Disclaimer: All of the characters herein belong to CBS/Viacom and the
creators of Diagnosis Murder, but the plot is all mine. This story is a
work of fanfiction and has been written for fun and not for profit. I am
receiving no money for this story, but kind reviews and constructive
criticism would be greatly appreciated and gladly accepted. Flames will be
summarily ignored.
*~*~*~*~*~*~
"I haven't broken any laws. The plan didn't work."
Steve and Abby were again walking through the Japanese gardens, this time discussing her plan to fraudulently inherit Lily and Fredrick Wilson's estates by impersonating Lily's twin sister. She had already admitted to planting false adoption records for Steve to find. She'd seen Steve on that matchmaking game show and had used her strong resemblance to Lily Wilson to capture his heart and get him to look up her phony records. Then she had tried to frame Frederick Wilson for Lou Tyler's murder so that he would get the death penalty and she would get all his money.
"But the one in Boston did," he said, sadly, waving over a couple of uniformed officers.
She pulled his face to hers, bumping foreheads, and forcing him to look her in the eye.
"I know you love me," she pleaded, and kissed him passionately.
Steve savored the kiss, desperately holding on to the last possible moment before he knew if he clung to it any longer he would never be able to let go. Then he gently disengaged himself, and said, "I'm still a cop, Abby."
The uniforms came over then, and led her away. She would be sent back to Boston soon, where she would stand trial for fraud. He watched the retreating figures, wishing he could run after her, wishing that he didn't always see the world in black and white, good and bad. Maybe if he could live with some shades of gray, he could have lived with what she had done.
But a man like Steve Sloan couldn't live with that.
Cheryl came up to him then and offered him a soda, not breaking the desolate mood, but denting it slightly with a warm, supportive smile. Steve smiled weakly back. She was a good friend. As they headed back to the car, Cheryl slipped her arm around him and gave him a small comforting squeeze about the waist.
"I'll drive," she said.
"Ok. Thanks."
They had ridden back to the station in silence, Cheryl having the courtesy to leave him alone with his thoughts, and now, Steve found himself at his desk, struggling to fill out his daily report. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sat staring at the form in frustration. Just how the devil did one manage to separate one's emotions from the events of the day and write an objective report? Sighing, he promised himself for the fourth, or was it the fifth, time that he would never, *ever*, get personally involved in a case again. He quickly scratched out a synopsis of what he had done today, signed the form, pressing hard to make sure his signature transferred through all the copies and tossed his pen to the desktop in front of him.
Looking at the clock, he realized his shift would be over in ten minutes, and he would again be facing his evenings alone. Well, he wouldn't be alone, exactly, but certainly, without the kind of companionship he found he craved more and more as the years went by. Even with Dad, Jesse, and Amanda, sometimes he just felt so damned *lonely*.
His eyes were burning, and his throat felt scratchy, but a man didn't cry over a thing like this. Not a man like Steve Sloan. So, he rubbed his hands over his face, squashed down the emotions he felt welling inside him, and went through the motions of tidying up his desk until time to go. Anyone who watched him closely would know it was an act, because they could see from the sorry state of his work area that tidying up was another of the things that a man like Steve Sloan simply didn't do.
There were those nights when he just wanted to go home, have one, maybe two, beers too many, and then collapse into bed to dream about a nice, normal girl, who wasn't a psycho or a criminal, and who wasn't going to die on him. Tonight was looking like one of *those* nights.
Maybe he'd call Jesse and see if he wanted to split a pizza and a couple of six packs. He knew from experience that Jesse would eat most of the pizza and he would drink most of the beer. If he could crash at Jesse's place, at least he wouldn't have to endure his father's sympathetic looks straight away. Then he could come in late tomorrow, even though it was his day off, and take care of some of that filing he always meant to finish, but never really seemed to get started.
His father was always there for him, always, and Steve would never in a million lifetimes or a dozen languages be able to say how much he appreciated that unwavering support. But just for now, just for tonight, he wanted to get loaded and slip quietly into oblivion, and he found that hard to do under his father's worried gaze.
He sighed and looked up to find Cheryl watching him intently.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing." She averted her eyes.
"That wasn't a 'nothing' look," he argued. "That was a 'something' look. What?"
She smiled enigmatically and said, "I know what you're thinking."
"Oh, you do? How do you know I'm thinking anything at all?"
Still smiling, she said, "Because you're predictable, Sloan."
"Am I?"
"Yes. And you're thinking tonight would probably be a good night to go get quietly drunk, probably at Jesse's, so you don't have to face Mark just yet. Then you'll come in here tomorrow, around ten, still a little hung over, and pretend to file your reports, tearing the head off anyone who dares to make eye contact, until the captain reminds you it's your day off and sends you home with orders not to come back until you've found a better attitude."
Steve gave her a wan smile.
"Am I really as bad as all that?"
Nodding, she said, "Yep."
He looked at the clock. Five minutes until the end of shift. They sat in silence until Cheryl decided to break it.
"She wasn't worth it, Steve," she told him softly.
"Now you tell me." His voice was bitter.
"No, Steve, I mean it. She wasn't worth the price of a six pack, let alone all the other misery you're about to put yourself through."
Cheryl genuinely wanted to help her friend and colleague. A man like Steve Sloan was a rare breed, with powerful emotions roiling beneath the calm surface. She knew he didn't trifle with other's feelings, and he trusted those he shared his heart with to show him same consideration. Sometimes, he was just too trusting. When he loved someone, he loved unquestioningly and unreservedly, and when he hurt, he hurt with unspeakable intensity.
"Ok, Therapist Joe, what do recommend?"
Cheryl recognized the flippant tone as a way to conceal the deep and genuine pain he was feeling. She knew him too well to be fooled, but she wouldn't call him on it. A man like Steve Sloan was proud and needed to preserve his dignity. Until right now, she hadn't realized she'd been waiting ages for just this sort of opportunity. She'd often wondered if a man like Steve could be persuaded to see anything in her. Looking up at the clock, she saw it was six pm. Shift was over. She seized the moment.
Grasping her partner's hand, she tugged him gently out of his seat, saying, "Come on to my place. I'll fix you dinner. Then we can watch a movie and come up with a plan to help you find a decent woman."
"You buying the beer," he asked with a fragile grin.
"Nah. You don't need to get drunk over her, but I will split a bottle of wine with you."
"Ok, I guess it will have to do."
Her grip was warm and soft on his hand as she pulled him away from his desk. He decided not to resist. After all, a man like Steve Sloan didn't really *want* to get drunk if he had a better offer, and this was definitely a better offer.
*~*~*~*~*~*~
"I haven't broken any laws. The plan didn't work."
Steve and Abby were again walking through the Japanese gardens, this time discussing her plan to fraudulently inherit Lily and Fredrick Wilson's estates by impersonating Lily's twin sister. She had already admitted to planting false adoption records for Steve to find. She'd seen Steve on that matchmaking game show and had used her strong resemblance to Lily Wilson to capture his heart and get him to look up her phony records. Then she had tried to frame Frederick Wilson for Lou Tyler's murder so that he would get the death penalty and she would get all his money.
"But the one in Boston did," he said, sadly, waving over a couple of uniformed officers.
She pulled his face to hers, bumping foreheads, and forcing him to look her in the eye.
"I know you love me," she pleaded, and kissed him passionately.
Steve savored the kiss, desperately holding on to the last possible moment before he knew if he clung to it any longer he would never be able to let go. Then he gently disengaged himself, and said, "I'm still a cop, Abby."
The uniforms came over then, and led her away. She would be sent back to Boston soon, where she would stand trial for fraud. He watched the retreating figures, wishing he could run after her, wishing that he didn't always see the world in black and white, good and bad. Maybe if he could live with some shades of gray, he could have lived with what she had done.
But a man like Steve Sloan couldn't live with that.
Cheryl came up to him then and offered him a soda, not breaking the desolate mood, but denting it slightly with a warm, supportive smile. Steve smiled weakly back. She was a good friend. As they headed back to the car, Cheryl slipped her arm around him and gave him a small comforting squeeze about the waist.
"I'll drive," she said.
"Ok. Thanks."
They had ridden back to the station in silence, Cheryl having the courtesy to leave him alone with his thoughts, and now, Steve found himself at his desk, struggling to fill out his daily report. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sat staring at the form in frustration. Just how the devil did one manage to separate one's emotions from the events of the day and write an objective report? Sighing, he promised himself for the fourth, or was it the fifth, time that he would never, *ever*, get personally involved in a case again. He quickly scratched out a synopsis of what he had done today, signed the form, pressing hard to make sure his signature transferred through all the copies and tossed his pen to the desktop in front of him.
Looking at the clock, he realized his shift would be over in ten minutes, and he would again be facing his evenings alone. Well, he wouldn't be alone, exactly, but certainly, without the kind of companionship he found he craved more and more as the years went by. Even with Dad, Jesse, and Amanda, sometimes he just felt so damned *lonely*.
His eyes were burning, and his throat felt scratchy, but a man didn't cry over a thing like this. Not a man like Steve Sloan. So, he rubbed his hands over his face, squashed down the emotions he felt welling inside him, and went through the motions of tidying up his desk until time to go. Anyone who watched him closely would know it was an act, because they could see from the sorry state of his work area that tidying up was another of the things that a man like Steve Sloan simply didn't do.
There were those nights when he just wanted to go home, have one, maybe two, beers too many, and then collapse into bed to dream about a nice, normal girl, who wasn't a psycho or a criminal, and who wasn't going to die on him. Tonight was looking like one of *those* nights.
Maybe he'd call Jesse and see if he wanted to split a pizza and a couple of six packs. He knew from experience that Jesse would eat most of the pizza and he would drink most of the beer. If he could crash at Jesse's place, at least he wouldn't have to endure his father's sympathetic looks straight away. Then he could come in late tomorrow, even though it was his day off, and take care of some of that filing he always meant to finish, but never really seemed to get started.
His father was always there for him, always, and Steve would never in a million lifetimes or a dozen languages be able to say how much he appreciated that unwavering support. But just for now, just for tonight, he wanted to get loaded and slip quietly into oblivion, and he found that hard to do under his father's worried gaze.
He sighed and looked up to find Cheryl watching him intently.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing." She averted her eyes.
"That wasn't a 'nothing' look," he argued. "That was a 'something' look. What?"
She smiled enigmatically and said, "I know what you're thinking."
"Oh, you do? How do you know I'm thinking anything at all?"
Still smiling, she said, "Because you're predictable, Sloan."
"Am I?"
"Yes. And you're thinking tonight would probably be a good night to go get quietly drunk, probably at Jesse's, so you don't have to face Mark just yet. Then you'll come in here tomorrow, around ten, still a little hung over, and pretend to file your reports, tearing the head off anyone who dares to make eye contact, until the captain reminds you it's your day off and sends you home with orders not to come back until you've found a better attitude."
Steve gave her a wan smile.
"Am I really as bad as all that?"
Nodding, she said, "Yep."
He looked at the clock. Five minutes until the end of shift. They sat in silence until Cheryl decided to break it.
"She wasn't worth it, Steve," she told him softly.
"Now you tell me." His voice was bitter.
"No, Steve, I mean it. She wasn't worth the price of a six pack, let alone all the other misery you're about to put yourself through."
Cheryl genuinely wanted to help her friend and colleague. A man like Steve Sloan was a rare breed, with powerful emotions roiling beneath the calm surface. She knew he didn't trifle with other's feelings, and he trusted those he shared his heart with to show him same consideration. Sometimes, he was just too trusting. When he loved someone, he loved unquestioningly and unreservedly, and when he hurt, he hurt with unspeakable intensity.
"Ok, Therapist Joe, what do recommend?"
Cheryl recognized the flippant tone as a way to conceal the deep and genuine pain he was feeling. She knew him too well to be fooled, but she wouldn't call him on it. A man like Steve Sloan was proud and needed to preserve his dignity. Until right now, she hadn't realized she'd been waiting ages for just this sort of opportunity. She'd often wondered if a man like Steve could be persuaded to see anything in her. Looking up at the clock, she saw it was six pm. Shift was over. She seized the moment.
Grasping her partner's hand, she tugged him gently out of his seat, saying, "Come on to my place. I'll fix you dinner. Then we can watch a movie and come up with a plan to help you find a decent woman."
"You buying the beer," he asked with a fragile grin.
"Nah. You don't need to get drunk over her, but I will split a bottle of wine with you."
"Ok, I guess it will have to do."
Her grip was warm and soft on his hand as she pulled him away from his desk. He decided not to resist. After all, a man like Steve Sloan didn't really *want* to get drunk if he had a better offer, and this was definitely a better offer.