Author's Note: This contains slight spoilage to the last case of Series 3, of the amazing series Whitechapel. I tried to keep it as vague as possible, but some spoilage is there. I hope this offends no one.

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He sits unfocused, eyes blank and staring into the distance, his breathing was ragged and short. The veins in his temples were throbbing and if he didn’t get to his desk soon, to the balm that sat in the middle most drawers, he was going to have a migraine that would put him out of commission for lord only knows how long. And he couldn’t have that. Miles couldn’t have that, his team couldn’t have that. Bottom line was, Whitechapel couldn’t have that.

“DI … DI Chandler if you could please answer the question?”  The board debriefing him looked tired of his spacing out; looked on the edge of suspending him as he unconsciously drummed out a beat with his middle finger to keep himself calm.

“Would you mind repeating it for me,” He laughs, trying to make light of the situation.  He felt the rubber band tight around his wrist but couldn’t bring himself to strum it. To pull it back and let it sting his bare flesh like she had instructed. Chandler was spacing again and he knew it, blinking rapidly for a second he straightens the papers in front of him with quick unsteady movements.

“Detective Inspector, do you think you are capable of continuing your position as head of Whitechapel’s Violent Crimes Division after your most recent case?” The man takes a pause, a slow breath drawing in from his slightly parted lips as he glances to the man in the middle, Chandler’s godfather and the highest ranking man at the table. “It has been brought to our attention that the two of you had grown close before her … rather untimely murder.  We can offer you a short sabbatical if that helps with things.”

With a heavy sigh his head falls to the side as he looks down at the rubber band, the same one she’d given him, still wrapped tight around his wrist. He hadn’t taken it off yet, he might not take it off, he was very unsure of that. Which honestly was very unlike him, he was in control, always, over everything all the time. He suffered from it constantly, that nagging itch to straighten, to tidy, to make sure he turned off the lights, that he turned off the stove, and the sinks, that he bolted the door, that it was shut tight enough. It was slowly driving him mad.

Miles was so far the only one, who had noticed his ticks, some had guessed but didn’t want to pry. He was grateful for that. More than they would ever know. But he owed himself to Miles, he would have lost grip on everything if it hadn’t been for that man, and his family. Miles was constantly after him about his new habit of getting drunk after every shift, he had a point it wasn’t helping with his migraines and stress headaches at all. He couldn’t quit though, it was the only thing keeping him from becoming nothing but a mass of ticks that can’t leave a room without flicking a light switch fifty damned times.

He hadn’t noticed the scoff that had come from that line of thought, nor the way they were looking at him. He’d spaced again, even though he was trying not to. Lightly cursing himself he smiles at the three men across from him, nodding somewhat vigorously, “Yes I do believe I am more than capable, with the help of my fellow officers, to carry on in my duties.”

His godfather groans covering his eyes with his hands; Chandler knew none of these men thought him well enough to continue one without a sabbatical. He wanted to prove them wrong. But when even Miles has told him to take a few days off at the least … maybe he should, “What if I take a long weekend, will that suffice? Four days?”

“Make it five and we’ll have you see an in …” The man quickly went silent as his godfather shoots him a look of disdain. The woman that had just been murdered the day before was the in house psychologist for his district.  They needed a new one and it was careless of his superior to be so thoughtless. Even he had thought so, “We’ll just make it five days then.”

With a curt nod Chandler stands to leave, turning his back on the board before pushing through the heavy oak doors and into the marbled floor lobby area of that level. Miles was waiting for him at the lifts, a pained expression on his face, “Suspension?”

“No,” Chandler smiles giving his old friend a pat on the shoulder, “a five day sabbatical is all.”

“Ah, well that’s good then.” The older man laughs, hitting the button for the ground level, “Can’t be without you for too long, might dirty our desks again.”

Chandler gives a weak and tired laugh as Miles steps into the lift with him, the ride down is short, but it feels like an eternity in the pained silence that sits between the men. “You know me wife misses you, you should come by for dinner soon.”

The lift jolts into a stop, the metallic doors opening into the bright sun drenched lobby of the ground level. Chandler gives the slightest of nods before chuckling, “Yes I would quite like to try some of that roast you’re always going on about.”

“How ‘bout this then,” Miles stops slapping his friend on the chest lightly, “Tomorrow night, pop on around and we’ll have us some, eh?”

He can’t help but to allow the sad smile that comes to his face and lights up his eyes as he looks at his old friend, his partner in this nasty job. He gives a happy nod before clapping him on the shoulder, “Sounds like a plan, now you should be getting up there, they’ll no doubt want to speak to you next.”

Turning he nods his departure to the officers standing at the metal detectors as he passes the line waiting to get into the building. Making his way out of the rotating glass doors he heads to his right, towards the car park situated not too far away. He jogs the rest of the way, his body full of nervous energy at the fact that he’s going to be cooped up alone for the next five days, with absolutely nothing to do but flick light switches and test locks. He knows what Miles is trying to do, save him from himself, and he’s quite happy he’s doing it. He’s quite right to as well, because left to his own devices, he’ll go mad with it all crashing down upon him.

Upon reaching his car he fumbles with his keys, letting them drop to the ground, that obscene rattling clang echoing through the concrete and steel levels of the car park. The curse he lets out as he stoops to the ground to pick them up is cut off; it’s cut off by the pool of blood that he seemingly hadn’t noticed until now. The pool of blood that was collecting under his car, which he had stepped in, that, was dripping from the crease between the door and the frame of the vehicle.

“No …” He hits the unlock button on the remote hearing the doors unlock as he pulls out his pair of leather gloves, slipping them on quickly, feeling the tight fit around his fingers as he tests the fit. Leather squeaking as he unclenches his fists and pulls the back driver side door open slowly.

Slowly he pulls it open, the metal creaking as he does so, and then suddenly the door hits him in the knees, making him fall back onto the ground quickly backing up as the body of a dead woman rolls out and into the quickly spreading pool of blood.