***
LAUGHED AT BY THE GODS
by saizine

Written between 17 February 2014 and 02 July 2014.
Massive thanks to timethetalewastold for being such a wonderful beta!

Chandler's not lying when he tells Miles he's not gay. He's just not entirely straight, either.

In fact, he's not entirely sure what he is at all.

The two glasses of single malt he's had don't help matters much. The lines are fuzzy enough without the extra confusion. But Chandler's real problem is that he still thinks he's thinking clearly, although some part of him knows that he's not, and he's actually considering answering properly this time. Or, at least, as properly as he can. Chandler's not sure he's got an answer for himself, let alone Miles. He's had thirty odd years to think about it, to ponder, to experiment (heaven forbid) and he's still not sure. Maybe that's enough of an answer.

Maybe that's enough scotch.

Miles shoots him a look over the top of his own glass. 'So, are you?'

Chandler doesn't know. Miles seems to think that if he keeps asking, keeps prodding in different places, he might get an answer. Chandler's never known, that hasn't changed, and neither has Miles' propensity for asking him difficult questions at difficult times. At least he can be sure it's late enough that no one's going to barge in or interrupt if he's going to be grasping around for the right words. It's too late for Miles to still be there, really, and for a moment Chandler considers pointedly mentioning that Judy might be wondering what on earth he's still doing at work.

Miles' unflinching expression cuts through the yellow glow cast by the light on the desk between them, and Chandler gives in.

He puts his glass down, the etched patterns shielded by the loose grip of his fingers. Chandler doesn't like how the reflections are being thrown, the striations of light scattered across the desk. He rotates the tumbler where it sits, more nudges than touches, and stares at the thick layer of liquid he's got left as he takes a breath and speaks.

'It's more complicated than that.'

The sergeant scoffs. 'More complicated doesn't mean unanswerable.' He balances his own glass on the arm of the chair; the precarious position makes Chandler feel just a little bit dizzy. 'You should know that more than anyone.'

Damn him. He's right. They're virtually specialists on the things that could be termed more complicated, aren't they? Not that they do much good with them. That thought alone draws Chandler back to the scotch, the burn in the back of his throat.

'Oi, steady on,' Miles says, although he sounds vaguely amused through the alarm. 'No need to play catch up.'

'I'm not.'

(He is. A little bit. It's a bad idea but he is.)

Miles knows, too—he's not an idiot—but he lets it go and fixes him with another stern look. 'That's not the answer I was after.'

'I know.' Chandler leaves off the slightly petulant addition of that was the point that drifts through his head.

'So?'

Words are difficult to choose, let alone string together, and Chandler opens and closes his mouth several times before he resigns himself to the inadequacy of the sentiment.

'I'm…' Chandler lifts his glass and gestures towards nothing in particular, looking for the right term. None really fit, so he sighs and sets the drink down with a dull clunk. 'Not bothered.'

That's as good an answer as he's ever managed to come up with. It isn't as though he's repulsed, although perhaps he might be, a little bit, sometimes. Occasionally. He doesn't really think about it that much, only when he has to. Maybe that's more of an answer than anything.

Miles just looks at him, thinking; Chandler can't bring himself to watch that, and in his redirection of his gaze he notices that something's off kilter, out of order. He twists the glass back to where he'd placed it the first time, when he'd been careful, but it doesn't help. The problem might be the light, the depth of the shadows or the way the drink throws amber where it should be white; he can't tell exactly which, he never can, but it's in there somewhere and all he has to do to find it is try everything. Chandler starts with his phone and he can't decide whether or not to align it with the stapler or the case file they'd abandoned half an hour ago. Neither seems like a good choice.

The sergeant takes a breath; he's being careful with his tone, his words. 'Not bothered, or…?'

The phone gets another nudge, but his sleeve catches a pen and Chandler bites back a curse.

He says 'Not interested,' through gritted teeth instead, that somehow feeling easier now that it's not at the forefront of his mind.

'At all?'

'At all.'

Miles sits back in the chair, retrieving his glass with a thoughtful look. 'Ah.'

If Chandler's going to be honest, he'd expected a little bit more of a reaction from Miles. He's the typical no-nonsense East Londoner, no time to spare for namby-pamby nonsense and all this faffing about with questions and platonic romance and shades of grey. Chandler wouldn't have even thought he'd give the concept time of day, let alone sit there in front of him nodding in a sage manner that suggests he's suspected this for a while.

Then again, he has been known to surprise them from time to time.

The empty incident room offers no convenient interruption. The phone doesn't ring. Chandler doesn't have a well-timed epiphany as to where that lost file got to. He can't even rely on Ed arriving with a bright, manic smile and an ancient book that smells of musk and mushrooms. All he's got is Miles and he's fixing him with that odd shrewd look he gets when he's thinking and Chandler knows from experience that's not always a good sign.

Sometimes he doesn't like where Miles' thoughts take him. The man's more perceptive than he looks.

But he should know that already, shouldn't he?

'Aren't you supposed to be offering me some sort of unwarranted advice at this point in the conversation?' Chandler asks, muttering more to his drink than anyone else as he raises the glass to his mouth again. It's only a feeble shield but at least it is one. He suspects he might need it.

'Would you take it?'

Chandler just looks at him. It's a rhetorical question, he knows, because he wouldn't. That's a proven fact.

Miles knows what he means and smirks, dropping back slightly in his seat. 'I'm not going to lie, that explains a lot.'

Chandler feels his hackles rise but doesn't do anything to stop it. 'You don't have to be interested in sex to be normal, Miles—'

'Hey,' Miles interrupts, holding out a placating hand. 'I never said you did.' The palm morphs into a pointing finger. 'And that's not what I meant.'

He has to acquiesce; Chandler knows Miles is right, he knows that wasn't what Miles meant. He's filling in gaps that aren't there, turning it into a pathology before anyone else can. He's just played this sort of conversation over and over in his head so many times over the years—not always with Miles, not always with people who matter—that he's preempting the follow-up interrogation. There has to be one.

'What's the word for it, then, eh?'

(There it is.)

'There's got to be one, there's one for everything these days.'

Chandler shrugs, noncommittal, and turns back to his drink.

He hasn't—well, he's had neither the time nor the inclination to ponder it much. He did a little more often when he was younger, when there were more questions to fend off and more people asking them. Chandler had fumbled through half-arsed answers then, only really half understanding them himself, but most either gave up with his woolly reasoning or took the hint. He's had little reason to ponder that particular part of himself since. He may be a cerebral sort of man but even he's got to prioritize.

'Asexual?'

Chandler only suggests it because it's the closest thing he knows, but even then he's not entirely comfortable with it. But he's never really been entirely comfortable with anything, has he, so perhaps that means it's the right label. It still doesn't feel right on his tongue, in his mouth. His mind's always struggled to grasp the slippery concept and he can't do it now, not with someone watching him try. Not when Mansell's gone and left his desk lamp on again, a single eruption of cheap illumination in a swathe of blue blackness. Chandler will deal with it later, when Miles has gone; the methodical helps. If he's lucky he'll find another pile of unfinished reference forms, or a few paper planes he can grumble about and chuck in the bin and use as an excuse to trawl the rest of the room. The longer it takes, the better. He can't go home and settle after this.

'That'll do, then.' For an irregular moment, Miles sounds uncannily like Arthur Hoggett. 'Anyway, you should have said.' He picks up his drink and sits back, tipping the glass towards Chandler. 'Could have saved me a lot of trouble.'

Chandler huffs out a laugh, although he isn't especially amused. 'I think you'll find I never asked you to go to any trouble, nor did I encourage it.'

'Didn't put much effort into stopping me, though.'

'I did try.' He did, he really did. Chandler wills Miles to remember the time he'd tried to make him take back Lizzie Pepper's number. He might still have the paper, somewhere, but he hasn't looked at it for months. He doesn't want to see it again; it wasn't just the mess that had put him off. 'It's not that I didn't appreciate it—'

Miles scoffs. 'I can smell bullshit, you know.'

He has to smile at that, because usually Miles lets him do it, lets him deny what they both know to be the truth. Chandler can't tell if it's supposed to be a charade or a joke anymore, really, but there's little difference.

He settles for saying, 'You know what I mean.'

Miles nods, because he does.

They settle into what should have been a comfortable silence; it might still be, for Miles, but Chandler can't relax. Not that he does often, not here, but there's something about the way the sergeant's alternating between studying the remainder of his drink and the way Chandler's running a finger along the line of the file, trying to decide if it needs an adjustment or not, that says he isn't finished yet.

Chandler let him start it, after all. They're this far in now, so he's got to let him finish it.

'Is it everything, then?' There's a pause, then Miles fills it with a needless qualification. 'That you're not bothered about?'

Miles isn't especially good at being roundabout. Or, well, he is, but he's a policeman and so is Chandler and they can spot each other's methods a mile off. For some reason that makes him fight off an amused smile.

'Are you asking me if I want a relationship, Miles?'

'If I'm likely to get an answer.'

It isn't as if he hasn't considered it. Miles knows he's considered it; he told him, up on the roof. But consideration has always led to the same conclusion; he accepted the idea that he's better off alone a long time ago. He's difficult to begin with, isn't he? And he only has to compound it with everything else. And it isn't as if coppers have a very good track record for relationships, either. Apart from, perhaps, Miles, but as far as Chandler can tell he's always been a lucky bastard.

The unfortunate thing is that Chandler knows he gets attached. He knows the difference between the familiar pleasure of spotting a good friend in a crowd and the lurching, fluttering that comes with something else. Not something more, because one's not better than the other, not in his mind, but they aren't interchangeable. And, occasionally, he wants. Not in the traditional sense, in the way that's panted against skin in almost every film drama or spat across a table in an interview room, as if that excuses a loss of temper, a crime, a killing.

But even the quiet version won't work, will it? Not with him. Chandler's terrified of disappointment, failure—not that someone else would disappoint him, or fail him. That's unlikely to happen before he'd manage to do the same to someone else. You think he'd be used to that by now, after everything, but apparently not. Just the thought of it sends something heavy plummeting to the pit of his stomach, uncomfortable and vaguely sick-making. He'd go for another swallow of his drink, but Miles has stopped topping up his glass and it would be far too obvious if he did it himself.

'I'm sure it's possible for you, you know.' Miles reaches out and gestures with the bottle; Chandler shakes his head, although he's tempted. It's a double bluff, he can tell. 'You're not as odd as you think you are.'

It's not just him though, is it? Someone else has to put up with him. Not many people do. Not many people have. How many of them would look at him and think that he'd be a good partner? He can't think of himself that way. Not really.

Chandler doesn't know if it ever has.

Either way, he's not about to start pondering it now, not even if that's what Miles is angling to get him to do. He's gone too far to turn back. One conversation can't overturn years of experience.

'I think I see enough of you as it is.'

Miles does bark out a laugh at that. 'Judy wouldn't be too pleased, either.'

'Well, then,' Chandler says, angling his glance towards the soft darkness that's draped itself over the desks, the files, the forms. He wishes he could find the same silence. 'We can't have that, can we?'

The sly smirk doesn't go, even as Miles polishes off what's left of his drink. 'I wouldn't want to see the state of you after any bollocking of hers.'

Chandler doesn't know why he laughs at that. It doesn't make sense, it shouldn't, but he does because Miles' rusty laugh is familiar and not to be found in serious conversations of this sort. Its reappearance signals an ending, or so Chandler hopes. He needs to be on his own for a while. The smile dies away on his face, and it doesn't linger in the same way the honest ones do.

Miles, on the other hand, keeps his. 'Watch out, boss. If your face gets any longer you'll overbalance.'

'I'm sat down, Miles.'

'Yeah, well, if you have any more of 'em then you might be stuck sat there all night.' Miles gestures with his empty glass before placing flat on the desk in front of him. 'Speaking of which, I'm probably wanted. What time d'you make it?'

'Twenty to nine?'

Seventeen minutes to the hour, actually, but he's trying to sound offhand. Miles can tell—of course he can—but even he can tell when they've hit a brick wall. Usually he can find a crack somewhere to worm in an idea or press until the cement crumbles out of place and he gets his answer but he's already had one tonight, hasn't he?

Chandler's not sure Miles would know what to do with two.

'Right then,' he says, handing the glass back to Chandler as he gets to his feet. 'I'd best be off. Don't sit there all night.'

'I wasn't planning on it.'

'You don't have to.' Miles looks down at him with a knowing crook of the brow. 'It generally just sort of happens on its own, doesn't it?'

Chandler doesn't reply, and that's as much of an admittance as any. But he's had enough of those for tonight and Miles sure as hell doesn't particularly deserve to wheedle anything else out of him. He probably knows because he doesn't push and doesn't say anything when Chandler removes the lid from the bottle before him and pours himself another measure as Miles retrieves his coat from the back of his chair. He shrugs it on with an arched look as Chandler returns the bottle to its drawer, but he doesn't say anything.

In the silence, Chandler might just be able to hear the clicks of the second hand of his watch.

Miles slows to a stop just before the office door, one hand fishing around in an inside pocket. 'Oh, and just one more thing—'

Chandler smiles, fond. 'Pulling a Columbo isn't going to work on me, Miles.'

The sergeant huffs out a laugh. 'Would've thought he was a bit before your time.'

'I'm not twelve.'

'Could've fooled me.'

That's more like it. They've reverted back. Now, at least, Chandler can enjoy his drink in peace.

(As peaceful as his mind gets, anyway.)

'Anyway,' Miles says, frowning at the floor, 'what was I going to say?'

'I think you're pushing the impression to its limits now.'

'Ah, yes, right, that was it,' Miles continues, ignoring Chandler's advice with a sly smile. 'What I meant to say was that a lack of shagging doesn't seem to have put Kent off yet, though.'

Chandler's flabbergasted. There's no other term for it.

He hasn't been this lost for words for years.

Miles, on the other hand, is abso-bloody-lutely thrilled. As usual.

'Just something to think about,' he says, chuckling on his way out.

The next morning reminds Chandler that he's not as young as he used to be. He hadn't even been drunk, he'd maybe had half a measure too many, but the slamming of doors in the station's doing his head in. It's one of those headaches that's strong but on the periphery, lingering behind his eyes and at the back of his skull. Is he reaching the age where hangovers start lasting for forty-eight hours before they ease off? Chandler sighs, rubbing the fingers of one hand across his brow, and considers resigning himself to the inevitability. Apparently he's also getting to the age when he's carrying blister packs of painkillers around in his jacket pocket; the only difference between him and a little old lady in a crochet cardigan is that he's counting down the hours until he can wash down another pair of pills and peeling off the foil until each tear is neat and uniform.

Maybe he should swear off the scotch. Miles would be disappointed, if only because he'd have to find something else to get him for Christmas and birthdays. Plus, it'd been one less chance for him to give Chandler unsolicited advice. As far as Chandler's concerned Miles has far too many of those as it is and he's definitely not had a think about the last thing he'd suggested. He isn't going to, either. Not if he can help it. The depressing thing is that even if he tells the truth (half-truth) and denies that he has, if Miles asks, he won't be believed.

He's not entirely sure he believes himself. After all, it's his mind that's always betrayed him.

He can't always help it.

It's not quite sufficiently distant to disregard yet; Chandler can't wait until it is, because the more he tries not to think about it the more this headache throbs and the more he finds his mind wandering. It's all Miles' fault—that's the line he's going with, mainly because it's true and he'd have been absolutely fine carrying on as usual if Miles had never mentioned it—and Chandler makes a mental note to buy some of that blended shite he's always complaining about for the next gift-giving occasion.

The worst part of it is that Miles knows what he's doing. He doesn't have to spend the time or the energy explaining it all to him, or pointing out each and every moment that supposedly brought him to this conclusion. Chandler will do all the work for him, and he knows it; he's a policeman, a detective, and it's his job to wonder. If he didn't already have a predisposition for it, he'd never have made DI. On the other hand, perhaps if he was a little better at reigning it in, he'd have been a DCI by now.

For some reason, the thought's uncomfortable. He hasn't thought it recently, not as much as he used to, but it's never done that before. It makes him feel vaguely sick—although, perhaps, that's actually the fact he's just taken painkillers on an empty stomach.

(That would make more sense, after all.)

There's a light rap of knuckles on the open door.

'Morning, sir.'

Chandler tries not to wince but Kent notices.

'Sorry, not you,' Chandler says, prying his fingers away from the bridge of his nose. 'Bit of a rough night.'

Amusement plays at the corner of Kent's mouth as he gestures over his shoulder. 'I think Mansell's in the same boat.'

'I highly doubt it.' Chandler chances a laugh, and when it doesn't send another twinge throbbing behind his eyes he looks up despite the harsh light bulbs. 'I don't think I'm quite that bad yet.'

Kent smiles, honest and only a little tentative. 'Do you want something for it, sir?'

It's a kind thought, but Chandler shakes his head (gingerly) and gestures with the blister pack.

'Ah.' Kent doesn't need any further explanation; it's not the first time this has happened in their office, after all. Even so, when Chandler looks back up he still looks a bit concerned. 'Tea, though?'

There his stomach goes again, though this time it doesn't feel quite as sick-making. It tastes vaguely like anticipation and he can't fathom why. Perhaps he does actually need a cup of tea. Miles seems to subsist on them, after all.

He does his best not to stumble over his words. 'If you don't mind.'

'Course not,' Kent says, with an offhand wide smile, although he reigns it in with a solemn, 'Sir.'

Chandler nods, and although he knows it's not quite a dismissal Kent takes it as one. He does try not to study his back at he goes but even the bright white of the stock paper's starting to make his eyes go funny and looking into the middle distance does actually seem to help.

'Oh, I meant to say—' Kent stops and turns back over his shoulder, one hand still curled around the doorframe. 'We had a call from Helsinki early this morning. Something to do with a Järvinen case?'

'Really?'

Chandler can't help but sound intrigued. Kent's mangling the name, though so had he when the file had first come through. That had been years ago, back when he'd only just been promoted to DI. Well before he'd stepped foot in Whitechapel. Something to do with money laundering and a predilection for stranglings, Chandler thinks—his memory's not as good as it used to be, either, and that had been one of the straightforward ones. A large-scale London-based operation but fairly simple when it came down to the nitty-gritty. He'd been part of DCI Pearson's team who'd cleared it up; probably the only time any of the papers had a good word to say about him. It'd been a pity what had happened to Pearson, after. No one expects a stroke at fifty, do they?

'Yeah.' Kent's voice brings him back to the room. 'They were asking after you, sir, but you weren't in yet. I said you'd call them back.'

'Right.'

'I, um.' Kent catches his words just before he catches himself fiddling with a loose thread on his cuff. 'I emailed you the number and the investigating officer's details, sir.'

Chandler suppresses a small noise of displeasure. He doesn't really fancy grappling with a backlit screen that's going to play havoc with his eyes—he'd tried to check his email when he'd first arrived but he'd just flinched and turned the brightness all the way down—but something about the gesture is touching. Chandler doesn't know why, or how, because they all do it all the time. It's the twenty-first century and the Met's spent a lot of money on internal access systems, but there's something in the way Kent stumbles over the information that suggests he might put more store by it than strictly necessary.

Or maybe there isn't, and that's just what Miles said wheedling its way into his brain.

He nods, dismissing Kent with a quiet 'Thanks,' and for a moment it looks as if they might get stuck in an infinite loop of polite words. It wouldn't be the first time, and even if it does happen it won't be the last, but Chandler catches the infinitesimal nod and lets him go. He should speak to Ed anyway, shouldn't he? Standing there exchanging pleasantries would cut into the allotted time for letting the archivist talk his way through his most recent research before he lets them get a word in edgewise.

Chandler considers the walk down to the basements; the dark down there would be a welcome relief from the lights in the incident room and their predilection for flickering and short-circuiting, but the main stairway at this time will be absolutely packed. He doesn't even want to think about what shenanigans could be going on in reception. They're just about due a shouty drunk.

It's a cop out, he's taking all the shortcuts he can, but he rarely does and on a quiet day like this he can't even really blame himself. This is what he has a team for, isn't it? That is what Miles is always getting on to him about, pushing through when he should use the resources he's got at hand? He dials the extension for Ed's basement and holds the phone to his ear, rubbing circles into the opposite temple as the ringing makes him wrinkle his nose.

'Ed,' he says as soon as he hears the answering click. 'I don't know if it's within your remit, but you wouldn't happen to have the Järvinen case files, would you? It's relatively recent, but…'

Chandler trails off; there's already a rustling on the other end that sounds awfully like Ed trying to move quickly around perilously piled boxes. He braces himself for a crash but none comes. Instead there's the telltale sound of (heavy-handed) typing.

'I don't think I do,' Ed says, after a disappointing electronic beep, 'but I could hunt them down for you.'

Chandler thinks back to the bare light bulbs in the reference rooms and blinks hard, trying to chase away the pressure. 'If you would.'

'Won't be a minute.'

Ed sounds almost painfully chipper, though perhaps that's just the mood Chandler's in, and he's disappeared off the line almost as quickly as you can say catalogue search. Chandler sets down the receiver much more gently than he really needs to and pinches the bridge of his nose. That's when he notices that his desk isn't strictly in order—and he can tell, he can always tell, even through the splay of his fingers as they blur in front of his eyes. He can't say exactly what it is that's bothering him about it, though. It's just something. Though it's always just something, isn't it?

He still hasn't isolated it when Ed twists his way through the maze of desks and chairs, a manila file clasped to his chest. He doesn't bother knocking, since the door's been left open, but he manages to announce himself anyway by the way of another typically terse greeting from Miles' direction. Even if the threat of an argument, however good-natured, makes him consider assigning them all to desk work, he's grateful for the chance to peel his fingers away from the line of his phone, the length of wire he can't get to lie straight and he knows he can't get straight but he's trying to anyway.

'Here we are!' Ed announces as he comes to a stop between the chairs. 'Wasn't too hard to find. I don't know why that PC was having such trouble with it.'

Chandler takes the file from Ed's outstretched hand, careful to catch the cuttings that are spilling out of the edges. He must be turning into Ed, because the first thing he thinks is that it's no wonder that whoever's running the system down there can't find their way around, if this is the amount of care they're taking with it. As far as he can remember they hadn't left the file in such a state, but in those days he wasn't responsible for them.

Sometimes that feels like a completely different century.

Ed gestures with the folded pair of glasses in his hand. 'Is it for anything in particular?'

'Kent's had an officer from Helsinki on the phone.'

'Ah. Good luck.'

Ed's just as perceptive as Miles when it comes to reading Chandler's tone, although he's more subtle about it.

'I wouldn't mind a look when you've finished with it. If you don't mind.' He pauses and gets a slightly glazed expression that suggests he's already made it back to his desk. 'I'm working on updating my selection of Scandinavian crime.'

For a brief moment, Chandler has a mad and reckless urge to laugh. He must really be getting ancient if his name's starting to turn up in a historical crime archive. But who is he to fight the march of time? He's well aware of the fact that he's not in control. He spends his life controlling what he can.

'Certainly, Ed,' he says, opening the file flat in front of him and side-eying the way someone's left it all out of order. 'If you want any clarification, you could always interview me.'

Ed's eyes light up. 'Now, there's an idea—'

Chandler should remind him that he's still a civilian, that he can't just start calling up witnesses and officers involved with the few cases he handles that aren't already centuries old, that if he's thinking of booking an interview room it won't work, but he hasn't really got a chance. Ed's already turned on his heel, there's someone else approaching and he's not about to summon the pounding back to his head by calling out. He'll tell him when he returns the file. Whenever that turns out to be.

Kent passes Ed in the doorway, sidestepping him so that he doesn't spill the drink in his hand, but they pause and exchange a few words anyway. Chandler lets them do it, he doesn't interrupt, but for some reason he's hyperaware. The feeling creeps across his shoulders, lingers uncomfortably along the back of his neck; it's like a shadow in the corner of his eye, or a sound only half-heard. It shouldn't be there, because it's only bloody Kent, but Miles' prompting floods through his brain for a moment it's as if he's underwater, as if he can't think of anything except the possibility that it's all true.

It breaks—snaps, actually—when he's scanning the first page of the file and a mug appears at his elbow. He glances up, words still crowding at the front of his mind, to find Kent stood at his shoulder.

'That should do the trick, sir.'

Chandler smiles then, because Kent keeps his voice low and steady and it's a welcome change from Mansell's occasional exclamations and Miles' barking warnings, the shrill ringing of the phone and the way everyone seems to have suddenly developed a habit for letting heavy doors slam. Though if he smiles for a moment longer than strictly necessary then that's his business and he'll deny it any under questioning. Which, judging from Miles' ill-concealed smirk, is an inevitability.

'Thank you, Kent,' he says, equal parts grateful and quiet.

He's trying not to give Miles the satisfaction, but a part of him knows that there'll be a shadow of disappointment on Kent's face as he turns back to the file. He doesn't really need to read it that closely—he's got one of those brains, he just needs a reminder and it all comes back, as if it was yesterday—but he always places professionalism first, doesn't he? If Helsinki's calling then it's probably important, and he should know what he's talking about. It doesn't matter if he notices Kent's fingers fidgeting as he walks out and back to his desk; it doesn't matter if he feels a little guilty about it.

He isn't going to do anything about it, anyway.

Is he?

As it turns out, the man from Helsinki only wants to discuss certain finer details of the investigation in order to help determine whether a suspect they're investigating is a true copycat or just someone using the same manual. Chandler reckons it's the same manual but a different edition, though he'd be lucky if the metaphor crossed the language barrier, and after the usual curt and cordial goodbyes it's the only interesting thing that happens all day.

And the day after. And the day after that.

The day after that appears to be the breaking point.

Chandler's perfectly capable of keeping himself busy. There are a thousand files that need reviewing, a stack of paperwork that either needs to be sent off or rewritten, some interdepartmental memorandums that they've all been ignoring. There's plenty to do. So why Mansell decides that it's the perfect time to have a game of trying to throw rubbish in the bin from halfway across the room escapes him. Chandler doesn't do anything about it, because it's certainly not the worst thing Mansell's decided to bring into the incident room, but every now and them a crumpled bit of paper soars through his peripheral vision. His grip on his pen tightens each time and only relaxes when there's a surprised cheer and they go in search of more disposable paraphernalia.

Kent manages to look stern for about half an hour, but even he gives in eventually. Chandler can only just stand it since he's actually taking the initiative to pick up all the throws they miss. Riley's crushing them all, and as far as Chandler can tell she's not even trying, but when Miles joins in as point-keeper and bookie he gets a distinct feeling that it's all just gone too far.

He marches through into the incident room and, narrowly avoiding getting a balled-up leaflet in the forehead, makes for the walls of files. There's got to be something in there, after all, and it's better than sitting there, twiddling their thumbs until someone deigns to commit a crime.

Riley smothers back a laugh. 'Oops, sorry, sir.'

'While I quite agree with your sentiments about needless paper advertisement, I think it's time we do something productive.'

'What, don't you want to try your hand, boss?'

He mutters a 'certainly not,' as he stoops to read the second shelf down.

There's a creak of a chair, as if someone who's been slouching has suddenly sat up straight, then Mansell's voice breaks the expectant silence. 'Wait, was that a joke?'

Chandler ignores him and directs his question over the opposite shoulder. 'What did we clear up last?'

'Carter, sir.'

Kent answers on his way back to his seat, having just dropped the last of the papers in the wire bin they'd maneuvered into the middle of the room.

'So the next one down the line would be…' Chandler trails off, pushing each file out of place for a moment so he can read their labels. 'Cartwright.'

'Did anyone else just hear the boss try to make a joke?'

There's a distinctly papery sounding smack and when Chandler turns around it's quite obvious that Riley's just leant backward to whack Mansell around the head with a worse-for-wear copy of the Evening Standard. A couple of half-torn pages drift to the floor, dislodged by the impact; evidently they'd been trying to make that particular supply last. Either way Chandler takes what's left of it out of Riley's offering hand as he passes and drops it in the bin.

'Bit close to cheating, that, isn't it?' Mansell asks with a quirked grin as he slides his chair back to the right side of his desk. 'Should be at least ten foot away.'

'I'll give him a point for completion's sake.'

'Miles.'

'What?' The sergeant's grinning. 'It makes the odds easier to work out.'

'Work, please,' Chandler says, almost a warning, before he turns to the only other one of them who seems to share his opinion. 'Kent?'

'Is it the Benjamin Cartwright file, sir, or—?'

'Alexandra.'

'Right,' Kent says, half under his breath, and there's a double click that cuts through Riley and Mansell's giggling as he opens the electronic version.

'Is this how we're picking them now, then?' Miles asks, slightly sardonic. 'Alphabetically?'

Chandler sighs. 'Not officially.'

Miles quirks a brow and drops back into his seat with an air that says he's dubious about the entire thing.

'We aren't reopening the case. Just… seeing if there's anything that's been missed. Speaking of which,' Chandler says, switching his attention back to Kent. The constable's quick to rearrange his expression but Chandler can still tell he's missed what it had been originally and has only found the conclusion. For a brief moment he's equally intrigued and disappointed but he shakes that off in favour of his original question. 'Are they related?'

'Not as far as I can tell, sir.' He peers at a file, then says, 'No, I don't think so. The other's on loan from Manchester. A DS Morrison requested it eighteen months ago. The notes say something about a cross-referencing project?'

Miles tuts. 'A prominent incompetent. Out of a job, now.'

Riley rolls her chair back to her own desk. 'I suppose I shouldn't ask.'

'Nah, common knowledge. Shagged a suspect.'

There's a collective wince.

Chandler presses on regardless; they need not linger. 'Any movement?'

Kent shakes his head; the gesture's incrementally slow at first, but the more he reads the more confident he is in the answer. 'Not especially. The family inquired about possibly reopening the case in 2006 but nothing came of it. The Chief Super wasn't keen.'

Miles makes a contemptuous sound. 'His lot always balk when there's something to be done about PR.'

'Careful, Skip,' Riley warns with a smile, reaching for her tea, 'you never know who's listening.'

'I've got ten years on the lot of them.'

Maybe it's a misplaced sense of justice and responsibility; maybe it's a juvenile throwback to the fact that, once, Chandler would have expected to have that title by now. Either way the comment just makes him more interested. Maybe if he can fix other officers' mistakes he might stop making his own.

'Sir?' Kent asks, leaning back in his chair to seek out Chandler's gaze. 'What d'you reckon?'

'It's worth a second look,' he says, and when Miles grunts in automatic disobedience he adds, 'We'll see where it takes us.'

'Come on then,' the sergeant says as he sidles up to Kent's shoulder, sending both Chandler and the scruffy-looking file in his hands a significant look. 'What've we got?'

Kent clears his throat and begins reading the case details. Chandler almost doesn't hear at first because he can't tell what that glance was supposed to be about and he's suddenly gone hot under the collar.

'Alexandra Cartwright, twenty-seven, found dead in her flat on the ninth of March, 2002. She'd been—'

For a moment, Kent stumbles. They all watch him lick his lips, as if trying to chase a taste out of his mouth, and swallow with an apprehension not entirely suited to a police officer.

'She'd been laid out on the kitchen table. Major incision made to the abdominal cavity, organs disturbed but not removed. Same to the chest; ribcage exposed. Cause of death was listed as strangulation despite a lack of obvious blunt force injuries to the tissues of the neck.'

Miles grunts, drawing attention away from the way Kent's voice is starting to hesitate. 'Not unusual.'

'No, I suppose not, but…' Riley trails off as she leans over Kent's shoulder a second time and gestures at the monitor. 'Does that say uniform were called out in the middle of the day?'

'We don't all keep reasonable hours.'

Kent says it as if he knows, as if he's been woken before dawn or kept from sleep a hundred times by someone who should know better. For a startling moment Chandler wants to know who, and why, and when—as if he doesn't already have enough questions—and he shakes the feeling off almost as soon as it arrives, though it's not without a certain residue.

'Most of us have to,' Miles adds, meeting Riley's eye in the space atop Kent's head. 'But it would explain why no one noticed her body. You can't see something through the kitchen window if the blinds are still drawn.'

'She was working on a research dissertation—humanities,' Kent says by way of explanation. 'Not that many contact hours; it says here that her supervisor mentioned that whether or not she came in regularly depended on whether or not she was writing or doing research at the time.' There are a couple more clicks, then Kent continues. 'Her housemate was a medic, working placement shifts at St Barts. Overnight ones, on that particular week.'

'What was her subject? Anything sensitive?'

'History of the body.'

'Very scientific?'

Kent shakes his head. 'More along the lines of touch and propriety. Social more than scientific, I think.'

'She and him made the perfect pair, then.' Miles glances around the room at his audience. 'The sociologist and the clinician.'

'If you're thinking the flatmate was involved—' Kent says, articulating Chandler's thoughts as they arrive. 'Then you'd be wrong. He rang it in.'

'Wouldn't be the first time a murderer reported his own crime.'

'This Max Neilsen is on the hospital's CCTV until the end of his shirt, and the original team managed to spot him on the Tube cameras at several separate points. He was nowhere near the flat from just before eleven until twenty to twelve the next day.'

Miles scowls. 'Were they involved?'

'He said no. All of her friends said no. All of his friends said no.' Kent looks as if he might shrug, but instead there's a sudden stillness about his fingers. 'They still ran him pretty hard. Look at how many times he was interviewed.'

Riley leans over from where she's stood, arms still crossed, and follows the line of his finger as he points out the entry. 'Christ.'

'Yeah.'

Chandler doesn't want to know. Or, he does, but he'll be leafing through the file in front of him to find out the exact figure. He's certainly not reacting to Miles' challenge of a look. He's too old for dares.

Instead, he asks, 'How far did they get?'

'Not very,' Kent says with a little sigh. There are a few more clicks as Chandler leafs through a few more pages. 'It doesn't look as if there was very much to go on.'

'I suppose that's why they went after Neilsen.'

'Seems like it. There was DNA at the scene that didn't belong to any of the occupants, but there was no match on our databases.'

Chandler seizes the main investigative report from where it had been tucked at the very back of the case file, behind the interview transcripts. 'See if you can get it run through again.'

(It's a long shot, but in Chandler's experience, it's always worth a try.)

Mansell jumps to his feet, saying 'I'll go,' with a wink. Judging from his enthusiasm for a task that's likely to be fruitless, given how unlikely it is for them to have kept anything on file (at least on site) for a decade, there's another reason he wants to be hurrying down to the labs. Chandler watches Kent and Riley exchange knowing exasperated looks and suppresses one of his own; he can't see them all getting to the end of the week without another round of bets. Miles will be the ringleader, no doubt. He always is.

Chandler clears his throat and continues, trying to distract himself. 'And see where Neilson is now. We won't call anyone in for interviews yet, but it might prove illuminating.'

Kent nods, not quite looking up at him. 'Yes, sir.'

'Riley.'

'Yes, boss?'

'Have a look into why the family was interested in having the case reexamined, beyond the obvious.' It sounds callous, but they have to think it. Have to say it. 'They may have found something worth knowing, something that the original team didn't. And something may have been done off the books. Feel free to speak to any officers involved, but not the family. All right?'

'Right. We're not to bother the family. Got it.'

Chandler lets her turn away from him without any further instruction and note down the case number from the program on Kent's computer.

The odds and scores still take up much of the whiteboard closest to Chandler's shoulder; when he turns and catches sight of the numbers, the tallies and what he's pretty sure is a very small, very obscene doodle, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. Alexandra Cartwright's smiling face glances up at them all from where her picture sits flat on the table. She will watch them all, keep a vigil for them as they work their own sort of vigil for her, when they pin the photograph to the boards, an avatar for facts.

But Chandler will not let her take second place to a game devised by idle minds, and he reaches for something—anything—to wipe the surface clean.

'Right, then,' Miles says with a grim smile. 'If you'll excuse me, I've got to see a historian about a disemboweling.'

Setting up the whiteboards takes Chandler most of the afternoon, and by the time he stands back to look at the entire spread the rest of them have made arrangements for drinks down the road. Kent keeps glancing up at him from where he sits; Chandler consciously doesn't lean against the side of his desk but the gap between it and Mansell's is the best vantage point. Either way, he doesn't say anything, Kent doesn't say anything, Miles is apparently responsible for this week's round and Chandler spends the late evening double-checking that they hadn't missed anything.

The original investigating officer had been exceedingly fond of working through his thoughts on whatever paper he could get his hands on, apparently; there's even details about an interview written on a coffee-shop napkin, and it takes Chandler five minutes to figure out how best to attach it to the boards. It stays put for a couple of hours, but when it floats to the floor and he's still stood in the incident room making his way through a cup of tea, Chandler gives in. He retrieves it, folds it along the lines already imprinted, tucks it in the folder in the centre of his desk, and goes home.

The napkin's back on the board the next morning, exactly where Chandler had put it before it fell, and he doesn't have the heart to ask why or how. Miles looks far too pleased with himself for it to be safe.

The basements have never been Chandler's favourite part of the station—not enough windows, too much dust—but there comes a point when even he has enough of staring at a file. Ed's probably got something for them by now; he's had the night to think about it and he's probably spent it in the archive. Chandler hadn't checked to see if he was still there on his way out, after all, and that's when he usually has to tell him to go home. It wouldn't be the first time Ed's put in more hours than the rest of them.

The place is a warren above ground and the subterranean levels aren't much better. Chandler weaves his way through the hallways until he recognises the spill of light at the furthest end, the discarded trolleys that seem to have made their permanent home outside Ed's door.

They're lucky it's not sensitive police files lining out there, really. Either way, Chandler's given up on doing anything about it and he does his best to ignore the creaking ceiling as he approaches.

'Ah, Kent! Have you got a minute?'

Chandler comes to a halt as soon as Ed's exclamation reaches him; he doesn't quite know why he's trying to be quiet, but he is. It's just one in a line of odd things he's found himself doing without thinking—but he's trying not to dwell on that at the moment. In fact, he's trying quite hard not to conclude that it's all something Miles put into his head.

There's a shuffle, as if someone's moving a large stack of papers, then Kent's voice carries around the corner. 'I suppose so.'

He slows his purposeful stride to something a little more gentle, meandering. (Maybe he is curious.)

'Now,' Ed continues, 'what do you reckon that cause of death means?'

There's a pause, and then: 'All it says is teeth.'

Chandler can picture Kent's face, the slight frown. He almost wishes he couldn't, but they've worked together for years at a job which requires them to be frowning most of the time. It'd probably be more of a problem if he couldn't picture it. Then his mind would really be going.

Ed half-laughs. 'I wouldn't be asking you if it was clear, would I?'

'Why are you looking at…' Another ruffle of papers. 'Medieval coroner's reports, anyway?'

'I'm considering another book. Crime in plague London.'

Kent muffles a laugh just as Chandler gives a heavy sigh. This is Ed's third new idea in as many weeks; Chandler can't see how he's going to make it through a manuscript. Then again, he does already have one book to his name. Or used to, at least.

'Well, murdered at Stepney seems quite straightforward,' Kent says, his voice a little too accommodating to be entirely polite. 'As does killed by a fall down stairs at St Thomas Apostle. On the other hand, rupture and suddenly are a bit vague.'

'I just can't get past teeth.'

'You and me both, Ed.' There's a sound like dropping paper, then the scrape of a chair. 'Why are you asking me, anyway?'

'You've seen more death than me.'

'Not by teeth, I haven't!' Kent says, with a laugh, although the way it dies away a little too quickly is painfully familiar to Chandler. 'And I wouldn't be so sure, Ed. I'm not the one who put together a crime archive.'

Ed huffs, although it's unclear whether it's out of annoyance or from the trouble of lifting another box. 'What were you after, then?'

'You know how the boss has us looking up virtually the entire history of disembowling?'

There's an assenting hum; Chandler assumes that's Ed, just from the rhythm of the conversation, but the thought reminds him that he's quite purposely eavesdropping now and should probably be putting a stop to it. He takes a few steps closer, fully intending to appear at the doorway with a professional knock of knuckles, but Kent's voice continues with a slight tinge of apprehension and Chandler slows to a stop again.

'There was a thing on the telly the other night—'

Ed tuts and manages to sound uncannily like Miles. 'Not generally a promising start for any developing line of inquiry.'

Kent speaks over him, getting louder. '—and I got thinking that perhaps we should look at dissections, too?'

'Actually, that's not bad.'

One of them huffs out a laugh; Chandler would bet money that it was Kent.

'No need to sound so surprised.'

'Were you thinking in any more particular terms?'

'Um, not really. I mean, could there be something in how… I don't know, autopsies and dissections were illegal? Done in secret? Graverobbing? Galen?'

'Galen only did apes.'

'Oh.'

Kent sounds disappointed and for some reason Chandler feels the same way; he's only been aware of the idea for about two minutes and already started putting store by it. They need something to go on, after all. Otherwise Miles is going to have something to say about it.

'I've got a box on the Burke and Hare murders.'

'That'll work to begin with.'

There's a brightness to Kent's tone that betrays an almost foolish amount of hope. For some reason it makes Chandler feel slightly guilty, a little melancholic, until Ed cuts in with words full to the brim with academic preponderance.

'Oh, it's more than to be beginning with. There's quite a lot of context to wade through.'

'I've got all day, Ed.'

Something drips near Chandler's shoulder; he turns and glances at the ceiling and the floor, pulling a face although he can't see what, if anything, fell from the pipes. There's a creak overhead and that's the last straw; Chandler can't stand there any longer, even if Kent seems to think they've got all the time in the world, because really there are things that need doing. If only he could convince the rest of them that he isn't making it up.

Ed's shuffling something around—or Kent, it could be Kent, but Chandler hopes that he's got more sense than to muck about in that overwhelming mess—and papers and boxes scrape across the still-unfinished floors. Chandler braces himself and heads for the door, ducking his head as he goes.

Kent turns towards the noise of his approach. 'Oh, hello.'

Chandler nods. It's the most professional thing he can think to do, because it might just be him but there was a moment there when Kent looked as if he'd still have been smiling if he hadn't caught himself just in time.

Ed's head pops up through a gap in the shelving, and he catches Chandler's eye before reaching for an ancient-looking book. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

'I work here,' Chandler says, frowning.

'Yes, quite.'

Ed's reply is distracted, distant; he's starting leafing through the pages as he walks especially carefully down the aisle to rows of storage boxes. Chandler watches the direction of his footsteps with a mixture of amusement and confusion, and when he turns back to Kent he finds a similar look there. He can't help the small sliver of a smile that comes out with the surprise, though thankfully there's a distant crash and Kent looks away before either of them can think too much of it.

'You all right, Ed?' he calls, a slight hesitance to his voice, then mutters, 'If herring-related crime's collapsed again—'

Chandler actually chuckles, for God's sake. He shouldn't, because there's another ominous creak from another corner of the room, but Kent's smiling and Ed's reappearing from the end of an aisle and he's got things to do.

'Young Kent's actually had a rather good idea.'

'I agree,' Chandler says, before really thinking. The shot of retrospective embarrassment probably shows, because Kent's looking at him in a peculiar way, and he searches for something to say that might be suited as an explanation. 'I'm afraid I couldn't help overhearing. The corridors echo.'

He needn't have worried about it being a very tenuous excuse, because Ed pulls a face that says he knows very well what Chandler's talking about. 'I'd shut the door if it wasn't for the damp.'

Kent gives the wall nearest his shoulder a skeptical look and shifts a little further away, a little closer to Chandler—and although he appreciates the sentiment, he can't help but reflexively clear his throat.

'It all just seemed very…' Kent trails off with his explanation, until he settles on the right term. 'Neat, sir.'

It's not the right word. Nothing about that file is neat, absolutely nothing. But Chandler understands what Kent means; there's a certain precision about it. A certain intent—something deliberate. He hadn't been able to articulate it before, although he'd certainly felt it, and to have someone else mention it independently brings a degree of sanity back. Chandler had thought he'd been slipping, seeing things that weren't there, but apparently not.

He nods his agreement. 'I know what you mean. It's not but it is.'

'Yeah.' Kent smiles, tentative but true. 'Good way to put it, sir.'

'Right, then,' Ed says as he reappears, lugging along a corrugated box that looks as if the base is about to give out. 'Burke and Hare.'

Kent barely has a chance to reach for the offering before Ed's dumped it onto his outstretched arms. He bites back a curse under the sudden surprise, although another struggles out when it becomes obvious he was utterly unprepared for this. Chandler leans across and catches a side just as it looks as if Kent's about to lose his grip. It's a fidgety moment, and they can't seem to meet each other's eye, but Chandler keeps his splayed hand on the base of the box until Kent's secured it enough to render him unnecessary. Even then he retreats incrementally, just in case, trying not to notice how many times Kent's eyes flit to his hand, his fingers.

Ed returns with another handful of files and slaps them on top of the box Kent's still struggling to balance. 'Might want to have a look at these as well. London Burkers, bodysnatchers. Supposed imitators of all the Burke and Hare business, attempting to meet the demand for human cadavers. They centred around Bethnal Green, but I believe there was a case of a woman killed in Whitechapel.'

Kent and Chandler exchange a significant look. Ed doesn't seem to notice.

'I'm afraid I'm not entirely definite on the details off-hand, but I think I made a mark in the file,' Ed continues, and whether he's ignoring them intentionally or just like he normally does suddenly seems like an insurmountable question. Chandler tries to disregard it and only quite manages when Ed succeeds in commanding his complete attention. 'If you're interested, Joe, then there might be a couple of other files that could be of help. Following on from the slight deviation of focus.'

Chandler shrugs. 'Ed, we'll take anything at the moment.'

'Well, there's a few files on anatomization as punishment, ordered following execution of certain criminals? There are several court proceedings on those, though I think they're based in the Americas.' Ed gestures as he speaks, almost as if he's tracing the spines of books. 'And, if I can find them, I'm sure I've got some things somewhere on the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons. They were the only ones technically allowed to perform dissections, initially. They didn't get through many, mind you, but it might be worth having a look at just to see the difference between what was standard and what was deviant practice?'

Kent pipes up from behind the box he's maneuvered into leaning on the back of the closest chair. 'Shouldn't we have a look at a few modern procedures, then? The case only went back in the file a decade ago. I doubt what was standard three hundred years ago looks anything like what's standard now.'

'Dr Llywelyn's already been up,' Chandler says with a slight sigh. Nothing can ever be simple. 'She talked Miles through it. She agrees with the original pathologist: it wasn't a professional job.'

'But if they were trying to imitate something from the eighteenth-century,' Ed begins, pausing in what Chandler had long ago realised is his trademark manner. 'It may appear botched to us.'

The box wins, slipping a little too far to the left, but Kent just about manages to catch it and carry it off with a shrug. 'Decent way to cover your tracks.'

'You think it could be a double bluff?' Chandler asks, half horrified and half intrigued.

'It could be a triple bluff.'

'Let's not escalate this unless we have to,' Chandler says, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 'But I agree. It's an interesting line of thought. We're relying on whoever did it as being some sort of amateur historian—'

Ed cuts in from where he's crouched behind an impossibly high stack of books. 'Possibly not amateur, even.'

'I wouldn't rule it out, though. It's the sort of popular history and popular science that people go for, isn't it?' Kent says, avoiding Ed's gaze. Chandler understands his avoidance; they'd all thought the same about him, on the first case. 'I mean, go into any bookshop. Look at the tables of two for one copies they've got out next to the history books: it's all Jack the Ripper this, serial killers that. Historical crime rivals true crime now. It sells. BBC Four's terrible for it, when it feels like it.'

Chandler wouldn't know; he's got a decent television, he let whoever it was in the shop talk him into it years ago, but he rarely has the thing on. He doesn't really know why he pays the license fee. He can just about bear rolling news, when they're not on it.

'What I mean is it's gruesome enough—or could be made to sound gruesome enough—to make publishers or producers think that it's the sort of thing that'll get readers, or viewers, whatever it is we're talking about. That was the same ten years ago. Even if you only had a casual interest, I don't think it'd be that difficult to come across the information.'

Kent doesn't need to elaborate to know that Chandler's understood his point. All someone needs is the information, the basics. Then… well, then they've got everything at their fingertips, nothing's a secret anymore. Not with the internet, not for anyone who's invested enough. And killers do tend to be invested.

Chandler sighs, then says, 'I'd like to take a look at those files, Ed.'

A/N: Next chapter on Monday, 07 July 2014. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it! :)