Again sorry for any errors. While browsing the internet- realized there was another site with Endeavour fanfiction, and it had stories starting similar to mine, they are a bit newer, but I'm not sure if to still post my story on there.

You're going to meet someone, say a girl at a station- you have to do it with style and a bunch of flowers. He wasn't fortunate enough to afford a car for himself, let alone his own place, but his charm and caution with his new girlfriend made up for it. He never invited her around- she didn't know he still lived with his mum and dad, and he never implied he was skint, girls don't feel secure around poor men. Sam Thursday had been gradually building up a little nest egg for the time he would leave. Joan would be so jealous. Sam picked up the phone to order himself a taxi, his sister's voice cued down the phone, and instead of hanging up graciously, he remained on the line- quietly.

"Being early would probably make you look too keen…."

An unrecognisable girl's voice sighed. "Why would I be late?- He would think the meeting was an afterthought."

"But if you arrive after him he will see you walk up, it's a powerful thing – the entrance. The first sighting." Sam could tell his sister was grinning as she said this. "It's better than the other way around, if you're there first he could bottle it when he sees you."

"-Thanks!" The other female piped.

"It's for safety, do you really want to be standing about, wondering if he's going to show?"

"Oh, so now you are agreeing to give us a date. I thought you said you were tagging on?"

"I am, I'm arriving with you." Joan always spoke like everything was a well thought out operation, full of secrecy. "Perhaps slightly behind, to give you the spotlight." Sam rolled his eyes, this was a lot of trouble to meet up some guy. "Of course, there's the other option." Sam shifted to his other foot, imagining this will take awhile.

"What?- You be there first?"

There was silence, for a second Sam believed someone had hung up- except there was no dial tone.

Joan needed to reassure her. "Maybe I could soak up the anxiety by being already there, I don't know…. It makes sense when you see it. You don't know what he's like, he'll be anxious for certain." Probably shouldn't have let that slip- no girl wants to know their date doesn't really want to be there. "It's going to be great." That was an afterthought, Sam concluded.

Endeavour let himself into the hall of his lodgings. The notorious gold fish bowl picture remained for now, undisturbed. He acknowledged it like it were a cold case, with a sense of regret and intrigue. His eyes moved to the withering flowers on the notice table. And then the mail; wait, he got mail? He opened it on the spot without venturing into his flat. But since the item he was opening was rather personal when it revealed itself, he had to get out of the prying eyes of the residence.

A condolence card lay in his mitts. Sure, it was to be expected- his father had died, but the fact no one had signed it made it slightly unnerving. This was the work of the package dropper, never taking any credit for nice deeds. He propped it up along with the other 'items', his flat was more and more becoming an evidence room. Or shrine.

The person was close to him, they knew about his father. Joyce? Joyce had denied any involvement. It's a card, it's a card. Repetition helped with his thought process. He studied the envelope to see the writing; it was neat and feminine- naturally. But the thought of a woman's hand holding it suddenly made him think of Gemma and Joan from the bank. It was probably just a coincidence she had mailed a birthday card the day this had come. Oxford was a very medium sized place to live, there was likely a dozen birthdays in city going on today. But the more important factor is, Gemma didn't know him, he was pretty sure the first time she had seen him was during the interrogation, unless the robbery was an attempt to get him at her workplace? Very wishful thinking. Could anyone be flattered by those efforts?- He acknowledged this with a head shake.

The timing of the 'date' seemed to reinforce the whole 'Gemma' theory. But the only people who could have known about his father's passing were the policeforce; Constable Strange, Jakes maybe, DI Thursday….. Thursday. Miss Thursday? Well that's the only way the message would have got through to Gemma. The girls appeared close-ish from what he observed at the bank. Thursday went to the trouble of asking him out on behalf of her friend. That's what girls did. Something else that girls did -was discuss and score men after the 'dates'. Alice probably did that. He shuddered to think of every criticism that went through her mind that brought her to the decision to give him the elbow. Too difficult, stunk of alcohol, low stamina. He let out a single bark of laughter, he wasn't expected to do anything in the course of the next few hours. Merely take a couple of ladies to a theatre, the act in its entirety was innocent and uneventful- hopefully. Maybe he should break out the cologne?

The detective constable turned his trench coat collar up against the wind, and speedily made his way down the high street. He could get to the theatre on foot, maybe he could even puff a couple of cigarettes for his nerves on the way. He carried a packet mainly to distribute to other people, to gain their confidence as well as ease their nerves. He did take a gander into some shop windows as he swept past. He wasn't bringing flowers, they weren't that well acquainted to bestow gifts- Even considering she may have been giving him some. The theatre loomed up ahead, he gathered himself- he had time to- he was the first one there by the look of it.

Endeavour hated being the first one there, so much apprehension. They could not show up, or see him and bottle it. He spotted the posters that complimented the tickets. So the picture place theatre, did plays on top of films?

He heard the footfalls first, and took a glance to see if he was standing in the way of someone using the path. The theatre entrance lights saturated a cautious Joan Thursday as she appeared from the darkness. He was a little more than relieved. First he noted how neat she looked, hair pinned up with precision with Victorian style clips, then he deduced more importantly she was alone. What game was this? -An array of hunches going through his mind.

"Morse, you look smart." He always did, but it was something to say in the least. "You cold?" He scrutinised this query, gormlessly glancing down at the hands stuffed in his pocket. "Or are you concealing a weapon?"

His gaze flickered from her own gaze to the objects in question. Morse pulled his bony hands away from the seams of his pocket, turning them upwards towards the light to show he concealed nothing. "Ah no…I just like sticking my hands in my pockets." He commented, unbeknownst to him, Joan spied the corner of some paper. If it's nothing to do with her- she shouldn't have to ask.

"Gemma will be with us soon, she just had an errand to run." It must have gave him something to think about, he appeared caught in a cloud, he didn't nod or acknowledge that this was an answer he required. Joan took it as disinterest. "She has-"

"-A few errands, she disappears during heists, and posts letters."

He didn't even look at her when he had said this and it came across as another one of his accusations.

"Correct." She smiled stiffly. "She doesn't have a life outside the bank, so naturally her personal life revolves around banks….Robbing them is a recreational activity for her." Getting very cynical- she had moved across the pavement, curving around him, he followed with merely a low turn of his head. "I'm sure she'll be flattered that you jumped to the conclusion that a woman could have been the mastermind behind it."

"Good, we're on the same level." Morse said in all seriousness, before giving himself away with an unusual curl to his lip. "I'm joking."

It was infectious; she shouldn't reward this behaviour- he was either undermining her again or sneakily getting out of explaining his suspicions. "It doesn't take a detective to know she isn't to do with this, a lot of women are capable of such… schemes. Gemma gets guilty sweats eating the last garibaldi- imagine how a robbery would make her?"

"Some people are really good liars."

She thought about it, considering he had learnt from experience, then gasped- "You have been fooled, you've collared the wrong person in the past, haven't you?" She asked with mock horror.

"Coppers aren't right all the time."

"I'll tell my dad you said that!" Giving him a mock threat- jabbing him hard and playfully in the side. His face contorted as he stifled a wince of discomfort, and it didn't go unnoticed. Joan stared at him dubiously before realizing her mistake. A gloved hand flew up to her mouth and the other to his side. "Oh my god I'm so sorry!"

There was a delay of speech, a pitiful sight as he tried to form the words. 'It's Okay, I'm fine, don't worry.' Without sounding in pain. He retreated slightly into the darkness away from her sympathetic eyes. Even though he knew Joan was embarrassed and guilty, he felt like a complete nonce reducing himself to a wincing invalid enough to make his companion feel awful. Pull yourself together man.

When a minute passed and he hadn't mustered the courage to straighten, Joan took action. "I am the worst person in the world, look at you- you poor soul." She followed him into the darkness trying to steer him towards the theatre. "Come on, use the toilets, check your stitches." It probably wasn't the best time to abandon their post when they were expecting a third in their group. They walked into the complex like a couple of soldiers staggering off the battlefield. The inspector's daughter ushered him towards the gents, but an overzealous clerk left his booth to harangue them. "The toilets are for paying customers only!"

"Don't worry we are." She then inclined towards Morse, so close he nearly ingested a strand of her hair. "You have them don't you?" Her whisper dancing across his shoulder and tickling his ear.

He couldn't fathom what she was referring to, but the delay of his answer kept her at the proximity she was at. For support that is.

"Where's your ticket?" The clerk was surprisingly cold, even after clapping eyes on a man looking rather worse for wear.

Endeavour then remembered Joan's query. "Yes, I have them." Relieved he could say full sentences again.

Joan calmly explained in a diplomatic voice. "We are about to see a showing, we were waiting outside for someone else when my friend here's stomach began to lurch. We are patrons of this theatre, so don't be rude or jump the gun, or we will be taking our money elsewhere." Pointless, considering they had already bought the tickets. "Or at least demand a refund."

Which is exactly what the constable would have mustered, if he wasn't concentrating on the pain, and wetness emitting from that area. Joan acknowledged him with a head turn and Morse made a quick exit from the main hall and into the men's room- leaving Joan to battle it out with the clerk. "No need to concern yourself, he won't be long." Something that would have seriously entertained him if not for the circumstances.

Automatically he steadied himself against the sinks and stared himself out in the mirror. His usual self looked right back at him, same pained expression but with an urgent edge. His surprisingly steady hands untucked his shirt and the dressed wound revealed itself. The bandage had become discoloured and clingy towards the middle, he knew it would become a bugger to remove when it dried. The tape that secured the fabric was losing its adhesive – and was bubbling on his skin. "Bugger." He thought he could just peel it back, dry it and then stick it back on. But something told him soon as the tape separated from his skin, it would never go back on.

He heard a heated discussion going on outside and gathered it was that blasted clerk trying to have the last word.

When the voices got quieter- he assumed the clerk had escorted Miss Thursday out of the theatre, or she had won the argument. Could she be dignified in defeat?- Well he had witnessed in the shop she could be. He braved the tape and pulled it away- it tugged on the skin surrounding his wound- and as it was revealed to him- it seeped. "Aaa." It looked raw- with watery blood- which meant it was healing and he had just interrupted it. Or Joan had interrupted it. He released a sigh of resignation- he wasn't mad, she made it very difficult to be mad at her. A tentative knock made him reapply his bandage and tape quickly- it wasn't going to stay put. But he tucked in his shirt regardless.

"Are you alright in there?" It was she.

"-Yes! I'll be out in a minute." He answered immediately, in case she got curious and wandered in. He closed his jacket, and he double checked himself before leaving, giving himself a cynical grin at the mess he was in.

She wasn't alone, Gemma was standing with her- both appeared sheepish as if a girlie discussion had took place prior to his reappearance. "Hello again."Gemma said in a softer tone than what he had heard in the bank. She also looked nice, a little more adventurous with her make-up, bit still nice.

While still in a bit of pain-"Two beautiful young ladies, the force will never believe me." It must have been a good thing to say, both smiled in an encouraging manner.

"Joan says you have a war wound that's playing you up."

The constable made the assumption that someone was being a lot more subtle than him. And by war wound they meant- a wound while being in action- on the force. Fair enough. He nodded in concurrence, not wanting to dwell on the issue any longer. He produced the tickets, luckily from the side that didn't require stretching his wounds. "Some entertainment will keep my mind off it, shall we?" His elbow jutted out for the taking. Gemma being 'the date' had dibs. But constable didn't feel it was fair for Miss Thursday to be strangling along, he knew from experience what it was like to play gooseberry. It was only proper to for him to offer the other elbow.

The clerk seemed only too happy to serve them since they were paying customers, if it wasn't that- it was probably the supervisor breathing down his neck. "Enjoy the play."

"We'll see." Not quite sure whom had said it first between the three of them. There were others in attendance that bustled in after them, so there was a reasonably sized audience. The majority being youths- which made Morse a teensy bit cautious since, youths nowadays didn't see plays, they saw films, so what had brought them there?

The title didn't give too much away 'A life in crisis', apart from how it wasn't a form of escapism from the drudgery of life, which was what a trip to the theatre was supposed to be. "Forgot to get a programme." He started, turning to both either side. "We've got a couple of minutes left, do you require one each, or should we share?"

"We could get them on the way out." Gemma said in hushed tones. "Don't trouble yourself, sit back and relax."

He felt relatively unaffected by what she had said, he stayed perched at the end of his seat, looking from the girls to the foyer. What was the point of buying one after- apart from it being a memento of the evening? Surely you need a synopsis or a list of the cast, reviews and background information before the play? He finally sat back, accepting he couldn't go against what she said without offending her.

Morse half expected music to open the play, but the curtains just opened on a dimly lit stage- devoid of any props or backdrop. Like a blank canvas. If it was to evoke awkwardness and tension from the audience- it had worked. Morse merely side glanced at his follow viewers, faces lit by the stage lights and blank. He found he got off on the atmosphere alone then what was being presented to him. Miss Thursday's eyes were bright with interest, he found himself staring a lot longer than necessary to note this.

"Has anyone seen my youth?!" There was an all mighty cry which brought the detective's head jarring to stage, for a second believing it was an actual cry for assistance. A man only in black stood alone on stage. "I believe the last I saw of it was yesteryear, when the ration book was still in." He heard a quiet murmur of agreement, perhaps even a single titter that was quelled by more dramatic dialogue. "When we didn't play spies and aliens, but soldiers and Jerrys!" A louder murmur of agreement.

Endeavour screwed his face up, if this was going to get political- they might as well get it correct. Soldiers and Jerry's? Jerries were soldiers. He got the impression this was a stand up routine, which encouraged audience participation. Something he wouldn't voluntarily go to.

"The war is over, but what about the new threat?….Or should I say threats?"

Endeavour wondered if this play would catch on if it had a very strong message. The actor did a weird trot backwards, into a horde of people who had filed on in the shadows. That's when he heard the pitter patter of bongo drums. They moved in unison in a messy formation, it appeared they were dancing to nothing but the drums.

'Avant garde.' Sprung to his mind as their dancing became more chaotic and the actor from the beginning was literally fighting to get to the front. Supposing the constable did find this particular scene striking and interesting to watch, it didn't mean he would convert fully from watching classic plays or musicals. He would never give up on opera. He folded his arms while trying to speculate the meaning of the chaotic dancing before it was revealed vocally.

The production held his rapt attention for the time being, that's until some movement to his side made him peek over to see Miss Thursday removing her jacket. A completely mundane task that he had seen millions of times, and probably once from the young Thursday- and it had been his coat at the time. But what a woman does when removing her coat is a sort of shimmy, and lean that accentuates the breast. It took some coaxing to finally look back at the play, but even then he knew he couldn't undo the thought of enjoying it.

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