Disclaimer – Most characters and settings here are the property of Thames TV and I have made no profit from their use. The title is taken from the song 'Bring Him Home' from the musical Les Miserables.

A/N – This is the opening chapter of a very long – 80,000 plus – novel. The sequel is 50,000 and complete in second draft. When I started writing this, TB was still on air, and life was rather different. Some of the original ideas and beta-ing was done by Webbswoman, and the title was her suggestion. I'm warning for all content here – drug use and abuse, self harm, prostitution and a lot of angst, including references to in show rape and child abuse. And although Mickey and Jack are the main characters, and as much I shipped them, this is not a romance. So, hello to old readers and new ones; I hope you enjoy.

Prologue 2nd August

The boy died easily. He sighed once, the machine that had been noisy turned silent, and his hand in Mickey's felt just the same. Part of Mickey's heart envied him. A tiny part but it screamed and yelled, reminding him how lucky the boy was. Thirteen, with an angular skinniness that came from rapid growth and nothing more sinister. Brown hair with a slash of fluorescent green down the centre and dead eyes that were still a bright shade of hazel. Beautiful, with all the arrogance and grace that came from being on the cusp of manhood, and at peace.

'God bless,' he muttered, and letting go of the boy's hand, pushed himself to his feet. Let himself out of the room, past the parents who were screaming at each other over whose fault it had been. He didn't think that they knew he was dead, so he walked away and kept on walking. At least Jolan had had someone with him; that was important.

Something to keep in mind, next time the world around him went to Hell. He'd been thirteen. Thirteen, for God's sake...although he didn't think that God was anywhere around here at the moment.

Sun Hill, which should have been peaceful, a refuge from the memories of the hospital, felt like a war zone. Too many people in too small an office; Meadows and Heaton strutting around CID like a pair of dogs gunning for a fight, and it was a mark of how tense they were that not even Meadows noticed him arrive. It felt like being a ghost, unnoticed and unwanted.

An hour later, they were sitting in the briefing room, listening to Heaton talk. None of them had come to ask him where he'd been, what had happened. Eleven of them. Heaton, Meadows, himself, obviously. Jo and Smithy, Max Carter – looking at their faces was better than looking at his memories of the blonde boy dying in the white bed.

'Uniform have found someone who saw the three men selling to kids at Longstreet's pitch...He's prepared to swear to us that they were the ones selling it, but not in court – his kid lives in the area, and he's not prepared to take a risk like that.'

Sensible decision. He nodded; saw that most of the others looked disapproving. A flicker of that old anger, which he tried hard to push down. Even Max Carter, sitting next to him, looking complacent, didn't know. But Meadows was nodding, and that made it alright.

As long as the DCI agreed, it was OK. He was right, he wasn't alone.

No matter how it felt.

'That's four deaths directly due to whatever they're pushing over there...and let's face it, there's probably been a couple more that we haven't got to hear about. Out of our way.'

He stuck his hand up, like a kid in a classroom. Alright, he'd hit Heaton once, but in general, he respected the man. No need to barge into his lecture on what they already knew.

'Five, Sir.' Always Sir – Meadows was Guv- and he'd never really thought about it. It was just a fact. 'Jolan Heritage died a couple of hours ago, in hospital.'

A soft intake of breath around the room; whatever he'd taken, Jolan had only been a kid. In the row ahead, several seats over, Meadows turned and looked at him.

Are you alright?

Old friend that he was, the DCI didn't need to speak to convey that. He managed a smile in response; knew that it would be discussed later. But it wasn't the first kid who had died in front of him, and it wouldn't be the last. Just another thing to come to terms with, another invisible cut that would mostly heal in time.

The plastic seat squeaked in protest as he shifted around, trying to get away from the regard of the others. Of course there was nothing accusing in their faces; it was only on the faces of Jolan's parents that he'd seen anything approaching that. Even he couldn't accuse himself for the boy's death. But he wanted to forget, not face them.

There was a hushed quiet in the briefing room; more than Meadows was used to as he got to his feet. Heaton, ever the Superintendent, moved over just enough to allow him room to talk, and the others were almost sitting to attention.

Without thinking, he looked for Mickey. The younger man – not young now, surely he had to be in his mid-thirties? - drew his gaze as easily as North draws a compass. Their relationship was much more distant now; he couldn't remember the last time they'd gone drinking together or talked about nothing in the office, but still, he couldn't help caring about him. Too many bonds, too many secrets.

There was no response or acknowledgement, so he carried on talking. Mickey was safe enough, after all, directly in front of him.

'I'm amazed that they're getting away with muscling into the territory they're covering...I know Roberts has a got a fair old reputation around here, and of course, Sharker seems to be living up to his name – Barton Street are convinced that he killed that fellow last month but they can't prove it.'

That was the problem, wasn't it? Proof. If it was down to him and Smithy and Mickey...they knew. But knowing and proving were too different. Besides, if they left it long enough...Smithy had been busy promoting the hope that maybe they'd piss off enough people to get killed; one that he shared but didn't think possible and certainly couldn't articulate.

Any killing here was liable to be on the other side.

A shifting movement in the seats ahead; Mickey shifting restlessly, likely too hot. It had been a long while since he'd been bothered by being in crowds.

He cleared his throat once, twice, not wanting to mention what he had to say next. Heaton's glare seemed to have an almost physical weight as he looked across – evidently, there was to be no getting out of this.

'Sharker's still got the breaker's yard over in Dagenham.'

Of course, that had been a long time ago; in a different world, and as he'd expected, Mickey didn't react to the name. He didn't react to much anymore.

'He's well known for taking on casual labour and the like. Several different people have been helping him out lately. With the selling, too, by all accounts.

'I' you, Heaton, you 'think it would be a good idea to get someone down there, start helping out with the place. Maybe seeing what they can pick up.'

He'd only discussed it with Heaton, but Smithy was nodding as though it wasn't surprising. Perhaps the Sergeant had heard a whisper, or maybe he'd worked it out for himself. He would have made a good CID man, wouldn't he? He never wanted it, though, always said it wasn't real work but he never said that when Mickey was in earshot.

'You mean undercover, Guv?' Max Carter, looking interested for once.

Which is a damn good reason for not letting you near it – although the idea of a month or so without Max in the office was appealing.

'Yes.'

'In Dagenham?'

'Yes, Mickey,' and that was when he should have stopped, before Mickey's calm acceptance, because there was no going back from that.

'Oh, OK, then.'

Only it wasn't, and couldn't be, ever again.

Later, he thought it was one of the worst jobs he'd ever had: going back up to Heaton's office and telling him that Mickey had agreed. A short conversation, but it had the feeling of the world ending, a prophecy of doom for one or both of them.

'I gather you're not happy about this, Jack.'

He shrugged. 'Mickey...he doesn't really want to go to Dagenham. I don't think that he ought to go there.'

'But he agreed. He knows what's happening and why; he's done undercover work before and you didn't order him to do it, did you? He had a free choice.'

There's no free choice with us, is there? Never has been. 'He did it because it was me asking, guv.'

Heaton looked down at his desk, straightening papers that didn't need it. 'Is it true you saved his life once?'

Sort of, I guess, and I'm still not sure that he'd thank me for doing it. 'With respect, Sir, what happened between me and Mickey in the past is...is in the past. And it's private... I'm just not happy about him doing this.'

'I can't help that. I dare say he'll come back fine and with another good case on his record. He's young and he's good – there's no reason he couldn't go for promotion again. And don't forget that he was the one who wanted to do this.'

If I let Mickey do whatever he wanted to do, he would have killed himself a long time ago. 'Okay.' The agreement felt like a lie.

'How long do you think it'll take him to get ready? Get everything sorted?'

'Four, five days.'

'That isn't long.'

'Long enough. Mickey's bright. Won't take him long to learn a cover story or anything like that. He's good.' He's fantastic.

'Jack?'

What does he want? 'Yes?'

'If I asked...why Mickey is so important to you, would you tell me?'

How could I explain that? All the years and all the things we've done... 'No. Never.' I don't know why he's so important to me.

Heaton nodded once and Meadows walked away. Down the corridor, Mickey was working patiently at his desk, head on one side and left arm folded protectively around whatever he was writing. The thought of the office without Mickey again – for however short a time – made his heart ache but he couldn't think about changing the set up now.