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Joe washed his hands for the twelfth time, the hot water burning his skin and the soap stinging the tiny cracks forming on his extremely chapped knuckles, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop, not when his brain told him that if he didn't do this enough, if he let even a single microbe cling to him after investigating a crime scene, then someone would get ill and die and it would be all his fault...
He knew it wasn't real, that his bastard of a brain was playing tricks on him, but Joe couldn't stop himself scrubbing his hands raw—and only then, when his skin was red and inflamed and damaged and so damn painful, did the awful thoughts finally stop.