A Night Alone Is So Much Better With Two

The Next Really Early Morning

Murdoch can't help it. Watts looks so broken. So alone. And when Watts calls out, almost desperately, for him to stay just as Murdoch is walking out the door, he practically runs back into the room. Damn his heart for wanting to comfort Watts more than he's already tried to. Damn himself for caring when he shouldn't.

But when Murdoch had seen Watts at work, he knew that Watts would need someone to talk to. So it hurt when Watts had shut down, pushing Murdoch out. Even worse, Watts only let Murdoch in until he was half way out the door.

On the other hand, Murdoch isn’t entitled to anything when it comes to Watts. And perhaps that is how Murdoch found himself on Watts' couch, at 2:30 in the morning, with a drunk, tired, mess of a man curled up next him talking about some of his earlier cases at Station House Number 1.

"-And then Braxton chased him all the way to 12th Street," Watts was saying. "Only for him to be innocent in the end. Turns out it was a, hey!" Watts snaps his fingers in front of Murdoch's face. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am! Ms. Sherry Lester was murdered in an alleyway. Your only suspect was Harold White. And for good reason: his finger marks were on the murder weapon.” Murdoch reiterates. “Apparently, Mr. White was not the murderer after all, as you were about to tell me…?" He asks.

Watts smiles. It's nice to have someone listen to him, however inconsequential it might be. Existing here, senses dulled, next to Murdoch is surprisingly nice. He's tired, but nothing will stop him from enjoying willing company, especially when he's drunk, needy, and, well, a mess. He had had a breakdown only a few hours or so ago, to be fair. 

He continues to talk and the night fades into a pleasant haze.

____________________________________

A knock on the door awakens them both from their sleep. Murdoch rolls over to check the clock hanging on the opposite wall. The numbers 5:30 meets his gaze, and he groans. He swings his feet off his bed- wait.

He's not at his boarding house, he's at Watts' apartment. All because he'd been worried about Watts. In retrospect it seems like a stupid idea, but when Murdoch catches a glance of Watts, still asleep (honestly that man can sleep through anything!), he remembers Watts' happy glow when Murdlch had spent hours listening to him talk, he can't find it in him to regret it.

Murdoch makes his way to the door quickly, making sure he looks reasonably presentable. With a quick look through the peephole, he establishes that no one is going to kill him, so he swings open the door.

"Hello George." He says just as George's hand is coming to knock on the door once again.

George jumps in surprise, dropping his hand down. His voice quavers as he speaks, "Sir, you and Watts are needed. I, well, I couldn't find you, so I came to fetch Watts." George explains.

Murdoch waves his hand in understanding.

"Understandable. I shall be ready in a moment." George turns to close the door, glancing at Watts who's padded up to stand a few paces behind Murdoch. Watts' hair is ruffled from sleep, and his fingers are carding through it leisurely. Eyes bleary, he addresses Murdoch.

"We're needed?" He asks.

Murdoch nods in assent, and George pulls the door closed, a puzzled expression still on his face.

"Well that's new." He mutters to himself.

The two detectives glance awkwardly at each other. There's going to be a lot of explaining they are going to have to do later, isn't there. Murdoch stares at the door for only for a moment, before he comes back to himself and realizes that they need to go! 

Clearing his throat, he whispers oh so eloquently to Watts. 

"Well?" He says, or maybe he's asking. They aren't close enough to have a silent conversation, but his 'well' seems to communicate everything they just can't seem to say out loud.

"Well." Watts agrees.

And as if there is some prearranged signal, Watts and Murdoch turn to grab their long since discarded suits from last night in sync, and Watts escapes to the bathroom.

They make their way out of Watts' apartment 5 minutes later- George is still waiting for them, completely confused- and don't look at each other again until they arrive at the crime scene.

Oh, this is quite the bloody one.

------

"Can someone please explain to me what the bloody hell is going on?" Inspector Brackenreid asks for the umpteenth time. He seems genuinely angry this time, but like all the other times, they ignore him.

"Nothing is going on, Sir." Murdoch answers quickly, a blank stare on his face. "As I was saying, there is no established connection between the late Mr. King," Murdoch gestures to his photo of John King pasted neatly onto his blackboard. "And Mr. Fisher…." He says, pointing at the other photo.

Inspector Brackenreid exchanges a dubious look with George from where he stands on Murdoch's other side. They both take turns glancing at Watts as he picks at one of his nails, chiming in from time to time as Murdoch talks about the case.

According to George, the famous Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary had spent the night at Detective Watts' apartment for completely unknown reasons. And of course, the gossip had already spread through the station house like a wildfire. It was only, the Inspector glanced at the clock, 9 in the morning.

Ugh.

He rubbed his temples and then pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. How these two had acted completely normal when they obviously knew about the rumors floating around the station house was beyond him. 

It took every ounce of his willpower not to grab them both by the neck and demand answers. They were going to give him gray hair before he reached 50 at this rate. And, okay, maybe he was a tad older than 50, and, yes, maybe his hair had already greyed, but that was besides the point

He really needed a drink.

Finally it seemed as if Murdoch was done. With a quick, "Carry on, Detectives." He was off. Back to his office where he could pour himself a scotch and ignore his problems, taking no mind to the confused expression on Murdoch's face when he didn't dispute a single thing with him. 

That was Murdoch's own damn problem. 

---------

The two Detectives arrive at the Inspector's office door just after lunch, calling out a quick, 'Sir?' before entering the room. Murdoch closes the door behind him, and Watts fetches the one across the room.

Inspector Brackenreid stands up from his desk with a sigh.

"What is it, you two?" He asks.

Neither of them responds for a moment, both staring at a point above the Inspector's head. Watts, still hovering by the back door, is the one who speaks up.

"I was feeling…. down after the case we wrapped up yesterday. The Detective was kind enough to check up on me." Watts says.

Murdoch nods his assent, and then continues for Watts.

"It was rather late, and Watts was kind enough to let me stay the night." He leaves out the part where Watts had broken down, drank enough wine for the both of them, and then had shut Murdoch out when he had tried to help, before begging him to stay. 

Murdoch seems to feel the need to keep Watts' dignity intact, and there is no need to go into detail about last night anyway. 

Brackenreid rolls his eyes. Of course that's what happened. Murdoch is to professional to let anything else happen. He shoos them away with a fond, "Bloody hell, Detectives." And, "Get back to work."

When they leave his office he pours himself another drink. All of that fuss over something so trivial.

These boys are going to be the death of him.