A bit of Fanfiction for the New Tricks TV show. Nothing belongs to me except the plot and any new characters I make up. Time to put my imagination into words. :D
'It's the Christmas Ball for the Met-she never liked those silly functions. But she guesses she'll have to put up with it because he has to, and he's in much more limelight. Calm and cool is the plan-until something goes terribly wrong, and your little secret gets out the wrong way. People can be very judgemental...'
*Located somewhere in the 9th Series, after they get comfortable with Steve McAndrew, and may be OOC in places, but for a reason*


4. Chapter 4


She'd charged past Strickland on her way out - and God knows who else - regardless of their expressions, or opinions, but that was how everyone thought she behaved, so why would it make a difference? The offending white-and-blue stick was stuffed in her bag, out of sight, thankfully (though, if she said it was out of mind, she was fooling herself).  Driving her way home, red lights seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Like the times when she just wanted to snap the wheel off and throw it at some unsuspecting cyclist. That wouldn't go down well. Eventually, she was home.

And not a moment too soon... she thought dryly.


Her flat looked exactly the same as it had when she left-a mess. A half-drunk bottle of wine and a glass stood idley on the coffee table - which never seemed to have anything as mild as coffee on it. Then it struck her. Maybe she could...clear the table (in a way).


Robert Strickland sighed. It had been a long day, made even longer by Sandra's moodiness and abrupt departure. His mind had been distracted, his work impaired. Had he entirely told the truth when he swore to himself not to let their relationship affect his work? Shaking off the melancholy weight, he unlocked the front door of the flat. Well, if she didn't want him to be able to get in, she wouldn't have given him keys.

"I'm home!" he called, brow furrowing when he recieved now reply. "Sandra?" he heard steady breathing from the living room, and peered inside, cursing (which he'd been doing much more recently) when he saw her splayed out on the sofa, holding a limp, drunken grip on an empty bottle. A wine bottle.


Strickland shook his head and gathered his courage to wake her - just as his mobile vibrated against his leg. Teeth gritted, he fished it out and took the call.


"Robert? How are you? Listen, don't come into work tomorrow. That goes for both of you. There's an investigation into... Well, you can guess," and then the line went dead. Strickland sighed for the second time in five minutes and turned to Sandra. She'd be fine, wouldn't she? Convinced the answer was yes, he left, locking the door as he did.

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