It's been about a year since Jo was sat down in Henry's elegant living room, handed a tall glass of scotch and told her M.E. was immortal. All things considered, Jo thinks she's been taking the whole thing rather well. The fact that she hasn't admitted Henry to a mental institution (which she's considered several times over the course of their acquaintance) is proof enough. She'd decided a long time ago that she'd stick by Henry, unfathomable weirdness or no. Despite all the strain the doctor's secrets had put on their relationship, she came through in the end, aided somewhat by several more scotches. The concept of immortality doesn't seem all that impossible when attached to her enigmatic medical examiner.

It was made clear that evening under Henry's pleading eyes and with that cool glass in her hand that the man was far more complicated, far more broken, than she'd ever dared to imagine. Jo realized that Henry's heart, with all its two hundred years of bruises, isn't so easily attained, so she's settled for opening him up if she can, layer by layer. With every begrudging movie marathon, with every Friday night karaoke session, she sees him dust off a bit more heartache. It makes her happy, even if the connection they have isn't one she may have always wanted. The detective knows she can't reach Henry, the deepest part of him, that innermost shadow behind his eyes, but she's decided that's alright. If she can at least coax him out into the world of the living once in a while, well, that's enough for her.

It's the reason she's spying on him from outside the morgue doors.

It takes all Jo's restraint as a seasoned policewoman not to jump when Hanson comes up behind her and places a teasing hand on her shoulder. "Still coming with us for drinks? Or are you too busy with your stakeout?" he asks, voice dripping with smug amusement, the pair of them crowding the corner to escape detection. Jo smirks at her partner and waves him off, peeking around the doorframe again and through the morgue to where Henry is sitting at his desk in his private office, unaware of his surveillants.

"He should've gone home two hours ago," she says. "He's a workaholic."

Jo happens to know from Lucas, helpfully indiscreet as he is, that Henry always arrives early to work and leaves long after everyone else has gone home. The majority of people can't wait to set their careers aside at the end of the day, but as usual, Henry is not party to the majority of people.

"Dead guys can't be that great company, can they?" Mike asks, quirking an eyebrow at the blissfully ignorant doctor.

"He needs someone to go home to," concludes Jo. Over the past months, she's watched Henry slowly allow others to encroach upon his life like a proud mother might watch her son making friends in the sandbox, and she's sure that a significant other is long overdue.

Hanson snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Come on, Jo, I think we've both guessed why he can't manage to find a lady friend."

"We have?" she asks, turning to him with an expression of equal parts skepticism and curiosity.

Hanson squints at Henry through the glass with gray, discerning eyes as the doctor shuffles through his paperwork. "The scarves are a dead giveaway, in my opinion."

Jo's eyebrows shoot up, the corner of her lip tugging downwards. "You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"If you think I'm suggesting that the doc's as gay as the fourth of July, then yes."

There's a long, long pause.

When Jo recovers from her surprise she shakes her head incredulously, dark hair bouncing against the lapels of her purple blouse. "No, no, no, no, no! You've got it all wrong! Henry's had relationships with women before! I happen to know that he was serious about a woman named Abigail. And he went out with that dominatrix! At least once!"

Hanson smiles cockily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "All I'm saying is that a man who has a scarf for every day of the week and wears that much perfume can't be totally straight."

"It's cologne."

"Whatever. But seriously, Jo, you're a detective. Open your eyes to the evidence. Now stop spying on the M.E. and come have a drink."

Jo smirks and follows her partner to the elevator, only looking over her shoulder once. Hanson's silly hypothesis melts away under a pint of beer a while later at the bar, totally forgotten amidst the pop music and milling bodies, but come Monday morning the conversation drifts back to the surface as she makes her way through her first coffee. She's leafing through a manila folder at her desk when Henry appears by her side, likely to enlightener her as to some interesting discovery he's made on the body of the week. She stops him before he can open his mouth with a pointed stare over the lip of her paper cup.

"Is that a new scarf?"

Henry looks down at himself as though he's forgotten, but the corner of his lip twitches upwards into a pleased smile, giving himself away. "Yes, it is. I bought it to match my vest." Just as he said, the flowing silk scarf does indeed match his vest, burgundy and downright regal. It occurs to Jo that every single button on that vest has been carefully polished, and that the dark hair on his head has been artfully, judiciously mussed.

"Henry, I know you were working late last Friday." Jo pins him a meaningful look as she gracefully slips the folder open. "Isn't there something you'd rather do on a Friday night than take care of dead people? Like go on a date with a pretty girl, for example?" She tries a cheeky grin, and the doctor returns it with a glare laced with amusement.

"Pretty girls are hardly of concern to me when we have a Jane Doe upstairs and not a single lead to speak of!"

Resigned, the detective leans back in her uncomfortable office chair, then lets him talk about the cocktail of clues he found on the dead woman's feet.

Jo isn't the least bit surprised when Hanson rounds on her later at the coffee maker. Clearly he'd listened into their conversation.

"You can't judge a person's sexuality by their choice in neckwear. You do know that?" Or by how well they dress, she adds to herself. After all, Henry's simply old fashioned, right? He just likes being fancy because he's from a different time and place. He's told me he's immortal, for God's sake! Being gay isn't much of a secret next to that, so if he was, he'd have already told me.

Mike rolls his eyes and grabs a swivel stick for his extra-large coffee. "You heard him, Jo. He'd rather hang around with corpses than go on a date with a woman."

"He's just weird, not gay."

"He coordinates his vests to match his scarves!"

"You're just jealous because he dresses better than you. And I bet you wouldn't be so talkative if Henry were in ear shot!" She hits him with her manila folder, carefully balancing her second coffee in her other hand.

"Oh, so you want to bet now?" The detective's eyebrow rises dangerously as he rifles through his coat pocket and unleashes his battered leather wallet. He pulls out three ten dollar bills wedged behind a photograph of his boys, smiling from the glossy paper with chocolate-covered grins. "Thirty bucks says the doc ain't straight."

Jo stares incredulously down at the bills, then around the coffee station to make sure there're no curious ears about.

"You want to bet? On Henry's sexual preference?"

Hanson waves the money in her face and takes a long sip of hot coffee. "It's not like you haven't bet on Henry before. I seem to remember you losing a few bucks when he got busted again for skinny dipping. I'll be happy to relieve you of more."

Jo sets her coffee down with a thud on the damp counter and crosses her arms in challenge. She considers the proposition for a long moment before making her choice, ridiculous as it is. "You know what, you're on. Just to prove that you're a gossiping idiot who doesn't know what he's talking about." Hanson leers and tucks the bills back into his wallet.

"And how exactly do you propose to determine whether or not Henry's straight?" Jo asks, her expression every bit as serious as when she holds criminals at gunpoint.

Hanson shrugs innocently. "Just go and ask him."

"Ask him!"

"Yeah. Just go upstairs and ask him."

"Right! Of course! 'Hey, Henry, have you made any breaks in the case? Also, which way do you swing?' There's no way I'm asking him that!"

It isn't exactly material for a casual conversation, Jo thinks bitterly, and she's only recently begun to feel like Henry truly trusts her. He's finally revealed his greatest secret, opening up to her in ways that he hasn't dared to in decades. She simply can't bring herself to betray him by asking such an invasive question, all for the sake of Mike's damn curiosity.

Hanson takes a contemplative sip of coffee then slowly looks around the room. His eyes land on the man in scrubs by the soda dispenser. "Maybe you won't ask… but I think I know someone who will…"

"You want me to ask him what?"

Hanson holds out his arms placatingly like he's trying to calm a spooked animal while Jo catches the can that's dropped from his hands. "Come on, Lucas! We need you to help us settle this bet!"

"But why me? Why can't you ask him?"

Lucas Wahl is about as red in the face as the cherry soda Jo's slipping back into his sweaty palms.

"Because," Mike says imploringly "you're always saying weird things to Henry. It won't seem as bad if it's you asking."

Lucas turns the can nervously in his hands. He's a good few inches taller than both detectives, even with his shoulders slouched anxiously. "But the boss only just started being nice to me! He actually asks now before making me roll play murder scenarios with him! And he sometimes tells me I'm doing a good job! What if he gets all grouchy at me again?"

"But Lucas," says Hanson, putting a hand on his forearm and looking into his eyes as seriously as possible, "don't you want to know what team the doc plays for?"

"Um…"

"Look, Lucas…" Jo claps a hand on the assistant M.E.'s shoulder, noting that it shakes a little under her touch. "Hanson's never going to let this drop until you go ask Henry, so unless you want him annoying the pair of us to no end, I suggest you do as he says. And don't worry, I promise I won't let Henry fire you, if it comes to that."

Some would consider it unfair of Jo to use the fact that Lucas is unable to deny a lady to her advantage, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't the teensiest bit amused by the whole situation. After a long moment Lucas sags in resignation. "Fine, fine!" he says, tossing his hands up; "but I'm taking this as payment." He snatches the doughnut Hanson's about to dunk in his coffee and makes his speedy exit.

Whatever courage Lucas musters in the elevator instantly vanishes the moment he sets foot in the morgue. Henry is in his white lab coat, the front splattered with tell-tale blood stains. He busies himself with the microscope, totally unaware of his assistant's return, which gives the younger man the perfect opportunity to unapologetically watch him in action. Lucas doesn't have Henry's gift of observational genius, but no exceptional intelligence is required to notice the light sheen of sweat collecting on Henry's brow, or the way his strong hands move with such assurance, the way his dark eyes glimmer when he finds something he likes through the lens. God, Lucas' stomach is doing all kinds of weird flip-flops. He decided to blame it on the soda he chugged back in the elevator, because the other explanation is really inconvenient at the moment.

Standing there, watching Henry work, half-eaten doughnut in hand, Lucas realizes there is no preferable way of asking his boss the terribly inappropriate question of whether or not he has a homosexual inclination. Maybe if he asks quickly he can get it all over with, like ripping off a band aid with one huge tug and hoping for the best. Maybe if he asks while he's distracted he won't even register the question and Lucas will be off the hook. Besides, he's already certain of the response, should he receive one. Henry's single, has the coolest career in New York, is devilishly handsome, is intelligent, and has a secret lair in his basement, all with a charming British accent. Henry Morgan is doubtlessly straight, because in Lucas Wahl's experience, perfect men always are.

"So, boss…" The assistant rounds the table Henry is working on until he's behind his left shoulder, comforted by the fact the doctor's made no acknowledgment of his presence. "Some people were wondering… not me, obviously… just casually wondering if… again, this isn't me asking, okay?… if you might be… you know… like… just a little bit… gay?"

Henry whips around so fast Lucas doesn't even see him move.

It takes everything he has not to bolt, and every part of him is screaming that he just made a terrible, lethal mistake. He stands limply under his boss' stare, hands tucked under his armpits like he always does when he's nervous, his knees rapidly turning to jelly. After a long, long, painful moment, a small smile creeps up Henry's face, and to his assistant it looks mocking. He still has one glass slide in his right hand. "When did you become so interested in my sexual preferences, Lucas?"

"What? No!" Lucas exclaims in a loud burst. His hands fly out from under his arms and they're shaking, he realizes too late. "Jo and Mike told me to ask you! It's them that want to know!"

"Then you're not… interested?" asks Henry slowly. His eyes watch Lucas, measuring, assessing. "No, no! Sorry!" the younger man breathes out in a rush. Henry evaluates him for one more tense moment, then gives a short nod and returns to his work.

No, of course he's straight, you idiot! Lucas' mind screams at him, because in this moment his stomach has dropped ten feet and he feels all cold. He's disappointed, he realizes, which means he actually had hope despite himself, which means he's an even bigger fool than he thought. Henry's all traditional. All suits and ties, and opera and afternoon tea and gentlemanly manners. He probably hates the idea of being gay. He probably hates me for asking.

"Lucas?" Henry asks.

The young man is vaulted from his storming thoughts. "Yes?" His voice is two octaves too high.

Henry takes a lingering moment to deposit a sample between the glass planes of his slide and elegantly bends down to the eyepiece of his microscope. "Did you know that a change of cologne or perfume is often an indication of a new romantic interest?"

"Um…"

"Did you also know…" the doctor continues, his tone maddeningly casual, "that a month ago when we were investigating the triple murder in Queens I happened to mention that I like the scent of peppermint fragrance, and that two days later you began smelling of peppermint?"

It takes a moment. It takes a moment for Lucas to realize what his boss just said, then his heart stops.

It's all over.

He's finished.

It feels as though he's being rent in two but his mind is strangely quiet. He's absolved, he's destroyed.

Henry finally turns around and the smug smile falls from his face when he sees how pale his assistant is. "Lucas, Lucas!" he says chidingly but gently, swallowing up the space between them and taking the other's larger hands in his own. The pads of his thumbs swirl along the trembling skin, and his eyes are warm and asking for forgiveness. "It's alright. I've known for quite some time. I'm not angry. I'm not angry, Lucas."

They stay like that a long while, Lucas not knowing what to say, what to think. His mind is overthrown, but amidst it all he can pick out clearly that his boss is holding his hands. There's an elevated pulse where their fingers intertwine, drumming against his skin, but he's not sure if it's his own.

"I'm not angry" Henry says again, but now his voice is very, very quiet. "In fact, over these past few months, I dare say I've grown rather fond of you. So, as for your question…"

Henry's smug smile is back in an instant, brown eyes gleaming the way they always do when a brilliant, and usually illegal, plan comes to mind. Lucas has come to fear that look and anticipate its return. "You can tell detective Martinez and detective Hanson, who I'm sure have my best interest in mind, rather than their wallets, that my sexual preference is between you, and me." Then Henry's leaning up, and their noses brush in middle ground before their lips meet. The doctor's mouth is warm and determined and brilliant and Lucas is so stunned by the fact that Henry Morgan is kissing him that he forgets to kiss back.

The M.E. notices the slack and pulls away, leaving Lucas' lips feeling cold and strange. "I'm sorry, that was rather bold of me" he whispers, his breath still close enough to send a warm puff over his assistant's skin. Lucas is having none of it. "Nope, nope, get back here" he commands, and he pulls Henry to him by the collar of his dress shirt, and this time he remembers to kiss back.

Jo's too busy with actual police work to spare a thought for her and Hanson's bet for the rest of the day. At quitting time she makes a quick trip to the morgue to say goodnight to Henry, but the room is dark and deserted, no traces of the M.E. or his assistant to be seen.

Tuesday morning rolls around, and it's just as slow as the day before, much to Mike's unfathomable joy. He's slouching back at his desk in a grumbling heap of lethargy, files untouched on his desk, when he sees Lucas pass by from the corner of his eye. "Hey, Lucas!" he calls, perking up instantly, "did you ask-" His sentence is bit off short when he notices that Lucas Wahl is holding hands with one, Henry Morgan.

The pair walk over to detective Hanson, Henry the picture of condescension and Lucas caught between shyness and elation, the latter making him grin from ear to ear. "Ah, detective Hanson" says Henry, as dapper as ever in a dark gray blazer, accented with a wide red tie. "Good morning. And detective Martinez!" he exclaims, walking across the aisle to where Jo is at her desk, eyebrows in jeopardy of disappearing into her hairline. He leans in conspiratorially against a stack of files. "You know, I really thought about what you said yesterday, so I took your advice and went home early to spend my evening with someone special. Although, between you and me, I think I'll lay off the pretty girls for a while." He winks maliciously. Jo is lost for words.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," the examiner says, standing to his full height, his and Lucas' hands swinging slightly, "we have some corpses to examine."

Mike looks at Jo.

Jo looks at Mike.

Halfway down the hall Henry calls "Jo, I believe you owe detective Hanson thirty dollars!"

"Forever" is a creation of Matt Miller. I do not claim to own the stories on which this fan fiction is based. This fan fiction is not written for profit, but for amusement and out of appreciation for the original content on which it is based.