John waits until Winter is gone before pulling out the bottle of Highland Park from the liquor cabinet. Winter shows promise, but he hasn't graduated beyond a blend yet.

"Kate said no alcohol," Jones says, though he reaches for the tumbler.

"Don't down it and we'll be fine." John replies and watches the emotions flicker across Jones's face. Confusion, understanding, exasperation, and finally amusement. He misses this little entertainment; neither Nelson nor Winter have been as fun to tease.

"I was cold," Jones protests, but takes a conservative sip. "Someone ordered me to jump into a freezing lake."

Another of Jones's diving saves, John thinks. "Don't blame me, blame physics. It was your momentum that carried you into the lake."

"Well, anyway. Lechyd da." Jones raises the glass in a toast. "To the good work of Causton CID and another killer caught."

John raises his glass. "And to Inspector Jones, Midsomer's gift to Brighton CID and those who shall not be named."

"And who shall remain nameless for all our sakes." Jones looks serious. "Don't push it, John. I know you're angry about how this played out, but I don't want you doing anything that could risk your career. Leave it to DCS Hicks."

The almost unprecedented use of his first name is enough to give John pause, but he's not willing to let this rest quite yet. "There's a reason you coordinate with local CID. Not to play political games, but so the undercover officer has support in case something goes wrong. There are hundreds of people in Midsomer who know you." He still remembers his first days in Causton, how they couldn't walk down the street without a dozen people greeting Jones.

"Any one of them could have walked into Wade's bar and called you by the wrong name. That could have been your body we found, not Leo or Fitz." It's the nightmare that woke him before his alarm went off at 2am, that sent him into the spare room to just watch Jones breathe, before he shook him awake.

"Wade wasn't the killer," Jones points out. "And Germaine had no reason to kill me, at least not yet. There's no point dwelling on what might have been. You were there, and you saved me, and that's all that matters." He looks away, though not before John sees what looks like shame on his expressive face.

"If Sarah and Kam hadn't noticed you weren't playing, if Winter and I weren't looking for Cilla and St. John at the final..." He takes a drink, the slow burn of the scotch soothing. "I know why you couldn't, but I still wish you'd talked to me off the record from the beginning."

"There were times when I wanted to just 'accidentally' bump into you," Jones admits. "Force the issue. But this case was a big break for me, and I didn't want it to look like I couldn't handle it on my own."

John thinks about what Kate said about Jones blaming himself for nearly getting killed. He remembers again that midnight conversation and Jones's silence when he'd asked him if he thought he'd failed. He knows now he should have said something, not left Jones with another night and day to brood about it, but reassurance has never been his forte.

"You think that because you were ambushed - betrayed - by someone you had every reason to trust, and absolutely no reason to suspect, you didn't handle things?"

Again, Jones doesn't say anything, which is an answer in itself. Instead he stares into his glass, as if the meaning of life can be found in the amber liquid.

"Ben, look at me." John waits until Jones looks up reluctantly, jaw tight beneath the stubble. "The first case we worked together, you rescued me from a very similar situation. Did you think any less of me because of it?"

"I thought you were an idiot for not telling me where you were going. If I'd been a little slower, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He looks away again. "What I really thought was, he's ten steps ahead of me and I'll never catch up. It was the same with your cousin. 'Here, Jones, read this name and let me know when you've figured out how and why they did it.' Meanwhile, a murderer is running around free."

That sounds so much like Tom Barnaby that John can't help laughing. "Did it ever occur to you that we let you get to the answer on your own, because we trusted that you would?"

He waits for Jones to get to the answer, but the younger man's biggest blind spot has always been about himself. "No one thinks you did anything other than handle this case brilliantly. Not me, not Keith Hicks, not even the pencil pushers at SEROCU."

Jones looks at him sharply. "You traced your own phone line, didn't you?"

"Not even a step behind," John replies. "And before you start, I promise not to call that number unless it's absolutely necessary."

Jones frowns. "That's not much of a promise. We both know it's a switchboard and nobody on the other end will know who Ben Jones or Jack Morris is. Promise me you won't go poking around your contacts in Thames Valley and we have a deal."

John is about to give an insincere promise when he realizes he can't convince Jones to have faith in himself if he doesn't have faith in those around him. "I promise to sing your praises whenever or wherever I can, and that includes my contacts in Thames Valley."

He sees the moment when Jones finally catches all the way up. "Thank you, sir," he says, embarrassed and pleased.

John decides he's grateful enough to withstand a bit more prodding. "One last mystery and then I'll leave you be. Why didn't you leave a message for Kate? And don't use that Casanova excuse with me."

Jones sighs. "How many times do I have to say we're just friends?"

"You can say it all you want, but I saw how you looked at her." John knows that look. He saw it often enough in the mirror when he was courting Sarah.

"Of course I like her. She's smart, funny, attractive. And miles out of my league. She's a professor and a doctor. I'm just a dumb country plod."

"You're from the country and that was a dumb thing to say, so I guess you're right." John wishes Sarah were here to slap some sense into Jones. "She cares enough about you to drive up from Brighton to make sure you're okay."

"So we're good friends. I was the only person she knew in Brighton at first. We have fun together. That's all there is."

John doesn't believe it for a second, but he'll get Kate's version from Sarah. "That still doesn't answer my question. Why not leave a message?"

Jones takes a deeper drink and then tilts his head back. "I don't know. I meant to, but for a moment I didn't know who I was."

John puts down his drink, alarmed. "You said you weren't having any issues with memory loss or confusion." But then he remembers that Jones deflected that question with a joke and his stomach twists.

"I'm not," Jones replies quickly. "It's just that I've been Jack Morris so long, I can't seem to shake him off. I suddenly knew that if I spoke, I'd say it was Jack calling, so I hung up."

"Jack Morris doesn't sing in the shower, does he," John says.

Jones laughs, surprised. "God no. Germaine would have taken the mickey. Why?"

"Sarah missed her shower serenade this morning." He's a bit chagrined that Sarah picked up on it before he did. The psychology degree that used to annoy Jones so much isn't doing him much good. "It's perfectly normal to experience a sense of dislocation after being undercover for an extended period." He watches as Jones finishes his drink and pours him another. "You told me you liked being Jack Morris. Why?"

"Well it was pretty nice to get paid to play cricket," Jones jokes. He looks down when John doesn't smile. "Jack was just one of the lads. It didn't matter what he did, as long as he could hit a boundary."

"Like chasing after Melody Henderson?"

Jones shrugs. "It made me look desperate enough for Wade and Butler to think I'd be an easy mark."

"Then why did you go back to see her after Cilla left the wreath? You'd found Leo's money; Styles had made contact. What more did you need from Melody?"

"She was upset. She needed someone to reassure her."

"She could have called Serena, who would have understood the meaning of the wreath, but she didn't. And I don't think she called you either. You stopped by to make sure she was okay."

When Jones crosses his arms defensively, John knows he's right. "Jack was her friend. Of course he checked on her."

John doesn't like the way he's continuing the disassociation. "Do you remember what I told you last night, about why you're so good undercover?"

Jones manages a genuine smile. "I wrote it in my journal with all the nice things you've said to me. It's a short entry."

"Smart ass," John retorts, but he can't stop himself from smiling as well. "You show every emotion on your face, you're not made for deception. It should be a liability, and yet it's the opposite. People trust you, open up to you. Do you remember the Oblong Foundation?"

"I remember you manipulated me into giving up my leave."

John doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty, not then, not now. "I remember thinking Cosmo Jones should have been the most pretentious twat ever." He shudders at the memory of the hipster glasses, the beard, and the terrible scarf. "But in just two days you became Blaze's accomplice, Dominic's disciple, Ruth's saviour."

"I also got trapped in the main suspect's bedroom, pelted by tomatoes, and rumbled by the murderer," Jones points out. "Besides, that was just part of playing the role."

"Cosmo Jones, Crouch End copywriter on a free love weekend? I don't think so. He would have slept with Ruth Lambert in a heartbeat. Just like Jack Morris, cricket opportunist, would have found a way from the sofa to Melody's bed."

He almost laughs at the expression of disgust on Jones's face, which only proves his point.

"The man who asked Ruth to wait, the man who slept on Melody's sofa, and made sure she was okay, that was all Ben Jones. And unless they're teaching cricket at role playing courses, the hero of the C-10 final was Ben Jones as well."

He can almost see the tension leave Jones's shoulders and decides he's pushed enough for one day. "I know Kate said no screens as well, but I think there's cricket on Sky. You can give me some pointers."

He waits until Jones is absorbed in the match and then says, "No one knew about the flowers."

"The ones Winter brought?" Jones replies absently.

"The ones you brought Sarah the first time you met her. You said they were from everybody at the station. But no one knew anything about them when I mentioned how pleased Mrs. Barnaby was."

"I was speaking figuratively." Jones keeps his eyes fixed on the television, but a slow blush creeps up his neck.

"You went out of your way to make my wife feel welcome. Sounds like something Jack Morris would do."

"All right, I get your point. But I bet Jack Morris would have got a coffee." He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It's pure Ben Jones, and John can't stop himself from grinning back. He doesn't know when he went from pushing Jones away to inviting him into his family, but he's grateful he did. Though in truth, Jones had been part of the extended Barnaby clan long before John came to Midsomer. Which reminds him…

"Tom and Joyce are in London visiting Cully. He's coming down to check up on you on Wednesday, though I suspect it's also to escape a trip to the theatre and afternoon tea."

Jones's grin doesn't dim. "And how did that conversation go?"

"About as well as I'd expected." Tom was remarkably well informed for someone who was supposed to have retired six years ago. John suspects Sarah is his source. "I believe his exact words were, 'Three years in Brighton without a scratch and he's nearly killed the second he steps on your patch.'"

"It's hardly been three years without a scratch," Jones says, back to watching the match.

"What are you talking about?" John says, caught aback.

Jones shrugs. "Well, it's not like I'm sitting at a desk every day."

John knows what that means. Jones is incapable of leaving trouble for others to handle. "When did you get hurt and why didn't you tell me?" he demands. Clearly his sources aren't as good as he thought they were. Another call to Keith Hicks might be warranted.

"Why would I tell you?" Jones asks, genuinely puzzled.

"Because we would want to know," he replies, caught up in the familiar exasperation of dealing with a stubborn and oblivious Ben Jones. "Sarah worries about you down there. I worry about you," he admits.

"All the more reason not to tell you," Jones says, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "Why would I want to give you something more to worry about?"

That does nothing to reassure him. "What happened?" he demands.

Jones sighs. "It was nothing. Just a bite a few months ago."

"A bite?" John can't stop himself from smirking. "Are you on canine patrol now?"

"Now, see, that's another reason why I didn't say anything." Jones scowls at him. "It wasn't a dog; it was a whack job on the pier. We were arresting him for D & D, my constable got one cuff on him, but lost his other hand. I stepped in to help contain him and he bit me."

"Where?" John isn't even slightly amused any more. He frowns when Jones shows him his left hand. The scars are faint, but there are distinct tear marks around the thumb. "That must have been deep."

"He definitely didn't want to let go," Jones admitted. "I had to knee him in the groin a couple of times. Looks worse than it was, though. Just a couple of weeks on light duty. Not even a twinge when I make a fist."

"Have you been tested?" John's imagination kicks into overdrive. Hepatitis. AIDS. Bacteria. The human mouth is a cesspool.

"Yeah," Jones says. "All clear. Not even an infection." He shakes his head. "I shouldn't have said anything. This is what happens when you ply me with alcohol on a concussion."

"So you admit you have a concussion." John pounces on the admission. It's like interrogating a suspect. He hopes it will be a transferable skill when Betty starts having suitors.

"I'm fine," Jones insists.

John has lost track of the number of times Jones told him he was fine when he clearly wasn't. Even as he untied him in the power station after Grady Felton was arrested, the first thing Jones muttered was, I'm okay.

"You're not fine and don't tell me it was nothing. I thought you'd been killed when you weren't on the field and didn't answer your phone." He only realizes he's shouting when he sees Jones's wide-eyed, shocked expression. John lets out a shaky breath, calming himself down, and drains his scotch.

Jones refills his glass. "I'm sorry," he says.

"What else have you kept from us?" John asks, ignoring the peace offering.

Now Jones looks very much like he did when John walked in on Germaine about to take his head off with a cricket bat. He almost feels sorry for him, but then he thinks about Jones licking his wounds alone and can understand the impulse to bite down and not let go.

Jones touches his face, just below his left cheekbone, and John leans in, just able to see a thin white scar under the stubble. "Ring sliced open my cheek." He wriggles his left foot. "Busted big toe from trying to kick in a door. I let the kids do that now." He grins. "I thought you were just lazy, but now I know it hurts more when you get old."

John has a sudden memory of Jones throwing himself over and over at the solid door to the Tilman crypt, not giving up even when it was clear no amount of force would get him through. "Is that it?" In truth, it's not bad for three years, considering Jones's active approach to policing. Nothing that would have warranted more than a sympathetic call.

Jones nods, but looks away first, and John knows he's still holding something back. He stands up to loom over his former sergeant. "What aren't you telling me now?"

Jones tries to look innocent, then confused, before settling on stubborn. "It was no big deal," he says finally, which means it was.

"If you won't tell me, I'm sure Keith Hicks will," John pressured.

"No, he won't." Jones doesn't look intimidated, or confused, or even apologetic now. He looks determined and confident and every inch John's equal. It's an unsettling but welcome development. "I asked him not to at the time, and after your phone call this morning, I'm guessing he understands why."

"You told him not to tell me?" John doesn't know whether to be hurt or impressed.

"It was a sting operation. Nobody knew except Hicks. My name wouldn't have been in any of the public reports, but I knew you still had your login."

Definitely impressed. He doesn't try to deny that he checks the system now and then in addition to scanning the reports. "Now who's ten steps ahead?" He frowns, though, when he thinks through the implications. "But that suggests there was something you didn't want me to know."

"There are a lot of things I don't want you to know."

Jones is trying to joke his way out, which only makes John more suspicious. "What kind of sting operation?"

Jones looks away, then exhales deeply. "There were some problems in Worthing. Reports of police intimidation, extortion. A suspicious death in custody. DCS Hicks needed an outsider to investigate. Infiltrate."

"Undercover?" John asks. "Keith Hicks had you pose as a bent cop?" He swallows back a laugh. Police corruption isn't funny, of course. But the idea that Ben Jones could convince anybody that he was crooked was absurd.

"I was very believable," Jones protests. "At least up until the point they wanted me to rough up a prostitute. They roughed me up instead when I refused. But we had enough by then to bring charges, so it all worked out."

"You took a beating and you think that's things working out?" But of course he does. He probably thinks a concussion was worth catching Germaine red-handed. John even suggested as much himself. He drops back down on the sofa, suddenly exhausted.

"Is that why we didn't see or hear from you the Christmas after you transferred?" He hopes that it was just that Jones was still undercover, not that he'd spent Christmas in hospital. Either way, he makes a mental note never to tell Sarah this. If she finds out Jones was hurt and alone that year, she'll be devastated.

"I sent you a Christmas card," Jones protests, avoiding the question.

"You sent Sykes a Christmas card." John will never admit that it was Sarah who realized the card was from Jones. "You should have let us know."

Jones shakes his head. "There was no need. They just wanted to scare me. Didn't even need to be admitted to hospital in the end. And Sarah was pregnant. It would just have upset her for no reason."

"No reason?" John can feel his blood pressure rising again, so he closes his eyes and counts to ten. He can sense Jones watching him, can almost feel the confusion flowing off him. "Sarah would beg to differ, and so do I."

"I can look after myself," Jones says, sounding a little defensive now.

"No one's suggesting you can't," John replies. "I'm saying you don't have to. You're part of the family, Ben, and family look after each other."

Jones doesn't say anything, and when John glances over at him he's staring straight ahead, so still he looks almost frozen. John can't tell if he's upset or embarrassed or something else entirely. It's an unfamiliar sensation, not knowing exactly what Jones is thinking just by looking at his face, and he's not sure he likes it.

Then Jones shakes his head, laughing softly in what sounds like wonder. "I guess I didn't read that part of the contract."

Jones might think it's a joke, but there is a contract of sorts. Nothing official, but John and Sarah have been discussing legal guardianship in case something happens to both of them. John has seen too many children caught in a custody crossfire after the death of their parents, or worse, end up in care.

Jones might be rubbish at letting others look after him, but the man who refused to take advantage of Ruth, who comforted Melody, who saved John's life more times than he's willing to admit, is the man John trusts above all others to look after his daughter.

They have a lot to talk about this week. John will find a way to convince Jones that whether he's in Brighton, or undercover, or just down the street, there will always be a lifeline for him here. But for now, he's content to just watch cricket and sip scotch.

They're happily arguing over what Jones insists was a missed LBW when the front door opens. Kate walks in and immediately shakes her head.

"What did I say about alcohol, screens," she peers at the television, "and cricket. Are you taking him on a run next?"

Clearly four years isn't long enough for her to let him forget that. "I only made him train with me. You could have given him a medical exemption for the run."

"I would have if he'd asked." The disapproving gaze turns on Jones, who pushes his drink away, too little, too late.

Sarah follows with Betty in her arms. "I told you they'd be misbehaving."

She puts Betty down, who immediately runs over to Jones, crying, "Benny Bunny!"

Jones beams and swings her onto his lap. "Hullo, Betty Bunny. Did you have fun at the park?" He wrinkles his nose. "Uh oh. I think somebody needs a change." He shakes his head when Sarah steps forward to take her. "I've got it. I'll put her down for a nap after." He looks nervously at Kate and then hurries upstairs, Betty tucked securely in his arms.

"Coward," John mutters, and takes a sip of his drink. Liquid courage and defiance both. "Before you lecture me, I know alcohol is a depressant, but it's also a disinhibitor. We can deal with depression if he's at least talking."

Kate picks up Jones's glass and deliberately drains it. "And did you find out what was bothering him?"

"He thinks he mishandled the case, he's having trouble letting go of Jack Morris, and he says he's a dumb country plod who's not good enough for you. I set him straight on the first two, but the third's up to you."

Kate is much better at schooling her emotions than Jones - her expression gives nothing away. She doesn't protest that they're just friends, though. "I told you he was an idiot," she says and follows Jones upstairs.

Sarah sits next to John. "Apparently Ben is a perfect gentleman. She needs to pour a gallon of lager into him just to get a friendly snog."

"Then she should be pleased I've been pouring scotch into him."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "You just wanted a drink." She pours herself a finger of scotch. "You remember Kate stayed with him when she first moved to Brighton? He insisted on sleeping on the sofa the entire time."

"Well our sofa is far too uncomfortable for anyone to sleep on if Kate stays the night," John says, settling deeper into the very comfy sofa. He has a feeling that it won't be needed anyway.