TITLE:       Frozen
AUTHOR:      Claire
PAIRING:     Conway / Brownlow...(don't blame me, I *had* to do it...)
RATING:      PG-13
SPOILERS:    None
DISCLAIMERS: It is with much glee that I admit to not owning these two.
             That particular honour goes to Thames Television.
FEEDBACK TO: charlton@cobweb.com.au
COMMENTS:

Remember this:

> Now do Brownlow.
>
> 
--------
>> Right, missy.  Brownlow and Conway at ten paces.  I've got twenty
>> quid here says it can be done.  You on or what?  

THANKS TO:  Kel...for actually saying *nice* things about this.  Mind
            you, she's the one that incited it in the first place...

Now, we all look forward to Kel's submission, don't we?

=========
FROZEN
=========

------------------------------------------------
Now there's no point in placing the blame
And you should know I suffer the same
If I lose you
My heart will be broken

---"Frozen" by Madonna
-----------------------------------------------


The muted pastels of the decor still can't hide the fact that it is a
hospital room.  Nor can
the quiet, unobtrusive classical music that is being piped throughout
the
floor disguise the
steady blip-blip of the heart monitor.

How ever tasteful and aesthetic, how ever far away it may be from St
Hughes,
it is still a
hospital.

A hospital in which I never hoped to find myself.

Some are saying it was inevitable.  In hindsight I tend to agree with
them.
What do the
fucking Home Office expect?  Crime is on the increase, the  budget is on
the
decrease and
yet we are expected to adequately protect Mr and Mrs Joe Public.  I'm
sure
in the Met's
dream world if anybody was stupid enough to commit a crime they would
then
feel so
remorseful about it that they would turn themselves in.

Pity it doesn't work like that.

The official report will no doubt read as age or diet.  The words
'overworked' and 'stress
levels' won't get a mention.  Police Officers are never overworked, and
stress?  No such
thing.

Again, it's a shame it doesn't work like that.

Sitting here, in the comfortable visitor's chair, watching over the man
in
the bed, I feel a
sense of helplessness.  Perhaps I hadn't been pulling my weight.  Maybe
I
could have done
more, could have seen the warning signs.

Perhaps...
Maybe...

...I could have been able to prevent it.

Part of me knows that it is silly to try and take on some of the blame.
Unfortunately that
part of me is being quashed by the voice that is telling me that it is
all
my fault.

I'm having difficulty thinking straight.  My mind has been functioning
on
half speed since I
received the phone call.  Get dressed, drive car, wait, listen numbly to
doctors.  After the
initial shock of hearing the words, "Massive heart attack," I was
relieved
to hear that the
prognosis is reasonably promising.  He *should* be able to return to
work in
three
months.  I doubt the powers that be will let him.  Not at his age.

Finally I am allowed into the peaceful sanctuary of the hospital room.
Blissfully alone -
together.

I'd never admit it.  I have difficulty admitting it to myself.  And if I
did
admit it, I am
positive that nobody would believe me.  Love?  At my age?  I'm more than
old
enough to
know better.  Especially as I am aware that it is to remain unrequited.

It's for the best.  Really.  I'd only end up looking like a foolish old
man.
A foolish old
man who cannot put into words how he feels about the man attached to all
that machinery
on the bed in front of him.  Or *why* he feels that way.

It's better left unsaid.

The loudness of the sigh that escapes my lips shocks me, and I am at a
loss
as to what to
do next...

...It wouldn't hurt, would it?  Colleagues are allowed to show
affection.
Nothing can be
read into it.  I *want* to do it.  Part of me *needs* to do it.

Leaning across the bed I ever so gently place my hand over his.  When
there
is no reaction
to this I lift the hand up to meet my cheek and then I just rest it
there.
Feeling the cool,
clammy skin next to my warm and undoubtedly flushed cheek.

I'm about to place the hand back on the bed when I am surprised to feel
a
weak, gentle
pressure on my own hand.

He's squeezing my hand.  I find the gesture oddly reassuring.  That
everything will be all
right.  That he will be all right.  That I can go on.  That it isn't my
fault.

I'm about to murmur something - I don't know what - when I am aware that
the
door
behind me is being quietly opened.  Softly placing the hand back on the
bed,
I turn to face
the intruder.

It's Andrew Monroe.  I wasn't even aware that he was outside.

"Sir...Derek...I...I'm sorry to interrupt...it's just that Mr Brownlow's
two
children are
here to see him..."

Monroe sounds strangely unsure of himself.

"It's okay, Andrew.  I was just going."

Getting up, I walk towards the door that Andrew is holding open for me.
In
the waiting
room I murmur pleasantries to Charles' family before heading back to the
station.

The night isn't over yet.  I have to work out what to tell the troops.

~end~