It was quarter past seven when Father Brown decided to call the doctor.
As soon as the floodgates opened, Sullivan couldn't get them to close. It had been years since he'd cried like this. Often, at night, he'd cry silently into his pillow, but never incessant howling like this. He was probably hysterical, but he coudn't stop. Emotions he'd forgotten all about resurfaced, just to kick him while he was down. God, he was pathetic.
By the time Mrs McCarthy had re-entered the room, he'd became incapable of coherent thought. He managed to roll over and bawl into his pillow so he didn't have to look her in the face.
It was a confusing sight, a grown man, a police inspector no less, writhing around on the bed howling his eyes out. What was she supposed to do, stroke his hair or something?
''Oh come now,'' She soothed, sitting down on the bed, ''It's not so bad, surely.''
Sullivan couldn't reply. In truth, he was crying so hard he could barely breathe. Why the hell couldn't she just leave him alone?
She attempted to lay a soothing hand on his shoulder, but he twitched so violently at the touch she quickly withdrew it. She couldn't remember ever seeing a man cry. Words of comfort failed her, and she slipped out again.
He kept howling after she'd left, mouth open, eyes streaming, sobs racking his entire body. He kept crying even though his throat started burning. Even when his head started hurting, he still couldn't stop. When Father Brown came in and knelt down beside him and asked him gentle questions, he turned his head away and cried harder from the humiliation of it all.
''Sit up now, Inspector, the doctor's coming to give you an injection to calm you down.''
He didn't move, so Mrs McCarthy attempted to lift him into position. That did not go well at all. Despite his weakened frame, the almost delirious man shoved the woman so hard that she tumbled over with a thump.
Father Brown pulled the shocked but thankfully unharmed lady back to her feet, and attempted to move the man himself. He was stronger than the Irishwoman, and also warned against Sullivan's likely reaction. Sure enough, he also got a push, but was prepared against it and planted his feet.
''Inspector, please sit up for us.''
Sullivan shoved him again. The priest extended his hand again and the young man rolled away from him. Mrs McCarthy decided enough was enough, and ran for Sid.
Sid arrived with the doctor on his heels, and Sullivan's rolling had become thrashing and writhing as Father Brown tried in vain to keep him still.
"I just need to get a clean shot at his upper arm," Crawford said, rolling up his sleeves as if he was about to tackle a wild animal, ''Try hold him down for a second Sid.''
Hold him down?
''How long has he been like this?'' He heard the doctor ask Mrs McCarthy.
''An hour or two, but he got worse when we tried to move him. What is wrong with him - is he hysterical or something?''
''He's having some sort of breakdown, I don't know exactly what-''
''He seemed better this morning - he had a bath and everything.''
''How am I supposed to hold him down again?'' Asked Sid, turning to face the doctor, who was holding a very sinister looking syringe. Sid's insides did a somersault and he immediately went pale.
Mrs McCarthy hurriedly swatted the doctor's hand away. ''Oh now don't be going funny over the needle, Sid, it's not for you. Just hold him in a way that we get the stuff into his arm without him getting hurt - and don't smother him, or anything like that.''
She shouted the last three words, as Sullivan must have noticed Sid approaching him and his wails had turned to screeching. He was obviously terrified.
Sid, just recovered from his glance of the needle, clambered onto the bed beside him and then, seeing no other way to control the man, climbed over him and pressed down on his shoulders.
His face was only a few inches from Sullivan's, bright red with eyes and nose streaming. Sullivan, who was beyond words and screaming like his leg was being sawed off, did not appreciate being held down and swung at Sid, catching him on the cheek and scratching him like a cat.
''Stop - stop it -'' He seized Sullivan's wrists and pinned them to the bed above his head. Sullivan kept screaming, twisting his head and bawling. It suddenly struck Sid how easy it was to hold Sullivan down. It shouldn't be like that - he'd been arrested and shoved about by Sullivan enough times to know that the man had muscle and a similarly stocky build to Sid and could easily hold his own in a fight. Yet holding such stick-like wrists and feeling Sullivan's sobs shake his entire (possibly emaciated) body, he felt like he was pinning a child to the bed. A child who seemed to be getting increasingly panic stricken and was doing his best to wriggle free from Sid and howling himself hoarse.
''It's ok,'' He attempted to console the weeping man writhing beneath him, ''The doc's here to give you something to make you better, please, please stop screaming - look, the doctor's coming now-''
Doctor Crawford had climbed onto the bed beside him and had a hand on the skin of the inside of Sullivan's arm. ''That's just perfect Sid, we're nearly done.''
''Hear that?'' Sid shouted over Sullivan's screams, ''We're nearly done, you're okay, you're okay, you're - urgh, oh, eurgh-''
Crawford had produced the needle and Sid nearly fell down on top of Sullivan. He did his best not to look at it, but given how close he was to the action it was very hard not to see. He could see the needle glistening in the strange light of the room, and watched in revulsion as it pierced the pale skin of Sullivan's arm. He clamped his mouth shut; the last thing Sullivan needed at this point was vomit all over his face, or an man fainting on top of him.
A spasm seemed to rock the man's body, and finally the screaming stopped he gasped in lungfuls of air. The doctor scrambled away, and Sid let go of Sullivan as his rocking slowed and the screams became half hearted whining sobs.
''He'll - sorry,'' The doctor had, in his attempt to get off the bed, mistook Sid's kneecap for a supporting bedpost.
"That's alright." Sid said, still woozy from the memory if the injection.
''As I was saying,'' Dr Crawford turned back to Mrs McCarthy and Father Brown, who were hovering by the door, ''He'll most likely sleep soundly tonight. Given the circumstances I'd have preferred not to give him any more drugs, but there's no way he'd have got over that episode without sedation.''
He looked back at the patient, still stirring, mumbling vaguely to himself. ''I'm no psychariatrist.'' He declared, ''I don't know how he's feeling. All I can deal with are the physilogical aspects of his condition.'' Sid left the room, and leaned against the wall in the hallway. He could hear the doctor volunteering to have Sullivan removed and sent to a proper facility for a proper evaluation. Father Brown refused, and Sid let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
''Are you sure it's a good idea to keep him here?'' Mrs McCarthy whispered. She felt the need to whisper, even though it was only herself and the Father in the room.
''I don't honestly know.'' Father Brown replied, mumbling equally lowly, ''But if he had been sent away in this state, I would go so far as to say his life would be over. He would almost certainly be admitted to an institute of some kind and when news got out, he'd lose his job and his standing in the community. And that's before they'd start barbarian experimental treatments on him.''
As if to protest, Sullivan let out a louder whimper and rolled his head back. Mrs McCarthy was pursing her lips so tightly they had almost disappeared. ''We ought to get him into bed.'' She said, signifying that she did not wish for that particular conversation to go any further.
Father Brown was about to protest that Sullivan was in bed, but as he was hanging over the side on top of the covers he had to admit that really, he wasn''t. Instead, he nodded.
''Right,'' Said Mrs McCarthy, suddenly brisk and businesslike, ''You'll have to help me lift him.''
She pulled the covers back as best as she could and gently wrapped her arm around the drowsy young man's shoulders. He muttered something that wasn't quite a word. Father Brown slipped his arms under Sullivan's back and said, '' On the count of three, we'll lift him. One, two, three.''
They lifted him into position and Mrs McCarthy began fussing around him, fluffing his pillows and pulling the eiderdown over him. Sullivan squirmed feebly, but his eyes were shut and his quiet mumblings sounded much calmer than his earlier distress. Father Brown watched, his eyes glowing with nostalgia.
''Do you remember when Sid had that awful bout of scarlet fever and we tucked him into bed like this?'' He asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed by Sullivan's feet.
Mrs McCarthy smiled and nodded her head. ''I doubt I'll ever forget it, the poor child.'' She chuckled weakly. ''Remember how he refused to eat anything except cornflakes heaped with sugar?''
''Vividly.'' He laughed, ''And you gave a hot whiskey for his throat, and we discovered that he certainly can't hold his drink while he's sick.''
Mrs McCarthy started laughing too, ''Oh, do you remember, he took it into his head that - that Lady Felicia - ''
''That she was Grace Kelly!'' Father Brown finished, and the two of them laughed until the parish secretary had to hold the headboard to stop herself from falling over.
The wave of mirth passed, fractured by another bout of confusing mumbling from Sullivan, now with words almost discernible. ''Did he say cold?'' She demanded, feeling at his forehead, ''I'm sure he said cold.''
''He might have.'' Father Brown offered, sensing that it might just be easier to agree.
''A hot water bottle then.'' The Irishwoman declared, and she hurried downstairs to fetch one, leaving the Father alone with the Inspector.
He stared into the man's face, half sleeping, half awake, and tried to decipher what he was groaning.
''What's wrong?'' He asked, not really expecting a response.
Sullivan mumbled something about school, and Father Brown realised that 'out of it' was currently a massive understatement of the man's state. Instead, he lifted the damp flannel out of the warm water on the bedside table and gently rubbed Sullivan's face clean.
''I'm sorry about all that.'' He whispered, as the young man (and he certainly did look young at this moment), ''I doubt you can understand me, but I'm listening, and so is God. God is holding your hand through all of this.''
''Fuck God.'' Sullivan mumbled, and the priest couldn't help but snort with laughter. Sullivan shifted again, and spoke again, but his voice was so slurred Father Brown coudn't understand. He patted a tuft of hair back into place instead, saying, ''It's not as neat as usual, but I hope it'll do for now.''
Sullivan squirmed again, messing his newly styled hair. ''Neat. Stay neat.'' He chirped in a drowsy voice, ''Then nobody knows.''
The Father froze as a bolt of icy fear went up his spine. That was a mantra, he was sure of it, and it could mean any number of things. ''What was that?'' He asked, but Sullivan just yawned and snuggled into his pillow.
''I wanna sleep.'' He garbled, yawning again.
''Then sleep.'' Father Brown said, turning off the bedside light and plunging the room into darkness. He rested a hand on Sullivan's head for a moment, like the children he blessed during communion. ''God will watch over you and carry you through to tomorrow morning, and we can talk to you then.''
Mrs McCarthy returned, and silently gestured for Father Brown to leave while she lifted the covers slightly and carefully placed the hot water bottle against Sullivan's chest.
"There now." She soothed, "You'll sleep better now."
"Thanks mum." He mumbled, and Mrs McCarthy's heart gave a strange jump. She couldn't see much, but from the flimsy light infiltrating from the hallway she could see his peaceful, youthful expression. She carefully tucked a strand of hair out of his eyes and backed away from the bed, listening to his steady breathing, and tried her best not to let the tears well up.