Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; they belong to Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury and the CBC.
Canonically, this would take place at the end of the Season 13 finale.
William Murdoch pinched the bridge of his nose, his fingers tapping on the desk in frustration. The case in front of him made no sense. Perhaps going home to get some rest would be ideal, come back and have fresh eyes on it in the morning, he thought. The detective gathered up the papers on his desk and stuck them back in the folder.
A knock on the door interrupted him, and Murdoch looked up to see George Crabtree leaning in the doorway. "Sorry, sir," he said apologetically. He gestured to the door. "I-you're just leaving."
"Something you needed, George?" Murdoch asked him, pointing to a chair by his desk.
George coughed. "I, no, sir. It can wait."
Murdoch studied his right hand man. George had been through an ordeal, and with everything going on, Murdoch hadn't had much chance to talk to him about it. The younger man was still favoring the foot that had been broken. "George," he said. "Have a seat." The constable clearly needed to get something off his chest. "Is everything all right?"
George slid into his chair, but said nothing for a moment or two. Murdoch waited, wondering if George was going to say anything, and then finally, he said, "Why me, sir?"
The detective cocked his head in confusion. "Why you…what do you mean?"
"Sir," George began, "how long have we known each other?"
"About 13 years, I suppose," Murdoch said, doing the math in his head. "Why?"
"Thirteen years." George shook his head in disbelief. "My God, has it really been that long?" Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "You know what I mean," George told him, and Murdoch couldn't argue. It seemed like he'd known George Crabtree forever. "Sir, then I feel you'll be honest with me when I ask this question." He paused.
Murdoch glanced at him. "George, it's almost ten o'clock…"
"What is it about me, sir?" George burst out. "In thirteen years, I have seen three women just waltz out of my life. I have been blown up, shot at, kidnapped-" here he jumped up from his chair and began pacing the room, slowly, "-chloroformed, jailed, held at gunpoint more times than I count on my hands-"
Murdoch held up a hand with an amused smile. "George. I think I understand," he said. He watched George's face flush in embarrassment.
George took a breath and shook his head. "I just don't understand it, sir," George admitted, sinking into the chair, burying his head in his hands. "I just feel as though…though there's some higher power out to torture me!"
Murdoch offered him a sympathetic smile. "I understand, George. Better than you think." George glanced up over the top of his hands in confusion. Murdoch leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I've often wondered myself if it's time to hand in my badge."
"You, sir?" George's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Nothing every seems to rattle you, Detective."
"Let's look at the facts," the detective pointed out. He ticked them off on his fingers as he listed them off. "I've been kidnapped on three different occasions, jumped off a bridge-"
"Twice," George supplied helpfully.
Murdoch raised an eyebrow as if to say Not helping. "Accused of murder twice, chloroformed, shot at, nearly died in several of James Pendrick's contraptions," he continued, by now out of fingers. "Not to mention everything with Julia-"
"You do seem to have had a rough go of it with Dr. Ogden," George agreed. "That Poundsett fellow-which I still maintain the lads and I could've taken care of that for you-Ms. Jones, Mr. Garland-"
"Dr. Dixon," Murdoch said.
George glanced at him. "What? That fellow that works with Dr. Ogden at the hospital? When did he get involved?"
"Never mind," Murdoch said quickly. The two of them looked at each other…and then began to laugh. "We really have had a rough go of it, haven't we, George?" Murdoch said, chuckling softly.
"Suppose it's all part of the job," George sighed. He closed his eyes, resting his head on his hand. "Sir, I love my work," he said after a moment. "I'm just beginning to wonder…is it all worth it? Is all of this-" he waved a hand around the room, and looked at Murdoch seriously. "Is all of that worth it?"
The detective was quiet for a moment, considering his answer. He looked at George. The younger man looked exhausted. "Look at everyone we've helped," he said finally. "Look at the lives we've saved. All the good we've done." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "I try to think of it in that sense." He gestured at George with an open palm. "George, look at everything you've done, no matter how silly it seemed or how strange or how dirty it was in the interest of pursuing the truth."
"I highly doubt wearing a dress to shoot a pig had much to do with anything," George said morosely.
Murdoch smiled. "Yes. I do feel a little badly about that."
"The lads still give me hell for that," George reminded him.
The detective turned serious. "George, out of everyone in this station house, you are the man that I trust with my life. There's no one else in this building that I would trust to do those things. It has been my privilege to watch you and mentor you as an officer over the years."
"Bet it was a disappointment for you when I didn't make detective then," George said into his hand, not making eye contact with Murdoch.
Murdoch shook his head. "The only thing that was a disappointment was that you didn't trust me enough to tell me what had really happened until it was almost too late," he informed him. "I don't care what rank you are, George. I care that I've got my friend working beside me."
"You know that saying," George began, "something about 'God doesn't give you more than you can handle'?"
Murdoch frowned, shaking his head. "I don't recall that one in the Bible," he said.
"I don't think it's in there," George said, "I think it's just something people say. My Aunt Marigold used to say it, but that's not the point." He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I wish like hell that He didn't trust me so much!"
Murdoch laughed, getting up from his desk. "Luckily for you, George, He knows you well." He offered George a hand. The younger man eyed it before gripping it strongly and rising to his feet. "One day, George, you're going to meet a woman whose view of the future aligns with yours. One day, you're going to rise through the ranks and it wouldn't shock me if you ended up in this office one day."
"Dear Lord," George shook his head, opening the door and letting Murdoch go ahead of him. "I don't think the Inspector would appreciate that." Then he grinned. "Although it would be nice to have someone else do the digging," he said pointedly. Murdoch ducked his head in embarrassment.
The two of them walked to the front door. "Sir?" George said as they stopped in front of the door. Murdoch was tugging his gloves on, but he paused and turned to George. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm sorry for unloading on your like that."
Murdoch clapped him on the back. "Anytime, George. And thank you. Have a good evening." He pushed the door open into the chilly fall air. "George?" he called out to the constable.
George turned. "Stay out of trouble on the way back?" Murdoch told him.
George shook his head. "No promises, Sir. No promises."
Author's Note: This oneshot comes off a conversation I had with a fellow writer...also, one of those 'author ponders why show writers put her favorite character(s) through hell and wonders if the characters wonder too' quandries. I've had this conversation with a couple people that it must be a testament to the awesomness of Jonny Harris that George Crabtree has all this nonsense happen to him, because Jonny can bring all the feels and play it to the hilt!