I do not own Midsomer Murders; I only own the characters I made up.

--

No one could say that I'd become used to walking the perimeter of the small patient room, but no one could say that I was really foreign to it, either. I usually tried to focus on the 672 ceiling tiles rather than the sounds of the moaning, pain-filled cries of the patients either already in the patient room, or freshly into the operating room. The cries from the next room over couldn't usually be heard through the thick, concrete walls and metal door, but the sounds of far-off explosions could be, through the thick, windowless concrete.

Whenever I wasn't focusing on the 672 ceiling tiles, I was focusing on the gray color of the hard floor that chilled my bare feet as I walked. I would try to not glance up and look any of the other patients in the eye, which usually only brought me more depression than I already had, seeing the the either blank, agonized, or angered emotions in their eyes.

"You, there."

My brows pulled close together as I looked about, wondering if it was me someone was addressing, or a doctor. The nearest doctor, however, was clear at the other end of the room, and the nearest walking patient was far behind me.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you, handsom; I'm over here, to your left."

To my left was a woman with sand-brown hair, deep brown, nearly black eyes, and all but her eyes, the end of her nose, and lips were covered in bandages. Her entire body, actually, seemed to be covered in bandages, with the exception of her right arm and left leg, which had casts on them. She literally looked like a mummy, with every inch of her long, naked body covered in the cloth bandages, the only difference being she didn't look or smell like rotten corpse. She smiled at me, a bright smile which seemed very out of place in the depressing hospital(and on her as well, seeing what her condition was), and with her left hand, weakly motioned for me to come closer with her bandaged fingers. "You're Williamson." she stated cheerfully.

My brows furrowed more, and as I limped to her, I couldn't help but find myself becoming more intrigued. She seemed much too cheerful for this place, but I wasn't going to be the one to smother her spirits. "That's me." I answered quietly. "Jerry Williamson. How do you know my name?" I asked her as I sat on the foot of her bed, allowing my fractured left wrist to rest on my thigh.

"Couldn't feel it." she smiled. "Must only be a knick. Sound familiar? You said that to me while we were in the trench...just before we went into the bunker."

I stared at her for a moment, picking my brain. The words sounded very familiar, but it felt like ages ago since I'd said them... "Eliza?!"

She chuckled again, and nodded. "In the flesh. Well...what's left of it."

"Lord..." I whispered. "Wh-...What happened to you, Elz?"

"The same thing that happened to you," she said, a bit less cheerfully, "Grenade. Except...I got much worse than you. Nearly every bone in my body is broken, and I even got burned a bit from the explosion. I...I don't have long to live; the doctors think I'll succumb to my wounds in a short matter of time."

I swallowed hard and looked down at my fractured wrist(which didn't seem to hurt as badly before I'd sat to talk to Eliza), unable to look her in the eyes anymore as chills traveled down my naked torso. "I'm so sorry." I whispered, tugging at my dark blue boxers. "I should've shot that man faster...and then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Look at me, Jerry," she didn't continue until I did, "You wouldn't have been able to react fast enough even if you tried. All of us were scared down there; I don't blame you for running, and I don't blame you for my condition."

My brows creased in a mixture of shock and anguish as I gazed down at what I could see of her face, and shook my head. "But...I allowed this! I feel so responsible for the deaths of those fine men and women, and-"

"Don't." she interrupted. "It wasn't your fault. I saw the entire situation; rest assured it wasn't your fault, because all of us were shocked, and scared, like I told you just a moment ago. Now then," she smiled, "Why don't you ease my mind, tell me about yourself? I thought I heard you screaming about a nightmare a few days ago? I could hear you crying."

My eyes closed for a few seconds as I tried to shake off the feeling of guilt. "Yeah," I nodded. "It was about what happened in the bunker." I couldn't help but snort softly at myself. "I haven't cried like that since...I was a teenager. I don't think I've ever wanted my parents more than I did at that moment. It was odd, really. I've always been close to my father, and my step-mother, but..." I trailed off, not really knowing what else to say about the matter.

"I've been feeling that way, too." she said softly. "Not to rub it in, but...I'll get to see them in a week; they're sending me home with an honorable discharge so I can...you know...die at home, I guess you could say." she offered a chuckle, but it didn't quite agree with the look in her eyes.

"A week?"

"Yeah." she nodded.

"Alright." I said with a lighter note in my voice. "I'll do what I can in a week to try to make up what I let happen to you."

"Jerry-" she sighed.

"I mean it. If you need a hand to hold, someone to talk to, I'm you're man. I live in the opposite row, about five beds down." I smiled.

I was delighted when Eliza chuckled, her eyes brightening as she did so. "Alright, if I need any of those, I know which man to go to. You know," she started, shifting her right leg, "You'll be going home with an honorable discharge too, in about two weeks. Perhaps we can stay in contact when we're both in England?"

Once again, my brows furrowed. "Hold on, how do you know I'm going home?"

Eliza shrugged as best she could. "I was awake late one night when the doctors were walking through the room, pointing out who was going home, and when. If I remember correctly, they said that you'd be going home in two weeks, just about. Now then, would you be interested in staying in contact with me when we're back home?"

"Yeah." I nodded slowly. "That sounds lovely. Where do you live?"

"London. I have to admit that I'm a bit of a city girl, when it all comes down to it, but as you've noticed, I'm no softy. City people can be quite strong, you know."

I laughed, putting my hands up in defence. "I didn't say they can't be; didn't even enter my mind."

"Good." she smirked. "You can give me your address before I leave, and I'll give you mine. Which part of England do you live in?"

I couldn't help the fond smile that graced my lips, or the small sigh that passed them as I thought affectionately of my home town. "I live in a village quite near the Lake District, called Midsomer..."

--

Toby's POV

I'll never understand how people can sit around and talk for hours, some of them seeming to not even take a breath while they do so. They just talk, and talk, and talk, seemingly blind to their surroundings, and sometimes even to the person that they're speaking to. People like that amaze me, really. Why talk so much, for so long, when you can just sit and listen, like me? You learn so much more that way, in my oppinion, by just sitting there and listening. Sometimes I even go about like I'm playing with my toys, minding my own business, while other adults talk to my mummy, and just listen to what they say. Mummy says I shouldn't pretend to do something just so I can listen in on a conversation; she says that it's called...ev...eves...Well, some big word that starts with an "e" and ends with a "g", and it's rude.

The talking especially gets bad when there's more than one grown up talking to my mummy. They seem to just go on and on, like at my Papa Ben's house tonight. If I counted correctly on my fingers, I think I came up with...five grown ups! That's too many grown ups in one place, if you ask me. They sure were asking my mummy a lot of questions, like how she'd been doing since she'd left M-...Mi...Whatever the place is called that Papa Ben lives in, and how she'd been doing in London, and how was it bringing me up nearly all by herself. I didn't understand that question too much. Mummy says I'm a good boy, that I'm her big boy and I'm not much trouble to raise, compared to some other children, and that she was blessed to have someone like me. So, why were the other grown ups acting like I'd been a lot of trouble?

Then, there was that drink. That red, sometimes white colored, sparkly drink that grown ups seem to drink anytime they gather to have a con....con...convers-a-t-i-o-n, that they never let the kids have. They say that we're too young for it, and that we wouldn't like it anyway. What difference does it make to be a certain age to be able to drink some sort of drink? If kids don't like it, why do grown ups? Some of them are like big children anyway. I really don't like the red, sometimes white sparkly drinks. They make the grown ups act funny after only a few glasses, and then they get scary. Mummy drank some straight from the bottle one time, when a friend left it for her, and she got too much from it, and couldn't even stay on her feet! One time she asked me which of the two doors she'd have to go through to get to her bed room, but there was only one door. She said she was sorry, that she'd never drink that much again, and told me to never allow her to have more than two glasses. That's what I like about my mummy. She does what she tells me she'll do, and sometimes, she puts me in charge. She calls me her "little man of the house", and lets me tell her what to do sometimes, like not eat or drink too much when she's sad about something.

That's another thing I don't understand about grown ups. Why are they sad all the time? It's like that one time in our London flat, when I was playing with my building blocks on the pretty green carpet, and mummy was playing with me. She was all happy, and laughing, until she decided to go check the small stack of mail that was laying on the table. Her smile seemed to melt(strange how a smile can melt into a frown all of a sudden), when she came to a particular envelope, and she sat down at the table and sort of...well...just stared at it. When she finally did open it, this little piece of paper inside it seemed to make her all sad, and then she wouldn't play with me anymore. She told me that she had a headache, which, I knew she was lying about, and went in her bedroom.

I know she told me not to follow her, but I did anyway because I was worried. I snuck as sneaky as I could, which wasn't real difficult on the carpet, and followed her to the door of her closet, where she pulled a jar down from the shelf. It was full of what looked like an awful lot of change, and bill upon bill of pounds, which she dumped out all over the bed, which I hid behind as she was turning around. I really thought it looked like an awful lot of money, but mummy shook her head after she counted it and said, "Not enough," to herself. That's about the time she noticed me peaking from around the foot of the bed, and got angry and sent me to my room for sneaking.

Another time is when I got in from the sand box just behind our flat. Mummy was fixing me lunch(a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, to be exact), and was all smiles as I came through the door.

"I saw you leave the sand box through the window. Did you have fun?"she asked, licking the last bit of peanut butter from the knife.

"A bit." I answered, kicking my sandy shoes off on the tiled kitchen floor, sending two small piles of sand out on it.

Mummy didn't seem to notice the sand, which she usually scolded me about, because she'd been pouring me a glass of milk. "Only a bit?" she smiled. "You looked like you were having loads of fun building yourself sand castles." she set the sandwich and milk in front of me, and then stooped down to put a kiss on my forehead, before sitting across from me.

"I was...until the other kids showed up." I mumbled, taking a large bite out of the sandwich.

Mummy drew her eye brows close together, something she usually does when she's worried, and leaned over a bit so she was closer to me. "Did they pick on you again, Toby?"

"Mhm." I mumbled. "They made fun of my shoes."

Mummy sat up and got this con-...con...confoozled? Anyway, this confoozled expression on her face, and then bent over a little to lift the table cloth up, I guess peaking at my shoes. I would have laughed if I hadn't been so upset. "Toby," she chuckled, "Those are your play shoes!"

"But Mummy!" I whined, "They said they were dirty, and falling apart, and looked ugly. They said...only poor people wear pa-....pa...path-th-th-th..."

"Pathetic?"

"Yes! They said only poor people wear pathetic shoes."

Mummy's smile quickly turned into a frown, and she rubbed her forehead for a moment. "Toby," she said quietly, "They're just your play shoes. Play shoes are supposed to be dirty, and ragged."

"Mummy?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I get a new pair of shoes?"

Mummy seemed to get really sad as she shook her head, then stood and knelt beside me, placing her hand on my belly. "Toby, we don't have money for new shoes right now. I'll get you some after I pay the bills, okay?"

"Mummy, why are you sad?"

Mummy looked con-con-confooooooozled again, and put on a fake smile. "I'm not sad, Toby, I just can't buy you new shoes at the moment."

She walked away, then, to fix her own sandwich, but somehow, I knew she was lying.

"Toby? Toby, I said you're it."

I decided that I would never understand grown ups, or people. People are strange creatures, mummy said so, and I agree with her completely.

"Toby! Didn't you hear me?"

I flinched a bit at the loud voice, both startled and scared; I wasn't used to hearing loud voices, mostly because mummy said she doesn't like using those to get my attention. Looking up, I found that girl...Amber, standing over me with her hands on her hips, reminding me of mummy when she was frustrated. "Sorry," I mumbled, a bit annoyed. Wasn't this girl going to leave me alone? She'd already talked my ears off. "What did you say?"

"I said, you're it. I've found you, now it's you're turn to find me." she smiled.

Boredly, I looked to the porch, where all of the grown ups were still chatting away, drinking that strange, supposedly bitter red drink. "No thanks," I sighed, "I'm not interested in this game anymore; I'm quite tired."

"But, you seemed fine a minute ago." she pouted. "Why don't we play a different game instead?"

"No thanks." I mumbled in annoyance. "I said I'm tired, and I don't want to play games anymore." Sheesh. For a pretty girl, she certainly could be annoying.

That said, I walked away from my hiding place(which was in the dog house), and to the porch, where immediately every grown up looked at me, smiling for some reason when I yawned and rubbed my eyes. "Where's mummy?" I asked quickly, upon realizing she wasn't mixed in with the other grown ups.

"She fell asleep in the reclining chair." Papa Ben said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Why don't you sit out here, with us?"

I shook my head slowly, the word "asleep" having reminded me of just how tired I was. Another yawn forced its way past my lips as Remmy stretched out at Papa Ben's feet. "No," I murmured, "I'd like to check on mummy...and then go to bed."

The constable, Mike, I think mummy said his name was, pushed his sleeve back to view his wrist watch, before looking to Papa Ben as he flished his wrist, covering his watch again. "Same goes for us, mate," he smiled, glancing at his tired wife, "It's getting late, and both of us have work in the morning."

I ignored the gorw-ups as they said their good nights', shaking hands and hugging, saying nonsense and making jokes, just as I would ignore mummy and her friends during those times. I've never been any good at good byes', or jokes, so I usually just stand to the side and stay in my own little world.

I was shaken out of my little world, however, when Ben reached down and ruffled my hair, making me realize we were the only two on the porch. "Are you coming?" he asked, friendly smile in place.

"Did she drink too much of that red stuff?" I asked wearily.

Ben's eye brows pulled close together, reminding me of mummy when she acted...con-con-fooooozled. "Red stuff?" he knelt down, getitng eye-level with me. "What red stuff?"

"You know, that red drink that you had with your dinner. Mummy drinks it sometimes when she's sad." I sighed lightly and glanced at Papa Ben's shiny leather shoes, and then his eyes again. "She's been sad a lot lately...but if I tell her to stop drinking it, she does." I smiled slightly, and tried to look over Ben's shoulder into the living room, trying to catch a glimpse of my mummy. "Is she alright?"

Papa Ben stared at me for a few moments, for some reason, before smiling faintly(though I could tell it didn't quite reach his eyes), and squeezed one of my shoulders before standing. "She's fine, Toby, she just got tired after dinner. You've had a long day, the both of you. It's quite a drive from London, isn't it?"

I took his offered hand, (a hand that was much larger and rougher than mine, that seemed to engulf my own), and walked with him as he led me in through the kitchen. "Yes, quite a drive." I murmured, not really paying attention to my own words.

Mummy was sprawled out on the black reclining chair in the living room, her left foot propped up while her other dangled from the foot rest, nearly touching the floor. Both of her arms were slung over each side of the arm rests, making her head loll in a strange angle, reminding me of how I would usually lay while watching tellie. I would have chuckled if I hadn't been so concerned for her, about the way she'd been acting lately, how tired she'd seemed at dinner.

I allowed my hand to slip out of Papa Ben's light grasp as I walked to her, watching to make sure her chest was rising and falling normally, listening to if she was breathing long and deep, like she usually did when she was taking a snooze. "Muuuuuumy?" I whispered, poking her shoulder. I turned to Papa Ben when she didn't move, other than a tiny hitch in her deep breathing. "Papa Ben," I murmured, "Can you take her to her room? She'll get sore if she stays in the chair."

Papa Ben seemed reluctant as he looked at my mummy, as though he were arguing with himself. I turned to fully face him, staring at him with wide, rounded blue eyes. Something in Papa Ben's eyes seemed to soften, and he gave a sigh of defeat. "Alright...maybe we can spare her a sore neck, eh?"

My eyes watched every single move Papa Ben made, making sure he didn't wake mummy up when he slowly stuffed one arm behind her knees, the other behind her back, then tensed when he lifted her, afraid he would drop her, or something. No one had ever lifted mummy up like that before; when she ever fell asleep on the couch or chair, there wasn't really anything I could do about it. I didn't want to wake her, and I obviously couldn't lift her, so she'd just sleep where she crashed, and would complain a small bit about soreness in the mornings.

"Careful..." I said quietly, watching intensely as Papa Ben eased mummy down on her new bed.

Without flaw, Papa Ben had mummy out of his arms, slowly pulling his arms away to make sure she stayed asleep. She did, and with a satisfied smile, he reached for the folded fleece blanket at the foot of the bed, and spread it over her. "Do you need help getting ready for bed?" he asked, turning to me. "Need to brush your teeth, or anything like that?"

"Mm-mm." I hummed softly. "I did that after dinner."

"Well...do you need help with anything else? Pj's? Anything?"

"I'm five years old, Papa Ben; I can get ready for bed by myself."

Papa Ben stifled a chuckle as he walked me out of the room. "Alright, then. Your bed room is right here, across from mummy's. If you need anything, I'm across the living room; the door closest to the kitchen bar."

"Night, night." I mumbled, waiting for him to stop staring at me.

He was still for a moment, before grabbing the door knob. "Good night."

Immediately, I rushed to the door, pressing my ear to it to listen to his heavy foot falls. Oddly, though, they didn't go left and fade as he walked away, but seemed to go across the hall again, into mummy's room. Feeling a strong urge to protect my mummy, I opened the door as quietly as I could, and snuck to the doorway across the hall. Papa Ben was sitting on mummy's bed, staring down at her, stroking the side of her face. My eyes narrowed jealously, making me want to storm in and demand what he was doing, and why he was doing it, but like a good boy, I didn't; I stood and watched, waiting to see when I'd have to lunge at him.

Papa Ben leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his expression implying that this wasn't the first time he'd done this sort of thing before. He pressed another one, a longer one to her forehead, before pressing his own against hers. "What am I going to do with you?" he whispered.