A/N How did this even turn into another fic? Dang, those plot bunnies are devious little blighters! Anyway, enjoy! :)
CSI Jean Innocent was a busy woman. Keeping a dozen DI's, about as many DS's and even more PC's working at their best was no picnic, and everybody knew she ran a tight ship. She was the boss, she walked that fine line between everybody's best friend and their worst enemy. She wasn't complaining, that was the chain of command, and that was the way it had to be. A place for everything and everything in its place. Which was why she was surprised to find a neat white envelope on her desk when she returned from lunch one day. There was no stamp and no post mark, just her name, hand-written across the front. The hand writing was oddly familiar, but she couldn't place it. Intrigued, and aware that she was going against every safety rule in the book, Jean picked up the envelope and carefully slit it open. Inside was single sheet of white paper, office paper, with the Oxfordshire Police header on it. Besides the header, it bore only two more hand written words:
Thank you.
She frowned. An anonymous thank you note. From who? And for what? She had no more time to ponder it though, as DI Peterson popped his head round the door wanting a word. She tucked the letter into her pocket, promising herself she'd ponder it later.
When the aforementioned later came around, it found Jean sitting on her sofa, shoes off, legs curled up; a glass of red wine in her hand. She slid the note from the pocket of her jacket, which was hanging over the back of the sofa beside her and, ignoring the sounds of her husband singing in the shower (off key and out of tune as usual), she studied it again. She gleaned nothing more from it this time, although she still felt sure that the handwriting was familiar. Very familiar. The question was, where from?
Three days later, reading a handwritten report from one of her Sergeants, (his printer had packed up - never rely on modern technology!), she astounded herself by realising that the handwriting matched that of the letter. What did James Hathaway have to thank her for?
Two days later still, sitting in a coffee shop and casually observing him, dressed in a t-shirt and denim cut-offs, strolling along a sunlit street in the city centre hand in hand with one of her male DI's, she understood at last. She'd sent Hathaway to the airport to pick up Robbie Lewis months ago. Without her, they may never have met. Sweet. James chose that moment to let his gaze wander idly across the street. His eyes widened slightly as he noticed her, and she took the opportunity to give him a smile and an approving nod. James grinned.