AN- So I suppose this is technically my 100th story, although it's barely a story, more of just a drabble. I have fallen hard into the Broadchurch fandom and... well, everything hurts.


It was a short run down the hill from the hut to the boat yard. Nothing that he shouldn't have been able to handle.

And yet, as Miller shouted at the suspect from behind a boat, completely bluffing, he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep running. He just didn't count on collapsing after her frantic yells and his increased panic. That was the final straw.

Of course his bloody doctor had to be right, 'do as I say or die', and he couldn't help but wonder if that was true. If he was dying. It certainly felt like it. He'd fallen to the ground yelling out in pain, and if the cause of that didn't kill him, the sheer embarrassment of falling just might. Leaving Miller to defend herself, letting the suspect get away.

And he couldn't really hear her over the sound of his panic, but he knew there was shouting and a call for an ambulance, and mostly he hoped that bloody suspect didn't get away because he chose that moment to fall over and cry out.

Really, his timing couldn't have been worse.

Miller was looking at him and saying things, but he still couldn't hear, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Well, couldn't think of anything else other than... No, no.

Miller's fingers were around his neck, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

Damn there's no way you can keep this from them anymore. Everyone will know. And even if they don't Miller will, and she will not let me work. Because there's going to be a bloody ambulance and they will never listen if you tell them to not take you, and besides, it's not like you can ever form words at the moment, let alone breathe. There will be no claiming you're fine to get out of this one.

You are not going to finish this case. The murderer will walk away. Again.

But he shoved that thought away as it was only panicking him more, which was only making everything worse.

He tried to focus on breathing, nothing else, just thinking about, focusing on, the struggle to get air in and out of his lungs. Nothing else.

And yet, all he could think was that his daughter was going to phone back, and Miller would answer, forced to tell her that her father was dead, or worse yet, in hospital dying.

She'd never forgive him for that. Too sentimental.

And as Miller looked at him with panic as his vision began to fade around the edges, he couldn't help but feel he had let everyone down.

Again.