So, uh, been a while hasn't it? To cut a very long story short, things happened since I last updated this, and I kinda lost my muse for quite a while. Which meant that this chapter was sitting on my computer since 2012, waiting impatiently for me to update it. Cut to January 12 2017, when I saw 'Last Man Out'. Seeing Ben Jones on the screen again re-ignited my muse, and I finally sat down and kicked my butt into gear until I got this chapter done.

So at last, here is the final chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in 4 years: didn't own it when I started, certainly don't own it now.

Chapter Three: "Thanks Dad"

My head snapped up from my knees and spun around to face my DCI. At that instant, I remembered the state of my face, and quickly dropped it back onto my arms. My shoulders continued to shake as I heard him come closer and place a strong hand on my right shoulder.

"Ben?" he whispered again. I refused to look up at him; I knew my pride wouldn't be able to stand whatever humiliation would come with my superior seeing me cry like a child. Wait, isn't that what we'd been fighting about? The fact that I had been too stubborn and proud to accept what was genuine concern on his part? Oh, I am such a prat!

Pride forgotten, I slowly glanced up at him, half wiping away the tears already on my face, and ignoring the ones threatening to spill out of my tired and aching eyes.

Barnaby merely gave me a small smile, a sympathetic and apologetic one: I knew that he was going to apologise for the argument, and I realised that I didn't need to hear it.

"Jones, I –" but I shook my head.

"It's fine sir." Inwardly, I groaned at the shortness of my tone, so I breathed deeply and tried again.

"Sir, what I wanted to say is that it's me who should be sorry: if I hadn't been such a stubborn and prideful git, and done what you said, then this could have been…well….I dunno….avoided" I mumbled, slowly resting back on my arms, breathing slightly faster as I tried to keep the tears at bay.

There was a comforting hand on my back, rubbing it in small circles, and soon I found myself calming down: except that my head was pounding on fresh impact scale again, eliciting a groan on my part. But he hadn't interrupted me, and so I allowed myself to continue.

"It's just that before this morning, I never realised that you weren't trying to keep me off the case because you thought I wasn't able to cope with it; you were really trying to protect me, and I just wanted to tell you how grateful I actually am for that." Okay, I'll admit it wasn't the most creative of apologies.

I was surprised when he put his arm around my shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze: it's a feeling I'm not that familiar with, and I instinctively pulled away slightly. But, unlike my father, it's clear that Barnaby isn't going to wrap his arm around my neck, and I allowed myself to be pulled into a warm, almost fatherly embrace. A father, something I've never really had, yet someone who's always been here. This thought alone nearly brought back my tears, and I had to gasp slightly to keep them from escaping.

It felt good to be able to rest my aching head on his shoulder as he continued to rub his hand up and down my back, though it did puzzle me that he still hadn't said anything. So, when I was sure that I had calmed down, I raised my head slowly to look up at him.

"Sir?" I winced at how hoarse and broken my voice sounded.

He merely shook his head and gently coaxed my own back onto his shoulder. My eyelids felt very heavy and began to close. As I let sleep overtake my brain, I smiled as I realised that I didn't just have a true friend, I had one of the closest things to a father I have ever known holding me, protecting me.

He really thought that all this was his fault? What?

I couldn't say anything after his admission of guilt; what would I have said? Instead, I did the only thing that I thought might convey my understanding and forgiveness. It must have worked; I felt him relax and his breathing began to slow. Slightly startled, I glanced down, and smiled in a sort of paternal way when I noticed that he'd fallen asleep on my shoulder, a small smile of his own on his face.

Almost instinctively, my right hand found itself gently stroking his hair, vaguely thinking that it needed a cut, while my other thoughts began to wander.

This last case was – trying – to say the least, but never once had I thought that any of what had occurred over its duration was the fault of either of us. There was only one person who was at fault here, and he was safely locked in a jail cell charged with multiple murders.

Of course, it's not every day that one discovers that your wife's fitness instructor is the same person who is murdering the people responsible for wrongly imprisoning him eighteen years ago. It's also not every day that a CID officer finds out that his sergeant is being targeted by the same man.

That – I think – is why I really felt the responsibility to solve the case before anyone else could be murdered; that fact remains that – if something had happened – I could never live with myself. That's why I was so intent on protecting Ben as best as I could. Obviously, it had stung a little; and honestly, the way I sounded when I'd suggested it, I would've been offended as well.

But I had been content to stand back – he's a grown man after all – and let him handle this on his own. Well, that didn't work did it? All that either of us got out of that was a slap in the face and a quick date with death.

Outside of my thoughts, I shook my head; sighing as a gentle breeze rustled the branches of the trees around us; almost whispering comfort to my confused and – I'll admit – slightly depressing thoughts. Mind, my father once said that thoughts are only depressing if you think about them for too long. Yes, my thoughts were becoming depressing.

The crisp November air suddenly cooled further around us as I was reminded of just how late in the day it was. Somehow managing to suppress an unconscious shiver, I nearly went to nudge Ben awake, but stopped myself. He needed this, and I'd be damned if I would take it away from him.

All the same, we couldn't stay out here all night, and it was getting steadily colder by the minute.

Shifting the weight onto my other shoulder, I prepared myself to stand. Keeping an arm around my charge, I gathered my feet under us, pushing up and groaning at the dull strain on my back as I pulled the both of us upright.

The whole thing must have really taken its toll on Ben – he never stirred.

He must have been slightly awake though, his feet appeared to be moving under some semblance of control as I steered him back inside, and down the hall towards his room. I'd been around to Ben's house a few times before, so I was somewhat familiar with its layout.

I hesitated at the bedroom door, debating whether or not to turn on the light. The darkness from the approaching night had made the room appear ominously shadowed, and I shook myself as more memories from that night in the powerhouse once more threatened to barge into my head.

Walking over to the bed, I placed my cargo as gently as possible on the mattress, reaching a hand up to brush some loose hair out of his eyes. My heart warmed as my nearly asleep sergeant leaned into the touch, snuffling a contented snore as sleep claimed him once again.

I smiled fondly, and sat down beside him, once more remembering just how lucky we were to get out of that powerhouse alive.

Felton had been desperate, but determined, and those things were never a good combination in my books. He could so easily have killed us all right there on the spot. But instead, as killers often do in Midsomer (I'd noticed), he just kept talking, allowing sufficient time for a distraction to come to the fore and take some of the danger away. I never thought I'd live to see the day that I would be grateful for a criminal escaping from a police car.

Somewhere in my musings, I had shifted down to the end of the bed and had taken Ben's shoes off, and was now looking around for a blanket. As if by magic, I spotted a thick, woolly throw that rested casually on the back of an armchair in the corner of the room. Grabbing it, I tiptoed back to the bed and carefully tucked it around his shoulders, ending the contact with a gentle brush of my hand against the back of his head, guilt trying to clench my gut as my palm ghosted over the lingering lump.

Jones was so deeply asleep by now that he didn't even wince at the touch.

I glanced at my watch: nearly 7pm. Sarah was expecting me home for dinner soon, but something kept me here. I felt like if I left Ben's side, Felton was going to materialise out of the shadows of the room and finish what he'd started back in 1994.

Ben shifted on the bed, as if sensing my thoughts, and shuffled closer to my leg, a tiny frown on his face.

Unconsciously, I brought my hand up and resumed the gentle rubbing of his arm.

"Don't worry Ben, I'm not going to let anything happen to you: I'm going to keep you safe" I whispered, the solemn promise surely falling on deaf ears. But the frown disappeared, and a contented sigh escaped his lips before the snuffling resumed.

Giving his arm one more pat, I stood and made ready to leave, when a quiet voice brought me to a halt.

"Thanks Dad."

My eyes burned, a proud yet sad smile tugged at my lips, and I murmured a quiet "good night Ben" before stepping out of the room, closing the door silently behind me.

The End.