A/N: Hi, all! This is my entry for The Big Reveal Ficathon happening over on Tumblr and AO3. Two new reveal stories (anyone and everyone but Jo learns Henry's secret) will be posted every day this week, so check it out.

This is a sequel to my previous story, "Mike Hanson Loses His Bliss." If you haven't read that one, here's what you need to know: Mike knows Henry's secret. At the outset of this story, he's the only one at the precinct who does. Okay, that should do it.

When other people stumble onto their coworkers' secrets, it's stuff like nose-picking or stepping out on their spouses. Me? I had to overachieve. I had to find out that I work with a guy who is 236 years old and dies as often as the rest of us clip our toenails, then comes bobbing back to life out of the East River. The day I saw Henry Morgan die and disappear was the day I lost my blissful ignorance about him and his "condition," as he calls it. The thing I miss most about my bliss is the dry car seats. Back then, when he reappeared all wet and naked, he never called me. Now, he calls.

I admit that being one of the select few to know an actual, honest-to-God immortal does have its moments. Loosen him up with a few fancy drinks and Henry gossips like an old lady about famous dead people, especially if Abe is around to egg him on. No, it's not all bad. Just mostly bad.

Never mind about the car seats: the thing I miss most is the simplicity. Before, I came to work and caught bad guys, maybe had a couple beers with friends, then went home and spent some time with the family. Now that I know, I come to work, hide Henry's secret from Jo and everyone else, and catch bad guys while trying not to notice Henry acting all immortal. It's hard to explain what that looks like, but once you start noticing all the suspicious stuff he says and does, you really can't unsee it. I go home to the wife and kids and hide it from them too, which gets tricky when Henry can't reach Abe and I have to explain to Karen why he's calling me for a ride again. She's starting to worry that he's an alcoholic.

Hiding it from Jo is by far the worst part. I hate lying to my partner, even if it's just by omission. She's known for a while that he's hiding something, but she doesn't push him for the truth, and so far he hasn't offered. That was bad enough when she and Henry were just semi-partners and besties, but a few weeks ago they started dating—and he still hasn't told her. That means I know more about her boyfriend than she does. I don't know if she's seen him naked yet, but I certainly have. That makes me the president and sole member of the precinct's I Know Too Much About Henry Morgan Club, and it's stressing me out. If he were still alive, my old man would probably throw his favorite Henry Ford quote at me and say, "Don't find fault, find a remedy," but so far the closest I've come is the bottle of Pepto-Bismol in my desk drawer. It's almost empty again, and I blame Henry.

Thursday, 2:25 p.m.

I step off the elevator into the morgue and hope that this will be a short visit. I usually leave most of the morgue trips to Jo, but she and Henry are off tracking down a cold case witness somewhere in the boondocks. It's not that I'm skeeved out by dead bodies—wrong line of work for that hangup—but the morgue is Henry and Lucas's weird little basement world. They get so excited about finding body fluid foam and sniffing stomach contents that I keep waiting for them to break into song, and who's got time for that? I'd rather just hear the bottom line second-hand from Jo, who always spares me the details. I suppose it's a good thing that it's been a slow week for new murders, but that means I'm stuck crossing "t"s and dotting "i"s on lingering paperwork, so here I am.

Thankfully, Lucas is at his computer, not not elbow deep in a body. "Hello, Detective Hanson. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" The kid looks happy to see me, and I guess I can't blame him. With no new cases and no Henry to follow, he's probably wandering around like a lost duckling down here.

"I just need the Stevenson file for a quick fact check, then I'll be out of your hair."

He sorts through some files and comes up with the one I need. "Here you go—Mr. Stevenson's last testament, so to speak."

"Thanks." I turn to leave.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks. "You just got here."

I can't stop my eyes from rolling a little before I turn back to him. I knew this would happen. As much as I'd like to avoid paperwork, I don't need my own duckling to babysit today. Or ducksit. "I should really get my report submitted. You know how Reece is."

The "bros united against The Man" approach seems to be working. He nods and says, "Yeah, I hear you. She can be a real slave driver." Then he winces when he remembers who "The Man" is in this case. "Wait, no, that's probably racist, and sexist—best case scenario, highly insensitive and NSFW. Reece is a tough but fair woman who could easily kick my ass if she wanted to and let's just forget I said anything."

"I would be happy to forget this whole conversation." An alert noise from his computer announces new email, and it's the distraction I need to make a break for the elevator.

I'm halfway to freedom when I hear him mutter to his screen, "This is weird. 'The truth about Henry Morgan'?"

I'm just going to keep walking. I'll pretend I didn't hear that, get in the elevator, and go about my business. It's probably just some weird new spam that plugs in the name of your boss. I did not volunteer to be president of the Henry Fan Club, and it's not my job to guard his secret every minute of the day. I'm leaving.

Shit. He saved my life. I can't just leave.

I turn back and join Lucas in front of his computer. He just opened an email sent to his work address with the subject, "The truth about Henry Morgan." Inside it says:

Who—or WHAT—is Henry Morgan? A liar and a monster. He doesn't think you deserve to know, but I do. Another winner every 30 minutes!

There's a video file attached. This can't be good. Lucas hovers his mouse over the icon and double-clicks.

"Whoa, are you sure you should be doing that?" I ask. "You'll give the whole precinct a computer virus or something."

"Not likely from an .mp4 file. Besides, the department's anti-malware filters would have snagged it." It sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Crap.

I try to think of another excuse to delete the message in case it's not just clever spam, but the video has begun to play, and short of acting massively suspicious, all I can do is watch. On the screen, we see a street and sidewalk lit by street lamps. The footage is smart phone-quality, good but not professional. The camera zooms in past the occasional car or truck zooming past and focuses on the person across the street. It's a man wearing a scarf and checking a pocket watch, and he's not looking where he's going. This is definitely not spam.

Lucas is glued to the screen. "Whoa, does Henry have another stalker already? Because this is seriously creepy." A date and time stamp has been added in the corner. My stomach clenches up a little, because I know what's about to happen. This is footage from the first night he ever called me for a riverside pick-up, after he'd been walking around distracted and stepped right in front of a—

"HOLY SHIT!" Lucas yelps, then claps a hand over his mouth when the rest of the morgue staff turns to stare. I give them a shrug and say, "New Star Wars trailer." That seems to satisfy them for now. The kid has not so much as blinked. I never asked Henry for the gory details of that death, but now I've seen for myself. He wasn't thrown or dragged when the semi hit him; he went straight under the wheels with barely a bump. The semi doesn't slow down or even honk, and I wouldn't be surprised if I scrolled back and saw a cell phone glow in the cab.

The video is silent, and I'm guessing that's because the person holding the phone just made all sorts of sounds that could identify them, and they were smart enough to delete the audio track. I'm grateful to see that the footage is not high enough resolution to show too much detail, just enough to make what happened unmistakeable. The camera focuses on a crumpled, person-shaped form wearing Henry's clothes and holds steady on the body. From personal experience I think I know what's coming next. Sure enough, there's a sudden flash of light, and the body is gone. A few cars even speed right over the spot like nothing happened. A second later, the video cuts to black.

I look up at Lucas's face. His hand has dropped away from his mouth, but not by much, like he forgot that it's still just hovering there in front of him. Hopefully, he'll just blow this off as a hoax and my work here will be done.

"I knew it," he whispers, then looks at me and says it louder. "I knew it!" We get looks from the staff again, and he adds, "Sorry, I…really love Star Wars." Then he turns back to me with a genuinely gleeful look and stage whispers, "I knew it! They're real, and Henry is one of them!"

"One of who?"

"The Immortals!"

So much for finishing my paperwork.

I manage to drag Lucas into Henry's office and we log onto the computer at his desk. The glass walls don't have blinds, but at least now we have a closed door and a screen no one else can see. Lucas watches the video again at full size, then a third time to pause and examine frames and mutter about "no signs of compositing," whatever that means. I don't bother trying to stop him. The best I can do is make little suggestions about how this or that part might be faked, but it's no use telling an amateur filmmaker anything about filmmaking.

"I can't believe it," he says at last.

"Really?" I ask him, "because it sounds like you completely believe some nut job who's probably blackmailing your friend—or worse." I commandeer the mouse and close the video window. "Now stop watching that thing and let me see the original message."

Lucas keeps talking. "I mean, there's always been something about him, you know? Something kind of spooky. Which I totally admire, by the way, the way he keeps everything so civil and charming even when he's making these wildly obscure observ—"

"Do you two need a moment alone?" I try to derail his lovefest.

He finishes anyway. "I'm just saying, I knew he was special. I just didn't realize he was EPIC." He sounds awestruck. As in, struck with a 2x4 made of awe and suffering from a disorienting head wound.

I can see that I need to change my approach here. Lucas practically thought Henry was supernatural before he saw the video, so convincing him otherwise now is going to be a big waste of my time. Better to enlist his help in keeping this club small. "Before you build a shrine to the guy, maybe we should figure out who sent this video and why, and maybe stop him from sending it to someone else." I point to the screen.

Lucas nods like he agrees, but he's still in fantasyland. "I always thought I was Watson to his Sherlock, but now I realize I'm Ramirez to his MacLeod. Except with my head still attached. Maybe I'm Brenda...no, that must be Jo."

This kid is such a dork it's physically painful to watch. Lucky for Henry he's such a loyal dork.

He's still rambling. "I can't believe he and Jo have been keeping it from us all this time."

Wait, what? "What makes you think Jo knows?"

"Well, I mean, she's got to, right? With how close they were even before the dating? And now with the dating? Otherwise Henry would be, like, the worst boyfriend ev…oh." I can't be bothered to hide exactly what I think about Jo not knowing, and Lucas looks like a few more pieces just fell into place. "Oh, he is gonna be in such deep sh—"

"Shall we get back to finding this guy?" I cut in, but I don't argue. He absolutely will be.

We glean all we can from the email, but there's only so much we can do. Normally I would call in the IT nerds right about now, but in the interest of containment, that's not an option. I try yet again to call Henry via Jo, but her phone is still going straight to voicemail. They must still be out of range.

While Lucas is poking around in the email metadata, I step into an empty lab to call Abe. He's been the Official Secret Keeper for his dear old dad a lot longer than I have, so I'm kind of hoping they've been through this before. Maybe they have a family contingency plan.

Abe sounds concerned, but not as panicky as I expected. "This sounds even worse than when those hacktivists threatened to out him. Sometimes I think Henry is onto something, avoiding technology—but don't tell him I said so." I can hear him opening and shutting drawers. "Good luck finding this guy, Detective. When you get a hold of Henry, tell him I'll have his bag and passport waiting. Not that I don't have every confidence in your abilities, but…you know. Just in case."

"Sure. Thanks, Abe." Apparently, Henry's contingency plan is "RUN AWAY!" It was so much funnier when Monty Python did it.

2:59 p.m.

It's been nearly half an hour since the first email arrived, and I'm sitting at my desk pretending to do paperwork while trying to keep an eye on every person in the bullpen. Lucas is downstairs doing the same thing with the morgue staff.

Three o'clock. Now it's been thirty minutes exactly. The blackmailer strikes me as the precise type, and I ramp up my observation of everyone who's in front of a computer screen. I look for signs of shock or surprise, but so far nothing unusual is happening. Maybe I should call Lucas—no, he'll let me know if it happens down there.

I'm so intent on everyone else that it takes me a few minutes to realize that I have new mail. Sure enough, it's labeled, "The truth about Henry Morgan," and it contains the same message exactly. I'm the second reveal.

Ha! Suck it, you bastard. This is old news to me, and it means an extra thirty minutes for us to work on finding you. Not that we're making much progress, but maybe Henry will get back before Reveal #3. Then he can manage his own damn crisis.