"I need your badge, your ID, and your gun."

Det. Mike Hanson heard someone voice the awful command, but suddenly couldn't recall the conversation that had just led up to it. Who was this demanding him to relinquish the objects that identified him as a proud member of the best police force in the country, the NYPD?

"C'mon, Mike. Do as Lieu says."

Someone else now urged him to do something that bristled against every fiber of his being. Give up his badge, his gun? Neither voice sounded real to him. He couldn't do what these people asked. He wouldn't do it. It wasn't fair, it just ... wasn't fair. He'd done nothing wrong, he was a by-the-book kinda cop, a credit to his profession. Then, the first person spoke again, more forcefully.

"Detective? Badge, ID, and gun, please."

Everything clicked into place again, and he finally complied with the command.

"Badge. ID. Gun." He handed each item to Lt. Reece in just that order. "What now?" he asked, his voice quiet but strained; his eyes almost glazed over. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. A rash, overzealous rookie, yes, or an older cop who should have retired years ago, yes. But not to him. He was always on his toes, always mindful of his duty to protect and serve. A good, honest, hardworking cop.

"You know the drill, Mike. Desk duty for now. The suspect, Darnell Johnson, is spouting a different version of events. So, while the investigation is ongoing - " Reece replied calmly but firmly as she motioned with one hand towards his desk. "And a visit to 1PP. Commissioner Reagan wants to see you right away." She eyed him for a moment and then added, "If I were you, I'd speak to him before anyone from IA gets here. He's gruff but fair. Those IA guys seem to all be bucking for a promotion on the backs of good, honest cops like you."

"I'll come with you, Mike. After all, I'm your partner." Jo told him and placed her hand on his arm.

"You'll do no such, thing, Martinez. The Commissioner wants only to speak with him." She turned her attention away from a stunned and disappointed Jo, back to a wordless Mike. "Just tell him the facts, Mike. You do that and everything should work out okay." Her expression softened just a bit as she looked him in the face. "Go now. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner you can get back here to your job." She dipped her head and turned and walked into her office, his police paraphernalia weighing heavily in her hand.

Jo watched Reece retreat to her office and then turned to Mike. "She's right, I guess. Talk to Commissioner Reagan, tell him what happened and get all this craziness behind us. Let's go." She turned and began to walk out of the bullpen, Mike close on her heels.

"Lieu said I was to fly solo on this. No partner." he reminded her as they stepped into the elevator.

Jo focused on the floor numbers above as each one lit up and brought them closer to the lobby. "She said nothing about me not being able to drive you over there, though." She flashed a smile at him and he rolled his eyes and smiled back.

They climbed into her car and buckled themselves in. "So what exactly did happen out there, Mike? You never finished telling me." She saw him suddenly stiffen out of the corner of her eye. Geez, this is how Henry usually reacted to some of her questions. Was this 'hide-the-truth-from-Jo' virus catching? Was it a 'guy' thing? She'd taken off a few days to attend her younger sister's wedding in Albuquerque. In her absence, Mike had commandeered Henry as his unofficial crime-solving partner and they'd pursued a suspect wanted for the robbery and murder of an Italian tourist.

"I can't talk to you about it yet, Jo." he finally replied. Not so sure if I should. Not so sure I know, myself. He'd even waived his right to have a Union Rep with him or speak to an attorney before going to speak with the Commissioner. The fewer people he spoke to about that night, the better. And not just for Henry's sake, either. For his own sake, he admitted to himself. Not yet ready to retire or spend time in a padded room. He took in a deep breath and released it in a rush with his next words. "I'll talk with the Commish," he began, "and ... "

"And what? What, Mike?"

"We'll go from there." He couldn't tell her the truth. At least, not all of it. And he had to get it straight in his head what he was going to tell Commissioner Reagan. This was the first time that he would meet the legendary peacekeeper-in-chief face-to-face and ... he would be forced to lie to him. Lie to the Commish. And to Jo. And to Reece. But he had no choice. How could he tell anybody that he'd wrestled with a suspect who had just shot and seriously wounded Henry, only Henry's body now carried only a minor wound? And just where had that crazy cracker vanished to?

"We're here." Jo put her hand on his shoulder as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "I'll wait here for you." She gave him an encouraging smile and he exited the vehicle and entered the building that had always seemed so imposing to him. Even more imposing today. Almost foreboding.

His heart pounded in his ears as the elevator doors opened and the Commissioner's son, Det. Danny Reagan, stepped off. He'd seen him around at various police activities and community affairs. Last spring, his precinct, the 11th, had just barely bested Danny's 12th precinct softball team. He seemed like a good sort, with somewhat of a reputation for being a hothead while either pursuing or interrogating a suspect, but he'd never crossed the line. He'd come close more than once, but that built-in Reagan radar had always managed to keep him on the right path. Mike hoped that Danny wouldn't recognize or notice him and he lowered his head and attempted to shield his face by pretending to scratch his forehead.

"Hey. Det. Hanson." Danny was squarely in front of him now, a slight smile on his face. His closely-cropped red hair replaced his formerly short do with the familiar widow's peak. "Betcha thought I wouldn't remember you, huh?"

Mike chuckled softly and an eyebrow jerked up. "Det. Reagan, nice to see you." The two men shook hands.

Danny looked to either side of him then back to Mike. In an almost whispery tone, his thick, Brooklyn accent reassured him, "Look, I heard about what happened and I know you're on your way up to talk to my old man about it. Darnell Johnson's a frequent flyer, collared him a couple of times myself. Nobody in their right mind would ever take his word over yours." He jabbed a finger at Mike's chest to emphasize his next words. "You're a good cop. I know. Word gets around. Just be square with the Commissioner, lay out the facts," he spread his hands and shook his head slightly, "everything will be copasetic."

Mike smiled and slowly nodded.

Danny turned to leave and said, "Hang in there, buddy." He gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, which Mike returned with as much gusto as he could muster.

Great, Mike, thought ruefully to himself. Everyone has faith in him except himself. The elevator ride up to Commissioner Reagan's penthouse offices seemed an eternity. When the car slowed and the doors opened, his stomach did a flip flop and he feared losing his lunch all over the nice, clean, meticulously polished floors. He walked further into the offices and neared a desk, behind which an attractive blond woman sat. She smiled and met his eyes. As he grew closer, he remembered her in the bleachers rooting for the 12th precinct's softball team last summer. Det. Abigail Baker, he noted. She rose from her desk and knocked on the Commissioner's door. A voice from within bade her to enter. She opened the door and announced his arrival. "Commissioner, this is Det. Mike Hanson of the 11th Precinct."

"Thank you, Baker." the Commissioner said.

Mike nodded and sheepishly stepped into the office. Baker stepped out of the office and closed the door behind her.

"Commissioner." Mike nodded again.

"Have a seat, Detective." The Commissioner directed him to a chair that faced his desk. The chair right next to a wheelchair-bound Henry with a bandaged thigh.

"Hi, Doc." Mike said.

"Detective." Henry replied.

The two men side-eyed each other for a split second then turned their attention to the Commissioner.

"Glad you could come so soon, Det. Hanson. Hope you don't mind that I also requested your ME, Dr. Morgan, here, to attend this meeting, as well. He's shed quite a bit of light on what happened in your recent encounter with the suspect, Darnell Johnson. That being said, I would like very much to hear from you, the chain of events that led up to Johnson and the good Doctor being shot."

Mike was surprised, to say the least. Henry spilled the beans? Mike recalled that he had seen him bleed, had seen where the bullet had torn through his expensive suit pants and penetrated his inner left thigh. He'd seen enough gunshot wounds to know that Henry's femoral artery had most likely been damaged. A possibly fatal wound. The blood had gushed down and over Henry's fingers as he'd gripped the wound, fallen down, and grimaced in pain. Then, after the struggle that had resulted in Johnson also getting shot, Henry had simply disappeared. Where had he gone, and so quickly? But later on that evening, when he'd visited the antiques shop for answers, he'd witnessed a pain-free Henry traipsing down the stairs into the shop, just as he'd entered.

Henry had been unquestionably startled by Mike's presence. He hadn't expected him to show up there. When questioned about his terrible wound just hours earlier, Henry had brushed it off by describing it as only a flesh wound. Grazed, he'd said. Mike hadn't bought it. He knew what he'd seen. And that was hardly just a flesh wound. But the equally troubling fact was that Henry was standing in front of him, apparently in no need of major surgery, after all. Mike felt that he had no choice but to enter that version of facts into his report. He'd finally left the shop with more questions than answers ... and angry; very angry. The enigmatic doctor and his equally enigmatic, elderly roommate were once again free to roam amongst their many antiques, having once again clouded themselves in yet another layer of mystery.

Nonetheless, Mike concluded that he had no choice but to stick to the facts in his report. He breathed an inward sigh of relief when the Commissioner gave a nod and a loud sigh and smiled at him.

"That stands with what the good doctor just told me." He momentarily eyed the two men seated across from his desk and said, "As of this moment, Detective, you are officially reinstated to full duty." He rose and extended his hand to one, then the other, shaking their hands and nearly dwarfing even Henry's large hand in his own. His towering 6'5" height made him at least as tall as Lucas, but broader at the shoulders and exuded much more authority; a quiet but strong confidence. Mustached and still darkly handsome at 67, he was as imposing a figure as the building they were in. His impeccable manner of dress rivaled Henry's (sans the scarf), and, just like Henry, he wore his specially-tailored suit well. One could also say that if the immortal ME ever did manage to age into his late 60's, he might wind up looking like Frank Reagan.

Det. Baker was holding the door open for them now.

"Baker, please see to it that they make it out of the building okay, especially Dr. Morgan." He motioned to indicate his wheelchair.

"Oh, no problem, Commissioner, I got this." Mike said and gripped the handles of Henry's conveyance. He placed his hand on Henry's shoulder and dug his fingers in causing Henry to grunt a bit. "My ride's just outside and the Doc and I are going in the same direction. Right, Doc?" Henry hid a grimace with a forced smile and nodded. "Yeah," Mike gleefully reassured them all, "I'm gonna take real good care of the Doc."

Once outside the building, Henry spoke up. "Detective, I do appreciate your offer of a ride, but as you can see," he said pointing to Abe's car with Abe at the wheel, parked only a few cars behind Jo's, "I have my own ride."

"So, you do," Mike sing-songed, his eyes squinting suspiciously at Abe, "so, you do." He pushed Henry's wheelchair closer to Abe's car and gave a slight salute to him. Then, he bent down and whispered into Henry's ear, "Look, I don't know what's up with you and your friend, Mr. Sunshine, there - "

"Abraham. His name is Abraham, Detective." Henry corrected him.

"Whatever." He straightened back up and held the chair in place while Henry transferred himself from it to the front passenger seat. He opened the back door, collapsed the chair and placed it in the back seat. Once done, he stepped back from the car but maintained stern eye contact with Henry as Abe drove off.

"What was that all about?" Abe asked in astonishment. "Thought you two were friends. He looked like he wanted to punch you."

Henry rubbed his shoulder where Mike's fingers had dug in and muttered, "We're not exactly friends, we're colleagues, although," he sighed, "I seriously doubt that he will request me as his ME again anytime soon."

"Lemme guess. He's still sore about your disappearing act after getting badly shot the other night and then showing up later ready to run a marathon, right?" Abe chortled and shook his head. "You sure know how to get yourself into it, don't you, Pops?" He honked his horn and growled at another motorist, "Where'd you get your license, ya nut? Print it yourself in your freakin' basement?"

Henry's sigh of exasperation required no verbal response.

"How are you gonna handle this?" He was met with silence. "I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

Henry sighed deeply again and pulled his lips in.

"Would you please stop that? Getting on my nerves."

"Abraham. You must control yourself."

"Nope. I don't. I'm entitled." He looked over at his father and grinned. "I'm a grumpy old man now." He smiled and it grew broader as he finally saw a broad smile on Henry's face.

"Home. I'll make you some scones. We'll figure it out."

Henry knew that his relationship with Mike only existed because of Jo's insistence of requesting him as their ME on all of their cases for the past three years. He was aware that as he and Jo had gradually grown closer, on and off the job, Mike may have begun to view him less of a threat, but still with a wary eye because of how fiercely he protected his privacy. For that reason, he and Mike had failed to forge a strong relationship, professional or otherwise. It was just as well, since Henry tried to keep as many people as possible at arm's length in order to guard his secret of being an immortal. An everlaster, as his son, Abe, jokingly referred to him. Funny how things work out, he thought to himself. In order to clear the air between them, so to speak, he just might be forced to reveal his secret to Det. Mike Hanson instead of to Det. Jo Martinez, the person he'd always assumed would be first. Funny how things work out. Then, why wasn't he laughing?

vvvv

Back at the Commissioner's office ...

Frank Reagan, deep in thought, hands in pockets, paced slowly back and forth in his office, from his desk to the leather sofa at the back wall, around the coffee table and leather chairs in the middle of the room, and back again. There was something odd about the Detective's and the ME's behavior. Something he'd picked up on. A strained acceptance between the two that leaned more to antagonism. As Commissioner, he tolerated nothing less than the truth from his men and women of the NYPD. That included ME's with a crime-solving bent who frequented crime scenes with them. Their stories, however, had corroborated each other's, and they had related them separately, but ... still ... there was also something else niggling at the back of his memory. He suddenly walked back to his desk and dialed his home phone number. He twisted a bit in his swivel chair as the phone rang at the other end and quickly sat forward once it was answered.

"Hi, Pops. Remember when you told us of when I was about 18 months old, very sick, and - "

("I had to pull a gun on the ambulance driver to force him to take you to Methodist, the nearest hospital, instead of that butcher shop, St. Victor's?")

"Yeah, that."

("What happened to dredge up that old business?")

"Well, it's not so much that as the doctor you described who treated me."

("The doctor ... ? Ohhh, the doctor, yeah, had a twangy British accent, nice guy, but I was more concerned about you.")

"Well, I remember you said something about how he dressed, how he carried himself, and how the nursing staff had a tendency to get lost in his eyes and - "

(Hmphf! Yeah! Darndest thing. There you were so little and in need of care and those empty-headed nurses were goo-gawin' over his dazzling smile. Pffft! But I have to say, he did it. He brought you back from the brink. Once everything got a little settled, I went back to the hospital to thank him but they told me that he'd just up and quit, no word why. I always wanted to just thank him and shake his hand. Why are you asking me about all that, Francis?")

"I'm not sure, but I just might be able to arrange that thank you and handshake session for you."

(What? You know where he is? He'd be about my age or a little older now. And I seriously doubt that he would even remember you out of all the other patients he must have treated over the years.")

"Hmmm, we'll see, Pops. I invited him to dinner this Friday."