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It's early evening in late summer. Lewis is at an event at a stately home, and someone has spiked his drink (probably so that they could commit a murder without him realising). He's wandered out to the grounds where he's found a pleasing blue-flowered bush. Lying beneath it, he sees it in a way he's never seen a plant before. Or anything, for that matter.
Hortensia. He preferred that to its other name. He thought hortensia sounded nicer. Hydrangea always made him think of ancient Greek monsters.
He looked at the puffs of blue sitting up there like little worlds. Worlds could be made with that colour. Maybe they were. It was a blue of joy, pure joy. He couldn't keep the smile from his face. Those papery petals looked as though they could take flight, soar away and spread their silken wings. Of course! They meant life - curiosity. Wonder and passion. Ha! Lewis grinned. It was like a key unlocking in his mind. And to think, he used to find them boring! You just had to look, and really see them. He was seeing them.
Then he saw a pair of blue eyes appear above him. He'd never noticed how bright they were. He gazed up at the familiar face, tracing its features. They made the shape of their owners name - muh, on his cheeks, orh, round his nose and mouth, and suh, in his tuffled white hair. Lewis laughed. How had he not seen it before?
"Sir," he said in soft amazement, "your face is Morse!"
That face creased like a pillow. "Lewis, are you high?'
The sound tickled him, those curved, velvet notes. "Your voice is so round, sir. It's lovely."
"Oh god, what have they given you," Morse muttered. Even then, the words pooled like droplets. Lewis closed his eyes and bathed in them. "Can you get up?"
"Of course, sir," he smiled. He pushed himself up onto an elbow, then flopped back down on his back.
Morse sighed and got down on his knees. "Put your hand on my shoulder," he said, his voice nearer now. Lewis giggled with delight. It ebbed and it flowed, the tones dipping between plush and gloss. "Lewis," they droned, going down at the end like the bowl of a ladle, "will you stop laughing, you're making this onerous."
"Onerous," Lewis repeated, as his arm was placed on a shoulder. "Say that again, sir." He felt a hand at his side, and through a set of awkward motions he ended up on his feet. He leaned into the shoulder supporting him (or, draped, as it was a bit shorter than he was). Hanging off his Inspector, he peered down at the freshly cut grass. "How does a lawn know when to stop?" he asked. He was aware of white hair being slowly shaken, then he felt himself being guided forward.
"Come on," said Morse, "the Jag's round the corner."
The Jag. Jag-u-ar. As sleek as a big cat. It purred like one too. And red. What was that red? Not too rich, not too dull, just... Jaguar. It wasn't Morse's colour, but he suited it. Lewis felt his hand being grabbed and pulled back up.
"Almost there," Morse strained, a bit of rough in the velvet now.
Lewis watched the green turn to grey, then that deep dewy red came into view. The passenger door opened and he was lowered onto the seat. It smelled of leather polish and pear drops. The door was shut, then another one opened. Morse sat down and turned the engine on.
"Where are we going?" asked Lewis.
"Home."
There was a biting sound of crushed gravel as they reversed. It hurt his teeth. "Can you put on that tape, you know, where the woman sings like a songbird, all wavy and bouncing?" He fluttered his fingers.
Morse exhaled. "Lewis, I don't know what you've taken, but I really wish you hadn't." He swung the car round and they drove off.
Lewis looked out the window, watching trees and fields whizz by. He'd always known Morse drove too fast, but he hadn't realised how jagged it was. It wasn't a sphere, it was a triangle. He was pushed to the side as they clipped round a vertex.
Time slowly passed in cotton silence, then Morse switched on his tape player. A woman's voice trilled on a spiring flight. "That's it!" Lewis pointed at the player. "That's the one, sir! God, isn't it amazing." He drew the music with his hands. "What's it called?"
"Queen of the Night, Lewis, and last time you heard it you said it sounded like incomprehensible dog whistles."
"Sorry, sir, I couldn't appreciate it then, I was only hearing it."
"Ah. And I suppose now you're seeing the music?"
"Not just seeing it, sir, it's, it's... I don't have the words - the English language is so narrow!"
"Yes, it only has one million of them to choose from," Morse dripped in sarcasm.
But Lewis wasn't paying attention, instead watching the arpeggios quiver up and down. "Oh, sir, this is the best bit!" he enthused as the singer answered the playful phrase of the flute.
"That, I agree on."
The song came to an end and poured into the next - a slow, rolling piece with a deep male voice. Lewis sunk into the seat and floated through the somnolent baritone.
Drifting in and out, he recognised the street they were on. It was the one next to where he lived. The London plane in number thirty three's garden really was magnificent. As they slowed down, he thought about how he'd never paid it much attention, and as they sped back up he vaguely decided to admire it this evening. He felt the car turning right. Right? Wasn't it usually left?
When he came to, the door was open. He heard a click and then Morse muttering something about a bloody seatbelt. The vowels made him giddy. Somehow he made it out of the car and onto the gritted driveway. Over the edge of Morse's shoulder he saw the porch. They shuffled through the doorway and into the living room. Lewis felt himself being gently lowered onto the sofa. He looked around at familiar sights - his cushioned chair, his mahogany bookcase, his ugly brown lamp, his well-stocked drinks cabinet. Drinks cabinet? Hang on, this wasn't his house.
"We're at yours," he called to Morse, who'd gone through to the kitchen.
"We are, Lewis." Morse came back with a glass of water.
"Why?"
"Because, I didn't want you going home to Val and the kids in that state." He motioned at him generally.
"Oh." Lewis smiled.
Morse walked off again. Lewis heard a telephone being picked up. He made out the words 'Lewis', 'fine', and 'with me'.
A minute later Morse came back in and sat down next to him. He gave him his 'Inspector' look. Lewis wondered how anyone on the receiving side ever managed to keep a straight face.
"Lewis," Morse said in a policeman's tone, "can you remember what happened?"
Lewis snorted and fell into laughter. It was infectious laughter. The sort that even a seasoned interrogator found difficult not to catch.
Morse closed his eyes. "Let's try and be serious for a moment, shall we, without the" -- his lips curved a little at the sides -- "without the hysterics."
Lewis tried, but struggled to hold it back, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy.
When Morse opened his eyes he looked at Lewis with what seemed to be gravity, but the glint in them gave it away.
Lewis watched as each part of Morse's face tried not to follow suit. He smiled broadly. "They're wrong, sir,” he said.
"Who's wrong?" asked Morse, frowning now.
"Everyone. Everyone who thinks you're surly, and sullen, and cold. You're not, really."
Morse rolled his eyes. “Alright, I'll ask. What am I really?"
Lewis gazed at him hazily, then said, "Blue. A bright blue. Like hortensia."
He saw Morse's frown melt. The tension fell from his eyes and his forehead; then just as quickly, it pulled back, into weariness. Lewis knew that weariness. Morse wore it often. Though this time it looked different, not as harsh, not as him. It was like a film sitting on top of a jelly - sort of the real thing, but not quite.
Morse sighed in lemon & lime. "There's no use trying to get sense out of you right now," he said, and got up off the sofa. Lewis heard him walk upstairs. Then he heard movement and cupboards opening.
He looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. The shape made him happy. The artwork on the walls didn't though, they just made him dizzy.
When Morse came back he was holding a blanket and a pillow.
"What's this?" asked Lewis.
"Your bed," Morse replied as he put the pillow on the sofa.
This time it wasn't just the words that tickled Lewis, but the feel of the blanket being tucked in around him. Laughter bubbled in his stomach, but it didn't reach his throat, as he’d buried that into the soft pillow.
"Night, sir," he mumbled, his eyes closing.
"Goodnight, Lewis," he heard Morse reply. His voice was as soft as the pillow.
Lewis smiled. Then he fell asleep.