Author's Note: I apologise for the almost one-year delay in getting the next chapter up. I am going to try to be more diligent in my posting! Obviously this is quite AU now, so don't mind me!

Thomas Brackenreid had his shoulders shrugged up so closely to his ears that they almost touched his bowler hat. Bloody Margaret. If it weren't for
her, he would be at Station House Number Four, where he truly belonged. Instead he was hunkering down like a common criminal as he made his way to Sullivan Street, feeling like an idiot. However, for all his trying to appear inconspicuous, he was drawing the eye of passers-by more than usual.
The inspector let his shoulders back down and straightened his neck. 'Walk with confidence.' He thought to himself. 'Look like you're supposed to be
here.'

He wasn't supposed to be here, and that was a fact. He wasn't insane, deranged, a pervert, some socially awkward nut. He was Inspector Thomas
Brackenreid of Station Number 4, and you didn't get where he was by seeing a bloody doctor every week. Between work, the opera, the theatre, and the frequent scotch runs, he imagined that the only people who had time for this type of poppycock were hysterical, childless wives. Maybe it was good for them, he mused. Something to occupy their time. But Thomas Brackenreid was none of these things, and he was sure this doctor would be able to see that and would tell his wife that he was a respectable man who didn't need a woman telling him that he needed 'help'.

He arrived at 235 Sullivan Street and pulled open the door. Thomas was greeted by a young plump girl, who smiled welcomingly as he removed his hat.

"Hello, and welcome to our office. Do you have an appointment with Dr. O'Hara?" She asked. Brackenreid sighed and rolled his eyes. An Irishman. Of
course Margaret would book an appointment with an Irishman. In fact, he was probably a member of the Temperance League. Wouldn't that be lovely.

"Are there any other doctors in this building?" He asked. The young lady frowned.

"No, sir."

"Then I guess I've got an appointment with Dr. O'Hara." Her pleasant smile returned, and she got up from her desk to take his jacket.

"Excellent. I will let him know you are here. Please take a seat while you wait." He took off his jacket, and settled himself into the handsomely made
wooden chairs as she disappeared. Looking around, he found the place to be uninspiring. It didn't instill a sense of uneasiness, dread or excitement.
It was as boring as any other medical office he had been in, and he had been in quite a few since his attack. His thoughts idly wandered as he gazed around, and he wondered who would want to get into this kind of business anyway. Probably just nosy buggers. Probably all the doctors like
O'Hara got together in a big Irish gab session, because the Irish like to gab, and started spreading rumours about all the nutjobs they saw. Typical
Irishmen.

"Dr. O'Hara is ready for you now.'

Dr. O'Hara turned out to be a tall, lean, delicate looking man with a splash of freckles strewn across his pale face. He has a serious air about him, Thomas thought as he settled into the chair directly across from the doctor. There was a small desk off to the side of the room, but the two men had nothing between them, and this unsettled Brackenreid. In the military and in his life in the Toronto Constabulary, he was used to being on one side or another of a desk. It was a very clear line about who held the most power, who was leading the encounter. These sorts of things needed to be established right off the bat so that everyone knew their station. Now, he was at a loss as to who started the conversation, who directed it, and who determined when it was done. He shifted uncomfortably as O'Hara carefully eyed him, and held the silence longer than Thomas would have liked.

"Mr. Brackenreid." he finally said. "Welcome to my office. I hope you found it alright." His accent was very much Canadian, with a light musical undertone that Brackenreid couldn't quite place.

"It wasn't hard to find." He muttered.

"Your wife has referred you to me."

"Yeah, but you know women. They just want you to talk all the time about what is going on in your head, and that's a bunch of bollocks. Not every
idea needs to escape my noggin. A man needs a private thought or two, you know." A small smile inched its way onto Dr. O'Hara's face.

"Of course. Why do you think Margaret wants you to come and see me?"Brackenreid shifted uncomfortable in his seat again.

"She complains that I keep waking up with nightmares. It disturbs her sleep with my tossing and turning, and getting out of bed. She says I keep
calling out in my sleep. She also says I snore. Bullocks. I do not snore."

"Is there anything else?"

"Well, of course she doesn't like my drinking. She says I drink too much, and sometimes I take a bit too much for social events. But a man has to let
his muttonchops down once in a while. She also says I yell too much – at her, at the children. She has a point about it though. I'd like to stop that." He admitted, and his thoughts longingly turned towards his scotch collection. He hadn't had his morning shot yet, and talking about it was making him itch for it.

"Why do you think you yell at your family?" Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling a little violated by such a direct question.

"My dad yelled at me. It's just how we were brought up. You get yelled at in the military. Yelling is effective. And I just become irritated sometimes. Quite often I don't mean to yell, it just seems to come out that way." Dr. O'Hara nodded.

"Tell me about your military service. I understand that you've been in quite a few campaigns across the empire?"

"Yes." Thomas sat up a little bit straight, his chest puffed slightly, as he began to recount his history. "My first campaign was in Afghanistan. I
was in the second campaign. From there I went straight into the Boer war, and then I was sent to Burma. I was part of the army, not the navy. I don't particularly like the sea. That's why I didn't settle in Nova Scotia. I wanted something that was more landlocked." The doctor nodded again.

"I fought in the Boer War as well."

"Which side?" Brackenreid demanded, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"For queen and country." He assured the inspector softly. "My father was English." Thomas felt his back relax a little, but he wasn't entirely
convinced of the man's loyalties.

"When did you start drinking heavily?"

"In the military, of course. You don't go to war without a flask." O'Hara nodded.

"What about your upsetting dreams? How often do you have them? Is there a reoccurring theme to them? When did they start?"

"After I was bludgeoned on the street last year. Its just stuff you would expect – I dream that I'm being mugged again, or being shot at by some boer with a musket. I think that's typical."

The interview continued on, and they briefly went over Thomas' coming to Canada, meeting Margaret, what he thought of his wife and marriage and
finally, whether Brackenreid thought he needed to be talking to a psychiatrist.

"Nope." He announced proudly. "I am just an ordinary bloke. I don't need any poppycock like this. I haven't murdered anyone, and I'm not some
deviant or some nutbag. I know Margaret is just worried, but she tends to get herself worked up over nothing." Dr. O'Hara seemed to peer at the inspector more deeply than he had for the previous hour.

"Well, I know your wife would feel a lot better if you came to see me on a regular basis, and I would like to chance to get to know you a bit better.
You're quite the fellow, Mr. Brackenreid." Thomas snorted.

"Of course you want me to come back. How much is that going to cost?"

"This initial visit is free, but if it is amenable to you and your wife, I would like to see you once every two weeks. The fee is two dollars."

"Bloody hell. A dollar isn't worth much anymore, is it?"

"The usual cost for a season is four dollars, Thomas. Because your wife is a good friend of mine, I am reducing my fees."

"Well, don't bother doing me any favours, doctor." The inspector rose unceremoniously from his chair and swung open the door. "My jacket!" he
barked at the receptionist, who jumped and quickly ran to retrieve it. And with that, his first, and last, visit to the head doctor was done.

William was not a man to procrastinate, and when he did it was for a very good reason. He was willing to concede, however, that in this instance, it
was purely indecision that held him back. The choosing of one's wedding party was not to be trifled with, and he had been unsure of exactly who he
had wanted in the wedding party, and out of those who would be his best man. He had debated about choosing a man from church, but word that he was marrying a non-Catholic woman had cooled many attitudes towards him, and even though he knew that they would be pleased Julia was converting, he didn't care for such blatant ridiculousness. He had considered someone at the police station, and indeed that seemed like an obvious choice, but he often felt there was an obvious disconnect from the rest of the station, and he wanted to arrive before God at the altar with a man he truly respected. After all, if he was going to have the most amazing woman on the planet walking towards him, he needed a matching groomsman. Understandably, James Pendrick greeted William with a very confused expression.

"Detective? I never thought I would see you darken my doorway again." He leaned against the large marble columns in his foyer, smoking a cigar idly.

"I'm not here on police business." James snorted.

"If you've come here to ask for some art advice, I'd beg you to remember that Sally has long since shown her true colours and fled, and I still
don't have the faintest clue what it is all about." Murdoch smiled and removed his hat.

"I actually had a favour to ask of you." James looked surprised, and then amused."Of course you do. What is it?" William had practised the words, but in the moment he found them to be jumbled. So he took a deep breath and the words came in a dull, and uninspired request.

"Will you be the best man at my wedding?" For once, James was speechless. His cigar hung between his slackened fingers, his brow furrowed like he was trying to figure out a particularly elusive joke.

"Well?" The detective asked after a few moments of silence.

"Why me?" He demanded. "Surely you have some sort of constable you could rope into doing this. Or some sort of... religious friend?"

"You are a man of excellent taste, and I probably need a little more of that quality." James brought his cigar to his lips as William clenched his hat tightly, examining the detective thoroughly.

"You're Catholic?" He asked. William nodded. "Does this mean that I have to convert?"

"Julia is, but it isn't expected of the wedding party." Pendrick looked at William pensively for another moment, then broke out into a smile.

"Well, we certainly have some work to do, William!"

"How did you think the panel did?" George asked Emily as they strolled down Spadina Avenue.

"I quite liked James Durand, the explorer. He just seemed open to a world of possibilities, and that is what I think the afterlife is."

"How so?" George asked, his soft eyes focused on Emily.

"Well," Emily readjusted her grip on George's arm. "When members of the metaphysics society have gone under, they all seem to have different way of experiencing the afterlife. One person met with Thomas Addison. When Murdoch accidentally went to the afterlife, he described it as heaven. It seemed like what they thought would happen came true. So perhaps the afterlife is relative to your perception of what it should be." George
smiled.

"Emily, you are the most fascinating woman I have ever met." Emily felt uncomfortable under his praise, and the way his eyes would light up when he was delighted with her. She had quite the odd relationship with the constable. On one hand, he was the only one she had told about the Metaphysics Society, and the trouble they had gotten into with Detective Murdoch. She knew he would understand, and that her oddities were safe with him, and she couldn't help but love someone who was so open and accepting. On the other hand, when he looked at her longingly, Emily couldn't help but turn her head and hope that her irritation didn't show through. It wasn't a problem that was unique to George, however. She had felt the same toward Jerome, although she didn't like him on a personal level nearly as much as she appreciated the young constable. Leslie Garland was another failed attempt of hers to feel what she heard other women talking about. Initially, there seemed to be some sort of raw sexuality that Emily had been drawn to, but the more time she spent with him, the more bored she became with the remaining Garland as well. She regretted that affair for the hurt that it had caused George, as it had been very selfish of her to simply leave him dangling while she went off gallivanting with his rival. Now she had come to accept that this was most likely it - that she was expecting too much from a relationship, and that falling in love wasn't a
magical experience for everyone. She loved George in her own way, and perhaps that was all the mattered.

"What do you think you will see when it's your turn to shuffle off?" George's voice returned her to their conversation, and Emily was taken
back. She hadn't actually considered what she would see, were her hypothesis true.

"That is an excellent question, George. I'm not sure. What about you?"

"I would see a world like on earth, but instead of the social order being what it is now, it would be topsy-turvy. The poor street urchins would be kings, and evil men would become the slaves. And it wouldn't matter if you were a man, or a woman, or a Negro, or an Indian, or short, or tall, or
wealthy, or poor. The only way that you would get ahead was by the strength of your character." Emily nodded.

"Where do you think you would be in that society, George?"

"I think I am a good man. Not a great man, but a good one. So maybe it would be exactly like it is here on earth - I would be a copper, living
comfortably, and doing what I do best." Emily smiled fondly at her suitor.

"I think you would be a king in that world, George." He looked a little surprised, but they stopped for a moment on the corner of Spadina and
Queens and smiled tenderly at one another. Then, Emily heard it.

"George, is that Julia's voice?" she asked, just as another laugh went up, followed by a charming "You are incorrigible!" George's face widened.

"I think you're right!" The couple instinctively moved closer to the building, and carefully peered around the corner. They saw Julia
approaching Queen Street from Beverly Street, and her arm was linked with that of a man that Emily didn't recognize. The man was about Julia's
height, slender, and looked to have dark hair, but the only other distinguishing thing Emily could tell was that he had a decorative rattan
cane that was obviously not needed for walking. She wasn't sure if Julia and her companion continued to talk or not, because she felt her face get
red and her collar get hot as the blood rushed to her head. Emily was hurt and furious, and she wasn't sure why. All she knew was that she felt sick to her stomach, and part of her wanted to bash the man in with his trendy cane, and part of her wanted to run until she felt exhausted, and then run some more until she couldn't feel anything.

"Emily?" George's cautious voice called her back to reality again.

"What?" She snapped.

"Was that... what it looked like...?" His voice trailed off.

"How should I know, George? You're the constable, why don't you tell me!"

"Emily, don't bite my head off." He retorted. Emily sighed, and began walking again, this time at a hurried pace.

"After all that scandal with her seeing William while her marriage with Darcy was on the rocks, and she has the nerve to start hanging around with
yet another man. Did you know she's converting to Catholicism? Because the priest finds her past so horrifying? Now she's off being courted before
William even gets her to the altar. The nerve!" Emily kept blathering, because she felt tears begin to prick her eyes, and she knew that if she
let her rage turn into sorrow they would come out.

"Emily, Emily, hold on!" George had to break into a light jog to keep up. "Maybe this isn't what it looks like. Let's not be hasty with our
judgements." The young doctor stopped suddenly and took a few deep breaths.

"You're right George. She is our friend, we must give her the benefit of the doubt." She whirled around to face him, and rubbed at her eyes to
dispel the tears that had been itching at the corners. "I will see Julia tomorrow, and I will ask her about it. Not a word to Detective Murdoch
before then, alright?"

"Of course not Emily. They've been through so much that the last thing I want to do is break the poor man's heart again. I am sure Dr. Ogden has a
very rational explanation for what we saw." Emily nodded in agreement, and George offered his arm once again, but Emily refused to uncross hers, and simply started walking back to her boarding house.

Pendrick's first order of business was a celebratory round of drinks at The Lion's Heart, a den of iniquity that William would have preferred to avoid.
James had grabbed William and taken him inside the house and made him painstakingly go over every aspect of the wedding which, William had to
admit, wasn't much. He had a church, a bride and some flowers. James had tried to persuade him to get married at Sacred Heart, the more stunning
Catholic church in Toronto, but William had steadfastly put his foot down. He was sure that James was merely storing his mental willpower to come back to the subject later, but the wealthy inventor was shocked when he learned William didn't plan on buying another suit for his wedding, and offended when he learned that William confessed he hadn't had a single pint with the lads in celebration.

"We did have a few shots, the constables and I, at the station, before we went back to work." James raised his eyebrows

"A whole shot? To yourself, William?" The detective had squirmed, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with his best man.

"Well, I took a sip of it. I let the inspector do the rest of my shot for me." James had sighed and rested his head on his hand.

"William, you are incompetent, and that is OK. It's a bit late now, but better late than never."

The entire conversation had ended with James driving the two of them back to the police station, and him single-handedly inviting every member of the station out to The Lion's Heart for William's engagement party.

By the time William arrived there that evening, half the station was already there. He was dismayed to note that George and Inspector
Brackenreid hadn't quite made it yet. It wasn't that he actively disliked any of the others, but George was such an affable, outgoing man that he was
really the only constable that he had a personal connection with, and he felt a sort of filial loyalty to the Yorkshireman. William didn't feel like making small talk with the rest of the station, but he knew that trying to be more personable probably wouldn't hurt him. He grimly sighed and
resolved to take a barstool next to Higgins. Who knew, maybe one of the constables would surprise him with their pithiness and intelligence.

"Sir." Henry said in surprise, eyeing William with part apprehension and part mirth. "I know its your engagement party, but we had a bet going on
that you wouldn't even show up." The detective shrugged.

"You're just a sore loser Henry!" Worseley slapped his coworker on the back and grinned at William.

"Alright lads, the next round is on Murdoch."

"Constable, I don't-"

"Its Jack out here, William! 4 pints for us, good barkeep!"

"Coming right up!" Murdoch sighed as the rest of the station lit up in giggles. He already regretted coming here, and he made a note to put down
his foot more securely with his overly-involved groomsmen. However, he suddenly heard a familiar voice to his far right.

"I'd like five pints. Well, maybe I'll get four. Lauren isn't here yet. Except maybe Fred will want two. He is quite a drinker. Do you know what?
Give me six pints. Six will be good." Timothy Wells was in this bar, ordering alcohol. If William's memory served, it appeared that two of his
alibis had come back from out of mentally prayed to God, thanking Him for this sudden turn in the case. In his line of work, so many breaks and solved cases were really due to being in the right place at the right time, and William was grateful that God continued to put him exactly where he needed to be.

Timothy kept running pints back to his table, and was utterly unconcerned with William. He sat with three other men, and while the detective couldn't hear their conversation over the din of the bar, it looked very typical. The men, all unfamiliar to him, looked jovial and excited, like men often get when they have a few rounds in them. None of them stood out in any way, and William felt almost cheated by this. Why was he here if there was nothing remarkable about the group?

The other constables tried to engage him in conversation, but William grunted each time and eventually they turned their backs on him. Eventually, George came in, still dressed in his cop regalia.

"Gentlemen, we -" George cut himself off as he noticed the drink sitting by the detective. "Sir, are you drinking?"

"No George. Here, take this pint."

"Bill, as I now call him, bought us a round of drinks!" Henry boasted, his pink cheeks impossibly high as he smiled. George shot a disgusted look at him.

"For the love of the virgin Henry, how could you be so inconsiderate? This man is planning a wedding! He doesn't have the money to buy you lot a round of drinks! Don't you know how expensive these things can run? And honestly, the cheek of getting your superior to foot the bill for a round of - you know what? Never mind. Lads, we're needed on number 25 Queen's Street. Another murder has occurred."

"All of us?" Henry whined. George shot him another withering look, and was about the reply when William cut him off.

"Not all of us. Higgens and Brockwell can come with me. The rest can stay. However, George, please come outside with me." George gave the detective a fleeting look which William couldn't quite describe. It was the same look that the constable have given him when he learned that Julia had refused his proposal, a pity mixed with a genuine empathy that only George could pull off. William ignored it and quickly rushed George outside as the other two constables groaned and begrudgingly donned their coats.

"George, in the left wing of the bar is a blond, slender man sitting with 3 other men right now. More should be joining. He was someone I interviewed
from the Coswell case, and he came off as suspicious. I need you to get into some plain clothes and watch them. Pick one of the other constables to watch them with you. Follow them when they leave this bar. If they go in separate directions, follow the blond." Crabtree nodded.

"Sir, when do I stop following them?"

"Either when they sleep or when they lead you to something of note, George."

"William!" A booming voice called out. "Sorry to be late, I had a little unexpected trouble. I hope you have a good start on me!" James smiled
charismatically, and William shook his head.

"I am sorry, James, but there has been another murder that I must attend to. However, there are still a few from station four at the bar if you wish
to stay." James sighed.

"Ever married to the job, William. I respect that in a man, but you really do need to drink more." Higgins and Brockwell emerged from the tavern, and William gave his best man a curt nod.

"Noted. We do have to be off now. Thank you for organizing my party, it has been quite a lovely evening." James rolled his eyes.

"Well, get on with it then." And the three men ran into the night to find what awaited them.