The first thing Alfendi felt when he rose from his second sleep of the day was just how well-rested he felt—which wasn't abnormal per se, especially after Lucy—if it hadn't been for the fact that he felt he was missing something in his memory, something important. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and his wrists mewled in protest and he frowned. He hadn't done anything to cause them to burn, but by the way that his skin had broke from some sort of resistance—which looked awfully like handcuff marks—made him pause. The last time he had been in handcuffs, he had been coming down from a high that led to his admittance to rehab. Certainly the center, in the year he had been here never did anything like that or else there would be very questionable practices happening here. So why...?

WIth the movements that could rival a sloth, he managed to sit up, feeling the same burn coming from his ankles. Alfendi frowned, trying to piece the time period between his last hour of wakefulness to now. Something happened here, something that was on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite determine. He rubbed at the chafed areas absentmindedly, his eyes slowly trailing to the desk and chair that had been moved, ever so slightly. Something was different—oh.

Alfendi scrambled up to the desk, determining whether or not his eyes deceived him, but it was clear as day. Just like the last time, a carefully placed bag of cocaine and other paraphernalia laid in front of him, except it was on his desk rather than his pillow. This time, however, there was a note in perfect cursive and Sam's badge right next to it:

Your choice! ~DM

DM. Someone, with those initials, had given him the cocaine—offering him a choice. Certainly Sam wouldn't have given it to him and placed his badge there too—incredibly improbable, even. It was much more likely that the person that had placed this down during his sleep had used the badge to get into some of the areas of the center. His hands trembled as his fingers came close to the bag, then paused in his venture as the Inspector side of him came to play. This, above all, was still evidence. Alfendi slowly made his way to the other side of the room, increasing the distance from the substance and himself. He couldn't touch it—shouldn't touch it.

Well, that's what he could tell himself.

Alfendi knew he wasn't immune the siren's call of the drug. He never claimed that he was; he'd have to be stupid to think that he could be, especially with how much he associated the drug with the ability to retain pleasant human interaction. How could he not? The mere edge of longing, tightening around his body like a coil, was electrifying, even now with so much progress behind him. On an intellectual level, he knew how stupid it was to sustain such a habit back when it first began as a small taste. Besides that, it would ruin the smallest bit of progress he had made since the last time. Of course, it's not he's had any particular chance in getting the drug again, but he had lost the urge ever since he overdosed several months ago. There was no trembling desire since then, which his doctor saw as progress.

Of course, the obvious, logical pathway was to not do so.

But it was there.

Tantalizingly close, mere metres away; a distance he could close if he just took a few more steps forward rather than denying himself such a pleasure. Nobody would know. He'd hidden his cocaine usage in the past before—the only reason why he failed last time was because he was found on the precipice of living and dying after an accidental overdose. Of course, the withdrawal symptoms would make it much more challenging to hide, but it wouldn't be that difficult to do so. Trembling? He could say that it was cold. Loss of appetite? He wasn't hungry—his lanky would make that even more believable. Dilated pupils? He could say that he was just aroused, and certainly that line of questioning would halt after that; he could claim that the reaction came because he was thinking of—

Lucy.

His eyes slowly slotted towards the haphazardly tossed letter he had read last night—certainly not where it was back then, so that meant the intruder touched it too. He wrinkled his nose, frowning at that very concept, tempted to move it back to the way it was but left it as it was. Evidence, he reminded himself, of multiple things. It wasn't just further evidence he hadn't procured the drug from somewhere else, but it was evidence of Lucy Baker's care and love for him.

What would Lucy say, if he chose to go back to his old habits? What would she think or do? She hadn't been fooled when he first did the cocaine under the guise of testing her in that letter, nor was his previous drug use a deterrent for her to stop talking to him. It was, as the mysterious DM said, his choice. One moment of ecstasy; a moment of nirvana that ran his life for four years but in return, he would lose a possible lifetime of something more, something irrevocably irreplaceable. Cocaine, he could get that off the streets at any given moment with the right dealer and enough motivation. But the other prize, the very reason he was actually living rather than going through the motions was no doubt at the Yard, perhaps watching her mentor down his seventh cup of coffee. Perhaps she thought of him, wondering what the next letter would entail.

Lucy Baker.

It would be a month and a half-before he'd see her again, free from the confines of a rehab center. It wouldn't be just letters (even as he had been given electronic privileges, they'd stuck to letters for the sake of nostalgia), phone calls, or meets in his doctor's office. He could see her face in his mind, smiling brightly at him as he opened up his presents for him on his birthday. The way the light touched her eyes, it was like heaven itself had graced him with her.

Continuing with the program and being released would mean standing right next to her, breathing the same air that she did, working alongside her in the Mystery Room, and everything else that she was willing to offer him. If their romantic pairing didn't work out, he hoped she would keep him in his life; she kept him right, even as she wasn't quite aware of it. By all means, he could just pen a letter while sober and then partake in the recreational drug and she'd have absolutely no knowledge of it if he could help it.

She wouldn't have to know.

It would betray her in the worst way possible, losing the trust and faith she had placed on his shoulders since her letter back to his inquiry. Trust was so tricky to procure, particularly for someone with an addictive tendency. If he broke it, the time it would take to rebuild...he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to entertain the notion any further. He could see it now, the way her face would fall and the disappointment irreverent in her thinly veiled expression. She wouldn't outwardly show it intensely if she could help it, but it would be there. He would be the reason why she looked that way.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. It shouldn't be a dilemma; the obviously positive decision was just a metre away: the door. Find Sam, find his doctor, find someone and get it away from him as soon as possible.

Alfendi opened the door to his room, feet having a mind of their own as he marched straight to his doctor—Dr. Watson's—office, ignoring any other rehab patient that gave him a confused stare. He opened it without attempting to knock, intentionally ignoring the red card on the door that indicated that he was busy. Alfendi burst in, interrupting a session between him and some other addict. Dr. Watson's brow furrowed as he looked up, clearly frustrated at this sudden intrusion.

"Mr. Layton, what—" Dr. Watson began, perhaps about to start a diatribe on why there is such a thing as knocking.

"I need you to call the Yard." He cut in smoothly, ignoring Dr. Watson's and the other patient's eyebrow raise. He could see Dr. Watson's irritance, both at being interrupted and Alfendi's desire to make demands from him.

"Mr. Layton, I don't—" Dr. Watson tried again, but Alfendi shook his head fervently.

"Dr. Watson, we don't have time for this. Someone put cocaine in my room, perhaps also drugging me with another anesthetic that has rendered some sort of temporary memory loss, which will come back in time. The whole point of this place is to keep the drugs away from other addicts, is it not? I would quite like it if I didn't have it in my room, unless we'd like to revisit the incident from last year." Alfendi paused, deciding to add another point that would spur Dr. Watson to do something. "And I can guarantee that Sam is most likely missing or unconscious in the building; his badge was placed with the cocaine."

Alfendi finished his little diatribe with a huff and Dr. Watson had the decency to look marginally composed, the only indicator of his surprise being the way his blue eyes narrowed. The doctor took a moment, looking to Alfendi before conceding to the facts and nodding sharply.

"Er, I'm not aware of Sam being missing; he came for work. However, if you are correct, I will dial the Yard now. Sorry, Scott." Dr. Watson looked to the other man in the room apologetically.

"It's fine, Doctor. He's right anyway. Can't have that around here." Scott shrugged, leaning back into his chair, his dark curls bouncing with the movement. Dr. Watson moved to his phone, dialing the appropriate number without segue and explained the situation warily to the other person on the line. Alfendi, pleased with himself, stepped out and waited for the Yard to appear. He hoped, even as it was unlikely, that Lucy would be the Inspector on the case, even though she was technically attuned to murders only. Lucy. He needed to call her. He almost made the decision to step into the front desk to use their phone when Scott left the office, motioning for Alfendi to go back inside, to which he did and took the seat Scott had occupied moments ago.

"Mr. Layton, the Yard members will arrive shortly. At the mere mention of your name, their tune was quite...different." Dr. Watson said as a greeting, attempting an easy-going smile. Alfendi bit back the urge to roll his eyes and opted for what he hoped was a sheepish smile.

"Good." Dr. Watson cleared his throat, idly shuffling some papers on his desk, then peered up with him in a pointed stare that took Alfendi partially off guard.

"I actually called you in to discuss this...whole thing before the Yard takes your statement. You said you found the drug in your room, yes?"

"Mm." Alfendi made a sound of affirmation, nodding warily.

"I'm surprised. You could have taken it, I'm sure. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Layton. What changed your decision? You openly let yourself insert the needle without so much as a hesitation last time." Dr. Watson leaned forward slightly, the fluorescent light making his blonde fringe brighter than it actually was.

"Lucy happened." Alfendi said without a second thought.

"Right, the woman you've written your letters to. That pen pal program is immensely effective, I'll have to look into it for some of my other patients." Dr. Watson tipped his head forward slightly, a smile playing on his thin lips. Alfendi, for once, bit back the desire to give a snarky response back in retaliation at the blond doctor. "You got a wonderful thing out of it, I see. Love does make people do things we'd never think be possible in the past. I suppose you plan to tell her of your current situation?"

Would he? She could be disappointed in him, or perhaps worse, concerned for his well-being. It would do no good to concern her with this matter but... At the dilemma playing at Alfendi's facial expression, Dr. Watson shook his head.

"It would be best, I believe, if you told her now, Mr. Layton." He motioned for the phone that was on his desk. "I'm sure she'd much rather hear the news from you than a co-worker."

Alfendi nodded and Dr. Watson took the phone from it's cradle, handing it over to him.

"Call her, Alfendi."