In the jacket there was a half empty packet of ciggarettes and a single leather glove in the pocket. In the inside pocket there was a key- God knows what for. Probably illegally made, or used in trespassing. His head spun. Sid Carter wore these. The disgusting man who he'd once seen spit lager across the bar for a bet. The man who'd got under his skin, the one managed to get on every one of his last nerves.The one who made him feel like this.
He should go to bed. He was exhausted. He mustn't have slept for a week. It may only be six o'clock but what else had he to do? He'd staggered home from DC Albert's funeral and tore off his dress uniform and lobbed them into the far corner of the bathroom. The hat rolled towards the bathtub and the buttons rattled across the tiles. The funeral had been suffocating- when Albert's coffin was being lowered into the ground, Sullivan felt like they were shovelling soil onto his chest as well.
He'd drink the last of his abandoned whiskey (still exactly where he'd left it) and go to bed. That was exactly what he'd do.
The last thing Sid Carter expected to hear at quarter past eleven on a dark night was a knock at his caravan door. When he first opened the door, he didn't even recognise the man standing there.
Inspector Sullivan was standing there in a faded grey jacket, old brown corduroy trousers and a peak cap, under which he could clearly see his hair was loose and knotted. Sid eyed him in contempt, still half leaning out of the caravan.
"What do you want."
Sullivan swallowed nervously and held out a folded bundle.
"I think... these are yours." Sullivan stated, his voice stilted. Sid barely noticed the change in his tone, still smouldering in annoyance from the incident at the church.
Sid snatched the clothes away from him.
"Well now, that is very gracious of you. Showing your gratitude like that."
"Carter, please-"
"Oh no, you showed your true colours alright. We save your hide and then you give us all a grand ol' telling off. Would rival one of the Father's sermons, that little speech of yours."
"No, no let me explain-"
"Why bother?" Sid spat, "You showed us just what you thought of us, Mr High and Mighty, like we didn't just save your life-"
Sullivan took off, his shoes squelching across the muddy grass. "Yeah that's right, piss off, you ungrateful sod." Sid crowed at his retreating back.
Sullivan stopped. The lamplight of the caravan barely reached him. Sid ducked his head back into the caravan, returning to the company of the radio and his magazine. Sullivan sniffed outside.
He stuck his head out again. He could see Sullivan wiping at his face with his jacket sleeve. Got a cold, probably.
He was marching away again, but swaying slightly. He made a funny sound.
Like a muffled sob.
Oh God.
"Oi!" Sid leapt out of the caravan and ran out across the waterlogged grass after the other man, catching him by the arm. He spun him around and squinted at him properly. Sullivan stared firmly at the ground. His lip was trembling and his eyes were red. And wet. Sullivan was crying.
"I'm sorry." Sid automatically apologised. Sullivan shook his head and tried to pull his elbow out off Sid's grip, as a teardrop fell from his jaw. Sid was appalled.
"Here, I didn't mean what I said- just, come back here for a minute alright?" Sid reasoned, as Sullivan shook his head, "Calm down a minute, you can't-" He noticed the lack of police cars, "Did you walk here?"
Sullivan shook his head again, but stayed quiet. He could feel Carter's warm breath on his cold face, feel the strength of the hand gripping his bicep. Like a man drunk, he let himself be guided back to the light of the caravan, bumping his head in the low door that Sid-no, Carter- warned him off too late.
Sid pushed him gently down onto the bed, where he sat blinking furiously. Sid looked down at him with great confusion, head stooped under the low roof, body illuminated but face hidden in the uneven light.
"Are you okay?"
Inspector Sullivan burst into tears.
Sid panicked as the chief of Kembleford's constabulary buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. On his bed.
Christ, have to do something here!
He sat down beside him in bewilderment. He took hold of the older man's shoulder and, for want of a better method, started rocking him slightly.
"Whoah, shhhh, it's alright, it's alright. Yes, you just... have a good cry." He pulled a face at his own dreadful attempts at comfort. "You have a good sob, let it all out. Then you can tell me all about it." Somehow Sullivan was leaning into him, the peak of his cap nudging Sid's cheek. Sid continued to make shh-ing noises and rocked him to and fro.
After what felt like years, the sobbing ceased. Sullivan was weakly leaning against Sid, almost gasping for air.
"I'm sorry." He gulped thickly. He rubbed at his eyes again with his wrist, but the fabric was soaked through. Sid leaned forward and grabbed an old rag that had fallen off his curtains and pushed it into Sullivan's hand, who then blew his nose loudly.
He leaned back, away from Sid who felt a surprising chill. He put his arm back around Sullivan and felt the warmth of the man through his short jacket.
"I washed the clothes." He said, eyes shining, red and raw.
"Surprised you found the time." Sid replied.
Sullivan sniffed, and made to leave. "Whoah, you can't leave in this state!" Sid protested, grabbing hold of him again. "Someone could jump you on the road--specially if you're dressed like that."
"Didn't want anyone to recognise me." Sullivan muttered. Sid smirked. "Why, did you embark here on a scandalous visit or summat? Cause if you did I'd rather have seen you in uniform."
Sullivan just stared ahead. Sid remembered why he'd last seen him in his uniform. "Oh, sorry. Poor taste."
"I didn't mean what I said either. And I'm sorry." Sullivan choked. "You did save my life - you and Father Brown - and I didn't deserve your help. I'm sorry about what I've said to him, and to Mrs McCarthy, and to Goodfellow and Al... I'm sorry about all of it. He'd have made a far better detective than me." He stood up quickly but he didn't make to leave.
He paused for a moment. Sid gently reached up and pulled him back down.
"You oughta keep talking." Sid advised, "Get some of those weights off your chest."
Sullivan faltered, but then he kept talking.
Sid listened.