A/N: The muse had been quiet for some time now: emotional exhaustion after "Leather", hospital stays, starting a new business, getting used to being married again… plus rumours of what's in store for us as a season ending kinda pissed us both off…

Here's a series of one-shots… gigantic drabbles in some cases… just to get the juices flowing…

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He'd know that sound anywhere… he'd heard it too many times to forget it…it'd probably haunt him into his next life, if there was such a thing. The sound of guns being fired was engraved in his mind and soul, plaguing his dreams and haunting his days when he had to be out and about the streets, hunting down the scum of the city.

He had seen so much death already… some of it even by his own hand… one of them, the hardest of them all, had taunted him just beyond his reach; knowledge that it had taken place, but never given the chance of his beloved science confirming it without shadow of a doubt… never given a chance to grieve whilst holding a quickly cooling body… never given the chance of one last kiss good-bye…

He had enough arguments over them to last him yet another twenty five years in the force: was it or was it not the weapon used to commit the crime? Was he able to prove it? He'd come to see his own as an extension of himself, he'd come to learn to speak to them in ways they'll end up spilling their innermost secrets in his ear, he'd come to fear their power in the wrong hands…

He has his share of battle wounds and scars that went beyond what the eye could see… he has first-hand knowledge of what weapons can do… would do if given the chance. He knows all their parts by heart: cartridges, chambers and muzzles, percussion caps, magazines and barrels… he knows all of them by heart and would probably be able to put together one with his eyes closed… in fact, there was a time where he actually HAD to know how to ensemble a gun… any type of gun… with his eyes closed. His life depended on it as much as it depended on how fast he could pull a trigger, on how sharp his aim was, on how DEADLY his shot was…

He looks up to the sky, dark-grey clouds filling his vision as far as it can go. These lead-sky days make him wish he could say home and just watch the rain from a window where he felt safe, a window from which he felt connected somehow, instead of watching it from above, not knowing what lay thirty five stories below where everything was covered with slate-like rain.

He shakes his head as he associates the dusky sky above him with a bittersweet memory: her pearly voice telling him how she loved the fact that the color above reflected so powerfully on his eyes, like brewing storms contained inside two crystal orbs, telling her more that he could ever do with just a thousand words or more. How she loved those shades of grey, how he disliked the one she had chosen for days just like today… for how could he feel comfortable knowing he had gunmetal grey eyes?

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A/N: Not too hard to figure out who this is, is it?