A/N: This started out as a late night distraction, and exercise in free style writing, and my third fanfiction ever. Just bear with me.
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Sick
It was dangerous to be here, he thought, he really shouldn't be here, he shouldn't have come and yet here he was, walking down this same road again. He was sick, he knew it, he was twisted inside but he couldn't stop himself from coming here, again.
No matter how hard he tried to lift himself above all of his baggage, his emotional turmoil, nothing worked, nothing ever worked; nothing would ever work.
He gently stroked his arms, his skilful fingers grazing his pale, pale flesh, he sat in the cemetery, he wasn't crying, but his eyes were wide and bloodshot, his face was haggard, his eyes sunken and his thin pale skin stretched across his skull, his once thick, lustrous hair was now thin and dry.
He always seemed to end up here, just staring at the headstones, tracing the names marked upon them. The dead didn't judge him, the dead listened to him scream and whimper late at night. He felt oddly comfortable among the corpses, as if he belonged.
He sat, rocking unsteadily and mumbling incoherently to himself; sometimes he talked to the graves and he would always wait for an answer, before continuing, mumbling nonsense phrases and long, repetitive apologies.
That's where they found him, sitting cross-legged, rocking slightly; whispering his secrets to the dead.
Alger and Det. Rohm, shook their head at the sad sight before them, he was a silhouette of a broken man, once a professional, a golden boy, a son, a friend, a lover to many, he had once been what would be considered normal, all of his problems could be solved by a quick visit to an expensive shrink and some designer drug.
But here he was, he remained, hidden, broken, a hollow shell of a man who once existed.
"John?" Alger asked quietly, standing beside him, he shivered and shrugged off the voice that couldn't quite drown out the voices in his head.
"John" he said, just a little louder, but to no avail, too far gone he didn't even recognize his own name. Alger sighed and looked back at Det. Rohm, who looked sombre and strained, he returned his focus back to the trembling figure beside him.
"Dr. Carter?" He urged, placing a hand on his shoulder. Carter jumped and looked up at the man beside him, with wide, fear filled eyes, they stared straight through Alger and he shuddered, forcing himself to stare back.
God, those eyes, he thought, they took on a childlike appearance, gazing out from his ghostly white face, sunken eyes and thin, translucent skin, the pale moonlight bouncing of the angular lines of his face.
He was haunted.
"It's time to go home, Dr. Carter, time for you to sleep."
Carter looked around, confused by his surroundings, his eyes snapped from one place to another but he seemed to recognise the concerned face beaming down from above, finally Carter took the outstretched hand and Alger hauled him up to his feet.
He was tall and Alger did not match his height but he made up for it in breadth, as it was not hard to out weigh the skeletal figure who gently keeled, unsteady on his feet. Alger grasped him and gestured for Det. Rohm to aid him, Rohm rushed to his side and helped to balance Carter, who seemed to sway in even the gentlest wind.
As they started to walk from the cemetery, Carter stretched out his hand and his fingers trailed along the bold letters of a name: ABIGAIL LOCKHART 1968-2004