The Five-Minute Nap That Changed Nothing

“Exhaustion isn’t just tiredness. It’s the moment your body starts making decisions your brain hasn’t signed off on yet.”

My head jerked upwards with a sharp snap, neck muscles protesting the sudden movement, my eyes flying open as if I'd been caught in the act—which, in fairness, I absolutely had. The screen in front of me swam sickeningly, its words dissolving into a blurred soup of letters that refused to hold shape or meaning, black text bleeding into white background until everything became an indistinct grey fog.

I blinked rapidly, squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again, trying to force the characters into coherence through sheer will. But it was no use. My brain felt like cotton—wet, heavy, and utterly uncooperative. Dense and waterlogged, thoughts moving with the sluggish resistance of something drowning.

The exhaustion from the last few days had finally caught up to me, creeping in unnoticed whilst I was focused on cases and Karl and Jane and all the spinning plates I was trying to keep airborne. Now it wrapped itself around my skull like fog rolling in off the Derwent, thick and impenetrable and impossible to see through.

Even reading—something usually so instinctive, so automatic I never thought about the mechanics of it—felt like trying to climb a muddy slope barefoot. Every word required concentrated effort, every sentence a battle against the gravitational pull of unconsciousness.

I'd been staring at the same paragraph for what felt like hours, trying to extract meaning from a witness statement that kept dissolving before I could grasp it. The words were English, probably said something important, but they might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian for all the sense they were making.

Jane had been worse last night. Couldn't keep food down, couldn't sleep comfortably, couldn't do anything but lie in her bed looking small and fragile whilst I'd sat in the chair beside her pretending everything was fine. Pretending I wasn't watching her die in slow motion, counting down days I couldn't bear to number.

I'd stayed until nearly three in the morning, dozing fitfully in that uncomfortable chair whilst she drifted in and out of restless sleep, waking whenever she made small sounds of discomfort that might mean she needed something.

Then dragged myself home for a few hours of something that barely qualified as rest before forcing myself back here, into this chair, in front of this screen, trying to function like someone who'd had adequate sleep and wasn't slowly coming apart at the seams.

I closed my eyes just a little, the lids heavy with defiance against being forced to remain open. Just a few minutes, I reasoned with myself. No one would notice. A power nap wasn't a crime. Hell, half the squad had made entire careers out of strategic office sleeping—Glen in particular seemed to treat his desk as a second bed, regularly found snoring gently over paperwork he was supposed to be reviewing.

If Glen could nap through entire shifts without consequence, surely I could steal five minutes without the world ending.

Lifting my arm, I cupped my hand into a makeshift pillow—fingers curled, palm cradling my forehead—and let my head rest lightly against the warmth of my own skin. The contact was oddly soothing, like my body was already giving in to what it desperately needed, surrendering to the exhaustion I'd been fighting since dawn.

Just five minutes, I told myself, consciousness already slipping sideways into that grey space between waking and sleeping. Nobody will even notice I'm gone...

"Sarah!"

The voice cut through the haze like a whipcrack—sharp, loud, immediate. My head slipped from my hand with a startled jerk, neck snapping back with enough force to send pain shooting down my spine. I nearly thunked my forehead against the desk, caught myself in time but only just—clumsy and graceless, arms flailing slightly for balance like someone yanked out of a dream before the ending, before the plot made sense.

"I'm awake!" I blurted, the words erupting louder than I'd meant them to, defensive and automatic.

I grimaced, rubbing at the stiff kink in my neck with one hand—the muscles having seized during my brief unconscious stint—whilst scanning the room with the other, half-expecting Karl to be grinning smugly from his desk, having caught me sleeping on the job and now preparing to make some cutting remark about professionalism.

But Karl was seated metres away, utterly absorbed in whatever was on his screen. Calm. Focused. Unmoved by my dramatic resurrection. His posture suggested deep concentration rather than amusement—shoulders slightly hunched, fingers moving across the keyboard with steady purpose, eyes tracking across text with the intensity of someone reading something genuinely important.

If he'd noticed my dramatic wake-up call—the flailing, the shouting, the general spectacle of someone being forcibly dragged from sleep—he gave absolutely no sign of it. Didn't even glance in my direction.

But he's so far away... I thought, the fog in my mind swirling with new confusion as I tried to calculate distances and sound travel and whether Karl's voice could have reached me from that position. I frowned, brain struggling to piece together cause and effect. Was that really him?

I couldn't picture Karl shouting like that across the office—bellowing my name with enough volume to wake the dead—then silently returning to his chair as if nothing had happened, resuming work without acknowledgment or explanation. It didn't fit his personality, didn't match his usual patterns of behaviour.

Karl was many things—cryptic, frustrating, occasionally infuriating—but he wasn't theatrical. Didn't make scenes. Didn't draw attention unnecessarily.

I turned back to my desk, still puzzled, still trying to reconstruct what had just happened—and froze.

Two long, muscular legs stood directly in front of me, planted firmly on the worn carpet with the casual confidence of someone who knew they drew attention and didn't mind it. The kind of legs that belonged to someone who ran marathons for fun or cycled mountain trails on weekends, defined muscle visible even at rest.

My gaze followed the thick hair that curled along the tanned skin—dark against bronze, catching office light in ways that suggested a lot of outdoor activity—winding up powerful calves that could probably crack walnuts and thighs that stretched the limits of what could reasonably be called "shorts." The fabric clung like it had been painted on, leaving almost nothing to imagination.

It was a view that was both startling and strangely hard to look away from—the kind of display that made you wonder if mirrors had been consulted before leaving the house, if this much exposure was intentional statement or oblivious choice.

"Duncan," I said finally, lifting my eyes at last to meet his face, dragging my gaze northward past an expanse of athletic male form. There he was—tall, sun-kissed, built like a triathlete mid-season with the kind of healthy glow that suggested he'd never spent a day inside if outdoor options existed.

His face was familiar—strong jaw, straight nose, blue eyes that crinkled at the corners from smiling or squinting into sun. Handsome in that uncomplicated way that magazine covers loved, the kind of attractive that was obvious and unobjectionable and somehow still failed to generate any particular reaction in me.

"It's so good to see you again. And so much of you," I added with a smirk I couldn't quite suppress, gesturing vaguely to his skin-tight athletic shirt.

It was some kind of technical fabric—moisture-wicking, probably, designed for performance rather than modesty—stretched across a chest that suggested regular gym attendance.

He grinned in response—all white teeth and confidence, the kind of smile that charmed without trying too hard, that worked on most people even if it didn't particularly work on me. "You too, Sarah," he said warmly, voice carrying genuine pleasure at seeing me. "It's been a while. I wasn't sure whether I should call you."

There was something behind the friendliness. Not quite reproach, not quite flirtation—just a lingering question in his tone that hung in the air like smoke. A reminder of something unresolved between us, of promises made or implied that hadn't been kept.

My face flushed hot, colour rushing in before I could stop it—heat spreading across my cheeks and down my neck in a betrayal of composure I'd have preferred to maintain. Guilt bloomed in my chest, unfurling like a toxic flower.

"I'm so sorry, Duncan," I said quickly, the words tumbling out before I could edit them into something more composed, more professional. "I got distracted. My grandmother is unwell."

It wasn't a lie—Jane was unwell, terminally so—but it wasn't the whole truth either. The complete truth was more complicated, involved more active avoidance than passive distraction. I hadn't meant to ghost him after the last work dinner, hadn't planned to ignore his texts and calls. But life had crept in and clawed my focus away, and responding to Duncan had felt like one obligation too many in a life already overflowing with demands I couldn't meet.

And if I was being honest with myself—which I tried to avoid when possible—I also hadn't known what to say. How to acknowledge whatever had apparently happened between us that night without actually remembering it. How to let him down gently when I couldn't even remember what I needed to let him down from.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Duncan said, and to his credit, his expression shifted immediately. The hint of hurt or confusion vanished, replaced by genuine concern. There was a softness there that reminded me why I'd once thought he might be more than just another colleague with exceptional calves and excellent teeth. "Your grandmother is a lovely woman."

The statement caught me off guard—both its sincerity and the fact that he'd met Jane at all. Then I remembered: the station barbecue last summer, before the diagnosis, when Jane had still been well enough to attend my work events. When she'd charmed half the department with stories about wartime rationing and made Duncan laugh with some anecdote about learning to dance from American servicemen.

She'd liked him, I recalled. Had mentioned afterwards that he seemed like "a nice young man" in that particular tone that suggested she thought I should pursue him romantically. Jane's matchmaking instincts had always been enthusiastic if not particularly well-targeted.

"Thank you," I said quietly, letting the moment settle, feeling the weight of his sympathy land with uncomfortable warmth. Then I took a breath and shifted the tone deliberately, steering us back to safer professional territory. Work. Back to work. "Did you bring the hard drive?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Duncan said, snapping back into business mode with visible relief—clearly as glad as I was to have concrete tasks to focus on rather than navigating emotional subtext neither of us wanted to address. Still smiling, but now all task and purpose rather than personal connection.

I watched as he shrugged the bag off his broad shoulder—one of those athletic messenger bags designed for cycling, all weatherproof fabric and reflective strips. His shirt stretched slightly across his chest with the movement, pulling taut over defined pectorals in ways that probably weren't accidental given how deliberately fitted the garment was.

I forced my eyes elsewhere—on the bag, on the task, on the damn drive that represented actual work rather than whatever uncomfortable dance Duncan and I were doing around each other.

"Here it is," he announced with something approaching triumph, pulling out a slim black case no bigger than a smartphone—compact, professional, promising answers locked in digital format.

"Two weeks' worth?" I asked as I took it from him, fingers closing around the case. It felt heavier than expected for something so small, though that was probably just projection—knowing what could be locked inside, what crucial evidence might be contained in those megabytes of surveillance footage.

"Two weeks' worth. All accounted for," Duncan confirmed with a nod, his tone carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd completed their assigned task competently and on schedule.

"Great," I said, managing a smile that felt only slightly forced. I should have been relieved—this was good news, exactly what we needed, another piece of evidence to process. I was relieved, genuinely. But as I glanced up to thank him properly, to acknowledge his effort in bringing this down from Devonport, I caught it—

A brief pause. A flicker of movement. Duncan's eyes dipping downward, lingering just a little too long on my chest.

It was subtle. Barely noticeable. Maybe even unconscious—one of those involuntary eye movements that happened before the brain's social filter could engage. But it was there, unmistakable once noticed. That particular male gaze that reduced you from person to parts, that made you suddenly aware of your body in ways you hadn't been seconds before.

And just like that, the moment soured. The pleasant professional interaction curdled into something uncomfortable, something that made my skin prickle with awareness I didn't want.

I looked away, shifting in my chair slightly—a defensive movement, creating distance even whilst sitting still. The weight of the hard drive in my hand suddenly felt sharper, more grounding, a tangible object to focus on instead of Duncan's wandering attention.

He probably didn't mean anything by it. Probably wasn't even aware he'd done it. Just one of those things men did without thinking, without realising how it landed, how it changed the atmosphere in barely perceptible but undeniable ways.

But still... it unsettled me. Made me remember why I'd been avoiding his calls, why pursuing anything with Duncan felt like more trouble than it was worth.

"That's all, thank you, Duncan," I said, my tone firm but polite—professional courtesy wrapped around unmistakable dismissal.

But Duncan, bless him, didn't seem to get the memo. He continued standing there, weight shifting from foot to foot, hands now empty but body still present. Awkwardly hovering like someone waiting for an invitation that wasn't coming, unsure whether he was supposed to say something else or just bask in his own reflection in the office windows.

The silence stretched. I could feel his presence pressing on my awareness like humidity before a storm—not threatening exactly, just... there. Uncomfortable. Unwanted.

I needed an exit, and fast. For both of us.

"Uh. I believe Ellen was keen to see you too," I offered, seizing the opportunity like a drowning woman grasping at driftwood. I remembered her offhand comment earlier about Duncan bringing down the drive, the particular tone she'd used that suggested interest beyond professional courtesy.

Ellen and Duncan. Perfect. Let them navigate whatever that was whilst I escaped this increasingly awkward interaction.

"Really?" Duncan lit up instantly, eyes brightening in a way that made me regret weaponising Ellen's name even as I was grateful for the exit strategy. His enthusiasm was... a lot. Like a Labrador realising the lead had come out, all eager attention suddenly redirected toward new possibility.

I wondered briefly if I should feel guilty about this—about using Ellen as bait, about encouraging whatever weird dynamic existed between them. Then decided I didn't care enough to examine that particular ethical question.

Doing my best to appear serious rather than desperately trying to end this conversation, I nodded with all the faux sincerity I could muster. "Oh, yes. I definitely remember her telling me how excited she was to hear that you were going to be visiting today."

The lie came easily, smoothly, wrapped in just enough truth—Ellen had mentioned Duncan, had seemed pleased he'd be delivering the drive personally—to be plausible.

"But, you know, I'm sure I remember her also saying she had to go to court today. If you hurry, I'm sure you'll be able to catch her before she leaves."

That did the trick.

"Oh, thanks," Duncan said, suddenly re-energised, purpose restored. "I guess I'd best be going then. Don't want to miss her!"

His eagerness would have been charming if directed at literally anyone else. As it was, I just felt relieved that it was no longer directed at me.

"Yeah. You'd better hurry," I added, perhaps a little too quickly, unable to keep the urgency entirely out of my voice. "Like, right now."

Subtle, Lahey. Real subtle.

Duncan adjusted his shoulder bag, slinging it back into position with athletic ease, and gave me a short, cheerful wave. "Bye, Sarah. It was great to see you again."

The words were warm, genuine, carrying none of the awkwardness I was feeling. Which somehow made it worse—the realisation that whatever discomfort existed was entirely one-sided, that Duncan was oblivious to having created any.

"See ya," I replied, my hand giving a half-hearted flick of the fingers—minimal effort wave, just enough to be polite without encouraging further interaction.

The moment he disappeared from view—striding off toward whatever fate awaited him with Ellen, athletic legs carrying him with disturbing speed—I let out a slow, heavy sigh. Released the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, let my shoulders drop from the tension they'd climbed into.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to massage away the tension that had collected there like stormclouds—pressure building behind my eyes, the beginning of a headache that threatened to bloom into something worse if I didn't manage it.

It wasn't Duncan's fault, not really. He was just... Duncan. Enthusiastic, oblivious, blessed with the kind of confidence that came from never having had to question whether you were welcome somewhere. Good-looking enough that people usually tolerated behaviours that would be less acceptable from someone less conventionally attractive.

But he was still a walking, talking reminder of one of my cardinal rules, developed through bitter experience and careful observation of others' mistakes: never be the most drunk at a work function.

It was a good rule. A sensible rule. One I'd religiously followed for years, watching other people make fools of themselves whilst I maintained professional distance and plausible deniability about anything embarrassing that occurred.

And yet, I'd broken it. Once.

Unfortunately—and this was the truly frustrating part—it seemed everyone else remembered more about that night than I did. Particularly Duncan, who apparently clung to some mythologised version of a "special moment" we'd allegedly shared. A promise I'd apparently made in some state of inebriation I couldn't recall. A night he wouldn't forget, according to his texts.

The irony was almost funny. Almost.

He wouldn't forget it.

I couldn't remember a single damn thing.

The entire evening existed for me as a series of disconnected fragments: arriving at the bar after a particularly exhausting case closure. Accepting a drink. Then another. Then... nothing. Just darkness and missing time until I'd woken up the next morning in my own bed—alone, thankfully—with a splitting headache and absolutely no memory of how I'd gotten there.

Whatever had happened with Duncan existed entirely in his memory and apparently in the memories of several other colleagues who'd made knowing comments over the following weeks, none of which I could decode because I had no baseline to compare them against.

It wasn't that Duncan was unattractive—objectively, he absolutely wasn't. He looked like someone who lived on protein shakes and trail runs and eight hours of quality sleep every night. Someone you'd cast as the wholesome lead in a regional health campaign promoting active lifestyles and regular dental checkups.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was something more fundamental, something I couldn't quite articulate even to myself.

No pull. No spark. No click.

Just a blank space where interest should be, where attraction was supposed to grow if chemistry existed. Looking at Duncan was like looking at a perfectly nice piece of furniture—you could appreciate the craftsmanship without wanting to take it home.

And trying to force something that wasn't there felt worse than just accepting its absence.

Shaking off the residual awkwardness like water after swimming—still clinging but gradually dissipating—I turned my attention to the hard drive he'd delivered. Compact and matte black, it sat on my desk like a little sealed box of potential breakthroughs. Professional. Anonymous. Promising answers if only I could extract them.

It felt heavier than it looked—almost symbolic, really. Like it contained more than just digital footage, like the weight represented all the missing people and unanswered questions and possibilities it might illuminate.

I reached for it, fingers curling around the casing with purpose, and was halfway to plugging it into my computer when a rare but welcome flash of caution tugged at the back of my mind.

Don't be stupid, Lahey.

This was a police station. We'd had briefings drilled into us about the dangers of plugging in unauthorised digital devices, watched presentations about malware and corruption and data breaches. Horror stories about compromised systems, about evidence chains being broken, about entire investigations collapsing because someone had plugged in a random USB without proper protocols.

Malware could be hiding in any drive. Corruption could spread through networks faster than you could disconnect. Data leaks could compromise not just one case but dozens, could endanger informants and blow covers and generally create chaos that made your original problem look trivial.

I paused, the cable halfway to the port, and pulled my hand back with conscious effort.

Why should I spend hours squinting at grainy footage anyway? I thought, eyeing the hard drive with fresh perspective, reconsidering my approach to this particular task. There's a better way.

Hours of reviewing surveillance footage was mind-numbing work even under ideal conditions. Boring, exhausting, the kind of task that destroyed your eyes and your back and your will to live in roughly equal measure. And I was already exhausted, already running on fumes after too many nights with Jane and too many days trying to hold multiple investigations together.

Then the solution hit me with the clarity of obvious ideas that somehow took too long to arrive.

James.

My cousin. Our tech guy. The station's resident expert on digital forensics and video analysis. And, as fate would have it, the most trustworthy set of hands when it came to handling sensitive evidence—both because of his professional competence and because family ties meant he'd actually care about doing it right rather than just doing it fast.

He'd have the drive decrypted, sorted, indexed, and neatly packaged long before I'd even made it through the first hour of footage. Would probably spot things I'd miss, catch details my exhausted eyes would skip over, process the material with the kind of systematic thoroughness that came from doing this work daily rather than occasionally.

"Smart thinking, Sarah," I murmured aloud with a small, satisfied smile—congratulating myself for choosing efficiency over martyrdom, for recognising when delegation was wisdom rather than weakness.

Tucking the drive carefully under one arm, I rose from my chair with movements that were stiffer than they should have been—sitting too long, sleeping badly, carrying tension in muscles that never quite released. Started making my way toward the tech department with purpose renewed by having a clear task.

It was strange, really—how sometimes work was the only place you stayed in touch with family. I barely saw James outside these walls despite living in the same city, despite theoretically being available for family dinners and casual catch-ups. Our lives ran on parallel tracks that intersected mainly in this building, during working hours, around professional obligations rather than personal connection.

Yet he probably knew more about my professional life than most people knew about my personal one. Knew about cases I worked, challenges I faced, frustrations I encountered—all filtered through the lens of work requests and brief hallway conversations.

But hey—got to love family, right?

Especially when they could make your job a hell of a lot easier and save you from hours of tedious footage review that would probably just make your existing exhaustion worse.

I navigated through the station, dodging colleagues and avoiding eye contact that might invite conversation. The tech department was tucked away in the basement—always the basement, as though digital evidence needed to be stored underground like wine or prisoners—down stairs that seemed steeper when you were tired.

At least I was awake now. Duncan had managed that much, even if everything else about the interaction had been uncomfortable.

Small mercies, I supposed.