Author note: Thank you so much for the reviews, and the faves, I really appreciate the feedback and support. This chapter is really short, but I hope it reads OK 3

It was close to 1:00AM by the time Sewell managed to clock off for the night. A few other officers passed him by, their shoulders hunching when the cold, winter air hit their exposed flesh out in the parking lot. They exchanged their usual pleasantries, smiling and laughing to one another about the awful weather as they settled keys into car doors and sidled into the warmth of their vehicles before driving off, leaving silence and a strange emptiness in their wake. Sewell stood for a moment in the foyer, ignoring the way the woman at reception kept glancing up at him with an annoyed furrow of her thick, greying brows, and just stared out at the empty yard with a strange feeling of unease gathering in the pit of his stomach.

He took out his cellphone and pushed the heavy doors open to the winds, letting in a refreshing gust of ice cold air that startled the receptionist and brought a smug little grin to his mouth when she cried out in dismay at the drop in temperature. Pulling his jacket taught against himself, he brushed his thumb over the 'on' button of his phone and waited. The screen flashed blue seconds later, and whilst it took its sweet time loading possible calls or messages, he succumbed to his paranoia and double-checked his left and right sides. The little voice at the back of his head whispered dreadful and endless possibilities, feeding the fire, but he saw no-one. He was alone.

Satisfied that Cunningham wasn't lurking in the shadows, he turned to his phone, his eyes growing wide when he saw that someone had called him seventeen times over the course of the last two hours. Hell, that was more calls than he'd received in his life-time. When he noticed just who it was that had been so desperate to get a hold of him, he knew he was in for something of a long night. His fingers edged towards the redial option, but apparently his little brother was still just as determined to get through; the parking lot blared into life under the obnoxious drone of a butchered version of Fantasie Impromptu.

Sewell accepted the call.

'What's wrong?' was the question he had intended to ask, but what came out instead was "How did you get this number?"

There was an exhale on the other end, followed by the steady slew of incomprehensible background noise. When seconds rolled by with nothing but shaky breathing for a response, Sewell thought of addressing the question again. He opened his mouth, lips forming around the words-

"I-I'm sorry, George..." came the exhausted voice of David Sewell. "I tried to-to-to call you earlier, I've been trying for the past couple of h-hours." In the background din, he sounded small, inconsequential, much like his character. Another stuttering gasp of air crackled down the poor line, "It's mom!"

Sewell found himself heading towards his car, his stride stiff and awkward, his mind blank, stunned. On his brother's end, David fought to regulate his breathing, fighting back the sobs and the gasps. Over that, the din was starting to gather some coherence; Sewell could hear people shouting and people crying, the sound of automatic doors opening and closing with severe regularity, the buzz of calls being put on hold, and the friendly pleasantries of calls being answered. David was phoning him from a hospital.

"Christ, she-she's-oh God-"

At his car now, Sewell found himself leaning against it for support. He knew what was coming; he knew exactly what his brother was trying to say.

"She's dead, George."

It wasn't so much a wave as it was a tsunami of feelings that hit him, none of which were particularly prominent as he let his legs guide him unsteadily downwards until he was sitting on damp gravel with his head against the side of the car and trying to make sense of how he felt at the news of his mother's passing.

The wind picked up, bringing with it the first spots of rain. The gentle patter of it against the hood of his car chorused together with the sounds of the hospital and his brother's laboured breathing. He tried to think of something to say, knowing that David was likely waiting for a response, but his throat was dry and his mouth felt like cotton. He gaped once, twice, working the muscles. He didn't know. Christ, he didn't know how he was supposed to feel. He felt a little bit of everything; anger, distress, sorrow, confusion, betrayal, it was all there; buzzing frantically around in his skull and the tips of his fingers as he continued to work his mouth in hopes of creating a sound. His temple began to throb and ache.

"... How did it happen?" he managed to croak, his voice an octave higher than his usual drawl.

David sighed, steadying himself. When he answered, he sounded almost calm, "She's been sick," he explained, "for the last six years-"

Betrayal fought for prominence, but it was anger which coursed through Sewell's veins, setting his temper alight. "Six years!" he yelled. "Why the fuck are you calling me now! Why didn't you tell me sooner, you son of a bitch! Why didn't you tell me she was dying!"

There was a pause, and now both of them were breathing heavily.

Sewell fought against his own emotions, his eyes tightened shut at the first tell-tale stab. He refused to shed tears over this, over any of them. They'd cut him from their life over ten years ago now. Even when he had been hospitalised after the night with Anne and her 'friends', only David had come to visit him; his parents hadn't even asked after him. No, they didn't deserve his tears. They didn't deserve his sorrow.

"I'm sorry, George," David's voice whispered to him.

Sewell bit at his lip. He felt something wet slide down his cheeks. He blamed it on the rain.

"... Are you still there? Please, please, George, I'm so sorry. I, what can I say? You know how it is, how it's been with them and you, I couldn't... I just, I just wanted to keep out of it.

"... George?"

Sewell drew in a gasp. "... Yes," he murmured, "yeah, I'm still here."

"Thank you... thank you..." Another intake of breath. In the background, a woman was demanding to see someone's superior. "Listen, I've spoken to dad about, well, about making funeral arrangements. I said that I wanted you to be involved, that mom would have wanted that."

(What a pile of shit)

"We're supposed to start calling people up tomorrow, and, uh, discussing any plans the family has for her burial or... or, um, cremation. I know Aunt Sylvia wants her cremated, but I'm not happy about that, and I know dad isn't, so we need to, um, we need to talk about all of these things before we go ahead with anything. Will you, will you please come?"

The first response that sprang to mind was 'fuck you', followed quite closely by 'you asshole', but he had never found it easy to be angry with David. He fully understood why his brother had kept quiet about a lot of things; he had his own problems to worry about without getting himself involved in more. So, with an ease that surprised Sewell, he saved his brother the hassle of an argument and waited three beats before trusting himself to say something civil. "Where are you..?" was his eventual response.

"What, uh, I'm at the hospit-"

"No, where are you living?" said Sewell with a frown. "Where the fuck do you live these days?"

"Oh... we never moved. Um, we're still in Brahms, same house... same everything." He managed a meek chuckle at that. Sewell was silent. He was aware of a number of old, old feelings stirring within him as he held the conversation. Just talking to David was dredging up memories and a time in his life that he'd rather keep locked away and forgotten for the rest of his natural days.

Fat load of good reconciliation would do any of them now that one of offending parties was dead.

"So you'll come?" asked David, sounding ridiculously hopeful. "It would really mean a lot to me-to us, all of us if you-"

"I don't really give a shit what it means to them!" hissed Sewell, before he could stop himself. "But... if you want me to be there then, I guess, I'll come along." he added after a moment, sounding uncharacteristically soft and apologetic.

"Thank you, George. I can't do this alone. Dad is, well, I don't even fucking know what's going on with him. He's just, he's not been himself for a while now, and Aunt Sylvia's gonna be breathing down my neck about this cremation. Not to mention the shit I'm going through with..." he caught himself, tailing off with a sudden grunt. "Well, you know how it is," he said instead, starting again, "it's just not a nice thing to have to deal with alone."

"Well, I'll be there." said Sewell. His eyes were beginning to burn. Reluctantly, he opened them, he could see spots dancing around in the parking lot. That bitchy receptionist was staring at him through one of the foyer windows, shaking her head with a frown.

"I can't thank you enough for this, George. I mean it... well, I'll have the spare room sorted out for you, so you'll have a place to crash if this goes on a little longer than expected. Um, I'm gonna have to get going now, Cathy's going to be wondering where I am. I'll call you again in the morning, all-"

With a brush of his thumb, Sewell disconnected the call. He didn't think he could deal with half-hearted goodbyes on top of everything else. The sound of rain replaced the hectic droning of the hospital, and in the distance the sound of cars and civilisation and life. The wind continued to pick up, getting heavier and harsher as it ghosted over the bonnet of his car, whistling as it went. His hair danced before his eyes in the gust, but it was blurred and unfocused behind a sheet of tears. A sheet of tears now spilling down his face even as he dug the heel of his hands into his eyes and willed them away.

"Fuck!" he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."