Chapter Text
28 months.
852 days.
20,448 hours.
1,226,880 minutes.
73,612,800 seconds.
That was how long Department Q had been at it.
Nineteen cold cases closed, those missing no longer missed.
Almost twenty.
But the twentieth? A royal pain in the arse.
Carl was furious about it.
Swear to fucking God—his anger management had been solid for nearly a year. Hard to believe Dr Irving even signed off on dropping the mandatory sessions.
Progress, right?
Not that it had stopped him from pissing her off again yesterday.
Different conversation, same result.
But that was another story - boring, and not worth the ink.
He glanced over at Akram’s desk. That damn lamp - it had been buzzing since the day Akram claimed the spot. Hasn't stopped once, unless Akram calmed it with that gentle touch.
Fuck.
The buzzing wouldn’t crawl so deep under his skin if the usual one was still sitting there.
“For God’s sake, would you stop it?” The words tore out louder than he meant. The room dropped into instant, suffocating silence.
Rose blinked at him slowly from across her desk, her pen frozen mid-air. Hardy stared like he was trying to figure out which mental drawer to shove Carl into: “unstable” or “just being a dick.”
Carl could feel it, the moment his own anger infected the air. That low, buzzing guilt rising to meet it.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
Ruined the day, just like that.
He scraped a hand down his face, feeling the sweat at his temples. His body was still wired, like he'd just escaped a fishfight that hadn't actually happened. It was a year ago when he was acting such a dick to his own team.
And the worst part? He couldn’t even blame their case discussion—except that was exactly what had set him off.
Even for him, this kind of outburst felt... new. And not in a good way.
Dangerous.
Like something fragile inside him was finally splitting down the centre.
“What’s your problem, mate?” Hardy didn’t sound angry. Just surprised. Which was worse, somehow.
They both lowered their files in unison. Hardy gave him that look—the fucking 'talk to me' face. And Rose? She was watching him like he’d just coughed up blood. And she looked concerned. Which was rare.
Borderline mythical, since Carl had stopped reacting to every goddamn thing like a caged animal a year ago.
“Fuck… I didn’t mean to—” Both hands clutched his head, fingers pressing into his temples. The silence hung thick, like damp cloth draped over every surface.
He could feel them still watching. Not judging. Just… waiting. Patiently. They needed a reason. Something—anything—to explain the outburst. Unfortunately, he hasn't figured one out yet.
He inhaled deeply, like maybe oxygen might carry an explanation with it. Then exhaled, long and low.
Like how Akram would tell him to, whenever he thought he was having a heart attack, and Akram always insisted he wasn't.
Annoying as hell.
"I don't---"
"Uh-uh mate, you don't get to just blast off on us and say nothing about it!" Hardy was boiling now. "You've' been over the tennis ball shit for awhile, work on your damn good reason!''
And Rose, tried to be the considerate one of three - spoke softly. "Carl..."
The tone. It reminded him of Akram's daughters. The way they'd talk to their father on the phone - sweet, thoughtful, grounding.
"I don't fucking know why. I just..." He was working through the words. They are waiting. Again, patiently. Like maybe they knew the reason better than he did.
“Sorry. I need the fucking air.” He stood, violently shoving the chair back.
No one chased after him this time. No one argued with him about whether he wasn't having a bloody heart attack. No steady voice, no gentle touch.
He tried, he fucking tried to do it himself, without Akram.
"Get it together, you fucking-" His back hit wall outside hard—stone or brick, didn’t matter. It was real. Solid. Something to brace against when everything else felt like it was slipping away. He dropped down, head spinning, fists clenched, heart racing.
He tried very hard to breathe, tried to calm down, but his own mind didn’t give a fuck about calming.
"Breathe...Control your breathing, Carl. Slow..." A familiar voice cut through—sharp but steady. Not real. But real enough.
"Carl, relax. Sit down and relax." He obeyed, he couldn't resist. His eyes opened. His breath steadied.
But something was missing.
No.
Someone was missing.
And it had taken a piece of Carl with him.
Akram had never missed a single day. Never missed a single call. He had never ghosted Carl. Not once.
And now?
Twelve hours of silence. Twelve hours of ghost mode.
Carl had every fucking reason to be furious. More specifically—He was fucking worried.
He stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
As if that one message was the only proof Akram had ever existed.
Something real. Something left.
"Carl, my apology. I know this is the only way I’d get my leave approved. I’m in Syria right now. I’ll get in touch when I could."
He tapped the screen again, just to see it reappear.
Just to see his name.
He had tried calling. Unreachable.
He tried tracking the number. Blocked. Scrambled. Dead end.
He broke into the house. It was clean. Too clean. Like no one had ever lived there. No toothbrush. No jackets on hooks. No smell of that awful instant coffee Akram insisted was "fine". Just the smell of air—neutral, empty.
Gone. Sterile. As if he had never been real to begin with.
And Carl was disgusted.
Disgusted with the silence. With the emptiness.
With how easy it was to erase someone.