The next morning came too quickly, for the both of them. The performer eased himself to the edge of his bed, an agonising groan allowed to escape in the privacy of his own space, he could permit his mind to recognise how much pain his body was constantly in. However, today the severity of his pain seemed lighter.

He dragged his fingers through his sleep-savaged hair and stretched out his screaming aches. Before he could start his day he habitually checked the papers. Nothing of interest. He threw it down mildly annoyed. So instead of the station, he decided upon a bath, he stripped and turned on the taps. The water leisurely rose as he completed his routine stretches and a short work out, taut muscles fought against gravity pushing his form from the cold floorboards repeatedly, sweat dripping from the centre of his chest and pooling beneath him. He pushed himself hard, his mind blank, fighting against his body, fixing himself, training his muscles until his right arm abruptly locked and seized, he fell hard on his left side. With shallow pants, he continuously flexed and relaxed the arm till the pain ebbed. He pulled himself up by the rim of the bath rubbing the tender side and grateful the standing tub was sufficiently filled.

….

The Doctor never slept with the curtains closed, and the warm dawn blanketed his exposed flesh, he reached out to empty space next to him, the sun had heated the secondary pillow as his fingers traced the warmth he imagined, as he always did, Mary having just risen and would be staring out onto London, the morning air billowing her nightdress and the new sun outlining her golden silhouette showing the rest of the world the angel he could always see. He cherished these waking moments before cold logic told him these were just memories, mocked him to open his eyes and find his wife abandoned in the other room alone and too far from this world. Doyle tightened his eyes, as usual never surrendering to the morning without a fight, clasping to these almost real moments, but each morning the battle would get shorter, his acceptance of loss overpowering him day by day. Today shorter still he rolled away from the window, sitting up, never taking the chance to look to see whether she was standing there.

…..

Houdini lowered himself through the steam, the boiling water numbing him. He let out a contented sigh and sunk deeper, a flannel over his eyes. He tried to clear his mind but whispering violin strings kept creeping in. He surrendered and allowed his mind to play the Bach piece. It was a strange night he contemplated, his thoughts accompanied with a background concerto. That talented music caught on a breeze, which led them to that clearing. And Doyle's face when he asked him to dance was unforgettable, the initial English shock at any unusual convention, he chuckled bubbles as he slid further into the water. He didn't think Doyle would actually go along with it, he was just trying to entice some sort of rise out of him, but then… it turned into something else. Houdini didn't have to be a cold reader to see Doyle's pain, but how do you help a man in that position. Does one encourage the devotion and loyalty to a wife in a most hopeless cause even at the possible destruction of the man's sanity? Or does one help the man to move on even at the expense of his guilt, or to the minute possibility a miraculous recovery does occur?

…..

Doyle descended to the dining room to join his children; they both watched him with kind eyes. His children always strengthened him, even by their mere presence. He saw so much of their mother in both of them, curiosity and stubbornness specifically. The things that he admired so dearly from them hurt him most to be around, to be reminded of her so often had distanced their relationships. But he returned their smiles and sat down to eat at the head of the table.

No more than a mouthful into his breakfast:

"Where were you last night Daddy?"`

"Was it a new case?"

"Has it been in the papers yet?"

They looked up at him expectantly; he chuckled at their resilience at the face of the dark side of humanity, probably his fault he mused.

"Eat your breakfast, I'll be here when you get home and I'll tell you all about it."

Kingsley and Mary exchanged glances, happy ones, undoubtedly, but their father had never been this open with his cases or willing with his time for years. What had changed? Mary took the plunge.

"Did…did you speak with Mum?" She watched her father's hand grip his fork tighter; she watched his brows tense and his shoulders knot.

"No darling, not yet." The sharpness had returned.

The rest of the morning was travelled through in silence, the children trying to evaluate their father's wavering temperament, as Doyle was trying to evaluate his own sense of confusion, an erratic butterfly caught in the pit of his stomach with no identifiable causation.

…..

Houdini groaned, muffled beneath the water as he took a final breath and immersed himself completely; he watched the flannel float to the surface, dancing with the movement of the water. Doyle's trip into him flashed into the white frame of the cloth as it swam, why was he thinking of that. And he could feel the warmth of Doyle's hand radiating through to his hip. A shiver he didn't remember having when their eyes locked unfazed. Houdini shook his head to rid his mind of these sensations, a few bubbles escaping and screaming for release to the surface.

….

The day passed slowly for both men, the papers featured their solve but no more headlines worthy of bringing the two to the station. Work and rehearsal were minimal, and the typewriter was gathering dust. Today both men felt like he was waiting for something, an anticipation was building within. Doyle thought perhaps he was waiting for the children to come home? Or was there a meeting he had missed with his wife's doctor, maybe? He just couldn't pin it down. While Houdini was receiving only one explanation, and refused to acknowledge it.

When the children returned they sat in front of their father as he was seated in his study, he recalled the events of the case, the problem solving and their teamwork, leaving out anything he deemed too inappropriate, he watched their eyes lit up when he spoke about Houdini, he smiled to himself and embellished the man a little, removing some of his less charming flaws, it pleased him to see his offspring have an idol, someone worthy of admiration, someone that brought joy and wonder and magic to a world so bleak.

As night blossomed he tucked them in before also retiring, an unproductive day can be exhausting. He stood at his open window and lit his pipe. He inhaled deeply letting the smoke caress his throat. He sighed out a cloud as he watched the calming of the street below. The few final workers heading home and closing up shop. And that ringing hole in his gut still gnawing at him relentlessly. Something made him wait, he put down the pipe and leaned out the window, he thought he had heard a faint piano. Silence. He pulled himself back inside, just wilful imagination.

Houdini was right, there was nothing spiritual about the music, just a night owl rehearsing, he had just got swept up in the notes and the night…and the dance, he was finding more meaning than the evidence provided.

Across town, Houdini had grabbed his coat.