Sarah spent the bulk of her first day glued to her desk, reading the reports from the first three arson cases. It felt like a needle in a haystack. That was the thing with organised criminals, psychopaths and the like; there was usually a modus operandi, some method, something to tie the crimes together. But, other than a bottle or two and a few pints of petrol, this one had nothing.

She sighed, closed the last file and rubbed her eyes. Her mobile phone vibrated with a text from Gene; Get your bony arse to Luigi's now. Don't make me come back there! She smiled as she pulled herself from her seat and wandered over to the filing cabinet, stowing the file away. A light caught her eye. She stared at the door to Keats' office; as always, an eerie orange glow played around the frame. She walked over, breathing deeply, willing her heart to slow down. Now or never. She pushed the door open.

Keats sat at his desk, watching her over his glasses. "DCI Jenkins, I've been expecting you. Please, take a seat."

"I'd rather stand, thanks."

"We're playing games, are we?" A smirk settled across his face as he sat back. "Very well."

"What do you want?"

Keats' eyes widened with innocence. "You came to see me. Shouldn't I be asking you that very same question?"

"Come off it," Sarah walked towards him. "You know precisely what I mean. The dreams…nightmares. All these years."

Keats smiled, beatifically.

"You couldn't just leave me alone, could you?" Sarah stalked around his desk and pulled his chair round to face her. She brought her face inches from his, close enough for him to see the anger swirling in her eyes. "Couldn't you find someone else to torment?"

"Oh, but I did," he whispered, his breath mingling with hers. "You don't think there have been others? Little secretaries. Flirtatious looks across the office. Perfumed hair, short skirts and oh so soft skin. Little slips of lace that tore easily under my fingers. Willing mouths, lipstick smeared across their painted faces. You think you were the only one? You just gave me a taste for it…."

She heard the slap before she realised she had done it. Her hand throbbed with the impact. Keats' head had snapped sharply to the right; an angry red handprint already spreading rapidly across his pale cheek. Suddenly he was up on his feet, and like a flash he had her pinned against the filing cabinets, his hands encircling her wrists, his whole body pressed against hers.

"If you had nightmares, I didn't put them there," he hissed. "If you had dreams about me, that was all you. Ask yourself, why are you here? Are you back for Gene Hunt," his voice dripped with utter hatred as he spoke Gene's name, "or are you back for me?"

Sarah looked deep into his eyes. "I came back for you, James," she said truthfully.

Keats smiled. He released her wrists, running one hand up her arm to rest his fingers on her throat. "Good girl."

His lips felt cool when he pressed them against hers. She closed her eyes and savoured the taste of him, allowing her body this one moment of satisfaction that it craved. Whatever he had done to her all those years before had never been undone. However he had gotten inside her head twenty years ago, he never left. The bond had been severed, but the ties remained. He had warned her, his words etched into her brain; "every single part of you will ache for me from this day onwards for the rest of your life." And he had been right. That was why she had never been able to form a lasting relationship. That was why the stab of jealousy when she thought of him with other women had made her lash out without thought. And that was why she had come back.

Reluctantly she pulled her lips from his. "I read your file."

He ran his mouth along her jaw down her neck. "Shhh," he nibbled the flesh at her collarbone. "Let's go back to yours tonight. I'll transfer you downstairs in the morning and we'll discuss it there."

With effort, she pushed him away. "You don't understand. I read your file. PC James Keats."

She saw him freeze. Something flickered across his face that took her breath away for a moment, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived.

"Playing hard to get? Never was your strong point," he sneered.

"I came back for PC James Keats. Remember him?"

Keats turned on his heel and walked to his desk, which he began tidying, briskly. "You'll keep."

"What happened to you, James?" She pressed.

"Nothing happened to me," he swept his arm across his desk, sending files, pens and pencils in all directions. "This is who I am. THIS IS WHO I AM!" He stalked to the door, grabbing his coat. "Stop thinking you're special, Sarah. You're just another little whore I can have any time I feel like it." He wrenched open the door and stormed out.

Sarah stood and listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, until she heard him go through the far door to the staircase and descend out of earshot. She smiled and looked around at the mess. His words should have cut her to the core, and they would have done, if it wasn't for one thing. When she said his name, she had seen something in his eyes. For one brief second, she had seen hope there.


When DCI Jim Keats arrived in his office the next morning he found it immaculate. His pens and pencils were back on the desk, ordered exactly as he preferred. His files were in alphabetical order. Even his stapler had been refilled. He sat at his desk blankly, his mind whirring. The whole Sarah Jenkins fiasco had been a bad days' work. An experiment that had got wildly out of hand. A liability. Sloppy. Most unlike him. Jim Keats, having carefully and thoroughly eradicated all traces of humanity from his soul, actually going out of his way to seek a weak, vertiginous woman and creating some kind of psychic bond with her? It was ludicrous. A moment of madness caused by pride and lust; granted, usually two of his more favoured sins, but they had led him far wrong on that occasion. And the past twenty years had seen him pay for his momentary weakness. Nightmares. He laughed. Can you imagine the Devil having nightmares? He shook his head, but he couldn't shake the strange feeling inside. He always felt odd afterwards, after the times she would visit him in his dreams. He would have those emotions, alien yet familiar, a reminder of everything he had put behind him all those years ago. They would linger for days. He told himself it was the price he had to pay for making such a stupid error of judgement.

But here she was. Here. Now. Dangerous.

And she called him PC James Keats.

And she tidied his desk.

And he realised he was smiling.

And the Devil hated himself for it.