in that study. His father had risen from his chair, walked around to the front of it and leaned back against that same desk while offering feeble excuses for his decision to participate in the abominable and detestable slave trade. At the time, he'd been so upset over his father's decision that his unhealthy pallor, sweaty brow, general weakness and body-wracking coughs had gone virtually unnoticed by him. A physician. A healer. Oblivious to his own father's physical suffering in a blind moment of anger. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh, which did not go unnoticed by Jo.

"Henry," she said, placing the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and twisting in her seat to face him, "Are you ill? I mean, it just doesn't look like you're enjoying yourself." Genuinely concerned, she placed her palm on his forehead but he gently pulled her hand away.

"I'm, I'm fine, Jo." He forced a shaky laugh. 'Morgan, you can do better than this! Put on your lying face!' he hissed to himself. It was enough to allow his attempt at another fake laugh that sounded more believable.

"It's just that I ... " The camera panned in on the lounge his father had last lain on and died on. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled how he'd sheepishly crept into the study and sat down on the edge of it. His father had looked so weak, his pallor worsened to a grayish tinge that he'd found unbearable to view. And, he a physician. As much death and disease he had seen at that time, he'd been afraid to look upon his father's face that indicated a fast-approaching end. Almost in unison, his thoughts played out in his mind along with Lord Henry's account of how his father had gifted his pocket watch to him moments before his death.

"He died with his eyes open," Henry said aloud but barely above a whisper.

Lord Henry echoed his words causing Jo to frown, although she kept her eyes trained on the TV screen.

"I reached over and closed them," Henry continued, fighting back tears but feeling very strongly that he was going to lose that battle. He was fast losing his composure, his breaths coming in short, uncontrollable hitches. He leaned forward with his hand over his eyes.

Jo was truly concerned now. She placed her hand on his arm and said, "Henry, if this is upsetting you this much, we don't have to watch it." She picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. Setting it back down on the coffee table, she bent her head down to try to meet his eyes, but he kept his eyes hidden under his hand, his head bent down. She could feel him trembling; the kind of trembling that came from trying too hard to hold tears back and all too familiar to her in the first year after Sean's death. But she had no idea what to do to comfort him or even why he was so upset. Over a TV broadcast of events that had happened hundreds of years ago to people, he'd never even known? Regardless, she pulled him close to her in a sideways hug and rested her cheek against the side of his head.

For several moments they sat like that not saying a word. While she gently rocked and held him, the only sounds were her murmured assurances that it was 'going to be okay' and an occasional muffled sob that escaped from him. After nearly ten minutes, he took in a few deep breaths and removed his hand from his eyes, raising his head slowly. He swallowed and leaned his head back into the top of the cushions, closing his eyes. Jo watched him sorrowfully, still not quite understanding what to say to comfort him and wondering what had upset him so. She pushed her questions aside and kissed him softly on the cheek, her hand cupping and caressing his other cheek.

He responded with a tight embrace. Leaning down, he kissed her on the side of her forehead and tightened the embrace. She closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest, her hand near her face. He covered her hand with his, caressing it then pressing his lips into her palm. "Sorry, Jo. You must think me daft."

She pushed herself up to look him in the eyes. Normally she would have teased him over his use of the obsolete term, daft, and suggested a more modern one to him for future use. This was no time for levity, she realized. "No, Henry. I'm just ... confused as to why watching this upset you so." He stiffened slightly and seemed to wince, causing her to wince, as well. They'd learned that they were two of a kind; both having experienced pain and loss. For that reason, they would quickly recognize and react to the other's pain.

"Don't worry about that, Jo. It, uh, reminded me of some painful times in my life, specifically, the death of my own father. My pocket watch was a gift from him; a family heirloom." He hoped that that explanation would suffice long enough for her to forget that he'd let it slip that he'd reached over and closed his father's eyes. What had ever possessed him to admit such a thing out loud? To her? Was he so madly in love with her that guilt over keeping his secret hidden from her had finally driven him mad? Or was he ... trying to tell her about his secret? Confusion swept over him now. He gently pushed her away and quickly stood up, rubbing his hand over his face. Blinking several times, his confused gaze rested on her.

"What is it, Henry? What's wrong?" Jo was growing even more concerned. She stood up next to him and placed her hands on either side of his face, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs. When he failed to respond, she asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

There. There it was. She hadn't missed his slips of the tongue earlier. A stellar detective who possessed a skillful art of digging into the heart of the matter to unveil the truth. What was he to do now? What could he tell her? Another lie or ... finally the truth?

Sometimes when a person suffering from depression suddenly appears more relaxed and in a better mood, it's because they've made a decision. A decision to end their life. And shortly after, they do just that. Even though he had ... experimented ... in the past by ending his life several different ways in a vain effort to reach a final end, he was neither depressed nor suicidal now. But he had made a decision and somehow it had worked to calm him and clear the confusion from his mind. Quite the opposite of wanting to end his life, he now wanted to live his life ... with Jo. As he gazed into her lovely, brown eyes full of concern for him, he wondered how he could have waited so long. Abe was right, he told himself. She was special. She could be trusted. He pulled her close against him and clung to her, breathing in all the soft and delightful smells that were uniquely her; with each breath, he grew stronger and more confident. It was time. And it felt right.

"Yes, Jo," he softly replied, tugging her back over to the couch. "There is something I want to tell you." They sat on the couch again and he picked up the remote and gave it to her. "You can turn the program back on now. I ... haven't quite mastered the function of this," he chuckled. She smiled, clicked the remote and placed it back down on the coffee table.

The English countryside now sped past the camera's view from the inside of a vehicle driven by Lord Henry. The TV host's voice narration had concluded just as Jo had clicked the TV back to life. An overhead shot took in an occasional herd of sheep, farmhouses, barns, and more modern structures nestled in amongst the lush, sloping greenery. The onscreen voices were silent as mellow travel music played and the viewer was invited to drink in the beauty of the changing landscape. However, certain landmarks, the slope of the hillsides and the familiar wind of the now paved roadway still spoke the destination to him after two centuries: the cottage at Rooks Nest. At first, he'd wondered how to begin his long story but he realized that by using the TV show's progression as a guide and staying just one step ahead of the storyline, could make his story more believable to her. He took a deep breath and started to speak.

"Henry?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Sorry." He dipped his head towards the TV and said, "They're headed to the cottage at Rooks Nest in Hertfordshire. I remember that place very well ... "

For the next hour and 45 minutes, he let her in on some of the more intimate details of his long story conveniently corroborated by the program's narratives and visuals.

vvvv

Jo's POV

"Good night, Jo."

"G'nite, Henry." She then closed the door even though he still stood there staring at her with an apologetic, haunting and almost pleading look in his eyes. After several moments, his footsteps echoed his departure. Not until she heard the sound of Abe's car door opening and closing, then the car revving away, did she move from the door and back to the living room. The cushions on the sofa still bore the impressions of where he and she had sat together just three hours before. The bowl of popcorn now cold and mostly untouched. What had started out to be a fun but relaxing evening in front of the TV had immediately turned into one of the most bizarre experiences of her life. Her unofficial crime-solving partner, her best friend, the man she was slowly falling deeply in love with had confessed to her that he lived forever. No. That he would probably live forever because he could die, but could not stay dead; that he was ... immortal ... ?

"How is that even possible, Henry?"

"I've yet to discover why or how, Jo. Only that it began after my first death in 1814."

"Are you aware that what you're saying doesn't sound real? That it makes no sense?"

"I'm fully aware (sigh) and believe me if I could change the reality of the life I've lived for the past 200 years and make it into something sensible, I would."

When he'd begun spinning his fantastical tale, they'd been cuddled up close together, as usual, in full lover's mode. As the evening progressed and his story grew longer, she'd found herself more than an arm's length away from him, nervously perched near the edge of the sofa. At some point, she'd grabbed a bottle of something dark that went down hard, from the liquor cabinet. The two empty glasses on the coffee table confirmed that. Her unsettled stomach and weak knees also confirmed that they, or, at least, she, had guzzled a lot of it in an attempt to digest his improbable words.

"Stop, please, just stop!"

"I'm sorry, Jo. It wasn't my intention to upset you."

"Upset me? (she'd laughed) Upset me. Henry, you're either totally insane ... which I'm not ruling out ... or I should believe you, which would make me totally insane. (shook head) Not sure which is worse."

The attractive detective shook her head and closed her eyes, sighing as she gathered up the empty glasses and placed them in the sink. Looking around for the bottle of liquor but not finding it, she reminded herself to look for it in the morning. The lightly buttered, piping hot popcorn, previously delicious, was now cold, greasy garbage. She ran her fingers through her dark brown mane after disposing of it and set the empty bowl in the sink next to the glasses.

"I love you, Henry, but ... "

"Please don't say that, Jo, please just listen to me."

"I have listened to you for the past three hours and none of what you've told me makes any sense. I just have to ... think things through."

"While you're thinking things through, don't forget what I told you about my reviving in the river. Think about when you saw me fall off the rooftop of Grand Central - "

"Stop. Just. Stop."

"You saw me fall off that roof, Jo, along with Koehler. Check the times of when you saw me on surveillance tape entering that subway car that crashed three years ago, killing everyone on board."

"Hen-reeeee ... " (shaking head, sighing)

"Check the time of my arrest for public nudity only minutes after the crash on the other side of town!"

"Look, I said I would think things through. Just ... for now ... please leave."

It was easier to just crash on the sofa, but she didn't want to be lulled to sleep by the smell of liquor, cold, greasy popcorn and ... and the man's aftershave. That man with his accent, his endless supply of beautiful, expensively made scarves, his impeccable manner of dress and that smile that had lit up her life! Sean had been the love of her life. She would always love him and had come to believe that her heartache and loneliness could always be soothed by hiding them in memories of him. She had grown comfortable with that, telling herself that those exercises in grief helped her to avoid becoming a cat lady.

But three years ago, she'd met a Medical Examiner named Dr. Henry Morgan. As dapper as he was eccentric; as mysterious as he was charming. Impossibly secretive and impossibly handsome, knowledgeable on a supernatural level and frustrating on an even higher level. Somehow her enigmatic colleague had managed to infiltrate her carefully constructed cocoon of emotional protection. Despite her resistance and her commitment to self to remain aloof and, safely avoid human entanglements, a little over a year ago, she'd found herself closely monitoring and even applauding his progress in deconstructing her cocoon.

"We're two halves of the same whole," she'd once softly declared to him, starry-eyed, comfortable, and excited at the same time, in his arms.

"And you, the better half," he'd grinned lopsidedly and kissed her on the tip of her nose.

The lump in her throat was connected to the break in her heart, she just knew it. She was in love with a crazy man. As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, her legs felt like lead and she feared that a sudden trip to the bathroom outweighed the need for sleep. Liquor and greasy popcorn don't mix, she ruefully told herself. Especially while an unbelievable yarn of a person being immortal and unable to stay dead was being added to the mix.

After an extended but necessary stay in the bathroom, she slumped her way to her bedroom and curled up on top of the covers in a near fetal position. Sleep soon stilled her steadily clouded thoughts, allowing only a few tears to soak into her pillow. A convoluted dream spun with her dressed like Cinderella at a lavish banquet but with no fork or spoon to partake of the sumptuous offerings. A frantic and hurried search through the mansion's many elegantly furnished rooms finally produced a plastic spork but she was unable to find her way back to her seat at the banquet table. Morning found her in sweat-drenched clothes, emotionally drained, and nursing a headache bigger than the Rock of Gibralter.