Title derived from 'Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There'.

I was going to write this as one continuous story, but since I can only speculate on Season 4, I thought this would be a better structure for it. Since the ending of the finale was just so depressing, I thought I'd carry on the theme. But there IS hope too, and I'm planning on writing the final chapter with that in mind. These one-shots will probably be mostly off-island, though I have one that will be on-island. I have 6 or 7 planned at least over the summer hiatus.

Also, I'd just like to thank each and every one of you who took the chance to read and review my previous story. I honestly wasn't expecting all the wonderful comments and response I got about it! You made me feel really good about my writing, which is all I could ask for. Many, many thanks again!

That being said, enjoy this, and I hope it doesn't disappoint!

One month after the bridge.

The faint but unmistakable noise of blades cutting through air slowly roused the man who sat asleep with his back against a wall in his ramshackle apartment. The sound was familiar; threatening, and filled him with unease. Not that it wasn't hard to fill him with unease these days.

Jack Shephard peeled his sore eyes open, fluttering his eyelids against the scant light and found himself staring directly at the ceiling fan, it's rotation conjuring up memories he'd been so desperately trying to repress; to utterly forget. But the more he tried, the more vivid they became. All-consuming, to the point where sometimes he just couldn't take it anymore. The bridge last month wasn't the only time he'd contemplated suicide, no. There had been other times too, but somehow, somehow, something had always intervened and stopped him. It only served to increase his feeling of total and utter cowardice. He was a shadow of the man he'd once been. He wasn't even sure he'd been that man at all anymore.

Slowly, he forced himself to look around the room. The dull morning glow of Los Angeles, diffused by the already gathering smog forced its way through the drawn blinds; thin lines of light streaking across the maps that lay haphazardly on the floor, pinned to the walls, all over the couch and table. Obsession gone mad. Had he finally gone mad, too?

They made a mistake.

Jack winced, his head pounding, but it didn't stop him blindly groping for the half-drunk bottle of tequila he'd somehow failed to finish the night before. Not like me, he thought idly to himself as he drew it up to his cracked lips and took a long, hard swig. Start as you mean to go on, as they say. The burn of the liquid in his throat was comforting. It almost made him smile. Almost, but not quite. Jack couldn't really remember the last time he'd smiled for real. Not since the island; not since Kate had moved in with him for those blissful few months afterward. It had all been a dream, though. The world had changed, and as hard as they'd tried to deny it, so had they. A perfect imbalance had ripped them all apart. They were hollow shells haunting a once-familiar place.

They weren't supposed to leave.

He leaned his head back against the unforgiving wall, his neck stiff, and fished out his phone from his jeans pocket. He stared at it for long moments with some kind of reverence; as though it might just be able to dig him out of the hellish pit he'd fallen into, as though it could be his final salvation. As it was, there were only five numbers stored inside its black plastic and metal casing, and four of those were pretty much burned bridges. Should he call the final number and fuck that up too?

Right now, he thought grimly, he had nothing left to lose. Maybe he really did want to fuck this up as well. It would give him the final incentive to end it; to just find a quiet place to curl up and die and be done with everything. There was barely any point left to live now. Everything was wrong; ruined because of their decision. His decision. They'd all be better off without him.

Jack flipped the phone open and closed for a while with a shaking hand, listening to the metallic clicks it made, before taking another huge swig of early-morning dutch courage and pressing the speed-dial number for his last hope. A fool's hope, but the last thread of sanity he still had a grasp on.

An answer machine kicked in after 4 rings. He nearly hung up, but the beep came too quickly, not giving him enough time to react. Jack drew a wavering breath and spoke quietly.

"Hey. It's me. Listen, I know you probably don't want to see me, but... Right now, you're pretty much all I have left. She won't talk to me. She won't... I really don't think she understands. I guess... I guess what I'm trying to say is could you come over? I need someone to talk to about this. Please? I think I'm going crazy here... You know where I am. Please. I'm getting really... You know. I know you do. Two knocks on the door. that's all I ask. I'll be here all day and night..."

Closing the phone, he sighed deeply, expectation at an all-time low. He shoved it back into his pocket, and pulled out the slim bottle of pills at the bottom. He flipped the lid on auto-pilot, tipped one into his mouth and washed it down with another heavy gulp of tequila.

Jack Shephard was dying. Physically, emotionally; a shattered spirit with a shattered heart. But something was keeping him alive, insisting he hang on just that little bit longer. Whatever it was, he loathed it more than anything else in the world.

Anything else aside from himself.

Hours later, Jack was asleep again, in the same spot as always. He spent most of his actual waking time in the dark. He hated the daylight now. It brought too many memories of events long-passed; things that were so wonderful once, but now they taunted and humiliated him. He didn't deserve the daylight anymore.

Two sharp, loud raps on his door tore him from his slumber. He ran a trembling hand over his head, his hair longer now, and pushed himself off the wall. Getting up with some difficulty, his whole body stiff and pained, Jack stumbled to the door and fumbled with the three solid locks he'd had put on months ago, hoping that whoever it was hadn't had second thoughts and bolted from the step.

They hadn't. As he wrenched the door open, a pair of soft blue eyes locked onto his bloodshot, brown ones. A familiar face framed with blonde hair. That familiar Antipodean lilt assaulting his ears.

"Oh my God. Jack..."

"Claire." He breathed raggedly, drawing his gaze away, suddenly ashamed. She could smell the alcohol on him immediately. That, and the fact he looked like shit told her all she needed to know. He'd gone and lost it, big time. She pushed past him and stepped over the threshold, taking in the sight of his once-attractive apartment. It looked like a bomb had hit it. Aside from the maps and measuring instruments, the place was littered with empty liquor bottles, pill packets, Oceanic plane tickets, trash; blinds drawn closed against the light. Low-watt bulbs shed a dim glow in dusty corners. Did he ever even leave this place?

She turned on her heels, finding him still stood in the doorway, propped up against the frame. "What the fuck is going on, Jack? I mean, Jesus, look at you..." She fully took in his disheveled appearance; his seriously unshaven face, the once-white tank top and faded black jeans clinging to his wiry, almost emaciated body. He was so very pale too, dark circles ringing his haggard eyes. He looked like a completely different person. "Why the hell didn't you call sooner? I would've come, you know I would!"

"Do I?" Jack whispered bitterly, his eyes trained on the floor, toeing the rough carpet. "I thought you hated me just as much as everyone else does."

"Jack... No one hates you, don't be stupid. They're all worried. It's just..." She trailed off, suddenly feeling very uneasy.

"Just what? They think I've lost it, don't they? I know Kate does. She won't answer my calls anymore, Claire. She won't fucking listen to me!"

Claire saw the tears welling in his eyes, heard the taint of desperation in his weak, strained voice. She knew she couldn't answer for Kate, or any of the others, but she could answer for herself. Walking forward quickly, she pulled him away from the door, closing it soundly behind them, and drew him into a tight embrace. She could feel him shaking under her touch and it hurt her like crazy. Pulling tighter, she swallowed back her own tears as his arms finally wrapped around her back.

"You're a bloody idiot, Jack, you know that?" Claire choked out against his chest. "You really think I'd just dump you like that, abandon you? You're my fucking brother!"

Brother. Flesh and blood. The shock of the revelation had worn off now, slipping seamlessly into acceptance and love. A few days after they were rescued, various pertinent documents came to light. Probably the very same documents that the Others had on them in their precious files. Juliet must have known, Jack mused as the information was disclosed to the pair of them by "Officials" in hushed tones, but she'd never said a word. Why? But the more pressing matter at that time was the fact Jack had a sister, he was an uncle. And Claire had a brother. A brother who'd saved her life the first day of the crash, a brother she'd spent 3 months stranded with on an island in the middle of nowhere, and had no clue about. It was the most surreal moment either of them had ever experienced, even more than the revelation of Desmond to Jack, and it took a long time for it to finally sink in. The legacy of Christan Shephard lived on, even after his death.

Claire led Jack cautiously to the couch, brushing off maps and bottles so they could sit. It looked like he'd been sleeping here rather than in his bed, too. They sat in silence for a long time, huddled together until Jack drew the strength to pull away and settle back a little.

"Where's Aaron?" He muttered quietly, shaking his head, attempting some kind of normal conversation. Jack hadn't seen either of them for 8 months.

"He's with Hurley and Carmen." Claire drew forward, almost enthused. "Jack, you should see him, he's walking and talking and-"

"I'm sure he'd just love to see his uncle in this state, wouldn't he?" He cut her off with a sneer.

Claire was quiet for a while, before breaking the tense silence again. "He talks about you all the time, you know? He misses you, Jack. I miss you. Why didn't you call sooner? Why did you keep me away?"

Jack sighed deeply, his once proud eyes staring at his hands. They were still shaking. "I didn't want you to see me falling apart... I guess... I don't know Claire, everything is wrong. I fucked it all up. I ruined lives. I thought keeping away might save you, save Aaron. I shouldn't have called you at all; this was a mistake. Everything is wrong, Claire. I can't... I can't take it anymore!"

Claire took his hand gently, sensing his obvious distress. "No, Jack. You did what you thought was right. You did what we ALL thought was right. Stop blaming yourself! If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be here. Neither would Aaron. You saved us, Jack, many times, and don't you ever forget that. You're still saving people even now, aren't you? We all heard about you on that bridge-"

Jack suddenly laughed. A bitter, harsh sound that took Claire by surprise. He pulled away and got up unsteadily from the couch, turning to face her, his expression sour.

"You have no idea, do you? That accident? I caused it, Claire. It was my fault. My fucking fault."

"How could you possibly have-"

"Oh I was on that bridge all right. I was there before the accident. You know why I was on that bridge, Claire? Because..." He swallowed hard, his throat parched. Damnit, where was that bottle of Tequila? "Because I was about to throw myself off it, OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? Jack Shephard, "the Great Hero", was about to kill himself. That poor woman saw me and got distracted. It never would've happened if I hadn't been there. It was all my fault! Just like everything else."

Claire recoiled sharply at his tone and his words. She couldn't believe what he was saying. The man stood before her wasn't the man she knew and loved anymore. It was like he was possessed. Even so, she just couldn't accept it. She continued on through her now-apparent tears, desperate to get through to him.

"Did you tell Kate this? I mean, does she know?"

"No. Why should I bother? It's not like it would change anything. She didn't even go to the funeral, why the hell would she care if I died too?"

The funeral. Of course. Claire was initially surprised he'd even bothered when she found out from Kate, but seeing the state he was in, his desperate assertions about going back, that they shouldn't have left... It was starting to make sense. She hadn't gone because that particular person didn't deserve any kind of send-off whatsoever. But she was slowly realising why Jack had gone. And she was beginning to see why she should've too. Jack was reaching down for a bottle of Tequila on the floor, his movement stiff and unnatural. She had to help him, out of pity. No, out of love. He was the only family she had left, aside from Aaron and her aunt Lindsay back in Sydney, and she had all but cut her off, even after hearing the news that she was alive and well. It was one of the main reasons why Claire was living with Hurley and Carmen here in Los Angeles rather than going back to her home country. That, and Jack, of course.

"Don't you dare say that, Jack. Of course she bloody cares. She's just scared. We all are."

Jack turned away from her, waving his hand decidedly to negate her statement and took several long gulps from the bottle. Kate didn't care. If she did she would listen to him.

Calmly, Claire continued, a little afraid of what she was about to say. But she said it nonetheless. He had to hear it.

"I still see him, you know?"

"Who?" Jack glanced at her, confused.

Claire shifted uneasily under her brother's cold stare, bowing her head to the floor. Tears welled in her eyes again, the gravity of her forthcoming admission almost too hard to take. This wasn't something she'd admitted to anyone yet, but she felt she had to tell him; she owed it to him and she had to get it off her chest. Maybe it would help.

Maybe not.

"Charlie. I still see him. Out of the corner of my eye when I take Aaron for a walk. In the chair next to my bed as I fall asleep. I hear him singing sometimes, when we're alone. If I leave Aaron alone in his crib he... he talks. I thought he was talking to himself at first, you know how toddlers are, but I stopped and listened. He has conversations with him, Jack. It's like... It's like Charlie is watching over us."

"Claire-"

"Jack, don't you go saying I'm imagining it. I know I'm not."

"Charlie's dead, Claire. He's dead!" He spat back.

"Don't you think I know that?! It's been over two years, Jack. I know he's dead. You want to rub it in a bit more?"

Jack faltered, casting his eyes over his sister. She was crying openly now. The dull shine of a chunky silver ring shone from her finger as she fiddled with it nervously before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a weather-beaten scrap of paper.

"This is all I have left. The ring, and his final message to me. The highlights of his life. Desmond gave it to me on the day we were rescued. I know he died for a reason. He's been trying to tell me something, tell Aaron something. Jack..." Her eyes locked onto his, sad, but defiant. "I believe you. What you're trying to do. I believe you. I know this is all wrong. We all know it. It's just for some of us it's too painful. Look what's happened to you, Jack.. None of us... We don't want that, but at the same time..."

She stopped, wringing her hands and realising the way she'd put things sounded terrible, but Jack seemed to relax a little, despite her clumsiness. She watched him put the bottle down on the map-strewn table and run a hand over his shaggy jaw.

"We don't belong here anymore, Claire." He whispered, the sound barely audible.

"I know." She sighed back.