Author's Note: This one, so far, is coming along really well. I hope to have Chapter 3 out sometime tomorrow. Not much to say here, only that this chapter was a slight pain to write; getting inside John Barnaby's head is much harder than getting inside Jones' head (and that's saying something).
Reviews: Thanks for the reviews; they really are what keep my muse healthy and well fed.
Guest: That's a shame that you don't have the newer episodes; they're really good. Thanks so much for your review! It makes me feel like my first venture into Midsomer is going to be a successful one. Thanks!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything out of this story, except the original plot line. Characters and other recognisable plots/places etc. all belong to their respective owners. If you see any material that resembles another fic, I apologise in advance. Any resemblance is coincidental and unintentional.
Chapter Two: Releasing the Frustration
Fuming, I slammed the door to Jones' house and strode angrily out to my waiting Volvo. Throwing myself into the driver's seat, I rubbed my eyes like I usually do when I'm frustrated. Of course, in this instance, I was so infuriated I couldn't even properly remember what it was that we were arguing about: silly huh?
I suppose most of this anger is born out of the sheer worry and terror from two nights ago. I shuddered as I remembered the red glare of the powerhouse, the similar fiery glare of the man who had held the two electrical wires, the frightened – if groggy – glances belonging to Ben, my own fear that we were all going to be burned alive.
After inspecting his head injury, I had insisted that he go to the hospital to clean it up. Of course, Jones being Jones, had protested, albeit wearily, and had ended up spending the night inside the hospital's white-washed walls (not off his own bat, I reckoned).
So he'd only come home yesterday afternoon, and when I'd arrived about half an hour ago, our oddly tense conversation had turned into a full blown argument (screaming match, I corrected myself sadly); something which can't have been good for the concussion I knew Ben was nursing. But at that instant, I couldn't have cared less: it was mostly his fault anyway, wasn't it?
As soon as I had thought this, I felt ashamed and angry at myself; Ben hadn't asked for this, he certainly hadn't asked to have been involved so personally with that last case, and here I was, blaming him for my own stupidity.
Decision made, I opened the door once again, and walked up the slightly overgrown garden path to his front door, and I was just about to knock when I heard the quiet strums of guitar strings coming from the back garden. Sidestepping a few pot plants, I walked slowly around the side of the house, just in time to catch a soft voice weaving its way towards my ears.
I couldn't help but smile; Tom and Joyce had told me that Jones had a superb voice, and now I could hear it for myself: boy, you could never say the lad couldn't sing.
'You're looking out for me?' I guess so; I mean, I did go after him that night, but it's not like I dive into every hard place whenever a colleague is in trouble; they do have to be able to look after themselves sometimes.
'Never out of second chances?' Well, I suppose that's accurate enough, but Tom was always the more forgiving policeman, not me. He never let his emotions sway him in anything; that's something I really need to work on.
'A true friend?' No Ben, if I really was a true friend, I would never have blamed you for what happened the other night, I wouldn't have given reason for that argument.
I craned my neck closer to the edge of the wall as I heard the last words of the song die away. What I heard next caught me completely by surprise: is he crying?
Swallowing hard, I stepped out quietly around the corner of the house and out into the garden, and bent down closer to his shaking shoulders as I whispered his name tentatively.
