When Sullivan next opened his leaden eyes, he soon realised that everything around him was... different. The room smelled different. The bedcover (blurry as it may be) was definitely not his own plain one, and from what he could see of the wallpaper, it wasn't his either.
The next thing he realised was that he was, most definitely, still alive.
He groggily tried to sit up. The weird room shook again, and he sank back down onto the pillows.
Yes, this was definitely not his room. He was beginning to see everything a little more clearly - this was a bigger bed than his, and there were more blankets on it. The wallpaper was rusty, a strange, rich sort of colour. Where the hell was he?
He was still on his side, facing the wall. He felt too weary to even turn over. Maybe he was in a strange sort of halfway house - his body was still clinging very determinedly to life, whereas his mind just wanted to escape.
There was a noise from somewhere nearby. Footsteps. Someone who approached and knealt down beside him.
"Inspector?" A familiar voice whispered, gently feeling his forehead, "How are you feeling?"
"Tired," He mumbled, before sleep pulled him away again.
The next time he woke up, he felt more alert. The room was clearer and crisp, and he could make out a patchwork quilt over him. He gazed at the wall. There was a picture - some Saint or something, a deity he couldn't quite make out. The room was silent - above his own breathing, all he could hear were the structures of his head crumbling to dust, pure, unfiltered pain.
He could hear a door opening. He turned around to see his visitor.
Father bloody Brown. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he lay back on the pillows and studied the ceiling.
"Inspector. Glad to see you're awake."
Sullivan struggled to keep a straight face. In addition to battling the urge to cry, there was also sneaking up on him a rather hefty dose of nausea.
"How are you feeling?"
Silence. "How did you find about it?" He asked, shocked at how weak his voice sounded and how dry his lips were.
"Lady Felicia rang. She was worried something might have happened to you at the end of that phonecall."
"Am I at the Presbytery?"
"You are. We thought -"
"We?" Sullivan's stomach rolled. How many people knew about this?
"Myself and Doctor Crawford thought it unwise to leave you on your own. You'll need a good while to get your strength back."
For body and soul, he thought to himself. Sullivan was pursing his lips.
"I'll be away from you as soon as I can." He said, fully aware of the sting of his words. He shifted uncomfortably. God, his stomach really was churning.
"I understand if you don't," Father Brown offered, somewhat desperately, "But if you'd like to talk-"
Sullivan suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth and gagged. Father Brown hastily grabbed the basin off the floor, handed it to him and looked away.
"As I said, I'm here." He bravely continued over the pained noises. "There's a bell on the bedside table should you need anything..."
Sullivan managed to recover for long enough to make his feelings known.
"I want-" He choked, "To be on my own. Now."
The priest left. Sullivan continued vomited up startling mouthfuls of whatever substance they'd used to pump his stomach with the previous night. He felt like his insides were rotting. He had to leave this bloody house - there was no way he'd let any of them see him like this. But God, he felt so ill. Would there even be a chance that he'd make it to the door?
When Father Brown got downstairs, Mrs McCarthy was waiting for him, arms folded, beside the sink. He opened his mouth to explain but she quickly overtook him.
"I know. I know what's happened. I've made tea." She pointed to the full teapot sitting steaming on the kitchen table. "And perhaps you and I can sit down and have a chat about it?"
The priest couldn't object. It was a sensible plan. They took their seats at the table in silence, and did not talk until the tea was poured and he'd helped himself to some shortbread.
"So tell me," Said Mrs McCarthy, setting down her tea cup, "Why is Inspector Sullivan upstairs?"
Father Brown chewed pensievely. He could tell by Mrs McCarthy's steely expression that she had been told something, and correctly assumed that it was a fable.
"Who told you what?" He asked, brushing crumbs off the tablecloth.
"Sidney told me he'd had a fall." Mrs McCarthy recited, raising her eyebrows, "And then I asked him again, and he said he had a chest infection." She rolled her eyes. "Sidney Carter is a lot of things but, mercifully, a liar is not one of them. He was genuinely disturbed about whatever happened that man, who you know he's not on the best of terms with, so I assume its nothing good. And I'd advise you to tell me in full - no point nursing a patient without medical records."
Father Brown swallowed the rest of the biscuit with a mouthful of tea. "Lady Felicia rang me." He began. "She said she'd rang Sullivan to thank him for what he did for Sid -"
"I'd have hardly warranted that a praise worthy action." Mrs MCarthy muttered curtly into her tea cup.
"She said he'd seemed very distant on the lines and at the end he said goodbye to her with an air of great finality."
Mrs McCarthy's eyes widened, her lips straight as a ruler.
"I thought it best not to involve the station, given what he's been through, so Sid and I went around to the cottage, and when there was no answer-"
"Holy mother!" Mrs McCarthy choked. "Don't tell me he'd tried to do away with himself?"
Father Brown nodded. The Irishwoman brought her hands to her mouth and stared at the table, uncharacteristically speechless.
"Sweet Jesus - I never thought, not in a million years - how did he do it? Oh, how did he do it Father?" She implored, "Don't tell me he used a noose - oh Holy mother, he'd have had a gun. Oh God forbid -"
"Sleeping tablets. An entire bottle of them, washed down with at least one complete bottle of whiskey." Father Brown finished. Mrs McCarthy still had her hands over her mouth, as if she was so gobsmacked she had to hold her jaw in place.
"Poor man - and all the times I berated him, all the times - oh, the poor, poor man..."