A/N: So I did have another chapter of this pretty much written, so why not post it. I'm not sure how much there will be after this for now - it's just not written yet, and I'm not sure where it's going. I also realized I wanted to change a previous name from Campbell to Cantrell to avoid confusion with Charlotte - I'll fix that now as well. Also, the football match that was supposed to be on Saturday actually occurred on Sunday, Feb 6, 2011. Not sure how I missed that. Also, the more I read over this the more I see the mixed English/British phrasing. But it is what it is - not a masterpiece by any means.

I hope you'll read and enjoy, nonetheless! bp

Chapter 3

A few hours and a couple more beers later, Nick and Ilsa had heard the entire story.

"So now you're hanging out with Al and Eddie's crew?" Ilsa had asked, barely keeping her face neutral.

"I don't know. It just sort of happened. And it doesn't have anything to do with Rokeby." Strike wiped a hairy forearm across his face. "I'm not quite as old as I look."

Nick came to his defense. "It's not so bad, Oggy. They seemed nice enough."

"I really only know the boy, Liam, and his girlfriend Abby a little. The others I'd never even met before." He shrugged. "I understand what's happening to him."

Ilsa placed her hand on his shoulder as she rose to check on a roast in the oven. "I'm sure he really appreciates any advice or wisdom you can give." She reappeared a moment or two later. "I still think you should stay for a while."

"And be underfoot all the time? I think not," Strike scoffed.

She kept eye contact with him until she peeked at the timer and through the door of the cooker. "Corm, you know neither of us would see it like that, and you're always welcome."

"I do, but I've got my place and my routine."

"Sure, fine." She agreed, then slipped in her own directive to the conversation as she rejoined the men in the sitting room. "Seeing anyone?"

Strike felt himself flushing a little. "Not since Nina, and that wasn't really, um, healthy."

"Looking?" she probed.

"Not so much."

"Well. Why not?"

"You trying to find me a Valentine, Ilsa?"

"I'm not doing anything for you, especially try to find you a date," she grinned. "You're far too set in your ways."

"I'm glad someone's bloody well noticed. Can you pass the memo on to Lucy?"

Nick guffawed as a timer sounded. Ilsa jumped up to silence it.

"Dinner in 15," she called as she disappeared again into the kitchen.

"You'll stay tonight, though. Yeah?"

Strike nodded, accepting Nick's invitation to get pissed and sleep on their couch. "For tonight." He stood, crutches at his side. "Gotta go before dinner."

Strike made his way home around noon the next day. He needed a shower and some time to decompress on his own turf. Without a major case taking up his time, his mind drifted, as it had much less often these days, to Charlotte. Or, more correctly, she was now The Viscountess of Croy. His chest didn't constrict so completely at the thought or mention of her since the day of the wedding photo email or the actual text on the wedding day. Frankly, he'd been much too busy living his own life, provincial as it was. He'd solved the murder of Owen Quine and had cleared the name of his client, the author's wife Lenora, prior to agreeing finally to the medical treatment necessary to keep his right knee in working order for the use of his prosthesis.

He reflected on how smoothly life without her seemed to be flowing. It wasn't as though there hadn't been bumps in the road, but business had never been better. In fact, the beginning of the case that had changed his professional life coincided exactly with the morning after he'd left her. Coincidence? He'd originally chalked it up to that, but the more he ruminated on the goings-on, the more he realized that the two events were definitely linked. Perhaps not caused by one another, but they were correlated, nonetheless. As was his continued success unhampered by her constant nagging about his professional life. While his 2.5 rooms and the office space below may not be success by her standards, his strides toward financial independence and moving from under the thumb of his own famous father counted as success in his book.

As such, he'd firmly shut the book on romance for now. Ilsa worried, as did his sister Lucy, that he'd not achieve life-long partnership, children, suburban living and all that. Frankly, he didn't want it. The idea of raising children made him physically ill. Charlotte had agreed with him on that, although now she was gleefully fulfilling the role of step-mummy to the Ross children. Allegedly. He wasn't sure what was truth anymore – the version she'd fed him or what the magazines now reported about her life. He assumed somewhere in between.

When he exited the bathroom, he found a voicemail on his phone from his assistant Robin. Still not married to fiancé Matthew, the titian-headed Yorkshire woman had inquired as to whether or not he was in need of the replenishing of his groceries. She was headed out to the shops herself but would come in closer to him if he needed provisions as well. He glanced over at the shelves. There were a couple of things he needed, but realistically he didn't need her coming all the way to Soho for his shopping. He sent a text back saying that he'd be fine. She responded that she was already on the way and that she'd be there in twenty minutes. He was dressed but still tidying up when she arrived.

"Did you just get in?" She asked looking around and taking in his laundry bag in the corner and his still wet hair. "Sorry. Not my business," she blushed. She'd only been invited into his home following the surgery and then only at her extreme insistence and his complete inability to manage his shopping.

"I stayed with Nick and Ilsa last night."

She grabbed his shopping bags from the hook behind the door. "D'you know what you need?"

"I made a bit of a list." He handed it to her.

"Are you going to take your laundry?"

He nodded. "I should."

"We'll do both."

"What's Matthew up to today?"

Robin's ears warmed on each side of her ponytail. "He's working."

Strike let that drop. "I'm ready." He pulled the bag of clothes over his shoulder and took the crutches.

"You good with that?" Robin asked, a bit of a pinched expression crossing her face.

"I'll be okay." He moved to lock the door behind her. "You can't carry that and the other bags, too."

They dropped his things at a nearby laundrette for a service wash and continued toward the markets he utilized most often.

"We could have done this tomorrow, you know," he pointed out as they grabbed some vegetables. "It's not like we've been SO busy."

"It's fine," she clipped her phrase and her heels as she turned away. "I'll find some sausages."

Strike groaned inwardly. He was definitely a distraction from whatever was going on between Robin and Matthew today. Without trying, he'd placed himself squarely in the middle of that. He made a mental note not to mention the fiancé for the rest of the afternoon. He looked up for Robin, but she was already gone. He sighed and started off after her.

When they finished, she suggested they loop back by Denmark Street to drop off his purchases before they grabbed a bite since his laundry wasn't yet completed. She also insisted he wait at the bottom of the three flights of stairs. She'd take care of the bags and the perishables. He reluctantly agreed, hoping there was nothing truly foul in his fridge. She didn't give him much time to worry, though, as she rejoined him on the street less than 10 minutes later. She continued in a huff toward the Tottenham. He really didn't have any recourse but to follow her.

"You want a pint? I'm buying." She asked as he slid onto a bench.

"Just coffee." He'd honestly contemplated curtailing his drinking again over the course of the morning, if for no other reason than a financial one.

She retreated to the counter and returned a bit later with a cup filled with steaming liquid for him and a white wine for herself. He nodded his approval.

"I nearly had to brew it myself," she revealed, sounding a bit exasperated.

"It's good," Strike affirmed.

"How are Nick and Ilsa?"

"They're well. Nick went to the football with me yesterday afternoon."

"Arsenal were away," she blurted.

Strike narrowed his eyes at her. She was not much of a football fan, as such. "They were. We went to see Liverpool at Chelsea."

She sipped her wine. "That makes no sense."

Strike chuckled. "No. It doesn't. But Liam Jones invited me. Well, us, actually. His brother plays at Chelsea now."

"And Nick went of his own accord?"

"We went to support Liverpool, in that we both wanted them to beat Chelsea. And they did." He lifted his cup to her.

She laughed, clinking her glass against it. "Well. There's always that."

"There is." He shifted the conversation without thinking. "How's your weekend been?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Matthew had rugby yesterday and he's working today, so I've basically fended for myself. I decided today would be a better day for shopping than yesterday, as I was at the rugby pitch all afternoon."

Strike realized she had no bags. Everything she'd been carrying had been deposited in his flat. "Did you actually do any shopping, though?"

Robin's face flushed a deep crimson. "No. I guess I forgot when we were picking up your things."

"We can get my laundry tomorrow, and you should take care of your own shopping before it gets too late."

"That might be best."

He didn't wish to discuss Matthew, and there was really nothing pressing going on at the office. He found himself content to sit silently, his mind drifting back to Liam and the preceding days.

Her voice cut into his thoughts. "How's the knee coming along?"

"Hm? Oh. Should be up and running, so to speak, in a fortnight or so."

"That soon?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I head over to Majorca to give you a bit more time running the show, then?"

She snorted. "I'd pay to see that."

"You'd be the only one."

Robin drained her wineglass. "I should be getting on."

Strike levered to standing and she handed over his sticks. "Thanks for the coffee. And the shopping."

She waved him off. "Not a problem. See you in the morning."

"See you then."

Strike headed down the street toward his place. He wanted to tidy up the office and grab a nap before he watched the evening match on Sky and made the schedule for the upcoming week.

TBC at some point...