Sid was starting to quietly despair. Sullivan had been in the presbytery for three days now and (excepting the incident in the hallway) hadn't moved at all.
He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't eat. He stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling as if he was studying Michael Angelo's masterpiece.
He was starting to look awful as well. Stubble, greasy hair, a general sense of a man who was unkempt and unwashed - the opposite of what Sullivan should be. It wouldn't be long before the room started to smell as the air turned stale.
Father Brown had noticed it too; unsurprising, he did notice everything. Mrs McCarthy started to lament that she ought to leave the windows open and change the sheets, given how much good a nice fresh room was when you were sick.
This was a belief she had always installed in Sid.
Sid decided he would coax Sullivan into getting cleaned up. Lady Felicia, who'd been listening to the conversation, raised her eyebrows as if to signify her thoughts on Sid's success rate.
He had filled the bathtub with some nice hot water (tested with his elbow, because that was apparently how you test the heat of bathwater) and some of those nice smelly salts Lady Felicia had bought him for Christmas. He had set out some of the nicest towels as well, though Father Brown had intervened when he suggested lighting some of his ceremonial candles for 'atmosphere'.
He hesitantly knocked on the door and went in. Sullivan was on his side, looking away from the door as usual.
"Hey."
Sullivan turned to look at him, looking dreadful, as had became his usual. "What?"
The words seemed to dry in Sid's mouth.
"I wondered - Well, I thought - not to be rude or anything but, y'know... I was going to -"
He wasn't making a very good job of this. Sullivan was looking at him bewildered, which wasn't exactly unusual.
"I - I ran you a bath." Sid blurted out. "I thought it might make you feel a bit better."
A bit of colour crept into Sullivan's cheeks. Christ, did he smell? He self-consciously rubbed at his face and realised with abject horror that he did have the firm foundations of a beard, and his hair itching might be a result of it not being cleaned. Oh hell...
Washing seemed like an unconquerable task, but Sid (in what might have been a thinly veiled hint that he stank) had already done half the work, so he really ought to take him up on the offer.
"That's - that's very kind of you, thank you." He said, "I'd like that."
He pushed himself up against the headboard of the bed, and Sid ran round the bed towards him, saying "I'll give you a hand."
Before Sullivan could protest, Sid had pulled his arm over his shoulders and pulled him into a very precarious standing position. If Sid (who was deceptively strong, and holding him as if he was made of paper) hadn't have been supporting him, he would have smashed face first into the carpet again; his head felt heavier than the rest of his body, and gravity was not his friend. Already he was tomato red, but when he felt Sid's arm around the back of legs he actually squeaked in protest.
''Whoa- what the hell are you doing!'' Sullivan could never remember being this close to any other person. He could feel the warmth of Sid's body and the scratch of his old shirt fabric, and smelled his cheap aftershave as keenly as though he was sniffing it from the bottle, but mingled with other smells - leather, petrol and for some strange reason - bubble bath?
''Was picking you up.'' Sid explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, ''Bridal style, y'know?''
A very firm pair of hands pushed Sid's arm away. ''There's no need for that,'' Sullivan said, ''I can walk.''
Sid, who was still bent that his head was level with Sullivan's waist, fixed him with a look that clearly asked are you sure?
Sullivan attempted to take one step forward, and succeeded. Sid followed him, an inch behind, waiting for the inevitable stumble, and when it happened, he slotted Sullivan's arm over his shoulder, hooked an arm around his waist and led him to the bathroom without any further protests.
On the threshold of the bathroom he gently detatched Sid's arm from his. Sid looked confused. ''I'll help ya.''
Sullivan shook his head. ''No - no, please, just let me... I want to...''
For some reason, his lip was trembling. His nose and eyes stung, and he found himself fighting tears. Sid was still standing there.
''Look, can I be honest?'' Sid said, ''I'm scared you're going to pass out and drown in that bath, okay?''
Sullivan, now leaning against the doorframe, said ''oh,'' and looked at Sid with his mouth open. That would be quite a way to go.
Sid was looking at him very earnestly.
''Can you not just wait outside the door?'' He pleaded. ''You've seen enough of me these last few days, please Sid.''
Sid relented. ''Alright then.'' He said, not looking at all pleased. ''I'll sit here. But you shout, alright? Even if you just start to get dizzy.''
Sullivan closed the door and fell back against it to breathe. The prospect of drowning in a bath was a hell of a lot more appealing than the thought of Sidney Carter seeing him naked.
''You sure you're alright in there?'' Sid asked, sitting against the bathroom door.
''Yes.'' Sullivan mumbled back, sinking a little lower into the soothing warm water.
Mrs McCarthy, arms full of linen, appeared at the guest room door and pointed at the bathroom door. Sid, remembering what she wanted, knocked against the wood.
''What is it?''
''Mrs M's putting a wash on. Can I have your clothes?''
''... Yeah. Thanks.''
Sid opened the door, and then stopped as he heard distressed splashing and a shriek of dismay.
''Sidney Carter, if you set one eye on me in this bath - ''
''Well where's the damn clothes!'' Sid protested, walking in with a hand over his eyes.
''By the door, by the door!''
Sid felt about and lifted the bundle, and left again.
''Door, the door.''
He closed it, rolling his eyes. Mrs McCarthy was waiting with a laundry basket and an exasperated expression. She'd stripped the bed, flung open the windows and set a vase of fresh flowers on the dresser - not that Sullivan had noticed the dying ones.
She marched off to find spare pyjamas for the invalid, and Sid sat back down against the door.
Sullivan struggled out of the bath and had to beg Sid for the loan of a razor.
''What do you want a razor for?''
''To shave - what else!'' He cried, shivering and dripping on the bathroom tiles. He was freezing, bundling his towel around him as best as he could. He was starting to feel terrified. It wasn't fair. He wanted to be alone, and yet here he was, cold and naked, trapped in the bathroom of a catholic priest who he hated. And he hated them, he hated them all.
He hadn't hated Sid, but he did now. Did he really think he would try and slit his throat with a paranoid chauffeur sitting on the floor outside the door?
It wasn't the cleanest shave of his life (especially as he had to keep telling Sid he was still alive, and talking while shaving was very strange) and when he looked at himself in the mirror, a corpse looked back. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones startlingly prominent; same as his collarbones, and now with a few nicks over his chin and neck, he looked like a wounded corpse. He reached out to touch his reflection, his hand termbling, and his eyes filled with tears.
''Sullivan? You alright in there?'' Sid's voice called, as he attempted to rub away the man in the mirror.
''Give me my clothes in.'' He croaked.
The door opened and Sid's hand appeared, depositing a neatly folded bundle on the floor beside the door. He stopped down, picked up and the bundle and unfolded the clothes. A white t-shirt and a pair of navy pyjama trousers.
''The - these aren't mine.''' He exclaimed, his breathing hitching in incredulity.
''Nah, yours are in the wash.'' Sid explained, ''Them's to tide you over till tomorrow.''
Sullivan looked at the clothes in horror, trembling. ''I want my clothes.'' He whimpered.
''You'll get tomorrow.''
''I want them now. Give them back.'' Sullivan's voice was waivering. He sounded like a young, petulant child. God, they were only clothes, why was he reacting like this? Why did it mean so much?
''I can't. Mrs M already has them in washer.'' Sid spoke softly through the door.
Tears were welling in the broken man's eyes as he stared at the mismatched clothes, now shaking because his hands were shaking.
''These aren't mine. I want my clothes.'' Sullivan repeated, chest starting to heave.
''You can't have 'em, I'm sorry.''
''But I need them!'' Sullivan shrieked, facade breaking. The tears broke free, and started cascading down his face in waves. Sid was attempting to soothe him through the door, but it was no use. Hell, they were treating him like a child, and if they were going to make him feel like a child, he'd act like one.
He started bawling properly, loudly. He could hear Mrs McCarthy now, giving off about something. Him, what else? What else would she be complaining about, other than the pathetic crying man wrapped in a towel, throwing a childish tantrum over a pair of pyjamas?
Sid barged through the door and tugged the garments out of his arms, and ignored the other man's protests as he pulled the t-shirt over his head. Sullivan continued to sob, eyes squeezed shut.
When Sullivan was dressed (after only two feeble attempts to punch his carer) Sid wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided him firmly back to his room. He cried the whole way there, and when Sid plonked him down on the bed he buried his face in his hands and cried on.
Sid left, somewhat shocked at how sharp and pointy the other man's shoulders were.
Mrs McCarthy was waiting for him with her typical disapproving expression, arms folded over her chest.
''You're being too good to him, Sidney.'' She announced, ''He's not showing a shred of gratitude and frankly, I don't think its doing you any good either.''
''Bloody hell, Mrs M,'' Sid protested, ''He's in a hell of a state, he needs looked after.''
''He is, Sid, and I know I sound cruel,'' She said, walking to him and putting a hand on his arm, ''But you're treating him like a child, and he's not. And it won't do either of you much credit if you go on like this. He's a grown man, regardless of how rough a patch he's going through, and you babying him like this probably won't help him much.''
Sid rubbed his neck awkwardly. From behind the door, Sullivan was sobbing louder.