A/N: I've had this sitting unfinished on my computer for ages, and just finished it now. The lyrics are from "Sand & Water" by Patti LuPone {not sure if she did it first, but she was the version I was working off}.

Set: Post series.

Spoilers: None.

Warning: Angst due to character death.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Dont' set The Patti on me :P

Reviews will be rewarded with love.

Sand & Water

By Tricki

"Flesh and bone,
He's just
Bursting t'wards tomorrow
And his laughter
Fills my world

And wears your smile"

She looked at her son as a bubble of laughter burst from his lips and choked back tears. He had his father's laugh. Despite the year that had gone by, she still at times would turn and expect to see her husband there. It was during such moments that she had to remind herself that he wouldn't come home; would never again grace her with his presence; would never touch her, or kiss her, or smile at her ever again.

No. In fact, the only way she would ever see him again was through her son. She thanked some miracle of genetics that he was so much his father's son physically – had his smile, his hair, his bone structure, and most painfully his eyes – but also cursed it. It kept her husband a bit too close to her, considering how far he really was, like a scathing reminder of everything she'd lost in that horrible stabbing.

She dropped to her knees and pulled the three-and-a-half year old into her arms tightly, teardrops beginning to drop into his hair. He was remarkably articulate for his age – just as his father had apparently been.

"Mummy, what on Earth are you doing?" He queried. She laughed, and cried harder. He was sensible, bizarrely mature for his mere three years, and seemed to instinctively know not to pull away, but rather to put his small arms around his mother's neck.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just... I uh... I... I just miss your dad." She gave in and told the small boy the truth. "I'm sorry." She added, trying to compose herself as she straightened his black hair.

She sat backwards onto one of the barstools at their kitchen counter, which she really thought of as his kitchen counter. It was her husband's house, after all. It had been his long before she had, and his presence lingered in it heavily still. His taste had decorated the place, his care and attention to detail had made it into the home it had been to them.

The small boy tried to clamber up into his mother's lap, and she reached down to help him. He cuddled into her arms. She stared fixedly at the opposite wall, avoiding her son's eyes, avoiding the pain of seeing her husband's staring at her when she was so vulnerable already.

"What was he like, Mummy?" He asked sleepily. She sighed. He asked the question fairly often, and she usually had a decent way of answering it, but she was just too upset. It didn't help that he expected a different narrative crafted around his father each time he asked.

"Oh, Julian." She sighed. What had her husband been like? How did she explain him in terms a three-year-old would understand? He was the best man she'd ever known, yet somehow she'd managed to despise him. He was more handsome than anyone she'd ever met – or even seen on television and in films, but what was most beautiful about him was his compassion. She loved him dearly, more than she'd loved anyone or anything, and she could still barely stand the thought that she'd lost him, that she had to find a way to go on.

She usually could keep her head in a crisis, but when he'd been stabbed and she'd tried to slow the blood-flow, a part of her had been so maddened with grief that she was actually surprised that the blood gushing over her hands - his blood wasn't blue.

He was a different class to her, but he'd accepted her into his life and his family without a single mention of it, and loved her unconditionally. He was rich but he never flaunted it, graceful but he never intended to be, handsome but he rarely abused it, brilliantly intelligent but he listened to other people's opinions too – well, usually. He was the love of her life. How did she explain it?

"Well," she began, finally having gathered herself; "he was a bit like..." An idea came to her and she smiled slightly. She'd run through a list which extended from Mark Darcy to Sherlock Holmes, but had decided her three-year-old probably wouldn't appreciate any of these references. "The prince in Cinderella."

"Did he spread tar on some stairs to catch you?" Julian asked in quiet awe.

"No, sweetheart," She laughed, pushing back his hair. "I mean that he was...good. He was a good man. He was handsome and... Kind of royalty. But even though he had balls and festivals and beautiful women available whenever he wanted them, and he never had to work, he tried to do good things for people, even if they were difficult. And one day he fell in love with a woman who was... well she wasn't a princess. She was his advisor, I suppose. His friend. She helped him with the work he did to help people. His mother was surprised, but he didn't care that she wasn't a princess because he loved her so much. And she loved him more than anything because he was so kind and loyal, and... had such a sense of what was right. She especially loved him for that. She loved him for the way he treated people. She loved the way he treated her." Her voice was growing smaller and weaker with anguish. Eventually she collected herself to the point where she could kiss the top of his head and say: "I think it's time you started getting ready for bed." She set him on the ground and stood, straightening her clothes. He nodded with a smile – a smile that was worryingly solemn for such a small boy - and obeyed, only turning back to her to say far too confidently.

"I think you're a princess, Mummy." Tears flowed freely from Barbara Lynley's eyes again and a diffident smile pulled onto her lips.

"So did he."