**Note: This fic takes some liberties with the timeline of Forever - specifically, Henry is older than he should be canonically. Just roll with it, please.

- - July 4th, 2015 - -

It was a deliciously cool midsummer's day in New York, and the open windows of Abe's Antiques allowed a light breeze to flow through the shop, otherwise closed for the holiday. Three people sat inside, sipping at tall glasses of lemonade and leaning back in antique wooden chairs while a smooth jazz track played from a well-used Victrola.

Jo paused for a moment to listen to the music. "I thought you weren't a fan of jazz, Henry?"

Henry Morgan cast an irked glance towards the older man on his right, though the frown was belied by the smile in his eyes. "I'm not. This is from Abe's collection."

"I'm weaning him onto it," Abe said, grinning. "Only taken fifty years so far."

Jo rested her elbows on her knees and shook her head. "I know it's been a while since you told me, but sometimes I still have a hard time believing it."

Henry raised an eyebrow, giving her a soft smile. "That I'm immortal."

Jo returned the expression. "Yeah."

After an… interesting series of events involving an ancient Roman dagger and a homicidal maniac, Henry had finally opened up and told her the truth about himself. Namely, that he was an immortal who never aged and who woke up naked in the nearest body of water every time he died. The news had, admittedly, been a bit of a shock. But all the evidence pointed to it being the truth, and she was a detective. She straightened up. "Though it's surprisingly less difficult to believe that Abe's your son."

Abe, who had a wide, expressive face and was rapidly approaching seventy, leaned in towards Henry as if to offer up his own features for comparison with the other man's classical, eternally-thirty-five visage. "Must be the family resemblance."

Henry chuckled at that, and Jo couldn't resist a grin. Her M.E. turned partner seemed to be in a good mood; maybe she could wrangle some details of his personal life out of him. He'd been a closed book practically the whole time she'd known him, she reflected, so it was only fair. "Did you ever have any kids of your own?" She grimaced. "Not that Abe's not… that came out wrong…"

Abe waved it off, leaning back in his chair. Henry seemed to be taking the question with a much less blasé attitude, though he was trying to appear unaffected. "Just one," he said, tracing the rim of his glass with the tip of his finger. "From my first marriage. Before my curse."

Jo tilted her head slightly. "You mean Nora? The b- witch?"

Henry smiled wryly at her poor save. "No. Before her, even." He leaned back and crossed his legs, preparing for what was bound to be a long story. It always was with Henry. "My first marriage," he said, "was to a young woman - well, we were both young. I was… eighteen, I believe. Her name was Emily, and we had a whirlwind romance if ever there was one. Our son was born that same year. On this very date, actually, in 1776."

Jo grinned. "The child of the most British person I know, born on the most patriotic day in American history."

"It wasn't intentional, I assure you," Henry said. "And I'm fairly certain I'm the only British person you know."

Jo was still grinning at him. "Please, continue."

Henry rolled his eyes, but complied. "That was all after I'd fought with my father. I was so angry with him that I actually took my wife's name. I was living in Kent as a country doctor, making enough for us to live comfortably, but not much more than that." He paused. "Emily died of consumption - err, tuberculosis when our son was eight. Two years later I married Nora, and he never forgave me. By the time he turned seventeen, finances were so tight that I had to send him out on his own. I'm not sure he ever forgave me for that, either. My first death happened a few months after I last saw him." He was gripping his glass tightly now and staring at his shoes. "What with being trapped in Bedlam, then jail… I never got the chance to see him again."

"Oh…" Jo bit her lip, and without thinking reached out her hand towards him, the idea of pulling him close and cuddling him flitting through her mind. Surprised at herself, she drew her hand back. But Abe had seen her make the gesture and was now watching with an almost anticipatory look in his eye. She settled for an awkward pat on Henry's knee, which caused him to look up in surprise and her to shrink back into her chair. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

Henry looked at her silently for a few moments. Then he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it was all quite a long time ago." He glanced up at one of the shop's many grandfather clocks. "It's almost noon. Are you hungry?"

Jo smiled. If Henry wanted to change the subject, she'd let him. "I will be if this means it's finally time for Abe to start making this amazing barbecue you've been telling me about."

Abe stood up and rubbed his hands. "Oh, you won't be disappointed! If I do say so myself." He turned and headed for the stairs at the back of the shop.

Jo stood up and was about to follow him, when her phone rang. Seeing the number belonged to Hanson, she shot Henry an apologetic look and answered. "What's up?"

"Sorry to interrupt your day off," Hanson said, not sounding very sorry. "But we've got a weird one here."

"You need Henry."

"Right."

Jo sighed. "Alright, what've you got?" She listened as Hanson tried to explain the situation, then cupped her hand over the phone and turned to Henry. "Headless vic on 12th Avenue, near that new museum ship on Pier 80." She tried to remain poker-faced despite how clearly interesting this particular set of facts sounded. "It's your day off, you don't need to hold Mike's hand."

Henry appeared to be lost in thought. "Headless, you say? Rather unusual…" He glanced up at Abe. "...Though I'm sure Detective Hanson does indeed have the matter well under control."

Abe shrugged, smiling. "Food will still be here when you get back. Just make sure you tell me all about it, 'cause I have to admit I'm intrigued."

Henry looked like he was about to make a half-hearted protest, so Jo nudged him towards the door. "Thanks, Abe. We'll take my car."

The two of them left the shop, but not before Henry could grab a light scarf off the coat rack near the door.

- - January 12th, 1858 - -

Horatio Hornblower was getting tired of waiting for death.

He hated this, all of it; being confined to his bed, feeble, his mind slipping away from him. His pride, the only thing he had left, made it worse than torture. He never thought he would live this long anyway, and was disgusted with himself for having allowed his own cowardly fear of oblivion to drive him to this point, where even the last shreds of his dignity were gone and all that remained was for this shriveled shell to give up its ghost and expire. At least he had no extended relatives waiting outside to snap up his estate. Barbara was gone, and the Wellesleys had no need of or interest in his money, so everything would go to Richard. It was with some pleasure that he remembered that little Henrietta had always loved Smallbridge. Though she wasn't so little anymore… Doubtless she would force her layabout father to hold onto the house.

Horatio frowned. That was too harsh. He did in fact love his son, and Richard wasn't a layabout, precisely. What he was was a musician, and apparently a very good one, but music was an occupation totally alien to his tone-deaf father. He might have served more purpose in Horatio's eyes knitting sweaters for small dogs. Richard was also a man with an abundance of womanish feeling about him which Horatio suspected had been inherited from his birth mother, and whose saccharine pitying looks he found he could no longer stomach. He had therefore asked for peace in his final moments and rasped long enough to have all other human beings escorted out of the room. He would die as he had lived, alone with his own ceaseless thoughts.

His fingers curled into the sheets as he continued to wheeze out labored breaths. He allowed his eyes to close, and visions of all those who had gone before him began to appear in his mind's eye. He thought first of Barbara, picturing her as she had been that long-gone day aboard the Lydia , tanned and confident and perfect. Then Maria, and the two little ones. Then Bush, then Archie, then Matthews and Styles, Longley and Wellard, the nameless multitude of men who had been torn to pieces under his command.

Horatio had only ever gone to church when attendance was required of him; he was not a spiritual man whatsoever. But he allowed himself some small comfort in the knowledge that he would at least share the act of dying with some very good company.

As he faded away, the last sensation in Horatio's mind was the smell of the sea, the sound of the wind in the sails, and the deck rolling beneath his feet. He tried to concentrate for a few moments more. For a hallucination, this feels remarkably real, he thought.

Then everything went black.

- - July 4th, 2015 - -

Jo drove her car up to the end of the pier, which had been cordoned off by yellow police tape. Henry saw there was a small crowd beginning to gather, but not enough to block their progress towards the scene. He stood still for a moment on the pier, taking in his surroundings. There was a light breeze, and he could smell faintly the scent of salt floating in from the harbor. On the left-hand side of the pier were a few boats, bobbing on the Hudson. On the right was a small, square building with the half-painted word "Museum" above its glass doors; it looked dark inside, and littered with construction equipment, so it probably wasn't ready to open yet. And beyond that was…

Jo glanced at him inquiringly. "You know that ship?"

"Not per se," Henry said distractedly, gazing up at the tall wooden masts and flapping sails of the HMS Hotspur. "She's a twenty-gun quarter-deck sloop, sailed during the Napoleonic Wars. One of her most notable engagements was with an enemy frigate escorting a convoy carrying cargoes of Spanish gold."

"Neat," Jo said, well used to his historical tidbits by now. "So, according to Hanson, our vic's at the end of the pier."

Henry followed Jo down the pier until they encountered Detective Hanson, who pointed them towards the body. Henry knelt down to begin his initial examination. The victim was indeed headless, and still fully-clothed in a pair of khaki shorts and a lilac blouse. "Female, likely mid-twenties," he mumbled, gazing at the severed stump of the neck. "Cause of death was decapitation."

He could hear Hanson snort behind him. "Obviously."

"But…"

Jo leaned over. "But what?"

"Well, the cut is very clean," Henry said, pointing. "And it was done in one fell swoop. Most likely this was a weapon with a long blade, a sword, for instance. And whoever did it was quite skilled. I may be able to find out what type of blade it was once we get her back to the lab." He stood up. "Have you identified her yet?"

"Yeah," Hanson replied. "Anna Cardinal, according to her driver's license. We also found an employee ID card for a New York Maritime Museum. Apparently, she works on that thing." He pointed to the Hotspur .

"Well," Jo said, sizing up the ship once more. "Mike, why don't you canvas the area for witnesses? I'll go up there and see what I can find out." She turned to Henry. "You coming?"

"What, you're takin' him on the sailboat and not me?" Hanson protested.

Jo gave Henry a knowing look. "Let's just say I think he knows a little bit more about this historical stuff than you do," she said. So far, she was the only one at the police station who'd been entrusted with the knowledge of Henry's immortality. "He was practically giving me the tour while we were walking down the pier. No hard feelings."

Hanson grumbled a little, then moved off down the pier to start interviewing people in the crowd, leaving Henry and Jo to board the Hotspur .

The two of them climbed up the gangway connecting the old ship to the pier. Henry followed Jo up onto the raised quarterdeck, pensively running his hand along the rail on the starboard side. Of course, the ship must have been extensively renovated and restored since her fighting days, but it was strangely satisfying to imagine that these could be the very boards he had walked, the heels of his sea-boots wearing the path of his morning paces into the wood, his hand perhaps tracing this same rail.

Jo was looking back at him now with an odd look on her face. "You okay?"

Henry shook himself out of his thoughts. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"Hm, no reason." Jo shrugged. "You just tend to get … reflective when you're around old stuff with sentimental value." She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you have nothing to do with this ship?"

Curse her observational skills and finely-honed detective's intuition. One of these days she would find out everything he'd ever done in his two hundred years of life. It might just be easier to start being more open with her. He was about to reply, when there was a strange noise from the back of the ship. It sounded like a heavy thump, muffled by a few layers of wood.

Jo turned immediately towards the captain's cabin, her hand straying to her hip. She looked back at Henry and tossed her head towards the cabin. He nodded.

After pausing briefly with her fingers wrapped around the handle, Jo flung open the cabin door and rushed inside, Henry hot on her heels. An instant later, there was a smaller thump as Jo discovered how low the cabin's ceiling was, via a wooden beam to the head. "Owww…" she groaned, rubbing her forehead while scanning the room. "Huh, looks empty- oh." Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What the hell?"

Henry strained to see what she was talking about; she appeared to be staring at the floor behind a small wooden desk. He took a few steps into the cabin, ducking his head. Suddenly, there was a quiet groan, a shuffling sound, and a man rose unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the back of the desk chair for support. He was dressed in full 19th century naval uniform, the single epaulet on his left shoulder signifying a rank of commander. He looked young, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. And his face was shockingly familiar; in fact, Henry would have recognized it instantly if he could believe it was really there.

The man blinked, staring at him in confusion, then glanced around the cabin, stumbled a little, and finally turned back to stare at Henry. After a few seconds that seemed to stretch into forever, he spoke. "Father?"

AN: I have seen this type of crossover done twice before on AO3, but not here, so I figured I'd make my own contribution. I ended up departing from canon with regards to Henry's age because if I hadn't he would actually be three years younger than Horatio, and that would just destroy my headcanon entirely, so. But I really feel like Henry makes a convincing Horatio-dad because 1) he's a doctor, and 2) he's played by a noticeably older Ioan and is generally a much more mature character. Also, pushing back the date of his first death actually makes it more historically accurate, because the slave trade had been abolished for seven years by 1814 anyway. That's my list of disclaimers; if you still think this fic is believable, by all means continue to stick around.