A/N: I took a look at Chapter 4 and 5 of this fic and decided they were way too short. So I've stuffed them both into one chapter. Still the same text but these two chapters are compressed. :) A little warning for the language in this chapter, which I'm pretty sure the T rating covers. Unless I'm wrong (let me know as politely as possible if I am -_- ). I can't help but have a terribly feeling about this fic, even if it's not as bad as the feeling I got when I first wrote it, so a little reassurance wouldn't go amiss, guys. :D Thank you!

She'd charged past Strickland on her way out - and God knows who else - regardless of their expressions, or opinions but that was how everyone thought she behaved, so why would it make a difference? The offending white-and-blue stick was stuffed in her bag, out of sight, thankfully (though, if she said it was out of mind, she was fooling herself). Driving her way home, red lights seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Like the times when she just wanted to snap the wheel off and throw it at some unsuspecting cyclist. That wouldn't go down well. Eventually, she was home.

And not a moment too soon... she thought dryly.

Her flat looked exactly the same as it had when she left - a mess. A half-drunk bottle of wine and a glass stood idly on the coffee table - which never seemed to have anything as mild as coffee on it. Then it struck her. Maybe she could...clear the table (in a way).

Robert Strickland sighed. It had been a long day, made even longer by Sandra's attitude and abrupt departure. His mind had been distracted, his work impaired. Had he entirely told the truth when he swore to himself not to let their relationship affect his work? Shaking off the melancholy weight, he unlocked the front door of the flat. Well, if she didn't want him to be able to get in, she wouldn't have given him keys.

"I'm home!" he called, brow furrowing when he received no reply. "Sandra?" he heard steady breathing from the living room, and peered inside, cursing (which he'd been doing much more recently) when he saw her splayed out on the sofa, holding a limp, drunken grip on an empty bottle. A wine bottle.

Strickland shook his head and gathered his courage to wake her - just as his mobile vibrated against his leg. Teeth gritted, he fished it out and took the call.

"Hello?"

"Robert? How are you? Listen, don't come into work tomorrow. That goes for both of you. There's an investigation into... Well, you can guess," and then the line went dead. Strickland sighed for the second time in five minutes and turned to Sandra. She'd be fine, wouldn't she? Convinced the answer was yes, he left, locking the door as he did.

The walk had been just what Strickland needed - even if he was frozen to the bone and rather lonely. What he didn't need was the shock that drove through his heart like a dagger as he approached the door. Or what was left of it. It hung from its hinges, swinging eerily in the wind. He picked up the detached handle and held it like you would a weapon. Against his ribs, his heart thudded. Was Sandra still in there (surely she hadn't done this)? What had turned the place upside down? Strickland's throat tightened as he heard hushed voices and whimpers beneath the occasional creak of the floorboards. They became louder and more like groans of pain as he neared the doorway leading to the living room. Part of him was scared to peek. And the other half? Scared of what would happen if he didn't.

The figures in the room were instantly recognizable as he peered inside. Sandra, bound with her chin high and eyes furious, with an almost undetectable hint of fear. Her mother, Grace, who was also restrained by ropes, couldn't help but gaze at her daughter with concern, no matter the amount of hostility that stood between them. Strickland didn't truly understand the situation until he saw the third occupant. And that's when a slightly-personal-but-still-formal assessment by DAC Strickland turned into a personal vendetta for Robert Strickland - a man with a serious score to settle with John Felsham.

Mind rushing, he tried, and failed, to hold back from pacing the corridor. How was he out of prison? Why was he here?

Don't be an idiot, Robert, you know-

"Well, well, well, DAC Strickland," Felsham spat the words, as if they were more disgusting than a rotting corpse. "Come to collect you prize?"

"Prize?" was all Strickland could manage as he span on his heel to look at Felsham. Sandra's eyes moved from her captor to her lover, and she shook her head.

"Don't fall for it, Robert. Call the police-"

"Call the police?" Felsham snorted. "I think you're forgetting who you and your 'boyfriend' are. Besides, you call the police," he knelt down, pulled something heavy and black from his pocket, and pressed it to her head, "and she dies."

Somehow, Felsham had ended up being the only one with a weapon. Maybe it was because his was far superior than any other present, or that Strickland had dropped her makeshift handle-weapon when Sandra's life became a bargaining chip.

"You won't win," whispered the aforementioned Ms. Pullman. "You'll just go back to prison and rot, like the sad, old, pathetic-"

Slap!

"-stupid-"

Punch!

"-withering-"

Another punch!

"-bastard-"

Slam!

"-you are..." she finished, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead, and pooling at her lips. Her face wore a delirious expression, but she seemed to be in no extreme pain. If it weren't for the splattered blood, no one would've guessed.

On the opposite side of the room, Strickland had seen enough. Felsham had made the mistake of not tying him up and he still had his mobile. He brought up the number he somehow trusted most for this occasion - Gerry. And then the text was away, carrying the situation away into hands far out of his reach, hands that, he hoped, were capable enough to save them before someone was in serious pain. Or worse, before someone died.

Police stormed the flat, however, there was considerably less door-breaking than usual seen as most were either open or torn from their hinges. At the first cry of 'Police!', Felsham was alert, glaring at the three of them.

"See now? Told you that you'd rot!" Sandra taunted him, smirking in an almost sickening way. Why was she doing it?

"Shut UP!" he yelled, shoving her into the wall. Her face contorted in pain and he grinned, knowing he wasn't the only one who knew the pain of a beating from someone stronger than him. Although, even the best things must come to an end. Armed, unidentifiable officers raced into the room, took Felsham by surprise, and seized his weapon. As several officers stood around him with one reading his rights, another signalled something towards the front door. A team of paramedics joined them, taking instructions from Grace. Strickland tried to get closer, but there was a solid (more or less) ring of ambulance crew around Sandra. Grace laid a hand on his arm.

"She'll be alright. The baby? I'm not so sure," she said. His eyes grew wide.

"B-baby?" he almost stuttered, almost half-hoping that his hearing was going. Grace simply laughed and smiled up at him.

"She must've forgot to mention it to you. Here, help me up," she stretched her hands and Strickland pulled her up, wondering whether he should stop trying to understand the women in the Pullman family.

A/N: And the ordeal is over. Almost. I'll be posting the Epilogue soon. It's painfully small. Might need some expanding...

Anyway, thank you for reading! :) *hugs*