I.

The Wolseley bumped over the rough road, making its way through damp, still trees. "You're disturbingly quiet, Sam," said Foyle, after he could bear the silence no longer.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, "There has been something I've been meaning to say." Foyle kept his eyes forward but felt his heart quicken. "I'm afraid I can't drive you anymore." Foyle glanced at Sam and she continued, "I'm going to have to offer my resignation."

"Well this is a bit sudden," Foyle said, trying to hide his disappointment.

"Effective immediately."

"What, are you going to leave me here?" Foyle asked, looking at Sam in mock alarm.

She broke into a smile and laughed, "No, I mean effective as soon as I take you back." Sam explained what had happened at the meeting with her father, and asked Foyle to have a talk with him. She really didn't want to leave Hastings and definitely didn't want to stop being Foyle's driver. Foyle cleared his throat, pushing back any emotion, and promised to do what he could. Sam cheered up immensely after that, and began to chatter away as normal.

About twenty minutes later the car began to grunt. "Sam, what's the matter?"

"It's not me, Sir, it's the car!"

Foyle rolled his eyes, "Yes, I realize that, what's going on?"

"I'm not sure, Sir, perhaps I'd better pull off?"

"Well I would."

As Sam began to turn off the road the car jerked twice and rolled to a stop. "Ah," Sam mused, "Well, Sir, I think I know the problem."

"Indeed."

"We've run out of petrol, Sir." Foyle sighed and gave Sam an exasperated look. She smiled sheepishly and looked at her hands. It had begun to drizzle slightly, leaving droplets of water on the windscreen. Foyle pushed his hat up on his forehead, glancing at Sam with frustrated amusement. "Right," he said, turning to look at their surroundings.

"Sir?"

"Well we'd better start walking and hopefully find someone to help." They got out of the car and started up the road, Sam apologizing profusely.

The rain not only continued, but came down more quickly as they walked. Foyle and Sam finally came across a small village and looked into the first shop they saw. It was the butcher's shop, and he gave them directions to the garage just down the road. Positively dripping with water at every step, Foyle and Sam walked on only to find that the garage was closed, the mechanic away fixing a tractor on a local farm. Door to door they went, trying to find someone to help them.

Sam felt miserable – cold, wet, famished and very ashamed at putting them in this situation. The village was crawling with military men, presumably overflow from the town further up the road. Slightly at a loss of where else to go, Sam and Foyle entered a pub. It was full of men in uniform and they all stopped talking when they saw the bedraggled pair walk in. Sam pushed the water out of her eyes and said to the room at large, "Our car has run out of petrol just down the road. I don't suppose any of you fine gentlemen could lend a hand, could you?" Half a dozen men clamored around to help at once. As they went back out into the pouring rain again Foyle smiled slightly, thinking, "good old Sam to the rescue."

It was already dark and well after dinnertime when they arrived back in the little village. Sam parked the Wolseley outside the pub where they had found help and they both went in, hoping to dry off from all the rain and looking forward to a hot meal. Finding a table closest to the fire, Sam sat and waited as Foyle looked into getting rooms for the night at the inn next door. He came back shortly and sat down gratefully, shaking water off his hat. "They only have one room available, due to all the troop movement, so I'll sleep in the car and you can have the room."

Sam looked indignant and replied, "well I got us into this mess, Sir, and I am the driver, so I'll sleep in the car. You're Detective Chief Superintendent, Sir, you can't sleep in the back of a car – it would be unthinkable."

"If you think I'm letting you sleep in that car with all these military men about, you're wrong. Your father would really have something to say then. You'd be out of Hastings before you knew it! No, I think - "

"Well, if you are worried about my virtue, then you can sleep across the threshold of my door," Sam interrupted.

Foyle looked at her blankly, as if at a loss for words. Blinking furiously, he looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. "Erm, alright."

"We'll draw straws for who gets the floor shall we?" Sam said with a laugh. Foyle was spared an answer as food arrived and Sam only had eyes for the potatoes. He rubbed his head and frowned – it felt like a headache was coming on. What a mess this situation was. "It is probably best to just go along with Sam for the moment," Foyle thought. He stared at his food, trying to summon up an appetite.

"Everything alright, Sir?"

Foyle smiled, picking up his knife and fork, "Yes, of course, I'm just trying to decide where to begin, the potatoes or the peas?"

After dinner they sat with a glass of brandy each and chatted about the case. Sam was curious to know all the details, especially how the man had died. Were knifings common, what did this art gallery have to do with it, and wasn't it all jolly exciting? Foyle humored her with light answers because he felt like talking about anything but the case. His headache was starting to really hurt and his thoughts felt a little fuzzy. He stopped Sam in mid-chatter and suggested it was time to go to bed.

They ran through the torrent of rain to the inn, managing to become soaked all over again. The lady behind the desk looked concerned, if not for her rug, for the well being of her guests. She led them upstairs, stomping up each step and explaining where everything was – at what seemed to Foyle, the top of her lungs. She pulled out a heavy blanket from a cupboard on the landing, successfully knocking over a small table with a crash.

"That always happens, I should probably move the dratted thing," and away she went down the corridor. Foyle righted the table and followed, rubbing his head, feeling considerably worse and looking forward to lying down. At the very end of the corridor, the landlady opened a very squeaky door and let them pass through. "Goodnight and if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask!" and with a bang she was gone.

Foyle took the extra blanket the landlady had brought and tossed it to a corner of the room. He sat down heavily on a chair, took off his hat, and proceeded to loosen his tie. "Are you alright, Sir?"

Foyle looked up and realized Sam was looking at him with great concern—"I must look awful," he thought. Smiling weakly and twitching his lips, he assured her, "Er, yes, Sam, I'm alright, I just have a headache and feel very tired. Get some rest, and we'll finish this adventure tomorrow hopefully."

Unfolding the blanket, Foyle lay down in his corner, turning over once or twice, and falling asleep almost immediately. Sam, looking quite baffled, watched him for a moment before turning down the bed. She quietly pulled off her jacket and shoes and tiptoed away from the room to carry out her ablutions. She ran into the landlady in the corridor bringing a hot water bottle to someone, and who had successfully dripped most of the water down her front. Sam asked her if she could borrow an old shirt, explaining the mishaps of the afternoon. The lady gave a peal of laughter and scuttled off, apparently finding it all quite amusing. She returned shortly and Sam tiptoed back into the room at the end of the corridor. Foyle was curled into his blanket, fast asleep. Sam turned out the light, changed out of her wet clothes, and slipped into bed, glad to be lying down after such a long day. She could hear Foyle breathing, and found it to be a comforting sound. Nestling into the blankets, she tried to block out everything and clear her mind. Within minutes, she too was fast asleep.

II.

The little village was quiet now as all the pubs had closed and the military men had all gone to their billets. The only thing awake was the butcher's cat. As it poked a paw into someone's rubbish bin it heard a noise and froze, wide eyed. Elsewhere, Sam also heard a noise and woke with a jolt. She sat up quickly and reached for the bedside lamp. The noise was coming from a corner of the room, and she was feeling rather scared, hoping it was just a mouse. As the light flickered on she realized where she was and remembered it was Foyle in the corner.

She listened again, hand suspended over the lamp switch. Foyle groaned and turned over, only to turn back to his original position with another groan. Sam thrust back the blankets and went to his side. Here, she could see that he was shivering, and small beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. She reached out, touching his shoulder to shake him awake, feeling the damp shirt under her hand. "Did he even have dry clothes on when he went to sleep?" she wondered, beginning to be afraid that her boss might be really ill. Hesitating, she touched his forehead, feeling the burning skin. With the realization that Foyle was suffering from a fever, likely from catching a chill in the rain, Sam felt guilty as well as resolved – she was determined to help him through the worst of it. Taking a deep breath she gently shook Foyle on the shoulder, calling out, "Sir, Sir?" He stirred groggily and looked into her eyes, trying to understand what was going on.

"You've got a fever and your clothes are damp, Sir, I need you to change into this and get into bed." She held up the spare nightshirt the landlady had given her. Foyle stared, eyes fluttering sleepily. "Come on, Sir, please get up now." Sam tugged his arm and Foyle slowly raised himself up. She pushed the nightshirt into his hands and said, "I'm going to get a glass of water. Change into that, Sir and get into bed." He nodded slightly and took a swaying step forwards. "I'll be right back." Sam was surprised to hear the authority that had come into her voice. She felt rather like Matron at school dealing with a sick child. She shivered in the cold air as she stepped out of the room and hoped he would have gotten into bed by the time she returned. How could he have been so silly as to go to bed with wet clothes?

Hovering outside the door a few minutes later, glass of water in hand, Sam listened closely but heard nothing. She knocked on the door, asking if it was all right to come in. "Yes," was the soft reply. Sam slowly opened the door and tried to hide a giggle as she saw Foyle sitting on the edge of the bed, nightshirt only half buttoned, with one sock on and one sock off. "I've brought you a glass of water and an aspirin, Sir," she said, handing it to him.

"Thank you." He took a sip, swallowing the pill, and rubbed his head, still feeling a bit confused and half asleep.

Sam took the glass and set it on the bedside table. "Lie back and get warm, Sir, you'll feel better in the morning I'm sure."

Foyle allowed himself to be tucked in and was soon fast asleep again. Sam pulled the blankets higher and tucked them around his shoulders. She put his wet things on a chair near the radiator where hers lay, and sat down on the bed next to him. She stayed there looking at him for a while, aware of his ragged breathing and shivers. She hoped the aspirin would help, otherwise she would have to go for a doctor.

After a bit, Foyle's breathing slowed to a normal pace. Sam got up, and stood looking over him, trying to banish the thought that had come into her mind. Yet she leaned in, hesitating. She could smell his aftershave. It was a nice smell, she thought, and recognized it from the daily drives to the police station. Impulsively, she softly kissed his forehead and pulled away quickly, turning to the blanket on the floor with a sigh. Sam lay down under the heavy material, trying to get comfortable. This time however, she couldn't clear her mind for sleep.

Tossing and turning for quite some time, Sam tried to think of anything but her boss. When she dozed, he was there in fleeting dreams, calling her name. "Sam…Sam…Sam!" She woke and sat up quickly. Again she heard her name, "Sam." A tired voice, and spoken in a near whisper, pleading and slightly pitiful.

"I'm here, I'm here, it's alright." Sam stood next the bedside and searched for Foyle's hand in the dark. She heard him sigh and clear his throat. "Sorry, I had a bad dream."

"Well, I hope I wasn't the cause."

"No, of course not, why would you be?" Foyle shifted, sitting up slightly and reaching for the glass of water. Sam's eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see him raise the glass to his lips. Turning away she replied, "Well, I did get us into this mess after all, Sir, and I feel awful that you are unwell because of my mistake." Sam did her best to hide the crack of emotion in her voice that broke through at the end of her sentence, but Foyle looked up, understanding.

"Sit here, Sam." He suddenly felt wide-awake, and cleared his throat again. "Er, I know you feel responsible for, um, today, but you mustn't beat yourself up about it." Sam didn't look convinced and rubbed her nose. Biting his lip he continued, "I just caught a bit of a chill, which could have easily happened if I was tramping about in the rain after some criminal. I'd much rather tramp about with you, so don't worry, please."

"Really, Sir?"

"Really, Sam."

Sam grinned. "I'll be sure to schedule the next break down when it is nice weather then."

Foyle laughed softly, "Although I shouldn't condone another break down, with fine weather as a promise and you there of course, I would think of it as a treat."

Sam looked away, not sure if she was hearing things properly, unwilling to allow herself to be overjoyed at hearing words only dreamed of. Surely he was just delirious and didn't mean any of it? She shivered, feeling the draught from the window.

"You must be freezing, Sam," Foyle said kindly, "bring that blanket from the floor over." She got up, feeling his eyes on her in the dark, and pulled it around her like a shawl. She turned back to look at him.

"I was worried you know, Sir. I thought you might have been really ill," she paused, "I'm glad I was here with you, to…well, to look after you." She blushed slightly, and rubbed her nose again.

"I'm glad you were here too, Sam."

In his voice Sam could detect something, and it sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. She walked slowly back over to the bedside, unsure of what to do, feeling many emotions bubbling up, especially ones that had been harbored for her boss for the past year or so. She also felt particularly elated – Foyle wasn't going to need a doctor, she had taken care of him well enough. Foyle beckoned for her to sit, and they talked for a little while longer about trivial things. Soon though, Sam's eyes began to droop, and Foyle felt exhausted as well. He slid over and reached out to touch her hand. "Sam?"

"Hmm…" came the sleepy reply, with a lopsided smile.

"Rest here, I can't let you sleep on that cold floor."

"But what about you?" she said with a yawn, as she snuggled under the thick blankets that Foyle had pulled around her.

"Don't you worry, now sleep well, and see you in the morning."

Sam yawned, "but it is already morning…" and with that she was asleep.

Foyle smiled and pulled up the rest of the blankets to his chin. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he slid his arm around Sam. She stirred and murmured something, smiling in her sleep. Foyle, on impulse, kissed her head, and settled down to go to sleep. It was the perfect ending to a long day, and one he would never forget.

Outside, the sky began to change colors, a fiery sun breaking through the clouds of yesterday. It promised to be a fine day.