This is my second chapter for Partners In Crime. I'd also like to thank everyone who left such kind reviews for the first.

One of the things I love most about the series is the background antics of the constables in the stationhouse. I also adore George's unique and lovely accent. So with that in mind, I've written this tag to one of my favourite scenes from Child's Play.

Again, I've used some dialogue from the scene, which I hope I've heard correctly. I hope you enjoy the story too!

Partners In Crime - Chapter Two

Lost In Translation

It started so innocently, with a certain sense of irony for the officers at stationhouse four. There was a thief in their midst. A brave but foolish scoundrel had taken an essential piece of their kit. If they didn't catch the culprit soon… well, for him, and everyone else, there'd be hell to pay. No-one, not even his Inspector, dared to touch Perkins' chess set. Especially in the middle of a game.

As Brackenreid had observed from the relative safety of his office, the lad was not a happy constable. When they'd seen him turn his desk upside down to find it, the others had scattered like skittles – preferring to face Toronto's worst criminals, instead of the wrath of their now not so gentle giant.

Only Higgins had stayed behind with Hodge to man the front desk, which was sensibly wise too. At least it would give them something to hide behind, for when Perkins found who'd ruined his game.

Crabtree had stayed around too, and… oh, bloody hell! What was young bug-a-lugs up to now? Why was he scuttling between his desk and Murdoch's office, and looking so damn furtive about it?

No, Brackenreid realized, it wasn't furtive so much as just far too innocent. And from his experience, any time that butter-wouldn't-melt face held an expression like this, it only ever led to one thing. Trouble, with a capital T. And yet another call to his favourite supplier of finest, strongest whisky.

So when he made yet another trip into Murdoch's office, Brackenreid instinctively followed him – not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or run for the safety of the border as he realized what he was up to.

A map featuring the glue factory, and its immediate surroundings, was spread out on the sideboard. And placed with great but not immediately obvious care around it… well, it just had to be, didn't it? From pawns and rooks, to kings and queens, the missing pieces from Perkins' chess set had finally turned up.

If he was at all aware of the consequences, though, then Crabtree wasn't showing any concern about it. Instead, he greeted his Inspector with a bright smile. The one that, even if he'd never know it, could melt the steeliest of Sheffield hearts.

"Sir! I was just coming to get you! Yes, Inspector, I believe I've come up with a plan of attack."

"Oh, have you now?" Brackenreid nodded, turning to greet Murdoch who, as he'd done, was staring at his commandeered sideboard in puzzled amazement. "Your protégé's been thinking again, Murdoch. It's dangerous."

Despite himself, though, Brackenreid couldn't hide the affection behind his amusement. Not content with driving him to despair, distraction, and drink, young Crabtree was a force of nature. A bundle of energy who, more often than not, also needed his own bloody translator. But then, Crabtree came from a place wholly different to the city they both now called home. When they'd first met, and he'd asked if everyone from Newfoundland spoke the way he did – well, he still didn't know if the lad had been seriously respectful, or taken the proverbial pee.

"Oh no, sir! Not like myself, some have the most unfathomable accents!"

Fiercely proud of his own unique Englishness, the irony hadn't been lost to Brackenreid either, then or now. Still, at least they'd worked together for long enough to understand each other. Well, most of the time. He was quite proud of the fact that he was managing to follow his latest crackerpot theory without Murdoch's help to translate it.

So far so good. The lad had put a lot of thought into this plan. And, Brackenreid noted in silent surprise, some of it actually made sense. But as George hit his stride, all that started to unravel. And as often happened when his enthusiasm ran away from him, his accent grew even broader too.

"…now, there are only two baaaarns…"

Brackenreid blinked at that, then frowned. Baaaarns? What the hell was one baaaarn, let alone two? Oh, bloody hell. No, he had no choice. He had to ask.

"Two what?!"

"Baaaarns," George repeated, trying to be helpful when, in fact, he'd been of no help at all. To his Inspector, he sounded like a five foot ten inch sheep.

"Barns," Murdoch added, rather more helpfully, and with just a trace of his rare, mischievous smile. Returning it, Brackenreid nodded in grateful approval.

"Oh, barns. Right."

With that now kindly clarified, both of them settled back to hear the rest of George's 'plan of attack.' Trading glances, neither of them having the heart to tell him that he hadn't quite thought it all the way through. And where Brackenreid's straight talking sarcasm failed, it took Murdoch's quietly tactful intervention to help him see where his stake out should be held.

"Well, we know for certain where the stolen horses will end up. Don't we?"

Ah, thought Brackenreid, the light has finally dawned. As eager naivety turned into a familiar, embarrassed grin, Murdoch gave his protégé's arm a quick pat to re-boost his confidence.

"That's good work anyway, George."

George may have appreciated the gesture. Then again, he always would. But for his Inspector, Murdoch's words had raised a truly terrifying prospect.

"Good work? You're going to turn him into another bloody Murdoch!"

Now there was a thought that made him stride back to his office, for a double hit of his finest Scotch. Two Murdochs, plaguing him with their crazy ideas? Bloody hell, he could cope with one! So it was really very fortunate that he didn't hear the covert scheming that he'd left behind. Glancing at his equally amused mentor, George's eyes shone with a dangerously familiar glint.

"You know, sir, that really isn't such a bad idea."

"You mean the good fortune of having two detectives at his disposal?" William asked, still smiling – leaving the rest of that comment to the mercies of an equally brilliant, if more mischievous mind. "Yes, you're right, George. I think it's an excellent idea."