I'm supposed to be cool. I've been called cold, unfeeling, aloof. When a tragedy happens I'll stand there, while others express their horror. Closed. I've had people accuse me of being too detached, too cynical. I think some of them secretly watch me; they know snippets of my past, of the violence that I've seen – and done. The word 'mercenary' clings to my soul and presence like a cloak; it's funny how it has been used as an insult, a degrading aspect of my character. I know that you've used that before. Your fire burns just under the surface, always threatening to break free and explode in a fury of raw emotion, I've felt it – been burned by it – often enough. But while you are fire, I am ice. That's wrong.

Ice is my shield of protection. But it is not a shield to protect me. Ice cages the fire that burns inside; a hellfire that destroys everything in its path without mercy. I need to hide it. I need to keep the people around me safe – safe from me.

You weren't there when I lost control. It was the Hope case, where you were risking your life undercover, you remember? The fire sprang unbidden and burned Cowley, burned me. It sometimes feels like an animal, growling deep within and when it breaks free… people get hurt. That day must have added at least a year to my life; I went to your hotel room and found that girl. She was hidden under the shower curtain with only her curly hair showing.

Forget the SAS. Forget Africa. That was one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do – I thought it was you under there.

I can't lose you Ray. You're my conscience, a way of freezing this monster deep inside.

But sometimes I can direct this side of me as a weapon. Nobody hurts my partner.

The day that this is your final chance is the day I will go into the fire.