A/N: First, let me just say I'm very sorry for what I'm about to do, because this is where the story...uh...takes a turn. This is in the style of final scenes in most episodes, which are pretty dialogue heavy.

Keep in mind this is based on a story my grandfather told me about my great-grandfather. I hope I've done it justice.

Next I'll be focusing my efforts towards a full-length work for a different fandom, but I'll be around! After all, you never know what ideas might pop into my head...

Happy reading!

Fly By Night

Chapter Five

That evening, as the last stretches of sunlight retreated across the ground, Station House Number Four's finest were out in force.

Though William had told him his attendance wasn't strictly necessary, Watts had volunteered to help with the stakeout. He was a night owl anyway, he argued, so he may as well spend his waking hours doing something productive.

He was the only one thoroughly awake as they assembled in front of the Winters house; indeed, George and Henry had been up most of the night before questioning witnesses and gathering evidence, while William had been dealing with the second appearance of the Mill Street Phantom, as the newspapers had begun calling it. He suspected it was only a matter of time before they received a visit from Miss Cherry…

He pushed that unpleasant thought out of his mind, explaining to the assembled constables that they were to spread out, one to a floor and two in the backyard. Murdoch would take first shift in the turret, and they would rotate every hour to stay awake. It was going to be a long evening, he reminded them, but with any luck, they'd get to the bottom of the case.

Flashlights were passed out among the group. Watts took his and fumbled with the device until he found the switch, holding it aloft and shining it almost directly in William's face.

"Sorry about that," he murmured, moving it to one side and inadvertently blinding George. He yelped, covering his eyes with one hand. Henry reached out and swatted the flashlight, causing Watts to aim it at the ground.

He looked apologetic, perhaps a little annoyed, if nothing else. "Murdoch, I'd like to volunteer to sit on the porch farthest from the door. If someone walks close to the house, they won't be able to see me from the street."

"That's very generous of you, Detective," William said, for it was the posting most likely to see some action. "May I ask why?"

He brushed his jacket aside, revealing the pistol strapped to his waist. As Murdoch watched, he unclipped it and held it aloft. The assembled constables reflexively took a step back, though to his credit, Watts kept it aimed away from everyone. "I stopped by the armory on the way out. I'm ready to defend myself if need be."

"Under no circumstances are you allowed to shoot anyone-"

"What if they run at me?"

"Perhaps, but you must consider-"

"What if they run at me while shouting threats directed at my person?"

"Again, perhaps-"

"What if they run at me while shouting threats directed at my person, and they also have a weapon?"

William exhaled. "Then you can shoot them."

"I can shoot them?" Watts echoed, perking up slightly.

"Yes, but only if-"

"I understand, Detective," he assured him, then he was off. As the group of them watched, Watts stepped onto the porch, proceeded to the end of the walkway, and sat underneath the railing. A moment later, he closed his suit jacket to hide his white shirt, and sure enough, they could scarcely see him in the darkness.

Clearly he'd put a great deal of thought into this.

The group dispersed. Crabtree and Higgins followed Murdoch up the stairs, Crabtree huddling far closer to him than perhaps was appropriate. As Higgins took leave of them, taking a defensive position on the second floor landing, George asked, "Sir?"

"What is it, George?"

"What do I do if I see a ghost in this house? I don't have a gun."

"George, there's no such thing as-"

"Sir," he interrupted, his tone insistent.

They reached the third floor landing. William honestly didn't know how to answer than question; he didn't know what he'd do in that situation either. So he settled for a very noncommittal: "Stand your ground."

George nodded, though he didn't look particularly convinced. William gave him the best facsimile of an encouraging smile he could manage at the moment, then began his long walk down the pitch black hallway towards the turret.

It was as if his every footstep caused the floorboards to creak. Again, he got the feeling that there were one hundred eyes on him. He passed by door after door, hyper alert for strange noises, but heard nothing except George shifting uncomfortably on the landing behind him.

Finally he reached the turret room and pushed the door with an open palm. It was then he remembered that the widow Winters had presumably died in that room, and here he was, in the dead of night, with little company to speak of.

Attempting to swallow his fear, William took a step inside and traversed the great circle of the bed, coming to the window, which was still open from the day before. The street below was empty, silent. He leaned against the jam and took some deep breaths.

Before too long, he experienced the creeping sensation that someone was watching him. He gave the room a cursory inspection with the flashlight, then shut the door. Returning to his post, he closed his eyes and began to silently recite prayers to quiet his racing thoughts.

Some time later, he awoke with a start as the door to the turret room slammed open. This time, he gave a rather undignified shriek, with a sharp intake of air through his teeth. He turned, flashlight and fist held aloft, ready to fight.

It was only George, come to rotate his post.

"I apologize, George, I must have fallen asleep," he said, taking one last glance out the window. Watts was still on the porch, holding rapt focus on the street before him. He could barely see the top of his head.

"Good luck on the stairwell, sir," George said as they traded places.

"Am I going to need it?"

George nodded sagely, gravely.

Some time passed and Murdoch wound up in the backyard, then back in the turret again, then back on the first floor. At one point, he checked his pocket watch. 4AM. He was growing doubtful something was going to happen.

Suddenly, there was a great deal of commotion from the front yard. He rushed down the first floor hallway and burst out the door, only to see Watts leave his post on the porch and charge into the yard.

There was something hot on his tail. Murdoch blinked, then rubbed his eyes, thinking he was well and truly seeing things at this point. But it was there, a white phantom about the size of an adult human, suspended about a foot off the ground, traveling towards his companion at shocking speeds.

And there was that noise, loud, punctuated, distended: "HA...HA...HA…"

For the first time in their long partnership, Murdoch saw fear in Watt's eyes. He dropped his flashlight and fumbled for his weapon, aiming it.

"Watts, don't-"

CRACK! The discharge of the weapon sang through the early morning air. To Murdoch's utter shock, the phantom slumped to the ground.

Neither detective moved for a few seconds. From behind him, Murdoch heard the thundering of footsteps down the stairs. The constables patrolling the backyard quickly came around. Lights came on in the house across the street.

Watts knelt down next to the phantom, poking it with the end of his weapon. Suddenly he seized hold of it, with one hand and then two, holding it up for all to see. He stood.

"Murdoch, I'm afraid that our culprit is not a phantom, nor is it a person," Watts called out. Murdoch was noticing whatever it was had an impossibly long neck, with appendages pointing out from either side of its abdomen. "This is a trumpeter swan."

From behind him, Higgins remarked: "Mr. Winters is going to love hearing about this."

It was an absolute banner day for Station House Number Four. First the neighbors had been alerted to their stakeout, then they'd called additional constables, then their friends, then the first wave of reporters had shown up to question them.

All the while Murdoch stood on the porch of the Winters house, blinking sleep from his eyes, feeling very bemused and very, very foolish.

"I suppose Mr. McAllister had that card with the address as a leftover from his work at the home," Watts surmised, joining him where he stood.

"I suppose so," William muttered.

"They're quite strong animals, sir, and very angry if you're near their young. I suppose we'll find five or six young swans in the reeds in the backyard," Watts said, shaking his head ruefully. "I can't believe I didn't see it before. They've been known to beat people with their wings if they get close enough."

"That makes two of us," William said, catching a glimpse of the neighbor Mrs. Appleby exiting her front door. He was acutely aware of the fact that he probably only had a few minutes before they'd be called upon by the Inspector, and receive a thorough dressing-down. He took his leave of the conversation with: "If you'll excuse me."

"Mrs. Appleby, I hope we haven't disturbed you," he offered as he approached, stepping onto the lady's porch.

She shook her head, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. "It's quite alright, detective. I daresay we've had enough excitement in this neighborhood for the week."

He smiled and came to stand beside her. "Madam, I hope this question isn't too intrusive, but what was the nature of your relationship with the widow Winters?"

"Oh, Lavinia," she sighed, "We were quite close. My own mother is dead, so she was a grandmother of sorts to young Mary. In her old age, though, she tended to argue and be most unpleasant. I suspect that son of hers mistreated her."

It was an unfounded accusation, but for some reason Murdoch entirely believed it. "I suspect this will delay his selling of the home for some time."

"That's a pity," she said, her disappointment genuine. "He fills me with unease. I'd like to see him take his time and money elsewhere."

It was a shockingly frank admission, so William decided to ask, because he had to know: "One of my constables believes he saw you retrieve a garden trowel from the yard and throw it in the stream…"

She turned to him, suddenly fearful. "Forgive me, detective, I never suspected the man had the capacity to murder-rather, he's just doomed to be most disagreeable for his whole life. But when I saw the opportunity to frame him, I had to take it. It's the trowel I use to bludgeon the rabbits we raise in the coop in the backyard, for meat. But then when I saw all of you, I knew it was dreadfully serious, and I couldn't bear to ruin a man's life like that."

A moment passed where neither said anything.

"Even if he deserved it," she added.

William nodded, studying the gradually dispersing crowd next door. The two stood in silence for several minutes, until Mrs. Appleby dared to breach it. "Detective, will I be arrested or charged?"

He blinked, inhaling slowly. "No, I daresay you will not."

That afternoon, the usual crowd had assembled in the bullpen, filling out the paperwork corresponding to their latest escapade.

"We're the laughing stock of the constabulary!" Inspector Brackenreid lamented, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch. "What's gotten into the lot of you? Are you daft?"

"All of the clues pointed to murder!" Henry exclaimed.

"Or a ghost!" George cut in.

"Murder," William asserted, dealing him a reproachful look. Watts stayed silent from his post at the window, face hidden behind the afternoon's edition of the Gazette. The headline on the front page jumped out for all to see: STATION HOUSE NO. 4 DETECTIVES' INVESTIGATION FLOWN AFOWL: SWAN INCAPACITATED, TORONTO'S FLY-BY-NIGHT HUMAN CRIMINALS STILL AT LARGE.

"Miss Cherry ought to be ashamed of herself for such a headline," Brackenreid groused, downing his drink with one gulp. "It's a dreadful piece of comedy, that."

Suddenly George was alerted to the sound of a commotion in the lobby. He looked up from his paperwork, saying, "Speak of the devil!"

"Detective Murdoch!" Louise cried, sweeping into the bullpen pursued by a small swarm of constables. William waved them off, determined to accept his fate.

"Miss Cherry," he ground out with as much cordiality as he could muster. "How may I help you?"

"I was wondering if you had any pearls of wisdom about this case, or eggs of wisdom, if you will, for the readers of tomorrow morning's edition," she said, smiling to herself.

William groaned inwardly. "I'm afraid not."

"How is it that the constabulary allowed themselves to get wrapped up in inconsequential clues and waste two whole days on this wild goose chase?"

He was beginning to sense a familiar theme.

"All of the clues pointed to murder," Henry cut in to their defense.

"Or a-" George began, but was interrupted by the Inspector smacking him upside of his head.

"Just you wait, Miss Cherry. We'll be back to solving the important cases in no time. You should be so ducky-I mean, lucky-to get a story like this out of us again!" Brackenreid vowed.

She scoffed, scribbling something down in her notebook. "Don't worry, Inspector, toucan play this game! I-and my readers-will be on the lookout for next time."

With that, Toronto's most intrepid journalist turned and exited the bullpen.

As she made tracks towards the door, the Inspector exclaimed, "Have a pheasant day, Miss Cherry!"

William sighed mightily, rolling his eyes and rubbing his temples.

"I meant to say pleasant," Brackenreid hurriedly assured his companions. "Pleasant was what I meant to say."

"I believe you, sir," Murdoch said, stepping into his office and shutting the door.

That evening as he returned home, William decided to take a detour and return to the house on Mill Street. The sun was setting, and the neighborhood was quiet, the streets still.

The house appeared as it always had been, shut tight with no signs of life.

As he passed, he glanced up to the turret room and was surprised to catch the flash of a curtain moving and someone stepping away from the window.

Or perhaps that was just his imagination.

The End

A/N: Yep, as the story goes, in the '00's my great-grandfather was working as a miner and living in the mountains. He stayed in town way too late one night, drinking and having a good time. When it was time to go home, he knew he could take a shortcut, but that it passed by a house everyone said was haunted. He claims as he walked past he saw what appeared to be a ghost rushing at him, so he shot it out of panic. The next morning, he returned to the house only to find he'd shot a swan.

I know this is a quite anti-climactic ending, but in a way, I can definitely see one of the more comedic episodes going like this. The only thing I truly regret and apologize for is all the bird puns... :)