The Twelve Step Job

The D.T.'s were getting bad. He knew that from the very beginning. He was expecting Sam. Sterling wasn't that big of a leap though. They used to be friends. It was Sam who ended that friendship. They were old rivals. They played chess in their heads with almost no idea what move the other would make. It made sense to see Sterling as far as hallucinations went.

He was not expecting to see Sophie Devereaux.

He actually thought it was really her at first. Her black eyes were narrowed and her hands were practically glued to her hips. Her petulant grimace was shining on her face. She even had those glasses and shoes that made her secretly very attractive.

"Okay, Soph, I know what you're going to say, but I need something to do. You haven't given me anything to do. It's a wonder I haven't lost my mind already."

She simply rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Look you're not exactly innocent either," he said, "I mean, you could have signed me out hours ago. You could have saved us the trouble and signed me out when that damn doctor wouldn't let me out of here. I'm not an addict."

"Keep telling yourself that," she huffed. He thought she was still angry with him.

"But I'm not," he replied, "I don't get angry when I haven't had a drink. I don't constantly crave the taste of whiskey on my lips… though that does sound good right about now. A nice, giant gulp of that brassy liquid would just hit the spot… I'm not a drunk! Drunks can't think straight! They only care about themselves and do any crazy thing they can to get themselves another drink."

"Right," she said, "because trying to climb the wall of a rehabilitation center isn't crazy."

"okay, I see your point," he sighed, "Maybe I should have actually came out and told you. I'm sorry. This Hurley guy has just been grating on my nerves like you wouldn't believe. Honestly if you were stuck with the guy for as long as I have…"

"I would have realized I had a problem and admitted it," she said.

He turned to her and gave her the appropriate glare for the comment. He actually thought about shaking her, but that made him feel guilty. She was only trying to be helpful. But she kept looking at him like she'd given up hope. Like he was nothing but a disappointment, a shadow of who he used to be. Like he wasn't the man he used to be.

He really needed a drink.

"I don't think a drink is going to help you this time around, Nate." She started pacing around him, drawing his attention as she probably always would. "I think you're going to have to admit a few things about your own character. Like why you're hallucinating people when you supposedly aren't going through withdrawal."

"Not actually in rehab, Soph," he repeated for the sixteenth time that day alone, "Pretending."

"Well you certainly have us fooled," she chimed.

He realized her wording right before he spoke. Her movements were off. They were short and sharp, orderly. There was no sway of the hips. Her shoulders didn't give off friendliness or a false sense of security. She was completely rigid, giving off the vibe of a viper about to strike. Her jaw was clenched. Her fingers struggled through her hair impatiently.

She wasn't just mimicking him.

"You're a hallucination," he gasped.

She simply nodded her head. Then a smile that wasn't hers flashed upon her face.

"It's funny what the mind perceives," she sighed, "Remember when I used to wear sexy little negligees and traipsed around in Paris."

As she spoke, her appearance changed. It wasn't a negligees as expected. Her boots became black stilettos. Her dress was now a pair of jeans and a puffy blouse. Her hair curled and her lips turned red. Her eyes looked smoky and she looked ready to kill. That was the Sophie Devereaux he used to know.

"Remember when I used to appear with a gun pointed at you?"

He remembered.

"You had nightmares for weeks afterwards," she continued, "In fact, wasn't there one where I threatened Sam and we celebrated with a passionate kiss?"

He stared at her… it, dumbfounded.

"You've changed," she said, "It started when Sam died. You started picturing me more often than your own wife. You imagined us driving along the hillsides of Ireland, the streets of Paris. Anything that would get you away from your wife and your dead son. I was your rescuer."

"You were my personal Hell," he replied.

She simply nodded. "Your punishment for being the cause of the death of your son."

"I'm not an alcoholic!" He didn't mean to shout. She was making him angry. He couldn't control his emotions around her. He never could.

"It was the only way to get rid of me," she shrugged, "You took a drink and I would slowly disappear. One sip of whiskey and my smile would be gone. Another, and the way my hair shined in the moonlight was less lustrous. You were definitely avoiding something."

"It wasn't you," he said, "It was Sam. My baby boy is dead, Sophie. What other choice did I have?"

"Sam doesn't disappear when you drink," she replied.

She had him there. Sam became a sharper image with every sip. His little boy lived every time he fell asleep. He could play baseball and talk about his school day. He wasn't sick. He was alive and well and back in his arms, laughing.

And Sophie wasn't there to ruin everything.

"I'm not responsible for your son's death," she said, "Blackpoole is."

"I see you when I sleep." He felt like he was confessing in front of a priest. She was his pardon for his crimes. "Sometimes you're his mother. I tell you the truth and we take Blackpoole down together. We don't get divorced. We don't end. We stay. We fight. We're together."

"But not with Maggie," she nodded.

"Not with Maggie," he agreed.

"I think that's part of the problem," she winked.

And just like that she was gone.

She had a point though. Drinking was the only way to get rid of her. He'd never craved a drink more than right then when she started talking about his darkest secrets. She revealed his soul and he craved alcohol. He was an alcoholic. He wanted that whiskey now more than ever. And there was only one way to get it.

Hurley was going to talk.