Author's note: all usual disclaimers apply. A little bit of fluffy fun for your weekend...

As the officer in charge DI Tommy Lynley had to wait until the forensic team had finished processing the crime scene. He spotted his partner standing over by the van talking to the new sergeant in the squad. Not that he was that new. Graham Ingles was an experienced officer who had transferred down from Cambridge after a messy divorce so that he could be closer to his kids. Lynley disliked him on sight. He was confident, almost cocky, and with a peppering of grey through his dark, wavy hair and close-trimmed beard that looked more like stubble, he looked like he had just stepped off the set of a Bond film. Tommy clenched his jaw then called out. "Havers! When you've quite finished chatting up Ingles, come here and give me a hand."

Tommy watched as the two sergeants laughed. He presumed about him. His top teeth ground across his bottom as he glared at her. On cue, Barbara walked over. "Yes, Sir?"

"We're about to wrap up. Can you go and check on the house-to-house teams? Then tells Ingles to go back to the station and help Winston with the CCTV footage. I want to make sure the man we arrested was the murderer and not a good samaritan caught up in it. If he is, then the police officer who shot him will need us to be very thorough and prove he had reasonable grounds to fire."

"You don't like Ingles do you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we've worked together for a decade and I know you."

Tommy waved his hand dismissively. "What I think of him has no bearing on it."

"Oh, I get it. You're jealous!"

"No!" Lynley hid his frown by bending down to tie his shoe.

"I hear a lot of the young female constables are chasing after him. So maybe with him around they're paying less attention to you?"

"I'm not that shallow."

"No, of course not."

"So do you fancy him?"

"No, not really. He's okay, but he's a bit up himself. Only room for one handsome, stuck up man in my life."

Tommy forgot to stop grinning before he looked up. She smiled back, and he was reassured. Ingles was no threat. "In this traffic, it'll be quicker to walk back to the Yard. You check the teams, and I'll wrap this up."

"Ingles offered me a lift," she said with a hint of mischief. Tommy could not help but glare at her. "But I'd rather walk."

The route from Archbishop's Park took them past St Thomas' Hospital and over Westminster Bridge. After a long twilight, night was beginning to fall. Barbara pulled her coat tighter to keep out the cold. They chatted briefly about the case as they walked but when they climbed the stairs to the bridge, Barbara began to laugh.

"You find police shootings amusing, Sergeant?" Tommy asked.

"No, I find this bridge amusing."

"Why?"

"Little Dick Bridge I used to call it."

"Who's Dick?"

Barbara stopped and leant against the railing. She started laughing harder, bending over as tears streamed down her face. It was infectious, and Tommy could not help but laugh with her. "The shadows," she said between fits of loud chuckles.

"Barbara! Stop laughing and explain yourself."

"Yes, Sir," she replied coming to attention. Tommy's face hurt from smiling.

Two old women walked past and looked them up and down. "Such a lovely looking couple. It's terrible what drugs do!" the one with glasses perched on the end of her nose said, clearly intending to be overheard.

Tommy was about to reply when Barbara grabbed his arm. "Leave it. It doesn't matter what they think."

He put his hands on the rail and looked up the river. The usual imposing yellow of the Palace of Westminster was shrouded by white plastic, emblazoned with the logo of the company engaged in repairing the grand but crumbling building. Beside him, Barbara was still smiling and chuckling. "So are you going to explain?"

"In the right light, in the afternoon, the holes in the bridge railing form little dicks. You know, two small circles and a long... well... dick."

Tommy was flabbergasted. His vocabulary completely deserted him. "Barbara!"

She had begun to laugh again. "Don't be such a prude, Sir."

"I'm not a prude! But I don't wander the city looking for phalluses."

A man walking his dog diverted his path away from them. Barbara folded up in laughter once again. "It's a well-known fact. Tourists come and take photos."

"Then why does it amuse you so much?" Tommy stood tall and tried to control the creeping curl of his mouth.

"It doesn't. Your reaction does." She started to laugh again but stopped under his admonishing gaze. "Sorry."

Tommy smiled at her. It was good to laugh and have fun. "Don't be. Next time we're walking over here in the afternoon you can show me your little dicks."

"Bwahahahaha!" Barbara laughed so hard that she had to turn away and grip the balustrade with both hands.

Tommy moved next to her and put his hand on her back. Subconsciously he began to soothe her by rubbing his hand in small circles. He realised what he was doing when she abruptly went silent. He withdrew his hand. "Sorry."

Barbara continued to look upriver. "Don't be."

"You know I dreamt about this bridge last night."

"Did you? That's weird. So did I."

"I met a woman I hadn't seen in nearly twenty years."

"You lost contact during the War?"

He frowned. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd been in the RAF."

"A Spitfire pilot."

"Yes!"

"You were shot down."

Tommy turned to look at her. "Yes, over France."

"You were listed as missing, presumed killed."

"Apparently, but I was wounded. The French Resistance found me and nursed me back to health. I couldn't get home so I fought with them until the war finished."

"She thought you were dead."

"I came home. I went to her street but... it was gone."

"The Blitz. Fifty-seven consecutive nights of bombing."

"All the places we used to go dancing were gone. There was nothing left. The East End was just a shell."

"It was a terrible time. And to think we were doing the same to them. Such a waste."

Tommy nodded. "I spoke to a man. He said everyone had been killed. One massive buzz bomb. It fell right onto the shelter near their house. They... they... were buried alive."

"Her family were killed," Barbara said soberly.

"I searched for months. Every woman I saw that looked like her, I'd rush up to, only to be disappointed. None of her friends had survived. I had no leads."

"She was running late from work. She wasn't there when the bomb fell. She was evacuated to the country and worked on a farm."

"It was 1962, and I had missed the last bus, so I started to walk home."

"She was rushing to St Thomas'. Her friend had been in an accident."

"Her heel broke, and she stumbled. I caught her as she rushed past."

"She was dumbstruck. After all those years."

"I helped her to her feet, and we leant against this railing."

"They told each other their stories."

Tommy put his arm around Barbara's shoulder. "I never married. No one ever made me feel the way she did."

"She never married either. She'd only ever loved one man. She would only ever love him."

"How do you know so much about my dream, Barbara?"

"I had the same one."

"Did it end the same way?"

"I don't know... Tommy. I hope so."

He pulled her into an embrace and kissed her. He had intended to be tender and brief, to test the waters. But their lips had other ideas, dragging him into a fevered passion that came from somewhere deep inside him. He had been shocked in his dream when the woman had been Barbara, but he had known it was right. He loved her across the ages.

They stood panting, their arms still locked around each other and their foreheads resting together. "As good as your dream?"

"My dream didn't finish with the kiss."

Tommy smiled the way he only could for her. "Mine either. We should get back to work as finish up quickly then..."

"Then?"

"Spend the rest of our lives together."

"Mmm. That's how my dream finished too."