Sullivan was a terrible sleeper; sleep was a longed for escape from a void of panic, loneliness and exhaustion. So when he woke up one morning, at nearly ten o'clock (it was a rare day off, thank God) feeling refreshed and clear headed, he was exceptionally confused.

Then he realised that it wasn't his steady breathing he was listening to. Sid was still sprawled out in the bed beside him, snoring gently.


It soon became the done thing for Sid to sleep over most nights after their evening's excitement. While he complained many times about Sullivan's mattress being a brick concealed by a sheet, Sid never seemed in too much of a hurry to leave and begin the trudge home to his caravan.

It made sense really, Sullivan reasoned to himself, curled up beside Sid one night watching the soothing rise and fall of his chest. Winter was definitely on its way, and the nights had a bitter sting that certainly didn't make a nightime walk appealing. It definitely made sense, staying in a relatively warm house rather than stumbling back to some freezing, uninsulated caravan.

It made sense, he reassured himself, intently watching Sid's sleeping form.

But it worried him. Anytime the moonlight fell across Sid's peaceful features his heart fluttered in a strange way, and it terrified him.


Sid had drove to the house as fast as he could, yet walked cautiously up the driveway. He let himself in (as he did all the time) and entered cautiously.

Sullivan was on the sofa buried beneath a blanket, locked in some kind of trance. His hair dripped down and dampened the blanket as he stared meaninglessly into space. He looked young, but as worried as an old man.

"Hey," Sid rushed over and perched on the edge of the sofa, snapping the other man out of his trance. "What happened at that museum? Mrs M wasn't making any sense- said you'd jumped in a lake..."

He trailed off as Sullivan nodded, but he still didn't quite meet his eyes. Sid knew something had upset him- this was the telltale sign.

"The murderer was trying to get away in a boat, but he fell in," Sullivan told the space between the armchair and radio. "He didn't come up again, so I went in, managed to pull him out," He shivered involuntarily, "But I was too late."

Doubtless of the fact that Hubble would be heading straight to the gallows anyway, Sullivan had still tried desperately to save him. He'd managed to drag the dead weight of the man all the way out onto the lawn with the hope that there was a still a chance, but it was obvious immediately that he was gone.

Sid stared at him in horror. "That's awful." He said.

Sullivan's mind was still a tangle of the weeds that had clawed and grabbed at his limbs and the murky water that filled his head after a stinging journey through his nostrils. His eyes were bloodshot from his desperate search for the man and the image of the weeds wrapped around his submerged body still burned them.

"You must be freezing," Sid had moved closer and was rubbing his shoulder, moving to swipe away a loose strand of hair.

"I had a bath so I'm not too bad," Sullivan finally looked at Sid, ashen faced with exhaustion. "Look, Sid, I'm just- just not in the mood tonight." He spoke tiredly.

"That's alright," Sid soothed immediately, and he got up to leave, but then turned back. "You take care of yourself, alright? And let me know when, or if, you feel like it again. I'll call around soon anyway."

He paused on his way to the door, then turned back again.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"I'll be fine," Sullivan reasoned, "Goodfellow told me to have a hot meal and an early night, so that's what I'll do."

"Sounds like a plan." Sid agreed uncertainly. He leaned over the sofa and kissed Sullivan quickly on the temple, turning away too quickly to see the other man's reaction.

"I'll see you soon."

"Bye."

"Now you take care of yourself!" Sid warned him, pointing his finger and looking remarkably like the parish secretary.

"Yes Mrs McCarthy." Sullivan chuckled weakly.

The door closed behind Sid and room was a shell once more. Sullivan immediately wished he had stayed.


Sullivan had taken Goodfellow's wise advice and had taken a very early night: pyjamas on and in bed at 8.30pm.

Yet now at quarter past three in the morning he was banging his head soundlessly off the pillows, dizzy and sick from fatigue.

It wasn't just the Hubble thing that was annoying him. The bed was too uncomfortable and restraining and the room was deafeningly quiet, a terrifying sensation that made him feel like someone was pouring sand into his ears, drowning him in nothingness. Shadows stalked him from every angle.

He'd had to stagger to the bathroom twice to throw up, and had crouched shivering on the icy tiled floor in his thin pyjamas, his stomach's contents of murky pond water scorching his throat, fists clenched on the rim of the bowl as he choked and vomited.

That was probably breaking point- eyes and throat on fire and the freezing chill of the tiles seeping through the thin cotton of his clothes.

Amidst tears, the whiskey bottle was blurrily retrieved from the cupboard and engaged as a sleeping tonic. The room started spinning at some point between sips and after a long draught that practically emptied the bottle, Sullivan threw it aside and buried his head under the pillows, attempting to fight off the waves disorienting waves of nausea, confusion and fear that stalked him, sobbing despairingly.

He'd never wanted company so desperately before.