A/N: Bit of short randomness written after watching Series 22 episode 68: Immunity
"When did you become the kind of copper that stopped caring?"
The words were still buzzing in Mickey's ears as he left the station.
When
His jeans were roughly dragged down, the burn of the rope intensifying as he desperately fought to be free
Did
they really think he was still capable of doing this job when he'd been reduced to a victim before being suckered in by a bent fiancé anyway
you
never really got over something like that, one tragedy after the other, grief, rape, betrayal, like some sick game of dominoes until you
become
totally immune to everyone around you and all that matters is the blackness eating you up inside
the
never-ending cesspool swirling around screaming at the world neglecting any attempts to be
kind of
decent or caring. All Mickey wanted to do was share some of the hurt he'd been unfairly dealt with. He had no patience to be the
copper who
dished out tea and sympathy. Not now. Not since that journalist brought everything back and he'd hit the self-destruct button so hard he'd
stopped
any progress he had felt he was making and had practically blown his life to smithereens. So what if Fraser would be dead within a year. Mickey was past
caring
At least morphine would numb the pain. Everybody had their antidotes against the poison of the world. He headed towards the Seven Bells with purpose.
Alcohol would be Mickey's anesthetic against himself.