"What about loneliness?" she had asked him. There was no good answer to that question, she would have known that, and she'd fair killed the conversation with it. They'd finished their fish and chips and driven back to her house in near silence. Her question had felt almost confrontational to him, and he was so distracted with working out what had made him feel so defensive that he barely acknowledged her "Goodnight" and gentle buss on his cheek. The fact was, he reckoned, she was probably more of an expert in loneliness than he was, given that he only had eight years' experience at it. Takes one to know one, Laura?

As he lay in his darkened bedroom, Lewis refused to let himself sink into the morass of self-pity. He would analyze her loneliness instead. Why was she still single after all these years? She was intelligent, funny, good-looking, and sociable, after all. Not many women her age could claim to be in such great shape. And it seemed like there was no end to the parties she went to and hosted at her house.

It occurred to him then that perhaps she wasn't lonely, despite being alone. She had so many other friends, unlike him, and belonged to things, like the orchestra. Also unlike him. But, he decided, the main difference was that she had never suffered the loss of someone so close it felt like losing a significant body part. She was alone by choice. So she wouldn't feel that pang when something that used to be enjoyed as a shared experience was now encountered alone. She wouldn't miss conferring with a lifetime partner about decisions, whether mundane—like what should be had for tea—or important—like whether two children were enough. She wouldn't suffer from missing sharing a bed with someone, the warmth and comfort of another person there every night to hold and snuggle. And all that went with it.

That would be another difference. While he had no evidence that she ever enjoyed sexual relations with another person, she would certainly be able to take care of her needs in that department by herself, without being assaulted by a lifetime of memories the way he was. He still remembered the first time he had felt sexual stirrings after Val was gone. He'd been watching a film on the television, and had only had a little brandy at that point. When things got romantic for the couple on the screen, he realized he was rubbing himself through his trousers and had begun to get erect. He had unzipped and started rhythmically stroking himself, working to make his cock fully hard. But within minutes, he was overwhelmed by depression, feeling more alone than he ever had until then. His erection disappeared instantly and he went at the brandy bottle with a single-mindedness intended to drown out all of his senses and memories. When he woke up, he was lying on the bathroom floor near a puddle of vomit, his organ still exposed, hanging limply out of his trousers. All his depression from the night before came flooding back, compounded by feelings of shame and self-contempt. He remained drunk for days, until the brandy at last ran out.

He hadn't had an erection since then. He'd tried a couple of times, but his efforts drew no response and it was never very long before the same feeling of being utterly alone would force him to give up. When Hathaway gave him that Loaded magazine, he tried using it to inspire his lust, but the emotionless carnality depicted in the photographs only made him sad and he felt even more pathetic for resorting to that sort of baseness. Eventually, he gave up trying.

Every now and then, he would find a sticky, wet spot on the bedsheet in the morning. So he knew at least something was still functioning. But he was never aware of the sensation or of any dreams that led to the emission. Nor did he especially care to have a doctor poke and prod him to see if there was a medical explanation. He was fairly certain there was not, and what difference did it make anyway? Not as though he had much use for that particular function.

Still, there were times when he ached, deep inside his groin, and release would be welcome. If only it didn't come saddled with all that depressing baggage. He was mostly able now to steer clear of truly painful thoughts about Val, but whenever he touched himself or strayed too close to arousal, some of the most heartbreaking memories would rise up and smother him. He would find himself fighting for breath and squeezing back tears. And the ache would remain.

Lewis pulled his thoughts up short, realizing he had fallen again into a wallowing self-pity. He was supposed to be focusing on Laura, not on himself. The short version of his musings was that, to the best of his knowledge, she was free to engage in self-pleasure without having to wade through sad memories of having lost someone with whom lovemaking had always been shared.

There slipped into his mind at that moment a vivid image of Laura doing exactly that: fully naked, eyes closed, back arched, lips parted in a slight smile; one hand between her legs, fingers working; the other hand caressing the nipple of her breast.

He gasped aloud at the heat that suddenly shot through his veins—Where had that come from?—and quickly pushed the thought away. He had to work with the woman; it wouldn't do to think about her in unprofessional ways. He purposefully turned his attention to other matters.

What did he really know about her? She never spoke of her family or her past, unless she had to. Was that because of something painful to her? Or was she trying to keep distance between them? Or, maybe she never said anything because he'd never asked and she didn't want to bore him.

Perhaps that was the difference. She wasn't lonely because she knew how to really talk to people, to draw them out and get to know them. He was no good at that, not at all. Years of working for Morse and he only learned the man's Christian name when someone else asked.

The same way he knew nothing about his own sergeant. Well, he knew Hathaway's Christian name. But not much else. Brothers? Sisters? Parents—living, dead, divorced, loved, hated, brilliant, psychotic? How did he feel about . . . well, things? Labor unions, fried tomatoes, Volkswagens, Afghanistan, NHS, organ transplants, anything. Was Hathaway lonely? He never said. And, Lewis had to admit, he himself never asked.

Or maybe Laura was lonely, and covered it up by attending meaningless parties with people who were friend in name only. Maybe she, too, found no pleasure in self-stimulation, and avoided it for the same reason that it only made her more miserable.

The vision of Laura fondling herself crept back into his brain, and he noted a brief twinge in his loins before he could redirect this thoughts. Have a little respect, man, she's a professional. He slid into sleep, resolving to take more of an interest in her personal life. An objective interest, he firmly told himself, knowing the erotic image of her would linger for a long time in his imagination.

He was thrusting into her, and she felt so good underneath him. Warm and wet. He was hard, his cock throbbing, close to orgasm now. Sweating with effort, he pushed in as far as he could go, then pulled out, in and out, as she gasped in pleasure. He kissed her again and again, her lips soft and yielding.

As wakefulness gradually overtook him, he realized he was humping his pillow, its wetness letting him know he must have ejaculated into it at least once already. But he was still erect, still needing release. And it felt wonderful. He gave his imagination free rein to continue the dream, wrapped his hand around his cock, and pumped ferociously. His come burst from him in an explosion of ecstasy, and he cried out: Laura, I'm coming, oh God, you feel so good, I love you Laura, I love you. And as he lay breathless and at last sated, he knew it was true.

Having finished up the double murder over the weekend, Lewis and Hathaway spent the day tending to mundane administrative tasks. Hathaway found disconcerting his senior officer's newfound inquisitiveness. Lewis was asking him all sorts of questions—about his guitar, his time at Cambridge, where he went on holiday, and the like—and Hathaway was completely unable to discern from where this curiosity arose. At last, Hathaway called him on it.

"Sir, why all these questions all of the sudden? Am I a suspect in something?"

Lewis blinked. "Ah, no, Sergeant. Sorry. Only it occurred to me that we've been working together for years and I still don't really know much about you. I thought maybe I should take more of an interest in other people."

Hathaway frowned, cocking his head. "This idea came to you out of the blue?" He thought it unlikely.

"Something Doctor Hobson said, is all." Lewis pursed his lips. "D'you want me to stop?" In truth, he didn't feel any more comfortable asking the questions than Hathaway felt answering them.

"Whatever you want to do, Sir. Only remember, I get to ask you questions back if I want to."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "Great."

They worked on, without further questioning from Lewis. Around two in the afternoon, a familiar face appeared at their door.

"Afternoon, gentlemen. I bring you my official report on the two bodies."

They both looked up, smiling. Lewis spoke first. "Doctor, come on in." She grinned, handed the reports to Hathaway's outstretched hand, and perched on the corner of Lewis's desk, hands between her knees. He had to swallow. I am NOT thinking about her being naked. He was, however, definitely thinking her top was rather low-cut.

She studied him with a bit of concern. "Everything alright, Lewis?"

"Yeah, fine. Why?"

"You got so quiet last night. You worried me."

Hathaway observed closely without actually looking directly at the two.

"Well, you gave me something to think about, didn't you?" He saw this did not satisfy her. "I'm fine, Doctor. Really."

She smiled warmly. "You busy right now? How about a cup of tea?"

"Aw, that'd be great, yeah." He started to stand. A look of alarm passed over his face and he sat suddenly back in his chair, pulling in close to the desk. "Ah, no. Not right now." He saw her frown of puzzlement. "I'd like to get things done early here, and then how about a drink after work, instead? That way there's no time pressure."

She looked at him curiously. "Alright, that would be fine."

He tried to keep his voice smooth. "I'll come by around six, then? Okay?"

"Great. See you then." She hopped off the desk and went out, throwing a concerned look back over her shoulder. Lewis just waved a little.

Without even looking, he knew Hathaway was staring at him. "What?"

"What was that all about? 'Yes, tea would be nice,' then 'No, no tea'?"

Lewis looked away. "Changed me mind, is all."

Hathaway snorted. "You don't change your mind! Come on, I answered all your nosy questions this morning, now it's your turn. Something happened as you were standing up." He narrowed his eyes. "You split your trousers."

"What? No!"

"Prove it. Stand up and turn around." Hathaway, seeing that Lewis was turning red, managed to suppress the smirk he felt. He knew he was on to something.

Lewis didn't budge. "Forget it."

"Oh, no, I'm far from forgetting it. If not the trousers, then what? You owe me some answers, Sir. I thought we were going to try to get to know each other better." He looked shrewdly at the older man. "This has something to do with last night."

Lewis set his mouth firmly. "Look. It's just . . . very . . . embarrassing, alright?" Hathaway waited, and Lewis knew the only way out of the conversation was to go straight through it. He drew a breath. "She was sitting there, leaning forward, and her top was cut down to here, y'know? And when I started to stand up, I realized . . . well, you know."

Hathaway looked puzzled, furrowing his brow.

Lewis sighed and continued. "I realized I was, y'know, excited. Sexually. I couldn't stand up in front of her in that condition."

Hathaway nearly choked. "You had an erection? Just now?"

Lewis gave in, recognizing that his humiliation was already complete. "Not 'had.' 'Have.' I have an erection just now. Thanks to her." He twisted a wry smile. "Well, not for much longer, I expect."

Hathaway snorted, unable to restrain himself any longer. "What are you, a teenager? You've been working with her for years, why all of a sudden this . . . interest? Or did more happen last night than just dinner?"

"Nothin' happened, she doesn't know anything about this." He gave Hathaway a significant look. "And she won't know, unless I'm ready to tell her, right?"

"Fair enough. But why now?"

Lewis exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. "Last night she asked me about being lonely. And so I was thinking about that and about whether she was lonely. And I got this picture in me head of her . . . y'know. Rubbing herself. Naked."

Hathaway's eyebrows went up slowly.

Lewis saw his expression and cut off whatever comment Hathaway was about to make. "I didn't think about her that way on purpose, man, it just came to me." He tamped down his defensiveness. "Then this morning, I had this sort of . . . fantasy about her." He grew blissful at the memory. "It was terrific."

"Sexual fantasy, you mean? You fantasized about making love to her while you . . ." Hathaway gestured rapidly up and down with his loose fist slightly above his lap.

Lewis grimaced. "You don't have to make it sound so salacious. The thing is, ever since Val died, I haven't been able to . . . y'know. Do that. I just get depressed. But not this morning. Not thinking about her. So it's kind of a big deal, alright?"

Hathaway resisted his instinctive urge to tease. He recognized that Lewis was revealing the most intimate details of his personal life. He was vulnerable, and in an unenviable situation, as well. Moreover, Hathaway was secretly happy that Lewis seemed to be resolving his "difficulty" with Laura Hobson as the object of his ardor. The two were definitely cut out for each other. Hathaway wondered if Hobson fantasized about Lewis the way he did about her.

Lewis wondered the same thing. Now that Laura was out of the office, he was able to take stock of his mental state. He could relax and breathe normally. He knew his changed view of her would show eventually. She would see it, no doubt of that. And he had to make that happen on his terms, rather than accidentally, as had nearly happened just now.

In an uncharacteristically candid moment, he flicked his eyes up at Hathaway.

"I love her, Hathaway. I know that now. I want her. But I have no idea what to . . . how to do anythin' about it. I'm . . . I dunno, stuck. I can't think straight. If you can help me with that, please do, even if you think I'll get angry. Okay?" He looked steadily at his sergeant, and Hathaway could tell Lewis was laying himself open completely. Asking for his help. Trusting him.

The younger man replied without hesitating. "Of course, Sir. Absolutely."

Lewis breathed a sigh of relief. "So. I'm taking her out for a drink tonight. She's bound to know something's different. What do I do?"

Hathaway considered his words before answering. "Well, the most important thing is—and this may be obvious, but I'll say it anyway—you have to control your . . . excitement."

Lewis blushed. "Well, yeah, that is pretty obvious."

"Not just to avoid embarrassment. Your instincts are . . . well, not bad. But if you let your hormones get in control, your instincts will disappear completely. No telling what you might do wrong." He noticed Lewis blink at this. "With all due respect, Sir."

Lewis nodded slowly in agreement. "Okay, I can see you're right."

"Do you think that will be a problem? Things could get cozier than what just happened here."

"No, I can manage, I always have. This was just so unexpected, it's not anything I've had to be aware of for eight years or so. And recognizing the importance of staying in control will make it pretty easy, I should think."

Lewis studied his fingers, then looked up at his partner. "But what do I say to her? I can't just . . . y'know: 'Hey, Laura, do you want to shag?'"

Hathaway snorted at the miniscule odds of this actually being said. He thought a long time. "Well, what do you want her to know? Why not tell her you'd like to be more than friends, simple as that?"

"Simple?" Lewis shook his head. "I know I should just tell her how I feel, but I'm too nervous. I'm afraid that's not what she wants and she'll . . . Aw, I don't know. Make fun of me? Maybe without even knowing she's doing it?"

Hathaway resisted the urge to grab his boss by the shoulders and shake him. "Look, you can tell her a lot more than you tell me, right? And you told me all about this. Have I made fun of you? No. And not for lack of opportunity, I assure you."

He noticed the warning in Lewis's expression and changed his approach. "Be yourself, Sir. Be honest. If you're nervous, tell her so. Something like, 'There's something I want to tell you, Laura, but I'm too nervous," or even 'Don't know why I'm so nervous tonight.' If you're too nervous to talk, give her the chance to anticipate where you're going. Maybe she'll say it for you, and all you'll have to say is, 'Yeah, that's it!'"

Lewis thought about this tactic. "But she'll be wary of my unusual attitude and the unfamiliar subject. She won't want to put words in my mouth."

Hathaway drew a deep breath. This was like trying to teach a snail to jump hurdles. "Look, why don't you just show her how you feel? Take baby steps. Hold her hand. Put your arm around her. You can even ask her if she minds. She won't, I guarantee it. Then when she encourages you, you can ask her how far she'd like this to go. And then you'll have your answer, alright?"

Lewis looked dubious.

As he expected, she was aware of the shift in their relationship even without him saying anything. She studied him more closely than usual, took her time before she spoke, and chose her words carefully. He took that as a good sign: they were so much in tune that change in one was perceived by the other without words.

They said little over their glasses of pinot noir. But it was the comfortable silence of old friends who didn't need to speak. He had reminded himself this was his longest and best friend. She would never hurt him, and he'd do anything to avoid hurting her. He was able to stay focused on that friendship throughout the evening, with none of the other distractions he'd suffered lately.

But he was still nervous about advancing their relationship and the risk he was taking. It took him until his third glass to find the courage to say anything. He took her hand in his and glanced up at her, his cheeks ruddy from the wine. Without explanation, he gently rubbed the back of her hand and smiled. He was encouraged by the way she moved a little closer to him.

"Laura, d'you . . . y'know. D'you mind if I . . . show you how much I enjoy being with you?" He brushed her hand again. He was, he knew, well past the point of being merely tipsy.

She smiled conspiratorially. "Not at all, Robbie. Show me."

He grinned back. "I'm kind of drunk, y'know. I might not act responsibly."

She was grinning, too. "Ooh, irresponsible Robbie Lewis. That would be a first." She drew a thumb over his knuckles.

He swallowed and forced himself to focus. He'd had too much to drink. Don't wreck this by acting out of control. "No. You're right. I shouldn't act irresponsibly. Besides, I want to be sober, so I can . . . explain it properly. I'm sorry, Laura. I think I'd better just see you home, alright?" He reassessed the situation. "Well, you'll have to drive. And we'll take it from here next time, okay? I'll have to get my car back from you at some point, after all."

She smiled softly and nodded. He thought he might have seen a flash of disappointment.

She dropped him off at his place, saying goodnight and giving him a kiss on the cheek. When he lay down in bed, his cheek was still tingling. Another part of his body was responding, as well. He eased his erection free of his underwear, stroking himself languidly. He closed his eyes, letting his fantasy take over and thinking back on the events of the past twenty-four hours. He loved her, and he was fairly certain that she loved him. She wants me to show her how I feel! He didn't want to rush things, had to know for sure how far she wanted to take things before he advanced much further. He felt bad he'd let himself drink too much, but was glad he'd realized it would be a mistake to continue in that condition. They'd taken this long already, another night or two would be worth getting it right. In the meantime, he would enjoy what she had already given him, the ability to think about making love without getting weighed down in sorrow. He could feel physical pleasure again. And he knew, as nice as he felt now with his imagination filling in the sensory blanks, he would feel even better with her in his arms.