Author's note: Howdy, y' all! I'm a Yank…sorry…(I never know if I should apologize for that). Anyway, while rather too much period UK and AU TV has allowed words like, well, "rather", to creep into my vocabulary, I'm afraid I'm still 'murican. I sincerely apologize for butchering any dialog or accidentally spelling jail like that instead of like gaol (that's a neat one guys).

This is intended to be mostly spoiler-free post season 1 and embed-able at any point in season 1 or 2. And hopefully season 3? Fingers crossed. It will be light on mystery, and heavy on angst, drama, and unabashed romance.

The title is from Hamlet's "To be, or not to be" soliloquy.

Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had always suspected he would die alone. The war had taught him that no matter how many men were dying with you, or around you, or even because of you, the last moments of any life were solitary ones. He had held his friends' hands as they went slack and he had watched the eyes of his enemies as they drifted skyward, sightless, and he had learned this truth. But even so, when a day full of corpses and crime ended with a night full of nightmares, and he sat in his echoing house beside a cold fireplace, he imagined his own death and knew it would be particularly comfortless and companion-less. There would be no graceful old age, no friends gathered around his sickbed, no children or grandchildren to lighten the last of Jack Robinson's time on this earth. His death would be a lonely one, as most of his life had been. He knew this should have saddened him, but all he could feel during the darkest of those contemplations was a vague sense of relief at the thought: at some point he could stop pretending to be alive.

Given his present circumstances, that point might be rather sooner than later. Which, Jack was surprised to find, actually bothered him. If he'd had the time, he might have wondered at the change. But he had somewhere he needed to go, or…someone he needed to see? Was that it? No, that wasn't it. There was someone he wanted to see. Well then, Jack, better get to it, he thought.

Jack inhaled, choked on blood, and coughed. Cautiously, he opened one eye. The other seemed to have swollen shut. The room was featureless, except for a naked bulb that cast a flickering yellow light and heavy, steel paneled door. Jack was lying on his side with his face in a shallow puddle and his hands bound behind his back.

Well, this is certainly not ideal, he thought. Restraints certainly could be fun, in the right time and place, but this was most definitely not it. Jack blinked. When had his internal monologue begun to sound like Miss Fisher?

Miss Fisher! The thought of her brought on a wave of recollection. The Honorable, Fascinating, Frustrating Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective. She was sparkling wit, effervescent personality, and sequined charm, and she would put the pieces of this case together, probably faster than Jack had. She would find him.

If she looked.

Jack's heart sank and he let out his breath in a sigh, settling his face a little deeper into the scum on the floor as he deflated. Phryne Fisher would not look for him. Even if she had known that he needed looking for, she would not do so.

He had intended to consult her, he had been on her doorstep with the case file in hand, because he wanted her opinion (and certainly not because he missed her), when Mr. Butler had opened the door a crack and made a polite excuse for his mistress. As he had many times already, Jack berated himself for his detective's habits, for wondering why Miss Fisher really couldn't see him, and for pausing long enough on the stoop to inadvertently find out. Jack could still hear her throaty laugh echoing in the hallway, the low rumble of a male voice answering her, and the creak of footsteps on the stairs. If he had any doubt about how Miss Fisher intended to spend her evening, the pity in Mr. Butler's eyes as he met the inspector's erased it. And Jack's behavior at their next crime scene would have just as effectively erased any reason Miss Fisher…Phryne might have had to come looking for him. Even in the privacy of his own mind, Jack hesitated to call her by her given name. It was more than a name, it had power, for him and over him.

Jack bit his lip and instantly regretted it. He had dim memories of his abduction, and a thorough beating figured quite prominently in them. They wanted to know what Jack knew, who he had talked to about the details of the case, which constables had worked it and how much they knew. If (or when) he told them, they would kill him.

And so, as he had always predicted, he was going to die alone. And his last words to the one person who might have saved him from that fate had been barbed, thrown at her to hurt her. She had given as good as she got, as she always did. They knew each other well enough; they knew each other's sore spots. Jack winced, feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut, which he supposed he had at some point. But knowing that Phryne would blame herself when his corpse turned up hurt more than the wounds to his body. His angry words would be forgotten, and she would dwell on hers. She would not remember that he had pushed her away by being unfairly and un-rightfully jealous, but she would believe that she should have done more.

That was unacceptable. A woman so alive should not have her spirit tarnished by the death of man who couldn't really remember how to live. Jack couldn't live, or die, with that on his conscience. So he'd better not die, then.

Ever the scientist, Jack wiggled his fingers experimentally. He was still trying to decide whether they'd moved or not, his hands seemed to have gone quite numb, when the door was thrown open with a crash.

The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher was beginning to think she would die of boredom. Inviting Aunt Prudence for tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Or rather, it had been her only idea for filling a painfully long gap in her otherwise frenetically busy day. Phryne didn't disapprove of inactivity per se, but she knew herself and it wasn't her style. But she should also have known Aunt P droning on about Melbourne society wouldn't be an adequate distraction. It was hardly engaging in the best of times, and though Phryne hated to admit it, these were not the best of times. As it had done at every idle moment over the past three days, her mind drifted back to the last time she had seen detective inspector Jack Robinson.

Aunt Prudence's mouth continued to flap, Phryne noticed dispassionately, but the only voice she could hear was the detective inspector's rasping in her ears.

It does not matter how many murders you solve, Miss Fisher, you will never bring Janie back. You'll never absolve yourself of the guilt you feel for her death.

Her eyes began to burn, a sure precursor to tears. Sipping her tea, Phryne took herself firmly in hand. This wouldn't do, crying at the memory of what some man had said to her. Even if that man was Jack. She tried to concentrate on her Aunt's glowing report of the most recent fundraising event for the hospital. Immaculate in her favorite white trousers and a gauzy top, Phryne Fisher was the picture of a modern, stylish woman. None of her inner turmoil showed in her appearance, though her household had surely noticed her recent, dramatic increase in commitments.

She wished desperately for a case to work on. Collins was a fixture of the household, and he brought regular updates about work at the station. It sounded like Jack was investigating something interesting…

Jack again. Phryne shook her head violently, as if she could shake him out of it, wishing she could shake the man himself for…for being so…impossible. For being Jack.

Oh for a case of her own! Phryne would settle for a philandering husband, even a kidnapped poodle, at this point.

"Miss?" Dot interrupted from the hallway tentatively.

"Yes Dot?" Phryne asked, trying to mask her relief. From the way Aunt Prudence sniffed, she hadn't quite succeeded.

"Hugh, that is Constable Collins, would like to talk to you. He's quite upset," her companion explained apologetically. The worry in her wide brown eyes suggested the feeling was catching.

"If you'll excuse me please," Phryne made her exit. As she reached the hall she turned and added, surprised at herself, "Thank you for keeping me company today, Aunt Prudence."

She left her Aunt looking gratified, and slightly taken aback.

Hugh was standing in the kitchen, fidgeting, the teacup and biscuit on the table before him both untouched. He had taken off his helmet, and was passing it back and forth from hand to hand.

"He's here, isn't he miss? The detective inspector? Please?" he asked. Phryne suppressed the urge to give a biting retort. She wasn't sure what he was begging her for, but she couldn't give it.

"Of course he isn't," she replied a little more harshly than she intended, "I haven't seen him since…" since they had a shouting match at Wednesday morning's crime scene "…since the dead wharfie."

"I was hoping he, or you, or the two of you….would have worked out your…uh, differences," he was struggling to find the words, "and maybe he was here, discussing the case with you."

Giving up trying to explain his reasoning, Hugh collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

"Explain," Phryne commanded in her most no-nonsense voice.

"Well, we worked through the case from Wednesday. You know, the usual tracking down of witnesses and family members and so on." Phryne ground her teeth at his pace, but talking about routine seemed to settle the constable.

He continued, "I, well everyone really, we were…"

"Avoiding the inspector?" Phryne interjected, her lips twitching in amusement in spite of herself. The young constables of City South were positively terrified of their chief detective inspector.

"He doesn't bite, Hugh," she said. Although Phryne suspected in the right time and place, he might be a bit of a biter. It was always the quiet ones. Neither relevant nor appropriate, Miss Fisher, she thought to herself. She pretended not to notice that her conscience sounded very like Jack these days.

Hugh pursed his lips and then continued.

"We just slid everything under his door yesterday. I thought he arrived before me and left after, we all did. But when I slid the coroner's report under the door today…"

"He'd never picked up yesterday's files?" Phryne asked, though she knew the answer already. She grabbed the back of the chair in front of her for support. Her knees felt strangely weak suddenly.

"No, miss," Collins couldn't meet her eyes, "I don't think anyone has seen him since…since the dead wharfie."

"He's been missing for three days."