"Through The Mists"

Two

"Take these broken wings,
and learn to fly again"

Privately, Lewis loved it when something tragic and scandalous occurred at one of the Oxford colleges. Usually he wouldn't venture into these time-traps. In his view, they were firmly rooted in the past, refusing to look outside the grand gates in fear of the sweeping changes that lay without. Yet when a crime had been committed he was able to usher in just a little of the so-feared change that grasped the outside-world every day, often shaking it to its very foundations. Under normal circumstances, he was certain, the upper class dons of the colleges would regard him with equal measures of belittlement and bewilderment. But under these conditions - when one of their precious number had run in to some bad luck by, say, getting himself murdered on the premises - he was an official, a saviour. Someone who was there - in their eyes - to make all the bed things go away and to fix the ever-growing chinks in their ancient armour against that final enemy - change.

But it wasn't the only reason Lewis was pleased his boss had called him in, despite it being Sunday. If it had been a weekday, Lewis would have been on the spot anyway, working loyally at his Chief Inspector's side. But recently Morse had taken to calling Sergeant Adrian Kershaw out instead if it was a weekend or a bank holiday. On the last such occasion, Lewis had made his offence obvious, and had - it seemed - rather taken Morse aback. Unusually, Morse had said he'd been thinking of Lewis' family, trying to give them some of their father's time instead of him taking it all as he had so very often in the years they'd worked together.

Lewis had finally told him that for a couple of months - ever since he'd gone back home after spending three nights in a hotel (well, officially in a hotel) after the Seth Greene case - he and Val had been having "marital problems". He'd told Morse, one afternoon in a beer garden somewhere on the Woodstock Road - that his family no longer seemed to need his time, nor his attention. He and Val had grown apart (probably more his fault than hers). Although the kids loved him dearly - as he did them - they were starting to grow up and needed him simply to let go, yet still be there so that the had him to fall back upon during their struggle through puberty and those so-stressful teenage years.

Morse had shown surprising compassion, letting Lewis know that whatever he needed would be accommodated. But all Lewis wanted was for his superior to stop calling in another sergeant, and to return to his old habit of calling Lewis all hours of the day and night, no matter what day that might be. Morse had silently realized that his sergeant wanted to feel needed, at least by his Chief if not by his family, and had agreed.

And on one sunny October afternoon he had kept his side of the bargain by phoning Lewis at twelve-thirty (just as they were sitting down to Sunday roast with the mother-in-law) and requesting his presence at Lonsdale college. Lewis' reply had been a cheerful, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes, Sir."

As Lewis walked into the quad, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves turned back, he felt more at peace than he had in ages. Morse's Jag had been parked outside, and the mere sight of the car had cheered him somehow. Val had accused him more than once of preferring Morse's company to hers. At the start, working with Morse had done nothing but put his blood pressure up. But recently, things had been better. Morse's treatment of him had improved steadily as he'd gone from being a naive student to a fully fledged Detective Sergeant, and Morse's partner.

Idly, he wondered if he'd just made an important decision.

*

Morse turned and smiled as Lewis trudged happily through the gateway into the gardens of the Master's Lodge. "You'll like this one," he said grimly, knowing his sergeant's love for college scandal. "Looks like our Master got carried away with his favourite dons."

Lewis frowned, not understanding, but he'd get no further explanation as he followed Morse into the lavish house. Three steps into the lounge and he stopped dead. He glanced back at his boss, whose face was turned from the scene. Dr Russell - pathologist - stood up, clearing the way for a better view that Lewis really didn't need. Two men sat side by side on dining chairs facing the doorway in which Lewis and Morse now stood. They were dead, that was certain. They were tied into the chairs; ankles tucked behind the study legs of the chair frames and tied, arms pulled behind the high wooden backs and tied. Both men were naked except for two things. Each wore a finely shaped leather harness, comprised of two studded leather straps coming over the shoulders and crossing at the stomach to dip under the hips. And each wore a cock ring around crimson erections.

Dr Russell stood smiling in front of the both of them, surprised slightly by the obviously different reaction of the two detectives. Morse looked almost serene, amused even, while Lewis... he looked suddenly white, practically in shock. She touched his arm briefly, focusing Morse's hitherto wondering attention onto his sergeant just in time. A moment later, Lewis covered his mouth and pushed passed his boss as he ran from the room. Morse frowned, slightly concerned. Lewis had never been the squeamish sort. He only had a moment before Dr Russell, trying to save Lewis' honour, distracted him.

"Throats slit, both of them... as for the blood... I don't know, but by the look of the wounds I would say they were killed where they sit now."

Morse risked another glimpse at the bodies, trying to take in all the important details in the shortest time. He hoped the scene wouldn't stick in his mind for too long, but alas he suspected it would. He wondered what the hell had got into Lewis.

"Dr, do you know what the... what...." He gestured with his hands, embarrassed beyond words. Grayling Russell just watched him, smiling kindly at his discomfort. Finally she decided to put him out of his misery.

"I believe the leather wear is part of the bondage scene, Inspector."

"Bondage scene?"

"Christ, Morse! You're really that innocent? Bondage - people consenting to being restrained during a sexual encounter."

Of course he knew what it meant. He just hadn't quite realized it was a 'scene'. "You think they consented?"

She looked back critically at the gory sight. "I imagine it would have been difficult to get them into that position otherwise, although you never know."

Morse nodded. "And... the other... things?"

Dr Russell's smile was almost laughter. "'Cock-rings' I believe they're called, Morse. Keeps the erection, as you can see. Prevents orgasm. Very painful after a while, I imagine." Morse nodded in empathy.

"How do you know all this?"

"The Internet, Morse. You should get hooked up, go for a surf."

She left him staring after her in puzzlement.

*

Lewis met him outside as he stepped into the porch.

"Sorry, Sir."

Morse squeezed his arm sympathetically. "It's all right, Sergeant." Morse could hardly blame Lewis for losing it when he could never stand to look at the corpses. "You all right now?"

"Fine, Sir."

"Good." Hands deep in his pockets, Morse led them out into the garden between the house and the main college buildings.

"Who found them?" Lewis glanced back at the house, imagining the mistress of the college finding her husband and drinking partner like that....

"Luckily it was the college scout, a Mr Anthony Phils."

"Luckily?"

"He's a scout, Lewis, loyal to the college. He won't go telling anyone else what he saw. If you could speak to him, get a statement, I'll see if I can find someone who might know who the other man is. And tomorrow we'll try to find out where in Oxford sells such specialized bondage equipment." Morse enjoyed the look on his sergeant's face for a short while before smiling. "Dr Russell gave me a brief summary from her extensive knowledge of such matters."

"Dr Russell?!"

"Apparently such information is freely available on the Internet, Lewis." Morse looked up at the beautiful buildings surrounding him, and he missed the expression on Lewis' face. "The college will definitely close ranks
once news of this spreads. If we take too long, the murderer will disappear and we'll never find him or her."

Lewis waited, but when there was nothing more, he sighed "I'll talk to Mr Phils." His good mood had vanished.

*

Morse had spent the long sunny afternoon interviewing a surprisingly unhysterical mistress of Lonsdale College. They'd sat around the front of the house so serenely it was as if nothing was happening out back; her husband wasn't being taken away in a body bag wearing only a couple of articles of clothing not usually associated with an Oxford college Master. Morse wondered if he was actually wrong about that. Maybe the university was just the right sort of place to be associated with that kind of dress.

She hadn't loved her husband, that at least was clear. But he had never mistreated her and never begrudged her the life to which she had quickly become accustomed. She'd known of his sexual preferences; not strictly homosexual, not exactly straight. A mixture of both really. Still, he was quite happy for her to have discrete affairs while he also enjoyed the same freedom. Yet discrete was supposed to have been the operative word. Doing it in the back room was not part of the deal, and she seemed only angry that he'd gotten himself killed. She'd inherit everything, of course, except the title. She'd no longer be mistress of the college. Morse actually came away finding he quite liked her.

Back at HQ, Lewis hadn't returned, and Morse thought that maybe his sergeant's afternoon would turn out to be a lot more productive than his own passing of the time.

Having been twice to the canteen to fetch his own coffee, something he was not used to doing, Morse was becoming increasingly concerned. He phoned Lewis' car phone but there was no answer. For a few minutes he sat, his mind completely blank. And then he threw a few papers around his desk, searching for the single yellow post-it note Lewis had handed him sometime the previous week. The search grew almost frantic before Morse found it, and telephoned the mobile phone number of his sergeant's new toy.

It rang five times before it was answered, and not by Lewis.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm... I'm Doctor Paul Masters, can I ask who this is?"

"Chief Inspector Morse, Thames Valley CID."

"Ah. Well, maybe you could tell me if you know the name of the owner of this phone."

Morse's heart was racing. "Why?"

"A name?"

"Detective Sergeant Robert Lewis."

"In that case, Chief Inspector, you might want to come down to the Accident & Emergency unit at the Radcliffe."

*

"He's a lot more okay than he looked when they brought him in." Doctor Masters led the Chief Inspector through the maze of hospital corridors. "There was so much blood! But he isn't in any danger and he will make a complete recovery."

"Why didn't you call us?" Morse was beside himself with worry, not at all reassured by the brusque words of the doctor.

"We didn't know who he was. His wallet and ID must have been stolen during the attack. The mobile was apparently lying beside him when the ambulance men found him."

"So how did you find him?"

"Someone dialled 999 and gave the room number in the college. They asked for an ambulance, said someone had had a heart attack, but when the ambulance got there.... There are six stab wounds. There's one fairly bad one but the other's aren't dangerously deep."

They rounded a corner and finally entered a small ward buzzing with activity. Striding confidently in, Masters traversed the obstacle course of nurses and trolleys until they came to the last bed on the right hand side of the ward. Masters stopped and Morse looked up - his eyes previously kept low to avoid any accidental sighting of gory wounds or other such scenes associated with the casualty units of hospitals.

The sight that befell him now, he thought, was one that would never be chased from memory for as long as he lived and breathed. Amid the chaos of A&E, Lewis slept soundly. Crisp white sheets had been tucked in around him and a light blue blanket spread on top. He had been dressed in a mint-green hospital gown (his own clothes, soaked through with his blood, had been carefully bagged once the doctors had been told of the circumstances by the medics who had arrived on the scene) that came down to just below his elbows. One hand was bandaged. An intravenous valve inserted into the back of the other was hooked up to a drip - one bag of B Negative blood and one bag of saline. His young features bore nothing of the pain and fear endured that afternoon, and his face wore a peaceful expression.

"He has been sedated," Masters told Morse quietly. "We're waiting for a bed on the main ward, and then he'll be moved. We only plan to keep him overnight. He'll be released tomorrow if all's well." Morse nodded and stepped up to the bed, tentatively touching Lewis' cold fingers with the backs of his own. "He's wearing a ring, so I assume...."

Another nod. "I've got a sergeant telephoning his wife and going to the crime scene."

"Good. Well... you're quite welcome to stay with him until she arrives."

"Thank you."

A young nurse, who some minutes later came over to check on their sleeping patient, found Morse a chair, and offered him a cup of tea, which he gladly accepted. Although he'd wait another hour before it was actually placed into his hands.

It was another two hours before Lewis was moved (still sleeping) into a ward in the main hospital. Morse went with him, knowing Lewis wasn't aware of anything yet not wanting to leave him on his own in this frightening place. After what he must have suffered, it was the least Morse could do to ensure he woke to a friendly, at least familiar face. Barely ten minutes after he'd settled into these new surroundings (a mixed-sex ward, Morse noticed with some surprise), Strange arrived with the news that Mrs Lewis was being fetched back, from an organized Harrods shopping trip to London, by someone from Scotland Yard. ("A nice bunch when they want to be.") She'd been told not to worry - although both men knew that wouldn't help in the slightest and that she'd almost certainly be a wreck by the time she got here.

Strange regarded his sergeant with sympathy. "How is he, Morse?"

"Apparently, he's fine."

"We picked up Anthony Phils. He's chain-smoking down at the station." Strange's face creased in remembered horror. "He was covered in blood, wondering around the college gardens muttering something to himself."

"Did you get the knife?"

"Dropped on the floor in his rooms. There was blood everywhere there too." He indicated the man on the bed. "I'm surprised he's got any left inside him."

"One of the doctors told me that an artery was severed, said it would have sprayed blood everywhere."

Strange shook his head. "Poor Lewis. You'll stay with him?" Morse nodded. "Good. Well, let me know if there's any change, or if there's anything you need."

"Sir? Who's interviewing Phils?"

Strange hesitated. "Against my better judgement, I've left him stewing. I thought you'd want to. I don't think there's too much doubt he did the two in the master's lodge, do you?"

"No, Sir."

"No..... Think you'll get in this evening?"

"You can count on it. I'll be over when Valerie gets here."

Strange nodded. He turned, and put a large, gentle hand on Morse's shoulder. "Go easy on yourself, friend. It's not your fault in any way. He'll be fine."

Morse nodded, and for a moment, Strange thought he could see tears in those sharp blue eyes. And then he blinked and they were gone. "Thanks."

*

Contented for once just to sit, Morse was almost surprised when the patient moaned quietly and opened his eyes. Glazed blue stared up at him as if not quite comprehending where he was. Morse smiled and leaned forward, doing now what he hadn't quite managed to do before - covering Lewis' fingers with his own in reassurance.

"You're all right," Morse told his sergeant with certainty. "You're in the Radcliffe, Valerie's on her way."

Confusion played in the staring eyes for a moment, and then a pained frown. "Sir...."

"It's all right."

"No... it...."

Only when Val turned up, obviously relieved to see her husband truly was all right and not as hysterical as Morse had expected her to be, did Morse leave Lewis' bedside and head back to the station to interview Phils. He nipped into his office first and duly found the note left on his desk, written in Strange's scrawled handwriting:

'I know how you feel, but try to remember the CC. He doesn't like the rules being broken.'

So it was that Morse walked stony eyed into the Interview Room that evening and stared unsmiling at the miserable, slouching form of Lonsdale college scout, Anthony Phils. At first, the man seemed happy just to see somebody. But whatever smile he had managed faded when Morse spoke.

"You've been charged with the attempted murder of my sergeant. You're also going to be charged with the murders of the master of Lonsdale college, and his friend."

It was all it took for Anthony Phils to finally crack and admit to everything. Almost everything.

*

Morse arrived back at the Radcliffe at around ten the following morning. As he stepped into the ward he could see Val sitting by her husband's bedside. He was wondering if he should interrupt when Doctor Masters appeared at his side.

"Morning Chief Inspector."

Morse smiled up. "Good morning. How is he?"

The doctor frowned slightly. "Um... he didn't have a good night, I'm afraid. Woke about... five in a fair amount of pain. They had to give him some strong stuff and it knocked him out again. We'll definitely be keeping him in until at least tomorrow now."

Morse's concern had risen once again. "He will be all right, though?"

"Yes. The majority of the lacerations to his chest and stomach - as I said - weren't deep. He did lose quite a bit of blood, as you probably know by now, and his left hand's been sliced up. Must have tried to defend himself."

"His left hand? Not his right?"

"No." Now Masters frowned, his mind easily following Morse's. "Odd that, now I come to think about it. Maybe he was being held, arm pinned behind his back, perhaps. I guess that would suggest an accomplice." His voice took on that gruesomely excitable tone that Morse heard all too often from amateurs. But he liked Masters. And he smiled. "I'm sure Sergeant Lewis will be able to give us a full account, once he's up to it."

"Have you arrested someone?"

"Oh yes. Had him in custody overnight, he's not going anywhere."

"Good. Whoever did that to him deserves to be in jail." Morse could only agree.

He stopped next to the chair and was greeted with a stunning smile from Val Lewis. "Morse," she reached out and clasped his hand, her face calm.

"How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Her gentle Welsh accent soothed his few remaining concerns. "And he's fine. I know you'll worry about him."

Morse nodded. "Can I... buy you a coffee?"

"That would be wonderful."

The hospital canteen was quiet so early in the morning. Morse took two large mugs of freshly brewed coffee and four chocolate chip cookies over to the table Val had chosen, by the window looking out onto the busy road below.

She looked tired as she thanked him and wrapped her hands around the heated mug. But she didn't seem unduly upset by this terrible turn of events. Morse decided to give his questing mind a rest. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night and his pulse had been racing by the time he'd reached the hospital. He'd lain awake for most of the dark hours, playing over and over in his mind the way in which he had casually sent his sergeant to meet the man who'd knifed him. What if the cuts hadn't been shallow? What if Lewis had died at that little man's hands? Died in that squalid college scout's room, lying frightened and alone in an ever-growing pool of his own blood?

He put down the mug, his hands trembling slightly. There would always be a long stream of 'what ifs?'. Life was made up of branches determined by simple decisions and actions. The mistress of the lodge could just as easily have been the knife-wielding maniac and he could be one lying in hospital with multiple stab wounds. Although he doubted he'd have put up as brave and fruitful a fight as young Lewis.

Val touched his hand, reassuring him when he had believed he'd come to reassure her. "I've been expecting something to happen since he joined the force," she murmured.

"It's not usually a dangerous job." But Morse's voice was quiet.

Val sipped her coffee. "I know. He does love the job. He loves working with you."

Morse looked up. "Really?"

"Yes. He says... you 'lift' him."

Morse wondered what that meant, even as the words warmed him. "I honestly don't know where I'd be without him," he admitted.

Val smiled. "I don't think it's something you have to worry about."

For a long time to come, those words would return to puzzle him.

"Would you do me a favour?" Val asked him as she finished her coffee.

"Anything."

"Would you sit with him for a while. I have some things that I must do. The kids..."

But Morse nodded. "Of course, it's no trouble."

*

Taking 'The Times' up to the ward with him, Morse made himself comfortable in the chair by Lewis' bed, and settled to do his crossword. Only when he looked up - seven minutes later - from the penultimate clue, did he realize that his sergeant was watching him. Morse immediately dropped the paper and biro to the tiled floor, leaning forward.

"Hello."

Lewis smiled softly. "Hi." His voice sounded rough and his expression was pained.

"Do you need anything?"

"Some more of that morphine wouldn't go amiss." Morse was impressed. He knew from the few occasions he'd been hospitalized over the years that a coherent sentence was very difficult to form after twenty hours on morphine. He fetched a nurse, who - after taking temperature (a very quick, barely invasive method whereby she stuck a short funnel in her patient's ear for ten seconds) and blood pressure - disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a syringe. While injecting the painkiller straight into the IV valve in the back of Lewis' hand she kept her actions obvious and gentle.

Morse loved nurses.

It took only a matter of minutes before the pain was obliterated, and Lewis' mind returned to its previous state of euphoria. Yet for a short while he didn't close his eyes.

"Val?"

"Gone to sort out arrangements for the children. I said I'd stay until she got back."

Lewis smiled. "You don't have to, like."

"I want to. Like." The gentle, familiar ribbing earned him another half-grin before Lewis' eyes glazed slightly and his lids dropped. Morse reached out and stroked the back of his fingers over his friend's forehead.
Lewis smiled, but didn't open his eyes. Contended for now, he allowed sleep to call him back. Morse was with him, he was perfectly safe.

*

It wasn't until the following afternoon that Doctor Masters declared Lewis in a fit state of health to be questioned. But he was still in a great deal of pain, and Masters refused to allow him to leave the hospital until they could determine if anything was wrong.

For Lewis, then, it was a long morning of tests, scans and x-rays. Another morphine shot finally - blissfully - put him out for a good few hours through lunch-time and into the afternoon. Around three PM he awoke to find Morse sitting at his bedside reading some Agatha Christie novel found in the day-room. It took a little time to struggle through the fog in his brain created by the painkiller, but as he managed to focus his gaze, Morse put down the book and moved his chair closer to the bed.

"Do you need anything?" It was becoming a familiar question. But Lewis had already made up his mind not to allow them to give him any more morphine.

"No...." He tried to sit up slightly, and immediately Morse stood to assist him. The Chief Inspector piled his sergeant's pillows and with an innate gentleness rarely seen, he helped his friend sit up and back, ensuring he was comfortable. Before sitting back down, Morse pulled the curtains around the bed to give them a little privacy.

"Are you up to telling me what happened?"

Lewis nodded. When he tried in vain to reach the water jug on the bedside locker, Morse rose to his feet once more. He poured a glass of water and perched on the edge of the bed while Lewis drank it down carefully.
"Thanks."

The glass was replaced, but Morse stayed where he was. A moment's silence passed before Lewis, with a deep understanding, stretched out subtly trembling fingers and touched his Chief's hand. Instantly Morse wrapped the cold fingers in his own, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Lewis just tightened his slight grip and waited.

"Sorry." Morse chuckled at himself. "Look at me."

"It's all right."

The quiet voice touched the senior policeman. "I was so scared when I rang that mobile phone of yours and a doctor answered."

"Is that how you found out?"

"Yes. Someone - Phils I imagine - rang for an ambulance telling them you'd had a heart attack. He stole your wallet and ID and left you there." His voice cracked just a little on the final words.

But Lewis was shaking his head. "Anthony Phils wouldn't have called for an ambulance."

"We found your wallet and ID on him when we picked him up. He's the only one...."

"He wouldn't have."

Morse let it go for the moment. "Tell me."

Lewis shifted slightly against the pillows, eyes lowered. "I went into the college grounds and asked the porter where I could find Phils. Art Jones was on duty. He told me that Anthony Phils had rooms on Staircase J. He actually walked into the quad with me and pointed out the window that was Phils'. I went up the stairs, and I could hear someone whistling... I can't remember the tune now. But I knew it. I went up the three flights of stairs and looked for the door - room 7b. The door was open, and I realized that's where the whistling was coming from. I couldn't see anything through the door, so I knocked and went inside, announcing that I was from the police. On my... right there was another door open, leading to a utility room. He was in there, by the sink. He was cleaning the bloody knife! The water wasn't running, but he had paper towels all around him, he had one in his hand. It was this... big, long kitchen knife - Val's got one - 'kitchen devil's I think they're called.... I said his name and he looked at me... and suddenly he was coming at me, brandishing that knife...."
Tears sprung from his eyes, and again Lewis realized he was shaking. Morse reached out, rubbed his slim shoulder through the thin fabric of the medical gown. Lewis swallowed back against the sudden constriction in his throat. "I tried to fight him, but...." Unexpectedly, he smiled, looking up at his Chief, eyes sparking with tears picked out by the harsh ward lights. "You know, I reached for my phone... in my jacket pocket. I don't know what I thought I was going to do. Ring for the police I suppose." He was weeping now, the tears sliding silently down his face. "I really thought that was it, you know. I remember... one moment I was standing, and the next I was on the floor and I could feel the blood around me, on me. I actually saw him run out of the room, and for a moment, one crazy moment, I actually tried to stand, to chase him!" Morse smiled gently. "After that, I don't know. All I do remember is the same tune that he'd been whistling, going round and round in my head, getting louder and louder. I guess I must have blacked out."

Morse found a box of tissues on the far corner of the locker and grabbed a handful, giving them to Lewis before resuming his reassuring touch on his sergeant's shoulder and arm. Still their fingers remained clutched together, Morse's thumb rubbing softly over Lewis' cold hand. "Someone rang for an ambulance."

Lewis blew his nose with some difficulty, not bothering to try to get his healthy hand free. "No Phils. He tried to kill me. He left me there...."

"But he must have gone back to you, he took your wallet and ID."

"Yeah....." Lewis sniffed, looking away.

Had it been anyone else... but Morse dropped it. Someone called an ambulance; someone saved his sergeant's life. He could only be thankful for that.

"You think he attacked you with the same knife he used to kill the Master of Lonsdale and his friend?"

Lewis nodded. "He was cleaning it...."

Morse bit back the rest of his questions, but the other man was watching him now, eyes bright with intelligence and knowing. "Ask. If I was a suspect you'd be grilling me." He squeezed Morse's hand as tightly as he could. "Please."

Morse sighed. "It's all right. I.... Sometimes I push it too far, make the simplest things so complicated...."

"But...."

The Chief Inspector looked up, smiling at his friend. "'But' nothing. Phils has admitted to killing them and to your attempted murder." Lewis knew that wasn't enough; Morse always pressed for the truth, picked away at a case until the very essence of what had happened was lain bare before him. Only then would he be satisfied. Only then would he rest. "You need to recover. If I don't get you back soon, Strange'll assign Dixon to me."

Despite himself, Lewis couldn't help a smile. "What a disaster that would be!"

"Well, precisely."

The simple, familiar banter brought them back to a place where things were normal again.

Somewhere just below normality there was a tension, a wonderful 'something' that was building between them, bringing them closer, entwining them in shared experiences; emotion and pain. It wasn't new. At their first meeting the seed had been sown. But now - ever since Seth Greene had broken down his own defences - the barriers between them seemed to be slowly crumbling. Whatever it was, Lewis already cherished this unique friendship. He loved that he alone was Morse's partner, his sidekick. Others were jealous, he knew that. And it made him smile when he thought about it. It definitely hadn't been easy. But it was worth everything.

Sometime later, a nurse peered in through the curtains to find Morse helping his sergeant to get comfortable so he could sleep once more. Robert Lewis was making a great improvement. Tomorrow he should be allowed home. She wondered what it would take to make him stay there.

* * * * *

chapter three

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