I apologise for how utterly left-field this it, but I got the idea, and it simply had to be written. Two losers in love, two false identities, one dating website - ta-da, and off we go with part one of three! :D x

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Christ on a bike, he needed to get out more. How had it come to this - the original Cockney lothario, the brave and sexy policeman with a different bird every weekend irrespective of his marital status, the hardened, thief-taking, hunk of the East End… not having had sex in six entire months? When had it come to an ego-destroying choice of either having to click the button to submit his details to an internet dating website or facing the prospect of another half a year with his only his right hand for company? He was beginning to get repetitive strain injury, for Christ's sake! What the hell had happened to him?

Ah yes, the greatest passion killer this side of being the Elephant Man - old age. Yes, that was surely it, because Gerry Standing flat-out refused to accept that he was losing that legendary touch he had once been a Met hero for. Indeed, six months ago yesterday, he had turned sixty-four - apparently, sixty-three year-olds were far more appealing. So much for that old classic, When I'm 64. When Gerry Standing was sixty-four, he didn't get any - ever.

"Swallow your pride, you old bastard," he instructed himself in a snapped whisper. "You can't keep dropping heavy files and claiming an old tennis injury…"

Sucking a sharp intake of breath, he forced himself to ingest an enormous piece of humble pie and, screwing his eyes shut, clicked the treacherous button innocently dubbed 'submit'.

Quelle surprise, the world was still intact when he prised cagey eyelids apart moments later.

Do not think in French, he scolded himself internally. You're as London as jellied eels.

God only knows what he was worried about - to those not in the know, he was now fifty-five year-old Jonathan Stokes, a lover of Indian food (yeah right), fascinated by art history (ha!) and laden down by the burden of bearing a striking resemblance to George Clooney (and to think that he'd assumed the copy of Photoshop Paula had burned onto disc for him last year would only be useful as a beer coaster - oh ye of little faith, Gerald.) Most importantly, however, he was very much in control of his own erectile functions and not even slightly reliant on little blue pills, thank-you-OH-so-very-much. Even if by some miracle his friends, family or colleagues happened to stumble across both the website and his profile, his identity was safe and sound.

Speaking of colleagues, he really should get to work - it was past nine already and he lived a good half an hour's drive through gridlocked, rush-hour London from the Met. It wasn't like he'd gotten up late either - he'd been sitting here in his grey suit and purple tie for two and three-quarter hours, working up sufficient bravado and attempting to relinquish his self-esteem enough to post his bloody details.

Closing down the laptop, he allowed himself a brief, indulgent smirk as a twinge in his wrist made him drop his keys.

Old tennis injury indeed - he hadn't so much as watched Wimbledon since Cliff Richard's rousing rendition of Summer Holiday.

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Twelve hours later, glass of wine expertly clutched in her free hand, a certain Annie Malloy was growing steadily more intrigued by the profile of a certain Jonathan Stokes.

Only, of course, it wasn't Annie Malloy - it was, in a strange twist of ironic fate, one Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman. Furthermore, it was a Sandra Pullman who enjoyed football, Stella Artois, worked as a bank clerk, was forty-eight and looked remarkably like a digitally altered version of Marilyn Monroe - strange, that. The world - and Photoshop - worked in mysterious ways. Hell, it wasn't like she was attracting anyone offline as a fifty-three year-old spinster copper, so there was no harm in a little poetic licence. Like her, Jonathan appeared to be a new member - time for a little introduction, in that case. Anyone who looked that much like George Clooney had to be worth a punt, regardless of how far she got. Opening a private message window, she briefly considered whether to be smart, funny or overenthusiastic - quickly deciding that it was probably best just to keep it simple, she scrawled out a few words, nodded to herself, clicked send and waited, semi-nervous, for a response.

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"'Hello'," Gerry/Jonathan read aloud several minutes later, tearing his eyes away from a fellow singleton's breasts for long enough to notice he had a private message. "'Nice to make your acquaintance - here's hoping for a chat. Yours, Annie.' Bit bloody formal innit?"

He followed the hyperlink that highlighted her name, fully expecting some mumsy-type with twelve cats and a degree in something frivolous - Art History, perhaps, or maybe Architecture. He could just imagine the conversation now - "do you think we should landscape the attic, darling?"

Shuddering at the prospect,he was pleasantly surprised to see that the woman he was greeted with the summarised life of was in fact gorgeous - and not only that, but she had no interest in Art or Architecture, she didn't own a single cat, her favourite drink was lager and she supported Chelsea.

"Dear god," he murmured, astonished. "We could be talking soulmates here…"

Hurriedly scrawling out a characteristically cheeky response, he grinned as he sent it.

"See what you make of that then," he muttered, chuckling to himself.

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Unlike her new would-be suitor, Sandra Pullman was after a long-term relationship - not that her profile stated that, of course. In her experience, men were put off at five hundred paces by any bird who told them she wanted to be with them forever. No, her details merrily stated that she was after a pint or five, a no-strings shag and a cup of tea the following morning. Misleading, yes - unfair? Not entirely. The way she saw it, it was a win-win situation - if the gentleman in question happened to like her afterwards, then all the better, and if he didn't, she hadn't lost anything except yet another notch on her bedpost.

She could do with a new bedstead anyway - her black leather one was a nightmare in summer.

This chap, however… well, he was a little different. She had never met anyone who was both excited by Cubism and loved a lamb biryani - and so handsome too! This was the sort of eligible bachelor she could fall in love with - intelligent, cultured, wise…

Her inbox beeped for attention, and she beamed as she clicked on it, anticipating a charming, erudite response that would elicit a deep, delighted sigh from her ruby lips.

Dear Annie,

I've looked at your profile, and after a moment's thought, I have deduced that Annie, you have most certainly got my 'gun'.

Faithfully (well, at least for the first night!)

John x

The smile slid unceremoniously, with flawless comic timing, from her features, and she did indeed sigh - with disappointment.

Ah well - that's what you got for saying you were only after beer and casual sex. Que sera sera and all that jazz - maybe she should just accept that the only men that would ever fancy her were those ones that sounded uncannily like Gerry and give it up permanently.

So when seconds later she found herself clicking 'reply' and typing an equally crass response, she briefly questioned her sanity. Deciding it was still worth a go despite increasingly bleak prospects, she grimaced slightly and awaited the response that would determine whether or not this was a shag or a potential marriage.

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Dear Jonathan,

'Stokeing' your fire, am I? I should be a vulcanologist - I'll have you exploding within minutes.

Missing your considerable charm already,

Annie x

…Okay, he was officially horny. Not that it took much, but christ…

"Composure Gerald," he scolded himself coolly. "You are not goin' to let a bird get the best of you - you're old-school, classically trained in the art of pulling, and you do not get flustered…"

To this day, it was still considered a miracle in some cult circles that men like Gerry Standing hadn't died out with the dinosaurs.

He rubbed his hands together, embracing the madness and grinning gleefully at the screen.

Ah, this was going to be fun.