Two years have passed since the first time he worked with you, on that rainy night when he noticed you were much smarter than you let on. Affection prevented perfection, and this led him to exclude everyone he considered important in his life because, as a detective inspector, there was much more at stake than just investigating crimes. He didn't want his feelings to blind him, so he turned them off... He learned this after the death of his father, an officer killed in the line of duty, and he'd never forget it.

But, he got carried away. He let himself go so far with the idea that you were living proof that he could trust someone again... And it all fell apart. Fourteen years of service, fourteen years in the London Metropolitan Police, and he couldn't see the little twitch at the corner of your lips every time you saw him confused. Ben was obsessed with the truth, he had the investigative instinct that led to his promotion to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, yet he didn't see what he should. Until that case...

The damp wind carried the smell of water directly to his nostrils, causing him to frown as he pulled his coat up slightly to cover himself better. In the background, the distant noise of cars passing over the Southwark Bridge, Ben's eyes focused on the crime scene in front of him. Harold Finch, 49 years old, retired public prosecutor. He silently read the victim's profile; the name wasn't unfamiliar, and he knew why when he looked at the corpse again. “Isn't that the same prosecutor who sued a magazine for falsely accusing him of fabricating evidence against poor people?” His voice was low, an almost shy whisper when you approached him.

“Yes, it's him.” You answered him while crossing your arms, a hint of indifference reflected in your body language. “He could've tried a career in gossip media, honestly. He was a controversial person; we can see where that led him.” It almost seemed as if you were saying “good riddance” to the death of the retired prosecutor, but he didn't immediately point that out. “So... what do you think?”

Ben sighed, crossing his arms as you had done while assessing the state of the corpse. The body was left kneeling, hands clasped as if in prayer, but with all the fingers broken... He had been strangled, and the wire that bound his hands was the same one that had been used to take his life. But, his attention turned to something else: the old coin left next to his neck, almost hidden. He crouched down, taking the coin between his fingers as he examined it carefully. “It's the same coin we found with the other corpses.” You glanced over his shoulder, nodding slowly in agreement. “Charon's obol. Not in the mouth or in the eyes though. Have you thought about the meaning of that?”

“If the coin hadn't been on their tongues or in their eyes, perhaps Charon wouldn't seen them, and the payment for the crossing wouldn't been made.” He listened attentively to what you were saying, placing the coin there again as he stood up. “The souls who don't pay the crossing are condemned to wander eternally without rest. I did some more research after the last case. The killer is trying to leave a message for us, I guess.”

By that point, seeing corpses definitely no longer affected Ben; he saw beyond the scene, he searched for a unique signature in each one, and this time, he had the strange feeling that the killer was trying to give him something far beyond just a signature.

He put that aside when you called him for coffee, saying you were tired of the criminology job and how you saw more corpses than your own family. Ben laughed at that; you were the only person who could get even a tiny smile out of him and he didn't want it to affect him as much as it did. “Could you get my wallet for me? It's in the glove box.”

Oh, that's when his brain lost its rational capacity. When he opened the glove box, your wallet, your photo identification badge, your gloves and... Three coins, three more Charon's obol. Slowly, he glanced to the side and there he was, the smirk widening on your lips.