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The hazy, dark irises of Jack's eyes came into view when he awoke suddenly, his eyelids popping open. He was sprawled out on his couch, one of his legs dangled off the edge while his head relaxed on the arm rest, a tank-top sticking to his sweaty chest and jeans bunched around his waist. He looked down at himself and realized how completely wasted he was. He was drunk, and had been for quite awhile. He could barely see past his bare foot that lay atop the arm rest at the other end of the couch and he had a splitting headache.

The sun was setting outside of his balcony window, city lights glowed within his apartment, the desk lamp, which now sat on the floor where he worked over the maps and atlases that brought him no closer to his desired destination, supplied little light in the darkening space. He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable again, but tucked by his side was an empty glass bottle, that had been buried under his arm. He pulled it out by its slender neck, and looked at it fuzzily. It was empty, every drop pulled from it. Had he actually drank the entire bottle? He didn't have a coherent answer to that question, which meant he had. He threw the glass bottle it to the floor, his hand now lying over the pillow that must have fallen from the couch during his slumber. No wonder there was a bulging cramp in his neck.

He groaned into an upright position, both bare feet on the floor, his headache ripping a hole straight through his skull like the precise efficacy of a buzzing power drill, or at least that was what it felt like. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and then rubbed at the ball of his head, the tangle of his hair pulled free by his long fingers. The state of his apartment looked like a tornado touched down and wrecked shop. Dirty dishes of weeks' past sat in the kitchen sink, some with food on them still, empty bottles clogging what space was left. His dining room table was cluttered with books and papers. Everywhere he looked was a disaster zone.

Once he started to become aware, he realized why he wasn't so content with sleep anymore. He saw her in his mind's eye, running through the jungle again, but this time, she wasn't running with directional purpose, she was running for her life. He remembered the noises that the jungle made, the power of the ground as it shook, then she disappeared, and he couldn't stay connected, because she was gone. He heard those noises before, feared them, and ran from them, more than once. He was absolutely ready to believe that these visions, images, these dreams or whatever his mind decided they were, were real. Kate was in danger, she had gotten herself into a situation that he wasn't there to protect her from, and now he was being haunted by it, every time he closed his eyes. Sleep was supposed to help him escape his troubles, but in the chasm of the dream space, anything could slip through, even that which made him crazier by the day.

He replayed in his head what he told Juliet, what he bared of his soul to her, that he no longer belonged here, that he hadn't felt like he was home yet, and that his life as he knew it wasn't what he thought it was anymore. He had no idea what that meant, but as he assiduously poured himself over the maps, his mind restless with determination to find the Island at all costs, he felt like he was reaching an understanding of his confliction .

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle, looking forlornly at the faint orange body and the securely-sealed top that hadn't been broken. There were sixteen little, white pebble-sized pills and every day, he counted them, as if taking inventory. It was a daily battle not to open it and take one pill, maybe two, or three to shave the rest of the edge away, but for some reason, he resisted. He wouldn't open it, even in moments like these, when he woke up shaken by another trance, filled with the truth of the woman he loved in great danger, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

What he had done to get his hands on these pills was punishable by law, but he didn't care. The alcohol wasn't working, it wasn't taking away the pain, the restlessness, not all of it at least; it was actually exacerbating the symptoms of his insanity. What was in this bottle would put him into a sleep that nothing could disturb, or at least that was what he told himself when relief at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey served little effect. Claire and Aaron were new sources of hurt and guilt. She was his sister, the sister his father never bothered to tell him about, the sister who coincidently boarded the same plane he had, eight months pregnant and alone. That little baby boy was his nephew, and he never knew it until it was too late. They were his family and he never knew about them, he never had the chance to embrace them as such. It had been taken away from him, like everything else.

A part of him was still pissed at Juliet for keeping something this important away from him, but it was never her place to tell him. She hoisted that responsibility onto herself, but really, his father was the only one responsible for his ignorance. He was the only one responsible for shutting his own son out of his life.

Jack wanted to believe that Christian's heart attack was accidental, that his father hadn't seen it coming and died with the thriving will to live, but he couldn't believe that to be true. His father wanted to die, and that decision was just as selfish and inconsiderate as all the other decisions he made, and what he did, what he felt he had to do, was what led him to it. This was the truth that he kept to himself, from his mother especially, who still thought of her husband as someone who could never take his own life. She wasn't strong enough for the truth; she wasn't even strong enough to realize that he never wanted to be his father and never would.

An idea that had been long-standing in his mind trickled in again. He wondered just how many pills he could take to go to sleep and never wake up. He calculated the dosage in his head, but decided that downing a little less than half the count would do it. Slowly, he twisted the top off of the pill bottle, breaking the safety seal. He poured five pills into his palm and stared at them, tears of madness in his eyes. If he did this, that was it. He would die, but the conundrum of who in the world he actually was, wouldn't matter. He could finally rest. Before he could pour the pills into his mouth, there was a knock at his door.

"Jack?" He heard someone call out, punctuating his name with another knock. "Jack, please open the door. It's Juliet."

Silently swearing, he hurriedly poured the pills back into the bottle, twisted the top shut and shoved it into his pocket. She knocked again, this time, harder. "I know you're in there. Your truck is out front."

Before Jack could stand, Juliet turned the doorknob and walked in, surprised that the door was even unlocked to begin with. Her eyes immediately connected with Jack, and she mentally gasped. He looked terrible, bloodshot eyes holding up heavy bags underneath, grimy tank-top stuck to his torso, his hair a lengthy, matted mess, and the growth on his face had sprouted into the beginnings of a scraggly beard, uneven and untamed. His apartment was a wasteland, crinkled maps scattered all over the floor, glass bottles were sprinkled about, one at his feet. It had been a week since she last saw him and he managed to look like it had been months.

He cupped his forehead into his hands, embarrassed, not looking at her, but addressing her all the same. "What are you doing here?" The look on her face was the reason why he stayed in his apartment, he didn't want people to look at him the way she was right thing second, with sadness and pity. He didn't want to be pitied. He hated it.

Juliet stuttered, her eyes still taking in his lonely, dark, cluttered surroundings. "I…um…I wanted to check up on you." She finally said once her breath caught up with her. She closed the door behind her, locking it. "You haven't been answering any of my calls, not that I would expect you to." She looked over at the table where the landline sat, the answering machine blinking the number '23' in bleeding red. He wasn't answering anyone's calls by the looks of it.

He was still holding his head, trying to stop it from spinning, still sick with worry for Kate, who could be dead for all he knew or understood about what he kept seeing. "I've been busy." Trashing his apartment and his life apparently, Juliet thought. He finally met her eyes. "Is that all?"

"No, that's not all." Her tone was indignant, upset. She shook her head, shocked that he would think that was all after finding him sitting in his own squalor. "I'm worried about you."

He looked up at her, and continued to play the tough guy act. "As you can see I'm fine. So you can just—"

"You're not fine, Jack." Juliet erupted, so irritated with him, she could barely stand it. "You're falling apart and I just want to—"

Jack just wanted her gone; his temper exploded, his voice bellowed, cutting her off. "Haven't you done enough?" His loudness caused him to shrink into himself, his hands holding to his head again, his hangover rattling in his ears. For a second, he forgot what state he was in.

Juliet crushed under his words. She hadn't done enough. She hadn't told her friend the truth, and she never prided herself on being a liar, she just had to become one in order to survive working for Ben, to survive what he put her through.

"I'm so sorry." Those words still felt extremely inadequate, but she had no idea what else to say, what else to do. She walked towards the couch, and sat a safe distance away from him. "I should have told you about Claire and Aaron, I just…panicked." He knew that to be true, he could hear the sincerity in her voice, despite wanting her to leave him alone. He knew she wouldn't, not after seeing him like this. "I had been waiting for so long to get off that Island and I saw my opportunity and I just, froze."

He let go of his head, his hands resting on the hump of his bent knees. "It's not your fault." He uneasily rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, wiping the nervous sweat from them. "If that file about me was as accurate and as in depth as you make it out to be, then you know why my father was in Australia in the first place."

He looked over at her, the glow of the lamp at their feet shadowy over his stiff brow. "He should have told me, but he didn't want to, he never wanted me to know," Jack turned toward the floor, suddenly ashamed, "and why would he? I betrayed his trust. I ruined his life."

Juliet tried to make him understand. "Jack, you—"

"I took his career away from him, Juliet." His voice rose, menacing, slightly mellowed by the alcohol still flowing through his system.

His hands combed through his hair, both landing on his neck, massaging that kink out of the muscles there. "Forty years of his blood, sweat and tears and I took it away just like that." He snapped his fingers, emphasizing the rapidity of what he'd done, how fast he ripped away everything his father knew himself to be in the world. "His medical license is nothing more than a piece of paper because of what I did to him and I can't even say that I did it for the greater good, or that it wasn't about punishing him."

"I didn't want to see him get away with it, but I could have…" Jack stuttered, his voice slurring, trailing. He honestly didn't know what else he could have done. He tried siding with his father, he tried burying what he knew, but in the end, his conscience always caught up with him, held him in place with nowhere to run. He was beginning to realize that was a very important part of who he was and what differed between the two of them.

"Your father performed surgery while under the influence. He killed a woman and her unborn child." Juliet angled towards him, watching as he continued to mentally beat himself down. "There was no win in that situation, Jack. You couldn't save the patients and you couldn't save him."

He noticed that Juliet said patients. She saw the fetus as a human being too, as a patient that needed his help, and why wouldn't she? She was a fertility specialist, a damn good one, one of the best, if not the best; she believed that life began months before the first breath, at conception. It would have been helpful to know that the patient was pregnant before he ever scrubbed in to save his father from the embarrassment that he was sure to suffer through in front of his surgical underlings, from people who looked up to him as a god among surgeons, among men. It would have saved him so much regret.

She still didn't understand, Jack realized. "Don't you get it? I took away who he was. I didn't even try to save him." Tears glazed over his wide eyes, one falling down his cheek. "I threw him away, and now he's gone."

Juliet didn't know what to say, she didn't know what to do to help him. She felt so powerless, watching this good, kind, decent man crumble into shards of guilt that he shouldn't own, that shouldn't belong to him. Jack stared at a spot in the near-distance, mesmerized by the reflection of faint, dim lights bleeding into the room from his balcony window. "I killed him, Juliet." Tears welled in her eyes, her head shaking, denying for him.

"I killed my father." God, it felt so good to say out loud, he thought. To finally say it to someone, to anyone who wouldn't think him crazy, who wouldn't judge him.

Only now did Juliet truly understand what getting back to that Island meant to him. It was a way for him to redeem himself. If he can save those people, it would be like saving his father. He would come to his long-awaited resolution. His father's body was still on that Island as well, and for Jack, going back to the place where he physically lost his father might help him find him again.

"You wanna know what he used to say to me?" Jack asked, not waiting for Juliet's answer before he went on. "'You don't have what it takes, son. Don't try to save everyone.' " He let go of an irreverent, sloppy chortle at his spot-on impression of his father's condescension. "I carried that around with me my whole life and I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong."

Juliet nodded sadly. This was what he was killing himself trying to do now, save everyone from that island, a place she wouldn't wish on her mortal enemy. He was trying to be the hero that everyone knew him to be, that he denied ever being, not because he wanted to be, but because it was who he was; he couldn't help it. She picked up one of the maps that sat in a random heap at her feet. It was a broad map of the South Pacific Islands, numbers and lines written all over it in pencil, more than a dozen eraser markings faded the light blue ink of the water, almost to the point of it never having been there at all.

"Still no luck, huh?"

"Nope." Jack sighed, his response exaggeratedly garbled, resigning himself to another failure, his father's ignored advice coming back to bite him where he lived. "I guess the old man was right after all. Don't try to be a hero."

With that, Jack tried to stand, and finally got on his feet, but fumbled, not sober enough to take two steps before losing his balance. Juliet was by his side in time to catch him and direct him back to the couch where they both landed haphazardly, suddenly tangled up in each other. She laughed nervously, looking to untangle them, but Jack held to her. He stared at her with those miserable, emotive golden eyes of his that could say so much and she could read where this was going. Before she could say anything or at least object, his lips were on hers. She was completely frozen as he continued his light, airy assault, but once he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth slightly over hers, she felt tingles cascade down her spine to the tips of her toes. Despite her best efforts to resist him, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, her lips parting, pulling, her hand cupping his jaw, his fuzzy growth tickling her palm. There was the faintest bite of alcohol that she could smell and taste, but the rest was just him, just Jack, and she dove in.

Eventually, she opened her eyes. She wasn't sure who was taking more advantage of whom here, but this wasn't how their first kiss was supposed to happen. They were supposed to be dating, casually of course, discovering what they could be together and then the first kiss came when it was mutual and right, not when he was so drunk in his sorrows that he latched onto her as the only thing keeping him afloat. That wasn't how it worked. He was still in love with Kate; he all but shouted it from her apartment window the last time they spoke, and she couldn't tuck that away, or ignore that salient fact, no matter how good it felt to be kissed by him, to be the center of his attention. He was physically wasted, emotionally confused and vulnerable; there was no way he was thinking clearly.

Her worst fears were realized when he pulled away, his eyes looking straight through hers, glassy, cloudy, searching, trying to find something in them that he recognized, that he truly wanted. When his lips met hers, he didn't feel that verve of electricity shoot through him, the hairs on the back of his neck didn't stand up, he couldn't hear his pulse quicken or the blood pump through him just a little faster than normal, adrenaline like he never experienced kicking his emotions into overdrive. Maybe it was the fact that he was so inebriated that he could barely take two steps forward without flailing, but he knew that was just an excuse.

He realized, with deft, yet clumpy perception, that she wasn't Kate, and she never would be. She was Juliet, and the two were as different as night and day. One drove him so mad that he reached for her in places she never was. The other was someone he wanted to feel those things for, but realized pretty early on that he never would, that no matter how much he wanted to get over someone else, his heart wouldn't allow it. He was drunk as hell, but he knew that.

Fatigue suddenly drained him of thought and emotion. "I'm so tired." He whispered before yawning. That wasn't what she was expecting him to say, but she recovered smoothly, smiling faintly.

"Then go to sleep, Jack." She helped him rise a little, but he wasn't budging much for her to really help. "Come on." She whispered, and he cooperated. She got him comfortable on the couch again, placing the pillow under his head and pulling his feet up, draping the blanket over him. When she looked up at him after tucking the blanket over his bare feet, he was fast asleep. Sadness built inside of her. She knew what he was thinking after that kiss and watching him sleep was all that stopped the tears from falling down her eyes, but eventually the tide washed up and over and she found herself crying more for him than her hurt feelings. He was in such emotional disarray that she concluded that there was nothing she could do for him. She wasn't sure there was anything anyone could do.

She didn't leave him alone right away, eventually finding a piece of paper and a pen to write with. She tucked the note into his hand and walked towards the door, locking it back, and closing it quietly behind her.

Sawyer stood at the blazing heat of a bonfire, one of many that sprinkled the beach around this time. Sunset drifted away, leaving the sky dark and sparkling with stars, as round and clear as diamonds. He saw Sayid walking across the fire-lit sand, past where he was standing and he moved quickly to catch up with him.

"Hey." Sawyer said in way of getting Sayid's attention. "We need to talk."

"I can't imagine what about." Sayid said, continuing to walk towards his destination.

Sawyer whispered, "We need to talk about Kate."

Sayid stopped in his tracks. He turned back to Sawyer, curious. "What about her, James?" Sawyer gestured towards a vacant spot nearby, encouraging Sayid to follow him. Once they were out of earshot of the others, Sawyer got down to business.

"Don't tell me you don't notice it." He accused with his natural surly tone. "She's been leavin' the beach every mornin' before sunrise and comin' back a little before sundown. What the hell is she doin' out there in the jungle by herself?"

Sayid shrugged his shoulders, unsure of why Sawyer was bothering him with this. "If you want to know James, why don't you just ask her?"

"I tried that already, and it's like pullin' damn teeth." Sawyer said in aggravation. Sayid could tell that this was really worrisome for him, so worrisome, that he was humbling himself by confiding in him about it. They were never friends exactly, but a mutual respect grew between them somehow, after that tumultuous start they had after the crash. That was what Sawyer did, he made people hate him and then he surprised them with small, random windows into his humanity, until those around him had no choice but to admire him.

"She won't say anything about it to me." He admitted.

Sawyer's words were suggestive enough, catching Sayid off guard. "Oh, you think I can get it out of her?"

"You were a torturer in another life, right?" Sawyer pointed out, with a disposition of both veneration and derision. "I got to experience that firsthand in case you forgot."

Sayid took a defensive pose, his hands sat on his narrow hips and his dark eyes looked even darker, sinister almost in the glow of the fire. That burning urge to punch Sawyer in the face reignited. "In case you've forgotten, you never had what I was looking for in the first place."

He was confused by what Sawyer was getting to. "What do you want from me, James?"

Sawyer whistled a breath between his teeth. "Look, I just need an ally. Someone who don't annoy her as much as I seem to these days."

Sayid shook his head in resistance. "Kate and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, especially since I don't agree with her about Jack and admitted it openly in front of the entire group." He admitted. "She feels as though I've betrayed her."

"She and I ain't on speaking terms either, but that's beside the point." Sawyer confessed. "I don't want you to talk it out of her; I want you to help me stop her."

Now Sayid was terribly confused. "What makes you think Kate can be stopped from doing anything she wants to do? I was there with her James, when she trekked for days, for miles to get to Jack, and she wouldn't let anything or anyone get in her way."

Sawyer retorted immediately, his patience with Sayid's attempt to derail his plan waning. "What she's doin' is crazy. Ever since the Doc left, she's been different, always moving, more than she usually does. Wandering off in the jungle by herself is suicide."

Sayid eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sure this isn't about something else?" He asked. He had to be blind not to see that Sawyer loved Kate, and was growing irritated by her lack of attention towards him. The conman seemed confident about his courting skills, flirting with every female besides Rose, who taught him a sound lesson and wouldn't take being disrespected by someone half her age, but Kate was less than interested in most things, especially him. It was bruising to his ego.

"What else would this be about?" Sawyer asked briskly and very unconvincingly, but sounding as offended by Sayid's accusation as he needed to sound. "The more she leaves this beach, the more danger she brings to herself and the rest of us."

"What do you mean?" Sayid asked.

"The Others, Sayid." Sawyer drawled out as if it should be common knowledge in their neck of the woods. "You think they just folded up their tents and booby traps and hiked on back across the water? You think they're ever gonna leave us alone?" Sayid always had his fears that Ben would return and ask something of them that they couldn't do or just take whatever and whomever he wanted by force. It wouldn't be the first time.

"They're still out there, watching us, and you know it." Sawyer said, seeing the change in Sayid's eyes, the conviction. "They killed Locke from what you told us and if they grab Kate, worse yet, kill her, that's on us for not protecting her."

Sayid still wasn't sure of what to do. He has had a front row seat to Kate's stubbornness and if she couldn't get in through the front door, she would always plan on going through the back. "All I'm sayin' is that with Jack M.I.A., somebody's gotta step up and make the tough decisions, and it starts with telling Kate what she don't wanna hear."

"When you say somebody, you mean me." Sayid accused. "I have to tell Kate what she doesn't want to hear."

Sawyer pointed between the two of them. "I mean us. Together, she wouldn't have no room for argument."

Sayid weighed his offer carefully, but Sawyer needed an answer immediately. "Now, are you in or do I need to go have a little chat with Bernard, who's too sweet on Freckles to ever raise his voice at her?"

The office cabin in the Others' compound was empty except for Ben's office, as he sat behind his desk; a desk lap was the only light source in the room. He studied old, tattered maps diligently, with a magnifying glass in one hand and a black pencil in the other. There were pages and pages of ancient maps of the Island that were entrusted to him by Richard, who found little use for them since so much had changed since they were charted, but Ben found them to be crucial to his plans. He spent so much time sifting through them, studying them, drawing lines from one to the other that every time he didn't find what he was looking for, the effort seemed wasted.

It had to be there somewhere. Where was it?

He heard a small clang nearby, something falling to the floor with a clank, or a door clapping shut perhaps. Ben looked towards his closed office door, his eyes scrutinizing, his heart rate jumping.

"Hello? Anyone there?" He yelled. There was no answer, his voice bouncing off the walls in an echo.

He shook his head, telling himself that it was probably their rodent issue from months back, a mice scattering through the hallway in search of food or something. These older buildings that were here longer than the townhomes were sometimes ravaged with rodents of all kinds, mice, skunks, squirrels. It was a nuisance, but nothing that Ben couldn't work through. Their community was this bubble in the middle of a jungle after all. There was wildlife all around them, and it was something they couldn't avoid.

Ben lost his concentration when he suddenly heard the creek of footsteps against the old oak floors behind his door. They approached slowly, and with every step, his pulse raced. Scared out of his mind, Ben dropped the pencil and ruler and quietly opened the drawer next to him, pulling out a hand-gun with sweaty palms. Every possible scenario ran through his mind, but the worst of them all popped up and terrified. On legs that were still working through physical therapy, he rose, taking the handle of his cane in one hand, his gun steadfastly shaped to his other, pointed towards the door. He marched for the door, and whispered a prayer before he opened it, leaving it slightly ajar. He pointed his gun towards the area where the buzzing light above illuminated, the rest of the hallway dark and shadowy.

"I know you're out there!" Ben yelled, from the crack of his office door, his gun poised, aiming. "I'm armed and I'm not afraid to shoot! So, show yourself!"

The footsteps pattered against the floor again, creeping, still slow and methodical, until the person those footsteps belonged to was flooded by light. The man held his hands up in the air, but Ben was no longer afraid. He couldn't believe his eyes. He immediately dropped his gun, and opened his door fully. It was like he was seeing a ghost.

"Oh my God. Mikhail?" Ben whispered, still in a trance of complete unbelieveability.

Mikhail lowered his hands, his bloody, sweaty, grimy appearance bringing a wealth of elation to his boss. "Hello Benjamin." His thick Russian accent was heavy under labored breathing. He stumbled forward, tiredly, his balance struggling.

Ben still stood in amazement, but moved to catch him, ushering Mikhail into his office once the shock of seeing him, alive, dialed down. "How the hell did you get past my security?" He asked, as he helped Mikhail into a seated position

"I used to be head of security, remember?" Mikhail recalled, grunting. "Before you assigned me to the Flame station."

"A lot has changed since then, Mikhail." Ben informed him.

"They found you, didn't they?" Mikhail asked, it unnecessary to elaborate on who he was referring to.

Ben nodded. "Yes, they did." The two men eyed each other. Ben still couldn't believe it. Locke assured him that Mikhail was dead, he practically boasted about having done it, but he obviously wasn't dead. He was sitting right in front of him, eye-patch and all.

Ben shook his head, his eyes still studying him. Dried blood was all over his shirt, and he looked sun-burned, his skin reddened and peeling. "I thought you were dead. How did you survive?"

"Where is he?" Mikhail asked with a growl, getting to the point without a beat.

Ben straightened, taking the handle of his cane to anchor himself. "Where's who?"He asked, despite the fact that he knew exactly who he was referring to.

Mikhail's only functioning eye looked up at Ben with blood-thirsty rage. "John Locke." He spoke with disdain, his teeth gnashing. "He did this to me, and I won't rest until he's dead."

Ben knew that he wouldn't like what he was about to admit, but there was no way around it. "John Locke is very much alive, but he has to stay that way." The annoyance in Mikhail's features was evident. Ben spoke again, quickly, as to appease his friend.

"But don't you worry; I have a plan that will hurt John Locke more than death ever could, and I'm gonna need your help." Mikhail grinned, his lips curling up into a satisfied smirk. Ben had a plan, he thought, he always had a plan.

"Will you help me, Mikhail?" Ben asked.

The answer was obvious, Mikhail's grin graduating into an illustrious, cunning smile.

"Absolutely."