Prologue.

Being a member of CI5 was not the sort of job that could be described as 'low risk,' in fact, more often than not the opposite was true.

In the course of his service for the department, he'd been stabbed, strangled, shot at, broken bones and frequently been clocked over the head, but never, had he ever felt as bad as he did right then.

William Bodie was ill, and not just a sniffle either, but a full-blown case of the flu and all it's happy symptoms, the aches, pains, shivers, the whole deal. He hated it.

Usually in the course of a normal day at work he would be vaulting off roofs and garden walls onto the pavement below without hesitation, now, even walking down the steps to fetch a cup of coffee sent a sharp spike of complaint up his spine straight into his head, eliciting a groan of groggy pain.

Doyle watched him shuffle about the office in a mixture of pity and amusement, the latter winning out more often than the former. As Bodie slid delicately into a chair across from him he caught his partner's vague smirk and narrowed his eyes sharply.

"What?" he growled deeply. Doyle smiled widely in response, Bodie having just answered his own question in one word that had come out several decibels lower than usual and devoid of any clarity what so ever. Doyle cocked his head at him dubiously.

"It's just a blocked nose," his partner offered croakily.

"Blocked head more like."

Bodie frowned, not appreciating the ribbing and instead picked a sheet up off the desk in front of him, struggling to make out the writing as the type spun in front of his eyes. Doyle stepped in to help out, still gazing passively across at him.

"Tim Raynard," he said casually. Bodie frowned, trying to apply the letters he knew to the blur in front him before giving up and putting the sheet down again. Doyle continued, "Friends with Paula Isles and her merry band of pill-pushers,"

Bodie rubbed wearily at his eyes,

"And Cowley wants us to question him?"

"That's about the size of it..." Doyle hesitated before fixing him with a judgmental stare, "You sure you're up to it?"

They both already knew the real truth, testament to many hours in the field spent together, not to mention the hours of drinking and socialising outside of work. But whilst both of them knew that in all actuality Bodie was not fit for the task, they also both knew he'd never admit it.

The ex-SAS man tried to draw himself up tall, ignoring the tingles of pain that rippled across his arm as the sleeve of his shirt slid across his skin. He cleared his scratchy throat and looked up to lock eyes with his partner,

"Course I am."

Doyle smiled, nodding across at him with a knowing expression,

"Yeah," he said casually, "That's what I told Cowley."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

This story has been sitting around forever waiting for an outing, and at the time it was written was heavily inspired by my own bout of flu. So, although I am unnecessarily mean to Bodie (and I am mean!) I do at least sympathise with him!