To my readers: I apologize profusely for the amount of time it's taken for me to update this. Last fall I decided to drop the story since I didn't know where I wanted to go with it, but recently the muse returned, so here's my second stab! Hope you enjoy, and know that feedback is greatly appreciated, as always!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the canon characters, but if you want to give me Murdoch, I won't say no!

Part 3

John took another sip of coffee and continued to stare moodily ahead of him. Ever since he arrived at work with his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he'd been sitting at his typewriter with the worst case of writer's block he'd had in weeks. He was supposed to be typing up a report but the words simply weren't coming. Instead his mind kept returning to Bumstead's limp form and the strange cuts on the back of his head. He had so many questions it was no wonder he couldn't get his report written. Who'd made the cuts and why? How long had Bumstead been on the streets? Would he be okay or was a full recovery too much to hope for? And most of all, how in hell had he managed to find his way back to the city? John had seen him with his own eyes as he and a Stranger were sucked out into the void of dark space. He'd relived those brief moments time and time again in his mind, the horror of loss washing over him again and again, never diminished. If only he'd been a foot closer he could have saved him; could have reached out and grabbed him, pulled him to safety. For two months John had blamed himself for the loss of Bumstead who, though initially obliged to work against him, had ended up an ally. He'd deliberately sprung him free from jail and the Strangers' grasp, and John wholeheartedly believed that under different circumstances he and Bumstead could have been friends. Now that he had miraculously appeared in the city, John felt tinges of hope. If Bumstead were to recover, John could beg forgiveness, and just a few words from the detective's lips would make living with himself so much easier. With that guilt lifted from his shoulders he'd be a new man.

Catching the direction of his thoughts, John flushed slightly. What it all boils down to is selfishness. You're just glad Bumstead's back so he can make you feel better, John said to himself. "But that's not true," he muttered in a low tone of denial. The words rang falsely in his ears. Releasing a groan, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. He felt beat and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. He wished for the umpteenth time that he'd been sent out on an interview or something – anything rather than sit here in the office and vegetate. If there was any hope of stimulating his half-asleep brain into action, it certainly wasn't going to happen here. John had written a total of two sentences, and was slumped over his typewriter in the early stages of sleep, when the telephone across the room rang shrilly, startling him awake. As he straightened himself in his chair and gazed bleary-eyed at the lines of typed words on the paper, the secretary who'd answered the phone came up to him. Seeing her presence beside him out of the corner of his eye, he looked up inquisitively.

"Sorry to bother you Mr. Murdoch, but you've got a call from Dr. Schreber. He says it's urgent."

John bolted out of his seat without responding, and picked up the phone. The secretary heard him mutter a few words into the mouthpiece, then he hung up. In a second he was back at his desk. He ripped the mostly blank sheet of paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket, then whisked his trench off the coathanger. As he did up the buttons, he said,

"Got to run, Betty. Please, tell the boss I just got tipped on a great story. I'll stay overtime tomorrow, okay? I'm out of here." Without a second glance at her that might permit questions, he walked briskly out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving Betty standing perplexed and open-mouthed in the middle of the room.

As soon as he was out of the building, John broke into a run. A wave of adrenaline shot through him, driving away his previous exhaustion in an instant. It was raining outside but John had forgotten his hat and umbrella in his haste, so he ran squinting, with the rain falling freely on his bare head. It was about 12 blocks to Daniel's apartment and though

his excitement was making him careless, he had the prudence to think of keeping dry. After two blocks he reached a bus stop, where the bus was just pulling away. He chased after it, shouting and waving his hands wildly, and half a block later it slowed down and let him on. Gasping a thanks to the driver, John fumbled in his pocket for a quarter, dropped it in the slot, and sat down heavily in a seat, shaking the water from his hair. Looking around self-consciously, he saw the only other passenger was an old lady who stared at him, completely non-plussed. Amused at her total disinterest, John hid a smirking grin. Five minutes later he got off and ran the last block to Daniel's apartment. He stood on the doorstep and rang the buzzer urgently so Daniel would know it was him. Seconds later Schreber was there and John was stepping inside and wiping his wet shoes on the mat.

"Thank you for coming - so promptly," Schreber said. "He's very disoriented and weak. I can't seem to make out most of what he's - saying but I am certain I heard him mention - you."

"Me?" John echoed. "Why would he mention me? He hardly knew me."

"You obviously made quite - an impression on him," Schreber said wryly, leading John over to the makeshift bed where Bumstead lay. It was immediately clear that he was in the grip of fever. His face was flushed and glistening with sweat, and he seemed unable to lie still, his eyes alternately opening and closing as he mumbled incoherent words. Schreber bent over him and John watched him lift a cloth from a bowl of water by

the bed and bathe Bumstead's face.

"He's ill!" John said with a mixture of surprise and concern. "He ought to be in a hospital." Schreber shook his head.

"We can't risk it. Not just yet."

"Murdoch!" Bumstead's voice, suddenly clear and audible, surprised them. Schreber held the man's shoulder and said in a soothing voice,

"He's here, I've brought him."

"Hello," John said gently, stepping closer. Seeing him, Bumstead became suddenly agitated. His movements became jerky, almost spasmodic, but his eyes, bright with fever, focused intently on John's face. John became alarmed, and, following Schreber's example, took Bumstead's twitching hand. It was cold and clammy, but he didn't let go.

"It's alright, Inspector." The word smacked of condescension, and John winced after saying it. All traces of the careful and methodic Inspector Bumstead had all but vanished, leaving behind a raving, wreck of a man in his place. "What's his name? His first name," he whispered to Daniel.

"Frank."

"Frank," John echoed. He turned back to Bumstead.

"It's alright, Frank. You're among friends." But Bumstead would not calm down. His hand suddenly gripped John's with a fierce strength, his eyes boring purposefully into John's own.

"It's not safe!" he said urgently, in the same clear tone. "Tell Murdoch he must get out! It's the only way he can save himself." John paled at the sick man's words, but he said gently,

"I'm right here, Frank. It's me, Murdoch. Everything's okay." Bumstead shook his head, sadness, despair and desperation creeping into his eyes.

"Please tell him!" he begged John. "They haven't given up - they will find him." His last words were a whisper. "They'll never give up."

"Alright, I'll tell him. Don't worry, I'll tell him." John didn't know what else to say, but this assurance seemed to comfort Bumstead, who closed his eyes and instantly drifted off. John turned to Schreber.

"My God, what was that? What did he mean, Daniel?"

"We can only guess. Whatever he went through - it must have been - terrible. He may have lost his memory, even his mind. It's hard to tell with the fever making him delirious. But whatever the situation, he has retained memories of you – and the case. The Strangers. They continue to haunt him."

"So he doesn't know they're gone? Jesus... Poor guy."

"It is possible that he does know, but his – fever is making him relive the fear and confusion – in nightmare form. We cannot be sure of what he does – and does not – know until he has completely – recovered."

"So you think recovery is possible, then?"

"Oh yes. His injuries do not seem to – have caused permanent damage. He – seems to see alright and we both – know he can speak, now!"

"But what about mental recovery, Daniel? I mean, I understand that he's delirious now, but this paranoia… you don't think it'll last, do you?"

"I don't know. That is all I can tell you. I'm sorry." John nodded reluctantly, accepting his friend's answer. They were silent for a couple moments, both gazing at the unconscious man before them. He was lying still at last, but whether the peace would last was doubtful. Despite the worry he felt over Bumstead, John's earlier exhaustion was beginning to claim him again. Now that the excitement was over, he could feel his body screaming for rest and his eyelids suddenly became ridiculously heavy. He felt Daniel glance at him.

"Would you like a cup – of tea or something?"

John smiled wryly. "Coffee would be marvelous, if you've got it."

"Sure thing."

Over coffee they quietly discussed Bumstead's future, each throwing in ideas for various outcomes. The problem was, they had know way of knowing what his mental state would be after he got over his present illness, and this ignorance prevented them from making any concrete plans. John offered to let Bumstead stay at his house if the man had lost his memory, though he was less willing to take him in if he proved to be unstable, not out of any concern for himself, but he wasn't sure Anna would be very keen on the idea. Daniel also expressed willingness to let Bumstead stay with him, whatever his state, knowing that he could do more for him than any hospital psychiatrist since he alone knew the former detective's background. In the end they had to let the matter sit and let time reveal the rest. John left Daniel's apartment and, not wanting to return the work and have the trouble of facing the boss with a poorly fabricated excuse, he decided to go home early and try drafting his report there. The rain had stopped, so he went home on foot instead of taking the bus, figuring that the walk would do him good and give him some time to think. He'd voiced many of his thoughts and speculations to Daniel during the past hour, but there still remained many more darker ideas that he didn't dare permit himself to express. Although he made an effort on the more immediate affairs at hand, and the sketched plans he and Daniel had thrown back and forth, he couldn't get Bumstead's desperate, pleading face out of his head, and the terrible urgency in his voice as he'd whispered,

"They'll never give up!" In spite of the sunshine, John shivered.