The acrid scent of smoke was lingering in the air of the office - the two coppers had decided to take advantage of the fact that the smoke alarm didn't work, although Sandra didn't, as a general rule, smoke, sharing a Marlboro Red cigarette was somewhat of a tradition when they were together.

They were partially dressed, now - Sandra in her black pencil skirt and unbuttoned cream chiffon blouse, with her black stockings abandoned on the floor along with her high heeled black leather court shoes, and Mick wearing his dark grey suit trousers.

"You're bloody incredible, you are, Sandra." He told her, his strong arms wrapped around her waist as he sat behind her, leant against the greyish wall of the office which seemed to have been forgotten when the Commissioner had ordered repaint after repaint of the stations.

"Better than she is?" Sandra questioned, a slight smirk playing upon her features as she took a drag of the cigarette. She couldn't stand the reek of smoke from anyone else, but where Mick was concerned, it was insanely alluring; like the scent of his musky aftershave on his skin.

"You know I'd have married you just for the sex, if I thought we wouldn't kill each other." It was hardly an answer to the question, but it gave Sandra all of the information she needed - and all of the satisfaction of knowing that Mick preferred her to Charlotte Bond. Neither Sandra or Mick were great romantics - infidelity was almost certain whenever either of them were in a relationship, and neither thought they'd ever truly been in love with anyone.

"You're not so bad yourself." she answered, handing him the cigarette as she pulled her black stockings towards her and began to put them on slowly, not once breaking eye contact with the man watching her intently as she did so, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette in impressive rings. She rolled the stockings up her slim legs; the lace tops gripping her thighs impressively as she flexed her long legs.

"My God, how have you not given your pensioners heart attacks yet?"

"It might astound you that I don't tend to reveal my stockings to them."

"Oh. Well, that's my retirement plans buggered, then."


Well, she wasn't going to be able to walk for about a week, but it had bloody well been worth it. She was sat at her desk - it was just after eight am, and she was alone in the office but for her large cup of coffee in her favourite purple mug. The heat of the mug didn't bother her as she held it in her cold hands - although it was boiling and her body was freezing, she could barely feel it, because she wasn't thinking about here and now. She wasn't even thinking about Mick. She was thinking about what had happened on this day back in 1996.

It had been cold then, too, but she hadn't been outside much on that day. Yes, cold and cloudy, with no rain or sunshine - she'd seen it out of the window as she'd sat there on her own, cold and shivering.

"Sandra."

It was Mick who spoke, stood in her doorway casually, leaning against the wood and looking at her with his deep blue eyes. She froze for a second - he never came to see her, usually, for anything but sex, but she could see, even from a distance, that his eyes were serious; he wasn't flirting now. Something was going on. She gulped, putting her mug of coffee down on the desk, a little of the boiling liquid spilling over onto her bare hand and scalding the skin.

"Mmm-hmm?" she responded; her mind totally blank as to what else she could say. She wasn't good at all this emotional clap-trap, she thought to herself as he walked over to her desk, stopping just short of the chairs.

"Charlotte wants your blood. She knows we were at that meeting together - she's convinced that you're going to try and steal me off her..." he trailed off, rubbing his hand over his face in an uncharacteristically nervous manner, "I'm just warning you. She's going to try and trip you up with whatever she can with this investigation, and I don't mean just stalling it. You know her well enough, Sandra. Be careful." His tone was unusually solemn; something she'd only heard from him a few times before, and it unnerved her in a way she wasn't used to at all.

She stood up, leaving her high heels under her desk and softly walking over to where Mick stood, looking up at him with a slight smile, before looking down at the floor and establishing what her next words were going to be.

"You know that I'm no good at emotions, Mick. Never have been," she paused, bringing her shaking right hand up to the lapel of his suit jacket where it covered his shirt and straightening it out with her long, manicured nails, "I'm not going to break up your marriage. And I promise I'll be careful about this case." She finally met his eyes; ice blue against his darker, deeper irises, and the silence said everything.

He pulled her body close to his for a moment, feeling her freeze at the contact before relaxing into him. The scent of her was tantalisingly beautiful; her hair products mixed with her expensive perfume in a perfect, toxic cocktail of Sandra Pullman that nobody could quite understand. He missed their younger days; those days twenty or so years ago when nothing and nobody mattered because they were young and free. Everything had changed since then - they'd both married and divorced, been promoted, nearly been sacked, and changed beyond measure.

The lights flickered in her office, and he was sure that he felt her shake ever-so-slightly against him, but he knew that if she was crying, which he sincerely doubted, she wouldn't want him to say or do anything. So instead he just kissed her light blonde hair softly; the woman who'd been his tormentor, best friend and catalyst for failing relationships for so many years. She meant more to him than either of his wives had, and she knew it, but they both knew also that as a couple, they could never work. Knowing that gave their relationship a depth that few other people could have.

"I've got to go," he murmured, releasing her, "I'll see you soon."

The flicker of hurt in her eyes which she disguised so well killed him - his heart sank, because he knew that, deep down, hidden and disguised, she needed to be loved. How long had it been since that day, now? Sixteen, seventeen years? He didn't know; time seemed to go by so fast nowadays that it could just as easily have been last week for all he knew. She was tired - not only physically, but emotionally, she was drained, and it broke his heart not to be able to fix her.

"Yeah." she gave him a small smile, and their eyes locked for a second before they both turned away; he walked slowly out through the main office whilst she sat down slowly at her desk, picking up her mug and sipping the hot, black coffee from the mug.

Words couldn't express how she felt at the moment. Turmoil, perhaps... but that didn't seem to quite be able to encompass the feeling of swirling, all-consuming emptiness inside her. The case they were working on now was that of murders committed in 1993; teenagers and young adults killed in cold blood in Soho, all of them found hanging by their feet, but having had their throats cut. The photos were pretty gruesome, but Sandra couldn't bring herself to even feel the customary trained sympathy.

Instead, she sat back and drew her long, stocking-clad legs up underneath her body, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shaking from the caffeine she'd consumed in all that coffee, but she still felt numb and empty. She still felt alone. Despite what everyone thought, she wasn't as tough as she made out - she was human, and needed to be loved. She didn't want to be on her own, but she couldn't fathom how to cope with another person, because emotions didn't come easily to her.

She felt a single tear roll down her cheek and she sighed deeply, trying to keep her breathing steady and controlled.

She couldn't live like that any more.