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It all should be back to normal. No more illuminati, no more being hunted down by his own men, wounds cleaned and dressed and back safely behind the desk where he belongs.
Everything should be fine, everything should be normal.
But it isn’t.
His head’s still in his own cell, still stuck in the courtroom listening to doctored testimony, still trapped under that prison van, still running 10 miles back to Kembleford.
There’s a pile of files on his desk, little crimes that don’t seem to mean anything now his ordeal is over. It doesn’t seem right, having to go back to the every-day drudgery. Surely there should be some compensation, some apology from his higher-ups, something.
He sets those thoughts aside. He’s no time for self pity. He picks up one of the files and his fountain pen, about to make a reluctant start, when an echoing knock rings on the office door.
“Come,” Sullivan calls, barely looking up from the file. The door swings open, and in steps Sergeant Goodfellow.
“Oh, Sergeant. What’ve you got for me?”
“Few of those reports you asked for, sir, from while you were, er, off.”
“Oh, thank you. Just set them down there, if you wouldn’t mind.” Sullivan gestures at a mostly empty space on the right side of his desk. Goodfellow puts the stack of files and reports down, but unusually, doesn’t turn to leave.
Sullivan looks up. Rather than the characteristic smile on his perennially cheerful sergeant’s face, there’s a frown. It looks wrong on Goodfellow, like he’s wearing a costume that is far from the right size.
“Was there something else?” Sullivan asks, a little concerned. Goodfellow takes a bracing swallow, and glances at the still open office door.
“Um — yes, actually, sir. I wondered if we could have a word?”
“Oh — certainly, sergeant. Take a seat.”
Instead of sitting down, Goodfellow turns around and gently closes the office door, and then pulls up his chair.
Sullivan is trying hard not to show how very confusing this all is. Goodfellow’s not normally one for subterfuge, at least as far as Sullivan is aware — what could this possibly be about?
Oh, God. He’s not about to hand in his resignation, is he? Yes, the last few days have been… stressful, what with his arrest and special branch running amok around Kembleford, but, his sergeant has handled it all admirably. Better than Sullivan has, at any rate.
Losing him, by far the best sergeant Sullivan has ever worked with, would be… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Who would he replace him with? One of the constables? None of them seem quite ready. Or maybe they’d transfer in someone from a different station?
“Sir?”
Sullivan startles out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts.
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sergeant, I’m listening.”
Goodfellow chews on his lip, as if struggling to figure out where to start. God, the man isn’t even making eye contact.
“It’s just, er, er, —how are you doing, sir? I know the last few days, well, I know they can’t have been easy.” Goodfellow shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Well, that’s not quite what Sullivan expected. At least it’s not a letter of resignation.
“Well, yes, I’m, I’m alright, sergeant. Managing,” Sullivan blusters. The words sound like a lie, even to Sullivan’s ears. It’s a good question, isn’t it. How is he doing?
He’s tired. He can’t sleep. He’s so deeply, deeply unsettled, guilt and grief and fear and anger his constant companions. He doesn’t know what to do, how to deal with everyone in Kembleford, their pitying gazes or their doubtful glances or the looks in their eyes that say maybe he did kill that poor boy.
“Good, that’s good,” His sergeant nods.
Sullivan is still perplexed — is that all Goodfellow wanted to ask? His eyebrows knit together as he eyes the man opposite him. There’s an uncomfortable silence for a second, and just when Sullivan is about to open his mouth and tell Goodfellow to spit it out, the other man speaks.
“It- I- we found your hat and coat on the riverbank. While you were on the run. And I thought—” Goodfellow’s voice cracks a little bit, fingers fiddling with his cuffs in his lap.
“I thought you’d done it, sir. Jumped. Into the water.”
Oh. Oh.
Sullivan is speechless. He blinks, suddenly feeling hot and twitchy and very, very awkward.
“I thought you’d jumped, and I knew you were innocent, of course I did; I knew you hadn’t, couldn’t have killed Albert, and, and— I did nothing.” Goodfellow says, quiet as a mouse.
“Sergeant…” Sullivan tries, eyes feeling suddenly very hot, and more than a little wet.
“And then as we were dredging it, the river, and we didn’t find anything, I didn’t feel any relief. Just… just doubt, that we weren’t looking hard enough, or in the right place, that you were there, and I hadn’t found you yet.”
Goodfellow’s voice cracks a bit more, and Sullivan sees the unusual shine of his Sergeant’s eyes, the way he brings up a trembling hand and wipes at them, trying for subtlety but not quite managing.
Sullivan doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He’s so deeply, deeply touched, moved to see so much care, so much worry in his sergeant, all about him. He didn’t even get as much from his own father. His ex-assistant commissioner father. Not even a phone call.
“I- I- I’m sorry, Sergeant. I really am. We- I didn’t think — we were buying time, we—”
“I know, sir, and it’s not your fault. It just… scared me. Because I knew you were innocent, and I hadn’t helped you, and the way you looked at me that day in court, I thought— I thought that if you had jumped, it would’ve been partly my fault.”
“No, Sergeant. It wouldn’t. And I didn’t. I’m still here, you’re still here, and the Greensleeves and Busby are where they should be. It’s alright.” Sullivan insists, suddenly desperate to provide his poor, overburdened sergeant with a bit of comfort. It’s the least he can do, given how much the poor man puts up with.
“As for not having done anything to help. I couldn’t have you doing anything to put your job at risk, sergeant, not with Busby breathing down your neck.
“And you did help, didn’t you, remember? When you caught Carter and I in the evidence room? Without you, I’d still be facing the gallows.”
Goodfellow nods, slowly to begin with, getting faster and more determined as Sullivan’s words sink in.
“Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Some of the awful, overbearing tension seems to release from Goodfellow as he relaxes back in the chair.
“Thank you, Inspector,” He says as he rises from the seat, turning back towards the door. The little talk has seemed to have done him good — that terrible frown replaced with not quite a smile, but definitely something closer to one.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I— er— Thank you. Your concern, and your help, and your guidance, it all, well. It means a lot to me.”
Finally, that smile graces Goodfellow’s face.
“Not a problem, sir. Glad to have you back.”