3.01 The Burning, Part 1

Johnny or James

One of the unexpected side-effects for Harry, of Dempsey disappearing for six weeks, was discovering that she was genuinely frightened for him. Not just what he would do to others, but how he would take care of himself, how he would fill his days.

It was like looking for a very eager pet dog. She kept turning round to talk to him, then remembering with a start that he was not there.

In hindsight, Harry realised there was only one person that would be calling her at 6am. Despite the interruption to her sleep, the sound of his voice was such a relief that it was difficult not to beg him to come over that moment. But she managed to do her job, writing down his new name and arranging to meet him for a 'tour'.

On the drive over, Harry had pictured their reunion. 6 weeks and not a word. And now they would meet outside Albert Hall and she would pretend she was annoyed with him, but maybe they'd wrap their arms around each other before reverting to their duties. It was different, this case, because the case was him.

Seeing him on the shoulders of a man in a police hat was rather a surprise. The hug was supplanted by a cursory handshake, her half-formed ideas of their conversation dashed by the presence of the unknown man. Dempsey - Johnny - was exuberant, introducing his friend with the ease of a man who had nothing to hide, despite the reverse being true.

That moustache looked ridiculous.

Harry gave them the tour, wondering when on earth they would have chance to talk, becoming more and more irate. It was several frustration-filled hours later that Dempsey sent Butch for ice cream and finally told her what he had heard. When he had finished, he lit a cigarette, and Harry was taken aback. All day, he had been playing a role, but it had been an exaggerated version of aspects of himself. But this seemed to take him further away from her; she didn't know this person. She knew the Dempsey that smiled into her eyes when she lit his occasional cigars.

She missed that Dempsey.

As he leant back and closed his eyes, she thought she saw him again. This was Dempsey's exhaustion, a fatigue brought on by playing someone else for his every waking moment.

Harry's frustration at the loss of the day she had been expecting revealed itself in her tone as she asked, "Are you alright?"

"Been worse."

"Well you look like you need some sleep." She hoped the anger would cover her genuine concern.

"Hey, Johnny the Wolf don't sleep," Dempsey replied, though the tired way he shifted in the car seat said otherwise.

Harry met the two of them in a bar. Almost immediately, Dempsey dragged her off to dance - not that she was complaining. Not when he put an arm around her waist to pull her close to him, curling the fingers of his other hand around hers.

She tried to speak, hoping to conceal that this certainly meant more to her than it did to him, but no words came and for a moment she decided to just enjoy the dancing for what it was.

Life is hard, then you die.

So many times as they discussed the work, their lips came dangerously close. Harry wondered if he could feel the way her heart was beating against his chest. It must be true, what people said: absence makes the heart grow fonder. She managed to keep her voice normal, but was barely even conscious of the way she moved differently. She was hyper-aware, though, of the way his jacket felt under her chin and against her throat, and of the way his voice felt against her cheek.

When Dempsey asked her if she minded if he 'got close' to Mara Conrad, Harry wondered if she had given herself away, or if he was just teasing her as he so often did. She was glad he could not see her face when she denied caring about him getting close to Mara; her expression would have answered his question more honestly than her words.

Harry spent the night in the office, reading a book and trying not to think about what Dempsey was doing. It was not until the small hours of the morning that she returned home and got to go to bed. In her sleep, she re-lived dancing with Dempsey, something she wished they could do without the pretence of being other people. Butch had watched, but then he shifted into a beautiful woman Harry knew, in that dream-way, was Mara Conrad. Mara started tugging at Dempsey's arm; Harry tried to hold on to him but he stepped out of their embrace.

'You don't mind do you, Harry?'

'Of course I mind!'

Harry was awoken with a start by a loud click. For the second morning in a row, Dempsey had been her alarm clock, though today he was doing it in person.

"It's me," he said redundantly.

Harry had to turn the lamp on to confirm the impression her tired eyes were giving her. Sure enough, it was Dempsey sitting by the window with a beer in his hand, his feet on the bed and that silly moustache above his lip. She sighed heavily, waving goodbye to any chance of a good night's sleep.

"You were dreaming about me, right?" he said.

Harry stared at the alarm clock, buying time; his comment was a little too close to the truth.

"I have nightmares about you when I'm awake. Why would I need to dream about you when I'm asleep?" If only she could convince her subconscious mind of that.

"Mind if I help myself to a beer?"

"Why should I mind? You've broken in here so many times now I might as well give you a set of keys." Harry yawned and sat up. She could not honestly say that waking up to Dempsey, however unexpected, was entirely unpleasant. "So? How did it go?" She tried not to nod off as they spoke about his progress the night before. Both of them referred to Johnny in the third person, distancing him from the two of them.

"Nothin' yet."

"Then why are you here?"

In the second that Dempsey paused, Harry thought he might say, "To see you," and while his response was not a long way from that, it was just far enough to be disappointing.

Dempsey stood looking out of the window and lit a cigar. Somehow it made him more human.

Slowly, reluctantly, Dempsey told Harry the story of Joey and Coltrane. Harry thought she saw the root of Dempsey's initial mistrust of her, Spikings, the other officers, 'upstairs'... It was a betrayal that ran so deep, she could understand why it had affected him so badly.

"So... you killed your partner."

Dempsey looked dejectedly out of the window, as though he was watching the scene over and over again. He stood, turning his back to her. Seeing the protective hunch in his shoulders made Harry get up and stand behind him. She put her arms around him, crossing them over his belly, resting her cheek against his back.

"What's this for?" Dempsey asked as he covered her hands with his own.

"You looked like you needed it," Harry murmured truthfully. She had not been sure that he would accept her comfort, so the feel of his hands holding hers was a reassurance. She felt his back move as he sighed. Several quiet minutes passed before they unwillingly broke the embrace.