A/N: Thank you everyone for your patience and loyalty. It took a while again for this update. Alec is back at work… I hope this and the next chapter(s) won't be too slow or boring… we are getting to where we need to. A big thank you to KTRose and Excusemewhileiwagmytail for beta'ing.

CHAPTER 6

The door to the South Mercia Police Constabulary swung open and spit out a couple of uniformed officers. They shot a quick look at Hardy and rushed past him. He had no more excuses to delay entering the building. His hands balled into fists, he inhaled sharply and took that step he dreaded so much while letting the air escape through his nose.

The desk sergeant greeted him with a polite nod and a mumbled "sir" but hurried to avert his gaze. Hardy faced straight ahead, avoiding making eye contact with anyone else. The wait at the elevator dragged out to an eternity, but taking the stairs was out of question. His heart was erratically galloping along as it was.

The stares of the assembled ground floor staff burned at the nape of his neck. His back was turned to the crowd and his eyes were glued to the elevator door. As soon as the cart arrived and the heavy metal slid open, he rushed inside, hoping he'd be able to ride up to the third floor by himself.

He had no such luck. The very person he wanted to see last followed him on his heels.

Rebecca Irvine was taller than he remembered her being. She was lost in a file she was carrying with her, unaware who she had joined in the elevator. When she absentmindedly reached for the button, Hardy wasn't nimble enough to move out of her way. She bumped into his side, grunting in annoyance.

She looked up. The irritated scowl on her face vanished once she realized who he was. It was replaced by a smirk that could pass as greeting with much imagination.

"DI Hardy, you missed the morning brief. You're late," she commented.

He wasn't, but it was none of her business to know the exact deal he'd arranged with MacMillan and Baxter. His hours had been reduced while not working actively on a case. He hadn't wanted any special treatment, however, his superiors had insisted on it.

Pulling the corners of his mouth down, his eyebrows went up to meet his hairline. He shrugged and asked, "Did I miss something? Or did you need me and my vast experience to run the briefing?"

It was antagonistic, and probably he should have kept his mouth shut, but her admonishing tone had put him off.

"Seriously? You haven't even set foot into CID and you're already picking a fight?" she retorted.

Hardy rolled his eyes and didn't dignify her with an answer. The ping of the elevator saved them from further quarreling. He gestured her to go out first which earned him a derisive huff. He was right behind her, although she didn't bother holding the door for him. Hardy caught it before it could hit him in the face.

Spectacular. This was shaping up to be a healthy work relationship.

He hesitated a couple of heartbeats before pushing the door open. It had been two months since he'd last walked on this floor. MacMillan's words rang in his ears – 'There will be talk about you' – and last-minute panic about what he'd find inside made him want to run. But as he had said to Baxter weeks ago, he wasn't one for running. Determined to face whatever life was going to throw at him, he willed himself to move forward.

Silence fell as soon as everyone noted who'd come in. Hardy did his best to ignore it and focused on putting one foot in front of the other to get to the safety of his office. He barged in and froze to the spot.

Irvine was sitting behind his desk.

"Why're you here?" he managed, his voice shifting up an octave.

"Oh, for god's sake. Baxter didn't tell you?" she asked and swiveled around in his chair.

"Tell me what?" he growled.

His gaze darted through the room and he realized that it had been rearranged. His actual desk had been moved next to the window, and a new one had been placed where he used to sit.

"He wants us to share the office." She sounded as aggravated by the idea as he felt.

Bloody hell. That was the last thing he needed.

"Supposedly there isn't any other space available," she offered as means of explanation. Her doubtful undertone wasn't lost on Hardy.

Hardy took a hesitant step toward his new workstation.

"I thought you might want to be close to the window," Irvine stated, displaying a surprising amount of consideration. He searched her face. Maybe she meant it.

"'S all right," he sighed and tossed his jacket over the chair.

He took his new spot behind his empty desk. With the corner of his eye he scanned over the clutter on Irvine's side of the room. File folders were scattered over the dark wooden work surface, loaded with sticky notes and neat scribbles.

Irvine had her head buried in the papers and did her best to ignore him. He was contemplating if he should ask her to share some of the ongoing case work with him, when she spoke without even looking up.

"Don't get any ideas, Hardy. I've got this under control. No need to meddle."

"Fine," he grunted, already resigned with the arrangement before the first day had drawn to an end.

He sat there for a while, staring out the window without seeing anything. His fingers tapped out a restless rhythm of boredom.

"Will you stop that?" Irvine demanded irritatedly.

Hardy abruptly balled his hands to fists. "Sorry."

A snort indicated how much she thought of his apology.

Hardy rolled his eyes. Christ, this was going to kill him faster than his dodgy heart. He turned on his computer for no better reason than occupying his roaming fingers. His password was still active. He listlessly clicked his way through his accumulated notifications and emails. After deleting what must have been a million of them, a strong urge to bang his head against the screen was close to winning the battle against wanting to uphold the pretense that he was busy.

A week later he had run out of options to fake being occupied. Irvine had perfected her skills in ignoring him and hogging all the work. His brain was slowly turning to mush while he watched Irvine's, at best, average abilities to run his team.

Her team, he corrected himself. The loyalties had shifted quickly. He didn't allow himself to think about it. He tipped his head back and focused on the ceiling, running his tongue over his teeth.

His phone rattled on the wooden desk. Hardy snatched it up like a drunk would seize the last bottle of his favorite booze.

Baxter had sent him a text: Don't look so bored. Wanna have lunch?

Hardy's head snapped up. Baxter was leaning against the doorframe, just right outside of Irvine's visual field, and mimicked spooning some imaginary food into his mouth.

Hardy wasn't hungry but anything was better than rotting of boredom in this office.

"'M going for lunch," he mumbled, shrugging on his jacket.

Irvine didn't bother with him and ducked her head deeper into her files. Her standoffish behavior shouldn't have put him off considering their history, but it still got to him. He hurried after his friend and boss who'd gone ahead. They both knew that being seen together socially might not be the best idea.

Stolen glances and stares burnt on his back while he strode through the large CID room toward the exit. Despite the urge to run, he made an effort not to do so. It felt like a walk of shame. He pressed his lips together, sniffed, and held his head high. He'd better get used to the path he'd chosen for however many more days ahead.

Baxter watched Hardy pick at his food. It looked dreadfully healthy and not enjoyable at all. No wonder that his friend's permanent scowl deepened. He toyed around with his fork and some peas, stabbing them meticulously and stacking them on the same prong. It was oddly fascinating.

Baxter shook his head slightly and attempted to rekindle the conversation that had died out minutes ago.

"So, did you break the ice with Irvine?"

Hardy peered over his spectacles. "You're kidding, right?"

Baxter smirked. "What? You didn't woo her with your suave Scottish charm?"

Hardy choked on his neatly stacked peas. When Baxter reached over to pat him on the back, he was stopped by a murderous glare. His grin grew wider.

"She's like a bloody ice queen," Hardy hacked out between coughs. "And she likes it that way. Have you seen her run the briefings?"

"Seriously, Hardy? Most of the times you didn't even bother saying good morning."

Hardy rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "At least I didn't pretend to be nice," he grumbled.

Baxter sighed. It seemed like an impossible task to guide Hardy through this transition.

"Look, Alec, once you get the pacemaker and have recovered, it's going to be your show again."

"If I haven't succumbed to boredom until then," Hardy groused and went back to stabbing peas.

"It doesn't hurt you to take it easy for a while."

Hardy tossed down the fork and crossed his arms over his chest. "I've been taking it easy for over two bloody months. It gets old quickly."

Baxter felt for him, but there wasn't much he could do. He wondered if Hardy had caught wind of the things that were being said about him in CID. The small seeds of doubt he'd planted had grown into unruly weeds, painting a rather despicable picture of the formerly respected DI.

He put a hand on Hardy's arm. "Alec, I need you to lie low. There is a lot of talking going on, and stirring things up won't help anyone."

"What's that supposed to mean? It's not like this is a popularity contest."

"It's not that. We chose a path and now we have to stick with it." Baxter searched his friend's face carefully. He wanted to believe that second thoughts gleamed in those tired eyes. Hoping for a change of mind, he continued, "Unless of course you want to set things-"

"No. Absolutely not," Hardy interrupted him harshly. "I don't care what sort of horseshit people talk behind my back."

The faint blush on his pale cheeks gave him away, and Baxter's heart ached for his friend who might not pretend to be nice, but surely pretended to be tougher than he was.

"Promise me something," Baxter demanded. Hardy narrowed his eyes, but then nodded.

"Don't listen to any of the gossip. Don't hang out in the office kitchen or the coffee shop. Don't mingle."

"When have I ever mingled?" Hardy muttered defiantly, but the change in his expression told Baxter that he'd gotten the message.

They finished their meal in silence. When they walked back, Hardy's step had less bounce than before and his shoulders drooped. He was lost in his thoughts. Baxter itched to put his arm around him to give him some comfort, but they were too close to the station. If anyone were to see them together, the inflammatory remarks would only be stoked.

They parted ways before anyone noticed. Baxter hated it. It felt unnatural, especially knowing how lonely Hardy was and how much he needed his support at the moment.

He watched him stalk back into the station, heart heavy and hoping that his friend would never find out how skilled Baxter was when it came to spreading lies.

The first time Hardy heard it with his own ears it nearly did him in.

It had been three weeks since his return. Irvine had cut him off all case work, managing the team by herself. He hadn't pressed to be involved more as nothing that they were investigating currently had sparked his interest. Baxter was content with him not meddling and straining himself as little as he could. Hardy diligently came to work every single day and did his time in his office that had become his prison. He kept to himself, avoiding the averted eyes and hushed voices.

He'd always been a loner but this was different. Now people steered clear off him and not the other way round. It was more painful than he'd expected and would ever admit. He was getting used to it though, or at least he'd thought so.

A summer flu was going around CID and Hardy felt under the weather. The scratchy feeling in his throat drove him out of his seclusion, longing for a cup of tea. The kitchen wasn't a place he'd ever enjoyed hanging around, but since he'd come back, it had gotten worse. After debating with himself for a while, his desire for a hot cuppa won. It was late in the afternoon on a Friday, and most of the staff had left for the weekend.

Hardy made his way to the kitchen, passing by deserted cubicles and desks. He should have gone home ages ago, but one of the cases had caught his attention. His starved mind had latched onto the facts and evidence, and before he knew it, the day had gone by.

A muffled conversation filtered around the corner.

"No. That's not what it is. He screwed it up," a male voice who he didn't recognize said.

Hardy stopped dead in his tracks. Reason told him to make his presence known or to retreat, but he couldn't resist the urge to eavesdrop.

"But I've heard he wasn't even there that day, when they searched the car. How can he have lost it?" the other person, a woman, asked.

"Because his wife, the poor woman, gave it to him and then he had a drink and left it in his car."

Hardy cringed. Baxter's efforts had been successful.

"You really think he did that? He is such a stickler for the rules. And I've never heard he drinks."

"Have you seen him? He looks like shit all the time. And he was gone for two months. Where do you think he was? I bet it was rehab of sorts," the man speculated.

Hardy sagged against the hallway wall and pressed the heels of his hands onto his eyeballs. A drunk - that's what it had come down to. He'd been willing to die to solve the case and now this. It was his own fault though. What had he been expecting?

"Hm, it is possible, I reckon. Do you think that is why they took on a second DI?"

"Oh, I have no bloody idea. If he's an alcoholic, he's not reliable. Besides, if he drowns his brain cells in liquor, he's no good at doing the work. I'd bet a month's paycheck that they don't trust him with a more complex case than a bicycle theft. He sure fucked up the most profiled homicide this constabulary ever had to deal with."

The words were a punch to his gut and Hardy folded in on himself. He shouldn't have spied on them, but it was too late. He dug his trembling fingers into his thighs, barely keeping himself upright.

"Why would they let him keep his position though?"

"Good question. Years ago when we had that arsonist torching down half of Sandbrook, the word is that he had saved MacMillan's life. Maybe he cashed in a favor." There was a snigger. "Or maybe other favors were exchanged."

"Ugh, seriously? Did you have to say that?" There was more laughter.

Disgust made Hardy nauseated. MacMillan didn't deserve to be dragged through the mud like this. He was close to descending upon them and tell them off, when their next remark made his heart stutter.

"He's such a sexist pig though," the woman stated passionately. "He threw his wife under the bus to pay for his mistakes."

"Yeah, poor Tess. She always worked so hard and he took credit for it. She even called him out on it right before it happened."

Hardy's throat closed off. Hearing his lie come to life like this was horrific. The pauses between the thudding beats of his heart drew out longer, turning his legs to jelly and sending the world around him spinning. A voice in his brain spewed and cursed at how unjust it was that he'd be accused of something he didn't do while the guilty party was being pitied.

"He's been ruthless to protect himself. Look at what happened not only to Tess but also to Dave. Both of them got disproportionately punished for what? That they had handed over the evidence to Hardy who lost it in his drunken stupor. Fuckwit," the woman swore.

It was too much. Hardy slid down the wall, pulled down by a weight that had never left him since that day on the river. His hands shook too much to retrieve his rescue pills which he hadn't needed since he'd had that fight with Tess. The black closed in and he welcomed it.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

A warm hand enveloped his wrist, feeling for his fleeting pulse. He managed a groan.

"Do you have any medication on you that could help?"

He nodded and clumsily moved his tingly fingers in the general direction of his jacket pocket. His wrist was released, and moments later a gentle pressure on his cheek coaxed him to open his mouth.

"Need two," he rasped.

He cracked his eyes open. Annie Swenson's forehead was pulled into a frown, but when she saw him blinking at her, she smiled.

"Here," she said and maneuvered the tablets into his mouth. She held up a water bottle. "Do you want this?"

She didn't wait for his answer and put the opening to his lips. He took a sip, spilling most of it down his collar, but it helped to gag down the pills.

Swenson tugged on his arm and draped it over her shoulder. She was a dainty woman with a hidden strength that Hardy didn't know where she took it from. She pulled him up and together they stumbled into the next best empty room. She lowered him carefully on a chair and hurried to close the door.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?"

He shook his head. It wasn't that kind of an attack. It would pass. And if it didn't, it wouldn't matter.

"What happened?" she wanted to know once he had caught his breath.

"Nothing," he lied.

"Seriously? Do you think I'm a moron?" She sounded hurt. "I know that you have a heart problem. Remember, I came to see you in the hospital. You seemed okay since you're back, something must have provoked this."

He had trained her too well. She'd grown into a detective. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. Still, he wasn't going to share what had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He flushed with embarrassment.

She stepped closer and placed a hand on his forehead. He flinched away.

"You feel hot. Maybe you caught that bug everyone seems to have these days?"

"'M fine," he insisted stubbornly.

She snorted and crossed her arms, towering over him.

"I heard what they were talking about. I can put two and two together, sir."

The muscles between his shoulder blades cramped, sending a stabbing pain through him. It must have shown on his face, judging from her reaction.

She hugged him.

Hardy didn't know what to do with himself. His body stiffened awkwardly in her embrace.

"It's all right," she muttered into his hair. "Don't listen to what they say. You know what really happened and why you did what you did."

She let go of him and stooped down so she could look up into his eyes like an adult would do with a child.

"And I know it too. These people don't matter. What matters is what you think of yourself. Don't let it get to you. That's easier said than done, but you can't let it win."

She'd matured tremendously in the last months, yet she still appeared so young to Hardy. He wished he could protect her from the world, but it was impossible.

His heavy hand fell on her shoulder and he pushed himself up, using her as a crutch.

"It already won, Swenson. It already won," he repeated, his voice hollow with resignation.

Then he walked out, alone with his choices and the burden of the consequences.

Swenson had been right. The office bug had claimed another victim. Two days later, Hardy found himself lying on Emily Abbott's exam table, shivering and aching all over. Never before had he gone to the doctor for the sniffles, but when he nearly passed out while staggering to the bathroom, it dawned on him that things had changed.

Emily gave him a lecture about how important it was for him to avoid having a fever, making it sound like it had been his fault that he'd been ravaged by a simple cold virus. He told her so. She shut up his bickering with some pills that would help to drive down his temperature. When she started talking about admitting him to the hospital, it was his turn to silence her.

"Hell no," he rasped, his voice hoarse from the sore throat. "Not going there for bloody sniffles."

"Alec, please-"

"No," he exclaimed defiantly.

His protest would have been more impressive if he hadn't been struck down by a dizzy spell as soon as he hobbled off the exam table.

"Ach, for fuck's sake," he groaned, gripping the piece of furniture tightly. Or at least he had intended to. His fingers slipped, together with the crinkly paper, and he just about caught his fall. It was pathetic. Hanging on to whatever dignity he had left, he less than gracefully plopped down onto the step-stool at the bottom of the exam table. A cough rattled through him.

Emily pulled over a chair and sat down opposite him. "Listen, you really need to-"

He didn't want to hear it, so he interrupted her with the only thing he could think of that might distract her.

"So, when can we do the pacemaker?"

She looked at him with a blank stare, blinked a few times, and then her face slowly folded itself into a scowl.

"I know what you're doing. I'm not an idiot," Emily stated, tired of his games.

Hardy's ears heated up even more. He blamed it on the fever and not his embarrassment.

"I think you don't understand how serious this is, Alec. Fever and respiratory issues are very dangerous for you these days. They can provoke an attack-"

His frustration grew and he took it out on her, "Who cares, Emily? My colleagues think I'm an alcoholic who can't be trusted and Daisy believes I deserted her. Everybody would be better off if I'm not around any more."

He'd braced himself for her angry reply, but it didn't come. Instead, her warm eyes rested on him for a long time, taking him in completely.

Eventually, she asked, steadily holding his gaze, "Do I need to be worried?"

He palmed his face and dragged his hands over it in a rough motion. "No, Emily. You don't," he sighed.

"Can you promise me?" she insisted.

He looked up. "Yes."

His voice quivered, but she didn't push him further. Taking in a deep breath, she stood and held out her hand for him. He scrambled to his feet, feeling less lightheaded. The fever had finally broken, and his heart rate had settled.

"About the pacemaker...," she began, giving him a sheepish glance, "No sane anesthesiologist is going to touch you for at least six weeks after you had a respiratory illness like this. You're already a high risk patient, they would want to wait for it to clear and then add some time."

"Oh," was all he could manage. Another month and a half to agonize over his shortcomings and to stare at Irvine's sour face.

"I'm sorry."

"'S not your fault," he mumbled. "Should have done it when I had the opportunity."

Their eyes met. His sadness was mirrored in her face. Nothing else needed to be said.

"Right. I should go."

He moved towards the door, but her hand on his arm held him back.

"You shouldn't be alone, Alec. Not while you're ill."

"And what am I supposed to do about that, ey? It's not like anyone wants me around," he snapped at her, suddenly angered by the mess his life had become.

His outburst bounced off of her. "Ed would be more than happy-"

"He's my boss, Emily. I can't stay with him. People are already wagging their tongues about him playing favorites," Hardy informed her harshly.

"How about your charming Scottish friend? What's his name again? Duncan?"

Hardy groaned inwardly. Of course she'd remember him as the charming one. Unbelievable.

"He lives in Cardiff. I highly doubt you would want me to go on a train trip right now," he argued, sarcasm lacing his words.

"He could come and pick you up?" she suggested and walked over to her desk. She grabbed her mobile and swiped the screen. "I can call him right now."

Hardy squinted at her. "Why do you have his number?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "He gave it to me when you were in hospital in case something happened and I couldn't get a hold of Ed."

"Spectacular." They were all ganging up on him.

She waved the phone, a questioning look on her face.

Exhausted with life, he gave in. "Go on," he sighed and slumped back onto the exam table.

A few hours later, he was tucked into the passenger side of Duncan's cluttered car, yet again seeking refuge with his oldest friend.