Explanation: Ok, so, one day there were these two happenin' chicks, who, in a fit of boredom and "Hey, wow, they are repeating season 7 on British TV!"-ness, decided to embark on a fairly large project.

Basically, we are cataloguing season 7 (and possibly beyond), and the relationship that stirred between Carter and Abby through that, via the medium of post eps. Some are individual, some show their other relationships, some are them together, and some will be just weird, but what we're trying to do is make a series that shows the Carby magic weaving it's way into (our) hearts.
I'll be doing Carters POV, and Charli (soulofanangel) will be doing Abby's. What follows is anyone's guess.
We're starting with "Homecoming", because…umm, we are.
Disclaimer: Carter's right here. Say hey to the people Carter. And wave! That's good. Umm, I mean, 'not mine'.

Spoilers: For "Homecoming".

Summary: (just in case you don't remember what happened in the actual episode, because I didn't totally until I re-watched it.)
Basically, Carter-wise: he checked into Atlanta with Benton, who then left him, and Carter looked terrified, whilst kinda still denying he had a problem. Then the nurse (Margaret) introduced him to his first group therapy session. Months later, we see him talking to the leader and thanking him, and the next we see of him is on a plane back to Chicago, with a nasty beard and an equally annoying talkative man. Benton couldn't pick him up from the airport as planned, so he sends a med student. Carter walks off into the sunset to find his jeep.
And that's about all you need.

Authors Note: Well, kinda covered that one. Except, this post ep takes place throughout various stages in time, all marked.
Oh, and our post eps are meant to be read in tandem; while they are our own individual work, it makes more sense if you read them together, otherwise you may miss bits. Drop us a line, we're kind of friendly. ;o)
Thanks/recognition: to Charli, meine Liebling and IAS and Lanie, as we're vaguely taking their 'joining-post-eps' idea, and pimping it for our own purposes. I promise no journals though, will leave that to the professionals. ;o)
Final piece of advice: Get a cushion and a bar of chocolate. Not at all essential, but it may make the next five minutes or so more enjoyable.

Fear and Self-loathing in Chicago.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Only the Lonely
Know the way I feel tonight.
Only the Lonely
Know this feeling ain't right.

'Only the Lonely (know how I feel)'  ~ Roy Orbison.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Atlanta, May

"I'm John Carter, and I'm an addict."

The words have been steadily revolving around my head for an hour now, the product of boredom, self loathing and the fact that I'm at present forced to lie on an uncomfortable mattress and stare at a cracking cream ceiling, with hints of the beginnings of wood rot where it joins the wall in the far corner, and a few faint chips in the plaster, which if I squint hard enough at, make faces, all of them mocking me.

I see Mark, watching me steadily, but cautiously like I was a crazed maniac. Kerry, being the sensible, no-nonsense organiser, then shipping me off like cargo. Abby, sticking her nose in, trying to look concerned, though I don't know why. She thought I was a good doctor?

I was.

I screwed that one up.

The last face, largest of all, eyes on fire and mouth poised, ready to send a stern lecture, is Benton. Dr Benton, looking so fucking disappointed in me, because, in a stunningly dramatic way I failed him.

God, the years I spent trying to earn his respect, to make him proud. He was my mentor in every way, and more than anything I wanted any recognition that I made a good doctor. I thought he did, but I don't think that applies any more. Not now he's seen me snivelling and crying, and frantically scrambling for any piece of reality I can hold onto. Then clenching my fist, the symbol of wounded pride, and hitting him square in the face.

That felt exhilarating in the moment my skin connected with his, the deep smack somehow satisfying, like proving I could still react, but now all I can feel is shame. Shame, humiliation at the miserable cretin I have become, like I am walking in the shadows of my own life. All this, and dread.

And terror.

My first meeting passed without incident. I sat, I introduced myself, and I was called upon to speak, to share my pitiful story with the group, nameless faces, a heroin addict, a cocaine abuser whose husband had left her and her small child to fend for themselves. A man who thinks so little of himself that he has surrendered to narcotics 4 times in the past two years. All of them stereotypes. Then me.

But I'm real.

I wanted to scream it, to write it with a marker pen across the whitewashed walls in dirty, large letters; "It wasn't my fault."

I want to blame them. To blame Paul Sobriki, for taking Lucy, my blood and my pride. To blame Abby, Abby for telling them. Her betrayal cuts me deeply, like a glinting knife, and I can't place why. She's just another face in the ER, another student, but in her I feel something, something sad and beautiful. On that rooftop before I lost so much, it was there. I felt. Not anymore.

Do addicts get friends?

I wanted to scream this, to shout it, but I didn't, I swallowed hard, words fighting for prominence, but none escaping, and as hard as I tried to create them, they sunk. I just stood there, in awe, afraid, staring straight at the man ahead of me, barely lucid enough to understand what was being said. My mouth tasted of dry, dusky air, unable to breathe properly, saliva vacuumed out. Then the river inside me opened, and I told them, I told them all, about Sobriki, about Lucy, about the bitterness of Abby's infidelity.

And they listened. Some nodded, some stared ahead, some looked to (at) the ground uncomfortably, the truth of their situations painfully similar. And then something happened. I felt a release, a small, but struggling release, telling me that this was ok. That everything would be all right, because I was no longer one faithless man amongst blooming roses, I was with them.

With them, but not one of them, I remind myself.

But here in my room, the dim square cavern that is to be my home and my captor for ninety long days, here I am alone. Here my courage fails me and my resolution to get better slips away into the shadowed corner, out of my reach.

I can feel hot sticky tears on my cheek, mingling with the cold sweat flowing from my brow, and covering my face, blurring it. Melting me into a different person. The blood in my veins runs freely now, all hints of toxin chased out, but the substance calls to me in low whispers across the room. I want a hit. I need a hit, I need it now, and the shivers and the sweat will pass, or so they tell me, but the desire won't.

What if it never does?

What if the craving keeps me as one of its servants, a skeleton only capable of doing it's bidding? I'm here, I can't have my hit, they have no drugs, but what happens when I'm working around my vice, using it, mixing with it. Will it torment me, laughing in my face like the visions skirting across the wall in front of me? Will it egg me on, a silent devil on my shoulder, watching and waiting until the time come that it can whisper a soft few traitorous words into my ear and watch me fall back from my precipice, impaled onto the rock below?

It's like a fever, like the deepest love you can imagine, but it's stronger, more powerful, and it doesn't judge or even venture comment, it's a silent partner in your muddled life. You crave it. You need it.

It makes you crawl to it, lowly and pitiful. Always watching. Watching the good doctor, the proud grandson, the loving friend you once were, now before it, begging pitifully for a release. It holds back, until you reach the very edge, intent on making you suffer a little more. Then it lets you take it, like a token, a prize, and for a few blissful moments you feel nothing, nothing but a release, and a reciprocal love, something that is yours.

Something that is mine.

My lips are dry, cracking under the humidity, sore chapped remnants of what were once blushing and moist, and my eyes are painful, the visions, the darkness and the exhaustion render me incapable of seeing anything properly. I close them, the darkness engulfing, like the only thought that runs through my head.

Do I even need to be here?

I tell myself I'm sick, I know I'm sick. I do. But these people aren't like me. There aren't, they can't be, and they never will be. They are junkies, addicts, no good stoners, they weren't stabbed, their friends didn't die and they never walked in my shoes. But, for whatever reason, they are here. They're here, and they're hurting, and it would be easy to imagine them just like me, with a history, problems that led them to temptation, to the outskirts, the dregs of society. But they are not me. I won't let them be. I'm different, and they'll see that.

They have to.

Sleep takes me, and I pray that she's quick and be done with it, but it is not to be; she is a merciless creature, and my slumber is a restless one, I toss, I turn, and I hit out at the wall in anger, lashing back at the faces, the voices which chronicle my failure. All that is left is to hope that they fade and let me be, but I trust little to hope.

Atlanta/Chicago flight, September.

My eyes are flickered shut and my body shut down, attempting to block out the incessant chatter of the man next to me, but he continues unknowing, seemingly wanting to punish me for a crime I didn't even know I'd committed. His voice drones to a long hum, as I simply nod or shake my head at the right time. I let him believe I'm a teacher. It somehow sounds easier than my real profession. My mind leaves the seat and wanders across the ocean, thinking first of Chicago and the fate which awaits me. Will I have a job? A friend? Another chance?

They say they'll take me back, but will they? Can they work with an addict, someone who constantly tortures himself, who belongs everywhere and nowhere, who they will see only as a lesson to how men can fall? And I don't know if I want them to see me that way.

It's a sobering and devastating thought that they may never see me as anything but a broken, wretched man. Three months, how much time, how much history has past since I left? I've healed, I feel it inside of me, and I'm anxious and terrified to return. But also excited. The moment I stepped on the plane I felt elation, a wonderful feeling of free air, and a fresh start.

Another chance.

Bored with the thoughts that have plagued me for the resolute months I just spent, my mind travels in the opposite direction, to Atlanta. Through the heavy doors and dark corridors of the centre; past Margaret at reception and on through to the lounge to my last meeting with the program leader. I told him I wouldn't let it beat me.

"That's what I thought. The first three times."

Until then, I didn't really consider the chance I might come back. In my drug wanting, sleepless dreams at the beginning I wondered how much of me would always remain an addict, but I was never intending to go back. I'm still not.

"So I said to her, I said…" Mr Talkative is still chatting animatedly, not even noticing that I haven't been listening to him for what my watch tells me is a full ten minutes. I briefly scan the vicinity, looking for a weapon but all I see are rows of seats, all full, and a magazine tucked into the pocket in front of me. Bringing my head back to rest on the seat, I reflect on whether a copy of InStyle could silence him, or how much general damage it could do. I've never been a violent man, but my last nerve is fragile, and I'd like to keep it pacified for the moment.

He continues for a little while and I excuse myself, heading for the bathroom, and a much-wanted cigarette I have smuggled in my shirt pocket. Making my way through narrow aisles and past a variety of sleeping and vacant passengers, I glance back, half expecting the man to still be talking to me, but he seems to have moved onto his next prey, the heavily made up woman on his other side, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The bathroom mirror greets me harshly; dimming my mood a little, staring back at me is a tired and pale face, and a scraggly beard. I splash my face with water. Gingerly stroking the end of my chin, I wonder what in the hell possessed me to grow a beard anyway, and set about finding a razor in my bag. New start, fresh face, no beard. Nothing connecting me to Atlanta.

I'm going to do this right.

I stride more confidently back to my seat. "You shaved your…" the man exclaimed, motioning to my chin. I nod indulgently. This will be a long flight.

County General, same day.

We arrive at County from the airport late into the night, to a chorus of brightly flashing police cars, all humming animatedly. I allow myself a smile. It's like I've never been away. From the outside the building looks lifeless, more movement and colour coming from the protests of the janitors, who I presume are on strike, waving banners and marching in the cold, determined. Inside, on closer inspection, people rush to and fro, gurneys and IV tubes almost flying through the air in a wash of dizzying movements, and I feel a pang of jealousy.

I want to be back, I want to work. But that will come soon enough, in a couple of days.

"You coming in?" the med student eagerly asks me, motioning towards the hospital.

"I'm just gonna get my jeep, and go home," I answer, too tired for pleasantries with the staff. My bed beckons me from here, and I eagerly await the soft, warm mattress that creates such a stark contrast with Atlanta's offerings. I thank him, and he nods and departs, skipping into the hospital with something that is almost glee.

I find my jeep exactly where I left it, patiently standing in the same spot. No one moved it. I'm glad of that, it's mine to drive, steady and faithful, and I fumble to find my keys, although I'm unsure of why they travelled with me to Atlanta. They fit easily and quickly, and I collapse into the seat, grateful and content, with only a small distance left to drive.

I begin my first trip on the roads of Chicago in a while, but find my jeep doesn't take me too my rented apartment; it takes me out of the city, to the large, stately house that marks my family's wealth upon Chicago. Two days since I called them, but seeing them is different. I wait outside at first. I should see them, I want to, but I'm afraid of what they'll think of me.

Motherly love I never got, a cold, hard fact I accepted, but I can't stand for them to think badly of me. Checking my watch, and seeing it's 10pm, I decide it's not too late to visit, and step up to the doors, knocking gently at first, then slightly more confidently. Alger answers the door, a surprisingly happy smile spreading across his face.

"Dr Carter," he intones, stepping back gracefully and beckoning me in. At the sound of my name, an elegant figure slides into the room, hands clasped and normally stern but kind features making way for a short grin.

"John!" she calls, waltzing over to me and taking my face in her hands, then kissing my cheek. "I thought you were back tomorrow."

"Got an earlier flight," I return the smile a little shyly, standing awkwardly in the hall. She watches me.

"Are you not staying?" she asks pleasantly, motioning to my jacket, and I take it off compliantly, hanging it on the rack. "Coffee," she continues almost

 normally, and glides through to the kitchen, me following slowly. "Your Grandfather is at a meeting, will you stay until he gets back?"

"I'm a little tired actually, I just wanted to…"

"We missed you," she says after a beat, pouring a generous amount of milk into my mug.

"I'm sorry."

"For wha-" she paused, and her face changed back to stern again. "I'm not saying taking drugs was the right choice, John," I feel my heart falling a little, in anticipation of her speech. "But you were stabbed, your friend died; this wasn't your fault, and you will get better. Once you leave the hospital and start your own-"

Start my own practice, I finish silently for her in my head. "I'm going back to County," I tell her, running my finger round the edge of the mug almost nervously. "I have a meeting with Dr Greene and Dr Weaver in five days, to discuss coming back."

This suggestion is met with silent but very potent disapproval, but she seems reluctant to press me on it tonight, something which is even more uncomfortable than an argument, because I can see this subject being reserved until she can fully let loose the extent of her will on me. She simply nods and sips her coffee thoughtfully. "It's good to have you back," she finally says.

"Yeah," I reply flatly, partly out of tiredness, and she catches the uncertainty in my tone easily.

"John," she states pointedly, laying a warm hand on top of my own, cold, one. "Don't be ashamed. From here things get better." I wonder if she isn't ashamed of me because she believes that ER medicine drove me to the drugs, or out of a more genuine empathy, but I reach no conclusion. I'm just glad to be in a familiar place again. To find my feet.

~ * ~

Home again, in my own bed, and I've long been awake, but this time the feeling isn't unpleasant, it's a lot more hopeful. The four walls surrounding me are more meticulously painted than in my last room, and scattered pictures of memories are more inviting.

I wonder where I'd be right now if I'd walked away from Dr Benton that haunting day in May. Or if Abby hadn't raised her suspicions with Mark. Would I be here? In a dark, lonely gutter somewhere, crawling towards dirty needles that lace the pavements of the downtown areas? Or maybe lying motionless on a park bench, the drugs running through my veins of a more potent, threatening form than just a painkiller. It's too much to worry about, but I realise now that Abby wasn't the vicious traitor in black, holding the knife, as I wanted to paint her to be, she was right.

I owe her; I guess she saved me.

I'll have to thank her for that one day.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Only the Lonely know the heartaches I've been through,
Only the Lonely know I cry and cry for you
Maybe tomorrow, a new romance
No more sorrow, but that's the chance
Only the Lonely.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A/N: Ok, so, there goes the first one. If you haven't already done so, read Charli's accompanying piece, "Temporary Arrangements". This is quite a big project, and it's kind of up to you, the kindly reader, should we continue or not??
(We may continue anyway, but we'd like to know what you think, and reviews are great. The normal chocolate/cake/lollipops bribery for reviews is in operation. Grab 'em while you can.)