Ray turned the evidence bag, with it's tiny scrap of paper, over and over in his hand. It was the only piece of real, physical evidence that they had. "Meet me at 491." It had been discovered pinned to her calendar, on the date she disappeared. The detectives assigned to the case (currently the majority of the station house) had been interviewing her friends, family, teachers, fellow students, and none of them had any idea what the numbers referred to.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, and resisted the urge to crumple the bag and its contents. The answer was probably staring him in the face. Nobody knew who the girl might have been meeting. Or if they did they weren't telling. Ray put the evidence back into its folder, and returned it to Elaine. "Thanks," he said, "you're a star." She looked like she needed the encouragement. She'd been working flat out for hours, and gave every impression of being as tired as Vecchio felt.

"You all right Vecchio?" she asked.

There was an unspoken question behind her words, and Ray sighed. She was worried about Fraser. At least Ray knew that Elaine wasn't one to gossip. "Yeah, I'm fine Elaine, we're all fine."

She nodded, accepting the lie as a polite and necessary fiction. "You want a coffee?"

"Yeah, why not?" He returned to his desk, to clear a space, when the phone rang. Hoping it was a return call from one of Sally's friends he scooped the phone up. "Detective Vecchio speaking..." his voice trailed off into silence.

Elaine looked up as she poured the coffee. Vecchio had a look of complete shock on his face.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll be right there."

"Have they found the girl?"

"No," he shook his head brusquely, "no, nothing like that."

"Is it to do with the case?"

"No it's..." he looked at her. Shook his head again. "It's nothing. It's personal. I'll clear it with Welsh when I get back..."

"Is it Fraser?"

Her rapid intuition made him look up sharply. His face twitched. "Yeah, it's Fraser. He's not well. Just... keep it to yourself, okay?"

"Okay," she put a reassuring hand on his arm. "Look after yourself."

Ray nodded distractedly, and swept out of the room, practically jogging. Elaine watched his departure, and chewed her lower lip.

…

Turnbull was as flustered as Ray had ever seen him, and even Thatcher had a look of concern etched across her face. He was no sooner inside the consulate than Turnbull had him by the shoulder and was practically dragging him across the lobby, down the corridor and to Fraser's office. Suddenly Turnbull stopped, and leaned in close to Ray. "He wouldn't see the doctor," Turnbull hissed in his ear, "said he was trying to poison him and threw him out the door."

"What?" This didn't sound like the Fraser Ray knew.

"The doctor wanted to have him... well..." he dropped his voice even lower and pressed his mouth to Ray's ear ,"committed."

Ray flinched, and tried to tell himself that it was only the uncomfortable proximity of the other man that made him nervous. There was no way that Fraser was that far gone. Okay, he might have his idiosyncrasies, his quirks perhaps, but surely he wasn't actually...

Ray was afraid of the word...

Surely he wasn't actually mad?

Diefenbaker was lying outside the door, whimpering. When he saw Ray he bounded to his feet, and pawed at his leg plaintively. Automatically Ray reached out and ran his fingers through the wolf's muzzle. Dief groaned with relief and gratitude, rubbing his head into the man's hand. "It's okay Dief," Ray said, reassuring himself as much as the dog.

Behind the door they could hear an indistinct voice talking to itself, interspersed by occasional, slightly hysterical, giggles.

Ray knocked. The voice behind the door stopped.

"Hey, Benny, buddy... how you doing in there?"

"It's buddy now is it?" Fraser sounded petulant, sulking about something.

Ray looked at Turnbull, and shared a look of helpless bewilderment. What was going on here?

"Well... yeah, I just thought... see how you're doing."

The muttering started up again, and Ray cleared his throat. "Alright Frase, I'm coming in." He pushed the door. It met some momentary resistance, then a rasping sound like withered leaves as the door edged slowly open.

"Oh … jeez, Benny..." Ray stuttered to a halt, speechless. This was even worse than last night, in the squad room. Helplessly he stepped into the room, crunching over the papers that were scattered chaotically across the floor. Files, and old newspapers, books torn up, scattered willy nilly. More than anything the books upset him. Fraser would never tear a book... He stared at his friend. Fraser was squatting, perched up on his desk, poised in a squat on the balls of his feet, with his arms folded solemnly across his knees. His brow was furrowed with concentration, and his eyes, set in shadowed sockets, were nearly black against his pale skin.

Ray, shocked into nonsense, blurted out ridiculously, "Jeez, Benny, you unclenched your hair."

Fraser looked up and smiled. "Careful Ray," he raised a professorial finger, acknowledging his friend's presence. "You don't want to disturb them."

"Okay... let me just..." Ray took a few cautious steps, paper rustling beneath his feet, and stretched his hands out to Fraser in a conciliatory gesture.

"Stop!" Fraser shouted. "You're disturbing the symmetry..."

Inside his head Ray was screaming... what symmetry? It's a bloody mess in here... All he said however was, "I'm sorry Fraser, I don't want to disturb anything. You mind telling me what you got here?"

Fraser darted a glance at his friend, then stared back down at the floor. He seemed to think for a moment, then nodded.

"It's a pattern," he said. "There's got to be a pattern to it, so I've put them all together to see if it makes sense..." He paused for a moment, staring at one random piece of paper. "That doesn't belong there..." he shook his head, as though dislodging flies. He turned his gaze from side to side, scanning the floor, then pivoted on his desk to take in the other side of the room. "There has to be a pattern," he said, miserably. His voice trailed off, and he muttered... "where's the pattern?"

"What's it a pattern of, Benny?"

Fraser started, turned back to Ray. "Oh, hello Ray, I didn't hear you come in. You can help me..."

"Okay, what can I do?"

Fraser pointed. "That article, it shouldn't be there..."

Ray bent carefully from the waist, so as not to disturb Fraser's chaos, and plucked up the offending article. Fraser beamed at him. "Thank you kindly." Ray felt a pang at the flash of normality. For a moment it looked like his friend was back. As swift as it came it was gone.

"What are you doing Ray?" Fraser shouted. "Don't touch it, don't touch any of it... there's a pattern. You shouldn't break the pattern."

Ray stepped backwards, dropping the article, and Fraser jumped from the desk, straight at his friend. For a horrible instant he had him by the throat. Ray swallowed, hearing his adam's apple click. Benny's face was a mask of rage... then suddenly he looked simply puzzled.

"Ray?"

"Yeah buddy."

Fraser blinked rapidly, and stepped backwards, dropping his hand. "Ray," a little boy's voice, "what's happening?"

"I don't know Benny, but it'll be all right."

Fraser took a step backwards, and one foot slipped slightly on a mound of paper. Ray grabbed his friend to steady him.

"There has to be a pattern," Fraser whispered. He turned his head, and a look of horror came upon him, as he noticed for the first time the damage he had wreaked upon his office. He covered his face.

"There is no pattern, is there?"

Ray put his arm around him, carefully. Benny laughed, a small hysterical giggle.

"There's no pattern." He heaved out a heavy breath and leaned on his friend. Ray just held him.

"There's no pattern, is there?" Fraser's head dropped, defeated, onto the protective shoulder. Ray's hand was on his hair. "No pattern at all."

…

Ray stormed back to the station house, deliberately working himself up into a fine fury. If he came in showing how he really felt there would be tears, not tantrums, and he didn't want anyone, not even Elaine, knowing how he felt. Dammit, of all the weeks for Ma to be away... they could have done something to help. Fraser could have stayed at their place... but this?

Elaine approached him, a question on her lips, but he glared at her, and barged right past. He hadn't even reached his desk when Welsh called out to him. "Vecchio!" If he says a word, Ray thought, if he says a single solitary word so help me, I'll swing for him.

He slapped the door open and stalked through, just begging for a fight. Welsh looked up at him, and raised a craggy brow, assessing the situation immediately.

"There's been another missing person's report," he said, calmly, leaning backwards to diffuse the tension. "Not as much of a priority, but seeing as you're here, I thought you should look into it."

Ah right, Vecchio though, palm the less important case off on me. He had no sooner thought it than he hated himself. It wasn't a case, it was a person. And wasn't everyone important? "Is that it sir?"

"Yes," Welsh spoke with uncharacteristic mildness. He knew Vecchio, and he knew that when the guy flipped out he really flipped. Welsh picked his battles wisely. This wasn't going to be one of them. Let Vecchio deal with whatever was eating him in his own way. And yes, he guessed it was to do with the Mounty. "That's everything. Notes are on your desk. Keep me updated."

"Fine." Vecchio slammed out of the office, then squeezed his eyes shut on the other side. He wanted, really wanted, to break something. To throw a tantrum. To yell and kick the walls.

"Dammit," he whispered, clenching his fists. Futility. He couldn't do a thing.

He stood for a moment, breathing hard, then opened his fists, shook out his hands, and moved, finally, to his desk.

…

Sally opens her eyes from an uneasy sleep, and rolls uncomfortably, struggling to a sitting position. The man is not there. But she does hear something... She strains to listen, and can hear, faintly, someone crying out, a male voice, and what sounds like blows. Is someone being beaten in another room? She despises herself for her first instinct, but thinks it anyway.

I'm glad it isn't me.

…

The mood at the consulate is dark, and Turnbull fulfils his duties with a solemn aspect. He doesn't think he'll ever get over what happened today with Constable Fraser. It was such a shock... the man was always so... what was the word? Controlled.

He's kneeling in Fraser's office, cleaning up the mess, sorting what is salvageable into organised piles, throwing out what is beyond repair. He wishes that there had been some order, some symmetry to this. Until he finally saw the contents of the office he had thought that perhaps... perhaps Fraser hadn't really cracked up. Perhaps there was some other explanation...

Then he had seen the mess.

Doggedly Turnbull remains on his knees, and gradually restores order.

He feels a sting in his eyes as he sifts through the wreckage. He knows he's not a macho man, not like Constable Fraser. Fraser is a model Mounty, a credit to Canada, a hero. This shouldn't have happened... it couldn't have happened.

Turnbull sniffles. He cries too easily, he knows it, and is often mocked for it. But he doesn't care right now. What happened here today was wrong, he feels it in his bones.

They should have found another way.

…

The photos show a man strapped to a stretcher, being carried like a mummy from a building to an ambulance. He appears to be struggling. The man who paid for them fans the pictures out like a winning hand of cards, stretches his legs, leans back in his armchair and smiles.

He smiles like a cat.

…

Meg Thatcher takes off her glasses, and rubs her eyes, before returning to her computer work. There's a great weight in her heart, which she chooses to ignore. Disruptions, she tells herself, are to be overcome. Distractions are irrelevant. Feelings are self indulgent.

She sounds like a robot, even to herself. It wasn't as though she had a choice. She had to do it.

Damn. Who does she think she's kidding?

She feels guilty.

...

And Fraser is in a small white room, strapped to a bed.

And he is sewing leaves together, bent over the Vecchio's kitchen table, in the middle of the great wild snow. And it is cold, and it is beautiful.

And he can't move his head.

And the wind cuts like a knife.

And he strains against the straps, and cannot move.

And his fingers are numb as he tries to thread the needle.

And a man is looking at him through a window made of ice.

And he cannot speak, because his tongue is made of dust. And he cannot look away, because his eyes are glittered glass. And his face is wet, he's bleeding.

He knows that he is bleeding, because that wetness can't be tears.

His father stands, and waits, and never says a word.