And the Moonbeams Kiss the Sea

"I'm going to get some fresh air." DS James Hathaway sighed tiredly. There was nothing he wanted more, right now, than to pollute the air with nicotine. "Could you spare me for half-an-hour?" he begged as he snatched up his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

"You got a date?" Lewis asked curiously, watching him walk around the office toward the door.

"I don't have dates." James emphasized reproachfully, thinking back to when Lewis claimed he had one just this morning. He probably went out with Hobson... Oh who was he kidding? Lewis didn't date!

He walked out, half-conscious of the fact that Lewis was watching him leave bemusedly.

Several minutes later, he found himself wandering along the river, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets. He inwardly sighed when he saw the familiar back of one, Philip Horton, autistic artist who painted the same scenery everyday with as much enthusiasm as if it had been his first attempt.

James really didn't try to come here, there was just something about Philip that intregued him, that drew him toward the river.

He took a breath and stepped carefully off the path onto the grassy bank to approach the artist.

He thought back to the first time the two met, just a few days ago, actually. Philip was staring at a painting of dark clouds and James had moved in front of him to gain his attention. There really wasn't a feeling quite like being stared through without being noticed. James chuckled a little, wryly.

The man who was fascinated by clouds.

James himself thought it was interesting that clouds, like sunrises and sunsets, could never look exactly the same twice. But Philip spoke of it to them like it was the most amazing thing in the world. And to him, maybe it was.

Philip thought that being interrogated by Lewis and himself was interesting, 'never talked to a policeman before.' he had said. Poor boy, James had thought absently at that time. He didn't even fully understand why he and Lewis were there in the first place.

And he couldn't stop drawing. It was quite meditative, the sound of Philip's pencil scraping lightly across paper. That was when Lewis and he had learned that Philip had quite the eidetic memory. James thought it was amazing.

James had some feelings of unease when Lewis had to excuse himself to take a phonecall. He would be left alone with this strange and unique young man and he had no idea what to think about it.

Philip looked at him for the first time, then. And Philip asked him. "Would you like me to do one for you?" It took a moment for James to understand that Philip was offering to draw him a sketch portrait.

"Um, yeah. Please." James had stuttered, shifting his bodyweight from one side to another with an awkward, "Is it- is it alright if I move?"

But Philip had ducked his head and no longer looked at him. He shook his head. "It doesn't make any difference."

James nodded his thanks and moved to inquire what Lewis's call was about. Lewis needed to touch base and talk to Dr. Hobson so James offered to handle Philip. "Wish you luck." Lewis had said to him kindly and James knew he would need every bit of it.

James and Philip took a walk outside in the lush green and they talked about art, about his alibi, about Nell. Philip, James had found, responded alot better and spoke more than the Hollywood stereotype autistic. And he heared, in great detail, every action Philip undertook since he woke up this morning.

It was strange... definintely strange, sort of eerie.

They met back up with Lewis and took Philip back home to take a look around the victim's room.

There was one thing that struck James. It was when Lewis explained to Philip why they were asking him so many questions about Nell. "She's dead." Lewis had said bluntly. James had inwardly braced himself for the young man's shock, grief, ...something. If there was something James could count on with the victim's associates, it would be their negative responce to the news.

But he had forgotten that they were dealing with a much different character. "Oh... I see." Philip murmured slowly, under his breath and continued staring at the shrubbery near his feet. Then he fumbled around in his pants pockets for his house keys.

Like the information held no importance to him.

That seemed to affect Lewis just as much as it affected James.

They had been guided, by Philip, to his bedroom. The view was almost breath-taking. Pictures were taped up on the walls, there were hardly any open spaces anymore. Almost all of the paintings were of the same scenery, but not two of them looked exactly alike. James had thought back on what Philip said when he spoke of clouds.

And it was beautiful.

They were next directed to Nell's room and they found evidence for the forensics. Philip didn't understand their interest in Nell's 'art' and Lewis had given up trying to explain and they left the autistic boy to paint the kitchen and James had thought absently that, maybe this was another thing that was never twice the same...

Philip had that enthralled sparkle in his eye when he drew or painted. James thought it intreguing.

He spoke to Philip and Nell's housemates later that day. It was part of his job, after all. He also sat for hours, literally, staring at his computer screen, watching paint dry. It was taxing on his stress levels horribly. Lewis, though, found it amusing.

That was when Lewis had uttered the very impossible claim of having a date. James had to watch the DI leave inquiringly, wondering if the man was going to turn around and confess that he was just joking. He didn't. James just responded to the empty room with a disbelieving "What! You don't date!"

And that's what led up to James walking along the bank of a river he rarely traversed, to talk to a man be barely knew, about art that he was less than knowledgeable of. He sighed and braced himself as he approached. "Do you mind if I watch?" he asked politely.

Philip seemed to think about it, eyes squinting off into the distance. "...No."

Satisfied, James moved to sit nearby and watch him. He really needed that smoke now. He wedged a cigarette between his lips. "I went around your house today." he said, making small talk.

Philip grunted to signify that he heard him speak. "I think it's a nice house." he said.

James nodded. "Me too." He felt just a little bit silly. It was a little like talking to a four-year-old. He lit up, cradling his lighter flame against the wind. He enjoyed the feeling of just sitting here, watching Philip paint. It was soothing, not having to constantly worry about the cases that awaited him back at the station.

"Your friends told me that you sometimes recite poetry to them." he said, when it became apparent that Philip would not be the one to instigate any conversation.

Philip smiled softly. "Yes." he replied.

"Do you know lots of poetry?" James inquired. He himself was decidedly no scholar on the matter.

"Lots." Philip confirmed happily.

"Have you always been good at learning things?" James asked him.

Philip agreed, to some extent, that he had. And, to prove himself, began rambling, reciting names and dates.

James's face lit up in amazement. "I'd like to hear some poetry." he interrupted, not unkindly.

Philip didn't seem perturbed in the least at the interruption. He shrugged his shoulders. "Alright." He finally looked away from his painting to stare off into the churning river waters.

"I dreamt that as I wandered by the way

Bare Winter was suddenly changed to Spring,

And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mixed with the sound of waters murmuring."

He recited. "That one's about a dream." he told James, returning his attention to his painting.

"That was lovely, thank you." And James meant it. "I could never remember any poetry when I was at school."

Philip snorted like he didn't quite understand why not. "It's easy." he said.

"Do you just read it and know it?" James asked curiously with a real wish to understand the gifted young man's mind.

"No. I write it and I know it." Philip corrected him.

A thought occured to James. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to gain more comfort. "Do you write it by hand?" he asked.

"That's how I do writing." Philip chuckled and James found himself snorting in amusement at his own stupidity.

"We found a piece of paper in Nell's pocket. With poetry written on it." James said to him.

Philip smiled softly in rememberance. "'And the moonbeams kissed the sea'."

"Yeah, that thing. Did you write it?" The words were unfamiliar to James, but they sounded romantic. He took an educated guess and pinned the verse on Shelley.

Philip's brow furrowed as he recalled the moment that he said it. "I said it one day, and she said 'that's nice, will you write it down for me?' and I did." He shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

James's heart dropped into his stomache when he thought of the possibilities... He got up and neared Philip, squatting down to bring himself level to Philip. "Do you know what a forgery is, Philip?" he asked, hoping for the best.

"Yes." Philip replied, he thought differently from other people, but he wasn't stupid. "It's a crime."

"So, you've never written a poem to make it look like somebody else had written it?" James asked.

"Why?" Philip asked, sounding like he couldn't understand why someone would do something stupid like that. "Everyone would know I'd written it, and it would be a crime."

"Yeah, it would." James nodded somberly.

"Nell wouldn't let me do a crime." Philip stated firmly, but the way he fidgeted with the collar of his shirt betrayed his doubts.

James looked at him sympathetically. "Thanks for talking to me." he said sincerely. Philip made movement to respond, but no words came out. So he continued to paint.

Seeing the end of their conversation, James straightened himself and began walking away. "It was nice." He glanced back at the artist, slowing his pace as he took another drag of his cigarette. "Nell used to talk to me." Philip murmured. "But she isn't here anymore."

James sighed inwardly and threw his cigarette away. Work to be done, and all.

The next time he saw Philip was at his house. Philip was painting a picture of his own room with all the enthusiasm of a sentimental man who would never see the room again. "Philip," James called out from the doorway. "is it alright if I came in and took a look around?"

"Yes," Philip responded distractedly, "it's alright."

James walked further into the room slowly, swiveling his head. "I'm looking for goosefeathers." he told the young man.

"They're in this drawer." Philip told him casually, jabbing his paintbrush vaguely in the direction of the drawer in question.

"This top one?" James asked, no need to go ruffling about in the wrong place. Philip grunted his confimation.

James pulled the drawer open and found the goosefeathers. Then his attention was caught by something else... "Philip...?" he called out quietly, calmly. He put the goosefeathers down and picked up an unused brush to aquire the gun he found without disturbing potential prints. He grabbed Philip's wrist to stop his painting. "Philip, do you know what this is?" he asked, showing him the gun.

"That's easy." Philip said, glancing at it only a second. "It's a gun."

That was when Lewis walked into the room with a sigh-y "Anything?"

James straighened himself as Philip responded. "Yes, the sergeant found a gun." He said like he was merely informing Lewis on the time. James held up the offending gun for observation. A grim look overcame Lewis's face.

The last turning point in the case with Philip was the pictures he drew for them. Such pretty pictures of the scene of a gruesome crime. He remembered the man and the woman, and the car they drove off in. He remembered the number plate. He was good at remembering numbers.

The car was owned by Professor Stringer who was teamed with Professer Walters in what seemed to be a very complex con. Or, in James's opinion, a very stupid gamble.

James and Lewis let out collective sighs of relief. It was always a great feeling to close up a case and go home... except, there was always the paperwork to be done.

The last meeting James had with Philip was in front of the Shelley Memorial. A fitting place to find the young man, James thought. They came to bring the good news, they caught the criminals and the bad man that killed Nell won't kill anymore people.

Lewis walked around, observing the memorial. "This is Shelley?" he asked, gesturing.

"Yes." Philip nodded. "His name is written there." he pointed out.

Lewis nodded, grimacing a little. "'Course." he almost grumbled.

Philip nodded with another smile as he began reciting:

"And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea

What are all these kisses worth

If thou kiss not me?"

James watched Philip thoughtfully and Lewis blinked. "He wrote that?" Philip nodded.

"It was Nell's favorite." Philip added, then nodded again, this time, toward the memorial. "Yes, he made it up."

Lewis sighed and passed him, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "I wish I could make things up." Philip said to them, he said it to them many times before. Lewis caught James's glance and nodded his head toward the exit, signalling that they should leave the young man to his own musings.

James nodded back to Lewis and walked over, casting a glance at Philip as he passed. Maybe you will. Someday, maybe you will.

Philip curled his hands around his pencil and pens, when he was left with only Shelley's stone likeness for company, and began drawing.

He drew a thin, long face, with pronounced cheekbones, pale lashes, and close-cropped blonde hair. "It was nice." he murmured to himself. "Nell used to talk to me. But she isn't here anymore."

The End.