Jack pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in defeat. The weight of this ribbing, no doubt, signaled the start of an invariably long line to come that he would, most assuredly, continue to endure and never have a wisp of a hope of ever living down.
He paused, inhaling deeply, and relaxed. Rubbing his forehead, he leaned back in his desk chair as he placed his hands, long fingers interlaced, in his lap.
There could be worse things to be called than that. At first, his pride rankled against the words, then inexplicably, a sense of calm washed over him and settled in. A hint of a twinkle reached his eyes as his lids slowly ascended. The whisper of a smirk brushed at the outer edges of his lips.
Rolling around the thought in his head, Jack found he liked it, as a touch of hidden pride crept into his heart. Though if, God forbid, she EVER got wind of it, there would be no living with her after that.
Case solved, paperwork filed, the Inspector turned off his desk lamp, gathered his coat and hat and shut his office door. As he passed the front desk, he nodded and said, "Good night, Collins."
"Good night, sir," responded his affable constable.
Climbing into his car, he started the engine. "Mr. Fisher" headed to Wardlow for his customary case wrap up and nitecap.
End Note:
My brain wondered what would happen if someone referred to or called Jack "Mr. Fisher."