It has been a long time since I have written. I have been frustrated at not being able to complete this story - I hate abandoning something halfway through. I have had some health issues and been extremely busy with work as well. But Simon's been nagging away in the back of my mind so hopefully I will be able to finish this story at last. Thank you to everyone who has read this in the past and I hope you will continue to read -x-

Chapter 10

There was some kind of hammer beating away at his head. That was the first thing Simon registered as he slowly came around the following morning. If it wasn't a hammer then it was some kind of pneumatic drill.

He couldn't place what had happened, or where he was, or who he was for that matter. He tried to open his eyes but didn't quite manage it. Between the desert-dry tongue in his fuzzy mouth, the throbbing pain between his temples and the bright daylight that was trying to keep his eyes firmly shut, he knew something was very seriously wrong.

He managed to prise his eyelids open for just a second before the sunlight sealed them shut again. He whimpered a little as the beating of his headache became stronger and louder.

"What happened?" he murmured to himself. Another one-second attempt at eye-opening occurred, which was only marginally more successful than the first. "Ugggggggghhhh…"

He stayed where he was for a moment, trying to piece together the events that had left him in this situation. He vaguely remembered alcohol. That unfamiliar beast that he had turned to out of sheer desperation. Desperation caused by… what was it again?

Malcolm. Malcolm's memorial.

"Shit," he whispered, running his hand through his hair and rubbing his temples.

He recalled getting scared and upset, and feeling quite desperate for Robin to get home. He remembered, in some vague way, an ill-advised excursion to meet him, and someone helping him into a car…. Then… Nothing.

One more attempt at opening his eyes was a little more successful. Three whole seconds of opened-eyes resulted, which was a definite improvement. As they closed again, a strange sight filtered through to his consciousness and he forced himself to open them once again to see what he only half-registered.

On the bedside cabinet beside him were two cigarettes, stubbed out on a small plate.

"What the -?" Simon finally found himself more awake as he jolted upright in bed to take a better look.

"…I'll just put you to bed…." a ghost of a memory came back to him as he stared at the strange sight, "…make sure you're alright before I go…"

"What… who…?" Simon could hear the voice running through his memory as plain as anything but couldn't place the face, nor what occurred before or after it had spoken.

He took in his surroundings a little more closely. Beside the plate with the cigarette ends he saw a mug with a half-finished cup of strong, black coffee, an empty condom wrapper and a pair of spectacles.

"W-what the…?" Simon couldn't seem to finish a thought, much less a sentence. He glanced down and found himself topless at the very least. Whoever had helped him into bed had helped him out of something else. "But… but… This doesn't make any sense!" he protested to himself. Nervously he peeled back the covers and found himself naked, except for a pair of Garfield socks. He flinched as a memory thrust into his head like a sledgehammer.

"…You just need someone to hold your hand… to be there for you…"

He blinked, rubbed his eyes and tried to bring his memories into clearer focus but there were some alarming gaps. He thrust his hands to his head as more of the previous day started coming back to him. He remembered arriving back at Robin's in the stranger's car and being helped up to the flat. He didn't remember getting in, he didn't think he'd used a key at all but couldn't really place how else he would have made it in. He recalled being vaguely aware that the stranger was there too, forcing him to drink a glass of water and putting him to bed, but as far as he recalled this all happened with a full set of clothes upon his body.

"….Oh dear, Simon, what would Robin say if he saw you in this state?"

Every line that came back to him made Simon flinch. He could hear the words but still not see the features of the man who had invaded his home.

A stale smell of smoke hung in the air as he tried to move his legs out of the bed. To his horror they felt weak and he could hardly stand on his own two feet. The room was swimming and his limbs felt heavy as he tried to locate some clothes and pull them on.

"Oh god… oh god…" he breathed, unsure what to do next. He had to sit down to get his underpants over his feet because his balance had disappeared and his trousers gave him an even more difficult mission to conquer. Just as he was struggling with the zip, another memory forced itself into his head. It was a fuzzier memory, one that he could hardly recall at all until he fought harder and harder to piece it back together. He remembered being halfway through the second cup of strong, black coffee he'd been forced to 'sober him up' when everything started to swim around him. He last memory he could place before the darkness overtook him was of a face with chilling familiarity closing in over him, and a voice that whispered,

"…Guess what, Shoebury? You're not the only one who made it home."

A lump rose in Simon's throat. Suddenly he felt as though he needed to run, to get away, to outrun the memory before the rest of it caught up with him. He stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway, into the kitchen where a sheet of paper lay on the table. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly across to it and lifted it with a trembling hand.

"Simon," Robin's familiar handwriting flowed across the page, "No matter what you have been through, nothing excuses infidelity. Be gone from my flat by the time I get home. Goodbye."

"N-no," Simon stuttered, "Robin, no…"

He began to feel violently sick, the room spinning and rotating around him faster and faster. He stumbled backwards at the memory of hands undoing his shirt buttons and disjointed whispers entering his ear. He felt something overcome him as blackness took over and he fell to the ground, blacking out with one final memory standing firm in his mind.

Finally, he saw in his minds eye the face of the man who had taken him home, who had come to his 'rescue', shown him compassion and then turned in the blink of an eye.

"Keats," He whispered with a choked breath as he closed his eyes and let the darkness overcome him.

Compared to the realisation that had hit him, blacking out was most definitely for the best.