Author: sdbubbles PM
Or lack thereof. Sandra's choice of footwear leaves her with a nasty injury, but Gerry is always there to cheer her up. Even if she wants to kill him.Rated: Fiction T - English - Friendship/Humor - Chapters: 3 - Words: 3,832 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 4 - Updated: 06-25-12 - Published: 03-14-12 - id: 7925195
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This came to me when I was almost asleep, and I just felt like writing it.
Sandra ran and ran after the smart-arse teenager who decided to scarper the second he discovered she was a Detective Superintendent from the Met. She scrambled up the stairs and across the busy road and down an alley, until suddenly she found herself on the ground, holding her rapidly swelling ankle. Her phone rang and she winced as she had to ever so slightly move her foot to retrieve her shrieking mobile. "Sandra Pullman," she answered, slightly breathless from the pain in her foot.
"Brian and I have got him," Jack informed her. "Nearly ran the silly sod over," he chuckled. "Where are you? Gerry said you chased him."
"In the alley across the road from where he started running," she answered. It was bloody agony. Not to mention that Gerry would have a field day with this. "I'll phone him and tell him to come and get me," she sighed.
Jack didn't ask why she needed Gerry's assistance, but just agreed with her and promised to take the boy back to the station and question him. She consented to that plan and hung up. Bloody hell, how could falling be so painful? She never fell when she was chasing someone. Until now. But then four inch high peep-toe heels couldn't exactly be classed as sensible footwear, could it? She phoned Gerry, who answered with worry evident in his voice.
"Gerry, get over here and help me get back to the car," she ordered him in a very hostile tone. She had to remind herself to calm her temper. It wasn't his fault she had fallen over. He, like Jack, didn't ask, but he was there in less than a minute. She heard his groan and smirked a little to herself.
"I knew you was gonna do yourself an injury with those soddin' shoes," he told her. He knelt down at her feet and pulled her shoes off, leaving her feet bare. It was clear that she had at least sprained her right ankle; it was very swollen. He handed her the shoes and put his arm around her body, holding her upright while she tried to balanced herself on her left foot. "Slowly," he warned her, knowing she, being Sandra Pullman, would try and rush across the road. Well, the cars could just wait. In fact, even better, there was an underpass.
"My feet are going to get dirty," she complained. She didn't see the smile he gave her. She could be such a girl at times, even though she pretended that she was a total hard-faced cow when she wanted something done. It was the same with the maggots, and those rats Brian had found so interesting. She hated dirt, wriggly insects and dead rodents.
"Accident and emergency for you, I think," he concluded after surveying her foot for a second as the entered the underpass. She moaned in pain when she was forced to lean on her right foot to get down the stairs to the tunnel. "You're a silly bugger sometimes, Sandra," he enlightened her, just in case she had thought that running in those shoes was a smart idea.
"Strickland told me no more cases until we sorted the files out, so I was dressed for staying in the office all day," she quickly defended herself. "I didn't know he was going to chuck that case at me. Which he did, quite literally." Gerry sniggered beside her, although he did think Strickland was out of line when he threw the file at Sandra this morning, telling her to solve it. He knew she was tough, but he still didn't like her being treated badly. She was too good for that.
"Well, that's not the point. You're ankle's all messed up now, innit?" he sighed. The stumbled along in silence until they got to the car and Gerry carefully helped Sandra into to passenger seat. He drove to the hospital, and before long, they were looking at an X-ray of Sandra's badly swollen ankle.
"No breaks," the doctor told her. "But there is a hell of a lot of soft tissue damage. I'll get a nurse to bandage it up, and you'll be on crouches for a fortnight," he warned her, just waiting for her to argue.
"A fortnight?" she repeated in disgust. "You do realise I'm police officer, right? I can't just take a fortnight off. Strickland is pissed off enough as it is!" she told him. A fortnight! She repeated again in her head. This is just bloody brilliant, isn't it?
"You don't have to take it out of work if you don't want to," the doctor said. "But no driving, no running, no high heels, and definitely no chasing after teenage boys in those things," he added, pointing to the black, insanely high, shoes in her hands. He, like Gerry, was amused at how it had happened, and that she had even attempted to outrun a young man while wearing such impractical footwear.
The nurse came and strapped her foot up, from above her ankle to the ball of her foot. Gerry went to his car, after offering to lend her the trainers Paula left there the other day, as they were far preferable to the shoes that had caused her to fall in the first place. When she was discharged, and they were back in the office, she immediately started complaining about her restrictions. "Two weeks stuck in this miserable office while you lot have all the fun," she whined.
"Oh, shut up, Sandra, and just be thankful you ain't got a broken ankle," Gerry said after quarter of an hour. "That could have been a lot worse." She knew that was true, but she hated being confined to the building when she knew she could do more good out questioning and hauling in suspects.
"Look on the bright side," Brian piped up. She looked at him expectantly, because she didn't see anything bright about the situation. "You can get that filing done now."
Sandra glared at him, resisting the urge to throw something at him. "That makes me feel so much better about it," she retorted, her remark laced with a good dose of sarcasm.
"That's what you get for trying to run in them stupid shoes," Gerry reminded her yet again. He smirked into his coffee mug. He loved to watch her get irritated. It brought out the fight in her. She didn't seem to realise how attractive she was when she was angry or in a strop. She threw her pen, and it hit him squarely on the cheek. "What was that for?" he demanded.
"If you say another word about my shoes, you'll be the one in A & E," she threatened him. She was only kidding but she also knew that he would believe her. She was temperamental, and she often did on purpose. If they didn't know how she would react, they were less inclined to try anything that was too moronic. "People have been murdered with heels like those," she added.
They bickered like this for the rest of the day, although Gerry did, when the other two went out, treat her very well, looking after her. And, though she would never confess to it, she did appreciate the help he gave her, even if it was accompanied by a quick-witted comment. But that was the way it worked: cheek and jokes at the other's expense, but a great deal of care and respect. That was their friendship, and she was grateful to have someone to keep her laughing. If she didn't laugh, she sometimes thought she might cry instead. But Gerry made sure that didn't happen. No matter what, he was always there to make her smile. And, for that, Sandra was eternally grateful.
Hope it was OK!
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