This was supposed to be a one off - but then this popped into my head and made me smile.

Thanks so much for the reviews, they mean a lot. :-)

The characters aren't mine - just nice to use them a wee bit whilst waiting impatiently for the next episode. Oh and I forgot to say last time, any mistakes are entirely my own.

This wasn't what he imagined, Richard thought grumpily, squirming slightly as an exhaled breath ruffled the nape of his neck, the muscles in his arms protesting from not only holding himself in this awkward position, but partially supporting another body's weight too.

A month.

A whole month had passed since Camille's probably innocuous, definitely teasing, comment on the veranda of his beach hut. Made on a day when he had been trying so hard to relax, lighten up, even fit in with his colleagues during a relatively slow week of work. Well, a slow week apart from the murder they had solved at the Clinic.

A month of confused dreams and tantalising scenarios. Of waking with sheets wrapped around his pajama clad legs, face pressed against his pillow.

A month of requiring a cold shower before and after work each day, and failing to kid himself that it was all because of the heat.

A month of no new murders to focus on, merely a detective sergeant who would persist in sitting right opposite him day after day in shorts, or tight tight trousers and tiny tops; her feet often resting atop the desk so that it was physically impossible for him not to notice the shapely lines of her legs. Or the arch of her eyebrows (that got him every time) when he harrumphed about the lack of cases, the heat, or the knowledge that London had ground to a halt last week due to a fall of snow. Snow! Oh to feel that cold!

He had considered suggesting she take some time off. That he, Fidel and Dwayne would cope fine and would call if a crime wave suddenly took off. He felt it might give him some respite from the uncommon sensations he had been experiencing far too often in the last month and even rid himself of the ridiculous ideas his subconscious had been having. However, the very night the thought had occurred to him, his dreams had left him far more disturbed than the alternative images. Scenes of bumping into Camille, dressed in a barely there sundress, in the marketplace on his way to get lunch. Clutching the arm of a tall dark, similarly indecently clothed man. Laughing up into his face and barely noticing Richard. Or dancing and flirting with admirers in her mother's bar as he attempted to enjoy a post work cup of tea before retiring to his shack. Alone.

So he had continued to torture himself, hoping the next flight to the island, from anywhere, would bring a horde of criminals he could sink his teeth into and direct all his attention towards.

He truly believed that this would solve the problem and rid himself of this affliction he appeared to be labouring under. A refocusing of his priorities would be all it took to consign this aberration to the past. A sign of living in the heat he supposed. It could do strange things to a man.

So why on earth, he berated himself, did he think that following through on the impulse to pick up, and then buy an old edition of Twister he had spotted out of the corner of his eye on a market stall last week would be a good idea? Not only that, but then leaving it, apparently casually, in a prominent place on his sideboard for eagle eyed Fidel, newly enthused following his endorsement for his sergeant exams, to pick up and excitedly suggest they play, whilst innocently musing aloud that Camille had wanted to play this, and why hadn't Sir mentioned that he had it before now?

A month of visions and not one of them had involved this scenario.

But then that was a good thing wasn't it?

Richard sighed loudly, not bothering to hide his irritation. After all, anyone hearing it would simply put it down to his apparent reticence to play the game. His unwillingness to have anyone invading his personal space to thins degree.

He tried to hunch his shoulders, to stretch, eliciting a grunt as the body behind him attempted to retain their balance.

Richard considered for a moment faking a slip to bring the game, this pointless stupid game, to a hasty close. But the thought of Dwayne landing full weight on top of him was even more unappealing.

"Right foot, red" Camille's voice playfully called out, knowing what difficulties that was likely to present the participants. He would lay bets that she had doctored the spin somehow.

Shooting a venomous look in her direction whilst trying, and failing miserably, not to notice how the diaphanous crimson shirt she was wearing clung to her curves, he ventured to rotate his hip and shuffle his foot forward on the plastic sheet. His eyes had lingered a moment too long though, and it was a mistake.

Like a pack of cards, the three men came tumbling down. And he was at the bottom of the pile.

All the air rushed from his lungs with the sudden pressure upon his chest, his left arm crumpling underneath him awkwardly and his nose and cheek pressing firmly against the sticky plastic, held in place there by Dwayne's knee. Not a good look.

His two police officers unhurriedly began to untangle limbs, arguing good-naturedly about who the winner was, and who had maintained their position the longest. Richard didn't contribute. He was not yet certain he could move or breathe and he (as sure as hell) was never playing this game again.

"Get up you clumsy oafs, you're squashing him," Camille had thrown aside the spinning wheel and was tugging at Fidel's shoulder, admonishing him gently in the French accent he had grown accustomed to thinking rather attractive.

"Sorry Sir"

"Sorry Chief!"

Both men spoke in unison, Dwayne's hand using the area somewhere around his kidneys as a support as he inelegantly maneuvered himself off Richard, eliciting a heartfelt groan from the Inspector.

At the sound, he felt rather than saw Camille sink to knees alongside him, encouraging him with gentle warm hands into a sitting position, then proceeding to run her fingers through his hair around to the nape of his neck, and across his shoulders, continuing her leisurely journey down his arms, clad unusually, and in honour of the game, in shirtsleeves.

"Nothing broken then?" looking directly at him.

Richard, gulped and shrugged, rendered inarticulate for the moment, but not wanting to break eye contact.

Camille sat back and grinned mischievously; "Whose turn is it to be spinner if we play again?"

Maybe he wouldn't write the game off just yet he thought, the remnants of soft hands leaving delightful trails of pins and needles through his body.