Hello Due South fans. This is my first effort at any kind of fanfiction so be gentle, but honest. This is a Season 2 story involving Turnbull and the original Ray Vecchio.

This is in answer to the Turnbull Challenge issued in late February 1999. The rules were as follows: 1. Turnbull getting arrested for the most *improbable* thing you could possibly imagine. 2. Turnbull romantically paired with the *last* person you'd imagine him paired with. 3. Turnbull's habit of dusting must play a *prominent* part in the story. 4. *Only* one other main DS character (i.e. characters featured in the opening credits) may appear. 5. A plastic fern in a *prominent* role.

Disclaimers: The following is written purely for the enjoyment of fans and may not be reprinted or used in any way for profit. All named characters are the property of Alliance Communications. No copyright infringement is intended.

The Workout

by Veronika S veronika92@yahoo.com

Where had he gone wrong?

If he were the sort of man to assess blame, he would have pointed the finger at himself for neglecting to be prepared for his task. Truth be told, he was without the most basic equipment one needed for a vigorous swim.

No trunks.

He quickly thought back and realized he had left them on the ironing board in his sparse apartment. All he had on him were his red, wool long johns. Yes, it was much too hot to be wearing such things, but to wear anything else seemed to disgrace the uniform. While dress codes for members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were quite clear on the placement of the lanyard and other accruements, the guidelines gave barely a mention to undergarments. He often wondered what the proper attire for a Mountie was, especially when in dress uniform. In another post, he might have consulted with his superior, but as Inspector Thatcher was a woman, he suspected women had their own set of guidelines governing the wearing of their more complicated undergarments. His fellow officer, Constable Benton Fraser, might offer him a few tips, but he hadn't yet had the nerve to bring the subject up.

But none of this was solving his problem. According to his fitness contract, he was to swim three times a week for an hour a time. Such exercise was encouraged by the RCMP in order to keep officers in shape and Inspector Thatcher had seemed strangely eager to grant him time away from his office duties for this. It would be dishonest to skip his workout, but he didn't have time to retrieve his trunks and return to the YMCA pool before closing. There was only one course of action.

"I can do this. I am a Mountie," Constable Renfield Turnbull reminded himself and with that, he squared his shoulders and strolled out of the locker room clad in the bottoms of his long johns.

The giggles he heard as he passed by people lounging poolside should have alerted him to what was to come. With a stoic face, he stepped to the side of the pool and plunged in. Completing his first lap, he noticed wet wool was extremely heavy and uncomfortable for such strenuous exercise. Still, he had 49 more laps to go and he didn't intend to cheat the Canadian government by shortening his workout.

"Lap two," Turnbull mentally clicked off and, for the first time, noticed a group following him. Five, maybe six teenage boys, getting closer with each stroke. The Mountie stepped up the pace, but the group kept up.

Then, a hand on his left ankle, another on his right. The hands were dragging him down. More hands found his shoulders, his head. They were pushing him down further.

"This is a public pool, only 15 feet deep. Surely someone will notice that I have broken my stride," Turnbull thought to calm himself.

More hands, two sets, groped his torso. Finding the waistband of the long johns, they grabbed and pulled. From the tangle of limbs, hands and wet wool, emerged a naked Turnbull.

The assault had taken only a few seconds, then the hands were gone. Free of the wool, Turnbull surfaced easily and spied his young tormentors racing toward the locker room. Without a second thought, the naked man launched himself from the pool and ran after them. His exit was punctuated by the screams of elderly ladies gathered for the afternoon water aerobics class.

Turnbull paused.

"Pardon me, ladies."

More screams.

He continued his run, arriving in the locker room just as the back door fell shut. His locker, door standing open, was empty. His bag, and worse yet, his uniform, gone.

The stunned Mountie sank onto a bench, his mind conjuring images of what the Inspector would do to him for the loss of the uniform.

"Sir?"

No reply.

"Sir!" The uniformed police officer nudged the naked man's shoulder and was finally met by a pair of despairing eyes.

"They took my uniform," the man said meekly.

"I can see that. Would you mind accompanying me to the station? We might find you a uniform there." The officer pulled Turnbull to his feet and wrapped a rough blanket around his waist. As the officer led him out of the locker room to the waiting squad car, one of the ladies caught sight of Turnbull and screamed again. The Mountie didn't seem to notice.

The rookie uniformed police officer looked as if he would rather be anywhere but standing in front of Detective Ray Vecchio's desk. In a nervous tone, he struggled to explain his reason for seeking the senior officer's assistance.

"Sir, I realize this isn't something you would normally handle but since he is Canadian, and a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and given your considerable experience with Canadians, RCMP officers in particular, I thought you might -"

"OK, OK, enough already," Vecchio said as he stood from his desk and snatched the half completed incident report from the rookie's hand. Stalking down the hall, he wondered if every police station in North America had their equivalent of a Turnbull. Busting into the interview room, he descended on the hapless Mountie as if he were interrogating a street thug.

"Did you or did you not skinny dip in a public pool?"

"Yes sir, I did, but -"

"OK, you admit it," Vecchio interrupted. "You're guilty, let's go."

"...there were extenuating circumstances, sir."

"Extenuating circumstances. A Mountie gets arrested and there is extenuating circumstances. Why am I not surprised?" the detective muttered and dropped into a chair opposite his suspect. "Fine, fill me in. I haven't met my daily quota of Inuit stories today."

"Sir, I don't believe my predicament has anything to do with the Inuit, unless one of my assailants was of native origin."

"Get on with it!"

Turnbull paused, briefly wondering how a kind and competent officer like Constable Fraser could stand the rude, loud mouth and equally loud dressing American. Noting the detective's exasperated look, Turnbull began to tell his tale of woe, including the few details he could remember of his assailants' appearance. In spite of Vecchio's occasional chuckle, the Mountie began to relax, finally becoming a little more aware of his surroundings, and painfully aware of his state of undress.

"It sounds as if you were the butt of a school kid prank," Vecchio said, unable to hide the smile on his face.

"I would agree, sir."

"Tell you what, even though the uniform is taking statements from half a dozen old ladies who want to charge you with indecent exposure, I don't see any reason to hold you. I'm guessing charges would affect your standing at the Consulate."

Turnbull nodded. "The Inspector would be most displeased, sir."

"I'll see what I can do to persuade them not to file charges," Vecchio said, confident the women would forget their anger once they heard Turnbull's story. "I'll send the state's attorney in and have her clear up the paperwork and get you on your way."

"Thank you, sir." Turnbull said with a sigh of relief. Vecchio was headed for the door when Turnbull called again. "Sir, could you possibly allow me to borrow some clothing. I feel...naked," Turnbull admitted as he pulled the blanket tighter around him.

"Sure, I'll see what I can find," Vecchio said as he closed the door behind him and went in search of States Attorney Louise St. Laurent. He'd seen the woman earlier that afternoon and managed to avoid her. Their relationship, if one could call two dates a relationship, hadn't gone well and he found it easier to avoid her rather than exchange verbal barbs. But now, he actually needed her, if only in a professional sense.

"Well, maybe he isn't so bad," Turnbull thought to himself as the detective closed the door. Once again alone in the room, Turnbull took stock of his surroundings. Drab green walls, plain wood table and chairs, cold tile floor that made him wish he'd given Detective Vecchio his shoe size. He looked across at the one-way glass wall that allowed officers to observe interrogations from the room next door. In spite of the kindness the man had shown him, Turnbull couldn't help but imagine that Vecchio was in there with all his cop buddies, and they were all laughing at him.

Feeling restless, Turnbull stood and turned around, nearly falling over a plastic fern that was left there for no apparent reason. Like everything else in the room, it was dusty. No, on closer observation, the fake plant was positively dirty. Well, that wouldn't do at all. He carefully took a corner of the blanket and began to wipe at the years of accumulated grime on the plant.

"Louise!" Vecchio called as he entered the office where the attorney had established herself for the afternoon.

"Oh God, not today Vecchio," St. Laurent replied and began to clear files from the table.

"Wait, it's not for me. I have a case of international proportions. Without your expertise, a citizen of Canada may suffer personal and professional hardship."

"It's not the Mountie again, is it?" the attorney asked, referring to Fraser.

"No, it's not THE Mountie."

St. Laurent gave Vecchio a piercing look, as if staring into his face would give her a hint of the man's honesty. "Fine, lead the way."

"I can't, I have to rescue a rookie from the sewing society. The Canuck is in Interview Room 2." Vecchio made a quick exit leaving the attorney to gather her files and make her own way to the interview room. As she reached the door, she peaked in the small window set in the door and, spying the OTHER Mountie inside, she groaned to herself. She threw open the door, determined to get this over with quickly.

"Constable!"

Startled, Turnbull lost his tenacious grip on the blanket and it fell to the floor. He automatically snapped to attention, placing his hands behind his back. The attorney's eyes lingered on the man and she silently wished the dilapidated plant obscuring her view would vanish. As if just realizing he was naked, Turnbull moved his hands to his front. Catching a stern look from the woman, he returned them to the back, never flinching from his straight posture.

Detective Vecchio strolled to the interview room with a light step. It was 5 p.m. and for once, his day had nicely finished right on time. After giggling endlessly at the story, the ladies agreed not to file charges against Turnbull. They still hadn't found the assailants, or Turnbull's uniform or bag, but that could wait until tomorrow. All he had to do was give the Mountie the clothes he'd been able to scrounge up and he would be on his way. Heck, he might even play nice guy and offer to drive him home.

Vecchio paused outside the door and listened. He heard a female voice. St. Laurent was still in there. Darn. She was not going to be happy with him. True, he hadn't lied to her. It wasn't the Mountie Fraser, but it was a Mountie. He started to leave the clothes outside the door when he stole a glance through the window, and froze in his tracks. Perhaps he wouldn't be getting home early after all.

Louise broke away abruptly, gasping for air.

"Don't you...have to breathe...sometime?" she said in between breaths.

"As a matter of fact ma'am I have excess lung capacity so I -" Turnbull broke off, his train of thought derailed by the feel of feminine hands grasping his bare shoulders and pulling him close.

"Shut up and kiss me," she ordered gruffly.

"Yes ma'am."