Kent's still stiff and careful the next morning. Chandler finds that sleep has offered no enlightenment on what to do about it. Though perhaps he doesn't need it and should stop waiting to be struck down by revelations, because Kent turns to him over toast and says that he shouldn't worry, it's always like this. It gets better, he's just got to give it an hour.

'And,' he adds, jabbing the crust in Chandler's direction, 'you'd better not even think of putting me on desk duty. That's rule number one.'

Chandler huffs. 'I think we're all on desk duty for the moment.'

'Yeah, well.' Kent trails off as he gets up; he's still favouring his leg, but not as much. 'I'm still getting my own coffee.'

So, when later that morning Kent does yawn and get up from his desk, leaving a file propped open, his mobile acting as an impromptu paper weight, Chandler doesn't say anything. He certainly doesn't get up and abandon his own file, even if for a fleeting moment he wants to; instead he keeps an eye on Kent's silhouette, though its scrutiny lessens as he notices little irregularity to Kent's gait. He keeps returning, though, even when Kent's making his way back to his desk, mug of coffee firmly in hand. Just in case. It can't hurt.

He notices that he crosses paths with Miles, and although they don't exchange words, Chandler doesn't notice that the sergeant is making for the threshold of his office before it's too late to do anything about it.

'Boss?'

'Miles,' Chandler says, clearing his throat and rerouting his wandering gaze. He doesn't have to, Miles seems to know everything and therefore probably knew about Kent's pain long before it occurred to Chandler to ask, but he's more comfortable if he does.

'I just took a call from Jameson.'

Chandler perks up a bit at that. 'And?'

'His bank's isolated the statements. Harding's name's on them and everything; it's definitely him.'

'When can we have a look at them?' Chandler asks,

'I'm negotiating that as we speak, boss. I'm trying for by end of day.' Miles' tone suggests he's just finished an argument that was masquerading as something else; he crooks a brow and shrugs. 'Though we've already got the confirmation we need.'

Chandler nods, mind already working. 'Excellent.'

It's a beginning, at least. A starting line, something concrete they can work with. It's a breath of fresh air; they've been breathing in theory for so long that it feels like dust, something stuck in their throats. He doesn't quite smile, although he can feel the beginnings flickering somewhere, and he gets to his feet with an enthusiasm that's been lacking recently. He doesn't particularly know where he's going, or if it's helpful if he does, but he's been looking for an excuse to wander into the incident room proper for a while.

Miles follows him out but diverges towards his own desk before long, letting Chandler wander towards the whiteboards on his own. Kent looks up for a split second—Chandler only notices because he's checking, because he doesn't want him to think he's not listened to what he said—but he quirks a small smile that he doesn't need returning.

Mansell doesn't maintain such a quiet exterior faced with apparent monotony. 'God, I'm starving.'

Riley plucks a chocolate bar from her bag and chucks it at him. 'Here, have this.'

Mansell shoots her an odd look, but opens the crackling foil anyway.

'What? I've got kids.' Riley shrugs, as if that explains everything, then turns back to the open box on her desk and mutters, 'Four oversized boys, apparently.'

It takes Chandler a moment to realise she'd included him in that. It takes another for him to decide he's not going to ponder what it means yet.

'Sir?'

Chandler turns and finds Kent looking at him again, this time holding a phone away from his ear and covering the speaker with a hand. 'Yes?'

'Harding's in reception.'

There's a rush of something that sends his heart to somewhere uncomfortable in his throat, but Chandler recovers in record speed and says, 'Right, thanks.'

'What are you going to do?' Miles asks from where he's stood going through the contents of a desk drawer. 'Scope him out?'

'More or less.' Chandler resists the urge to shrug; he's not thought about this as much as he usually would. His night's been filled with something—someone—else. 'None of us are to say anything to him regarding these deaths—anything at all—unless we get something linking him to the victims. We may have one at the moment, but it'll be the most tenuous of the lot, so until there's something else…' He looks around at the group of them. 'Not a word.'

'We'll keep looking, then,' Miles says, pinning Harding's picture to the free space on one of the boards.

Mansell nods towards it, swallowing his mouthful of chocolate. 'Should be easier now we know what we're looking for.'

Chandler hums and nods on his way out, although he can't help but think of the times when he's spent ages looking for his keys when they were right in front of him. Knowing what the needle looks like doesn't always make a path through the haystack.

But he'll deal with that once he's dealt with this.

He hadn't been the one to take Harding's statement at the time; that had been one of the PCs on duty. Riley had interviewed him later on—the next day, with the identity parade, if Chandler recalls correctly (and he usually does). Yet although he hasn't seen him in person before, he can spot him even through the officers milling about in reception. He sits neatly in one of the provided chairs, ankles crossed and demeanour relaxed, though there's something sharp and feline in his gaze. It should be benevolent, a gesture rather than an intent, but he's taking everything in. One of those people, then. You can't corner them. They've mapped out every exit before you've even thought about stepping into the room. And Chandler's determined not to let that happen again.

Chandler's not sure why but he sort of expected a man in flowing robes. Though perhaps that's out of vogue for any rector with a website.

'Mr Harding?'

The man looks to him and, after a beat that's possibly a moment too long, gets to his feet. 'Yes?'

Chandler extends his hand. 'DI Chandler. I'm heading the investigation into the incident you reported to us.'

There's little hesitation in the way Harding returns the gesture; his handshake is firm, confident, but he's probably one of those men who has it down pat. Just like Chandler. Their profession requires it, whether or not they're keen on the sentiment at all.

'I trust that it's progressing well?' Harding asks.

Chandler says, 'I'm afraid that I cannot provide specifics,' though he hopes his expression implies that they've made decent headway. Which they have, just not on what Harding's asking after, and Chandler suspects that he wouldn't appreciate the significance of that morning's revelations.

'Understandable,' is the answer, and he's far too calm for this conversation to feel natural.

'We just wanted to confirm some aspects of your statement…'

Chandler's prepared for the affronted reaction that's not unusual, the complaints that the police can't do their jobs, that it's an inconvenience to come in to the station at an officer's whim, the panic and assumption of disbelief. But Harding simply nods and repeats his story. It follows the same plot as his statement, the details exact and in line with what they know about the situation; there's none of the strangely specific claims that usually come with something fabricated, no agreement with a script. Chandler's read the statement enough to know that while Harding's recalling his story, he's not repeating his words; this is coming from memory, not memorization. In this, at least, he's telling the truth.

'I understand that you've taken it upon yourself to aid the police in their investigations before,' Chandler says as the retelling comes to an end.

'Yes. Many a time.' Harding's hands are clasped together in front of him, but relaxed. 'It's my duty as a citizen, is it not?'

'I suppose it is.'

'And in my profession, you get used to watching.'

Almost to underline his statement, Harding glances around the reception from where they're stood; as far as Chandler can tell there's not much to be garnered from the scene, besides the fact that the desk sergeant needs to find some better reading material than The Sun, but he still feels himself bristle slightly. He tries to battle it down but he's readable anyway and he's quickly learning that Harding's more than observant.

'Oh, you mustn't take that the wrong way,' he says, opening a palm in what's supposed to be a placating gesture. 'It's only that my workplace is considerably calmer than yours, Inspector. Anything that happens is difficult not to notice. You absorb a lot of information just from being there and having the luxury of possessing eyes and ears.'

'That must end up taking up a considerable amount of your time, Mr Harding.'

Harding shrugs. 'I am, of course, responsible for the care of the souls of my congregation. How can I do that without engaging with the community, Inspector?'

'I don't think I'm in much of a position to comment,' Chandler says, careful with his tone. 'Although I must admit that I imagine any sort of isolation wouldn't serve you well in your profession.'

Which is a rather odd thought, actually, Chandler realises, except he's probably getting this all confused with monastic orders and now's really not the time for his treacherous brain to decide it wants to ponder the history of monasticism. Perhaps it shows, because Harding's regarding him with a peculiarly knowing expression and it makes Chandler's skin crawl.

'I take it you are not a man of faith, Inspector.'

'No.' Chandler shakes his head, curving the file in his hands towards himself. 'Not of any particular strength.'

'Then how do you carry on? With this job?'

Chandler's saved from having to find an answer by Miles' appearance on the landing.

'Sir?'

That tone's got something hidden behind it; Chandler's heard Miles appear just to be convenient, just to fish someone out at the right time.

'If you'll excuse me, Mr Harding.' He smiles and it feels false; that doesn't often happen. Not like this, anyway. 'You've been a great help.'

'That is all I can endeavour to be.' Harding nods in a manner that's supposed to be sage. 'Good day, Inspector.'

Chandler has a terrible feeling that this exchange has been more than just a display empty theatre; what it's filled with is a mystery, though, and his sergeant's looking more and more impatient at the top of the stairs so he doesn't linger over it.

'What is it, Miles?' he asks, jogging up the last couple of steps.

(He can't tell whether or not he's hurrying to meet Miles or trying to put as much distance between himself and Harding as possible.)

'Kent's finally surfaced from where he's kept his nose buried in Cartwright's datebook,' Miles says, motioning in the direction of the incident room. 'She met with Harding.'

'What? Why?'

'Well, I suppose there could be another Rev G Harding, but his name's in there at o'clock with the annotation research interview.' The sergeant's tone is dry as he leans his shoulder into the incident room door, holding it open for the both of them. 'Kent's disappeared down the stacks to see if he can find an evidence box. If there's not one there then we'll probably have to ask the family for her project materials.'

Chandler narrows his mouth; approaching the family any more than they already have could prove problematic. He certainly doesn't want to have to manoeuvre around any sort of complaint on top of all of this. Although the Cartwrights have been nothing but helpful, perfectly happy (for lack of a better word) to offer what help they could. Perhaps they wouldn't mind. Or perhaps they're the sort who couldn't bear to keep Alexandra's materials.

'Why didn't we catch this before?' he asks, half rhetorically.

'Knackered eyes?' Miles' tone dares a joke, although it doesn't particularly last. 'No, the name's been added in in pencil. A reschedule, I'd say. Rubbed off something dreadful. You'd only notice if you were looking for it in particular.'

Chandler nods, and although he's not happy about it, at least that's a legitimate reason. He'll have no negligence carrying on under his nose.

'There's another thing, boss,' Miles continues. 'Riley's been on the phone with Cartwright's thesis supervisor. She says there were some questions being raised about the originality of her work. She didn't say anything at the time because they were only questions and it didn't seem relevant, but… she's had a look in a records since we've been asking about the case, and as it turns out a large chunk of her proposal was lifted from another study. They only confirmed it after her death, and after the investigation was shelved.'

'And you think it's related?'

'Nothing else is. And it's the first new piece of information about her we've got.'

'Academic dishonesty is a feeble provocation to murder, Miles.'

'But she was murdered, and it's the fact that she met Harding and had that hanging over her head that matters,' Miles points out, walking from one end of the whiteboards to the other, tapping his knuckle against the photographs taken in Poplar. 'Our Alfred. He probably met Harding, and he's dead. Couldn't he have had something hanging over his head, too?'

Chandler has to pause. 'It's not impossible.'

Miles huffs. 'That's high praise, coming from you.'

'What would you suggest?' Chandler asks, allowing himself a small smile.

'Let's see if there's anyone else Harding knows who's dead and condemned.' Miles turns his back to the whiteboards and slips his hands into his pockets, supposedly nonchalant. 'Anyone with convictions. A past.'

'There's probably hundreds.'

'But how many of them are dead?'

'He's a vicar.' Chandler shrugs. 'He probably buried quite a few of them himself.'

'Yeah, well, rule out the ones with natural causes stamped on their death certificates and see what we're left with.' Miles shoots him a significant look. 'There's only so many unusual deaths that's normal for one person to be associated with.'

'Are you volunteering to go through them?'

'I thought you'd be chomping at the bit to get that job, sir,' Miles says with a crooked smile. 'You usually are, after all.'

Chandler huffs and supposes they'll all have to do it. They can probably take a county each. If they buckle down it shouldn't take more than twenty-four hours. Forty-eight at the most. And it's more than they've got at the moment; if it throws up something they can look into… well, it might just be worth it. And it wouldn't be the first time he's requested what might look like insane amounts of documentation in relation to a case. The duty officers wouldn't even bat an eye.

'Let's do it,' he says, because they might as well.

Miles looks as if he should be rubbing his hands together, but instead he checks his watch. 'It's early enough in the day that some poor unpaid intern can corral all the papers for us.'

In the end, they send Ed to pick up the reports. He needed to stretch his legs, according to Riley's prescriptions, and he's never been one to turn down a trip to an archive.

There's more than they expect. Somehow they each get a box or two, piled up on each of their desks, but even that's not quite enough. A corner of Chandler's office is relegated for the overflow, along with strict instructions not to photograph, photocopy, or to authorise the removal of any of the papers enclosed. He can only stand it because they all make sure that the boxes somewhat align with the lines of his own filing cabinets and he can just about kid themselves they're supposed to be there.

The work's just as slow as Chandler had imagined it'd be. But at least it's methodical, a matter of double-checking and cross-referencing. In fact that's probably what's making Mansell grumble, because there's nothing imaginative about it and they're all detectives for a reason, but at least Chandler can find some sense of getting things done as he crosses off names and places files in a not related pile. It's better than them all sitting there, twiddling their thumbs, staring at a set of photographs and waiting for inspiration to strike.

Though the time elapsed probably isn't that different.

Eventually, Miles excuses himself, clocking off with an apologetic, 'I'd nick some if I could, boss, but I'm not sure with a toddler in the house I'd get away with it.' Chandler doesn't blame him and waves the sergeant off; he holds his head up until the incident room doors slam, although he's looking at nothing. Middle distance is quite a nice change from Courier New and bright, glossy computer screens, even if Mansell and Riley draw his vision into uncomfortable focus as they wave a goodbye from the corner of the room.

'You're staying, sir?' Kent asks from across the incident room when the door shuts behind them, the slam echoing around his words.

Chandler starts a little, then sighs. 'Looks like it.'

Kent turns his head a little further, presumably to see around the doorframe. 'You wouldn't mind company, would you?'

'There's no overtime in it for you.'

'I don't mind.'

Chandler puts his pen down—not that he's had occasion to use it, but having a pen in his hand for no apparent reason seems to be something he's picking up from Kent—and tries not to spend too long contemplating the suitability of its alignment before getting to his feet. He walks to the open doorway, the threshold of shadow and light, and hovers.

'Everything all right?' he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

'We're not having this conversation again,' Kent says, looking up again with a growing smile. 'We've got too much to go through for another trip to a crossroads and another of your history lessons.'

Chandler's slightly taken aback. 'You remember that?'

'I remember a lot of things that have to do with us,' Kent admits, looking down to thumb a pencil mark off his desk.

'In that much detail, though?'

'More or less.' He shrugs and turns back to his papers. If Chandler looks hard enough, squints a little, then he might be able to see the slight flush at the heights of Kent's face; some sort of nervous energy must propel him on, because Kent looks up again a moment later, a self-conscious lopsided smile on his mouth. 'You underestimate me, Joseph Chandler.'

There's something intimate about that, about Kent tasting Chandler's full name in his mouth; it shouldn't be, because it's a jumble of letters and a shadow of a personality that resounds on every form that leaves their office, a name that he trots out himself whenever he wants a witness to talk or an officer to do what he asks. Yet when Kent says it, when he wraps it in something new—another voice, another tone—it suddenly feels like something that should be hushed, that should only pass between them when they're encased in walls much thicker than this.

But no lightning strikes the station, no phone call comes through to Chandler's desk from internal affairs, and Kent just turns back to the papers in front of him, the shape of his hand a shadow beyond the page he's holding aloft in front of a singular desk lamp.

'Come on,' Chandler says, catching Kent's eye as he looks up and reaching to pull out one of the chairs at his desk. 'There's better light in here.'

Morning creeps into the station, silent and slippery. There's no rain like there had been the previous evening, the sound that had echoed in their ears as they crouched over the files, troubleshooting the program when the search had become too much for the computer system. The light finds Chandler still at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose, collar as close to askew as it's ever been. Kent had relocated with the Cambridge list to the armchair in the corner at around four; they should have known, really, but by half past he was asleep. Chandler couldn't blame him. He certainly couldn't wake him, which is why he finds himself glancing in the constable's direction as the PCs clatter around on the landing.

Change of shift. They really have been at it all night.

Chandler puts down the list and runs a hand over his face, rolling his shoulders. Kent mutters something and shifts in his sleep, making the chair shift under his weight.

Neither of them move. Or, at least, not until Chandler's just about mustered up the strength to get on with the second half of the names for Berkshire and Miles crashes—for lack of a better word—into the incident room. A suspicious part of Chandler's brain wonders if the din isn't supposed to be for their benefit, somehow, but even if that's what he meant it hasn't worked. Kent seems oblivious as Chandler jumps to his feet, grabbing at the pages they'd decided needed another look.

He meets Miles in the middle of the open room, the desks on either side of them covered in an amount of clutter Chandler usually doesn't stand for. Miles crooks a brow at a pair of paper cups from Kent's favoured coffee shop propped up next to Riley's computer.

'Christ, you look a state,' he says in lieu of a greeting. 'For you, anyway.'

'I've been working.'

'I can see that.'

Chandler straightens the papers in his hands as Miles pushes past him, shrugging off his coat, and makes his way to his own desk. The corner of one page must have been scrunched against a keyboard, or perhaps one of their mobiles, because it takes so much concentration to smooth it out that Chandler's doesn't notice Miles looking through to his office until the sergeant's already scoffing.

'Oh, so you let him sleep on the job, do you?'

For a brief moment Chandler thanks his lucky stars that he hadn't given in to the urge to drape his coat over Kent like some sort of makeshift blanket. It had been a very odd thought and an even odder feeling, but then again, it had been five in the morning and he'd been awake for near enough twenty-four hours. Another glance at his watch tells him it's been twenty-six by now.

'We've been here all night, Miles.'

'Should be getting some kip yourself, then,' Miles says, rifling through the in-tray Chandler knows is empty of anything of use. 'There are laws against this sort of thing, you know.'

Chandler huffs. 'Not ones you haven't already broken.'

Miles barks a laugh at that. 'All right, I take your point. You two get much done?'

'I can't tell yet,' Chandler admits, handing over the papers and waving his fingers to indicate the stripes of highlighter ink. 'There are a few names that look interesting but none that have come up as flagged. Though last time Kent checked, the system-wide search hadn't finished.'

'Whose computer?'

'His.'

Miles skirts around him and slots in between Kent's desk and the whiteboards, tapping the spacebar as he peers at the monitor.

'Oh, great,' he mutters, looking up to meet Chandler's expectant gaze. 'The sod's got his computer locked and he's dead to the world.'

The expression that accompanies Miles' words is overdone, as if it's Chandler's fault or he expects him to do something about it. Perhaps it is, and perhaps he should, but he happens to know that he's not the only one with a soft spot for Kent. They all do, in different ways, and Chandler knows Miles would have been hard-pressed to wake him, too. So he ignores Miles' sly growing smile and makes for the whiteboard, snapping the cap from the closest marker.

'Boss?' Miles prompts.

'I'm not going to stop you waking him,' Chandler mutters, fixing the tail end of a 'g' in the reverend's name.

He would have expected a juvenile shot of some sort, or a sharp comment, but none come from Miles' direction. Chandler refuses to look and see what's going on until he hears footsteps and looks up to see Miles en route to his office. The lines of words before him should hold his concern, should keep him there because Miles is his sergeant for a reason. But he's been awake for over a day—though perhaps not strictly on duty—and he's going to say that's why he closes his eyes with a resigned sigh and follows, no matter how telling it feels.

After all, it's only Miles. He knows everything.

Chandler busies himself with the documents strewn over his desk. They aren't as messy as they could be, which is probably why Miles shoots him another significant look, but someone needs to put all the counties in order.

Miles nudges Kent's shoulder; it's a blunt movement but still somehow gentle. 'Oi, Kent.'

The man in question scrunches his nose and frowns, turning a little into the crook of the chair's arm. The file still lodged under his arms, crossed across his chest, wrinkles a little as it's pressed against the leather.

Chandler allows himself a quiet suggestion. 'You'll have to be a little more emphatic than that.'

'You'd know, wouldn't you?'

He attempts a stern look but Miles isn't paying much attention to him. Instead he hovers at Kent's elbow until he stirs again and then tries a sharp jostle. It seems that none of them expected quite such an exaggerated startle response because even Miles jumps a little as Kent gasps awake, grasping for the arm of the chair and letting the file fall free.

'Morning,' Miles says, voice dry as a few photocopies of the council log books drift and land on top of his shoes.

'Christ.'

'No, DS Miles.'

'Very funny,' Kent counters, still all breath as he twists to retrieve the lost pages.

'Working you to the bone, is he?'

'I offered, skip.'

'Yeah, well, I knew you were daft, but not that daft.'

'Come off it,' Kent says, recovering a little. 'You knew I was daft before I did.'

Chandler's pretty sure he's missing some sort of implication there, something that both of them know but don't particularly mind if he figures out, either.

'Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers. If that's the gift I've got…'

Miles trails off in a resigned manner with a put-upon shrug. Chandler's not entirely sure he follows the implication but Kent's smiling at the disarray of papers in his hands as he corrals them into something that looks a little more like a file.

'Go home, get changed, eat something,' Miles says after a moment, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. 'We can do without you for an hour or two.'

'Skip—'

'I do give some of the orders around here.'

Kent looks as if he's got half a mind to argue. Then again, Chandler knows him, and the other half of his mind has already wandered home and buried itself in bed. He doesn't blame him; that chair's not as comfortable as it looks, he knows. And it looks pretty damn uncomfortable. Then a yawn creeps up on him and Kent has to turn away and shake it off, returning to meet Miles' self-satisfied expression with a sheepish one of his own.

'All right, skip,' he says, placing the file in Miles' outstretched hand. 'This time you win.'

'I'll make a note of it.'

Kent peers around Miles as he straightens his waistcoat, meeting Chandler's gaze. 'And what about you, sir?'

'His nibs will be doing the exact same thing, once he's briefed me. So get on with it.'

The words are sharp but the edge is blunt, paternalistic; Kent holds up his hands in mock surrender and points towards the door, indicating the imminence of his exit.

'Good luck making him do it,' he says, nodding towards Chandler with a sliver of a smile as he ducks out of the room.

Miles takes no notice, though Chandler reckons there's a grin threatening somewhere. 'Unlock your computer on your way out.'

'The password's on a sticky note on the underside of the keyboard.'

'Oh, and I suppose you knew that, didn't you?' Miles says, rounding on Chandler, who just shakes his head and wonders whether or not he should do something about that. They're not supposed to have their passwords floating about—in fact they're supposed to change them every three months, to something ridiculous involving uppercase letters and numbers out of sequence, but he can see the logic. They might need to get into each others' computers. The IT department would probably take too long and in the case of incapacity, they wouldn't have enough time. And Chandler's really the only one of them who goes looking underneath keyboards, anyway.

'What've you found, then?' Miles asks, motioning for Chandler to follow as he makes a beeline for Kent's computer. 'There must be something if you've been here all night. You aren't a complete idiot.'

Chandler's reached a point of fatigue where he's no longer sure if that's a compliment or not. He's compos mentis enough to know that it doesn't matter, though, and he reaches for the more pertinent of the two piles of papers on his desk.

'There's not much that's out of the ordinary, as far as we can tell at the moment,' he says, coming to a stop before the desk just as Miles peels off the note with an air of victory. 'We couldn't speak to anyone directly, not at that time—'

'Yes, that is the downside of unsociable hours,' Miles mutters, typing in each letter with a single keystroke.

Chandler narrows his mouth and presses on. 'This one was interesting, though. Elizabeth Dogwell. Now, there's nothing on her record but she posted bail for a charge of reckless driving for a man she identified as her younger brother, one Harry Allen. He's been in and out of a handful of police stations around the county, all for similar reasons. Drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, banned substances.'

'But he's in none of the parish records?'

'You know how I hate to rely on stereotypes, but he doesn't seem the sort to be overly bothered about showing up for services on a Sunday.'

'Point taken,' Miles says as the login screen chimes in the background. 'I'll have a look at him. Unless there was anyone else you had in mind?'

'One or two have had dealings with Vice Squad.'

'Get a large enough group of people and there's always a couple.' Miles shrugs, scanning the search results that pop up on the computer screen. 'You don't think much of it, though?'

'One was a witness. The other was an informant.' Chandler only half manages to smother down a yawn. 'I'd stick with Dogwell and Allen for the moment.'

'And here I was, hoping that someone had poisoned their mother.'

Chandler tries for a tone that's stern, exasperated. 'Really, Miles.'

'You have to admit that would make it more straightforward.'

He wants to say that no, it wouldn't, actually, because a poisoner isn't a strangler and they certainly don't tend to share the same characteristics as someone who slices their victims open as if they're playing anatomist, but it's probably a bit early in the morning for that and he'd probably just get his words mixed up.

'Right then, at ease,' Miles says, holding his hand out for the documents. 'You're done for the morning.'

'I don't need that long, Miles—' Chandler protests, although he hands over the papers and does as he's told.

'I'll let you know if anything revolutionary comes through.' Miles stops there, as if that's the end of the conversation, but when Chandler doesn't move he heaves another put-upon sigh and says, 'I won't let anyone rifle through your desk.'

That doesn't do much to ease Chandler's mind; no one would dare, anyway. Unless something terrible had happened.

'You need sleep, boss. An hour, at least. The longer you stand here complaining, the longer it'll be before I'll let you set a foot back in here.'

Chandler heaves out another long exhale because he knows that look. Miles always does it when he's more than prepared to back up his words.

'Go on, get out,' Miles says, the words gruff but the tone fond. 'I don't want to be responsible for the paperwork if you pop your clogs sat at that desk.'

Chandler's phone rouses him from his unsettled sleep, although it's not kind enough to remind him that he's left it on the wrong bedside table. Which is testament to how close he is to coming a bit unglued. He scrunches his face into the cold half of his pillow and—not without effort—rolls over, reaching for the vibrating device and swiping at the lock screen.

The 'DI Chandler, Whitechapel CID,' comes out much more croaky than he expects it to.

For once, Miles doesn't comment.

'You can't say I don't keep my promises, boss,' he says, foregoing a greeting.

Chandler huffs again, shifting onto his back. 'What is it, Miles?'

'It's before noon, and I'm still going to say that you probably need to see this.'

There's a rustling of paper at such a velocity that makes Chandler feel vaguely uneasy. Though that might just be a side-effect of being woken so unceremoniously. He hadn't thought he'd fall asleep at all when he'd walked into his flat; all he could see when he shut his eyes was the lists of names, of addresses, of telephone numbers. Though apparently his primordial self-preservation instinct is stronger than he realised, which must be why he's still alive, really, and he had dozed off. If you could call it that. It's shocking, really, how quickly he's got used to having Kent beside him.

He clears his throat. Twice. Neither attempt really works. 'What is it, then?'

'Elizabeth Dogwell. I only had to say I was with the Met and was asking after her brother when I got an earful.'

'Not particularly unusual.'

'No, well, you won't like this.' There's a muffled half-amused cough. 'Or you might. Depending on how you look at it.'

Chandler drags his fingers across his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. 'You're not selling it very well.'

'It sells itself, boss. She's not seen her brother since 1998.'

Chandler groans and heaves himself into a sitting position, narrowing his eyes at the bright mid-morning sun leaking through the curtains.

'Family squabble?'

Miles pauses, then says, 'No one's seen him since 1998.'

The emphasis alone is enough to make Chandler want to flop back down and do most of his thinking staring at the ceiling.

'Has he been reported missing?'

'Ms Dogwell says so. Says she reported it herself.'

'Local force?'

Miles hums in agreement. 'According to her, Allen was never made priority. They took a statement, murmured some placations and said he'd probably just taken off. Not a fine example of British policing.'

Chandler makes a vaguely assenting sound and tries to battle down the growing unease that comes with the realisation that this could be tinder for a PR firestorm. They really don't have the time or resources for that. And Chandler knows he's not a great face for police reliability, is he?

Miles knows his silences, though, and he presses on through the loaded pause. 'I've sent Riley down to take a new statement. I've also put in a request to have dental records checked.'

'Against the Poplar remains?' Chandler finder-combs his hair, wondering where to begin; the familiar gold-topped tub seems as good a place as any. 'Bit of a pre-emptive measure.'

'It seems early but you haven't seen their backlog.'

Miles' dark tone drives Chandler to twist the cap of the pot of Tiger Balm with one hand. 'How long?'

'I daren't ask. I'll see if I can come up with a catchy acronym and get the Chief Super on board with putting a rush on it.'

'Just remind him how many bodies we've got.'

What's the count now? Five in the London area, at the very least. Not all confirmed—but this isn't something that's often confused for something else, is it? Even when they're spread out over the best part of fifteen years. The higher-ups should be dying to clear something like this up, even if only to let their crime-cutting policies take the credit. They only problem is that Chandler's not sure they can do it, not even with all the extra manpower. They may never know how far this stretches. They may solve it but they're never going to be able to put it to rest, are they?

'Kent and Mansell are tracking down the original missing persons report,' Miles continues, speaking over the sound of one the of the desk chairs rolling over something that crunches. 'If we're lucky one of the investigating officers will still be in the job.'

Chandler huffs. 'And if we're unlucky?'

'Retired and living in the Costa del Sol or retired and dead.'

'You wouldn't know anyone?'

(It's a long shot, but Chandler's never been above making sure they don't have any useful connections.)

Miles makes a gruff noise that might just be apologetic. 'I was on vice in the nineties, boss. Not missing persons.'

'Right.' Chandler runs a hand over his face. 'Okay. I'm on my way back in.'

'Bet you're glad I made you have a few hours kip now, eh?'

Chandler feels about as wobbly and unprepared as he had when he'd walked out of the station last, to be honest, but he makes a noncommittal sound that Miles can interpret as an affirmative answer if he wants and says his goodbyes. He slides the phone back into its proper place once the call's closed and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He feels vaguely like he's collided with a brick wall. At speed. Although he suspects that he'd feel that way regardless of whether or not he'd been asleep. He can't even tell if it's that that's made the ache in his head worse or the sudden lurch of movement as he gets to his feet.

He'll feel better—more clear-headed—in the station. He knows where he's up to there.

Chandler's half-aware that Miles had said that Kent's already back at work; he tries not to worry that he hadn't had much rest at all but it works away at him, under his skin. Even as Kent's reminders not to fuss echo in his brain, he can't help but think that those hours spent asleep in his chair can't have helped. He should never have let him do it, really, but it's not his place to let Kent do or not do anything, is it? He'll have to ask, won't he? He's got no idea when. He can't think when he'll get a chance.

And, to top it all off, his shoulder aches.

God knows why his shoulder aches.

The phone call's dreadful.

But someone has to do it and, just like usual, Chandler acknowledges that it's his job. He has to do it.

Elizabeth Dogwell doesn't jump down his throat. In fact she's positively calm, sedate, when he tells her the steps they've taken. When he says they'll keep her updated. When he asks if he should put her in touch with a community support officer. It's when she asks him, when she starts posing the questions, that it finally gets to him. The ache of hope, the yearning for the dreadful when it's all that's left. Not even daring to be given a hint of finality. As if that's a gift.

Maybe it's because he's heard all that in another voice, decades before.

The missing, presumed lost label looks ready to peel off. The timeline fits, even with the large windows the anthropologist keeps pressing on them. Riley arrives back in the capital with information that paints a painfully clear picture: Harry Allen, when last seen, was twenty-seven and a brawler, a wrong'un. He lunged at someone in a pub on his twenty-first and he'd had his jaw broken for his trouble. 1998 is comfortably within the margin of error. The dental records and DNA are virtually formalities. As Miles says as he clocks off, 'I'll eat my hat if it's not him.'

No laughter goes with that. It's just grim acceptance, because they all know it's him and that this is… well, this is shaping up to be something else. Chandler knows he thinks too much—so much so that tonight it's almost as if his brain's gone quiet. He manages to make his way through the rest of the evening relatively easily, even throwing out a He's got suspiciously dark hair for a man of his age to Kent's What did you think of Harding?

But he's not doing much thinking about Harding; not at the moment, anyway. The case is almost secondary, except it never really can be, not with him, but something about that phone call makes him think. No one looked, did they? No one minded that Allen had fallen off the map. They all assumed he was where he wanted to be: hidden, out of sight, out of mind to stop the mithering. There are so many assumptions there, so many things thrown out of alignment; they thought they knew each other, didn't they? Chandler would bet the phrase it's what he wants got thrown around at the time. How does anyone know what anyone else wants?

He's asked himself the same question of Kent many a time, in the quiet moments. He's never quite settled on an answer. And that unnerves him if he thinks about it for very long.

Chandler tries to convince himself of the things Kent had told him before there'd even been a second body, when he'd said that honestly, it doesn't matter, nobody ever loves in the same way anyway; he'd believed it then, with Kent watching his reaction with trepidation in his eyes, and he half-believes it now, with Kent breathing steadily under his arm, solid and there in the dark. It's just that the half-disbelief is persuasive—you only need reasonable doubt, after all—and it begs the question: how does this end? Everything ends, so this will, but how and when? There are no answers. Chandler's never been allowed them, apparently, but he searches for them, yearns for them in darkened rooms, and his head never leaves him alone.

He knows from the pattern of Kent's breathing that he's not asleep, yet he's still surprised when Kent shifts and swivels under Chandler's arm, taking the eiderdown with him until Chandler catches at the edge and pulls it back into place. It's the sort of thing that, once upon a time, Chandler would have thought he wouldn't be able to handle. Disrupting bedding isn't something he usually puts up with. But it's easier to make exceptions in the dark and Kent's a walking exception anyway, so as he winds a hand under Chandler's shirt and settles flush against his chest, Chandler can't complain. He doesn't even want to.

'You're thinking again,' Kent says, pressing little kisses into Chandler's throat.

Chandler hums in agreement and adjusts the angle of his neck so that he can rest his chin on Kent's mop of curls, stroking his thumb in small circles against Kent's sides. He's grateful for the way Kent always phrases those words; he notices, Chandler knows, but he's a world away from Miles. It's not a question, it's a statement, and if Chandler says nothing then that's fine. It's just an out if he wants it. Kent must know that for Chandler, sometimes, he gets so far down a train of thought that he can't quite bear to say it aloud unless asked. But sometimes he doesn't want to be asked.

He rarely does; or, at least, he rarely did.

'Em?'

'Hmm?' Kent's voice is warm against Chandler's neck.

'Do you want to sleep with me?'

There's a conspicuous silence and Chandler can feel his heartbeat high in his chest. Kent's gone very still, his breathing hitched and his fingers stilled against his spine. They don't look at one another: Chandler keeps his head where he'd left it and Kent presses slightly closer to Chandler's neck, his nose brushing the carotid pulse.

'I'd be lying,' he says, taking a careful breath, 'if I said no.'

Chandler's not sure whether he can let go of the breath he's apparently been holding.

'But I don't particularly want to sleep with anyone else, either. And if you don't want to, then I don't want to.'

Kent somehow manages to seem sure and uncertain at the same time. He lifts his hand away from Chandler's back and rests his fingers high on Chandler's stomach, not pushing him away yet not pulling, either. Chandler doesn't know what he wants him to do, not really, but he can't bring himself to let go of Kent's side, relinquish that gentle in-out of his breathing. Chandler swallows as Kent takes another deep breath and resists the urge to gather him to his chest, to stop the answer he's asked for before it makes its way out into the world.

'Sometimes I want you so much I can't breathe.' Kent meets Chandler's eye then, slipping the contact away almost as soon as it arrives. 'But there's more than one way of having.'

Kent strokes the inside of Chandler's wrist, lingers around the jut of bone; there should be something ominous about that claim, about the other claim that Kent's hand encircling his arm makes, but there isn't. He's not sure he's been had, not really, but perhaps… perhaps he has. Perhaps this isn't what people mean but this is having, isn't it? Kent is warm and in his flat and in his bed and there. Chandler's still not sure how long he'll be happy to be there.

'I don't know what you think about the rest of us—'

Kent says it in a way that makes it seem that they're the ones out of the ordinary.

'—but I'm not interested in shagging anything that moves. Mansell is an outlier, no matter what he says.'

Chandler's not sure he wants to hear Mansell's name mentioned in his bed ever again.

'I need—I need an emotional connection. Investment. Well, I don't need it, strictly speaking, but… I prefer it. And the only man I'm remotely interested in investing in at the moment—' He tilts Chandler a significant look, as if that's a plain-faced lie, as if it's a massive understatement and they both know it. '—is you.'

Chandler's sure he doesn't deserve it. He almost says as much but Kent lays a finger on his mouth and somehow holds back the words.

'I don't care if you think it's right,' he says with a sort of quiet defiance. 'It's what's happening. It's what will happen.'

There's no way they can be sure of that. Chandler knows. He's got no more faith to place in the serendipity of the world. The universe seems intent on screwing him over. Why should Kent's affection be any different? Why should he believe that he's any more likely to have Kent in his life—like this, more than this, with the same soft looks and gentle kisses and momentary touch when they lose themselves in thought—than he is to have his killer in a custody suite by the end of the month?

Kent must be able to tell that the thought bothers him because he shifts, the movement ungainly, and places a skin-warmed hand on the side of Chandler's neck. He rubs his thumb across his cheek, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

'I'm happy, Joe. I know our entire MO is trying to understand. But this—me—us.' Chandler's not sure where they end and this begins, either. 'You don't have to understand why I'm happy; just know that I am, all right?'

He huffs a little. 'Is that just a roundabout way of saying you don't know why?'

'No. I know perfectly well why.' Kent rubs his thumb over Chandler's chin, feeling the friction of late-night stubble, and finally settles his gaze on Chandler's eyes. 'I love you, you know. Have for ages.'

Chandler focuses on the feel of his fingers against the crook of his jaw instead of his words. 'Is that why?'

'It's part of why.'

He doesn't know why but he nods, although that's not really an answer. Somehow a little sigh escapes Chandler's chest as well, and through the thin darkness he can see Kent's mouth quirk into that half-smile he has, the one that always looks like he's hiding something. That he knows something. (Perhaps he does.)

Kent strokes his hair, fondly. 'Are you?'

'What?' Chandler asks, interrupting the unconscious hum that accompanied his arching into Kent's touch.

'Happy.'

Even Chandler's thoughts hesitate; he's nowhere near words and he's already fretting about how they're bound to come out wrong.

'You're allowed to be, you know,' Kent murmurs through the silence, shifting slightly towards him again. He presses his foot to the top of Chandler's; he's bed-warm and the touch is as grounding as his close to sleep-graveled voice.

'I know…' Chandler trails off, tries to make sure he's got the right sentiment. 'I know I'm not easy—'

'I don't want easy. I want you.'

'There's little to want.' The words drop out, the gaps in his thoughts too wide. 'There's no… payoff, with me.'

Kent smiles sadly. 'I beg to differ.'

'I don't understand you, Emerson.'

'Yes, you do.' Kent brushes Chandler's nose with his own, a hand to his chest, feeling the rise and fall there. 'I'm just like you.'

They're lying too close for any decent look but Chandler tries to make his eyes focus on Kent's face, to make their gazes meet. It doesn't work and he can't quite decide if he's trying hard enough. Kent's hand is warm, his tone warmer, and that's as far as he wants to go. Asking questions gets you answers and once, maybe, Chandler would have been happy with any. Now he wants certain ones, certain results, and Kent's soft words don't always feel concrete enough.

'I'll prove it. Tell me this: are you happy? Right now, forget the rest of the time, are you happy?'

It's easier said than done to eliminate everything else. Chandler's never been the sort of person who could do it, even when he was at school. All his mates—however many there were at the time—could just decide not to worry about their French practicals, or their maths exams. The world was never as kind to him. It still isn't. It never has been. It's funny, in a cruel way; the older you get, the fear creeps in. You think it will be the opposite, but it's not. Like everything else, it's backward, it's reversed, it's not at all what he'd expected.

But, that being said, there's something incredibly grounding about the way that Kent's just waiting, his fingers drifting across the skin on the back of Chandler's neck, watching through the not-quite darkness. His gaze doesn't feel intrusive. It should, but it doesn't. His touch should bring up goose bumps, but it doesn't. He should be embarrassed, but he's not. He should be scared, but he's not.

He doesn't know what he is. Not really. But he wants to be here. He's happy here. With him.

Chandler takes a careful breath that's supposed to be calming, and says, 'Yes.'

Kent makes a small crooning sound, almost a reward. Or a pleased acknowledgement of an otherwise obvious statement, Chandler can't tell which.

'I won't make you tell me why,' he says, his voice an extension of the warm sound, the reassuring sense of being there. 'Because I already know. It's the same for me, you know.'

Chandler makes a little dismissive sound, muffled against the bedding, and says, 'Most people get fed up eventually.'

'Trust me, if I was going to get fed up with you, it would have happened ages ago.' Kent's smiling at him properly now, his eyes bright through the dim light, although when he notices Chandler's uncertainty his tone shifts to something more hushed and reassuring. 'You have been nothing but honest with me. Why would I back out now?'

Chandler doesn't know. Then again, he doesn't have to, does he? It still might happen.

'And…' Kent trails off, shifting so he can run a hand up and down Chandler's arm. 'Well, feel free to tell me off for saying this, but your sample size isn't exactly considerable, is it?'

He's right. Chandler's never exactly hidden it, his relative inexperience, but he hasn't gone out of his way to mention it, either. But he supposes its obvious. Miles could tell, after all, and Kent's always been good. He's always noticed. He takes after Miles like that. But even so the revelation makes the back of Chandler's neck burn with repressed embarrassment, and he's tempted to shift closer and hide his face in the warmth offered by Kent's neck. But he doesn't, he forces himself not to, and he swallows to speak.

'No,' he admits, and he's grateful for the absence of change in Kent's expression. 'There have been a handful of people in my life who I…'

Chandler trails off. He's not entirely sure how to explain it; he never has been. None of them like you, Emerson, he wants to say but the words won't form in his mouth.

Kent smiles to fill the silence, his expression warm and affectionate. 'You really know how to flatter a bloke.'

Oh, God. This is it. This is where he's gone wrong, isn't it?

'I—'

'No,' Kent says with a slow smile. 'I mean it.' He nudges a little closer. 'You do.'

Chandler smiles into the sheet; Kent kisses his flushed cheek.

It isn't until the next morning, when Chandler's replaying the conversation in his head as he knots his tie, that he really realises that Kent said he loves him. The feeling shocks him into stillness. His fingers feel clumsy and out of control as he smooths on the rest of his suit, the waistcoat and jacket. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know what to do with himself, actually, and he resists pacing by actually walking in a particular direction.

He finds Kent in the kitchen, no longer rumpled and soft as he had been half an hour before, but a set of crisp lines and neat buttons that even Chandler would be proud of. He is. He is proud of Kent and that feels like a revelation. It shouldn't, because strictly speaking the feeling's not unfamiliar, but in that moment of reflection Kent turns around, meets Chandler's gaze, and as usual Chandler doesn't know where to start.

Kent does, though. 'Oh, hello.'

'You said you love me.'

(He just blurts it out, because it's at the front of his mind, because the words are languishing on his tongue and if he doesn't say them they might not be true.)

'Mmhm,' Kent says, through a mouthful of tea and toast, as if that's the most normal thing in the word.

Chandler blinks, long and slow. He tries to put his hands in his pockets but misses; Kent's mouth twitches into a smile as he swallows.

'You don't have to believe me.'

'No, I…' Words don't seem to be doing Chandler much good, either, but he gathers them as best he can. 'I do.'

And he does. It's a strange feeling but he picks out truths for a living and that's one of them. Normally certainty takes a little longer to cement in his mind, and for a moment Chandler wonders how long he's known, somewhere, instinctually, but perhaps he's learnt something because that doesn't seem to matter much anymore. He knows now.

Kent turns back to where he'd been standing, holding his toast over the breadboard, and Chandler gives in to the irrational urge to keep him close, prove to himself that he's there and they're both there and this isn't some feverish hallucination brought on by stress or exhaustion or whatever it is that seems to get policeman at the end of their careers. He finds his proof with his hands at Kent's waist, boldly possessive for once because he finally feels it, feels the rush of feeling that's the kind of thing that makes him want to stand there and stay put forever. The way Kent leans back against his shoulder makes him seriously contemplate doing just that.

'How long?'

'I hesitate to say forever, but…' Kent trails off, gesturing vaguely with a hand as Chandler lays a kiss behind his ear. 'It feels that way.'

Now that's an exaggeration, Chandler knows, but he also knows that everything can be real somewhere, in some crevices of their minds. He could give lectures on the subject, how the brain can deceive itself. But he just sighs and rests his head next to Kent's, because for some reason that's the only thing he can think to do. Kent's obviously better prepared for this sort of thing, because he just takes another bite of his toast and tests Chandler's grip by leaning to pick up his mug again.

'Why?' Chandler asks after a moment.

(His thoughts are slipping out far too easily these days, when it's just them.)

'Give me a chance,' is the answer, accompanied by a laugh. 'I've got to be in the station in twenty minutes.'

Kent makes a show of checking his watch but he makes no attempt to dislodge Chandler from where he's parked himself against his back. Anyway, Chandler knows he's not going anywhere quite yet. He's not even had half of that cup of tea.

'I haven't done anything,' he muses, murmuring against Kent's hair.

'You daft bastard,' Kent says, and it comes out with a short laugh like a reflex, like he's thought it a thousand times. 'You don't have to.'

Chandler frowns at the cooker as Kent leans back the best he can to press a brief kiss to the side of his jaw. 'But surely—'

'You don't have to.'

That's the truth, too, somehow. In Kent's mouth, with his certainty; there's something about his certainty that overrides Chandler's irreparable wariness. That's always been there, hasn't it? In one way or another. He just sees it now, sees it for what it is, what it has been. Chandler presses another kiss to the side of Kent's head, just because.

'That doesn't make much sense, you know,' he says as he pulls away.

'No, this makes sense.' Kent catches Chandler's arm as he finally lets him go. 'It just doesn't make sense to you yet.'

Very little makes sense to Chandler at the moment, especially not the way Kent's fingers tighten in a comforting grip around his wrist. But of all people, Chandler trusts Kent, he trusts him and he's let him teach him enough already that nodding, accepting that statement as truth is easier than Chandler would have expected.

'But, if you have to have a reason,' Kent says, after a moment's silent pause, that smile creeping up on them both again. 'It's mostly because you twitch in your sleep. You know, like dogs dreaming they're running?'

'No, I don't.'

Chandler says it so quickly even he's not sure whether or not it's the truth. Yet he wouldn't know, would he? He should be worried about the fact there are things that Kent knows about him that he's not sure of himself.

'Yes, you do. Sometimes.' Kent grins and and keeps his gaze to himself, softly adjusting Chandler's tie. 'It's terribly endearing.'

A surprised huff escapes Chandler's chest, because that's probably the last way he'd describe himself, and Kent tries to shoot him some sort of reprimanding look but he just ends up shaking his head, smiling at nothing in particular.

'I didn't say it because I want to hear it from you,' he murmurs, smoothing a palm down a lapel. 'I said it because you should know. I want you to know.'

And if anyone would have to be told, to have it spelled out to them, Chandler knows he's that man. He'd probably even think he'd try and refute it, to poke holes, to find out who or what put him up to it. Yet as Kent looks up at him, curls his fingers away from Chandler's chest and back towards himself, he can't bring himself to argue. He knows what Kent looks like when he's lying, now (how can he forget that?). So when no words offer themselves up for use, he nods.

(It's insufficient, he knows, but he can't think of what else to do. Not yet. And one corner of Kent's mouth quirks into another smile regardless.)

'Can I go to work now?' Kent asks, nodding down at where Chandler's caught his hand again, running his thumb against Kent's knuckles in a movement that's apparently become reflexive.

Chandler suddenly flushes with hot embarrassment, as if that's the most telling thing he's done this morning. He lets go too quickly and the movement's clumsy, clumsy enough for Kent to tangle their fingers again and apply a reassuring pressure that seems to have become a sort of touchstone between them.

'You'll be fine,' he says, plain as day. 'You know that, right?'

It shocks Chandler to realise that no one's ever said that to him before. Not with such honest conviction.

He's still pondering that fact when Kent leans up towards with with a soft there-and-gone brush of lips.

A/N: Next chapter on 07 August 2014. Only one more week of updates to go! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. :)