Meadows drove to the station rather than straight home as it was nearer to where he'd been searching - the places by the river where Mickey liked to walk. The places that he'd got to know well over the past few months because Mickey had been insistent that Meadows came with him, to places outside of their house where they could talk freely and relax without worrying about being seen. He'd searched them at a run until he'd run out of breath, and then he'd driven around every place where he remembered Mickey and him visiting. Sam met him running up to the CID offices, her expression frightening the DCI because she looked defeated.

'Is he okay? Mickey?' Who else would they think I was talking about?

'Smithy found him. Hour or so ago, over at Delaney's warehouse. He tried to call you, guv. You didn't answer.'

'Must have been out of range. Is he okay?' Course he is, he's got to be okay. Probably insisted on bringing Delaney in with him, knowing Mick. He's down in custody at the moment, booking him in and arguing with Smithy about how long they can keep him. Must have just missed him coming up.

'Smithy said he took him home. I think - I think that Delaney hit him or that there was a fight, something like that; he was in pain, Smithy said. Upset. That was why he was so desperate to get hold of you; I think he wants you to go and see Mickey, look after him for a while.'

'Alive.' And the love, everything that he felt for Mickey, was plain in his eyes but Sam didn't notice it, and couldn't understand why he was so concerned about the DC or why Meadows had been staying with him.

'Course he's alive.' She managed a smile. 'He got Smithy to tell me that Rachel positively ID'd Delaney. He was really insistent about that.'

'Find him. Find Delaney.' They were parting words, called back over his shoulder as he hurried back to the car park. I promised him, didn't I? That no-one would hurt him ever again, that I'd make sure he was safe…That was all he ever wanted and I promised him that and then I let him down…

'Mickey? You in, are you?' He paused on the doorstep and looked around, listening. The flat felt empty despite the lights being on and doors open as though someone had rushed through the house. There was no movement, no sense of presence.

'Mickey? You alright?' Hating the silence, he walked through the flat and over to the closed bedroom door. He knocked, waited, knocked again. 'Mickey, can I come in?'

Jack? Come look after me. He managed to call out 'yeah,' then turned to face the wall. He couldn't bear seeing Jack's eyes, the look on his face when he heard.

'Mickey, what's wrong?' The room was pitch dark and smelt of disinfectant. He could just see Mickey's fair hair, a patch of light in the darkness as he moved restlessly.

Mickey heard the DCI as he hadn't heard Smithy; heard real speech rather than a distorted sound and the loving voice robbed him of determination. He raped me, he raped me, Jack. In his mind, he screamed the words out; in reality, he stared at the wall and lied to his lover.

'Delaney hit me - knocked me out.' Mickey rubbed at his mouth, wondering why the taste of Delaney wouldn't go even after he'd made himself sick in an attempt to get rid of it. 'Head's killing me. Don't…don' feel well.'

Meadows walked over to the bed, stood looking down at Mickey. 'You want anything? Drink or something?'

'No.' Wake me up; tell me it's a fucking nightmare, not real.

The DCI could hear Mickey's breathing; sweat was slicking his face and hair and the smell of antiseptic was strong, as though he'd bathed in it. 'You sure?'

'Yeah.' Get Delaney, kill him, make this not be happening.

Meadows bent down, went to kiss Mickey, offering comfort in the only way he could imagine.

'No!' There was so much terror in that word that Meadows stepped back. Mickey sat upright, staring straight ahead rather than at his partner, and although the movement must have hurt his head, he didn't appear to notice. Meadows noticed that something about his appearance was odd; it took him a moment to realise that Mickey, who always slept naked, was wearing a high-necked blue top that covered his throat and arms.

Still fixated on someone or something that wasn't in the room, Mickey spoke to him again. 'Don', Jack. Don't touch me…'

'I'm sorry. Mickey?' He made the name a question, unable to vocalise anything else. What happened to him? He's a rapist, Delaney is…No. Not that. Not that, not to Mickey…Anything but that, God, no…Oh, Mickey…Why'd you have to be so brave and go after him?

'No, please…no…no more.' It come across as almost a prayer.

'Okay.' He paused, staring at Mickey as the younger man lay down again and turned away, pulling the quilt over his head as if to block out the light from the open door. 'Love you, Mickey,' and Meadows didn't think he'd ever meant it so much.

There was no response as he went out of the dark room, nor later, when he looked in at Mickey before making up the spare bed for himself. Smithy would have said, wouldn't he? Smithy would have known…But Smithy likes him - he'd have kept quiet if Mickey asked him to, maybe…

Mickey lay there, staring at the wall and the dark, wanting to wake Meadows up so that he could tell him, or at least sit with him, wanting to die there in the dark. He was cold as well, shivering but wiping sweat off of his face, despite having gone to bed wearing a top and jeans. Dimly, he wondered whether the cold was from shock or whether he was actually ill. Can you die from this?…Would that be so bad?

The images were there even before he shut his eyes and the voices were coming from the shadows. Delaney's thickly-accented speech mingling with Jack saying 'Love you' which made it worse, all overlaid with Smithy shouting to him. Closing his eyes made it worse, because he'd lain there with his eyes shut while Delaney forced him; he knew it would make it worse but he was so tired and he couldn't sleep with his eyes open. Eventually, he got up and turned on the TV, letting the flickering images hypnotise some of the pain away. Some music channel, loud and angry, that reminded him of happier days at gigs and festivals until a man who looked like Delaney was there, playing bass, and he had to turn it over, and there was a man speaking with the same accent.

He left for work at five; too early, but it was dark so that he wouldn't have to see any of the people he passed and Meadows was still asleep in the spare room. His head ached still; the cuts were oozing blood whenever he moved, and the pain in his mouth and between his legs was worse than it had been, so that he knew he wasn't really fit to drive or work. Jack, I'm sorry, so sorry…I didn't mean this, Jack…Don't hate me…Please, don't hate me…