No one could deny that this had been one of the lowest points in Sullivan's career. Goodfellow had been watching his behaviour with increasing concern as the man seemed to he acting more and more erratic, and he had a feeling he was getting more and more... How could he describe it? Upset? Angry? Panicked?

Every word he thought he thought of seemed too insignificant.

If he'd have asked Sullivan himself, he probably wouldn't have been able to describe how he was feeling either.

The evening had just got worse and worse and worse - firstly, a false alarm at the hospital. Despite the fact that he had literally just got home, he had spun on his heels, phoned round as quickly as he could and bolted to the hospital, only to find that the child had been found in a better state than he could have imagined.

Cursing the fact that he was angry about the fact that a child was not missing, he was just about to head home again when Mrs McCarthy began hounding him about Father Brown, who was apparently out in the dark somewhere.

Well, whose fault was that? He snapped that it might give him time to reflect on his actions. He had enough problems to deal with; a case that seemed unsolvable, everyone in the area seeming to hate him and a prime suspect who, in a really confusing turn of events, had just tried to hang herself. That just didn't make sense - she was desperate to see her son! Why would she try to kill herself? Nothing made any sense and right now, Father Brown was insignificant; besides, he had his God to protect him, didn't he?

He had managed to ignore the headache and prickly sensation in his chest for long enough to go to sleep, and then bang! The phone's ringing, and apparently Mrs McCarthy is hysterical on the other end and Father Brown's about to be sacrificed so he has to tear out to the woods where there is a bloody cult ritual going on and that PC Everett (who had always seemed so shady and strange) was there and so was that pub owner who he didn't trust (that no one listened to him) about and everyone was talking about nothing and moving too quickly and he can't see, and the rest of the police are going back to the station and Goodfellow is saying something but its just noise and there's an ambulance leaving and there are bells piercing shrill through the air and the headlights of the cars are blinding him and everything's moving too fast and he's dizzy and feels so sick and he can't see, and he doesn't know where everyone's going or what the officers are doing and he has to know! He's in charge, even though he doesn't know what's going on, and he has to tell them what to do!

So he turns to find Goodfellow but he can't see him because everything's gone too blurry, the blood pounding in his ears is drowning out everything else and it has got really dark, which means that all the cars must have left because they had all their headlights on, but where did they go to? They can't have known where to go because he hasn't told them! He's lost all control of the situation and he can hear someone saying his name and he tries to call out but he can't get the words out and it feels like the air in his lungs has turned to sand and he can't breathe.

So he screams. He screams and then he falls, and suddenly he can feel how wet the grass is through his clothes and he realises that his suit is going to be ruined with mud but his legs aren't working and now he can't stop screaming and everything's dark and looks like the windscreen on the car when the rain is pelting down so hard the wipers aren't working anymore, and he can't do anything about it all so he keeps screaming. He hits his head with his fists as hard as he can to try and clear it all but that doesn't work, and now his head hurts and his arms hurt but he doesn't know what else to do so he keeps doing it...

And now someone has grabbed his arms and is trying to hold him, but he has to move so he screams even louder and hits out as hard as he can, rearing up and kicking, snapping with his teeth and twisting his arms until whoever it is lets go, and he can hear shouting and the person is coming closer again so he lashes out as hard as he can so they go away, but he then he remembers that he can't do that so he catches his wrist and bites it instead, clenching his teeth as hard as he can, hearing more shouting over the muffled screams, and he realises that he's crying a bloody river now because the fabric of his shirt cuff is soaking and he can feel tears drenching his jawline and making his neck feel sticky.

Someone wrenches his wrist out of his mouth and he's about to sink his teeth into it again when they shove something else into his hand and push it up towards his mouth, so he clamps onto that instead and even though it tastes weird and he doesn't really like the texture if it on his tongue it feels better because he can bite it really hard and it doesn't hurt as much, and eventually he realises that he's not screaming anymore, and he is breathing in very long, shaky gasps.

There's someone beside him now, and he can hear them saying, "Inspector? Breathe with me, okay? One, two, three, four..."

He knows that voice. The haze lifts, agonisingly slowly, and eventually Sullivan can just about make out the bleary but familiar outline of Goodfellow, who is the one making him breathe again.

He slowly takes the... whatever it is, out of his mouth, and slowly pushes himself up so that he's sitting upright (albeit a bit shaky). His jaw aches, and his head feels like someone has drilled through it with a pneumatic drill, and if someone was to pour boiling water down his throat at this very moment it probably wouldn't make it feel any worse or more raw.

He's still crying, but only inconsequential silent tears now.

He looks down at the thing he's been biting.

A wallet. With rather prominent teeth marks in it. That he has made.

"I'm sorry," He croaks, offering it back to Goodfellow, who takes it.

"Don't worry about it," He soothes, examining the chewed cash container, "I'm a bit chuffed with how well it worked, if I'm perfectly honest."

"I'm sorry," Sullivan repeated, his voice all but gone. Goodfellow shakes his head, and struggles to his feet.

"If you're feeling up to it, shall we try to get you home?" He asks, hands outstretched.

Sullivan nods slowly, instinctively reaching for Goodfellow who gently helps him to his feet. He winches as the world starts to spin again. His ankles aren't cooperating, and he lurches forward perilously. Goodfellow quickly puts his arm around him, steadying him. "Its alright, sir, the car is just over here. Yes, its alright, everything's alright..."

Sullivan, feeling shattered, allows himself to be guided to the car, leaning against Goodfellow gratefully as his body refuses to cooperate with him, legs wobbling and head lolling slightly to one side. He hates feeling like this; so weak, helpless, fragile.

And Goodfellow saw it all. The thought is too much for him- he pulls away, buries his face in his hands and starts to sob.

"Sir, please-"

"You saw!" Sullivan sobs, between gulps of air, "You saw everything-"

"Please calm down, it really doesn't matter-"

"Yes it does!"

"Look, we all have bad days. I've seen this kind of thing a hundred times before." Goodfellow's voice is slightly firmer now, and he takes the trembling Inspector's arm again. "I think we'd better talk about it in the car. You're shaking like a leaf out here and it's getting very chilly."

Sullivan hates pity. "I'm not a child," He mumbles, still sobbing softly.

"I never said you were. Still, I think it's for the best if we get you back to the car, give you a minute to sit down and warm up, and then we can talk about it."

Goodfellow opened the car door for the trembling Inspector, who showed no reluctance at being given the passenger seat. He got into the driver's seat and took a very quick glance at Sullivan as the car light came on.

He was flushed, with eyes red raw and tearstains streaming down his face. He was slumped in the seat - so unlike his usual posture, but he just couldn't battle off his exhaustion. He went to rub his eyes with his sleeve but hissed in pain as soon as he moved his arm.

Of course. The bite.

"We have to go to the station." Sullivan said suddenly, as soon as the engine whirred into life.

Goodfellow tried to hide his shock. "Sir, I really don't think -"

"I have to, there's no one in charge, and I'm already behind in-" Sullivan began, despair quickly flooding into his voice before Goodfellow interrupted.

"It's fine, sir, because this is such a big case involving a police officer they're sending down a man from Scotland Yard to take over the investigation. You'll have time to... Get some rest." He explained, trying not to sound too patronising.

Sullivan's expression softened. "Oh." He said. "Is he in my office?"

"Should be, yes. Maybe it's for the best." Goodfellow suggested. "Give you some time off, to... Have a bit of, erm, time to... Recharge your batteries."

Sullivan looked blankly onwards. "My desk."

"What about it, sir?"

"I hope he doesn't mess it up. All those blokes from Scotland Yard leave paperwork everywhere and move everything about. That last one stubbed out a cigarettein my in-tray" Sullivan grimaced.

"I'll make sure he doesn't do anything like that." Goodfellow promised.

"Thank you." Sullivan said in a voice barely above a whisper.

They drove on in silence. A fox dashed into the hedge as they rounded a corner, tiny paws and bushy tail disappearing into the shrubbery.

"Lot of foxes about recently," Goodfellow said conversationally, "One got into my bins a few weeks ago. A terrible mess it caused, but the kiddies got all excited about it, bless 'em."

Sullivan was still staring blankly, and Goodfellow started to worry that he'd overwhelmed him again. Then he replied, in a voice more like his usual self.

"There's a hedgehog in my back garden, I saw it one night I was in the kitchen. It came right up to the back doorstep." He said, still quietly, "It didn't even run away when I opened the door. I put out some milk for it, and some tinned meat. That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?"

"Oh yes."

"It keeps coming back, and now there's another one as well. I leave food out for them, they keep the slugs away."

Goodfellow smiled at the thought of the prim and proper Inspector crouching outside in the dark with two little bowls of grub for two prickly little friends.

"That sounds lovely. Maybe you'll have a whole family of hedgehogs in your garden soon."

"Ooh." Sullivan looked like the thought had never occurred to him. That's the city boy for you. "That would be nice."

There was another pause.

"You think I'm a lunatic, don't you?" Sullivan stated, with a very rhetorical tone in his voice.

"Not at all."

"It's true though."

"No its not." Goodfellow protested, "You've had a very stressful day, and it's understandable that it all got a bit... Too much."

Sullivan stared out the window.

"Some bloody inspector I am." He muttered. Goodfellow didn't hear him.

They rounded another few corners and the police cottage appeared in the beam of the headlights.

The car crunched over the gravel and ground to a stop, headlights still on illuminating the door. The silence deafened them both as soon as the engine was stopped.

"Right then," The sergeant said briskly, waking Sullivan out of his trance, "You go on in, get yourself changed out of those wet clothes, and I'll just nip home for a moment and then I'll be back."

"You don't have to come back." Sullivan snapped. Goodfellow tried to catch his eye but ended up staring at the back of his head.

Goodfellow breathed. "Look, I really ought to have a look at that bite of yours. It must be shocking sore."

"It's fine." Sullivan lied.

"Well, Mrs Goodfellow was planning on doing you up a dinner anyway as you've been so busy lately and there's no point in arguing with her."

"Thank you for the lift, sergeant," Sullivan hissed, fumbling with the door handle, "But I am not some-some... charity case who needs to be looked after or fed..."

The door eventually swung open and the Inspector struggled out, shivering as the cold night air hit him. He staggered forward to the door, feeling the beam of the headlights burning him.

Naturally, the key and the lock wouldn't cooperate. Typical, make a fool of yourself in front of Goodfellow, and now show him you can't use a lock.

After what felt like a year, the lock finally gave in and he almost fell in through the door. Only after he shut the door behind did the car start up again, and the headlights disappear.

He sank back against the door, surveying the dark living room. He blinked in surprise at how loud his breathing seemed to be. His skin crawled.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Sullivan, who had been huddling under his heaviest quilt trying to stop the room from spinning, felt like crying.

He struggled downstairs (slipping twice, and swearing loudly) and flung the door open.

Sergeant Goodfellow was standing there with a covered plate, and first aid kit.

Sullivan didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"I know you told me not to come back," Goodfellow reasoned, "But you know as well as I do that bites like that-" He pointed to Sullivan's arm, that he was still holding gingerly, "Hurt like the devil and if it gets infected-"

"Alright, alright!" He snarled, twisting away from the door. Goodfellow followed him through to the poky but immaculate kitchen.

"This would put most the women in Kembleford to shame," Goodfellow remarked, "I think this is one of the cleanest kitchens I've ever been in."

Sullivan sank into a chair, staring at the spotless tiled floor. Goodfellow set the dinner on the worktop, and then sat down beside him and started rifling through the first aid kit.

Sullivan silently offered his arm.

Goodfellow cautiously pulled back his sleeve. Sullivan hissed, face screwed up in pain.

Goodfellow tried to stifle a gasp. The teeth marks were deep, opal-black, with broken skin twisting round them like wisps of burnt paper.

He dabbed at it slowly with some of the ointment. Sullivan, tearing up in pain, held his hand over his mouth, gripping the table with the white knuckles of his other hand. Goodfellow had a feeling he was biting something else, and didn't want him to see.

Sure enough; when he leaned over to get the bandage, he saw Sullivan quickly take a balled up cloth out of his mouth and stick it in his pocket. When he came back to the table he feigned ignorance.

They didn't bother with pointless small talk; Sullivan wasn't able, amd Goodfellow didn't know what to say. It was only when Goodfellow was washing out the little ice tray in the sink that Sullivan spoke again.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, before shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Please, Goodfellow- don't, don't tell anyone else about tonight. I really appreciate what you've done for me- thank you, but - if any of the other men, anyone at all..." He trailed off, tears welling his red eyes once again.

"I won't tell a soul." Goodfellow promised sincerely.

Sullivan sniffed. "Thank you."

There was a slight chink of the china in the sink.

"I thought I was getting better," He whispered, "I thought that I'd changed, everything was going fine. I haven't had one for ages." He stared at a picture on the wall, some nondescript landscape that wouldn't provide any answers, but meant that he didn't have look at Goodfellow.

"Not for ages," He repeated, in a breathless voice.

"You mean... This has happened before?" Goodfellow immediately cringed at his own inquiry.

Sullivan nodded, holding his hand over his mouth again. "I don't know what they're called. Mum called them crashes. She thought I'd grow out of them, that they were just some typical childhood thing but... I never did. I didn't have them as often but they, they got worse. There was always something wrong, something wrong with me. Anytime something went wrong or out of control- everyone moved on from it but I... I never could."

"Did you always... hurt yourself?" Goodfellowasked cautiously.

Sullivan stared morosely at the agonising gash on his wrist. "Better myself than someone else." He said bitterly.

The sergeant's hands shook slightly. "Are you sure you'll be alright?" He asked mournfully.

"I'll be fine." Sullivan said, his voice still slightly distant.

"Are you sure?" Goodfellow couldn't help but ask.

"Mm." Sullivan nodded. "I'll I get some sleep. I should be back to normal by the time that Scotland Yard Inspector's gone. I'm fine, really," He said, "Just a bit annoyed that it happened again. I just... I don't know."

Something about the resolute way Sullivan said this caused a lump to rise in Goodfellow's throat.

"There's nothing wrong with you, y'know." He said quickly. "Something a little different, perhaps, but nothing wrong. We've all different ways of coping."

" 'Cept I didn't cope. Not tonight." Sullivan said bitterly.

"We all have our breaking points. There's no harm done, not really. Tomorrow's another day."

"Thank you."

Despite the fact that Sullivan had said those two words so many times that evening, the two men both knew that this time, there was a deeper meaning.

Goodfellow then employed the age old tradition that all great men fall back on in the aftermath of great crises.

He put the kettle on.

When Goodfellow finally left, Sullivan, wrapped in his old heavy eiderdown, was standing by the sink, nursing his third cup of tea with his good hand. Staring out at the moonlight garden, he watched as the hedgehogs nibbled companionably at the bowls he and Goodfellow had left out. His wrist was aching and numb, but it was nice to know it probably wouldn't get any more painful, thanks to Goodfellow's intervention.

The tea was nice, too.

He had a feeling that he would probably sleep through most of his day off, but that didn't really bother him. A surprise day off meant he could just stand here, no matter how late it was, watching hedgehogs gambolling around the garden, even though the blissful numbness he was feeling now was sure to be followed by agonising headaches and a stupor-filled lost day where he probably wouldn't remember anything.

He wound the blanket more tightly round his shoulders and took another sip of tea.

Awful as the evening had been, it was nice to know that somebody cared.