Title– And So Things Go (17/34)
Author– jlrpuck
Rating – T
Pairing – Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer – Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary – The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes – Peter settles back into life in Kendal.

earlgreytea68  and chicklet73  have been ideal betas for this—supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas. lostwolfchats  has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors—grammatical, colloquial, or factual—are mine, and mine alone. The lovely header is by angelfireeast .

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue

Time passed, and life began to return to its usual routine. Penny warmed back up to him, and Louise continued to happily offer her (often unsolicited) advice on what Peter should do with his life. Martin had begun to ring on Saturdays, and while the conversations were painfully awkward, Peter was determined to make it work. Martin was certainly making the effort, letting Peter know that he was still clean, that he and Mariah were back together; the least Peter could do was sit on the other end of the line and offer some kind of support or touchstone for his brother.

He’d finally begun to swim again, as well, sneaking laps in after shift, taking ruthless advantage of the crush the manager of the community pool had on him to sneak in after hours. It helped a little, the quiet time—but not a lot. The truth was, he had far too much of the quiet time these days, living alone in his empty house. He’d savoured the quiet time for years, cherishing it; now, though, he found it lacked the comfort it once did.

And then, two weeks after he and Rose had escaped to Cheshire, his world was once again turned upside-down.

“Carlisle,” he barked into the phone; one of the ASBOs had been pranking the station, and he and everyone else were heartily sick of the calls. A unit had been trying to find the caller, but had had no luck as of yet.

“Nice to see your attitude hasn’t changed,” a voice drawled into his ear.

It took a second for the voice to click. Elias.

“It’s lovely to hear from you, Inspector McCoy—how’s the missus?” he retorted.

Elias laughed. “She’s well, and sends her regards. She also wants to know when we’re going to meet the girlfriend.”

“Whenever I get to London.” Peter was playing with his pen, spinning it on his blotter, not really in the mood to deal with Elias or the memories of working in Glasgow. It had been a window into how things could be—and it was starkly different from how things were, in his day-to-day life.

“Excellent. You’re needed down here tomorrow.”

“What?” He exclaimed loudly enough that every head in the room turned to look at him.

“I did tell you to expect to come to town to finish the case, Carlisle.”

“Tomorrow?”

“You’d rather I’d waited until tomorrow to call?”

He’d somehow managed to forget how infuriating Elias could be. “No! But it’s not like I can just drop—”

“CARLISLE!” Williams bellowed across the room.

“Gotta go, Elias, the boss is calling. I’ll ring you back.”

“Don’t you need my desk number?”

Infuriating man. “Hurry up.”

Peter scribbled the number onto his blotter and hung up before reporting to Williams’s office. The DCI was almost puce, and Peter wondered what on earth he’d done to cause such a reaction.

“Could you tell me why the Met are requesting your presence in London tomorrow?”

Bugger all—why couldn’t Elias have called ten minutes earlier? “I believe it’s to finalize some outstanding issues on the case I was seconded to, sir.” Peter stared out the window, not really caring about Williams's reaction.

“I’ve been ordered to ensure that you are free to go, and will report to Scotland Yard at 0800 tomorrow.” Peter could hear accusation lurking in Williams’s voice—that Peter had once again failed the DCI, this time by not giving him advance notice that the request would be forthcoming.

“’s news to me, sir,” Peter replied idly.

“Of course it is.” Williams glared at him. “Don’t go getting any ideas about your place in the pecking order, Carlisle.”

Peter gave a non-committal nod.

“Send Penington in here, and make sure he has a list of your active cases.” Williams dismissed him by turning away, practically quivering with rage.

Peter strolled out of Williams’s open door; Penny was already working on the list of cases by the time Peter returned to his desk. He sat with the DC, carefully reviewing the disposition of each case, ensuring the DC was well set on those cases on which Peter had been primary investigator. An hour later, Penny stood, ready to face Williams.

“Enjoy London, sir. And if you see Miss Tyler, please give her my regards.” The DC appeared to offer the sentiment without irony.

“Thank you, Penny.” Peter stood. “Watch your back.”

He watched the younger man stroll across the room, then returned his attention to his desk. He hastily swept the spare papers into a drawer, left his notes and files for the active cases on Penny’s desk, and then ripped Elias’s number from the blotter before leaving.

He waited until he was in his car to ring Elias back.

“McCoy,” Elias answered.

“What in hell is going on?”

“Hello, Peter, lovely to hear from you.”

Peter didn’t respond.

Elias’s sigh was audible. “We thought it might speed things along to have a request come from on high.”

“We?”

“Prosecution.”

“Are you calling me down for deposition?” Peter was incredulous.

“We’re calling you down to testify.”

“What?”

“I told you this, Peter. ‘Expect to testify,’ I seem to recall saying.”

“But...tomorrow?”

Elias laughed. “How do you do things up there? Of course not tomorrow! Sometime in the next week.”

Peter ground his teeth.

“Will you be staying with Rose?” Elias’s voice was entirely too chipper.

“No. I bloody will not. She’s off about.” Rose had called him the day before, bearing the news that she was being sent on a mission; she had been optimistic that it would be of short duration, but it meant she’d be out of London for at least a few days.

“No tea, then?”

“No,” Peter ground out.

“Ruby’ll be crushed. You’ve a zeppelin ticket waiting for you at the airfield—and you’re booked into the Thistle on the Strand. Seemed appropriate.”

“Fantastic.”

“Peter—look on this as an adventure, not a chore.”

“I would, if I didn’t feel I was being manipulated.”

“You’re not.” Elias’s voice was surprised. “I am sorry. We really did think it was the best—well, the fastest—way to get everything arranged.”

Peter sighed. “The road to hell, I hear, is paved with good intentions.”

“Ah, there’s the Carlisle sense of humour. If you’re here early enough, Ruby wants to meet for supper.”

“How long am I expected to be there?” Peter could hear the resignation in his voice.

“A week. Maybe two—it depends on how the prosecution plays out. You’ll need a suit.”

“I have testified before.”

“I’m impressed.” Elias’s voice was filled with mirth.

Peter stifled the pejorative that leapt to his lips. “Goodbye, Elias.” He rang off without waiting for a response.

The clock on the dash told him it was just going noon; he was familiar enough with the flights to London to know there was a 1330 zeppelin direct to the London Airfield. He could make that.

He squealed his tires as he pulled out of the parking lot, intent on catching that flight.

~ - ~

It was strange to be in London and not be with Rose; somehow, in their six months together, Rose and London had become inextricably linked in his mind. He’d called and left her a message as the zeppelin drifted southward; he hoped he’d hear from her, that she’d be back in the city before he left.

He was met at the city airfield by a uniformed officer; a very pleasant surprise, to be sure, and one that made him uncomfortable—he’d not told Elias which flight he’d be on. A quick phone to call to his former (temporary) partner confirmed that someone had been sent for him—“We checked the manifests, Peter. Being detectives and all,” Elias had said, his voice filled with mirth—and Peter wondered at it during the silent ride to the hotel.

His room was small but comfortable, and what it lacked in size it made up for in view: he could look out over the Embankment from his window, and he tried not to think about Rose’s flat, lying just out of sight around the bend in the river. He wished she was there, and that he had the comfort of knowing he could visit her.

He didn’t particularly want to go to dinner, and was fully prepared to hide in his room—but Ruby found out his room number, and was banging his door down five minutes after he was meant to be downstairs. He finally answered, his shirt untucked; she enveloped him in a bear hug, startling him, and he felt his foul temper begin to evaporate.

“You look like hell,” she assessed frankly as she released him.

“Thanks,” he replied, tucking his shirt in.

Her expression softened. “Is everything alright with you?”

“Same as ever.”

Ruby nodded. “Let’s go to supper, then. Elias is just downstairs." He sighed, and hurriedly made himself presentable as Ruby gazed out the window.

When he made it downstairs, Elias greeted him with a hearty handshake. “You in a better mood, then?” he asked without preamble.

“I’ve decided it’ll be easier to lie back and think of England.”

Ruby guffawed.

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” Elias offered.

Dinner was at a small restaurant a few blocks away; they had missed most of the theatre-going crowd, and were instead surrounded by wide-eyed tourists. Not once during the meal did Elias discuss work or the case; instead, he and Ruby regaled Peter with stories of various trips they’d taken, or with anecdotes from parties they’d hosted. Peter offered a few tales of his trips—he’d not been many places, but it was clear that he was meant to play along, to act like someone who’d run across an old friend.

He noticed Rose’s name was never mentioned, and it struck him briefly as odd.

They returned to the hotel for nightcaps in the bar. Elias once again ruined a perfectly good whisky by adding ice; Peter opted for a nicely aged whisky, neat. Ruby ordered some coffee-and-liqueur concoction, and grinned at him as she took a dainty sip. Once settled into a dark corner, Elias got down to business.

“Have you read anything at all about the case?”

Peter took a sip of his whisky, setting his glass down before he answered. “No. Should I have done?”

“It doesn’t matter either way—I was curious as to how much you knew about what happened after you left Glasgow.”

“Assume the answer is ‘nothing’.”

Elias nodded. “Here’s what’s made it into the papers, then. An unnamed source in Glasgow provided evidence to the effect that one DCS, one DCI, and three DI’s were running a drugs operation out of London. That witness was murdered in an attempt to derail the case, but the gentlemen who were responsible for the murder have since provided sworn statements that they were acting at the direction of one of the previously referenced DI’s. That DI, having some sense of self-preservation, turned and sold out the rest of the crew.”

“Good god,” Peter breathed.

“In an unusually rapid demonstration of justice—and because the evidence is bloody fantastic—the case is going to swift and speedy trial. The hearing will be closed, but the detectives responsible for solving the murder of the informant will be key witnesses.”

Peter swallowed. He’d testified, yes—but not in anything like this.

Elias glanced around; the bar was empty, save for them. “What I need to know is—is there anything in your past that’s going to be brought up in an attempt to discredit our work, or this case?”

Peter felt the world briefly slip away from him.

“Yes,” he finally whispered, bile burning his throat.

Ruby had the grace to look surprised; Elias simply leaned closer. “How long ago?

“Six years? Give or take?”

“Who knows?”

Peter laughed mirthlessly. “The North Lakes Constabulary. The force in Blackpool. My ex-partner, so probably most of Cornwall.”

“Does Rose know?”

“Of course she does.” Peter was surprised the question was necessary. He’d told her about it on their second date—and in the months since, he’d filled her in on the rest of what had happened. All of it. She’d not yelled, hadn’t shut him out; her quiet empathy and concern for him had almost been worse.

“Could you be blackmailed for it?”

Peter sighed. “Do I want it all over the media? No. Would I pay money or break the law to keep it secret? No.” Not five minutes after he’d leaned on Blythe, he’d realized that nothing—nothing at all—was worth the price exacted by blackmail.

“Anything else?”

“I think the zanzare have done a pretty thorough job with everything else,” he replied drily.

“Such as?”

Peter took a healthy swig of his whisky before sitting back to recite the list. “Mum overdosed on prescription painkillers after breaking her leg. Dad drank himself to death. I experimented with drugs in secondary school. My brother is a recovering heroin addict who used to deal to pay the bills. My ex-wife had an affair and divorced me.” He paused. “My co-workers hate me, but I doubt that’ll come as a surprise.”

“Like a Dickens novel, your life,” Ruby offered.

It was hardly the first time he’d heard the comparison. “Without the workhouse,” he replied.

“Any financial indiscretions?” Elias pressed.

Peter shook his head. “The one place I got lucky—or smart.”

“You’ll have to tell Warren—the prosecutor—about the indiscretions, you know.”

Peter sighed deeply. “Yeah. Best to get that in the open.”

And so it was that at 0830 the next morning, Peter found himself reliving the Blackpool debacle in far more detail than he really cared to. Every particular of it was dissected, the prosecutor—Warren—methodically walking him through the events. Elias was sat in the back of the room, another—older—man sitting silently next to him.

Peter felt oddly relieved when they finally finished re-hashing Blackpool, every gory detail laid forth. It was a bit like confessing, he supposed; and he was surprised to discover that it wasn’t nearly as hard to talk about Blackpool as it once had been. And yet he found himself worried, wondering just what Elias and the quiet man next to him would think.

Ah, well—it couldn’t be any worse than many of the things he’d thought about himself in those dark months afterwards.

He felt the mood in the room perceptibly lighten when, at the very end of the questioning, he was able to state that no charges had been filed against him, and that an internal investigation had revealed he’d exercised only poor judgement and no criminal misdeeds.

“Do you think Danny Holden murdered Mike Hooley?” Elias’s voice piped from the back of the room.

Peter turned, glancing briefly at the man sitting next to Elias before meeting McCoy’s gaze. He’d asked himself that question a thousand times. “I think he was responsible for Hooley’s death, yes. But I think it was accidental, the result of him defending Haley from his blows.” He shifted his eyes to the mysterious gentleman once more; the gentleman returned his gaze evenly.

“What do you think Blythe would say?” Elias pulled Peter’s attention back to him.

Wee Blythe. It was hard to forget the disappointment and betrayal the DC had expressed at the end—and rightly so. He’d managed to dance around the edges of how things had ended with Blythe when talking to Warren, stating that he had encouraged his DC to drop charges based on the evidence, but not sharing out the threat he’d gone so far as to make against the DC. Granted, the threat had a minor basis in reality—Blythe had dabbled in some of the softer drugs during his off hours, at least until Peter caught him at it and had made it clear to his DC that he wouldn’t stand for it. In return for Blythe cleaning up, Peter had kept silent.

He assumed that was why Blythe had refrained from saying a word to anyone about what had happened in that darkened booth on the North Pier. Blythe hadn’t been in touch since Peter had appeared in the tabloids, and it appeared now-DI Blythe would continue to hold his peace.

“Blythe thought Danny was responsible all along. And he was right.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Holden since?”

“Ripley? Yes—at Natalie’s funeral. He seemed to have found religion in Las Vegas, and told me he forgave me.” Peter had just about fallen over at the time. “I suspect some of the goodwill was because Natalie had gone back to him.”

“And the children?

“Shyanne told me to go to hell. Danny shook my hand and scurried off without a word.”

Elias nodded, and Peter turned back to Warren.

“And since, Inspector?

“Nothing.”

“I meant related to work,” Warren clarified.

“So did I.”

Warren closed his notebook. “What about Miss Tyler?”

“What about her?”

“How did you become involved?”

“She was in Kendal for work. We kept crossing paths.” He felt anxiety steal over him—what if they knew why Rose was really in Kendal? What if Williams had told them? Or any of the other officers?

“Really?”

“Would it help if I told you she and I didn’t much like each other, those first few times?” he asked, his tone dry.

“What changed?”

“How does this pertain to the case?”

“We’re looking for any weak points in your life, Peter.”

“If Blackpool doesn’t do it, nothing will.” He crossed his arms, leaning back. “My relationship with Rose Tyler is off-limits for this discussion.”

“Where does she work?” Warren pressed.

“Torchwood LLC.” Which, technically, was true.

“Doing?”

“She’s an administrator.”

“Nothing else?”

Peter leaned forward, his hands now resting on his legs. “What else do you think she does?”

Warren blinked, taken aback.

“You seem to have some idea of what she does, and it doesn’t match what I’ve said. So tell me—what do you think it is she does?”

“I...was just asking,” Warren replied, leaning back.

“She’s an administrator. She pushes paper,” Peter said with finality, leaning back and crossing his arms once again.

“Right.” Warren glanced down at his closed notebook. “That’s it, then. We’ll need to start reviewing your reports tomorrow. Both of you.”

Peter nodded. “I’m here at the Met’s behest.”

Elias had stood, and walked over to the table. “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, then?”

Warren nodded. He stood, shaking Elias’s hand; Peter rose, and had his hand shaken in turn.

Elias watched the door close and then turned to Peter. “I’ve no doubt you’ve been wondering who’s been sitting with me in the back.”

“Yes.” Peter had suppressed his curiosity as best he could during the interview with Warren—but now that the prosecutor was gone, it was the only thing Peter could think of.

Elias nodded. “Peter, meet Eric Cunningham, Chief of Detectives. Sir, Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle from North Lakes.”

Peter felt lightheaded for a moment. He’d just detailed the events of Blackpool in front of the Met’s Chief of Detectives? He slowly made his way towards Cunningham, fighting down the urge to tell Elias off for not telling him sooner.

Cunningham stood and met him halfway across the space, shaking Peter’s hand firmly. Peter tried not to flinch under his scrutiny. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Bit of a cock-up in Blackpool.” Cunningham was shorter than him by several inches, but Peter still had the impression of looking up at him. His white hair was once a dark blonde, if his eyebrows were anything to go by, and his eyes were a deep, sharp blue. Peter had the idea that the man in front of him could be a very formidable foe indeed, and suddenly felt inexpressibly relieved that he’d been so incredibly frank with Warren.

“Yes, sir.” Peter felt his cheeks flush.

“Kept your nose clean since, though.” It was a declarative statement, not a question, and it occurred to Peter that the man in front of him had most likely pulled his personnel file.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good success rate.” He had pulled Peter’s file. The information certainly wouldn’t have come from the leadership at Kendal—they always attributed his success to luck or his partners or, sometimes, a combination of both.

“Not perfect, though.”

“Only human, boy. Yours is better than most.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peter wondered where this was going.

Elias must have sensed his confusion. “I’ve been reporting to the Chief on this investigation; he wanted to meet the man who had partnered me in Glasgow.”

Cunningham nodded sharply, once.

“Ah,” Peter offered, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“Confession’s good for the soul, but I’d imagine it’s not good for the stomach,” the Chief offered.

Peter realized with surprise that he was famished; he glanced at his watch and noted it was nearly one o’clock. “I could do with a snack,” he said to Elias.

Elias laughed. “I could do with more than that.” He glanced at Cunningham. “Sir? Would you care to join us for lunch?”

“No, no—things to do. Meet in my office in an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cunningham nodded at both of them, and walked out the door.

“Well, that was a fun morning,” Elias offered as the door clicked shut.

“For you, maybe.” Peter moved to the table, picking up his pen and sliding his chair forward.

“You seem to have come out alright in the end,” Elias observed.

“Time will tell.”

“Thank you, you know, for sharing all of that. Especially in front of an audience.”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I have done?” Peter asked, bewildered. True, he hadn’t enjoyed it, and might have even toyed with the idea of not answering Warren’s questions—but the reality was that he’d never have been able to do anything other than answer the questions, as forthrightly as he could.

“Not a lot of people would have been as forthcoming.”

“I don’t want the case to fail because I couldn’t be bothered to answer Warren’s questions,” Peter replied tersely.

“Well. Thanks,” Elias stated.

Peter moved to the door, but froze at Elias’s next statement.

“A word of advice, Peter.”

He turned slowly to face McCoy. “Yes?”

“Your hands clenched when you talked about Rose.”

“I don’t like—”

“When you talked about Rose, but only when you talked about what she does for a living. Ruby noticed it in Glasgow.”

Peter felt heat suffuse his face. “Got it,” he offered.

“Good. Now let’s get lunch.”