Everyone had long since gone home and the usually bustling building was strangely quiet. The lone figure sat silently staring at his shaking hands, a mixture of fear, guilt and almost unbearable nausea fought for position in his guts. The room was in darkness apart from the glow coming from the lamp on the desk where he sat as it cast shadows on his drawn and tortured features. His face was white as a sheet and his usually bright, watchful dark eyes glistened vacantly, the ever worsening headache giving them a flint like edge under the fast developing bruise that covered the right side of his brow. He wanted so badly just to go to sleep and have everything disappear, if only for a few hours. But when they had agreed to allow him to leave the hospital they had informed him that he had a severe concussion and was not to fall asleep under any circumstances for at least three hours. That had been the good news, to try and soften the blow before telling him that he was in the middle of a massive nervous breakdown. That was part of the reason he was here now. They had wanted to admit him but he had flat out refused. Eventually he had been allowed to leave but only if it was under someone else's supervision. He had begged them not to tell anyone else, that he wanted to do it in his own time so they had only said that he needed checking on for the concussion. Still it was better than being back at that hospital. He couldn't stand hospitals. It had been that way since he was a kid, too many bad memories. It was better to be here where there were at least a few good ones to cling to.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered slight muffled noises as Adam Fuller moved around back in his office, looking out into the bullpen every so often to check on the exhausted young officer sat outside thinking he wouldn't notice. He had noticed, but it wasn't like he cared anyway. Why couldn't they just leave him in peace? If he was himself he guessed he might feel irritated by Fullers concern and make it clear to his commanding officer that he didn't need a baby sitter, he was a grown man and could look out for himself. But he didn't feel like a grown man. Grown men didn't need someone to hold them, to let them cry and tell them everything's going to be ok. But he wasn't himself and he was too focused on desperately trying to control the shaking that seemed to fill every fibre of his being to really care, even though he was only succeeding in causing yet more shooting pain through his head.

It was so quiet now. After everything that had happened the silence seemed alien. It wouldn't stay silent for long though, they'd be back, the quack at the hospital had assured him of that. He'd also assured him they wouldn't be there forever, not if he didn't want them too. But in a strange way they had comforted him. They hadn't had such high expectations of him, in fact over the past few days they had made the most sense. They knew he wasn't perfect, weren't expecting him to be their saviour and make everything right. Although no one would think that of him now, not after what he'd done, he was sure of that. When the others looked at him now what would they see? Would they see their friend who they had looked up to and trusted all these years, or would they see the twisted mess he did every time he looked in the mirror. He didn't know, didn't want to know. He hadn't been able to bring himself to look them in the eyes after everything that had happened.

Although if anyone had asked him what exactly had happened he wouldn't have been able to tell them. Everything was a haze of half remembered dreams with huge gaps where he couldn't remember anything, he'd had to rely on what others had told him. Well apart from the gun shot going off. That sound he would never be able to forget, it echoed constantly in his mind like the last song you hear on the radio. He had stared at the blood on his hands for what must have been a lifetime after it had happened. When he looked at his hands now under the faint light from the desk lamp he could still see it. Staining his fingers, resting under his nails and filling every crease in his palms. How could one person have so much blood? He couldn't even remember calling the ambulance or how he had got here for that matter. Had he called the ambulance? He hoped so, at least that would show some remorse, some sign that he was sorry for what he had done. But was he sorry? That was another question he couldn't answer. One of many that were whirling around his battered and confused mind.

Scenes flickered across his heavy eyes as he tried to make some sense of the past few hours, try to put the events into some kind of order, but all his thoughts were fuzzy and muddled. How had this happened? Was he cursed? Poison they had called him. Was he really everything they had all said he was? He had just killed someone after all. It still seemed so unbelievable. He'd actually killed someone, and this time he would just walk away. It seemed somewhat perverse that he could just walk away from this when his life had been ruined for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, like he'd paid for it in advance so now no one cared. He thought bitterly of the months he spent protesting and trying to convince countless people that he wasn't a killer. It all seemed meaningless now. In one split second he had turned that into a lie. Yet another lie to add to the many others trailing out behind him like a slug trails slime. He couldn't even remember how it had happened. Everything had all started so normal. It was a relatively straight forward case, and they had nearly wrapped it up. In fact they were as good as gone. There was no one thing he could pin point that could have caused everything to escalate so fast. But isn't that what they had told him, it wasn't just one thing. So what happens now? What does someone do when they take another persons life? Usually they go to prison, but he'd already done that, got the t-shirt and he wasn't really too keen on going back. Besides, it was one thing he didn't have to worry about as it was doubtful that there would even be an investigation. He vaguely noticed the phone ring in Fullers office. Desperate not to have to think anymore he listened to the deep muffled voice of his captain as he closed his eyes, rested his aching head on the desk and let out a deep breath as muddled images passed through his mind.

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Five days earlier.

His eyes shot open again as the shrill ringing of the alarm rang throughout the room calling him back from peaceful nothingness. He reached out and picked it up, noting that it was 6:15 and, being the middle of winter, still dark, before throwing it across the room. His head was fuzzy and his mouth felt like a rat had set up residence there while he slept. Oh well, yet another day of endless possibilities stretched out before him. He sighed deeply and, pulling back the covers, got to his feet, staggering as he tripped over the empty whiskey bottle from the night before. Not that he remembered drinking it, but it would explain why an invisible hammer was smashing his skull in and why his feet wouldn't go where he thought he was putting them. In the bathroom he flicked on the light and blinked his eyes when the brightness assailed them. As his eyes adjusted to the light he turned on the tap and splashed the icy cold water over his face. When he raised his eyes to the mirror over the sink, his breath caught in his throat and he stared in shock as they met the ones looking back at him. He had always believed that there were people in this world who walked around day after day as if they were sleep walking, certainly not dead, but barely alive. They respond when spoken to, do everything expected of them, but they're merely existing. When you look into their eyes all you see is endless empty holes. But if you look closely enough you can see way deep down a glimmer of desperate pleading, and if you listen closely enough you can hear them screaming out that they're still here, still alive. They pray that if they scream loud enough eventually someone will hear them and set them free. Unfortunately the person deep inside has no control over the voice and so remains silent. They wake up every morning and feel slightly disappointed that they haven't somehow slipped away in the night, but still they continue to drift. That's what he saw when looked in the glass before him, that's what he read in that blank empty gaze. He wrenched his eyes away and, holding his breath, plunged his face into the cold water pooling in the washbasin. Coming back up he rubbed vigorously at his closed eyes and shaking his head before once more looking at the face before him. He studied his reflection and sighed in slight relief. The eyes weren't blank any longer. They were wide and scared. They weren't his eyes, he knew that, but at least they weren't those empty black holes anymore.

"What happened to you?" he asked the boy in the mirror. There was no answer, he hadn't really expected one. That boy once had so many hopes and dreams, so many plans. What had Linda called them? Noble aspirations. He certainly didn't have any now, noble or otherwise. That kid had been gone so long now, and he had taken all those dreams and aspirations with him.

"They'll see it you know." came the voice from somewhere in the back of his confused mind.

"See what?" he said his tone bored and dismissive

"Your lights gone out. There's no one home anymore buddy."

"Oh really?! Where are you hiding then?"

"I'm all that's left".

"If you say so." he sighed and went back to inspecting his reflection.

"You look like shit! Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Shut up!" he snapped. It was true though. He had definitely looked better. He had always looked rather pale and fragile but the face in the mirror appeared as if it was sculpted out of porcelain. The pale complexion was made more noticeable by the thick dark hair that was hanging, now slightly wet, around his face. Over the past few months it had become overgrown and slightly stringy, now it seemed to be trying to devour his entire head. He didn't care though. He actually quite liked it, it was something he could hide behind. He smiled at this thought and turned away to begin the daily ritual of getting to work.

"That's right. Can't be late. You're the example and you can't let the side down can you?"

"I can and I will" he replied hating the whiny and childish tone in his voice. "It's a free country isn't it?"

"Screw up!"

He started when he heard the last phrase. Over the past few months he had gotten used to the mocking voice in his head. It had worried and even frightened him in the beginning but now it was just some irritating extension of his own thoughts. But it was a different voice that had called him a screw up. He had heard that voice before, not for a while though. The last time he had heard that voice was shortly before they had finally brought down Raymond Crane. It had probably called him a screw up then too, it had been very fond of doing so. He took a deep breath and threw down the towel he had been harshly scrubbing at the water on his face with.

"Fuck you!" he said to the empty room before heading back to his bedroom.

As he walked through the door his eyes rested on his bed, suddenly he wanted nothing more than to climb back under the covers and drift back into unconsciousness.

"Now that would be running away wouldn't it?" the words now back to the chiding tones of his own voice.

"Yep. What's your point?" he said as he pulled on his scruffiest pair of jeans.

"You don't get to run away, they're all counting on you. You have to go out and face the world. Don't you remember what happens when you screw up? People usually get hurt or killed"

"It's not my fault. I'm not God!"

"Do they know that?"

"Probably. And what if they don't?" he snapped while pulling on the T Shirt he had disguarded the night before curling his nose up at the smell that was beginning to seep out of the fabric. He really should do his washing more often. Oh well, no one cared if a McQuaid stank. "Well?" he said impatiently to the empty apartment. "Got no answer to that do you?" This was met by silence. Breathing a sigh of relief he ran his fingers through his hair as he left the room. "Thought not."

He picked his way across the scattered bottles and empty packets that covered his living room floor thinking to himself how disappointed people would be if they saw what state his apartment was in and the evidence of how he spent his time alone these days. Looking at it now stone cold sober he had to admit he felt slightly disappointed in himself. Only those who were too weak and pathetic to handle their own messes turned to drink. After all he had seen, he knew only too well what damage turning to drink can do. So why did he do it?

"Because it helps" he answered himself as he picked up a still half full bottle of Jack Daniels from the floor and proceeded to down it as quickly as he could.

"You're doing that too much as well."

"I'm over 21 aren't I?" he said sardonically.

"I guess that depends on who you are today."

Kicking rubbish out of his path he made his way to the small kitchen thinking that a really strong cup of coffee would make him feel better. He reached out and opened one of the cupboards and was slightly stunned to find that it was full of nothing but whiskey and vodka. When had he bought all that? He didn't even like vodka. Shaking the puzzled look from his face he decided to grab coffee on his way to the chapel and picked up his keys from where he had dropped them the night before.

"Surely you're not going to drive after drinking nearly half a bottle of whiskey."

"What if I am?"

"You've got a death wish pal. Oh, maybe you want to go back inside."

"Go jump!" he snapped before yanking open his front door and slamming it hard behind him.