Author's usual notes and disclaimer: I don't own any of the original characters nor the original Inspector Lynley Mysteries – they belong to Elizabeth George and the BBC. I have borrowed the characters from the TV-Show and solely own the ideas of my stories and the developments I've let them go through.

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Author's note and summary: Ah, alcohol... The origin but usually not the solution to so many problems. But sometimes it will let the truth come to the surface. And sometimes it makes people act strange. How strange will Tommy Lynley act?

Great minds think alike. I dedicate this story to Cats. You've been inspiring, but - funny enough - not this time. I hope you'll like it. Enjoy...

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The Cutie

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He looked at his Rolex. It was five past ten. Since she had not appeared until now he knew she would not come at all tonight. He emptied the second pint of beer and ordered a whisky.

Tommy Lynley, the great Detective Inspector at the Met, sat alone at the bar in the pub where he usually met with Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers, his best colleague and friend, when they had finished a case and put the files away. Tonight they surely would not have their usual pint here despite the glorious ending of their latest tricky case. He should have known that she had meant what she had said to him earlier about having a date and going out with someone else. And probably being out too late to drop by afterwards.

Tommy clenched his fist.

Earlier that day he had said something very wrong about the fact that she obviously was dating someone regularly. Tommy had said something so stupid he would not want to remind himself although he definitely should. And he definitely should apologise. He fidgeted with his mobile but decided it was no good idea to send a text message. He also knew she would not answer if he would call her. Maybe he should just drive to her home and knock at her door and apologise.

And if he was there?

Tommy ordered a second whisky. He made it double because he felt entirely alone.

Actually he was alone. He knew it by now. No woman, and he did not count his mistresses from earlier days in, would stay at his side, not even his formerly loyal Sergeant would. And he knew it was his fault alone. This time his vitriolic remark had pushed her away from him. He hated himself to have said it. He should be happy for her but it only hurt.

Maybe a third whisky would wash away the pain inside.

Of course it was not. And the blonde woman in a dress so short one could call it a T-shirt finally had stopped tapping her high heeled feet against his bar stool making it deliberately accidental. Tommy had been tempted to forget Barbara by spending the night with an unknown woman but after a few words he realised he was not after dull words and a quick shag.

In fact Tommy ached to hold Barbara and to be held by her. He wanted to hug her like he had when she had heard of her mother's dead in the middle of another case. And he wanted her to snuggle into his chest like she had a few hours later back then when she had stopped sobbing. She had evenly breathed but when he had asked her with a whisper if she had fallen asleep she had answered she just needed to cuddle with someone. They had not gone any further than sitting on his settee like that while the TV had been running. She just had lost her mother - how could he even think about anything else.

Right now Tommy bitterly remembered that he had felt some strange sexual affection to his Sergeant that had not at all been appropriate at that time. It still was not right now.

Their relationship though seemed to have developed since then. They had met regularly, one could even call it dating. They had fun, they had been to the museum, to the theatre, to a football match even, although he only had agreed because she had come with him to watch a cricket match. And he had payed dragging her to some of his Shakespearean boredoms (her words) with watching the ABBA movie. They even had cooked together quite often and a couple of times she had spent the night in his spare room because it had turned late after working at a case at his home. Which also had become a beloved habit.

And then Daniel Clifford had appeared.

"Ah!" Tommy snorted in disgust. When he ordered his fourth whisky he already had lost count.

Detective Sergeant Daniel Clifford, soon-to-be Detective Inspector. The young, masculine, well-dressed, brawny and unfortunately witty man from Oxford who was on an experience building exchange in London. He had come into the office one day and every woman seemed to be smitten.

Including even Barbara.

Clifford even had managed to make her sign up for the Inspector workshops. Something Tommy had not achieved although he had tried everything on her. Even more so when he had realised she had started to spend her time with DS Clifford. Barbara had said they were just learning with a pint afterwards but Tommy could not quite believe that. There was a certain chemistry between those two.

He hated Clifford and he knew he was extraordinarily jealous but he still drank the next whisky on him.

If she liked him, then so be it. Obviously Clifford was doing her good. Barbara had blossomed out since she dated that man.

She looked good. She even was wearing more fashionable clothes. She still acted wonderful in every way and she had become so relaxed. But she had spent less and less time with him.

After he had ordered the fifth or sixth or still just the fourth whisky Tommy got up from his stool and had a really hard time going to the gents without bumping into everything.

In fact Barbara lately had been in such a better mood than usual, Tommy started to chatter to the poor bar tender who was already polishing glasses. The umpteenth whisky running down his throat Tommy told him all about Barbara. How she was as a police woman, as a colleague. What they did, or rather used to do together. What a wonderful woman she was in general. That she was his best friend, his confidant, his rock, and after all these years or maybe exactly because of that time she still was his reason to get up in the morning.

He suddenly realised it on his own but someone else voiced it for him.

"Man, you love her!" the bartender said filling another glass with the expensive amber liquid and calling for last orders. There were only three guests remaining in the almost empty pub. "And you should tell her soon."

Tommy stood and grabbed the brass railing. "Whoo!" he exclaimed searching for balance. He downed his last whisky and shook his head. "Naaah..." he slurred. "I should go'ome 'n' sssleep! Tha... Thazzz... Sorry, Sir... Thatt iss iksackt - ICK - Bloody hell! Exacdly what... should do now. There'll be no - ICK - no Barb'ra laughing at me, nonono."

For a moment he stared a hole into the wooden surface of the bar. In the back of his mind he knew exactly that he was rather pissed and that he would be more pissed when the last two very quickly drunken pints of beer would settle their dose of alcohol into his system. Abruptly he turned. "Sssee you - ICK - later, my friend. And thank - ICK - you for the fish... hehehe... the whisky."

Fortune smiled upon him - a taxi still stood at the kerb in front of the pub.

"Bel-gur-ra-vee-ah." Tommy managed to say when he slumped into the backseat. Then he chuckled.

"Of course, m'lord." the driver mocked him and turned on the taxi meter with a grin. Tonight he would make two extra quid or three when he complied with the wish of that intoxicated man and drive him home with a detour through the noble quarters.

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