Fox owns 24 and all of its characters. I just borrow them. Freddie Mercury wrote Bohemian Rhapsody, copyright Queen Productions.

The following takes place at 2am in Jack Bauer's LA apartment. It is sometime after Day 6.

Jack's camp-mat and blanket were neatly laid out in one corner of his sparsely-furnished bed-sit, but he hadn't yet tried to go to sleep. Instead he knelt in the opposite corner, busying himself with a pile of straw. Freddie Mercury blasted out into his ear:

'Mama, just killed a man,

Put a gun against his head,

Pulled my trigger, now he's dead,

Mama, life had just begun,

But now I've gone and thrown it all away -'

Jack hummed along, engrossed in his work – when he was finished it would be a galloping horse. He had completed the silhouette, and was now filling out the hindquarters. Jack liked horses. He liked the raw energy, the beauty of movement. Every strand of straw from the bale was pinched, chewed, or bitten to size and shape before joining its fellows on his bare floor, capturing the rippling muscle of the beast. In the forgiving light of a single lamp, his straw creation looked quite good.

'Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth –

Mama, oooo –

I don't want to die,

I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all'

Jack would soon need to decide if this was a stallion or a mare. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging from his door. Someone wanted in, they wanted in bad. Dammit. As Jack rose from his knees, he dusted straw off his sweatshirt and jeans onto the laminate floor. He took his Sig Sauer from his hip as he approached the door, and checked through the spy-hole. Two uniforms, a Caucasian male and a black female. He opened the door a shade, blocking the view with his body, and keeping his weapon-hand behind his back.

Jack's eyes found the male officer first. He was young, with short, fair hair and an athletic build. He would have made a dead ringer for Jack, several decades before. 'Yes?' Jack barked.

Badges flashed in front of his eyes. 'Your music, sir. You need to turn it off,' said the male officer.

Jack's eyes stared straight into those of the younger man. 'What's wrong with my music?'

The officer had expected no different. 'Sir, it's 2am. Your neighbour has complained, You need to turn it off.'

Jack's checked his watch and his stomach heaved. 'Shit!' He closed the door in their faces and hurried to his stereo.

'Easy come easy go – will you let me go?

Bismillah! No – we will not let you go- let him go!

We will not let you g…'

Jack flicked the switch that silenced Freddie for the night. He exhaled sharply and holstered his Sig. He turned back to the door and opened it once more.

'I am real sorry about this, officers, I completely lost track of time.'

'Hmmm.' The male officer was unimpressed. He clocked the Sig at Jack's hip. 'Sir, we have some paperwork we need to do, this would be easier if we came inside.'

Jack glanced at the other doors on the landing. He wondered who was behind them right now, listening to their conversation, itching for the cops to kick ass. He swallowed guiltily as he wondered who had put in the complaint. Who had not had the courage to just knock on his door? Clearly, all of them.

'Need to see your IDs again.'

'Officer Kaplinsky, Officer Greg,' said the female officer as two badges again flashed before him. Jack held out a hand and waited for the badges to be placed there for inspection.

'Like I said, I'm real sorry about this,' Jack said emphatically as he turned a badge over, 'I'll apologise to the neighbours in the morning.'

He could find nothing suspicious in the badges, so returned them and said, 'You can come in, but stay together. Officers Kaplinsky and Greg exchanged glances as they entered.

Jack turned the main light on and tried not to look nervous. His right hand twitched reflexively as Officer Greg put his hand inside his jacket, pulling out a PDA, a wad of paper and a pen.

Officer Kaplinsky looked around. 'You keep a bale of hay?' she asked.

'It's for the horse,' said Jack without thinking, and cursed himself immediately for engaging with her.

'The horse?' Kaplinsky looked round, as if expecting to see a twelve-hand thoroughbred trotting out of the bathroom.

'Take a look,' said Jack. 'Both of you. Between the hay and the wall. It's not finished.'

Both officers peeked at the floor, obeying Jack as if he was pointing a gun at them. Jack, meanwhile, backed away, wishing that he was pointing a gun at them. Life's simpler when you're pointing a gun at someone. The officers exchanged glances, and Jack felt the need to regain the initiative, to save them the need to comment on his artwork.

'You need to do paperwork. Take a seat,' said Jack, indicating two chairs as a table. The officers sat as if they had been ordered, rather than invited.

There were no other chairs in Jack's apartment, so he stood, arms crossed in front of his chest, fists rammed tight into armpits. He avoided backing against the wall, but stood in the middle of the room, trying not to look too much like a schoolboy in the principals' office.

Officer Greg busied himself with the appropriate sheet of paper. Date, time, address. Jack remembered this well from his younger days. Reams and reams of paperwork. Filling in the same details again and again. Fingers that knew the routine as well as legs that knew the way to school. An image intruded into Jack's mind. Officer Greg was bloodied, naked, tied to the chair. He sobbed while electrodes were attached to his testicles.

Officer Greg spoke. 'Name?'

'Bauer, Jack.'

The man in the chair screamed. It was a blood-curdling scream, full of fear, full of spittle. The scream of a man who no longer cared what they thought of him. Jack dragged his eyes away from the horror to the female officer. Kaplinsky. Jack noted with approval that she kept her hands visible and still. Her clothes stayed on.

Greg was staring at him expectantly. He had missed something.

'What's that?'

'Is it B-O-W…'

'No, B-A-U-E-R' Jack replied. A finger flicked the switch, the switch that would send the current…

'Date of birth?'

'February 18th, 1966'

'Mr Bauer, I need to inform you that the LAPD take anti-social behaviour seriously. As you have no previous, and you are co-operating, you will receive an informal caution only. This caution will remain with us for a period of up to 12 months, during which time it may be taken into consideration regarding any other complaints, which may contribute to the bringing of criminal charges against you. Do you understand?'

There was Greg's arm, outstretched on the table. Jack brought the axe down with the full force of his body. He wouldn't use that hand to touch Kim again! The sickening crunch of metal against bone, blood everywhere…

Jack blinked, 'Yes, yes, I understand.'

'Good. You need to print and sign here.' Officer Greg indicated at an X on the sheet.

Jack approached the table cautiously. The paper lay on his table, between the two officers. He did not want to position himself between them, yet dared not go any closer to Greg. Instead, Jack walked round Kaplinsky, where he could face the two of them together and waited for her to pass the paper and pen to him. Jack signed and passed the paper back. He saw the puzzlement on their faces and ignored it. They'd seen people act stranger than him before.

Greg checked the signature. 'That's all in order.' They made to leave. 'Don't forget – 11pm, music down.'

'No, officer, it won't happen again,' said Jack, lowering his voice now that they were approaching his door. Jack made no attempt to open the door for them, as this would mean turning his back on them. Besides, they knew very well how to open a door. But there was one other thing he must do.

'You guys…' Jack said softly, proffering his right hand. The officers turned again to face him. 'The rest of your shift… be safe. Get home safe.' And he shook Kaplinsky's hand first, then Greg's.

'Goodnight, Mr Bauer.'

Jack closed the door as quietly as he could and backed against the wall, his breathing heavy. He'd had to do that last bit, even though they thought it was strange. He focussed on grasping Greg's hand, looking into the man's eyes. His hand had felt strong and healthy; firmly attached to his arm. He hadn't beaten him, hadn't flicked the switch. The man was OK, and would go back to his wife in the morning. Jack exhaled and forced himself to believe this.

He looked at his sleep-mat. He wasn't tired. There was no point in even trying. He returned to his horse. In the harsh overhead light, he could see it was rubbish. He'd got the muscle all out of proportion. It rippled completely the wrong way. He kicked the straw back into the pile.

Jack sat on his haunches in the corner, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth. A rumbling started in his ears, growing in intensity. It crescendoed to an explosion. Jack had been in many explosions before. He'd get low, cover his head in his hands, fall with the blast, let it take him. Then the explosion would be over and he would gradually regain himself. But this explosion didn't finish. He couldn't come to. It just went on and on. He resisted the temptation to bang his head against the wall. This would, after all, be unfair on the neighbours.

He hadn't needed to worry about neighbours in China. They never complained, no matter how much noise he made. His straw art-work had looked better on the concrete floor of his cell. There hadn't been a bright light to judge it by. There was no day and no night. He ate when there was food, he slept when he could. He never got into trouble because he did something at the wrong time.

Jack got up and retrieved a bottle of Scotch and a tumbler from an otherwise empty cupboard. He poured himself a generous measure and replaced the bottle. He sat in a chair and put the tumbler on the table. That's what you're supposed to do. Sit in the chair, put the drink on the table. Then you drink it. But Jack didn't want to drink it. He just stared at it.

The explosion had changed, it was in his chest now. There was an express train driving into his chest, through his solar-plexus. It rammed into his spine and crashed. But the carriages kept coming. They were all derailed now, piling up inside him. Still, they didn't stop. He was bursting now with twisted metal, burned-up plastic, people dead, dying, screaming for help, screaming even though there was no help. Just screaming inside him, into his shoulder-blades, into his throat.

Jack closed his eyes, longing for blackness. Instead he saw Curtis's eyes looking up at him – confused, defeated, betrayed...

He picked up his scotch impatiently and lowered himself between the straw and the wall of his apartment. His pulse quickened. The explosion in his head was back again. He raised his left sleeve up to the elbow and removed a bandage from his forearm to reveal long, neat, parallel cuts. They were healing well. Jack's knife-hand itched. But his arm was so full of cuts, if he cut any closer to the wrist, they would be visible if he had on a loose top. Jack took his microtech halo out of his pocket, and released the blade. He tossed it up several times, catching it now in his left. He raised his right sleeve now to the elbow, baring the virgin skin below. He pinched himself a couple of times to see where the flesh was most sensitive. Close to the elbow, round the inside and back. He flexed his right arm over the pile of straw, and took the knife firmly in his left.

Jack put the blade to his wrist, where the artery was close to the surface. He smiled calmly and removed it, selecting instead the original spot he had chosen. He pressed the blade lengthways gently into his flesh, not cutting yet, just feeling the sharpness. He savoured the moment, toying with different angles, different pressures, seeing how they felt. The explosion in his head roared even louder, but he wanted to enjoy the moment properly, to remain in control, to defeat it on his own terms. The moment felt right, and Jack moved the blade upward, cutting slowly. He exhaled as he cut, watching blood emerge from his flesh and drain down his elbow, into the straw. The flow of pain was exquisite, and he focussed all his attention upon it. A flood of relief emerged up from somewhere deep inside him, relief so strong and so concrete that it drove the explosion right out of his head. He exhaled as he felt the tension drain out of his system – out of his body, out of his mind.

The high, Jack mused, looking at the tattoo on his arm, was not unlike the one he had once got from shooting up. It carried him straight from misery to a place which felt – there was no other word for it – a place which felt good. Jack put the knife down. The cut was finished, but the euphoria would last a little longer. He made no attempt to stop the blood, but examined the cut. It was neat, but a little deeper than he would have liked. He cursed his poor technique. Deep cuts were inefficient – no extra effect, they just took longer to heal. Clearly he needed more practice with his left. He would see to that in the morning.

Jack picked up his scotch with his left hand and smelled it, smiling. Strong stuff. Drink was a good friend. His injured arm still above the straw, Jack dipped a finger in the glass, and released a drop of whisky into the wound. It stung like hell, making him bite his lip. Then he took the glass and poured slowly. He wondered what Officers Kaplinsky and Greg were doing at that moment in time. Coffee and burger? Armed robbery? Domestic? He chuckled at the thought that a man and a woman had sat in his apartment and he had undressed the man in his mind. There will come a day, Jack promised himself, when he would undress the woman.

Jack leaned his back against the wall, with this thought happily in his mind. There will come a day…. There is hope. He suddenly noticed his eyes feeling dry, his neck relaxed. He really ought to get up and dress the wound. He let his eyes close and his head rest against the wall. He'd dress it later…