Somehow, they all manage to crowd into Chandler's office. Even Ed's squeezed into a corner, watching with a half-horrified, half-curious expression, and Miles occupies one of the chairs with an air of discontent that puts them all on edge.

'It's all hearsay!' he snaps after a long moment's silence.

'Pseudo-confession,' Chandler says, voice hushed.

Miles lets out a singular laugh. 'I'm not sure we're qualified for that.'

'Aren't we?'

Chandler thinks it's all they do. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, thinking of the recording and wondering when he can give it another listen, when he can make sure that everything he thinks he's just heard actually was uttered aloud. It's almost too easy, although it isn't the first time one of their perps has been dying to explain themselves, to reveal their genius or their supposed righteousness. There's probably more of it to come; they've only suspended the interview, after all, and Harding seems more than willing.

'There's a list of other forces that want to have a go at him, boss,' Mansell says, managing for once to pick the right time to remind them all of a complication. 'It's not just our jurisdiction.'

Kent nods in agreement, arms folded as he stands at his colleagues' shoulder. 'Even if this confession doesn't add up, having it keeps him here. We already know he's a flight risk. He's certainly not going to wait around for Thames Valley and the rest to send officers down unless he's not got a choice.'

'You're proposing a waiting game.'

'What else has this been?' Ed asks, his voice incredulous, as if he's not seen this before. 'He's been waiting for the best part of thirty years.'

'Christ.' Mansell breathes out in a rush and shakes his head. 'When you put it that way.'

'Forty-eight hours can't hurt,' Chandler says after a moment's consideration; he places both hands flat on his desk and sorts through what needs to be done. 'We have some time before we're allowed to resume the interview. Double-check everything that we've just learnt. Any names we've not already spoken to—get them on the phone, see them in person where possible. The accountancy firm—get files. I want evidence of the fraud.' He pauses for a beat, then decides: 'The publisher's, too. Get on to IT again, see if they've found anything that's encrypted. Put a rush on his personal laptop, too. And his phone—all those numbers need re-checking.'

Miles pushes himself to his feet. 'They can't fob us off now we've got this.'

Chandler nods, then adds: 'Everything—everything—needs to be more than hearsay. He's told us where to look, so look.'

A tremor of impulse spreads through them with Chandler's words, his instructions, and he's just about to stand up himself to go and do his bit when another body pushes its way into the incident room. Chandler quickly recognises him as one of the young PCs, a relatively new recruit compared to the rest of them, but the way he's running towards them sends a cold shock of dread down Chandler's spine. He moves through his officers towards the doorway.

'Sir—!'

'Yes?'

(He sounds professional but there's something lurking behind the acknowledgement, something tremulous and terrified.)

'There's—' He trips over the syllables for a second, heaves to catch his breath. 'There's been an incident. The holding cells—'

Chandler's stomach plummets. 'You're not saying…?'

'Ambulance is on its way, sir.'

Then Miles is shouting something gruff, something about officers knowing CPR and how long, how long, but Chandler barely hears any of it. Horror rushes over him like a petrol-fueled fire, and somewhere in his brain he wonders if that might not be better than going through all of this again.

He can only hope that he slips into autopilot instead of self-destruct.

The hospital's verdict—dead on arrival—arrives at the same time the deep search of Harding's rooms yields a handful of full bottles of beta-blockers. He'd been collecting his prescriptions but not actually taking the pills; his GP confirms that he hadn't been in for a routine appointment although they'd rescheduled several times. She doesn't sound surprised that it's a massive heart attack that got him in the end. Apparently she's been expecting it, and asks when she'll be called in for the inquest.

Chandler doesn't know the answer—mainly because he doesn't seem to be able to think straight anymore. His training pays off because he says something appropriately vague and professional that must pass muster as an answer because he places the phone down with an audible click and doesn't feel as if he's just cut a conversation short. The file in his hands suddenly feels heavy, like lead, like embers cradled in his fingers; he turns and hands it off to Riley, who looks at him like you'd look at someone who's just found a body, but he can't answer her questions when he can't even answer his own. Mansell's smile loses all of its cheek as he passes his desk.

There's nothing to be smiling about, anyway, though Mansell always seems to try. Chandler can't help but feel as if they've been thrust into a terrible reversal of roles—the confessor and the damned stepping into each others' shoes. Chandler's never wanted to be anybody's executioner but that's probably one metaphor too far.

Panic turns the cradle of his ribs into a cage. It shocks him more than he's willing to admit, this out-of-the-blue terror, this foil. They had him, they had him and like all the others he slipped through their fingers like water, like sand, like time across distance, and the only way he can describe this feeling is that it's what being in one of Dali's paintings must be like, going slowly and watching events rush forwards without you, in front of you. It's a wonder he manages to sit down on the closest bench without sinking straight through the floor.

It's Kent who comes after him. Chandler doesn't know whether or not he's been sent or he's just decided to do it on his own, but it doesn't really matter, does it? The end result's the same and he doesn't want to deal with it either way. They were so close, so close. This is insult added to injury, with their killer dead in his cell from his own hand and he didn't even need to try. He didn't need clever tricks or backwards heroics or a final stand. He just gave up. He got his relief. The bastard.

Kent sits at Chandler's side for a while, listening to him breathe. Chandler doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge his presence. His fingers twitch, minutely and perhaps not at all, and Kent's gaze focuses on the inside of Chandler's wrist, where his pulse beats strong and steady. It's sickening, how disconnected he feels; Chandler feels as if his body's running away with him, as if his heart's missing steps and stumbling and only just makes it for the next footfall, but it's not.

He feels as if he's shaking, trembling, buzzing but everything's so dreadfully, dreadfully still.

'Sir.' Kent enunciates slowly and softly, so that nobody else can hear. 'It's not your fault.'

Chandler runs a hand across his knee, smoothing out invisible creases. 'Negligence is a crime, Kent.'

'That isn't—' Kent sounds as surprised as Chandler's level tone as its owner is. 'That's not what happened here.'

'There will be plenty who disagree,' Chandler says, a heavy lump sinking low in his stomach. 'Starting with the Chief Super.'

He's starting to wonder if some of this panic, this personal horror, stems from fear. He wouldn't be especially surprised—someone with his background has enough repercussions to fear. He may have had the Commander's support but that's been revoked once before; he has no guarantees left.

Kent touches at the outside of his wrist, the jut of bone where his sleeve's inched back. 'That's not what bothers you most, though, is it?'

No. And he's trying not to think about it.

'I don't need a superior officer to tell me when I've fucked up,' Chandler says, the hollow turning into a species of snarl, one he's met before on his own fact. 'I don't need my officers doing it, either.'

'You haven't done anything.'

'That's the bloody problem.'

'Sir.'

He sounds like a kicked pup. Chandler hates himself for kicking him but he can't take it back now and Kent's regarding him with wide, wounded eyes. Surely he understands? He must know, he must be able to gauge the gravity of this situation. Of what it means. What it might herald.

'He's not just gone on a bit ahead, he's bloody dead.' Chandler rounds on Kent, straightening his back, as if looking like a DI will make him feel like one. 'It took us years to find him.' Except that's not strictly true. 'It took us years to realise he needed finding, and he's in my custody for six hours and he's dead.'

'That's not your fault. That's not any of our faults.' Kent isn't shouting but he might as well be; Chandler feels as if he should be flinching. Perhaps he does. Perhaps that's why Kent's voice loses a little of its quiet ferocity, although he's still firm. 'That's his own fault.'

'He shouldn't have had the choice,' Chandler counters in a low voice.

'He didn't,' Kent murmurs, as if that's comforting, as if that's not more terrifying than the other option. 'He couldn't have known his heart would give out today. It was just… luck.'

A bitter laugh escapes him, more honest for being unintended. 'They seem to have all of that, don't they?'

Anyone else would say that they don't, because they're all dead and how is that a product of luck? But Kent says nothing. Chandler leans his head back slightly, staring blindly at the cracking ceiling and the faulty lightbulbs. There's decay in them somewhere, just like it's in this building, except Chandler doesn't even know where to begin looking. He can't tell if he wants to, anymore. It's obviously winning.

'Tell me, honestly,' Kent begins, still solid at his side although looking carefully away; his face is even more telling than his voice, no doubt, and Chandler's almost thankful for the removal of the reminder. 'You don't really believe that anyone blames you?'

Kent says it in a sort of placating voice that only makes Chandler panic a little more, because it's a question that shouldn't need an answer. Of course he does. The Ripper getting away was his fault, actually, that's a fact none of them can get away from; he had him in his hands, in his grip, but he chose to hold Miles, to press his blood back in. He brought in Jimmy and Johnny Brooks and they met their deaths in the station, in these four walls; if they'd remained where they were, would they be dead? He's never known the answer. He's tried to reason with everyone else, plead with them, and perhaps that's what made their minds up.

'For any of it?' Kent prompts, his tone a little lower, a little more disbelieving.

For all of it, actually. His name's on all the files. His name's the one in all the papers. Someone has to be responsible, that's how it works. And it's him. He's always known that one day he'll face his own firing squad; he just hadn't expected it to be today.

'Joe—'

'No,' Chandler interrupts; the strangled concern in Kent's voice is too much. 'Not now.'

Kent looks to him then, falling silent. Chandler allows himself a brief glance, a moment's offering, but all he feels is a little closer to the edge so when Kent narrows his already small, unsure mouth, he knows. He doesn't understand, but he knows. With a short sigh Kent raises his hand to pat at Chandler's shoulder; he uses the leverage to push himself to his feet. A premature sense of loss grips Chandler, and he turns away; he doesn't watch him go because it feels too much like a premonition. His footsteps mingle with the rest of the sounds of the station, the noise in Chandler's head and he can't place where he's gone, which direction he'd taken.

'Boss?'

Miles' voice cuts through; he's businesslike but careful and keeping a hold on the door. Chandler raises his head from where he'd propped it up with his hands, elbows braced against his knees.

For once, Miles doesn't offer any of his unconventional wisdom. 'The Commander wants a word.'

Chandler gives a long, tattered sigh. 'I'm on my way.'

He doesn't even care that he suspects Miles has just watched that entire interaction from the threshold of the incident room. Feeling about as stable as nitroglycerine Chandler gets to his feet and tries to pull himself together.

The problem is he's done it so many times before that he's not entirely sure where any of the pieces go anymore.

When he gets back to Whitechapel, Miles has already sent everyone home. Chandler can see why—there's nothing else to do, nothing that can't wait, they aren't on time limits anymore—but it still puts him on edge. It just serves to highlight what's happened. What he's done. What he hasn't done. He can't even really articulate it but he'd wanted to see Kent. He shouldn't, because he's managed to throw a spanner into those works, too, but he'd still looked for his face.

Maybe that's what had made Miles bark at him from the chair he'd commandeered in Chandler's office that he wouldn't be leaving until Chandler did. He isn't having him wallow in the station overnight, apparently. Chandler hasn't planned on it, but they've already established that he doesn't exactly have to, haven't they?

Chandler fully intends to go back to his flat. It all starts to fall apart when there's a diversion on his usual route—late filming, it looks like, for a programme with a ridiculous name and apparently ridiculous night shoots. The suspended road sends him far enough away from his stomping ground that he's not entirely confident about directions; he's working on instinct, which he doesn't like to do but before long he's somehow managed to navigate to the end of Kent's road. It doesn't particularly surprise him, since he's been here plenty of times before and he had thought that the streets were starting to look oddly familiar, but it's one of those realizations he doesn't quite know what to do with.

But he can't sit there blocking the street, either, so when he spots a gap in the parked cars on the side of the road he makes for it; it's only when he notices that it's directly opposite a butcher's that he falters and moves along. It wouldn't usually bother him, but when he's just failed all of them—he can't, he can't sit and think next to a window of carcasses. It's a horrible way to think of someone but he doesn't want to, it's just a gut reaction. He'll be better in the morning. (Hopefully.)

The next space is actually closer to Kent's flat, although Chandler's not sure whether or not that's a good thing. He maneuvers the car into it regardless, and as the engine goes quiet Chandler finds that his mind doesn't. He doesn't know why he thought it would.

It never does.

All the lights on the dashboard burn blue in the nighttime light, dimming only slightly as he twists the key free and curls the metal into his palm, letting the ridges bite into his lifeline. They stare at him like they know something he doesn't and the glow echoes on his eyes as he stares out into the street, onto the pavements and across the tiny darkened patches of lawns. He still doesn't know what he's doing with himself, but at least for a moment he can feel as if he's not running anymore.

Chandler's suddenly aware phone's ringing, a soft, insistent purr against his ribs, and although he doesn't want to he has to check, has to answer. It's his duty to, but as if to prove the pure callousness of the world it's only an email. Something from his mobile provider about switching to electronic bills, and Chandler deletes the message with a vehemence he usually reserves for things that actually deserve it. The feeling dissolves away as he sits there, mobile in hand, and for a terrible moment he experiences the same feeling he had when he'd got lost as a boy, wandered away from the path. A vague and formless fear, not quite terror but certainly threatening it.

He hadn't coped then, not really, and he doesn't now. Not really.

He opens and scrolls through his contacts list almost without looking; Kent's name is one that would be well-thumbed, if his phone was an actual address book. It, in itself, should feel familiar—it almost does. But neither of them are of the generation who grew up with touch screens and there's something incredibly impersonal about it, about the lack of paper, and in the space of a second Chandler misses pen and paper and ink and Kent's skin, the weight of him.

It's ridiculous, but he still presses the call button. He doesn't really know why. He half expects Kent not to bother picking up at all, because it's gone ten and he said some things and he wouldn't want to speak with him either. But he does, after what feels like an inordinate amount of rings but what was probably only two or three, and he sounds like he usually does. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.

'Hello,' Kent says, forgoing any sort of name. They know who they both are, don't they?

'I, um,' Chandler says, more determined than eloquent, staring at the steering wheel until his vision blurs. 'I wanted to speak to you.'

There's a hum, then, 'Okay.'

'I mean,'(God, he normally needs a drink to do this), 'see you and speak to you.'

'Right.' Kent does sound a little confused now, perhaps a little ruffled, but Chandler will take what he can get. 'Well, I can—'

'I, um. I'm outside.'

Chandler wants to wince even as he says it. He's more than aware of how it sounds; he doesn't like it, either, and if Kent just tells him to piss off and come back tomorrow then he'd completely understand. In fact, he almost decides to do that anyway because Kent's end of the line is still silent, save for a low background murmur of something warm and comfortable, neither of which Chandler is at the moment. He can't even think of blaming Kent for wanting that instead of him.

'You can tell me to go—'

'No, it's fine, don't move.' There's a rustling that sounds like a coat, then a singular raised questioning voice that Kent ignores. 'I'm coming down.'

Then the line's cut, and Chandler can't tell which one of them did it. He tries to convince himself that it doesn't mean anything anyway, that actually it was probably just one of them losing signal since no where in London seems capable of maintaining any sort of decent network, but he shoves his phone back into a pocket and undoes the seatbelt, almost shoving himself out of the car door. Once he's out and standing in the cold he feels more of a fool than ever, standing on this street with his hands in his pockets and looking at nothing in particular. He could attempt to feign nonchalance, perhaps lean on something, but he doesn't even trust his own car as a perch and it'd be such a plain-faced lie that even Kent would laugh as if he'd just morphed into Miles.

Kent finally appears, pulling the painted door shut behind him, and walks down the path with his hands buried in his coat pockets, his back hunched against the wind. It doesn't take him long to notice where he's stood, and there's a slight interruption in his gait as he walks towards him that one part of Chandler thinks is relief and another's sure is annoyance. He can't be sure which.

'Nothing's gone on, has it?' Kent asks as he comes to a stop, tone soft enough but not exactly affable.

Chandler shakes his head, looking at the pavement at Kent's feet. He almost wishes that something had, because then he'd have something obvious to say instead of this vague, nebulous feeling. A hedge rustles but it's just a pigeon emerging from the prickly undergrowth and for a moment Chandler follows its movement, meets its beady little eyes. Except maybe he doesn't, because it's probably a trick of the light and he can't think of a reason why a pigeon would want to look at him, let alone Kent.

Except he is, and his expression's nowhere near as stony as Chandler reckons he deserves. It's chilly, it's not the warmth he's got used to, but all that's lingering just beneath the surface. Chandler can see it, the expression that Kent had hidden at the station, and for a moment he's desperate to see that look, to wallow in his own misery holding on to someone else's sympathy. But that's terribly unfair, and he knows it, and it's one of the reasons he's offered to Kent way back when, to try and warn him off. And just because he didn't heed that warning doesn't mean Chandler should prove its veracity.

Instead, he clears his throat and says, 'I apologise for being short with you.'

'You were just doing your job.'

Kent's voice is not relaxed at all. The words are strung tightly together.

And he hadn't been doing his job at all.

'I didn't mean to be a bastard—'

'Really? You seemed quite intent on it.'

There's no short, false laugh that goes with that statement. There should be. Chandler knows the format. Yet the venom that really should be there, the words an injection, is absent. Kent looks at him then glances away, worrying his bottom lip with a canine, and the sharpness he's aspiring to doesn't quite work.

'Sorry,' Chandler murmurs, shoving his own hands back into his pockets.

'It's…'

Chandler wills him not say it's all right, because it's not all right, none of it's okay.

But he doesn't. Kent just sighs, looks up and down the length of the road and says, 'I can't blame you.'

'You think I'm barking.'

'No, I think you think you're Atlas.'

Chandler doesn't know what to say to that. He's familiar with the myth, of course, but not with the long-suffering, resigned tone of voice. He wants to fix that and fix himself and fix everything that's gone wrong but he can't even put two words together. He doesn't know where in the dictionary to start.

'I'm not angry. I'm not,' Kent says, quietly. He fixes Chandler with a look, then shrugs and looks away, kicking at a rogue piece of gravel. 'Not with you, anyway.'

There's a burst of laugher from a nearby flat, floating through an open window; Kent looks towards it but Chandler keeps his gaze forward, watching the slight variations in the night air as a gentle breeze buffets fallen leaves in and out of the shaft of light offered by a streetlamp. He's grateful for that, for the slight reprieve, and he almost says it, but he doesn't get a chance. Kent turns back to him and sighs, as if he knows. (He probably does.)

'You can't fix everything,' he says, and this time the words are firm.

'I don't know why I try,' Chandler says on a self-indulgent sigh; he looks to the other end of the street, over Kent's shoulder. 'I can't even fix myself.'

Kent huffs. 'That's not what I meant.'

'I know,' Chandler admits.

They settle into another silence, one that should sharpen their problems but for some reason most of them stay blunt, stay memory. The thin chill cuts through Chandler's coat and he doesn't want to think about if Kent is shaking, because the coat he's pulled on is much thinner than his usual one and Chandler knows, now, that he feels the cold.

Some of the tension seems to go out of Kent's bearing. 'Have you been home?'

Chandler's almost forgotten he has such a thing. He's barely thought of turning to it, because it's never offered him comfort. There's never been anything there that can take his mind off what he spends his days sorting through, clearing up, shutting down. He doesn't even particularly want to go now, when there's not much else at all for him to do, because all it will do is scream his situation back at him. Remind him how far he's come (not very). How far there is to go (miles).

'No. Not yet.' He heaves out another sigh, and looks towards the main road. 'I had a meeting with the Commander.'

'Yeah, Skip said.'

Chandler can feel Kent's eyes on the side of his face. He doesn't really want to think about them talking about him, but they must, because that's how everything happened and he can't fault either of them for their concern. When he doesn't immediately offer any information Kent leans towards him, cocking his head to try and catch his gaze.

'Am I allowed to ask?'

'I've still got my job.' Chandler makes a noise that isn't quite an angry huff, but isn't a sigh either. 'Though I think that's because nobody else wants it.' He pauses, considers whether or not he can say it without losing his level tone. 'I've been told to take a few days off.'

Chandler doesn't want to think about how he's supposed to manage that. He'd probably ignore it and come in anyway if there wasn't the threat of taking all his future days off hanging over his head, and that really is an unthinkable prospect. He'll do one day. He can manage that much without vodka. Still, he very well may still go mad.

'I suppose you'll want to be on your own.'

'Not, um… not necessarily.'

Not tonight is what he means, although he doesn't know why. It must be the case, though, because otherwise why would he be there, talking in hushed voices to Kent on the street outside his flat when there's a spattering of drizzle threatening to turn into something worse. It's the sort of thing he only usually does when there's a body involved.

Except there is, isn't there?

Chandler feels like he's shouting for help at the edge, holding on to a cliff with broken fingers. As if he's holding on to something that wants to let go.

'I don't—' He tries, and when the sentence doesn't come out easily he grimaces and looks towards the crumbling brick, the struggling single-glazed windows of the ground floor. 'I don't know what I want, exactly.'

Kent's mouth curves into a sad smile, and he finally reaches out to lay a hand on Chandler's arm. 'You don't know what's good for you, either.'

That's true, at least. Chandler can hold on to that just like Kent's holding on to his arm, slipping his grip to Chandler's wrist for a moment. The chill of his fingers weaves between the layers of fabric and settle against Chandler's skin, but he doesn't shiver.

'If worst comes to worst,' Kent says, glancing back towards the front door. 'I can kip on the sofa.'

The anxiety lingers, but Kent's words hems it in. There might be something unsaid in them—that he'd rather he wasn't alone, that he'd be coming home with him even if he hadn't asked—but Chandler nods and breathes out a sigh of something that's not quite relief. There's a slight loosening in his chest; the feeling doesn't go, he still feels as if he's about to topple over into some deep and impenetrable crevice, but that's Kent's hand on his wrist. There's no reason why that should help at all, and yet…

He feels slightly more adrift when Kent removes that touch, that connection, but he just mentions something about needing his phone and to tell his flatmates that no, he's not been kidnapped, please stop bringing it up, and he stands and waits as Kent slips back into the building, the door shutting in the quiet night almost as it had that first night. Chandler's as alone in his head as he had been then, and the night's the same, yet the door opens again and it's not the finality that he'd expected then.

'Anyway,' Kent says as he rejoins Chandler on the pavement, a slight smile on his face as he tucks his keys into a pocket. 'It's Ed who's Atlas.'

'What?'

Kent lays a hand on the small of Chandler's back, nudging him towards the car. 'Just something he said on his first day.'

As it turns out, Kent doesn't end up on the sofa.

They don't say much. Chandler doesn't know what he'd say even if he had the inclination. He just knows that for some reason it's… well, it's not better because he doesn't feel as if anything can be better quite yet

He still feels like he always does. This shock, this self-antagonism. It's just like that feeling when he's just just a little too much to drink, when his sight doesn't quite match up to the speed of his eyes. It's all strangely disembodied for being so personally intense. As if he's drunk and hungover all at once. It usually feels dangerous, like teetering on a ledge, but he doesn't feel quite as close to the edge as he usually does.

It's funny, really, how just having Kent making tea in his kitchen can do that.

Chandler goes to bed first—not because he's tired, but because he can't think of anything else to do.

It's times like these when, occasionally, he wonders if he might be better off if he was interested in sex. It's what people do to forget, isn't it? He's got no such luxury. There's always vodka, he supposes, or scotch, but sometimes he can't even be bothered with that. Drinking's an effort. He's never been able to find out how to just stop, to just pause for a moment, even when he's in a job that virtually requires the skill as a preventative measure. They've lost too many officers that way.

In some ways, Chandler's just waiting for the day he runs himself aground. In others, he wonders if it hasn't already happened.

The experiences of the evening have left him wounded and alert and he couldn't relax even if he'd wanted to, but he forces himself to lie there and stare at the inside of his eyelids. It doesn't help that he can hear the thump of his heartbeat, feel it against the sheets; his skin feels threadbare, as if he's scrubbed at it for too long. It's an effort to stay still, to stay there, but he forces his muscles to relax. It's not calming but it's an exercise in restraint and God knows he needs those.

He's buried his face in his pillow to shield himself from the light, but despite his best efforts his eyes eventually open and he can tell when Kent pushes the door open a little bit further and slips into the room. He only half hears his quiet movements, the quiet fuss of clothes, the faint running of a tap. Something in his throat's uncomfortable and his thick swallowing doesn't particularly help, but that doesn't stop him trying. He's a natural self-flagellant.

When Kent displaces the balance of the mattress with his weight, Chandler briefly considers feigning sleep. Yet even as he thinks it he knows it can't work, because he'd know and if he knows then Kent'll be able to tell and he'll have to explain himself and he can't even think of what to say. The gentle heat of him's a deceiving comfort, he knows, yet he still allows himself to turn submissive—meek—when he's usually anything but. Kent settles next to him, quiet and somehow supportive, under his thighs are tucked behind Chandler's, the beat of his heart a dull thud against his back. Chandler can't decide if that's a reminder that he's all right or of what he's seen ended a hundred times over.

Chandler's eyes close and he gives a deep, needy sigh. He doesn't know what he needs but it's something, isn't it? He can't go on like this, except he has to, except there's no other way. Once something's happened you can't go back. Good or bad. He can't go back to not thinking that Kent has a place in his flat—in his bed, in his life—just as much as he can't go back to thinking that he's the future of the Met, the one slated for greatness.

He never should have let the Commander say any of it. He should never have let him put words in his father's mouth.

He never should have let him put ideas into his head.

Kent presses his mouth to the crook of Chandler's shoulder, not quite a kiss. Chandler presses back and lets the rhythm of Kent's breaths dictate his own.

'I'm probably not going to sleep,' he says, feeling Kent's shoulder shake with effort.

'No,' Kent admits in a quiet voice, shifting so he can weave an arm under Chandler's. 'But it'll put some distance between today and tomorrow, if you do.'

Chandler knows that distance means nothing. Not in the short term—you need years to put things behind you, to do it properly. He needs longer than most. He's still not sorted through everything from his first two decades, let alone the rest, except it's the rest that matters and it's the rest that takes up the last remaining space in his head. He can't help but think of the surety in Harding's voice, the hard confidence, the snarl and the silence. And yet he knew he was on borrowed time. He took more when he wanted it, damn the interest.

Somebody else might think he paid that debt back, now. A forfeit. Maybe he'd said as much.

'What do you think he meant?' Chandler asks, words disembodied in the dark. He knows they were all listening in. 'About the woman?'

Kent shushes him, kissing his shoulder. 'Not now.'

The atmosphere's so thick and his head's splitting at the seams and he can't not think, not really, he has to but he sighs and the knowledge lingers, despite the pain of swallowing. Kent strokes at the plane of his chest, his fingers restless as they usually are, and Chandler tries to follow their paths, learn their trails. He can't because there are none but he'll try just like he always does.

'You're allowed off days, you know,' Kent says with the kind of soft reasonableness that one uses with a child. 'Bad ones, even.'

He's trying to sound flippant even though they both know there is nothing flippant about this. Even if there could be, Chandler's not the sort of man who would seek it out. He can't see that far, not anymore. Kent knows that, and that's probably why he lays his head between Chandler's shoulder blades and presses a tender kiss to the jut of scapula, a pointless gesture. Chandler can't muster up the energy to tell him not to bother, and Kent's arm is a warm weight against his side as he waits for sleep to fold in on him.

Kent's breathing leveling out should feel like an insult, but Chandler only used to be that sort of man, years ago. Now he lies in the dark, watching nothing and everything, as Kent slips further away. His hand still rests next to where Chandler's left his, and every now and then there's a frisson of movement, a slight touch of fingers, as if even in sleep Kent knows he's there to reassure. Not to fix—because they can't, they settled that—but to keep him from retreating so far into his own head.

Not to say that it's going to be all right, but perhaps that it might not be as bad as he thought.

Morning is morning.

He knows something's off before he's even awake but it's only when he blinks the sleep away from his eyes and finds Kent picking up his mobile phone from the bedside table, already in his suit, that he really remembers. Then he feels a bit sick and has to sit up, cradling his head in his hands. The motion feels tremulous and he knows already that he won't be getting to his feet anytime soon.

'I'll come back after, yeah?' Kent flexes his fingers around Chandler's shoulder, almost as if he's holding his hand. 'If you don't mind.'

'I don't mind.'

'Miles will probably ring.'

'I'll remember to turn my phone off, then.'

'Please, don't.'

There's a lurch in Kent's words that makes Chandler pause all of a sudden, mid-press against his eyes. It's fear. It must be, because Kent's avoiding his gaze and he does that when he doesn't want him to see what he's thinking—he hasn't done that in a while. Not in a long time. Is it that bad? Had he been that bad? That what he might do inspires fear in the rest of them?

'All right,' he says. 'I won't.'

Then, like some sort of prophecy, Kent's phone rings and he has to answer. He shoots Chandler an apologetic look but it only gets waved away; they don't need those apologies, not now, they both understand the needs of the job. They don't like them and they can barely live with them but they understand them.

Chandler knows he can't stay in bed. Well, he could, but he'd probably never get out again. He's trained himself too well to be up every morning to just suddenly stop. So he lets Kent go, gives it twenty minutes or so from when the door slams shut and gets up. He dawdles a bit longer over his tea and breakfast just because he can—and a little bit because going through the motions is better than standing there and contemplating everything. Chandler knows he's going to do it, because that's what he does and being on a day of all but enforced leave doesn't help, but if he's got to remember how long it's been since he poured boiling water onto a tea bag then it's less of his mind that's running away with him.

If he doesn't do anything it all comes rushing back in a sickly wave, so he makes sure he's always doing something. He'd had plenty of practice at it, after all. He does all the jobs he'd usually leave until his day off. He forces himself to go out, to walk down the street and look at the world carrying on, and he comes back with a half-pint of milk that he doesn't strictly need. The Commander rings, briefly, in the afternoon, except he's Anderson in this conversation and Chandler can tell he's actually trying to hear vodka in his voice.

His phone goes again just before end of shift; it's more than a habit to notice the time in those terms. Miles barks something suitably gruff, mutters that he doesn't care what Head Desk says and he's to come back in tomorrow, he's not having him wallowing, and that Kent'll probably fill him in on what's gone on while he's been away. And yet again, Miles proves he's got some sort of psychic ability, because that's when there's a knock on the door. Miles shoos him off and Kent looks at him with wary eyes once he's shut the door behind them both.

Chandler doesn't know what to ask. He wants to know, he wants the information, but he's not sure what the question is he's looking for.

'It's not as bad as you think,' Kent says, catching his both his eye and the unasked question. 'There'll be a media blackout, at least for the moment.'

'For the duration of an investigation?'

'Unavoidable.'

Chandler nods; he doesn't want to avoid one.

Kent takes off his coat and hangs it next to Chandler's. 'Though, I'm not sure they'll need very long. It's plain, what happened. And you're all on camera from the moment Harding arrived at the station to when he was returned to the holding cells.'

That may be the case, but neither Kent saying it nor Chandler going through it, replaying the events, helps to settle his nerves. On the surface there's no conclusion other than unfortunate accident: the arresting officer from Ealing was with Harding until he'd been booked into Whitechapel, then the custody sergeant, then them and the uniformed officer who sat in on the interview. Even Kent and the rest of them can bear witness to what went on in that room—they watched, listened, observed. When they'd suspended—ended—the interview, there had been a handful of individuals charged with responsibility. No one went wrong… except they must have. Somewhere. Somehow.

Chandler clears his throat just for something to do. 'Is Llewellyn doing the PM?'

Kent hums in assent. Something coiled tight in Chandler's chest loosens ever so slightly; he can trust her. He won't doubt what she finds. That, at least, is out of his hands, and it's one of the few times in his life he's been glad to think that. He's so used to blaming himself, it's his first plan of action because it usually works out that way, but if Llewellyn's the one writing the report that's one less thing he can doubt.

'Skip says to give these to you,' Kent says, extending the hand of files in Chandler's direction as he walks through to the kitchen. 'Also, he says to say that you didn't see them until you came back to work, if anyone asks.'

He flicks through the papers as quickly as he can, to get the dismayed feeling over with. Except it's all there, in black and white. What he'd asked to be found the previous day. Chandler glances up and searches Kent's expression; he's sure his own is surprised, at the very least, and Kent offers him an encouraging smile that even now Chandler's sure he doesn't quite deserve. He looks down to the file again and looks at the information properly. It's damning. It's brilliant.

But he swallows down the pride because it means nothing at all, now, and places the closed file onto the counter between them.

'Anything else Miles wants me to know?' Chandler asks, nudging the edges of the stiff, folded card into place.

'He said not to say this,' Kent says, with the lopsided smile, with the half-bout of humour, 'but he told me to only be nice to you for a day.'

Chandler finds himself frowning. 'And then what?'

'And then I think I'm supposed to take a leaf out of his book and approach any dealings with you with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.'

He can just imagine that—on Miles. Kent's another story all together.

'Don't worry, I'm not actually going to,' Kent says, daring another covert smile as he approaches. 'I don't take everything Miles says as gospel.' He lays a gentle hand on Chandler's waist as he reaches past him for the kettle. 'And I think he's got the tough love part covered.'

Chandler supposes Kent means that he's got the other part covered, too. The gentle part. He stands aside automatically to let Kent manoeuvre around him, get on with the things that should be normal and reassuring, get for some reason he still feels bereft. What's gone isn't immediately apparent, because strictly speaking nothing's moved, but something's not there anymore.

'I presume there's paperwork they'll make me do,' he says, on a sigh, and it's almost a joke.

'Oh, loads.' Kent grins as if they've just made a breakthrough and Chandler feels like a liar. 'We've just had Ed order a new filing cabinet for your office.'

The words miss their target; the tone's on the wrong field entirely and Chandler can't believe he tried to coax it back into the room. Kent notices his shift in demeanour immediately, the slightly steeper slump of his shoulders, and the way his face changes is almost painful.

He shifts his own tone to something quieter, confessional. 'Lots of policing is just luck.'

'Maybe not lots.'

'No, maybe not lots, but more than you'd expect,' Kent allows, and he holds Chandler's gaze with determination. 'You've got to speak to the right people, have the right ideas, make the right connections—and all at the right time. It's a miracle we get anything done. I'm consistently amazed by the court documents Ed whips out, you know. They were working on miles less than we've got and they got results.'

'Don't rub it in.'

'You get results. We get results.' The words are almost a plea for him to believe them. 'And anyone lurking in Ed's files would think that our perps get what what coming to them.'

In any other situation, Chandler would beg to differ. There are certain trains of thought that would suggest that although punishment by death was the prescription, death alone was not sufficient. An execution wasn't the same as an expiration—still isn't. There isn't any intent. Retribution shouldn't be incidental. There is no compassion in condemning someone to death. They may not have wept when nature got there first, beat them to the punch, but there was no justice in it. Only absence. Omission.

But he gets the point and nods in Kent's direction, taking note of the soft concern in his mouth.

'I don't want to argue.'

'Neither do I,' Kent says, then as if to underline the sentiment, he continues. 'I'm not arguing with you. It's just that if you reckon you're the only one who's spent today thinking then you've got another thing coming.'

It's probably telling, but Chandler can't think of anything to say to that.

'You know,' Kent begins, leaning to switch off the kettle as it comes to a noisy boil. 'You didn't fail.'

Chandler just looks at him.

'You didn't.' The words contain more emphasis yet Chandler can't quite believe them. 'We brought him in. We had more than enough to charge him and,' He pauses, nodding towards the files on the counter, 'we were about to present a whole lot more. I know it's probably not the done thing to say, but the end result's the same, isn't it?'

'How do you mean?'

'All right, Harding died. You can't—couldn't—do anything about that.' Kent lifts his hand from the counter as if he's about to reach for him, but he thinks again and tugs at the edge of his jacket instead. 'But either way, we stopped him, and from what we can tell, he wasn't about to do that of his own accord.'

'Evading capture and evading judicial proceedings are not the same thing.' He rubs the back of his hand viciously against his mouth. 'The world revolves around blame, Em.'

Kent catches Chandler's wrist and draws it away, his fingers gentle and coaxing as he murmurs, 'The world is not a courtroom.'

'There'll be headlines. Man dies in police custody.'

(He doesn't even want to think about the likelihood of puns.)

'Who, in this scenario,' Kent asks, slowly, 'do you think is the judge and jury?'

Chandler has no answer, save perhaps everyone. He's not sure anymore whether or not this is just a selfish reaction, a desperation to prove his worth when he's been thwarted every time, or if it's fear, if it's terror that he won't be given another chance. And if it is, he doesn't know who he expects to take it away: his superiors, his team, the public, the outcry. There's nowhere to look.

Kent's face softly turns grieved. 'No punishment's going to be good enough for you unless it comes from your own hands, is it?'

As if to underline his words, he brushes a slight touch across the back of Chandler's hand, lingering briefly along his knuckles. Chandler wishes he could bring himself to twist his wrist to grasp Kent's fingers, but he can't, and he doesn't. At least he'd know where he was up to with that. He'd know what it meant and where it stops. He'd know where the fault lines are and where the weak spots crumble, and if he knew that, he'd know how to put himself back together.

'You don't need fixing.' Something in Kent's mouth twitches as he observes the change in Chandler's face; it's not a smile. 'Whatever you think.'

Chandler doesn't nod, because he doesn't quite agree, but he looks away all the same. The edge of the counter gleams, and that's his fault, too. With a doleful sound, Kent approaches him with an outstretched arm, with no intent further than closeness, and Chandler lets him grasp at the back of his shirt and pull him into an odd, lopsided embrace. Neither of them have dared to do anything like this in daylight since the previous morning, when they'd been optimistic and wallowing in the calm before the storm.

Kent's hand lingers on the small of his back, and with a rush of breath, Chandler turns into the refuge of Kent's curls. It makes no difference.

'We look for reasons,' Kent murmurs into the space between them, his voice low and somehow wise even as he sniffs and presses against Chandler's breastbone. 'We're the last thing left when we can't find any, so we think we are the reason. A logical fallacy, but a powerful one.'

'There's got to be something,' he murmurs back, and perhaps that's a plea.

'Sometimes there's not a reason,' Kent says, and for a moment he rests his mouth against Chandler's shoulder. 'I learned that a long time ago.'

Chandler wonders if he should ask, but he muses over it for too long and Kent unhooks his arm from Chandler's waist and steps away.

'Put the kettle on again, will you? I reckon I need a shower.'

It's Miles' pragmatism that gets him through the next day at work. The phrase 'It's going to be shit, but we've got to do it,' features enough for it to be branded on Chandler's forehead, the very front of his brain. They meet with the Chief Super and the DCI who'll be in charge of the investigation into Harding's death, and for once Chandler's pleased to see a familiar face. DCI Robinson hasn't been stationed at Whitechapel for as long as he has, but he's a good copper. Miles and the others sometimes mutter about him being wedded to protocol, but in this case, Chandler reckons it's probably a good thing.

The first wave of relief is shocking, and it comes with Robinson's friendly chuckle and assertion that he doesn't know why they're bothering to put the money into an investigation at all, really, and that all he'll need is the CCTV and a few statements, not to worry.

They're spared the injustice of another team coming in and removing all their files; Robinson says he doesn't strictly need them until the afternoon, and there's no reason to treat them as if they're about to tamper with anything. He's known them both for too long to even imply that they would, he says, and it's probably in his best interest to let them make sure it's all in order. Their meticulousness is legendary, apparently. Chandler's grateful for the vote of confidence, and Kent even murmurs, 'I told you you're not the villain,' when he wanders into Chandler's office to collect one of the boxes.

He might just be starting to believe it. A little. But how to any of them know, really?

The process is a world away from what it would have been when he'd first arrived in Whitechapel. Even Mansell's managed to maintain a relatively organised system of the papers in his possession, and in the end it's just a matter of logistics. There are more boxes than there are people willing to ferry them, and without the small army of carts Ed's commandeered and somehow managed to get down to the basements, they gear up for several trips.

Chandler stays back to clear off the last of the detritus from the whiteboards, the things that don't need to be handed over. The very faint outline of that score tally's still there, a shadow of a memory from when they'd first heard Alexandra Cartwright's name, and he scrubs at it with a vehemence that might suggest that's his penance. He feels strangely disembodied standing there in the centre of the room as all the others move around him. He's not even sure which one's Kent, and he's always been rather good at picking him out of a crowd.

It's Miles tramping back into the room, gruffly muttering something about 'You're giving Buchan a run for his money with these, boss,' that brings him back. Even so, the sergeant doesn't stand around and wait for an answer, so Chandler watches him lug another box towards the doors and exchange comic grimaces with his teammates as they criss-cross paths.

'Couldn't give me a hand, could you?' Kent asks, catching Mansell's eye passes him on the landing.

'Course not.'

'What?' Kent's tone is sharp as he adjusts his grip on the boxes. 'You're not carrying anything.'

Mansell grins, bright and cocky, the glint back in his eye. 'Has no one told you about the seventy-eight organs and the eight pints of blood?'

'Sod off,' Kent mutters, but it's interspersed with a laugh, and Mansell cuffs him around the shoulder.

It shouldn't make Chandler feel better. It shouldn't have any bearing on his feelings at all. It's just a joke, and a bad one at that, but the way Riley shows up out of nowhere and whacks Mansell around the back of the head with a handful of rolled-up forms is so hellishly normal that, for a moment, Chandler's reminded that it's not all terrible. It is mostly bad, there's an inquest to get through and a hundred more instances where Chandler's going to have to stand in front of a panel of his superiors and explain to them (again) and make his excuses (again) but he will cope. Won't he? He has before.

At least he's got experience going for him.

The inquest comes back with the verdict they all expect: natural causes.

Chandler had insisted on going although his role in the proceedings had already been fulfilled; Miles had insisted on going with him, because he's an idiot and hasn't he already told him he needs a nanny? Chandler would have said that he can survive half an hour unsupervised, thank you very much, but when they all filed out it was two shadows that stretched over the pavement, not one.

Nothing new gets called in. Chandler's not sure whether he's annoyed or grateful, because there's nothing to distract him but there's also something simmering just beneath his skin that asks for a little longer, a day more, before another case. Age and exhaustion call for more time to rest, but this time there isn't even the snarl of paperwork to act as an excuse; it's all been done, double-checked and submitted.

Yet there's no call, no body, and no case. End of shift comes and goes and Chandler finds himself in his flat—first alone, then complemented—listening to his own heart thud a heavy beat against the inside of his ribs. Kent, who'd arrived with a shy smile and a distinct lack of questions, ends up a deadweight against Chandler's side, the sleep-rhythm of his breathing strangely calming.

It's then that a call comes through. Not the call, because that'd be to Chandler's mobile unless it's otherwise out of action, and the sound that tears Chandler away from the surreal cocoon is his landline. Which is startling enough on any day, but this time reaching for it's unnatural enough without him trying to do it as quickly as he possibly can. He might not be able to sleep until he really can't avoid it, but he still doesn't want to cheat Kent out of any shut-eye.

'DI Chandler,' he says as soon as he gets the handset close enough to speak into.

'It's not like you to not answer your mobile,' Miles barks.

'Yes, sorry.' Chandler knows he sounds absent-minded ; he's a little busy making sure Kent hasn't stirred. 'It's on silent. I think.'

The sergeant makes another derisive sound that says he doesn't think much of that explanation, either. Chandler might make some sort of noise in return, but if he does he's not about to admit to it.

There's a short pause, then: 'You aren't having a wobbly, are you?'

'No,' Chandler says. 'I don't think so.'

'Good, because I was just about to send Kent round to make sure you hadn't done anything stupid.'

Chandler's tempted to roll his eyes, but instead he just says, 'He's already here.'

To be honest, Chandler suspects that Kent's had the same idea. Though it's not unusual for him to come round, is it? He's spent more time in Chandler's flat than his own in the past few months. He's spent every night there since they lost Harding—he can bear to think it now without reaching for the nearest bottle of vodka—and Chandler's yet to feel like he wants his own space back. Being with Kent is like being alone, if that makes any sort of sense.

'Is he now?' Miles asks. His tone's leading.

'Hmm.'

'Is that why you've gone oddly quiet?'

'He's, um…' Chandler pauses, vaguely aware he's been weaving his fingers through the back of Kent's hair. 'He's asleep.'

Miles tuts, as if that's a non-problem. 'Well, go in another room, then.'

Strictly speaking, that is a potential solution. Chandler just finds that he doesn't particularly want to. For the first time in days he's actually relaxed—perhaps not at peace, or untroubled, but certainly gentled enough to have let Kent nudge and prod him into a slouch that rendered his side a suitable cushion. Perhaps he should have asked as to why Kent wanted to curl up on the sofa and drift off lying there half in Chandler's lap, but he hadn't, and for once Chandler thinks that's an answer he can probably do without.

'I—well—' Kent's head is a warm, heavy weight against his side as he takes a steadying breath. 'That's not really an option.'

'Ah, so he's one of those types.' Miles chuckles, 'Like boxing an octopus.'

Chandler prefers a comparison to an oversized housecat, but he doesn't say so. Miles doesn't need to know that. He knows far too much already.

'All right,' he says, the amusement clear even from the other end of the line. 'Have it your way. Just don't come complaining to me about your back when he's made you sit there for hours. If that kid could win medals in anything…'

Miles trails off; the joke doesn't quite land because it's at that moment that Kent chooses to make a small noise of annoyance. Chandler's known this side of him for long enough now to know that it wasn't one of those involuntary things he sometimes says in sleep but a precursor to wakefulness. For a mad moment Chandler wants to tell Miles off, except if it's hardly his fault, beyond the fact that they're on the phone at all. Chandler could have just silenced the handset and sat back undisturbed.

But he has responsibilities, and more of them than you'd expect involve answering the phone.

Kent stirs slightly and, with a half-asleep yawn, asks, 'Nothing's come in, has it?'

'No, you're all right,' Chandler murmurs, stroking a finger behind his ear.

Kent's mouth curves into a smile. Chandler's does, too, probably, except he's not going to think about that and there's a slight twinge of guilt in his chest as he realises that the first thing Kent thinks as he struggles out of sleep is whether or not he has to be on his way to a crime scene in the next five minutes.

Miles makes another sarcastic sound over the phone line. 'God, you're as daft as he is.'

'That's sort of the point, isn't it?'

Chandler says it not quite thinking what it implies. But it's true, isn't it? He is as daft as Kent, to use Miles' terminology. And whatever it is that means—what it really, really means—doesn't escape Miles because he makes another sound that sounds like a victory. Perhaps he just won another fifty quid off someone in the office. Probably Riley. She'd had a sort of look about her.

'Anyway,' he says, aware of the silence stretching into something knowing and uncomfortable. 'What was it you wanted?'

Dread fingers its way down Chandler's spine as he realises he may have just made a false promise; it wouldn't be the first time Miles has tarried in telling him they've got work to do.

'Never mind,' Miles says. 'It's clear you're already in capable hands.'

Chandler decides on a sigh instead of an argument. We'll see you tomorrow, Miles.'

He ends the line before the rusty chuckle can greet him; he knows its there, because it must be and Chandler can hear it in his head already without having to listen to it. Instead he focuses on the way Kent stretches slightly, arching in a way that only serves to extend the feline metaphor.

'What did Miles want?' he asks, his voice still low and crackly.

Chandler looks at the phone still in his hand. 'Actually, I'm not sure.'

Kent chuckles and adjusts his balance so he doesn't accidentally slip off the cushions. 'Sounds about right.'

He's made of acute angles like this, sleepy smiles. God knows how he can sleep, but he can. Maybe it's another trick from spending years in uniform, catching forty winks whenever the opportunity arises, but Chandler forgets where he's going with that train of thought as Kent brushes a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

He lays a hand on Kent's chest in the ensuing silence, his fingers absent-mindedly running over the buttons. 'Em?'

Kent hums.

Chandler's momentarily distracted by Kent's heart beating thick and slow under his fingers. 'Are you happy?'

There's no immediate answer. Kent simply opens his eyes and looks up at him, gauging. Chandler knows that they've had this conversation, that he's had this answer once before, but that was then and this is now and they've packed an awful lot into the days in between.

'Are you kidding?' he says, tone soft and sincere. 'I've dreamt of this for years.'

Chandler huffs a small laugh. 'Miles wasn't joking, then.'

'When?' Kent frowns a little, as if he's sure he's missed something obvious. 'Now?'

'No, ages ago,' Chandler says, shaking his head and gentling the concern with a stroke of his palm. 'He said, and I quote, a lack of shagging hadn't put you off.'

Kent looks at him for a moment then laughs, turning to muffle the sound against Chandler's side. There might be some muted words along the lines of sorry, sorry and your face, but Chandler will forgive those because it's Kent and he's starting to think he'll forgive most things he does.

'Well, he wasn't wrong. He still isn't,' Kent says, pausing in a sidetracked manner to smooth out Chandler's shirt. Then he breathes in and adds, 'Not much could put me off you, to be honest.'

'Not even this?'

Chandler knows Kent knows what he means. Miles' phone call's just the tip of the iceberg. The way they're all stepping carefully around him hasn't escaped his notice. It's not obvious, and it probably won't last beyond the week, but Chandler still can't bring himself to actually tell them they don't have to bother. That they shouldn't, even if they did have to. Kent adopts a similar strategy as the rest of them in the incident room, but Kent hasn't reached out to pull him into a kiss for a few days and it doesn't take a genius to tell that it's because he's reverted back to trying not to spook him. Chandler doesn't know why but he misses that more than most other things.

'No,' Kent says, reaching up to touch briefly at the side of Chandler's neck. 'Especially not this.'

'I don't want to always react like this—'

'I know.' Kent's hand shifts, squeezes at Chandler's shoulder, then falls back to lie across his stomach. 'It's all right. I don't mind.'

'You should.'

(He should run. As fast as he can. But instead he's curled up in Chandler's lap and he's not about to be shifted.)

'Well, I mind,' Kent says with a rueful smile, 'but not for my sake. For yours.'

Somehow Chandler's gaze catches on Kent's as the words come out, and he can't keep looking at him, not when his throat feels like it's closing. Yet unlike the dread that usually comes with that sensation, Chandler watches the edges of his flat's walls with a vague warmth in his chest, wondering how the world's managed to shrink down to just their imprint, just the gentle in-and-out of Kent's chest under his hand. He's still feeling for the edges of this new, bright thing, this surge of affection, as he runs his thumb across the edge of Kent's collar.

Kent reaches up and grasps Chandler's wrist, awkwardly stroking at the bone as he looks up to meet Chandler's eye. 'You all right?'

It's a simple enough question; it's just one that he's never quite been able to answer. Chandler's never been sure. He's thought one thing then had it disproven; he's been confident then had it broken. He's watched his own mind run him aground and he's let it do it. He's fought and he's won, and he's fought and he's lost. And no matter what anyone says, he'll always think that there must have been something, somewhere, that he could have done to make the case end in a way other than how it did.

And yet, none of that feels like the answer.

Chandler breathes in deep and grasps for Kent's hand.

'Yeah,' he says, and it's a quiet revelation. 'Yeah, I think so.'

A/N: And here we are, at the end! Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic until the end, I hope you all enjoyed it! There's more Whitechapel fic coming from me very soon. If you want updates, you can (1) periodically check my profile here, (2) check my Tumblr (under the same username) on Sundays when I share a six-sentence excerpt of what I'm working on at the moment, or (3) follow my Twitter (also under the same username) for real-time commentary about writing and the inevitable typos. Thank you all so much for all the support you've given this project over the past month or so - the Whitechapel fandom is certainly one of the best! :)