Sullivan was shaking. Albert's funeral had been awful, and he knew the whole community probably hated him. He'd changed out of his dress uniform (which he hoped never to wear again), poured the rest of the whiskey down the sink, and was leaning against the mantlepiece chipping away at a crack in the plaster above the fireplace; a nervous habit he'd picked up, after he'd discovered the damage while cleaning.
He felt awful. He didn't even know why he'd done it- even though Father Brown probably didn't deserve that rant, he was always annoying him on crimescenes, and he did have enough evidence to have them all arrested. He'd just been angry; at everything really. And Brown was just there, and he wanted to tell someone off. To prove he was still the Inspector, still brutal, and he wanted to be taken serious-
He hissed in pain as his fingernail broke against a jagged point in the plaster. He sucked it quickly, trying to stop the bleeding as it stung.
The door flew open, and Sid came thumping in, with a face like thunder.
''Sid-I-'' Sullivan began, but Sid cut him.
''Don't you start.'' He snapped. ''Cause I don't wanna hear it, alright? I heard enough from you earlier, but I suppose we deserved it, didn't we? After we saved your life-'
''I didn't say anything to you!'' Sullivan protested, ''I took the evid-''
''Oh who cares about your bloody evidence! What you done today was despicable, alright? And I thought-''
''I didn't mean it!'' Sullivan wasn't shouting, but he was getting louder, ''Not to you!''
''It doesn't matter! It doesn't make anything difference that you didn't say it to me!''
''But-'' Sullivan stammered.
''They're my family!'' Sid spat, ''And I know they might have their flaws, but you always act like a right bastard around them and there's no need! You-you treat them like dirt on your shoe and for what? So what if the Father beats you to a case. It doesn't matter, alright? Because he's just a priest and you're the Inspector, who were all supposed to look up to and admire because that's what you want, isn't it? To be feared by all, and to use people and then chuck them away-"
"Now you just hang on," Sulliavn interjected, starting to get cross, "You don't know what it's like to be me, and you certainly don't know whats it's like to have people constantly interfering and telling you that you're a monster and you're going to rot in hell-"
"Well maybe I don't," Sid snarled, "But funny enough, I don't spend my time insulting every single person that I meet."
Sullivan opened his mouth to speak, but Sid cut him off again.
"You know that that scene at the church was wrong - don't even try to deny it! That was you showing off again, being the high and mighty Inspector even though you literally came crawling to Father Brown to save your skin, even though you never seem to value him until it helps you -"
"Oh, so you'd rather have me hanged then?" Sulluvan twisted.
"What, no- you know what I mean." Sid was tripping over his words in frustration. "You fight and twist and argue with him even though he's trying to help you- hell, you even fought with me when I was trying to help you- What is it with you? Anyone tries to give you a good turn, you bite their head off."
"Because most of the time they're not helping!" Sullivan yelled. "They're just getting in the way!"
"And I get in the way too, do I?" Sid asked.
"No, I-"
"Oh leave it, I couldn't care less." Sid pointed at Sullivan, teeth gritted in fury. "You know what?" He said, practically spitting malice, "I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all of this. And I'm definitely sick of you."
"Then leave!" Sullivan roared, "Go on, beat it! If you can't bear to be around me just go! Get out!"
Sid pulled something out of his pocket and flung it down at Sullivan's feet, then pounded across the floor and out the door, slamming it so hard the whole house rang with the noise.
Sullivan stood by the mantlepiece in shock for nearly ten minutes. When he eventually did move, he reached down slowly, without thinking to see what it was Sid had lobbed at the floor.
The spare key. Sullivan turned it over, the bronze clashing with the bloody graze on his palm.
He walked upstairs in a trance, instinctively holding onto every wall and bannister.
Eventually he made it to his bedroom, where his fugitive clothes were still lying in a ruck in the corner.
He lifted the jacket, rubbing his thumb along the scratchy fabric on the lapel.
Sid's jacket.
He fell down onto the bed, buried his face in the jacket and cried his heart out.
