Evidently the injection did work, because when Chandraty returned the next evening he was surprised, but in a delightful way, to find Sullivan carrying an empty dinner tray down the stairs; edging his way down cautiously, one bare foot in front of the other, a dressing gown secured tightly at his waist and hair mostly tidy.
"Feeling better?" He beamed, not bothering to hide his glee at his friend's improvement.
"Yes.'' Sullivan agreed, reaching the bottom of the stairs and proceeding on his two feet, unaided and steady. ''Much."
"What were you eating?"
"A proper roast dinner with all the trimmings." Sullivan boasted, proudly showing the doctor his tray.
"A child's portion, I'd say."
Sullivan looked offended. "Didn't want to tempt fate."
"And you left the cabbage."
"I never did like cabbage."
"You're damn picky when it comes to food, remember that meal we got at that cafe before we went to the cricket game? You kept giving me all the aspects you didn't like. What grown man doesn't like baked beans?" Chandraty laughed.
"This man!" Sullivan stated haughtily, "And you wouldn't either if you knew what really goes into that sauce.''
''You've no evidence, that's just a theory.''
''They do taste coppery,'' Sullivan countered, ''Don't deny it.''
''Because they come out of a tin?'' Chandraty offered, ''Like most of the foodstuffs you hate?'''
Mrs McCarthy appeared out of nowhere and shocked them both, by exclaiming, "Inspector! You're up!"
"Yes," Sullivan agreed, as she took the tray off him, "I felt much better so I thought I'd bring that down."
"Oh, there was no need for that, I was on my way up on anyway." Mrs McCarthy chastised, "That was rather reckless, you could well have tripped and went headfirst down the stairs."
"I'm not an invalid." Sullivan retorted through gritted teeth.
"Yes you are." Chandraty countered, much to his friend's horror. "Can I help you back upstairs? I've got a bit of an examination to do."
Sullivan went to move towards the kitchen, but Mrs McCarthy barred his way. Accepting that he was caught between a rock and a hard place, he started back up the stairs. Chandraty came behind him, trying to steady him with a hand on his arm.
" You're still not great on your feet."
"Shut up." He hissed, stumbling as he did so.
They reached the room and Sullivan sat down on the bed, hands down flat on either side of him, watching intently (with his signature frown) as the doctor pulled a pair of bathroom scales out of his bag.
''Hop on that for me.'' He said, in a cheery bedside manner that made Sullivan want him to hit him. Nevertheless, he complied, rolling his eyes.
Chandraty's smile turned to a grimace.
''Oh don't be so overdramatic,'' Sullivan drawled, ''It can't be that bad.''
Chandraty, who had now produced a thermometer, shook his head. ''You're six foot one, correct?''
''Yes.'' Sullivan agreed warily.
''You should be over ten stone, twenty ounces.''
''I'm not that far off - ''
''Nine stone. Just about.''
''Oh.'' That rather took him by surprise. He sat down on the bed, face rather open with shock. Chandraty put the scales back in the bag and took a breath.
''I want you to stay here until you've gained half a stone.'' He ordered, bracing himself for Sullivan's reaction. He was surprisingly calm; he rubbed at his left eye with his knuckles, and then held his hand to his face.
''And if I refuse?'' He mumbled, in a voice that anticipated bad news.
''I'll get you a bed in a hospital. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to go there now?'' He suggested, a salesman-like smile on his face.
Sullivan glared at him, before adopting a mocking grin of his own. ''Why don't you go and -''
''Alright, alright!'' Chandraty raised his hands in defeat. ''It was only a suggestion.''
''Don't suggest it again.'' Sullivan warned, ''Have you anything else to talk about other than my failing health? Anything at all?''
An idea dawned on the doctor's face, before he hurriedly rearranged his face into impassiveness.
''Go on.'' Sullivan egged. ''Tell me.''
Chandraty ran a hand through his hair, shook his head and bent down to lift his bag. ''I was just wondering...I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but it's been bugging me. Why didn't they ask me to attest to your state of mind?''
Dead silence. Sullivan stared at him, eyes wide, worried.
''I mean - '' Chandraty continues, ''I know that I'm not a psychiatrist, but I am still a doctor. And I'm close to you. It doesn't make any sense at all. Why would they ask a pathologist, of all professions-''
''What would you have said?''
Chandraty suddenly felt a sinking feeling. ''I said - ''
''No,'' Sullivan, astute as ever, had started thinking of the further consequences of his ill-judged, off-hand statement. ''What would you have said about my mental state?''
The smaller man, usually so composed, started spluttering violently, ''I - you - I -''
''Do you think I'm cracked? Do you think I could have done it, if I was pushed far enough?'' He prodded, staring at his friend so intently the other man started to squirm uncomfortably, ''What would you have said, Raj? Would you have said I was mad? Would you have said that I was unstable? Would you?''
''I would have said that your job puts you under considerable stress, but - '' Chandraty started, watching in despair as Sullivan buried his face in his hands, ''No, don't - you would be stressed, I'm stressed at my work. It's a generic thing, I'd say it about most people.''
''That's what Hamilton said about me.'' Sullivan interjected, ''Mental stress.''
''Well... I suppose that little blip in the cells didn't help...'' He tailed off as Sullivan raised his head, his face abject horror.
''How did you know about what happened in the cells?'' He demanded, icily.
Chandraty lifted his bag. ''Plenty of rest, eat lots-''
''Oh don't fob me off like that,'' Sullivan hissed, standing, ''Who told you? How do you know?''
''It doesn't matter mate, just... you focus on your recovery, alright?'' Chandraty smiled again, the reassuring smile he usually employed for young children. ''Let me know if you need anything, I'm here for you.''
Sullivan's eyes roamed the wallpaper above the door.
He was still in the same puzzled state when there was a knock on the door that afternoon.
''Come in.'' He said, assuming it was Mrs McCarthy.
Sergeant Goodfellow, his uniform a stark contrast to the cosy atmosphere of the bedroom, came edging slowly around the door.
''Afternoon, sir.''
Sullivan stared at him, his mouth open in shock. He ran a quick eye over his own appearance; hair touselled, borrowed mismatched pyjamas, propped up against headboard with the blankets bunched around him. Oh hell.
''Sergeant.'' He exclaimed, after a pause. He remembered his surroundings and gestured to the bedside chair. ''Would you - I mean, sit down, please.''
The man did so. Sullivan shifted uncomfortably, picking at his left hand. Goodfellow bravely plunged into a stream of conversation.
''Well, how are you, sir? We're all missing you at the station, though the temp isn't as bad as ones we've had the past, but he's not half as good as you are, sir.''
''Please stop calling me sir.'' Sullivan managed in a deadpan voice.
''Yes sir - I mean - can I call you your first name?'' Goodfellow asked cautiously.
Sullivan nodded, ''It's Edgar.''
''Oh, I know that - read it on your forms, of course.'' Goodfellow beamed, ''Surely you don't think I don't know your first name?''
Sullivan managed half a weak laugh. ''You never use it. No one uses it. Daniel.'' He added jokingly, making the other man laugh.
''Oh, that reminds me,'' He started fishing in the shopping bag he'd brought, producing a slim box with a ribbon around it, ''The kids helped me pick it out - I told them you were feeling poorly and we felt that flowers were a bit impersonal, so this is what we came up with.''
Sullivan untied the ribbon, opened the box, and swallowed.
''They thought - well, they always talk about your colourful ties-''
''It's lovely.'' Sullivan said thickly, running the tie through his hands, savouring the silken feel of the fabric - fabric patterned with a floral design. ''It's really lovely - thank you, tell your kids I love it. It was really very generous.''
'''Don't metion it!'' Goodfellow grinned, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder, ''Least you deserve after all you've been through lately.''
The worry was back in Sullivan's mind, gnawing at the base of his skull again. ''You didn't, by any chance,'' He asked, trying his best to make the question sound light and carefree, ''Tell anybody - Dr Chandraty, perhaps - about that little... episode, I had, in the cells?''
Goodfellow blanched, but shook his head decidely. ''I didn't tell a soul, and I won't, if you prefer to keep it that way.''
''I would, thank you.''
There was another awkward, stilted silence, until Goodfellow started into an anecdote about a chicken theft that carried them nicely into another conversation (mostly him talking, Sullivan listening) which lasted until Goodfellow had to politely excuse himself for his next shift, promising to visit again.
Mrs McCarthy popped upstairs with a tray, but, finding Sullivan asleep (evidently exhausted by the visit) she silently exited.
Sullivan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, his new tie balled in his fist and his mind racing.