"M'fine," Tim insisted, very obviously not fine. He wobbled over to the kitchen counter, poured himself a cup of coffee—or rather, spilled most of the coffee and managed to get a bit of it into his cup, downed it in one gulp, then wobbled back to his room. Instead of sleep, the sick-as-a-dog idiot continued to pin information to the board, mumbling incoherently to himself, his fever-ridden brain working on overdrive.

He was on to something. He could feel it. Some of the victims had gone missing for weeks and were found dead in remote locations, while others had only disappeared for a few hours before turning up dead. How was the killer choosing the victims? Why?

Tim's mind swam, trying to fit the pieces together. His finger traced a pattern on the map, then his knees gave out and he landed flat on his face. He heard his roommate call out from across the apartment.

"I'm okay," he replied, voice muffled by the floor.

He was not. Tim had been working nonstop on this case for days now, barely getting any sleep, and what little he'd gotten had been fitful and shallow. His throat hurt, his head hurt, his lungs hurt, and he was shivering so badly his teeth chattered. He'd run out of cough drops a while ago and had been running on coffee and willpower.

His roommate picked him up, which was a feat, since Tim, despite his relatively smaller build, was a solid wall of muscle. He tried to say something but it came out an unintelligible rasp.

Next thing he knew, he was being tucked into his roommate's bed. A cool, damp towel was draped over his forehead, a warm bowl of chicken soup was on the nightstand, and a very exasperated roommate was glaring at him in a way that brokered no argument. It was stay there and get some rest, or get chained to the bed, apparently.

"Chains? That's kin—" he attempted to joke, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His roommate was unimpressed. "I'm fine," he protested as the bowl of soup was shoved into his hands. He took a grudging sip. Tasty. "I just need...to find the...the killer..."