Spoilers: For "Sand and Water", this weeks episode of choice.

Summary: So, from Carters POV.
He went into his first meeting, smiled, but generally didn't seem thrilled to be there. Met some coffee guy, who I think was called Brent (does anyone care?) and then spotted Abby sitting across from him. And thus the Carby began (ish.)
Then, awkwardly bumped into Benton and had a meeting with Weaver and Mark to discuss coming back (Mark was not keen on the idea), and is told he can on certain conditions, he has to take certain drugs, and cant do traumas. He seems pleased.
At the end, Abby comes into Doc Magoo's while he is eating. Using the Carter Eyes, and a lovely lopsided smile, he convinces her to be his sponsor. Well, he asks, and she says yes. But I'm sure you all know this. Or sort of remember.

Author's note: So, back again. This time with where it all began. We are sticking to what happened in season 7, so no A/U, just what went on, with a few added scenes etc.

Thanks to: TinyStar, starbright, Lesbiassparrow, Kenziegal and CARBYfan for the reviews, very much welcomed, and very lovely – lollies in the post, hugs delivered via my modem (umm, ish).
Also to IAS and Lanie, for reading over, and, obviously, to Charli, the Dougal to my Father Jack. Or should that be the other way round? Anyone without knowledge of the fantastic Irish comedy "Father Ted", will be lost now. Ah well.

A Little Less Scary 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"All sin tends to be addictive,
and the terminal point of addiction is what we call damnation."

W. H. Auden ~ A Certain World.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The church stands a little way back from the rest of the street, it has no graveyard or even grounds surrounding it, just a simple, small lawn in front of it sectioned by a path, and a large stone arched entrance hiding a worn wooden door. It's a surprisingly warm day for September, and the sun glows warmly over the roof, like some sort of holy light we sinners can only pray to be blessed with. I check the address in my hand, though I already know this is the right place, I've passed it tens of times before, although never with the intention of entering.

I don't particularly want to enter now, but I need to find a meeting, and I was told this was as good a place as any, small and friendly. There's a list running through my head; things I need to do, follow my steps like a good drug addict, find a sponsor to slap me on the wrist should I stumble on my path to recovery, and go to meetings, prove that at least I'm trying. I am trying.

So, I do this, I try not to worry about what the meeting with Weaver and Mark later today will bring, and concentrate on finding the hall. It's a small church, so it shouldn't be difficult, but somehow it is. I scan around me, but the street is mainly empty, not unusual for eight in the morning. Behind me two people are chattering quite loudly, and weave round me to enter the church, the brighter one I presume to be the more weathered congregant, a sturdy sponsor, her lips, though smiling, are set quite firmly, her mission clear, and her eyes house what is probably years of abuse.

The man with her looks more tired, and seemingly more susceptible to succumbing. He pauses just outside the door, glances at me awkwardly, and looks hesitant, until she sternly takes his hand and leads him in. Resigned, I leave my patch of sunlight and stroll towards the same opening, entering slightly timidly. This is the first meeting I've been to that is open; in Atlanta, they were all doctors, all fallen angels, people who the medical profession pushed that step too far.

What will I find here? Alcoholics, possibly drug addicts, although this is predominantly an alcoholics meeting. I think that's partly why I chose it, there seems less of a stigma attached to it, not an automatic vision of a no good stoner, drooling and crawling across cold, hard floors in search of a dirty needle. Maybe there is a stereotype for them, but it's not me, and I feel more comfortable with that.

Here there will be professionals, non-professionals, people living on the street. Will I blend in, or will they see me as the pretender I am? Can they see through a more peaceful exterior to this bloodied and bruised interior, housing demons and voices just like theirs? And if I can watch two people walk into this building and have an idea in my head of whom they are, how many of them are judging me?

With one last deep breath, and thinking of the residency I have yet to complete at County, I step through, bumping into an amiable man named Brent, carrying a coffee machine and looking a little flustered, but smiling. I offer him help and follow him into the room, where I find more people than I expected, sitting in straight rows of seats, a wealth of different backgrounds all congregated under the same roof, with a similar goal to achieve. They are all listening to a woman at the stand, so we speak in careful whispers, and then I turn to find my place.

There are few spare spaces, scattered about, so I search out a spot, not too near the front, and slightly hidden behind a larger man, and sit amongst strangers, feeling lonely and lost. The speaker is reading through the steps slowly and purposefully, like a preacher, and twenty or thirty eager faces are watching her, listening, some nodding, some bowing their heads in sadness, failing in their quest.

I know this speech, I've been through it so many times before, my mornings and nights are often plagued by the same twelve sentences, which now flowed freely and unapologetically through my mind at regular intervals. Bored, I tap out a tune on my leg, and my thoughts begin to wander, to plan what I need to say in my appointment today, what might encourage the hospital to ask me back, if indeed they want me. A large piece of me is scared, nervous, suspecting that they won't see me as the same person, the slightly goofy, always eager and well meaning med student they groomed. A sick feeling in my stomach begins to swell.

I tune back in to hear she has only reached step number seven, "to humbly ask him to remove our shortcomings…" Humbly. To humbly ask him to resolve my sins and errant ways. This feels more like a bible studies class than a meeting, and I fleetingly wonder where atheist alcoholics go, where those with no religion take their solace and test their will. I glance around the room, cataloguing faces, remembering them for later. I home in on one; short brown locks tucked behind her ears and a leather jacket, looking younger then the rest of her row. Strangely familiar, but probably similar to a thousand women I've past in the street over the last year or two.

Perhaps she's bored too, because her head begins to turn, scanning her group and turning to me. As her profile begins to appear, I recognise her, shocked, and slightly disbelieving. Abby? The Abby who turned me in, and saved my life, an alcoholic? Well, I guess she knew what she was talking about.

I was not expecting that.

She looks a little shocked to see me, then offers a sad but genuine little smile, before turning back to the front. I follow suit, and curse and praise my luck all at the same time. I flick eyes back over to her again, appearing engrossed in the steps, her previous gaze hard to read. Was that smile out of pity, or solidarity?

Next we listen to Terry, an ex schoolteacher from Baltimore, who'd been summarily fired, and then lost a wife and daughter, all due to alcohol. Same story, different voice. Mary has long blonde hair, icy yet still friendly blue-grey eyes and a very elegant demeanour. She seems different, a success story, she doesn't blame her drinking on anything, offers no attempt at excuse, just a short realisation that it was her who made herself the person she was, and it was her who had had to reinstate herself back to the person she used to be.

A few more people share, but I don't volunteer, a little afraid and reluctant also, so I sit and listen, but little of it absorbs into me, I've heard it all before, and after a while the faces become awash, the same people blending into one, the same problem. But I already know the answer.

The end comes, and I stand to look for Abby, but the man next to me obscures my view, and by the time I side step him, she has disappeared from view, maybe embarrassed, maybe reluctant to hash out her previous life, or maybe still appalled by my behaviour a few long months ago. I can't choose which, I'm not sure the answer wouldn't hurt me, and I also can't shake off the slight curiosity running through me. She'll share when she's ready.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Gazing out of the window from my vantage point in Doc Magoo's is when I see her next, hours after our initial reunion. She's a small figure in the expanse of the night, dodging a puddle and a barrage of raindrops, and finally making it to the warmth and dryness.

The same huddled figure slumps through the door and shuffles across to the counter, mumbling something about a coffee I don't really need to hear. Something masochistic in me makes me call out to her, thinking maybe I might be able to try and fix this one. She turns, and looks at me indescribably. Happy to see me? Probably not.

"Hey."

"Hey." She pauses for a moment, but only a moment, and walks over. My previous worry that I appalled her slips a little further back in my mind, and we make small talk about when I got back, what I'm doing now. All ordinary, polite things, but with her I don't find it as boring or irritating as with the tens of people who've asked me these questions in the last few days.

People have been nice, surprisingly so, particularly at County this morning, with only a few awkward silences. Notably with Dr Benton, and particularly with Mark. Somehow, I don't get the feeling Mark wants me back. I know he doesn't, not yet. It was in his discomfited demeanour in the meeting, his hesitancy to look at me, maybe for fear he'd catch the drug seekers plague, and the uncomfortable tones he talked to me in.

I should be grateful, I am grateful, that they want me to start working again, but I see a long and unfriendly road ahead of me, and I feel these drugs in the bottle in my pocket, drugs to keep me away from drugs. And I don't need them, I'm doing this on my own, but I have to take them when they tell me to, give urine samples when they want them. I feel like a leper.

Not with Abby. Maybe it's because now I know she's been through something, something similar. Maybe a secret as dark as mine, maybe less dangerous, but she's still here and determined, something you can see from her face. I wonder about the nurse's outfit she wears, and ask her, and she deposits that she was suspended. I find myself feeling bad for her, she was a good student, although in Malucci she never got the resident she deserved.

As natural as the conversation feels, no false sympathy or over-spoken sadness from her over my 'situation', there's a residual awkwardness, and I can feel what's coming. I need to do it, but I'm not sure how to. The waitress brings over her coffee, giving me a chance, and I take it, putting it on my tab and motioning for her to sit down, which she does.

"I never thanked you."

"For what?" she leans back, waiting, but keeps interested eyes loosely on me, although I don't feel as uneasy as I should.

She knows the reason, but I tell her anyway, because she understands as well as I'm beginning to that it's not about the thought, or the apology, it's about me saying it. "You know, you might have saved my life. If you hadn't stopped me when you did…I could be dead now." Not as eloquent as I intended, but it seems enough, and she smiles.

A bad idea is already forming in my head as she reaches over and asks for a drag of my cigarette, which I oblige her. A very bad, but strangely tempting, idea. I watch her with interest, sucking slowly on the end of the cigarette, then blowing out in short, steady breaths, smoke dancing round her. I smile.

This woman will be my sponsor.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Today was definitely not as sunny as yesterday. Or as enticing, but it has been more tiring. I had to drag myself out of my bed this morning, all to do nothing. Again. The only thing that's stopping me from running back there now and attending a meeting tomorrow is the fact that I have to meet Abby here. But, then again, I guess that's what sponsors are for.

But today feels uplifting; despite the mingling grey skies, darkening to accommodate the night and releasing little droplets around me, and the fact that she's late. We agreed to meet earlier than needed anyway and right now it seems that it was a good choice. Seems that she could be a good choice too, this feels promising, and I'm so glad for a friend and a sponsor I know right now, not some older man, or young idealistic like Tony, who thinks that being an alcoholic was "the best thing that happened to me, got my life back together."

Our first official meeting, and she's late, but I don't mind.

Honestly, I thought she'd take longer to convince, to agree to this, but it seems buying coffee and flashing what I hope were puppy dog eyes did the trick, a strategy I'm going to use next time I need something. Across the street I see her, half running, half walking, and as she gets nearer, I see an apologetic smile. "Dr Carter," she begins then stops, giggling a little. "Oops. Umm, Carter, John, what do I call you?" she asks quickly, screwing up her nose and looking puzzled.

I laugh with her, looking briefly to the ground and shaking my head. "Either. Joh-" I begin to speak, but she interrupts me.

"Carter it is." I can't help but smile. My parents may as well have christened me Carter and been done with it, no need for the 'Jonathan Truman' at all. Or named me 'Drug addicted failure'. Ah, the wonder of hindsight. Before I really know what I'm thinking, I wonder where they are right now, which part of the world, but I quickly remind myself that I don't care, because they don't. Two phone calls since my stabbing, clearly not the badge of overly concerned parents.

I must have zoned off, because she 's trying to catch my attention, and I tune back in to her. "I brought you something," she smiles nervously. "You know, this being new for me and all." Reaching into her pocket, she produces two cigarettes, and I look puzzled. She hands one to me, and lights up her own, passing the lighter to me. I gratefully accept, and she leans back against the wall, staring across the street, inhaling and exhaling small clouds of smoke. "I wanted to meet early so I could have a smoke beforehand," she offers by way of explanation. "It's like a ritual for me."

For a moment all that's between us are foggy wisps and a strong smell of ash. "Aren't I supposed to be relinquishing vices?" I ask, slightly amused. She turns to me with a wicked grin.

"One at a time," she answers, grinding her 'vice' out with the heel of her shoe and motioning towards the door, waiting for me to follow. I give up my cigarette too quickly for my liking, and trudge to my fate, resigned.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"So, how many are you up to now?" Meeting over, we filter out in clusters, mainly of two, but some people come in threes, a lot come alone. She asks with interest, but not too much, and looks up to me, waiting for her answer.

"In Chicago? 15. One for each day I've been back. Fun, huh?" She rolls her eyes, and cracks into a smile. I like her smile; it's genuine, friendly. Reaching back into her pocket for another cigarette, she offers me one, but I decline. I don't even really like smoking; I'm not entirely sure why I do it.

"You're getting there," she offers, and pauses, searching for words. "Uh - slow but steady?"

I nod. I wonder how much I can ask about her. How much she'll tell me. I know very little about her life as an alcoholic, or her recovery. Of course, I've only really known her for a day or two, but she already knows so much about me, and it gives her a head start I'm not sure I want her to have. But I don't want to be nosy either. "How often were you here before it became part of your duty?" I finally settle on. "Duty to me," I qualify quickly for her.

She laughs. "Not as often as I should have been"

"Wow," I deadpan. "I chose a dedicated sponsor."

"I told you you should go for anybody else," she points out, grinning at me and dodging a child who rushes past us on roller blades.

"Didn't want anybody else." That doesn't sound like I intended, so I quickly add to it in a mock whining tone. "I would have had to talk to other people, I wouldn't have known them, it would have been awkward...."

She tells me she doesn't mind doing it, and I believe this, because if she hadn't wanted to, she would have declined. "I'm not sure how good a sponsor I'll make." She pauses. "It's hard talking to people at these meetings, but everyone's friendly"

"Do you know anyone else here?"

"No. You coming saves me from having to be on my own," she jokes.

"Glad I could be of service," I joke weakly, then glance across the street, feeling a sudden dryness in my mouth. "You want a coffee or something?" I ask hopefully, reluctant to go home and sit on my own for the rest of the night, in the boredom my life has become since my return, whilst everyone else works. Next week can't come quickly enough; practicing medicine has never been as exciting to me.

"Sure. As your sponsor, I feel I should buy it though…"

I don't argue with her, I get the feeling it would be futile anyway, and she seems perfectly happy. "I can go with that."

I nod to Doc Magoo's and we enter, sliding into a booth, me near the window and her sitting nearer the aisle, though I'm not sure why she does this, or why I notice. Running a hand over my forehead I yawn, if I look anything like I did when I left this morning, I must be a tired mess, with charcoal like streaks blurring under my eyes like kohl eye shadow.

I'm not sleeping properly, not yet.

"You look like shit. When do you start back at County?" She's direct; I'll give her that.

"Two days, and counting. But then another five years before they let me work on anything more urgent than UTI's and nausea." A nagging voice in my head and her subtle facial expression tell me I should be a lot more grateful, but I can only think of the boredom that next week and it's 'non-emergencies' medicine could bring. It will be more interesting than lounging around watching trash TV, something I've always hated yet have come to appreciate over the last few weeks, but only by a narrow margin. I shrug self pityingly, and take a sip of coffee.

"They wouldn't want a resident who couldn't treat anyone," she points out seriously, catching onto my self pity. A little of what I think is concern flashes over her features. "You having a bad day?"

Bad day? I fiddle with my coffee cup. She's my sponsor; it's part of the description to listen to me vent against the world, I think. I don't want to be melodramatic though, pity's something I don't really want from her, and so I decide just on the truth. "I'm having a bad month."

She fixes me in an intense stare. "Adjusting back to reality harder than you expected?" It's more of a statement than a question, but she makes no attempt to speak, so I answer her.

"Than I expected?" I shake my head. I half expected returning from Atlanta to collapse into a heap in a darkened and forgotten corner of Gamma's house and stay there. "No. Than I wanted, yes." Because the fear that anything I do from now on will be tainted with my previous failure is still very much there. But this is more of a fifth date revelation; I chuckle to myself. I try to elaborate, gesturing with my hands. "It's like this...big mistake that I made, but I'm trying to make up for, but it's always going to...be there. Can't get rid of it."

"It never goes away." She looks wistfully out onto the street, observing the quiet, and eyeing a couple arguing in the middle of the pavement. She turns back, her face sadder, but more serious. "But it does get easier to live with," she offers as her glimmer of light at the long addiction tunnel.

It all sounds too cliché, but I need to believe something. "That a promise?" It's light and amused in tone, but she seems to find the deeper meaning without even having to search, and smiles back into my eyes.

"Yeah." She breathes in the scent of strong coffee, which seems to empower her. "You realise that, sure, you might be an addict, but that's not all you are, not all you can be. It's a part of who you are, but not a limitation – only if you let it be."

Wise words. The eye contact is starting to make me nervous, and I avert my eyes, nod tightlipped, and then check my watch. "I have to sleep. You want a ride home?"

She shakes her head. "You live the other way. I'll get the El." Pausing to reach across for her bag, she waits for me to stand, then follows suit. "You want to meet before the meeting tomorrow?"

It's freezing outside now, cold enough that our breaths make little clouds in the air, and I find myself clenching fingers into a fist to partly shield them. "I'll walk you to the El," I offer, I've really got nothing better to do, but I don't volunteer this. I walk her as far as the steps, then stand at the bottom, a little lost, and watch her ascend. I ask if she wants me to wait for her, but the distant unhappy rumblings of a train answer my question, and I lift my hand in a slight wave. "I'll meet you outside tomorrow," I tell her with a smile, and she nods, then is gone, leaving me and my thoughts to wander Chicago for yet another night.

I won't go home yet; I won't go home until I have to, because I need to do something, even if it is just aimless walking and incessant thinking. A glance at the hospital continues to show me that life is going on without me, and I stay there only for a moment, enough time to wonder why I torture myself like this. Two more days, and I'll be back.

But for today I feel more upbeat than I should, my ponderings become more lighthearted, less anxious, and I find them wandering to Abby. There is something about her, though I can't put my finger on it, which makes me glad she's in my life.

Making it all a little less scary.

A/N: If you haven't read Charli's brilliant part, please do so.
Again, reviews are very helpful in judging what you all think (well, the only way, because I can't do telepathy, though Charli claims she can.) Any criticism and/or suggestions for future post eps are very much welcome, and it only take a sec to review. If you're feeling nice. Or even if you're not. ;o)