Author's note: all usual disclaimers apply. This story is the product of a miserable night spent alone in the bathroom passing small kidney stones.

Tommy stared out at the ocean watching a pod of dolphins frolic ahead of a fishing boat heading out for the night catch. Along the shoreline, sunlight danced on the crests of breaking waves, which rumbled over the sandbar near the river mouth, roiling the golden sand into a turbid chaotic mess. His mouth curled into a half smile. He was like that sandbar, ever-changing as life washed over him and dragged him into turbulence that he never asked for, never wanted. Once he too had sunshine to light his way. Now... Now that had faded to blackness.

Behind him the low brush that edged the beach hummed with the strengthening wind. The azure depths that had earlier beckoned, taunting him to swim out to them, were turning grey. Out to sea, leaden clouds began to build, threatening a storm. The sting of salt tickled his nostrils making him snort. His backside was numb, a sensation that began to creep down his leg. The rock Tommy was sitting on dug into his thigh, but he did not bother to move, unable to tear his eyes from the building waves. When the numbness in his leg reached his foot, Tommy heaved himself to his feet. His leg almost gave way, so he shook it until the tingling of pins and needles replaced the deadness. He turned and slowly began to make his way back to Howenstowe.

By using the kitchen entrance, he avoided his mother who was talking with someone on the telephone in the library. He tip-toed past the door and up the stairs to his room. From the decanter he kept on his dresser, he slopped whiskey into a glass until it was almost full. Crossing the room, he opened the window then sagged into a low-backed red Chesterfield so he could view the approaching tempest.

"There you are," Dorothy said as she knocked once and opened his door. "I've been worried about you being out in this weather."

Tommy glanced at his watch. "Don't fuss, Mother. I've been back for hours. I was watching the storm." His voice was unsteady, even to his ears, but he was not too inebriated to notice his mother glare at his glass.

"Hours? I see. Are you joining us for dinner?"

"Could you ask the cook to send it up, please? I don't feel like company."

"Then why did you come here, if all you are going to do is sit in here and slowly drink yourself to death?"

Tommy looked away. "Don't be melodramatic. It's beneath you."

"Grrr. If you want your meal sent up, ask Cook yourself. At least that way you have to say more than three words to someone other than me." Dorothy turned and slammed the door behind her.

When the telephone rang just before supper, Dorothy hoped it would be Barbara. Hello."

"Hello, Mother."

"Oh, Judith. Good evening."

"You sound tired. How is he?"

"The same. He sits in his room and sips whiskey all day unless he goes for a walk down to the beach. He doesn't think I know, but he's been here four days, and we have gone through six bottles of Glenmorangie. Tonight he didn't eat because I told him if he wanted to have dinner in his room he had to ask Cook. He didn't bother."

"Do you know what happened?"

"No idea, but every time I ask about Barbara, he gets touchy. I'm sure something happened between them."

"Do you think he finally told her how he feels and she rejected him?"

"Possibly, although I can't see that. I doubt he's said anything. He probably just expects her to know. I wondered if perhaps she has found someone else and he's brooding."

Judith groaned. "He'd be devastated. Do you think he knows he loves her?"

"No, probably not. I've tried to talk to him, but... there's still distance between us."

"I'll come down tomorrow. Maybe he'll talk to his big sister."

"Oh, thank you. Let's hope so."

Unable to bear more of his mother's concerned looks, Tommy slipped out of the house before daybreak. He followed the trail along the tops of the cliffs, pausing for a long time at the spot where he had once sat with Barbara. With his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his palms, he stared aimlessly at the expansion of blue dotted with diamonds of light.

He missed her. They were the inadequate words formed by his mind to describe the wrenching ache that gripped his body. His heart beat erratically. It slowed when he thought of her sitting in his office calmly going over their notes on a case. It raced when he remembered how it had felt watching her falling after being shot, and it momentarily stopped when he thought about her desperate need for his comfort after facing down Garrett.

Needing each other had been like requiring oxygen. Just as breathing was automatic, their friendship had been without effort. They had just always been there for the other, knowing what each other would say, or often not say. His sergeant, a most unlikely friend, steered him faithfully back on course whenever his emotions got the better of him. She was his rock, his anchor in the tumultuous sea of his existence. Barbara had given him the two most precious things in life, understanding and hope. Now, inexplicably, she had snatched them away leaving him rudderless and adrift. Alone. Lonely. Wondering how he could face going on.

Only recently they had seemed to have been even closer. Then she had just started to drift away from him. She still went to the pub with him and sat in his car as they drove and tried to dissect their cases. She still smiled at him, laughed with him, argued with him. On the surface, everything was the same. But underneath, something had altered. She seemed remote, withdrawn, unwilling to allow their souls to converse in a realm beyond sight. The mutual tranquillity of being together was gone. They had lost their intangible connection.

He ran his fingers vigorously back and forth across his scalp trying to erase the pain. He had spent days contemplating everything that had happened, searching for the reason it had all gone wrong; looking for a way back to her. For years he had believed he was essential to her. Now he felt disposable or even disposed of. It always seemed to happen. He was the person everyone replaced when they tired of his selfishness or his money.

But Barbara? She had always been there for him, even when he did not deserve it. Nothing had shaken her belief in him, no matter how idiotically he had behaved. Was it because he had stabilised and no longer needed saving? Was he just her way of paying the world back? A charity case? A moral obligation? Or worse, a penance?

He pulled out his phone and pressed her short dial.

"Havers."

"How's London?" He tried to sound cheery.

"Sir. Why are you ringing? How's your mother?"

"Mother?"

"Isn't that why you went to Cornwall?"

Tommy remembered his cover story. "Oh, yes. She's feeling a bit stronger, thank you."

"Good."

"What's happening there?"

"Not much. I finished the report on the Sanders case. You owe me on that one."

"I'll repay you when I get back. Perhaps we can have dinner?"

Barbara laughed. "A simple thank you is enough. Look, Sir, I have to go. Take care."

"Wait..." The phone went dead. The relief and joy he had felt when he heard her voice vaporised. He felt more abandoned than ever.

From half a mile out he could see Judith's car parked at the end of the driveway. "Bloody Mother, sending for reinforcements," he grumbled.

His sister was waiting near the door and pounced as soon as he crossed the threshold. "Tommy! Isn't it wonderful that we are both here at the same time and it's not Easter or Christmas."

"Mother sent for you I presume."

"Tom-my. Don't be like that."

"Simply stating the truth. Do you deny it?

"No. She's worried about you."

"No need, I'm fine." He tried to push past her.

She grabbed his arm. "And drinking over a bottle of whisky a day is fine, is it? I'd hate to see you not doing well."

"Then don't stay, because tonight I intend to drink two." He turned to walk to the stairs.

Judith's fingers dug into his arm, making him wince. "It's Barbara, isn't it? Something happened. Believe it or not, I am a good listener."

"Barbara's fine." Tommy felt his face darken. He was unsure if it was rage or embarrassment. "Now let go of me."

He began to walk up the stairs. Judith released his arm but trailed after him. "Then what is it, Tommy? Why are you so sad?"

"Sad? Sad is such a weak adjective. Try desolate. Or despondent. Or despairing. Even depressed. Anything but sad."

Despite his attempts to wrestle her away, Judith squeezed into his room. "Then little brother, talk to me. Tell me what's troubling you."

"I just want to be alone, to disappear." He made a show of filling his glass with whiskey.

"When people say that, they usually mean that they want to be found."

"Well, I don't. People have made it quite clear that I am not as important to them as I thought. So I am happy to oblige and keep out of their way." Tommy walked to the window and stared out, not focussing on anything.

"By people, you mean Barbara."

Tommy whirled around. "Why does everyone assume everything is about her?"

"Because for years it has been. Helen's been gone over two years. You haven't had any other relationships. All you ever talk about is Barbara. Do you think we're blind? Of course, this is about her. Otherwise, you would be with her, not hiding down here."

Tommy sighed and slumped into his chair. "We used to talk about everything, anything but now... she's drifted away from me and... I don't understand why. I don't know what I did."

"What happened ?"

"Nothing. That's just it. She started withdrawing a month or so ago. We still have polite conversations, but... it's not the same."

"And you miss that?"

Tommy glared at his sister. "What do you think? Would I be like this if I didn't?"

Judith came over and put her arm around him. "No, of course not. Tommy, hiding here won't help. You have to talk to her. Find out what's happening. Tell her you love her."

"Tell her what?"

"Oh, you can't tell me you're this upset if you don't love her. Are you a complete numbskull?"

"I don't... not like Deborah, or Helen. It's different."

"Yes, but no less real. Maybe more real. Sit and brood here if you must but at least spend the time dealing with reality. Maybe Barbara got tired of waiting for you."

"She... I... I do love her. She's my soulmate... but... like that?"

Judith stepped away and ran her hand through her hair. "Oh, surely you must have thought about it before. Can you honestly tell me that you've never thought about taking her to your bed? I know you, Thomas Lynley."

He leant forward and twisted his glass absentmindedly as he stared at the floor. "I can't. But I force those thoughts aside. It seems..."

"Right?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

"Improper. My feelings for Barbara, they haven't changed. They've intensified, but not changed. That would mean..."

"You were in love with her while Helen was alive; even before you were married. Yes. I think you were. So what? How does that prevent you from acting now? Tell her. Maybe that's what she needs to hear."

"And if... that's not how she feels?"

"Then at least you know. You can then move forward instead of locking yourself away up here and mourning the past."

"I... can't." Tommy gulped a large slug of whisky.

"Then you are a bigger fool than I thought. Do you want me to send up dinner?"

Tommy shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

Judith muttered something he was glad he did not hear. "Then sit here and think about what I said. Only you can find the truth, Tommy, not Mother or me, or even Barbara. And I'll give you a hint for free - the answer is not in the bottom of that glass."