Author's Note: What was William going through from right before Julia was shot until she is back safely in Toronto and out of danger? Please excuse any continuity errors: I have used my own timeline in the POV stories to sort out the overlapping scenes. Bolded dialogue taken from the episode.

# # #

MIRACLES: JAIRUS'S DAUGHTER

"Be not afraid, only believe." Mark 5:36

# # #

One: LATE SUNDAY MORNING

Toronto General Hospital

William Murdoch was staring so intently at the swinging double doors, alert for any indication the grim business was successfully concluded, that he never saw Constable Henry Higgins approaching down the long hospital corridor. He looked up, startled and uncomprehending when the young man tapped him on the shoulder and coughed nervously, then thrust a paper-wrapped bundle at him. The disturbance only briefly caught his attention before his eyes riveted themselves again on the plain doors, beyond which lay his injured wife, Julia, at the mercy of God and her doctors. His hands automatically accepted the parcel, and he forced himself to mumble a vague "Thank you, Henry," through a tight jaw, having no idea what he was giving thanks for. He'd given up pacing and tried to sit down, but was unable to quiet his body or mind, finding himself leaping up whenever he saw a shadow from under the door or glimpsed movement through the small windows, all the while trying to check the time, patting his vest for his watch out of habit and repeatedly finding neither vest nor timepiece. Awareness that none of it was helping did not quell his fears or prevent him from another round of the same manoeuvers. Saying the Rosary gave him only the briefest respite. He was feeling massively out of control in the most unpleasant sort of way imaginable, so he clung to the comfort and familiarity of prayer when he could bend his mind to it.

He tuned the constable out again, set the bundle beside him on the hard bench to look at the doors, once more willing himself to be able to see through them to know what was happening in the surgical theatre beyond, from which he'd been forcefully rejected. He became annoyed when Higgins tapped him again and motioned to the package. "What have you, Henry?" William made himself ask, encompassing everything and nothing in the question. He had no interest in anything except Julia's condition.

"Sir, your clothing…er… a suit. The Inspector sent me over with your extra set of clothing from the Station House, he umm…thought you might need them." The young man appeared embarrassed, which brought William to realize he was, after all, still in a set of blue pyjamas smeared with his wife's blood, in a public hallway. He looked at his hands. An orderly gave him a wet cloth to wipe off most of the gore, but some still stained around his nails. He picked at the rusty marks distractedly.

"What time is it, Henry?" William guessed it has been an hour or more since Julia had arrived at the hospital. He paid no attention to the chill in the hall or the looks of pity from passers-by while he waited. He also paid no attention to the idea he really should wait elsewhere, planting himself firmly to resist being moved along out of the public's view.

"I make it about eleven-fifteen. The inspector and George are….."

William gasped in alarm, cutting Henry off. He had no idea it had been that long! Subjectively it felt like forever, with time crawling by in agonizing slowness, but he assumed it was only his distress that made it seem so. Quick surgeries were the norm for practical purposes—the vagaries of anesthesia and blood loss being the major rationales. If Julia was still in surgery that could not be a good sign. His chest clenched and he felt his skin prickle and become clammy despite the cold air and his under-dressed condition. He closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself and send a silent prayer for strength. He then made his way over to the door and peered in, noticing that the procedure was still underway—no one was cleaning up. He did not want to move from this spot, but on the other hand getting properly dressed might make receiving, whatever the outcome, more bearable. He looked at Henry, who was making every effort to look anywhere but back in his direction. William supposed he did appear ridiculous, and Henry was trying for unusual discretion. He cleared his throat. "Henry, thank you. I will go change. Will you please wait here for me? And come get me if…"

"Of course sir. At once," Henry answered immediately. Satisfied, William gathered his belongings and made off towards an empty water-closet a kind nurse directed him to, after tossing a washrag and towel on top of the bundle. He got hurriedly dressed in the rumpled suit, thankful for his leather grooming kit wrapped inside the clothing. In front of the small mirror, William ran a comb through his dark hair and gave up on getting his chin scraped any better. He barely recognized himself—face puffy, brown eyes gritty and bloodshot. The cold water washed away only the outer dirt and sweat, not his shock. A few hours ago he was happily in bed enjoying the afterglow of marital relations and the delicious expectation of making love again to his wife later on, joking together, agreeing on their future home and family. Everything was perfect, absolutely perfect! Perfect between him and Julia, going well at work for them both, financially stable, socially contented…a future laid out for them along a path that only required them to walk it…Then out of nowhere: Three loud bangs still echoed sharply in his head. Three shots and Julia's whimper of pain and thud as she hit the floor; the shooter simply vanishing. No one but a chambermaid and other residents in the hallway where she fell… His hands gripped the porcelain washbowl in dread, cold seeping into his gut. Julia is healthy, strong, she had to pull through. Dear Lord! What is taking so long? The very idea of losing Julia was impossible, so he forbid himself from entertaining the notion, locking his mind and his intentions on her recovery, trying to stop his nervous system from betraying him.

His emotions governed as well as he could manage, William emerged from the narrow doorway just as one of the doctors pushed through both swinging doors looking exhausted. He recalled the surgeon's name was Carlton. Although to William's estimation he seemed too young, as if he was barely out of college, the doctor was forthright and receptive to the sterilization and hand-washing William insisted upon. Dr. Carlton looked directly at William and came to the point. "Mr. Murdoch, we were able to find and remove all the bullets, and repair a small tear in her bowel. We have given her mercury for infection and laudanum for pain. She was lucky: the shots were not through and through, the only debris in the wound was from her silk and linen robes."

William felt his face re-form into a smile and his shoulders relax. When Dr. Carlton did not smile back, the sense of fear crept back in. "Doctor, what are you not saying?" He braced himself and held his breath.

Carlton came forward and put a hand on his arm. "Your wife is still in grave condition. You have to understand the procedure was unusually lengthy and there can be…complications. She remains unconscious, and we have to monitor for infection. I suggest you go to her room and we will be bringing her along. Dr. Maharris will speak with you presently."

William exhaled, hoping to tamp down the rough quaver in his voice. "Doctor, I am going to need those bullets." He saw the doctor's face register surprise and then disgust at such an outrageous request. Before there could be an argument or objection, he explained. "I am a police detective with the Toronto Constabulary. Those bullets are evidence in a crime and we will need them for examination. Please secure them, and give them to my constable." He gestured to Higgins who nodded in agreement. There, he thought, one thing I can do something about.

# # #

LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON

William was grateful Inspector Brackenreid had already summoned a constable to stand guard outside the private room where his wife was resting; it seemed wise to assume there was still danger afoot and that protection left him free to concentrate on Julia. He brought a chair as close as possible to her bedside to hold her hand so she would know he was there the instant she awoke.

He lightly stroked her arm, gazing at her face, noticing the arch of her brown and curve of her lips, a few freckles at her temple. But this was not at all the pleasure of watching her as they lay together, her head resting on his shoulder or with blonde hair arrayed on her pillow while he kissed her gently into wakefulness. She appeared to be so uncharacteristically small and fragile, her normally fair colouring drained away, leaving her tissue-paper white. He was almost afraid to touch her for fear she would tear or shatter. William had never, ever, seen Julia in such fixed repose, as she was usually in constant motion, restless even in sleep.

He searched her face closely for any sign she was coming around. He had been so sure the transfusion would be successful, be the miracle she needed to regain her senses, that to see her so still for so long was unnerving. He imagined his life-force could revive her, and prayed God that it was going to be true. He often felt joy or contentment in the practice of his faith, and imagined that sensation flowed from him to Julia with his blood. 'You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar...' The rhythm of prayer passed the time well and he half expected her to open her blue eyes and smile at him, finishing the words of the verse. Instead, it appeared as if nothing happened. Nothing happened at all, despite the doctor's assessment that Julia's heart rate and temperature were normal again.

"I fear she may never wake."Dr. Maharris' pessimistic words landed like a gut punch and made William very angry, It was much too soon for such pronouncements, he thought. It has only been…has it been ten hours?! He looked again at Julia. Saving her life with a transfusion was not the same as a full recovery. The doctor gave no estimate at all when she would wake up, and then cautioned him on any number of complications to expect, including brain damage that could alter her mentally or physically. 'Coma,' he learned, was the proper term. In so many words, Dr. Maharris told him to accept the idea that Julia was not going to come back, that the spirit which animated her may already be gone. William refused to accept this, shedding being frightened, and embracing the anger instead.

Father Clements' visit lifted his own spirits immensely. He arrived just as Dr. Maharris was leaving, giving William the opportunity for a pause in his vigil to receive the priest's blessing. The Father had been impressed with the transfusion method, making a comment about science catching up with Christ's gift of his own precious blood. William confided to him frustration with the doctors' gloomy attitude, limited vision and lack of faith, as well as that he was not so sure the doctors were all that caught-up with the latest scientific literature or methods.

Never the less, his conversation with Father Clements helped William turn away from grief or despair and got him thinking in another direction entirely, encouraging him to figure something out that will help Julia. That gave him the impetus to talk soothingly to Julia, telling her he was right by her side and that everything was going to be all right, because, after all, it had to be.

One thing for certain was that he was never going to give up on her. I may have been momentarily paralyzed with shock, but that is over, now. This was a problem to be solved like any other, and William Murdoch was a master problem-solver. The first problem, now that Julia was a pace or two removed from death's door, was in figuring out who shot her and capturing whomever it was before he could finish the job. He was listing the possibilities when he was summoned to Wilton Street to have his official statement taken.

# # # # #

SUNDAY EVENING

Station House No. 4

The Station House was surprisingly quiet, which suited William just as well; he wanted no one's worried looks or uncomfortable, well-meaning comments. The only one remaining on duty was the desk Sargent, Parker. Constables were out on assignments searching for other witnesses and clues. George Crabtree had the bullets and was going to set up any comparisons to a weapon, should one be found.

William had just finished the second part of his witness interview with Inspector Brackenreid, his mind spinning through a long list of possible assailants. A witness came forward saying someone was looking specifically for Julia. The uncomfortable conclusion was that Julia did appear to be the intended target, so it was reasonable to assume that it was someone from her work at the asylum or with the coroner's office. William slapped his hand on the table. Julia must have seen who shot her. He wracked his brain again to see if he could match the face of the suspect to a name or case—and came up blank. Later on he'd have to check Julia's personal records at home; the ones from the asylum were being delivered Monday morning. He had a fleeting recollection of something or someone playing at the edges of his awareness, but it refused to be pinned down.

He was guarded against giving in to his feelings, needing at least the outward semblance of calmness and competency, clinging to the hope that Julia would recover. Hope was all he needed; in truth all he had, but it had sustained him before and would do so now, God willing. Drinking tea and eating a meal provided by Mrs. Brackenreid, his mind kept travelling back to Julia, lying motionless in her hospital room, overseen by the young female parishioner who had accompanied Father Clements. Mademoiselle DuBuisson seemed devout and sensible enough, promising to contact the station house immediately should anything change in his wife's condition, which allowed him to, reluctantly, leave Julia's side. Alone in his office with only the desk Sargent on duty, he was able to focus, knowing that his greatest gift was his intellect and he needed to insulate himself against distractions from his devotion to bring Julia through all of this safely.

William concentrated on the evidence until his head ached, when he had a sudden, awful thought: Leslie Garland! Just because the man had theoretically slunk south, back to Buffalo, did not mean he gave up on revenge. Shooting Julia would be consistent with that, he thought with an angry flare. Without consulting with the Inspector, William placed a call to the Buffalo Police Headquarters, begging and receiving a professional courtesy to discretely locate the whereabouts of Mr. Garland, and obtain the knowledge if he possessed a .22 calibre revolver, with a promise from the Buffalo police of a call back within a day. After he hung up, he thought that if Leslie Garland was involved, the man was too much of a coward to have pulled the trigger himself, and may have paid someone to do his dirty work. He left a note for the Inspector to investigate that angle in the morning, and a follow up call about Mr. Garland's bank account to see if there had been any unusual withdrawals.

An hour of flipping through old record books and notes brought him no closer to an answer, since the best witness to who shot her was currently lying senseless in the hospital… William's eyes stopped their tracking of the pages and captured his memory of Julia in her hospital bed, then felt a shiver of current shoot through him.

Julia was unresponsive. Or was she?

Suddenly, William was energized, his mind buzzing. He and Julia recently read an English translation of Polish scientist Adolf Beck's collected papers on electrical activity in brains, discussing the philosophical notion of where the brain and mind intersected. Julia has been interested in Beck's discussion of dreams…His heart raced forward a notch. What if he could not only prove that Julia's brain was working, but that her mind was intact as well? He sat bolt up-right. Excitedly, William rummaged into his compendium of British Medical Journals and found the references to Richard Caton's work he was looking for.

"Julia!" he said out loud to the empty office, clapping his hand together. "We are going to make a device that will allow you to communicate with me…with us." He smiled for the first time since this morning. "You know how you are always teasing me about my fondness for electricity and electrical devices? Well, I am about to custom-make one just for you." He pulled out paper, pencil and ruler, beginning to sketch out the circuitry. "We are going to start with the theory that it is possible to detect and measure slight differences in voltage and then translate that into a signal which can be read….."

# # #

EARLY MONDAY MORNING

"Murdoch! What is going on here?"

The question sailed across the bull pen. Inspector Brackenreid arrived early and was fiddling in the early morning sunshine at his desk, with growing annoyance. "And what's wrong with the bloody lights?"

It was a logical, reasonable question… just not one William was prepared to answer at the moment. He was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. He'd worked through the night, stopping only for some of Sargent Parker's tea and a brief run to the University to raid a laboratory for a special tool he needed, leaving five dollars and an apology under a beaker.

William spoke with Julia all night long as if she was right beside him, participating in each step from concept to execution. He found it helped him to imagine she was responding, including her offering him suggestions when he got stuck, making a running commentary to himself as he worked. Parker poked his head in only once, then merely shrugged, well-acquainted with his eccentricities—it was not the first time he worked all night or constructed odd items out of bits of this or that. Looking around at the mess, William could well-imagine Inspector Brackenreid's displeasure at his station house being turned into a pseudo workshop, what with the wires and sawdust and the smell of solder spilling out from his own office into the common areas of the bull pen. He supposed in his rush and enthusiasm he was not as tidy as he usually was, nor as discrete in keeping his personal experiments and activities hidden from his superior.

He also hoped to have been gone by now and was only packing up his device for a return trip to Toronto General as Brackenreid arrived. He hesitated to answer the inspector's question and decided an explanation would take too long, as he was so eager to get going to try out his invention. It was only slightly worrying that he'd had no word from the hospital all night, trusting that meant Julia was in no distress and her status was unchanged. At least unchanged for the worse, he reminded himself. Grabbing his coat and hat, he hoisted the oil-cloth wrapped box over which he'd tinkered all night. He put on a pleasant tone, ignoring all the questions, spoken and unspoken. "Good morning, Inspector. I am off to the hospital again." He patted the box that Brackenreid was eying suspiciously. "Sir, there are notes on your desk, and you may want to pull the blinds open…"

With that William made his escape, leaving Sargent Parker with the job of explaining about all the light bulbs…..

# # #

More to come….next up: William and his EEG machine, and getting himself kidnapped.

Please write/review—what you like and what you didn't—all commentary welcome-