A/N: Since you wanted me to update this story sooner, I decided to grant you your wish. I love it when people love my stories enough to let me know, so here's for my loyal readers. With love.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Dick Wolf is standing behind me making me say this. He doesn't like to share. Yet, in my dreams, Matt's mine. Mine, I say!

Oh well…

In the morning, your packed little case immediately reminds you of your spur of the moment planning and you kind of start to panic. You can't even hope for the best, only expect the worst. But you haven't thought of buying a cancelation insurance, so if you don't go, you'll have put a nice sum of money down the drain and literally gotten nowhere. And even if you can afford it; you're not an idiot who just blows those amounts of currency to pieces just because you lost your nerves.

So by the time Ronnie arrives to take you to Gatwick, you've done some yoga and taken a nice stiff drink and you're sufficiently calmed down to close off your apartment and give the keys to your voluntary driver.

Saying goodbye to the anxious older detective, checking in your meagre luggage and going through customs all goes by in a blur and only when you're on the plane, listening to the instructions by the cabin crew, do you allow yourself to let it all sink in.

You're on your way to a tropical island to declare your love to a man you've hurt and who might not want to forgive you yet. And even if he does, he might still not feel the same way and then what have you gained?

All your resolve, everything you've so carefully told yourself, now flies out the window, but since that's not the only thing flying, you're trapped and there's no turning back.

The flight itself is uneventful. You don't move from your chair unless absolutely necessary and as your stomach is tied up in hundreds of painful knots, you hardly benefit from the many perks of flying first class, like actually edible food. The only thing you want to do is touch down, retrieve your belongings, get the hell out of the airport and find Matt. For better or worse, whatever the outcome, you want it to be over.

After nearly eleven hours you land at Norman Manley International Airport and after yet another hour of patiently waiting in line for the usual customs checks, you drag your little suitcase out into slightly clammy Jamaican evening. It's about eight-thirty and back home it's the middle of the night, but, so close to your destination, you couldn't care less about your jet-lag. A uniformed man flags down a taxi for you and not permitting yourself any hesitation, you give the address of Matt's chosen resort. You'll sort out which one is his cabin when you get there.

Generously, you tip the driver and wait for the resort's valet to help you with your luggage. Surely you can roll in the lightweight trolley yourself, but what else are these people here for? They need the tips about as much as they need their pay check. Only when you're standing in front of the reception desk does it occur to you that you haven't booked a cabin in advance and you're not sure if and for how long you'll need one. If everything goes the way you hope it will, you and Matt will patch up your friendship at the very least and you can ask him to let you stay with him. If not, you'll have to check the first available flight back to London and stay only one or two nights tops.

Thank God the high season hasn't started yet and there are several cabins vacant. You book for two nights in advance and ask for possibilities for prolonging. After having been assured there won't be any problem with that (how come they can make anything sound like it's no problem?), you get your keys and the same valet now brings you to your cabin in a small golf cart.

Once inside, you tip the kind man and close the door behind you, surveying your surroundings. The adrenaline that has kept you going is rapidly wearing off and for the first time since you've gotten on the plane do you allow your body to relax. It's no use to go looking for Matt now that you're a complete mess, so it might be better if you just relax and enjoy this little impromptu vacation.

You literally let your hair down, take a small bottle of pre-mixed rum and coke from the mini-bar and take it to the luxurious bathroom, where you fill the tub almost to the brim with hot water, adding a royal dose of vanilla perfumed bath oil. Sipping the cool drink in the hot tub is pure heaven on your tired aching ligaments and only when the water cools off to less than lukewarm, do you get out and wrap your pruned, wrinkled self in a fluffy bathrobe with the resort's logo printed on it.

Being jetlagged and downtrodden by the usual airport hubbub, you kind of expected that you'd be dead to the world by the time you settled into the very comfy looking queen size bed, its mattress firm but not hard, the covers crispy white and looking clean. You smother a small grin when your mind recollects a particular memory of Matt joking about the state of his own mattress after a particularly icky explanation from Teddy the lab tech. The look on Ronnie's face had been priceless, but you had felt yourself starting to blush as somehow Matt made his innocent quip sound like an open invitation to come check for yourself...you should have taken him up on it.

As one memory triggers another, sleep eludes you and a funny kind of restlessness takes over. Looking at the alarm clock on one of the nightstands, you can tell that it's eleven by now and knowing Matt, it means he's still out there somewhere. But where?

On the beach? At the resort's bar? At a nightclub or some party?

In his cabin? Entertaining a lady?

The idea causes you to shudder, mostly because the possibility might not be that farfetched. He's a gorgeous man, a flirt by nature and he's come here to get away from the strains of his London existence. And just because so far you've managed to repress the sickening idea that he might have a holiday fling, that doesn't mean it can't happen. Or that it's not happening at this very moment.

Well, there's no way sleep will come now. Might as well get up and enjoy the balmy Jamaican nightlife. Quickly you dress yourself in one of the very few non-office outfits you own; a royal blue, spaghetti strapped summer dress dotted with sunflowers and some sandals to match. Taking a vest just in case there's a chill, you grab your purse and cabin key-card and head out.

Being alone means that ugly thoughts take over and though you're not much in the mood for company either, it's still preferable to your own confusion. And since you've already started with one cocktail, you might as well get some more. Perhaps a nice little alcohol buzz might help you get some sleep later on.

The resort's cocktail bar with its open terrace, lit torches and twinkling fairy lights is teeming with lively tourists and the ever relaxed Rastafarian locals. Steel drums (what's in a name, huh?) are playing a swinging reggae tune and though it's all very touristy and very cliché, it still makes you smile as you walk over to the bar and order yourself another rum-coke. It is served with a slice of lemon, a little paper umbrella and a charming broad white-teethed smile from the bartender, trying his hardest to mimic Tom Cruise in a scene from Cocktail. Or perhaps the actor took lessons from this man, as he's actually pretty good.

With a smile of your own, you take the drink from him and sip on it, wincing at its strength. Real Jamaican rum definitely has a kick in it. But it does hit the sore spot with the accuracy of a guided missile, making you feel instantly relaxed, which is what this island is all about, right?

Right. You're here now, might as well make the most of it.

Automatically, your hips have started to sway to the easy rhythm of the music and you scan the crowd just for fun...

And that's when your heart stops.

Matt, not even five metres away from you, swinging with a skinny brunette on the makeshift dance floor. He's wearing jeans and a tight, body hugging white t-shirt, shamelessly showing off his sculpted arm muscles, which the tramp (whoops) has noticed too since she has her blood red painted talons all over him.

He however doesn't seem to have any qualms about that. In fact, he looks like he's having a blast. His movements are fluid, his face intent upon hers and your heart shatters at the sight of the flirty, downright lusty smile he throws in her direction.

Matt Devlin does not intend to spend the night alone...

The sight is more than you can bear and your first instinct is to run as fast as you can, away from the grime scene. Yet your feet seem to be frozen to the ground beneath you and you can't move, can't even tear away your gaze from the horrible little display.

When at last you do move, you wobble to a vacated barstool and inelegantly drop down on it, shaking from head to toe as the first tears break down through the dam. Never before have you felt this foolish. What on earth made you believe Niamh when she confirmed her brother's feelings toward you? What made you unforgivably stupid enough to think that all you had to do was follow him to the other side of the planet like some crazy lovesick adolescent groupie and that, upon the mere sight of you, he would come running back, proclaim his undying devotion to you and the two of you would ride off into the tropical sunset?

You stupid, stupid, horribly naive, stupid woman!

Ignoring the curious, worried looks of the bartender and some of the guests around you, you finally force yourself to slide off the stool, gather your things and stalk away. The tears are obscuring your vision though and you manage to bump into several people on your walk of shame out.

Almost there, you almost make it. Almost. Another bump, a hand on your shoulder to steady you. You even mumble a mandatory thank you, before...

"Alesha?"

Great. Just damn wonderful.

Now what to do? Be flippant ("Hey Matt, fancy meeting you here, what a coincidence!")? Sure, like he'd fall for that. Be clingy ("Please, please come home. We need you. I need you.")? No. He can't see your despair, not now, not under these circumstances.

There's only one thing left to do. And when the inevitable question comes, you're back to being calm. Heartbroken, but outwardly steady. Fingers crossed you can keep it up long enough to make some sort of a dignified escape, before breaking down...there were at least four more bottles of rum-coke left in the mini-bar.

"Lesh...what are you doing here?"

There's surprise in his voice, but also a trace of hurt and betrayal. You've punctured his balloon of mindless happiness, entered his sanctuary and he's rightfully disturbed by it. In this state, any explanation would fall short. Looking him straight in the confused blue orbs, taking in all the beauty of his expressive face, you mentally say goodbye to the dream of the two of you.

It's all over.

"Making a mistake. Sorry Matt, go back to your date. Just...just pretend you've never seen me."

"But...what..."

"Goodbye, Matt Devlin."

As you walk away, head held high, you wonder why you added his last name. Perhaps because it made it sound more distant, less attached, as if a veil of formality protects you from the worst of the pain, though you can't imagine that getting any better any time soon.

The path back to your cabin is mostly unlit and though you don't particularly feel unsafe, you're not really at ease either. On a whim, you decide not to lock yourself in already, changing your direction to the resort's private beach instead. It's almost deserted, with only a few love struck couples taking a romantic walk. It's hard to watch them and not be envious of their happiness, but since they leave you alone, you can turn your back on them and just sit down and watch the stars, which is exactly what you do.

It's so beautiful and romantic, it immediately opens your inner taps again. This is what loneliness means; this total bleak desperation with nothing good or bad on the horizon. Nothing to look forward to except for trying to glue the pieces of your life back together.

You can picture what will happen now. You'll take the next flight out of here, fly home, take a few days to lick your wounds and then go back to work, bracing yourself for the moment Matt Devlin walks back into your office, your life, your heart. It'll be awkward and sad; nearly impossible to cope with seeing him only as a DS, but not a mate. Not someone you can openly care about, laugh with, even flirt with. But that's all that's left for you to do.

That or receiving the news he's not coming back at all, in which case his replacement is going to regret the day he decided to become a copper. You just can't imagine becoming friends with whoever has the nerve to think he can take the place of the legendary DS Devlin. Not in your book.

Perhaps you yourself should quit. Leave all the painful memories behind, move away to a place where nothing reminds you constantly of him. Surely, there must be other places you can work at, other things you can do. But the harder you try, the clearer it becomes that there's no way you can walk away from the career you've built for yourself; from the job you love so much, from the satisfaction you feel after another case won, another criminal put behind bars, another victim vindicated. You've worked too hard for too long with too little means to turn your back on that. It's not the promise you made to yourself when you enrolled into Law School.

No, it's Matt you should blame for this. Damn him! Damn Matt Devlin and his handsome looks, his smile, his quirks, his charm, his overall niceness. Damn him to hell and back for making you love him and then not taking that love, staking his claim.

Why doesn't he love you back?

With your arms wrapped around your pulled up legs and your head resting on your knees, you surrender yourself to the upcoming tidal wave of tears. In the morning, you'll pull yourself together, but for now, your pain has to have its way out.

In your current state of mind it's hard to let the rest of the world in and all your senses are numbed. So for at least a few seconds you don't notice someone approaching you, gingerly settling down next to you on the sand and then very carefully placing a feather light kiss on your bare shoulder.

"Forgive me, Alesha. I'm so sorry..."

...What?