A/N: If you have already binged all six episodes of Season 4, you might have felt the keen disappointment I did at how they left things. I can't believe we have to possibly wait another year to find out what will become of them. Here is what I hope will happen, set six months later.

Halfway There

Chapter 1: Eliza

Six months.

It had been six months since William had kissed her and fled for New York. Maybe fled wasn't the precise word for it, thought Eliza Scarlet, staring blankly at the wall from the lonely spot behind her desk. He'd simply left her, saying goodbye for now. She'd had months to consider whether his leaving had been for the best. In her heart, she thought not, but realistically…perhaps he'd been right, though she wasn't quite ready to admit that to herself yet, and certainly not to William.

When she'd finally decided to get over her anger and answer his letters, the words she'd longed to share with him in person came pouring out, and from then on, she'd sent a letter a week, writing a little each evening, telling of her day, imagining he was beside her on the settee before the fire, sipping whiskey and laughing softly at her adventures and mishaps. She missed that—missed so many things, in fact, that she'd become a veritable watering pot when she was alone with her thoughts. She missed the way his eyes crinkled at her when he smiled, or on the occasion of a rare laugh. She missed his grumpiness in the morning, his obvious frustration when she attempted to pull one over on him, and even his fury when she succeeded. She missed arguing with him, debating, yelling (his), the excitement when they worked together on a case, the way they worked so well when they weren't annoyed with one another, and sometimes, even when they were.

But mostly, Eliza missed his friendship.

She still had Ivy, thank goodness, but no other real friends. William had been an irritating constant in her life since she'd been sixteen, and now her life was as empty as her purse these days. Since re-opening her own business, she'd had only enough cases to keep food on the table and (barely) pay the bills. Patrick Nash was in Newgate awaiting trial, and she visited him from time to time, but their once easygoing relationship was strained, even though he tried to smile and make droll observations of prison life. It wasn't the same. Blast it, nothing was the same! Her world had been turned completely upside down, and she hadn't felt so lost since her father had died.

And it was all due to William's absence. If he'd wanted her to understand what her life was like without him, well, that plan had succeeded beautifully. If he'd wanted their separation to wake her up to how much she'd taken him for granted, well, that had been a smashing success as well. But did his secondment in New York make her want to chuck her business and become the model wife and mother he'd always claimed he wanted? No. At least, not really. Not in the way that he wanted.

"There must be a compromise in this somehow," she said aloud to her empty office. "There must be a way we can be together and both still have what we want. Who says we cannot? Society? Tradition? Or merely William himself? All I know is that it is not I."

She picked up the most recent letter from William, written in his careful handwriting. She remembered how her father had worked with him to improve his penmanship, telling him that if a man wished to be taken seriously, he must be able to express himself in writing—and part of that meant others could clearly read it. William had taught himself the basics of reading and writing as a boy, never having had any formal schooling but desirous of improving his circumstances, even then. He'd once confided in Eliza that he'd lifted a primer and a slate from a rich boy's satchel when he was ten on the streets of Glasgow.

William's handwriting now was just like the man—beautiful and concise. Despite his expression of love before he'd left, both in person and in the farewell letter she'd found on the mantle, he rarely wrote of his feelings, filling his pages instead with the cases he was working on and the strangeness that was the New York Police Department. Everywhere there were whiffs of corruption, he wrote, and while the Chief of the Detective Bureau had a brilliant mind for solving crimes, his interrogation methods were on the brutal side. William felt he was learning more what not to do, which, while valuable, seemed also a waste of his time there.

"Perhaps he has had enough of this silliness," she said, her heartbeat quickening, "and will come home sooner." She continued to read his letter, attempting to look through his words to find any hidden intentions:

At least here, there are forty other detectives, so I do not feel overextended, as I did at Scotland Yard. Also, there are no female detectives pestering me at all hours, stealing my cases or purloining confidential documents from my desk.

I miss that.

I miss you Eliza.

Yours,

William

She smiled, but then she felt her eyes water. She laid her head on her arms and wept.

"I miss you too, William. So very, very much."

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Three days later, she was crying for a different reason as she stood up for Ivy and Barnabus Potts during their wedding in the little chapel of St. Margaret. Ivy was lovely as Eliza had ever seen her, in a white, gently bustled dress of satin and lace that the bride had made herself, the fabric a wedding present from the groom. She carried a spring bouquet of daffodils and hyacinths that sweetly perfumed the air as she walked down the aisle to meet a teary-eyed Barnabus and a smiling rector. It was a small wedding, with only a few guests from Ivy's church and acquaintances of Mr. Potts, including Coroner Wormsley and none other than Detective Fitzroy. There would be a simple wedding breakfast before the couple would catch the train to Hackney for a brief visit with Ivy's mother, too ill to make the wedding, then on to a seaside honeymoon in Devon.

At a reserved table at Gilbert's restaurant, Detective Oliver Fitzroy asked Eliza if he might sit beside her. She smiled her agreement, and he took his place. She was happy to be near another who held William in such high esteem, and hoped he might share some news she did not know.

"How are things at Scotland Yard?" she asked pleasantly, taking a dainty sip of asparagus soup. "Any cases I might help with?"

Fitzroy frowned. "If only there were, Miss Scarlet. We are still banned from having outside investigators assisting us, despite how much we could use them."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a bit of free time lately, so I'd be happy to help you if something comes up—purely pro bono. No one need know but we two." I need something to occupy my time and my mind, she thought desperately.

He smiled and blushed a little, as he always did on the receiving end of her wide smile and sparkling blue eyes. "Thank you, Miss Scarlet; I'll surely keep that in mind."

The second course of the simple meal was served: cold chicken, rice, sautéed spinach and peas. Eliza was so grateful that Mr. Potts had been a frugal bachelor, but had been generous with this, the first wedding for both of them. Lord knew Eliza had no money to provide anything half as nice, and Ivy deserved the very best. Over dessert, a lemon curd filled sponge cake, Eliza's wish was granted, and Fitzroy brought up Inspector Wellington.

"I've been writing to Inspector Wellington since he left," he informed her, "telling him all the news from the Yard. He's responded a time or two."

Eliza thought of the stack of letters she'd received from William, tied together with a scarlet ribbon in her desk. "I'm sure he's quite busy. What news from New York?" She tried to sound as casual as she could, but Fitzroy gave her a knowing look that had her blushing this time.

"He doesn't sound too happy with his placement, so much so that I find I'm grateful I didn't get the position myself."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? You had applied?"

"Yes, but I was refused for want of experience. But please know I hold no malice against Inspector Wellington; he certainly deserved the secondment more than I." Eliza hadn't known this information, and she briefly patted his hand in sympathy, selfishly wishing Fitzroy had gotten the placement instead of William.

"Perhaps a better position will become available to you soon."

"Thank you, Miss Scarlet, as do I." He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer to Eliza. "I don't think the inspector had been happy at Scotland Yard either, if you want to know the truth of it, especially after being shot. I share this only to let you know of my concern for his welfare."

Eliza nodded. This certainly wasn't news to her. "So you mentioned before. As you know, he had felt overworked and understaffed before he'd been—before that," she said, shuddering to think of that moment Fitzroy had given her the terrible news, his shirt stained with William's blood. Her heart had jumped into her throat, and she'd felt faint as the shock of it had set in. And the pain of watching Wiliam's pale face as he lay for a week in a coma—it physically pained her to remember it now, even six months later.

"I uh, think he needed a change of scenery," she added. A change from her as well, she thought, the bitterness she'd tried to tamp down momentarily rearing its ugly head.

"Yes, I think you're right."

"Has Inspector Wellington given you any reason to think he might cut short his secondment?" she dared ask, not even trying now to be coy.

"Not in so many words. But one thing I've learned about Inspector Wellington—he's tenacious, and not one for giving up or backing away from a commitment."

"You're right, of course." He would just tell a lady he loves her and then run off to a foreign country to escape her.

They finished their meal, and it soon came time to say farewell to the bride and groom. A rented carriage pulled up to the restaurant, decorated with ribbons and flowers by Eliza herself—her only contribution to the wedding expenses. She kissed and hugged Ivy, both of them tearful and Ivy radiantly happy. Ivy had all but given up hope of finding a husband, and now at long last she'd found someone who loved her and cared for her, would provide for her and see that she didn't live the rest of her life alone.

"You sure you'll be all right on your own," Ivy asked softly.

"It's only two weeks. You've been longer than that with your mother when she's been ill. Don't worry about me. Enjoy your time with your husband."

"All right then. Now I've baked bread for the week, and there's still some ham and pork pies—"

"Ivy, I can manage to feed myself. I finally mastered the boiled egg, remember?"

Ivy looked unashamedly skeptical, but embraced her again nonetheless. "Well, don't burn down the house. Goodbye, sweet girl."

"Goodbye. I love you very much, and I'm so happy for you both."

She gave the groom a kiss on the cheek that had the man sputtering, before he helped his wife into the carriage and they were on their way to the train station. Eliza and the others threw handfuls of rice for luck, the small party sending them off with cheers and waves.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eliza spent a lonely afternoon in her quiet office before giving up for the day and trudging home to an equally empty house. For supper, she ate a pork pie and heated up a can of soup before retiring to the sitting room with a cup of tea. She comforted herself with the thought that she would not be alone for long. A few weeks before Ivy's wedding, Eliza had offered the newlyweds the use of her parents' old rooms. Mr. Potts had long lived in a two-room bachelor's flat down the street from the Coroner's Office—no place for a woman like Ivy to take up housekeeping—and Eliza had been more than willing to have Mr. Potts move in than to be completely without Ivy. It would certainly be an adjustment, but Mr. Potts had been at her home so often in the last few months, especially at mealtimes, that Eliza had become grudgingly used to him, and, indeed, they'd become much more civil with each other, for Ivy's sake.

At first, Ivy had refused the offer, especially about the use of her beloved employers' bedchamber, but Eliza insisted. The bedroom and small adjoining sitting room upstairs had been respectfully left unused, just as her father had left it, and Ivy's room in the downstairs servants' quarters was too small for a newly-wedded couple to take up residence.

"It makes more practical sense for the two of you to have those unused rooms, Ivy."

At her continued hesitancy, Eliza rushed to reassure her.

"Father and Mother would have wished no less for you. You have always been more like family to us, and I—I want it to be that way in truth. Please. I couldn't bear to be without you, and for all you've done for me, often staying here and working without pay—the least I can do is offer you a real home. And feel free to make those rooms just as you and Barnabus would like them. It would genuinely make me happy—unless of course you would like to make your home with your new husband elsewhere. I would certainly understand—"

"Oh Lizzie! This has been weighing heavily on me, the thought of leaving you, of leaving this house. You're like the daughter I never had, and I'd be worried sick if I had to leave you alone."

By then, both women were crying and holding hands across the kitchen table.

"It's settled then," said Eliza.

"I'll have to discuss it with Barnabus of course. We'd spoken about letting a house a few blocks away."

"Well, if you can't convince him, I have my ways…"

Ivy shook her head. "Don't even think about it, young lady. I have my ways too," she said mysteriously, a rather scandalous gleam in her eye.

Eliza blushed and laughed, for the first time thinking of Ivy in a completely new light—that of a wife as well as an adopted mother.

And so, a few days before the wedding, Barnabus Potts moved most of his things into Eliza's house. Over luncheon that day, the three of them spoke at the table.

"I'll insist upon paying the rent, of course," Mr. Potts announced, brooking no arguments.

"And if we are to be a real family," Ivy added, a catch in her voice, "I'll no longer take a salary from you, my girl."

"But Ivy. Barnabus—I—"

"Think nothing of it," said Ivy. "I'll continue on as before, doing all the cooking—"

"Thank God," said Mr. Potts under his breath. Ivy gave him a typical withering look, and her fiancée immediately shut his mouth.

"—and all my usual chores," Ivy continued. "You must use your money to keep your business going, Lizzie, and to spend on yourself as you see fit."

"But—"

Ivy held up a hand. "No arguments."

"Yes ma'am," said Eliza, her lips flirting with a smile at her bossiness. "But as business increases, I will certainly contribute to the household as much as I can. That's what family's do, after all."

And so it was decided.

Until the happy couple returned, however, Eliza must get used to her own company. From her bag she brought out the bundle of William's letters she'd brought from her office, hoping to pass the evening with her mind focused on what was happening with the man she loved, far across the sea. For of course she loved him—had done since the moment she'd first seen him—and certainly when he'd kissed her twelve years ago. The feeling had become such a part of herself that she rarely need acknowledge it. In fact, she'd often suppressed it, knowing in her heart that she and William wanted two different things from life, so a union between them was unlikely. Instead, she'd relied on their friendship, their monthly dinners, their shared love of detective work to soothe her lonely heart. Now, all that had been pulled from beneath her, and she was left with nothing but letters and the torment of knowing he loved her too, but that nothing could be done about it.

She'd been so speechless when Wiliam had confessed his feelings that she hadn't even been able to say it back, and the double announcement of his leaving had been such a crushing blow that she'd been too angry to satisfy him with saying the words herself. Top that off with a kiss that had turned her legs to jam and her mind to mush, and she'd let him walk out into the rain with only a goodbye between them. She hadn't been able to bring herself to even write the words in a letter. But now, she was just…tired.

And lonely.

And a little afraid.

She spent the evening re-reading Williams letters, and the more she read, the more she missed him and the more she felt she'd go mad if she didn't see him again, didn't tell him in person that yes, she loved him, that yes, she wanted to be with him, that yes, she wanted to find a way to make it work between them. She was tired of her own stubbornness. She was lonely for their friendship, their connection. And she was a little afraid of the possibility that he would never return home, or that she lacked the courage to ever tell him how he made her feel, thus, losing him forever.

So, in the middle of the night, when the last of her tears had dried, Eliza began to pack.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

With the money Barnabus Potts had thoughtfully left her for incidentals in an envelope on the kitchen table, she bought her ticket on The Atlantic, a passenger steamer line bound for New York City. The voyage was to take about eight days. On her way to the pier, she stopped to post a letter to Ivy, addressed to the inn they would be staying at in Devon, and sent a note by messenger to Detective Fitzroy, knowing that he might worry should he come looking for her and he couldn't find her. She wondered if he would be surprised at the suddenness of her journey. Probably not, she surmised; Fitzroy was becoming a rather good detective.

All during the voyage, she was nervous and jittery, second-guessing herself, anxious for how William might receive her. She supposed her impulsiveness wouldn't be a surprise to him either, but would he welcome her? Would he be angry that she was undermining the purpose of their separation? He was certainly used to her going against his wishes, but this wasn't business; this was personal. And what would she say to him? Her speech turned round and round in her mind.

Just the thrill of travel should have helped occupy her, but the excitement of the new adventure was overshadowed by the gravity of what she was doing. She spent a lot of her time strolling the deck, trying to avoid seasickness. The weather was relatively fine, though the spring wind could be sharp and the Atlantic a bit choppy. She relished the bite of the sea air upon her cheeks, the sight of the churning gray ocean, dark and mysterious, inspiring her imagination of what wonders must lie beneath. She ate in the great saloon among all manner of passengers, and shared her small stateroom with another single lady, bound for her sweetheart who had gone ahead months before to start a new life for them in America.

When they arrived at the Port of New York, she disembarked with her small trunk and her handbag, looking about the busy wharf for a place to change her money from British to American currency. At last, tired yet brimming with nervousness, she was finally able to hire a hansom cab to take her to the 25th Precinct Detective Bureau in downtown Manhattan, that William had mentioned in his letters. Should she fail to find him, she had no idea where she might stay, so she hoped she'd be fortunate to connect with him right away.

The streets of New York City were as bustling and busy as London, the smells and sounds eerily similar, the accents as varied. Cabs, carriages, and horse-drawn street cars crammed the streets, pedestrians taking their lives into their hands to cross in front of them. It was a long ride, and Eliza nearly fell asleep with the swaying of the carriage.

"We're here, Miss," said the driver at last, and Eliza hopped out of the cab, still a bit unsteady on her feet from travelling on a ship for a week. She surveyed the area, as the man got her trunk, and she asked that he put it just inside the police department door.

"I don't know if this is allowed, Miss," he said uncertainly.

"It's all right. I'm here to see a friend who is a detective here."

He shrugged and did as she bid, knowing that he'd quickly be gone and it would no longer be his problem. In the entryway, she paid him and he tipped his hat before taking to the road again. Eliza dragged her trunk along with her, realizing that she hadn't quite thought this through, and paused before the desk sergeant, trying to catch her breath.

It was not dissimilar from Scotland Yard, the chaos of arresting officers and their suspects, the yelling of drunks and ladies of the evening. The violent reactions of the police to any sort of misbehavior.

"May I help you, Miss?" asked the sergeant, eyeing her luggage suspiciously.

"I've just got off a steamer from London, and I'm here to see Inspector William Wellington."

"Aww, Scotty, is it? He's back in the Detective Bureau. Are you his wife?"

"Why, yes," she said, knowing that the white lie was much more expedient than trying to explain what she and William really were to each other. Beneath the covering of the counter, she quickly changed her mother's ring from her right hand to her left.

"I'll have someone escort you back. Careful now; some of these people are a bit rough. Jimmy, this is Mrs. Wellington—you know, Scotty's wife. She's come all the way from jolly Old England for a visit."

The young officer, who reminded Eliza a bit of Oliver Fitzroy, lit up at the mention of William, or Scotty as he was now, apparently. "His wife is it? I've never heard mention of a wife."

"He's a very private man," Eliza hedged. "Might I leave my trunk here, Officer? I haven't had time yet to take it to our uh, new home." She didn't wait for a reply, following the young man through a maze of hallways, holding cells, and belligerent arrestees.

Jimmy abruptly turned a corner, and a big room opened up with a multitude of individual desks and chairs spread out and facing each other in groups of two. It was much more orderly here, several men in civilian clothes busily working or talking seriously about their investigations. Jimmy looked around, his eyes scanning just as Eliza's were, although she was holding her breath, her heart beating fast within her breast. But William was not there.

"Has anyone seen Detective Scotty?" Jimmy cried out. The low conversations stopped, all eyes directed at them.

"He's out on a case. Who's askin'?" A diminutive detective, with dark blonde hair and cold blue eyes approached them, suspicion written all over his face. His unfashionable coat hung limply across lanky shoulders.

Jimmy hastened to introduce her. "This is Mrs. Wellington, Detective Scotty's wife."

The other man's pale eyebrows rose in disbelief.

Eliza hoped her laughter sounded genuine without giving away her sudden attack of nerves. "Has he not spoken of me then? That rascal. I'm sure he's been visiting the public houses at all hours and didn't see fit to mention he had a wife back home in London." She made her tone that of indulgent affection, widening her eyes to their best advantage. "My goodness, I'll have to have a word with him about—"

"Eliza."

She stopped, midsentence, feeling as though her heart had stopped as well at the beautifully familiar sound of his deep Scottish drawl. Slowly, she turned around to see William standing there, his face a mask of surprise. She took in his neatly trimmed beard, his severely tamed hair, the stylish suit, ascot, and waistcoat, the watchchain draping from his pocket. It was all she could do not to run to his arms and cry against his strong shoulder, but she forced herself to stand still and act the part of the long-suffering wife.

"Hello, William."

A/N: Are you with me? Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading. More soon.