[Content warning: Talk of suicide]

Tristan occasionally examined criminals in York, but he hardly ever came out as far as Whitby. Yet when the case had been passed on to him, he had jumped at the opportunity. The hospital was a dreary place that inevitably lowered even the staff's spirits when they spent enough time within its gloomy walls. He welcomed a trip to the seaside, not to mention the opportunity to see an old friend on his way back. 

He stepped into the questioning room, that was to double as examination room today. It was empty safe for a table and two chairs on either side. There were bars in front of the small window. The stone walls were unpainted, the wooden floor bare. Bleak and unwelcoming, but it would do. 

He sat down, placing his briefcase on the corner of the table, because the floor looked unclean to him and he did not want to carry any type of bugs back to the hospital. Then he unbuttoned his morning coat and started taking several items - a notepad, a pencil, a stethoscope and several measuring instruments - out of his briefcase. He was just flicking through the pages of his notepad when the door opened and he looked up.