Thank you so much to everyone reading - I can't tell you how much I appreciate the views and especially the feedback. (Hi, RG! You're keeping me going! And thank you Kiki!) We'll know tomorrow night how much I got wrong (a lot, I hope). Thanks to ReaderofMuch on the MM Discord for the ideas about Watts' crisis of faith in Chapter 2. Here's the third and final chapter. Please review!

Henry Higgins was beside himself. He had not stopped pacing about the room since he had found the towels to soak up George's blood, and by now he was nearly hyperventilating. It had been bad enough when he'd thought George dead three years ago—the empty desk across from him in the bullpen a constant reminder of the man's absence—but to know now that it might be vacant for good, by his own hand… it was too much to bear.

"I killed him, sir. I killed George. I killed my best friend." He started to rock back and forth.

"Shut it, Higgins," the inspector told him, not unkindly this time, and tried to guide him to a chair, though they both steered far clear of the one where George had been held captive for days. "He was alive when he left here and Doctor Ogden will look after him. He couldn't be in better hands. He'll be right as rain before you know it."

"No, it's my fault," sniffled Effie. "I should never have pushed him to publish that book. He was so reluctant. I should have listened to him."

"It wasn't you, Effie. I'm the one who pulled the trigger. I'm the one responsible."

Brackenreid was losing patience. "Enough, both of ye. Higgins! Crabtree's not dead. You shot the one who was completely off her trolley. She's the one who shot Crabtree. Now we don't make a rule of firing first, and I'll gladly fire you if you ever do it again, but if you hadn't done it this time, Crabtree would be dead. Now he's got a fighting chance."

Henry looked up, his eyes full of sadness and hope. "You really think so, sir?"

"I do indeed, Higgins."

Henry took a deep breath. The inspector was almost never this kind to him. Sometimes it was easy to forget how much he cared about his men.

"And as for you, Miss Newsome"—she lifted her tear-stained face to the older man, and he took her hand—"you've not done George wrong either. His book is a great success, and you couldn't have known about… this." He gestured toward Amelia's body, and Henry thought he saw him shudder. "Like I said. He'll be right as rain. Now both of you. Get it together and we'll go wait for news at the hospital."

Henry felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Watts. The compassion in the man's eyes was overwhelming. I know what it's like, he said without words. Something loosened in Henry's chest, and he started to cry.

Thomas Brackenreid shuffled into the house, laid his hat on the table, loosened his tie, and sank into a chair. He was thoroughly, utterly knackered.

He heard his wife approach behind him, and grunted. "Margaret." He hoped she had no bones to pick with him this evening. If she did, he would just let her win. He thought he might fall asleep for the night in this very chair. It seemed such a chore to make his way up to bed.

"Thomas," she answered, and came around the side of his chair into his field of view. She handed him a glass of scotch.

His eyebrows rose in amazement. Margaret, Temperance League member, handing me a drink?

She sat down next to him and regarded him kindly. "Is he going to be all right?"

He drew a deep breath. "Crabtree? He'll be right as rain." He took a mouthful of the amber liquid and held it for a moment on his tongue, taking pleasure in the peaty burn. Ah, there it is. A bit of the day's tension drained out of him.

Margaret smirked a little. "You always say that, Thomas. How is he, really?"

"He's—wait. How d'ye know we found him?"

Her smirk grew into a smile. "I have my sources at the Constabulary."

"I thought I was your source at the Constabulary!"

"Well, yes, Thomas, but you're not the only one." There was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

He shook his head. He hadn't any energy to push her on this one tonight. He'd have to find the leak later.

"George is alive. Barmy woman read his book and decided he stole her mother when he was a mere lad. Had him tied to a chair the whole time he was missing. Broke his foot. Drugged him. Never fed him. Barely even gave him water. Shot him in the neck when we showed up. If Higgins hadn't shot her first, Crabtree'd have the bullet in his head. He made it through surgery, but he'll need a lot of rest."

Saying it all out loud brought tears to his eyes. He'd seen so much pain in his time in Afghanistan, his decades in the Constabulary, but this kind of prolonged, deliberate torment of a man he'd come to respect deeply… it disgusted him beyond words. Margaret laid a hand on his arm, and the couple sat for a few minutes, neither saying a thing.

Margaret finally broke the silence. "He's a good man, Tom."

Tom stared at her in disbelief. "You're just full of surprises tonight, aren't you, Margaret. I mean, after that tinned meat fiasco, I thought you couldn't stand the little bugger."

"Thomas!" She swatted his arm. "Language!"

He smiled. "You knew what you were getting into when you married me, woman."

She softened, and ran her fingers down his arm to clasp his hand. "I won that cooking contest fair and square. George Crabtree may have a competitive streak, and he may not be anywhere near the chef that I am, but that doesn't mean I've not grown fond of him. I do wish him well."

"That's quite decent of you, Margaret. He's a good man indeed." He lifted the glass again, and drained it. "Higgins nearly did a jig on hearing that he'd live."

"Higgins!" Margaret snorted, clearly picturing the constable's little dance.

Thomas exhaled. There was so much more on his mind. There was still the matter of Robert Parker, and Violet Hart, but he decided against telling her about it quite yet. It would be in the papers soon enough, and God knew how it was going to go. Tonight he just wanted to sleep.

Margaret got up and kissed his forehead before she headed to the stairs. "Come to bed."

"I'll be along. I need some time to sit."

"Very well, but don't dally." She disappeared. Beloved Margaret.

Perhaps he'd have another dram.

Effie sat at her desk staring at the file in front of her, willing herself to open it. The senior partner of the firm had told her this case was one that could make or break her fledgling career as a criminal defence lawyer, and he was taking a major risk entrusting her with its success. The future and the reputation of the firm were at stake.

She stared at the folder for a while, thinking its brown shade would make for a lovely frock. Perhaps with some teal piping here and there. Enough frivolity, Effie Newsome. Get to work.

She was still most distracted by the events of the previous few days. George was found, and safely ensconced in a hospital bed, attended to by (God help him) Effie's flighty cousin Ruth, though (fortunately for George, she thought) Doctor Ogden had mostly been keeping him sedated to let his body heal.

The nature of George's neck wound was less serious than Julia had feared, and she had repaired the damaged vein with only a few stitches. She came out of the operating room to report that although he would almost certainly survive if he could resist infection, he was still terribly weak and in need of blood. Effie was moved to see all the lads in the bullpen line up to have blood drawn to see if they were compatible.

In the end, Henry was the match. He was elated. He looked like a weight came off him when Julia asked him to donate. Maybe Dim Cousin-in-Law is not such a nincompoop after all…

After the transfusion, George was already looking better: the blood restored some of his colour, and the Ringer's solution that the nurses attached to the intravenous line afterwards was rehydrating him and helping a great deal with the sunken cheeks. Ruth had managed to get a few cups of Mellin's Food into him between doses of sedative. A Doctor Phillips, apparently a specialist in orthopaedics, had looked at George's foot and determined that it might be numb for a day or two, and was not to support an ounce of weight for at least six weeks, but would almost certainly heal well.

I suppose I shall be called upon to wait on him hand and, well, foot. Effie chased the thought away, slightly ashamed that it had arisen at all. The inspector was right—she could never have imagined anything like this might come out of pushing George to publish his book—but looking after George as he convalesced from this debacle would be the very least she could do. She would have to make sure he stayed off his injured foot. He can't always be trusted to do what's best for himself.

Julia had practically shooed her from the hospital, assuring her that George was in good hands. "Right now, the things he needs most are fluids, food, rest, and time. You mentioned a new case? Go look after yourself, and your work." She gave Effie a knowing, sympathetic look, and her tone turned faintly bitter. "You know as well as I do that we professional women can't be seen as second-best." Effie had ruefully nodded in agreement, and gone home to freshen up before heading to the office.

She forced herself to open the folder so she could start reviewing the file. Violet Hart, the City Coroner, was up on a charge of culpable homicide in the death of Special Constable Robert Parker, and she was entrusted with Miss Hart's defence. This case was going to be a corker. She could practically see Louise rubbing her hands and salivating at the prospect of the juicy court reporting.

It was a shame about Mr. Parker. George had spoken highly of the man more than once, and Effie he hoped she would not have to be the one to break the news of his murder, let alone her role in Miss Hart's defence. She suspected he would not take either well. Best to protect him for the moment while he recovers.

This would likely get ugly.

Julia had warned William that George was still far from his usual cheerful, outgoing self. He was on the mend, yes, but so far he was spending most of his time asleep. Now and then he was awake enough for Ruth to feed him, but he was still addled enough from the painkillers that so far he had seemed to have little idea of where he was or who was with him.

Julia had already stopped the morphine hours ago, knowing he didn't tolerate the withdrawal well. The last thing his exhausted body needed at the moment was violent nausea. She would keep him on the laudanum, though, for a few more days at least. His pulse was strong and steady, his neck was healing well, and the swelling on his foot was coming down. He was going to be all right.

She led her husband into the room, kissed him on the cheek, and quietly took her leave.

William sat down at George's bedside. The bandages around George's neck concealed for the most part the mottled bruises at his throat, but his purple, cast-encased foot hung suspended in midair, the most visible reminder of his ordeal. For a while, William just watched George's chest rise and fall, taking solace in his regular, effortless breaths. He, more than most people, had a visceral understanding of what George had been through.

William briefly recalled his own captivity at the hands of Eva Pearce, and shivered. He had never felt so vulnerable, or so alone. Perhaps speaking about their similar experiences at some point in the future would benefit them both. He knew Julia would surely think so.

He reached out a hand and clasped George's arm. Be well, my friend.

George opened his eyes.

"Sir." His voice was husky and rough.

"William," William corrected him. Elation surged through him like a wave. He's awake.

For a moment, the man in the bed looked confused. "No, I'm George."

Murdoch smiled despite himself. "I'm well aware, George. I'm William. No need for rank here."

The ghost of a smile pulled at a corner of George's mouth. "Of course. William, then. Hello, sir."

Murdoch chuckled. "How are you keeping? Are you in pain?"

George thought for a while, and responded slowly. "Nnno, I don't think so. My foot itches."

"Good. Very good. Julia appears to have gotten the dosage of the laudanum right."

"Julia." He looked around the room, for the first time aware of his surroundings. "I… I… hospital."

"Yes, George. You'll likely be here several more days, perhaps a week, and off your foot for at least five more. You need plenty of rest. The inspector says you can take all the time you need. Julia and Miss Newsome are taking excellent care of you."

"Effie," George agreed, and the left side of his mouth quirked upward.

"Not Effie. Ruth. Ruth is your nurse."

George blanched a little, and gave another slight smile. "Good Lord." He closed his eyes again.

"Julia says she's doing a good job." He squeezed his friend's arm once more. "I'll leave you be, George. You need sleep." William started to stand up from the chair.

"Not… yet, sir. William."

He sat back down. "What is it, George?"

"Amelia. Where… is she."

"She's in the morgue."

George's eyes grew wide. "The morgue."

"She's dead, George. Henry saved your life by ending hers."

"Oh. Oh." There was a long pause as George considered the news. "Thank… him for me… won't you?"

"I will. I will. And soon you'll be able to do it yourself."

"She was… most unwell."

"Clearly. George, I'm… glad she did not succeed in her intentions toward you."

"As am I."

Another long pause as the two men kept a companionable silence. William had decided days ago that he would not tell George about the other body in the morgue until he absolutely had to. Best to keep him in the dark about that one as long as we can.

Finally he spoke. "I went to see Mrs. Keening. I've brought you something, George."

One eye opened. "My landlady? What's that, then?"

Murdoch smiled, remembering George's dedication to the favourite possession that he had lugged all the way to and from Haileybury because he couldn't sleep without it. William reached into the canvas bag he had with him, and handed George his pillow.