one shots

Detective, Detective, there's gonna be a murder.

Dark whiskey stung her. She never was a cocktail girl, the artificial fruity flavours made her head spin and her gut growl. Waving her hand over at the bartender, she signaled for a refill. 'Better to drown it then carry it' she always said.

She'd been drinking here since the accident. So often that a mutual agreement to not sit in her spot was written across the faces of everybody there. The tv in the corner flickered angrily with football headlines, muted, and a sway of music echoed throughout the pub. Small chatter fell on a certain few, but she stayed silent.

Another glass of whiskey and cola hit the mat in front of her, and grabbing it immediately, she brought it to her lips. Oh sweet, sweet liquor. "That's your fourth one tonight, Jay." The bartender stated, concern lacing his voice.

"Well done, Sherlock." She mumbled simply. She was not in the mood for socialising. The bartender, realising his luck, turned and picked up a glass, drying it, and went back to his original practice. Her eyes shut, causing the already dim room to go pitch black. A slow sigh was released through her mouth, as she sensed her head starting to take up that familiar fuzzy feeling.

It had been six months. Six months since she messed up her only chance to live her dream. Six months since she handed in her badge and gun to her sergeant. Six whole months since Jay Taylor had quit her job as a detective. She remembered it like yesterday, the case, the body, the accident. How she realised the only lead that could bring the gang down had been murdered in broad daylight, on her watch. She would regret making that decision for the rest of her time on this god forsaken earth.

Her eyes peeked open, bringing herself back to reality. Taking one last gulp of her whiskey, she found comfort in that deadly sting that ran down her throat. Placing the glass down she shouted over to the bartender. "Give us another, Chris." He shook his head at her.

"You've had enough, Jay, it's time to go home. Let me call you a cab." He gestured to his phone in his pocket, and threatened to pick it up.

"I said, give us another drink, Chris." Although slightly tipsy, she held her composure and steadied her voice.

"And I said no, Jay, time to go home." He argued. The clock on the wall read 12:47am, almost closing time.

"I swear to god, Chris I-" She was cut off by a voice louder than both of theirs combined.

"Detective Jay Taylor?" A man asked, about 6'1, 170lb, brown hair and a tattoo on his left forearm which reads 'vita incerta, mors certissima'. She still had it.

"Detective Jay Taylor. Is she here?" At this point everybody had gone back to their drinks, though their eyes still fluttered up now and again. She twisted her body back round to the bar and lifted her glass to her lips once again, checking for any last substance left. None.

"I'm not a detective anymore." She muttered under her breath. The glass was now back on the mat and her purse was gripped in her hand, while she fumbled for some notes.

"Detective Jay Taylor, Sergeant Ward is requesting you." He said plainly, his steps echoed throughout the pub. She hadn't heard that name for ages.

"I haven't heard that name for ages." She repeated aloud. "What does he want?"

"He needs you to follow a lead." He started. "Your CI that was murdered six months ago? Yeah, he's alive, and he has some information you might want to hear."