Crucible

Disclaimer and author's note:

This story comes from my own head, leading from the thought "Well, what the blazes would it take for them to admit how they really feel?" after the car crash incident. The characters in the story, however, are sadly not of my creation and, with the exception of some minor, transient characters who will only appear in this story and not elsewhere in the legitimate canon books and TV shows, they belong wholly to the original author and/or scriptwriter who created them, and, of course, to the excellent actors who gave them life.

I also apologise for the following errors and issues which I know will occur at some point: firstly, for my lack of updates - writing is something I am only able to focus on in certain circumstances and everyday life must take precedence over unpaid works of the imagination; secondly, for my forgetfulness and lack of details such as canon characters' names and their back story in the canon - I generally prefer to have a handy box set of the series so far to refer to, but at present I have neither the spare funds to purchase one nor the time to watch it so I must rely instead upon my own memories and the internet for my research; thirdly and finally, for the various mis-types, missed words and incorrect spellings which shall undoubtedly appear, if not litter, the following piece of prose.

Finally, as to the content, this is wholly fleshing out an idea in my head that refuses to lie down and be pacified without being written. I shall try to maintain the canon characterisations, as this is, to me, the entire challenge of writing fanfiction, but I do ask you to bear in mind that this story will put characters in a situation they have never been in before, nor are likely to be, unless this goes the way of my Primeval stories and every other subsequent episode ends up containing a sharp note of de ja vu. Nevertheless, je ne regrette rien... Yet.

Chapter One: Missed Opportunities

It began one night a long time ago. Neither one of them had ever suspected anything like this would ever happen to them. For a start, they ended up waking up together. Secondly, and more importantly, they never caught the person who had drugged them into doing so.

Phryne Fisher woke up, groggily. She stared at the ceiling. It wasn't her ceiling. She couldn't quite place it. For a while, she lay there, letting the various thoughts of the night before seep back into her consciousness and swim into place. Eventually it came back to her. It was the ceiling of the hotel room that she had booked. A hotel room that she had stayed in, while she was searching down a murderer. Not just a single murderer, but a mass murderer. Someone who had orchestrated deaths during the war. Who had got behind enemy lines. Who had spied. Who had then come back... broken. Or perhaps they had been broken before? Who had begun murdering... people. Men. Women. Children even. With no rhyme or reason to the pattern. And yet she had found a pattern. She, and Jack. Together they had tracked down the fiend to this quiet little town in Northern Australia.

Jack.

His name brought a vague, groggy memory to her mind. There was nothing that she could place, but there was definitely something she should remember.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes and thrust an arm out to the side of her. It connected. Then she remembered. Vague, fleeting moments, but nothing clear. And a lot missing.

They had been there, both of them, in that room. He hadn't been staying there. He hadn't even been staying in the same hotel. But they had met for dinner. They had ordered room service, so they had the privacy to talk without being overheard. The room service had been delivered. They had eaten. They had drank wine. They had talked about the case. Then everything seemed to be a bit of a blank.

There was a groan from the bed beside her, signalling that he was awake, just.

Slowly, gradually, he woke up. And swore.

Two hours later, they were standing on the pier of the tiny seaside town, trying to work out why neither one of them could remember the events of the night before. It was obvious that someone had drugged them. It was also obvious, to Phryne at least, that that someone must be the person that they were after. The 'how' was a mystery. It was certainly in the room service. But was in the food? Or was it in the wine? None of it was left to test. Or had there been some other intoxicating, stupefying gas released into the room? The latter was the least likely, they agreed.

They followed the trail, but the trail went cold. Whoever had drugged them had vanished, leaving precious little trace of themselves behind. Simply another dead body: that of a hotel waiter.

Then the whole case went cold. No new leads could be found anywhere. The murders stopped. The murderer disappearing into the night like smoke from a dying fire. They were forced to return home.

Weeks passed, and for some reason neither one could bring themselves to spend quite so much time in the company of the other. Cases that he was definitely going to be taking, she avoided. Cases that he was almost certain she would be engaged upon, he avoided. And so the weeks went by. Neither seeing anything very much of the other until, eventually, one day, one evening, there came a knock at Phryne Fisher's door.

It was Jack. His hat was gone, his hair uncharacteristically ruffled, his tie askew. She had never seen him look quite so flustered, except perhaps on that morning in the hotel room.

He was ushered into the sitting room and sat there, quite helplessly, on a chair, by himself, staring at his hands. Eventually, uneasy with the silence, she spoke.

"What is it Jack?" Phryne asked, looking over at him from the safe distance of the doorway. "Why are you here?"

"I need your help," he said.

"What is it? Just ask."

"I need you to investigate a case for me."

"Me?" Phryne's eyebrows rose and she stepped further into the room. "You're the detective!"

"I can't investigate this one," Jack sounded shocked at the very words he was speaking. "I can't have anything to do with it! Nor should you, really," he said, his eyes wild.

"You're scaring me, Jack. What's happened?"

"I'm a suspect." Jack's brow creased momentarily in disbelief.

"You? How could you be a suspect? What would you do?"

"My wife's dead," Jack said simply, his eyes still fixed on his hands.

Phryne opened her mouth to say "ex-wife", as she normally did whenever she had to correct him, then saw the look on his face and stopped.

"What happened?" She asked instead, walking over and sitting down on the settee next to his chair.

"There was something, some..." Jack's brow creased again as he searched for the words. "Some accident, or... incident or... something. But it, it wasn't an accident," he stammered, "it was a murder. A double murder. Both her and her fiancé. They're dead. And her father thinks I did it!"

"Why would you kill your wi... Your ex-wife?" Phryne corrected herself. "She had already divorced you. What could you possibly gain?"

Jack looked up at her, his eyes agonised. "You know what I would gain," he said. "You know I've never seen her as my ex-wife." Jack paused, his voice sinking to a whisper. "You know it would make me free."

Phryne stopped, holding his gaze steadily. "That's ridiculous, Jack," she said. "Anything you did not see yourself free to do after your wife had divorced you proves you have a high enough moral calibre not to go around murdering people for it."

"Nevertheless," he said, avoiding her gaze now. "Her father thinks I did it. There's two reasons, I suppose. She was on her way to change her will. She was going to make her fiancé the main beneficiary. I guess it was still me. So there's that too. And there's you."

An hour later, Jack was gone again. Gone into the night, dark as it was, on foot, claiming he needed the time walking to think. To mull over what had happened. To take it all in. To consider his options.

His options were clear to Phryne: he should stay here with her, or, since he seemed to think that would make matters even worse, with Collins or some trusted friend until all this was over and she could clear his name. He should not, under any circumstances, be wandering the streets alone. What if something else happened? He would have nobody who could vouch for him. Provide an alibi. He was already missing one for the murder itself.

They had gone over all the details Jack knew, which were not many, and all the possible reasons someone might want his ex-wife dead, which were even fewer. Phryne had to agree that, had she not know Jack, she would have suspected him too. But she did know him. She knew he could never do anything like this. Far more likely was the scenario in her mind where she was the murderess on his behalf - her moral compass was far more erratic than his. But had it been her, she would have made sure he had an alibi. Made sure nothing would have linked back to him and that his character was unimpeachable throughout the proceedings.

She was tired. She was always tired these days. It was winter and the nights were long, but there were no parties or evening outings to go to and there had been no dalliances or diversions. No affaires de coeur. Not since and not before. Not for a long time. Not since she had almost lost him, his friendship and companionship, completely. Not since she had realised... Why hadn't she realised sooner? How blind she must have been.

She dragged her body off of the settee and over to the stairs, pausing to give instructions to Mr Butler on when to send Dot up to wake her in the morning, before taking herself up to bed. Her mind would be clearer for a night's sleep, she thought. At least as clear as it ever was these days. A fog had seemed to come down recently, clouding her thoughts and making it difficult to focus. She had to be able to focus now, for him. For Jack. He had saved her so many times, now he was relying on her to save him. Relying on her. Her, not his colleagues in the police force. Her heart lifted at the thought that he still trusted her so much. Then sank as she remembered that she was one of the reasons he was suspected in the first place. Had she done this to him? Blackened his character so much to the onlooking world? And yet there were two reasons he was suspected. The will and her. The idea that he would kill anyone in cold blood was alien to her. She couldn't link the events and the person together as her mind processed the facts. But that any divorced man would kill his wife for her money was far more logical and plausible a theory than that he would kill her to be with someone else. Not when they were divorced and she already engaged to another. And yet that was the explanation he had chosen to present to her first. That was the reason he was suspected, in his mind, more so than the other. Neither theory made much sense when her own wealth was included in the equation. He had no need to kill her. Romantically, he was legally free to do as he wished, and had been since the papers were signed. Financially, if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask. Not that he would, of course. That same honour that had kept him true to his wife even after she had left him would certainly prevent him from asking anyone for monetary aid, especially not the woman whom the world, it seemed, supposed him to be romantically involved with.

With thoughts, theories and dozens of unanswered questions circling her brain, Phryne found her way to her bed and dropped, wearily, into a fitful and restless sleep.