Author's Note: This was an idea that randomly popped into my head and I ended up speed typing. It's set in the universe of the BBC series, making the assumption that at least part of events in The Troubled Man, eventually come to pass and that Linda Wallander also joins the police force. Because of that, this could contain some spoilers for those that aren't familiar with the later books in the series. Naturally the events of the books have been condensed into a shorter timeline and the characters are based mainly on those in TV series.

It was snowing outside the bar. Detective Magnus Martinsson of the Ystad Police, watched the flakes drifting lazily earthwards. Some were very large; under the illumination of the streetlights they looked like feathers, as though someone on a high roof had ripped open a pillow and tossed its stuffing over the edge. One the size of a five-kroner coin struck the window above Martinsson's table and stuck in place, melting against the warm glass. It was nine p.m. on Christmas Eve and the first major storm of the winter season was brewing outside.

It had been exactly a year and three months since the night an agitated waiter had stormed into headquarters with a police issue revolver in a plastic takeout bag; two weeks since Kurt Wallander, had handed in his resignation. Sighing to himself, Martinsson hunched over the table and took a swallow of his rapidly warming beer. It was his third of the evening and a not unpleasant buzz had begun spreading through his brain. He didn't normally frequent bars alone, but he'd been feeling restless that night and everyone in his admittedly limited social circle was either working or busy with holiday preparations. Briefly, standing in the kitchen of his quiet apartment, he'd considered driving out to Wallander's house in Löderup. It was at least the hundredth time he'd considered doing so in the past two weeks. Something always stopped him. Maybe it was the discouraging air he'd received from Linda, Wallander's daughter, on the one occasion he'd mention the idea to her. No, Martinsson thought, he was just making excuses. He knew the reason, the real reason he'd yet to visit Kurt. He felt guilty. That was the truth. Guilty for whatever part he'd played in the man's early retirement. The exact reason Wallander had retired, still wasn't clear to him, or it seemed, to anyone else in the station. It had all begun with the gun though. Wallander had got pissed up one night and inexplicably left his revolver in a busy cafe and Martinsson had had no other choice than to bring the incident to their superiors. The waiter had been upset and recognized the detective; what else could he do? But the more time that went by, Martinsson wondered if he should have at least tried to cover for his colleague. What, he asked himself, would Kurt have done, if their positions had been reversed? Now, with Kurt gone and Ann-Brit Höglund still on desk duty after an encounter the year before that had nearly claimed her life, Martinsson had come out as the most senior detective in the squad. How ironic, Martinsson thought. Kurt's departure had left him as lead detective; a position he'd more than once overheard Wallander say he was singularly ill suited for. More manpower had of course, been requested. Lindman, a cadet fresh from the academy had already been added to the team and a second man, a detective named Kjellman was being transferred down from Kiruna. Kjellman had in fact been scheduled to arrive that day, but his plane had been delayed by the same blizzard that was currently sweeping Ystad. There would be a lot of that, before the storm was done, Martinsson mused, gaze slanting back to the window. Outside, the wind had picked up and the previously lazily flakes were coming down faster and at an angle. A proper Christmas Eve blizzard. More than one person wouldn't be making it to their destinations. Snowfall heavy as had been forecast was rare on that southernmost tip of Sweden, where winters were milder and far shorter. The road crews would likely have difficulty dealing with it. That meant the coming day would bring one weather related traffic accident after another. Martinsson felt tired just imagining it.

Draining the last of his beer, he signaled for the waitress. She came over, wiping her hands on her apron as she walked and asked if he wanted the same as before. She was an attractive woman; redheaded, with pert breasts and wide hips. He had intended to order another beer, but at her inquiry, he found himself asking for a whisky instead. He'd have a hangover come morning, he knew, but couldn't bring himself to care. The waitress returned with his drink a minute later. There was a coquettish glint in her hazel eyes as she placed it on the table in front of him. He was tempted to flirt back. He hadn't been with someone in . . . try as he might, he couldn't remember. There had been a woman in the spring, at the house warming party of a mutual friend. That had been little more than a quick grope in the guest bathroom though. Before that? He wasn't sure, but it seemed it had been a quite a while. Too long.

He was looking up at the waitress, trying to think of something clever to say, when the bell strung from the bar's front door clanged. A crowd began staggering through the door, stomping snow from their boots and shaking their heads like wet dogs, all of them cursing the weather. Seeing them, the waitress shot him a quick, regretful smile and sidled away to take orders.

The bar had been half empty and fairly quiet. Now the voice of the new revelers danced through the air and bodies filled booths and chairs. Martinsson felt suddenly self conscious. He had taken a booth to himself when he'd arrived earlier and the place had been empty. Should he move? But it looked like all the smaller tables and the bar counter itself, were now occupied. Where had they all come from, such a large group? Dismissing the question, he raised the whisky to his lips. The alcohol burned a path down his throat and pooled in a hot weight in his stomach. Taking a second mouthful, he let it set on his tongue, gaze drifting back to the street. The snow was coming down so thick that the street lights were only vague, glowing patches in the haze.

"Mind if I join you?"

Taken off guard, Martinsson jumped in surprise, nearly choking as he swallowed. Looking up, he discovered a man standing beside his table. A big man, even by Martinsson's standards, who was himself, by no means small. Before he could reply, the man slid into the banquette opposite him.

Martinsson's temper flared. Who did this arse think he was, inviting himself to sit at other people's tables? "Why don't you sit with your friends?" he snapped, leaning back to glare at the intruding stranger.

"I'm here alone," came the answer, in a tone that was oblivious to Martinsson's anger. "I'm Jan, by the way." He offered a hand across the table, flashing Martinsson a disarming, lopsided grin. For a second Martinsson stared at the hand, then reluctantly took it. Jan had a firm handshake, firm and cold; his fingers were icy. Judging by that and his pink, wind burnt face, Martinsson suspected he'd walked a good ways.

"I hope you don't mind," Jan said, withdrawing from the handshake as the waitress returned. "I think this is the last empty seat in the whole bar." He spoke with a faint Norrländska accent that Martinsson found appealing. "A beer for me," Jan told the waitress. "And another of the same for my new friend here, whose space I've so rudely invaded."

"I'm fine-" Martinsson began.

"Consider it a peace offering," Jan said, grinning and waved the waitress off. Leaning forward on his elbows, he gazed out the window, much the same as Martinsson had been doing. "What a mess we'll have come morning!" he chuckled.

Martinsson failed to see what was so amusing about it. Still, he felt his own expression softening as he drained yet another drink. The man named Jan's cheer was contagious. Setting down the empty glass, he relaxed back into his seat to study the other man, sizing him up. He wasn't just tall, though at what Martinsson judged to be one hundred and ninety centimeters, that was certainly his most defining feature. With broad shoulders and a weight lifter's physique, he was a powerfully built fellow all around. He looked thirty-something, with dishwater-blond hair, cropped short and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Martinsson wondered what he did for a living, that he stayed so fit. Or maybe Jan was just one of those people who was passionate about exercise. The type of people who got up at strange hours of the mourning to jog in bad weather. Martinsson was partial to a brisk run, but he drew the line at going out in pouring rain, as he'd observed so many others doing.

"What brings you out alone on Christmas Eve,. . .?" Jan asked, turning back to him. His question trailed off in a further, unspoken inquiry, prompting.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, Martinsson quickly averted his gaze to the table. "Martin-" he reflexively started to answer, then caught himself. "Magnus," he correct, then added honestly: "I suppose I didn't have anything better to do."

The waitress appeared with their drinks then, setting them down with fresh napkins. Taking Martinsson's empty glass she once again departed. "And you?" Martinsson asked, watching her go.

"The same," Jan answered, taking a swig of his beer, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Rough day?" he asked, motioning to Martinsson's drink of choice.

"Not particularly." The bell on the door chimed again as he spoke and a second stamping, hooting throng piled in. With most of the tables already spoken for they were left standing around the bar, holding dripping coats as they ordered drinks and chatted excitedly to each other. The volume in the bar rose to a fever pitch.

"Do you remember in school, reading about Napoleon's march back from Moscow?" Jan asked. He was looking outside, eyes following a lone car's slow progress down the street.

What a strange thing to say, Martinsson thought and said so, raising his voice to be heard over the din. Jan smiled in reply and took a drag from his beer. "Do you mean the part when they froze to death?" Martinsson added wryly, raising his own drink. "Or the bit when they ate their horses?"

At that, Jan snorted. "The horses of course. We need a backup plan, in case we get trapped in here. No," he went on, laughter edging his words. "I mean the snow. I remember reading that at one point, the cold was so severe, that the snow just hung in the air. Not falling, mind. It just floating there, like there was no gravity at all. Imagine what that would look like."

"Like a hypothermia induced delusion."

Jabbing the neck of his beer bottle in Matinsson's direction, Jan laughed in earnest. "I do believe," he said in a confidential tone. "That you are a pessimist."

Martinsson shrugged, a smile pulling at his own mouth.

"And what do you do for a living, Mr. Pessimist?" Jan asked, dragging the back of a thumb across his lower lip. For a second his gaze met and held Martinsson's. His eyes were an intense, bright blue.

Blinking, Martinsson looked away. "Security," he lied, after a beat. It was his usual story for people he didn't know and would likely never meet again. Learning he was a cop always put peoples backs up. He supposed he couldn't blame them. How did you relax and have a good time around a man that had the power to arrest you, if he thought you were out of line?

Jan's sandy eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Security?" he said. "Well, I'd better stay on your good side. You might beat me up and zip tie me if I make you angry."

He was joking, but Martinsson sensed an edge under the amusement and not the one he'd come to expect. Was he imagining it, or was there an almost flirtatious lilt to the other man's voice? Could it be that Jan was- He pushed the thought away with disgust; not least of all, because that tiny voice in his mind that he'd spent the better part of his life repressing, was hoping the answer was yes. He could remember with perfect clarity, when he'd learned that such people existed. The exact moment at age six, sitting around an outdoor table, at a restaurant on the seaside with his father and grandfather and how his father had pointed at two men sitting at the opposite end of the patio. His father had always told him that pointing was rude and yet, he'd pointed and commented in a sneering tone to the eldest Martinsson, about the two "queers." That'd been the first time Magnus had heard the word and though he hadn't understood what it meant, he'd known it wasn't good. Regardless of what people often assumed, he was and had always been perceptive, even at a young age.

"You look deep in thought," Jan said, his words pulling Martinsson out of the memory.

Martinsson shrugged, lowering his glass. As he placed it on the table, the drink sloshed over the edge, spattering whisky on the Formica. Cursing under his breath, he reached for his napkin to mop up the spill. As he picked it up, something slid from between its folds and fluttered to the table. A piece of paper. Frowning he turned it over. A name and number had been scrawled across it in a feminine, looping hand: Julia. The waitress.

"What's that?" Jan asked, leaning in for a better view.

Martinsson raised it for him to see.

Reading, Jan grinned and glanced over to where the woman was standing behind the bar. "Ah," he breathed, voice rumbling. "Thought she might fancy you, what with the eyes she was giving you earlier. Can't say as I blame her."

It took Martinsson's brain a second to process the last part of his statement. He felt himself blanch. So he hadn't been imagining things. Instinct told him to get angry. The very idea was, wrong, repulsive. He should get up that very instant. Just pay his tab and leave. But as much as his mind objected, the anger didn't come and he didn't get up. Instead an unwelcome heat that had nothing to do rage was building in his chest, spreading and he reached shakily for his drink, the spill forgotten and swallowed half of it down.

Jan was looking at him, a knowing smile on his lips. The edge of his thumbnail was absently working at the sodden label of his beer bottle, peeling back the paper in little ribbons. Matinsson's nerves were fraying in much the same manner. "I could use a smoke," Jan announced suddenly and Martinsson nearly jumped. "Do they have a smoking room?"

Martinsson tried to think. His brain was moving as sluggishly as the traffic outside and his heartbeats were strangely loud in his ears. "In back," he answered at length. "Passed the toilets." He'd only been to this bar a few times before, but he seemed to recall that there was an inclosed smoking porch at the rear of the building.

"Coming with then?" Jan asked, picking up his coat.

Martinsson's pulse accelerate. No, he didn't want to go out back with him. He wanted to get as far away from the other man as possible and yet he heard himself answering in the affirmative, found his hand grasping his own coat. He stood, swaying a little as the change in position made the alcohol in his bloodstream rush to his head. If Jan noticed, he didn't say. He was already moving towards the hall with the sign above it that marked the toilets. There was a smoking sign there too, Martinsson saw, following after him; large and easy to spot. They squeezed and wove between standing patrons, finally making it to the empty hall. The corridor was short, terminating in the door that let onto the back patio. As Jan pushed the door outward, a blast of arctic air rushed in, ruffling their hair and raising goose pimples on Martinsson's arms, despite the coat he'd slipped on as he crossed the bar. He lingered indecisively on threshold, staring into the dim, screened-in porch.

Jan held the door, gripping its edge to keep the wind from catching it. "Coming?" he asked and Martinsson stepped out and down the two steps.

The smoking area was deserted. Not surprising, considering the weather. Even with the building blocking the majority of the wind, it was bitterly cold. Snow was slipping through the mesh in the screen, piling in drifts on the rough wooden planks that made up the floor.

Closing the door behind them, Jan fished a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his long wool coat. He was very well dressed, Martinsson thought, taking up a place leaning against the wall, arms crossed against the chill. Tailored pants and shirt, expensive shoes. Wasn't that one of the things they said about gay men? That they had impeccable fashion sense? If Wallander had been there, he probably would have scolded him for listening to stereotypes. If Wallander were here, he thought ruefully, it wouldn't come up, because I wouldn't be following deviant men into smoking rooms. And then he found himself wondering why on earth Kurt Wallander would ever be in a bar with him. The first and only time they'd been out together, had been the time after Svedberg's funeral and they'd barely spoken. You're drunk, he realized. He was in fact, extremely drunk. The longer he stood, the more aware of it he became. He felt like he had cotton blocking his ear canals and his lips were numb. He hadn't been outside long enough for the cold to be causing that. Go home, he told himself. Go home before you do something stupid.

Jan was lighting a cigarette, hand cupped around the end to protect his lighter's flame from the breeze. "Want one?" he asked, raising his eyes to Martinsson. Their gazes locked.

"I don't smoke," he answered, breath fogging the air.

"Good of you to keep me company then," said Jan and stowed the lighter back in his pocket. Gaze still on Martinsson's he began crossing the small expanse between them, cigarette dangling from between his lips. Martinsson didn't move from his spot against the wall, just watched him drawing closer in long, purposeful strides, until Jan was directly in front him, only scant inches away.

Not speaking, Jan took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a lungful of smoke passed Martinson's ear, who now found himself in the unfamiliar position of looking up. He watched the smoke role between Jan's lips, heart thudding against his ribcage. A distant part of his brain was still telling him to get the hell out of there, but it was quickly being replaced by a louder, more insistent portion that was wondering what the other man's mouth would taste like under his. Shocked at his own thoughts, he opened his mouth to tell Jan this had been a mistake. The words wouldn't come.

Jan leaned in closer, head tilting in inquiry. "Yes?"

Without thinking, Martinsson grabbed the taller man by the lapels of his coat and pulling him down, smashed their mouths together. Jan made a surprised noise deep in his throat, breath puffing out against Martinsson's lips and then his own lips parted and Martinsson discovered the answer. Strong ale and tobacco, a hint of minty mouthwash. In one swift move Jan had flicked away the cigarette and was grasping him by the shoulders, shoving him hard into the wall. Martinsson growled into his mouth, tongue darting out to flick over lips and teeth; his brain too hazed with alcohol and arousal to consider what he was doing. He was suddenly desperate, fevered, fingers flexing in the fabric of Jan's coat, trying to drag the other man closer yet. One of Jan's hand slid to the back of his head, fisted golden curls to hold Martinsson in place as he broke the kiss. Martinsson let out another growl, this time born of frustration, but then Jan was kissing the edge of his mouth, his jaw, lips trailing down the column of Martinsson's neck. At the time he was working a knee between Martinsson's legs, forcing them apart and Martinsson groaned, hips twitching, instinctively seeking friction.

"Aren't you vocal?" Jan mumbled against his neck, damp lips brushing his skin.

His free hand slipped behind Martinsson's back, then slid lower, palming his denim clad ass, pulling him encouragingly forward to rub against the leg that was still planted between his own. That was when the world went dark. The single bulb above their heads flickered and went out. A spilt second later, so did the street lights. The darkness hit Martinsson like a bucket of ice water to the face. In an instant, he was fully, horribly of aware of what was happening. Gasping in surprise, he shoved Jan away.

"What's wrong?" Jan panted, stumbling back, nearly losing his balance.

Martinsson couldn't speak. He put his hands up to ward the other man off, breath choking in his throat. He couldn't see Jan's face in the darkness. He didn't want to. "This was a-" was all he could manage to get out between his chattering teeth. "I'm not-"

Jan took a step towards him. Seeing him move, Martinsson's tenuous control snapped. Turning, he bolted for the door and jerked it open.

It was blurry after that; dashing down the short hall, shoving through the confused crowd still packed into the pitch black bar and stumbling out the front door into darkness and knee deep snow. The next thing he knew he pulling open a cab door and collapsing into the back seat, mumbling slurred instructions at the driver. Then the cab was pulling away from the curb and he had to close his eyes because the world was tilting on its axis, spinning out of control.

He jerked awake the next morning to the trill of his mobile. It was five O' seven a.m., Christmas Day. Martinsson flung out a hand, groping along the bedside table for his phone. That was where he normally kept it, charging beside his bed, the volume on, in case an emergency call came in. After a minute he realized that it wasn't there and that he'd fallen asleep atop the blankets, still fully dressed; coat, boots and all. His phone was in his pocket. Shifting enough to get an arm under himself, he pulled it out and hit answer. It was freezing inside the flat and his joints were stiff and sore with the cold and his head was pounding. Hangover, he thought, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Martinsson?" It was Höglund and she sounded upset. Martinsson was instantly wide awake. "We need you down at the station, right away," Höglund said. "We have a report of a body near the port."

Martinsson sat up, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. He flipped the switch. Nothing. "Is there a power outage?" he asked, sliding out of bed in the darkness. He pulled open the table drawer, searching blindly for the flashlight he kept there.

"What?" Höglund said, clearly surprised. "Where have you been for the past seven hours?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Martinsson snapped irritably. Along with shooting pain in his head, he felt as though he'd been gargling sand and eating compost. Finally finding the flashlight, he snapped it on and started making his way towards the bathroom. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said into the phone and hit end, cutting off whatever reply Höglund had been about to make.

In reality, it took him nearly an hour. He'd gotten changed and cleaned up as best he could in a short time, but once he made it outside and into the still raging blizzard, things had ground to a halt. First and foremost, he couldn't his find car. He hazily recalled driving to a bar near the square, but it seemed he had not driven home. That left him with no viable means of transportation. There would be no cabs out in this weather. After a few minutes spent racking his brain, he'd borrowed a vehicle from Berit, one of his upstairs neighbors, with whom he was vaguely aquatinted. The market where Berit worked was closed due to the storm and she planned to stay in with her children for the of the day anyway. That done, it had been a none too simple matter of actually making it the half kilometer to the station; a trip that took only minutes under normal circumstances. On this occasion, it took nearly thirty; half an hour spent swerving around snowbanks, waiting for plows and trying not spin out on the icy roads. By the time Martinsson pulled into the station's lot, his knuckles were white from gripping the wheel and sweat was beading on the back of his neck.

The station was warm and bright, its many backup generators no doubt working overtime to provide the building with power. Once inside, he found Höglund, Chief Holgersson and the new addition Lindman, waiting in the conference room. "Shop keepers clearing snow reported finding a dead body," Höglund announced the moment he stepped into the room. "It's still partially buried in the snow; but it sounds like we may be dealing with a dead child."

God no, Martinsson thought. He couldn't hold back a wince. All deaths were tragic, but a child. . .

"Where's Kjellman got to?" Holgersson asked, glancing around.

"Kjellman, the new transfer?" Martinsson said, confused. "I thought his flight had been canceled?"

"He heard the weather could get bad and managed to catch an earlier one," Holgerson replied. "He arrived midday yesterday." Turning on her heels, she headed towards the cantina, ostensibly on a mission to locate the new detective,

"Have we got any idea on an age?" Martinsson asked, turning his attention back to Höglund and the case.

Höglund shook her head. "Young," she said simply, her normally pale face going even wanner.

Höglund, Martinsson knew, had several children. He could imagine what she must be thinking, imagining one of her own out there, dead and buried in the unforgiving snow. Chief Holgerson was coming back up the hall. Martinsson heard the click of her boot heels on the tile, followed by another, heavier tread and turned to look. The second set of footfalls belonged to a man. A very big, very blond man. Martinsson stared. Until that moment he'd forgotten much of what had happened the night before. Now it all came rushing back. The new comer was staring too, gazing at Martinsson with a matching look of disbelief. He has blue eyes, Martinsson thought. I'd forgotten he had blue eyes. His stomach lurched.

"Martinsson," Holgerson was saying. "This is detective Jan Kjel-"

"Excuse me a moment," Martinsson interrupted. Turning he walked rapidly out of the room and down the hall. Knowing he wasn't going to make it to the men's toilets in time, he ducked into his office and slamming the door, vomited into the wastepaper bin. A man, his mind screamed. He'd nearly- He couldn't allow himself to complete the line of thought. There was work to be done. Now was no time for indulging in the panic he felt building in his gut. He forced himself to straighten. The case, think of the case. A child is lying dead out there and the responsibility is on your shoulders to find out why, he told himself. Wiping his mouth with a tissue and tossing it into the bin, he stepped out into the hall. On the way back to the conference room, he stopped and filled a cup with coffee, swished the hot, bitter liquid through his teeth to rid his mouth of the taste of sick. When he returned to the conference room four minutes after he'd left, he was, at least on the surface, composed.

"Sorry about that," he said, in reply to the concerned gazes everyone was leveling on him. Everyone except a certain blond, who was still regarding him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. "I'm feeling a little under the weather this morning," he explained.

"You'd better not be contagious," someone muttered. Probably Lindman.

"Detective Kjellman," Martinsson said, heart hammering crazily in his chest, his stomach once again threatening rebellion. Steeling himself, he walk over to the other man and stuck out the hand not grasping his coffee cup. "Welcome to the team."