Wrote a little one-off about Standish and Lamb, if you're interested: a quantum of compassion.
“Come on Standish, I’ve not got all day, and this is supposed to be a fucking raid-”
The door is tugged open, but the chain is still latched, and it recoils so sharply that it nearly slams shut all over again. The flat’s long-term inhabitant sighs, but makes no move to remedy the situation.
“If it was a raid, they would’ve sent the Dogs,” Catherine says plainly, though the only part of her that is visible are her fingernails – not manicured, but tidy – on the frame of the door, “Not you.”
Catherine Standish has been drinking again. Apparently.
























