Home. Such a wonderful place. Text in bold at the end is from the episode "All that Glitters" (S8E11). A million thanks to everyone who's been along for the ride-I hope you've enjoyed it. Thank you for the reviews and the kind words-I'm hoping inspiration strikes again soon!
Chapter 10
"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Doctor Ogden!" George Crabtree embraced her warmly, and found himself teary-eyed. The fatigue, and the return to familiar ground, had brought his roiling emotions right to the surface.
"George. How good it is to see you! I must know all about what happened. Where is William? How is he?" She turned and scanned the train with more than a hint of agitation.
"He's quite all—ah, he's recovering. I shouldn't say he's all right, as we had words when he was relentless in insisting that he was, when he most clearly was not, but he is on the mend."
"Where is he!" Julia's tone bordered on desperate.
"I'm here, Julia," Murdoch announced as he painfully made his way down the train steps. He was carrying a single bag, his left arm back in its sling, and he winced with each step. Julia rushed to him, taking the bag and putting it on the ground, and kissed him as if her soul depended on his embrace.
George watched with relief as the good doctor fussed over her husband, feeling the weight of responsibility for the man's well-being shift away from himself. He had done his duty and seen the detective safely back to Toronto. He could go home, to his own bed under his own roof, and sleep. Blessed sleep.
"George! I simply must hear all about what happened. You'll come back to the hotel with us, won't you? Please, you must. I must know how William's wound was treated. And we can offer you an excellent, hearty breakfast. I imagine you're hungry after such a long journey."
George closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. He could never say no to the remarkable Doctor Ogden, and he supposed he ought to explain about the bear grease, and the moss. And the offer of a hot meal did sound most enticing.
"Very well, then, Doctor, I shall accompany you. B-but I shan't stay long at all."
"Of course, George, I'm sure you're keen to get home."
"I most certainly am, Doctor. Detective Murdoch and I have had rather a trying time."
"Indeed we have, George," agreed Murdoch. "And the inspector will want a report." He was still leaning on his wife, his good arm holding her close. She picked up the bag, and shepherded the two exhausted men to the waiting carriage.
George sat on the chesterfield in the Murdoch-Ogden suite at the Windsor House Hotel, willing the next twenty or so minutes to pass as quickly as possible. How he wanted to go home. He watched as Julia, a stethoscope around her neck, eased the seated detective out of his sling, suit jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. At the sight of the makeshift dressing and bandage, she exclaimed in surprise. "What is this, George?"
"Well, ah, it's dried moss, held in place with a strip of deer hide," George told her. "We encountered a gentleman who was familiar with rather more… traditional approaches to medicine than what we are accustomed to here in the city." Here in the city. He savoured the phrase.
"Sphagnum moss, to be precise," added Murdoch as he leaned forward to let Julia untie the hide. "I believe George has some more, should you wish to analyse it."
Julia gingerly lifted the moss and sniffed at it. "It smells rather earthy." She put it aside carefully, and began to inspect the wound. "How fascinating! There's no sign of infection whatsoever! And what is this?" she asked, dabbing at a bit of the salve that coated Murdoch's chest and rubbing it experimentally between her fingers.
George reached into his pack and pulled out the jar that Andrews had given him. "I am informed that it's bear fat and slippery elm bark," he said as Julia opened it and sniffed the contents.
"Mucilage from the inner bark, George," Murdoch corrected him. "It also helps ward off infection."
"Indeed! I shall be most keen to analyse that as well!" She put the jar down next to the moss, and then turned back to her husband. "Now William, let me get a look at you."
George watched carefully as Doctor Ogden checked Murdoch's pulse, respiration rate, and temperature, and listened intently to his chest and back, directing him to take deep breaths. Probing gently at the wound again, she remarked, "So the second intercostal space. I'm delighted to say it's healing remarkably well! Now when, precisely, were you shot?"
Murdoch hesitated, trying to calculate how much time had passed since Mack had pulled the trigger. George piped up: "Three days ago, Doctor, mid-morning. I should think it's been almost exactly seventy-two hours." His face darkened at the memory.
"I confess my recollection of the past three days is somewhat foggy," Murdoch said, sheepishly. "Although I do recall that George was most attentive."
"Well, it's good that George is here, isn't it?" George forced a smile and nodded. Soon, he thought dejectedly. Soon. "Now George, anything else to report about William's health? Appetite, elimination, mental state? And what are these other marks on his chest?"
George took a breath, and launched into a lengthy explanation. He told her of the medicine woman, Murdoch's delirium, the confrontation, the hike. The horrid patent medicine. The laudanum-fueled eleven-hour horse ride. The lack of requests for help with the trowel. ("The laudanum, George. It slows digestion," Doctor Ogden told him.) The fall at the campsite, the fever and the swelling and the near-suffocation, the enigmatic traveller who drained Murdoch's chest…
Julia interrupted, her eyes huge. "Do you mean to tell me William suffered a hemothorax? And that this strange man treated it with fish teeth and moss?"
"Indeed I do, Doctor," George answered, and smiled. Exhausted though he was, he could still enjoy spinning a yarn, especially when there was such an attentive audience to a story that ended well. "Hemothorax. Is that the word, then."
"It certainly is. And if left untreated, it can be quite fatal."
A chill ran down George's arms. "Well, Doctor, I'm certainly glad it wasn't." He nodded at Murdoch.
"As am I, George," replied the doctor, as she squeezed her husband's hand. "The two of you have been through quite the ordeal."
"We have indeed, Julia. And I should like to thank George for his help. I was… perhaps not the easiest of travelling companions. I believe I may have overestimated my own capacities."
George swallowed a bitter laugh. "Think nothing of it, sir. I should like to believe you would do the same for me."
"Of course he would, George. We both would, in an instant. I can't thank you enough for bringing my William home." Julia took George's hand and squeezed it. He looked at her, eyes shining, and gave a single nod.
Murdoch yawned, and George did too, once, and then again. "I should best be on my way, then," he said, nodding at them both, just as there was a knock on the door.
"That must be breakfast," Julia said. "George, could you please answer that while I help William get changed into something more suitable to his condition?"
"I'm fine, Ju—" Murdoch broke off. George's glare could be quite fearsome. He reconsidered. "That would be lovely, Julia. George, feel free to help yourself. We've ordered enough for all three of us."
George wolfed down a bowl of stewed fruit, three poached eggs on toast, a heaping portion of fried tomatoes, and a generous slice of broiled ham while he awaited the couple's return. The door to the bedroom was closed, and George began to suspect that there was some canoodling happening behind it. He found himself on the horns of a dilemma: should he leave without saying his farewells, should he embarrass them and himself by interrupting their smooching for seemingly the millionth time, or should he remain until they reappeared of their own volition?
He finished his breakfast, and finally chose the third option, not wishing to be rude. It occurred to George that the chesterfield upon which he sat was quite a comfortable one. He loosened his tie, and leaned over onto the armrest to wait. He was sure they wouldn't mind if he dozed for a little while.
When George finally awakened, the sun was low in the sky and he was most disoriented. He lay motionless for some time, trying to sort out where he was. It finally struck him that he was back in Toronto, still on a chesterfield, at his superior officer's home. How had he slept so well? The moccasin flower tea was long gone, and his dear pillow was likely a total loss. He was baffled.
Wait, he thought suddenly, and lifted his head. His pillow was underneath it, clean and sweet-smelling as it had been when he had departed Toronto nearly a week before. How…? he wondered, astonished. Perhaps Doctor Ogden sent it to the hotel laundry?
He rubbed his feet together, and realized that he was unshod. There was a blanket over him, and his formerly packed clothes and bedroll were in a neat pile on the side table, appearing freshly laundered too. Apparently Doctor Ogden had looked after him well.
Well, all right, he supposed. I do want to get back to my own abode, but there are far worse places than here. He heard the detective's voice.
"Thank you," Murdoch said, and hung up the telephone. "Migizi Pimise turned himself in yesterday. I suppose he knew someone would come looking for him."
"And the people he was with?" Doctor Ogden inquired.
"They moved further north."
"It won't go well for them, will it?"
George knew: no. No, it wouldn't.
He grew very sad. He and the detective owed their lives to Migizi Pimise and his people. The man had done what he believed was necessary to protect those close to him, as George Crabtree believed he would do for his own. He would draw the line at murder, but it was not impossible to imagine circumstances in which that line might be blurred. The week's tribulations had proved to him once again the lengths to which a person might go to protect someone dear.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked for his boots. Detective Murdoch was safe, and it was time for George Crabtree to go home.