A bit of a departure from my usual fluffy nonsense, but I had to write this, and I'm pleased with the result. Hope you like it.


You turn the ignition off and just sit, rain hitting the roof, and acknowledge the day that has just gone. A day of blood, sweat and tears, of kill or be killed- the kind of day that makes you wonder just what is wrong with the world.

The kind of day that makes you feel you just can't think anymore. That just one more thought might be enough to take you from the sanity you're barely hanging on to, into a hell you don't think you could climb out of.

One more gunshot, one more life taken, one more senseless act- one more reason to hate this fucking world you live in.

But you do live. Somehow - in spite of the horrors you've seen so many times - you live, and you keep on living, keep on doing what you do, day after day, because someone has to. Someone has to make sense of the senseless, someone has to find the meaning for all the shit that you wade through- to give a voice to those who lost theirs just living their lives.

And so you sit, and you tell yourself you can't think about them for now, not give in to what could tip you over the edge- they have you every day, and they'll have you tomorrow and the day after that.

You need something else now. You need warmth and touch, another's skin on yours, to know that you are living, to breathe someone else's air, to be held and to hold onto - to just feel. You need her.

You need her like your lungs need air. She brings you life- she brings you to life. She is everything your world isn't when she's not in it. She is love, she is understanding- she is home. With one word, one touch, she brings you hope and you don't need to take on the world anymore- she is your world.

She is light to your shade, the sun to your moon and though you couldn't be more different - you balance each other perfectly.

When she's dealt with the bodily remains of your work, dealt with the detritus of what mankind can do to one another, and can still make no real sense of it, she looks to you- not for answers, sometimes there just aren't any. She only looks to you for love, for understanding and the quiet of unspoken words. Sometimes words just get in the way of feeling.

And you know that she knows you are here for her now.

So you stand at her door, wet through from the rain, and it's well past midnight -but it wouldn't matter what time it was, the faint glow of lights left on are all you need to know she is waiting for you.

For me.

She waits for me.

I can't explain how much I like Jane, she's so 'deceptively complex' but so easy to write for. Their relationship is

open to so many forms of written interpretation. I just love them. Well, I hope you liked it, I love reviews- good or bad. Now, best get on with finishing INSTINCTS I suppose- now that IS fluff!