Revival
Methos was six thousand four hundred and thirty eight years, two hundred and fifty four days, eight hours, ten minutes, and fifteen seconds old (though he himself was not aware of the exact number of years he had lived) when he was shot through the head for the sixty-second time since the invention of firearms. Headshots always took longer to recover from, even for an Immortal with such accelerated healing powers as Methos possessed, and as a result he was taken away to the county morgue for autopsy.
The piemaker was taste-testing Chuck's newest pie -- rhubarb and blackberry -- when Emerson Cod arrived with a new case that required Ned's talents.
"I've got a new case that requires your talents," he said gruffly, swiping both the extra fork that lay on the table and a bite of Chuck's creation. "Not bad."
"Chuck made it," Ned informed him. Emerson fought back the momentary nausea that always assailed him when he realized that he'd been eating something prepared by a dead woman.
"It's good," he managed. Chuck beamed at him. "Anyway."
The facts of the case, so far as Emerson Cod was aware, were these:
Dr. Adam Mallory was twenty-eight years, six days, three hours, and forty-five seconds old when he was shot through the head by a sniper. None of his colleagues had any idea as to who would have wanted to kill the good doctor; there were no grossly dissatisfied patients, and his personality, though caustic at times, was charming enough to overcome the occasional lapse into rudeness. He was smart, but not brilliant enough to incur jealousy; in short, his murder appeared to be motiveless. Emerson Cod had bet a detective friend of his a thousand dollars that he could solve Dr. Mallory's murder, and Emerson Cod was a man who liked to win his bets.
"I'm a man who likes to win my bets," he said.
Ned, who knew that Emerson would split his winnings as a matter of course, finished the rest of the rhubarb-blackberry pie, grabbed his jacket, and accompanied Emerson Cod to the morgue.
Chuck, the piemaker, and Emerson Cod all stood around the body of the unfortunate Dr. Mallory. Contrary to expectations, the doctor showed no signs of having been shot in the head.
"Are you sure this is the right guy?" Ned asked. Emerson checked the toe-tag, which did indeed say 'Adam Mallory'.
"It's him. Just do it already," he said.
The piemaker's hand hovered over Dr. Mallory's arm.
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt from foxgoddess. Unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes. This may or may not be complete.
