A/N: The rest of the story is told through a series of flashbacks, the first one starting halfway through this chapter. Apologies for the soppiness of this. Hope you enjoy nonetheless! :)
Disclaimer: see chapter one.
Faint rays of sunlight were filtering through the pal curtains. A new morning was dawning over London the first hints of Spring warmth removing all thoughts of the dreary months which had just passed. A tentative sense of hope was being created amongst the city dwellers as many looked out of their misty windows to the sky overhead, a hope that they had seen the last of the heavy, slate-grey clouds and would be spared the cold, just for a few months. Sandra Pullman and Robert Strickland, however, had little concern for the atmospheric conditions. They had sailed through a storm of their own, six months ago, navigating through the lightning flashes of the press photographer, the icy wrath of the Metropolitan Police's top brass and the persistent rain of a former wife scorned, which drowned their fledgling romance.
As with all tempests, though, it eventually subsided, granting them a reprieve that had lasted until this very day. The suburban semi where they had sought temporary refuge from the press all those months ago gad evolved into their own safe harbour, where they could retreat from the rest of the world together. That was their strategy now, to spend a day in pure laziness before his conference and her new case inevitably pulled them away.
"Are you ever going to tell me how you got her to drop the charges, and how you got rid of the press?" he eventually asked the woman nestled in his arms, after considering whether to revisit the subject. Her hair was strewn across his shoulder, the scent of it filling his nostrils as he placed a soft, reassuring kiss on her head.
"Maybe," she responded, the natural lilt of her accent emphasising the playful tone she had adopted. He felt the corners of her mouth forming into a smile against his chest. "But then again, maybe not. It just depends."
"On what?"
"How much you really want to know." She sat up suddenly, so she was kneeling beside him on the comfortable bed, the loss of contact instantly making him feel colder.
"I want to know. Really." he affirmed, his voice taking a more serious tone. They'd discussed this before, of course, numerous times in fact, but it had been months now. He was certain that this was one of the few secrets she had kept from him; her frank honesty concerning her life, her previous relationships, even her family had surprised him.
She sighed, recognising that this wasn't merely a request from the authoritative tone he had adopted, similar to the one he used at work when the team stepped out of line.
"Alright."
-Flashback-
"Business first, then?" she asked, gesturing through to the comfortable cream sofa which was positioned against the back wall of her living room, facing the fireplace. He nodded, motioning for her to lead the way.
"No time like the present," he replied softly, sitting down with a contemplative expression across his features, his eyebrows formed in a frown.
She stood in front of him, her lips pressed together in concern. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'm tempted, but I'd better not, I'm driving. Plus there's that lot out there."
"Sorry, I forgot." She sighed, taking a seat next to him. Before he'd arrived, he'd texted to say that there were no less than seven photojournalists on her street, all camping out in parked cars away from the illumination of streetlights, and that she should leave the door unlocked so they didn't have chance to photograph her whilst she let him in. They'd thought the relentless hounding would die down after the initial accusation first hit the news, but clearly they'd been mistaken.
"Sandra, I'm sorry to be blunt, but you do realise that you're in this for good now? Me being here means that you're associated with me, and at the moment that isn't a particularly good label to have. I know this is my fault, I should never have asked to see you tonight, it's too soon, I know…" he trailed off, his head in his hands.
"As I remember, I wasn't exactly reluctant to see you," she said, tentatively reaching a hand over to him, massaging his shoulders reassuringly. It worried her to see him like this, so vulnerable. He was normally strong, resilient, whether he was being defensive of UCOS or defensive of his own influence over the team. "Listen, I was thinking earlier, why don't you get in contact with her, reason with her?"
He finally raised his head, turning to face her with weary eyes. "Trust me, there is no reasoning with her. When she's got something in her head, that's it. She'll do whatever it takes to get what she wants."
"Like me then?" she smiled, intentionally attempting to draw him out of the dejection he had sunk into.
He smirked. "You could say that. You're much nicer though."
"Nice? Is that the best adjective you can think of to describe me?" she asked, placing a hand on her chest in mock-offence.
"Sorry." He replied, subconsciously reaching up to carefully push back a stray strand of hair from her face, caressing her cheek in the process. "I'm never going to be good enough for you." He whispered, studying every tiny feature of her face as though he had one chance to commit them to memory before they disappeared, forever untouchable.
"You already are," she replied gently, lost for a more developed response. She'd been in enough relationships to know that this was something different. It felt right.
"Why don't I speak to her?" she suggested suddenly, her voice speaking her thoughts before she had the chance to process them herself. He froze as if in a tableau, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. They gradually began to narrow as he assessed the proposal. She quickly started to backtrack, her mind catching up with the potential disasters related to what she had just put forward. She could already imagine the almighty battle of harsh words and trading of insults that would take place between her and Catherine if they met. Yet, if anyone was capable of talking her down, woman to woman, it was her. She could always deploy her negotiation skills if necessary. Almost thirty years of interviews with criminals ranging from lady of the manor murderers to desperate shoplifters had allowed her to perfect the art of reading people as easily as chick-lit with a thin plot.
"You…speak to Catherine?" he too thought aloud. "That…that could backfire on us. But…I suppose it could work. Maybe. She'll need some persuading, but it's worth a shot, I guess."
"We both know I'm capable of being as much of a bitch as she is." She admitted frankly.
He chuckled softly, breaking the tension she had created. "No offence, but that's sometimes true."
"I know," she smiled vaguely, clearly mulling something over. "I may have an idea of how to get rid of the press too."
"Go on?"
"Leave it with me, I don't want to raise your hopes. It all depends on someone I know from years ago who owes me a favour."