Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own Riddick or Johns, but I do own anything my warped mind comes up with. And if anyone happens to be looking for Mr. Hauser or Mr. Diesel…well, you never heard of me, alright?

I just wanted to dig into the character of Johns – he seemed like the type to have some sort of history, something driving him… addiction is a powerful thing, and there are always reasons beyond what we might think. He might have told Fry that it was the pain of the shiv, but I think there was something before that. This is my take on it.

Takes place several years before Pitch Black.

"Wake up."

He stirs, but mumbles something about 'not yet'. He smiles in his sleep, rolls over and tucks the pillow under his head, snuggling down with a small smile.

"Billy, wake up," the feminine voice continues. Feminine, familiar. It is a sing-song voice, and there is evident humor in it.

He feels her hands tug on his shoulder, feels the bed dip with her weight, and she crawls over him, rolling him onto his back and seating herself in his lap, the sheet between them. One hand slides up his chest, across the splash of auburn hair on his pectorals, and nimble fingers toy with the silver chain, the St. Christopher's medal, and then curl into the thick waving hair on his head. Her lips touch his and murmur his name once more.

He grins against the kiss and quickly snares her in his arms, making her squeal in surprise and delight. He slips one hand up into her waist-length hair and the other hand lands on her backside, kneading the rounded flesh playfully. His tongue slides against hers and he pushes his hips up, grinding against that warm, wonderful center of her.

"C'mon, baby," he whispers gently, the tip of his tongue tracing her lips before he pulls away. Hands find her breasts, small and firm, but absolute perfection according to him. She's wearing his tank-top, he can feel her nipples through the ribbed cotton. He growls and pinches the tight peaks, making her squeal again.

"Billy, it's Bradley," she whispers, this time a little urgently.

The name of his young son makes him drop his hands and he sits up, opening his eyes. "Bradley?"

She nods, her eyes vacant and faraway. "He's dead."

With a choked gasp, Detective William J. Johns sat up, torn from a deep sleep by haunting memories. He groaned. His stomach churned painfully and he clutched it, wincing at the quivering in the pit of his belly. Fumbling in the darkened room, his hand landed on the glass of water he set out the night before. He moved his fingers to the side, just a little to the left, and found the vial of little purple pills. Clutching the drug, he pried the top off with a curse and poured out four into a cupped palm. He tipped back his head, dumped in the handful of pills, and chased it down with a gulp of water.

He found his watch next and pressed a button, causing an eerie blue-green light to glow in the room. Three-seventeen. "Fuck," he muttered, annoyed that he had been woken up from a deep sleep. And by the same dream…

A muffled whimper from the other side of the bead made him whip his head around and he started, not quite remember why he wasn't alone. The light on his watch automatically shut off, dropping him into the darkness once more. His thumb jammed the button again and he held up the watch this time, holding it over the obviously feminine figure sprawled beside him.

Her name…her name… He wracked his brain for what he couldn't remember. Must have been one hell of a night. He paused, scrambling for the name of the planet he was on. Genoa…Genesis…That was it. Genesis Major. He looked to the girl in the bed. Fair hair…small frame…no doubt she had green eyes, or somewhere near. He always had a thing for green eyes.

Just like Annika…

The drugs wouldn't kick in for at least another hour. He fumbled again and found the switch on a nearby lamp. The dim yellow light flooded the room and Johns swung his legs over the side of the bed, perching his elbows on his thighs, and rested his face in his hands. He took a deep breath, letting his ribs expand, and he exhaled slowly. He needed something quicker. A better fix for less time. Then he remembered something. He turned, his eyes looking back to the girl on the bed.

Not exactly beautiful, but by no means ugly. He wouldn't have taken her to bed if she hadn't sparked his interest, at least a little. And the night before, when he had come across her in the men's room of a club, tucked into a stall and sticking herself with a needle…she had smiled up at him dreamily and sighed, asking if he was real.

"The hell you on?" He'd drawled, before nudging her aside and flipping open his belt. His thumb popped the top snap on his jeans and he tugged the zipper down. He pulled himself free and urinated, a full, steady stream, all the time vaguely aware that the blond was still in the stall with him.

"You always piss in front of complete strangers?"

Johns arched an eyebrow at her and gave her a cocky grin. "You always shoot up in front of complete strangers?"

It was morphine, he'd learned a little later, when he'd come to his senses and felt bad about taking a leak not six inches from her head. He'd bought her a beer, sat down with her, and had a reasonable conversation.

"From that haunted look in your eyes, I'd say you need it," she explained with a shrug. Amber. Her name was Amber. It annoyed him that she could tell something was wrong with him, even here in the darkness of the bar. It was all over his face, he knew, but he didn't think that a complete stranger would see it.

He had refused a hit, settling instead for a hastily rolled joint, a few more beers, and now a fistful of barbiturates. But now, in the yellow light of the hotel room, he needed something fast. Something complete.

He leaned back on his elbows and craned his neck, looking at the girl. He smiled softly. Barely twenty-two to his twenty-five, but old enough to handle herself. And old enough to fuck him from here to Sunday, six ways and then some. The memory of the night before drained into his mind and he remembered the way she had felt, the way she had moaned, the way she had said his name and scrubbed her face along his chest, sighing.

The memory made his dick spring to life.

And it churned his stomach a little more. He winced at the images in his head, images of him with his face buried between her legs, with him behind her, her on top, her on the bottom, in the shower, on the floor, in the chair…his guts wobbled dangerously.

It brought him surging to his feet and he stumbled to the bathroom, crashing into the door and slamming back to his knees before heaving and spilling out everything he had consumed in the past eight hours, burning the whole way up. The four tiny purple pills stared up at him, barely digested, and he cursed even as he wiped the corner of his mouth, his forearm resting on the toilet seat. His head hung down, the stench of vomit and cleaning fluid stinging his nostrils and he wretched again, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. He spit saliva and took a deep breath before sitting back. His hand rubbed over his face. His temples throbbed as the previous nights activities washed over him again and again, like the undertow of an ocean, never letting him surface, forcing him down, sitting on his chest, making him choke…

"You look like shit."

He started at the voice and looked up, squinting against the harsh bathroom light. Amber stood over him, clad only in her tiny panties, her long blonde hair just covering her breasts. She cocked her hip and frowned.

"Fuck off," Johns muttered as he fought to keep control of his churning stomach.

"Yeah, I have to leave anyway," she said flippantly, turning on her heel and heading back to the room.

He heard her getting dressed, heard the rustling of clothes and the thud of feet as she scrambled to find her shoes. He heard her pull on her jacket and slide her purse over her shoulder before her shadow once again invaded the bathroom.

She sighed at the sight of him. Last night he had seemed a little lonely, and hey, he was cute. Tall, over six feet, with wonderfully thick and wavy auburn hair, and deep, piercing blue eyes. He wasn't too shabby in bed, either. But when he had mumbled a name in his bliss, Amber had started to piece things together. He had most likely been dumped, the way he clung to her as he came in a tremendous roar. But now, seeing him sagging on a bathroom floor and hugging a toilet, she could only surmise that it was something much worse than being jilted at the altar.

She rummaged in her purse for a bit, watching as Johns' head lolled back and banged against the door. He was in poor shape, and it wasn't bound to get easier anytime soon. Coming up with a new syringe and a tiny vial of clear liquid, she fisted them for a moment before setting them on the counter next to his badge.

"It's gonna get a lot worse before it gets better," she said softly with a sad smile. Her nails drummed the porcelain counter next to her offering. "For the long nights ahead."

And then she was gone, like Annika before, and her name and her face were only a vague memory.

TBC...