Can things get any worse? Of course they can!
Miami. Present day:
Calleigh leant back in her seat in a state of shock, "You bastard, I can't believe you made him steal evidence. He would never do that."
The FBI agent couldn't doubt the sincerity in her voice but was insulted by the accusation. "I didn't make him do anything, Miss Duquesne. I instructed him to do whatever was necessary; it's not my fault if he chose to do what he did."
"He wouldn't have been in that mess if it wasn't for you; he must have hated you for it."
He laughed at that, "Yes, every time we spoke all I heard was how hard it was on him, how he hated living a double life and lying to people. I got fed up with his constant whining but I'm not sure he was best pleased with my solution to his problems."
Flashback. New York 1994:
The rest of the shift seemed to pass in a blur as he sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on the reports in front of him. Several times he had got up to get coffee or wander into the locker room trying to take his mind off of what had transpired earlier in the day. Finally, as the clock struck 6pm, he collected his jacket and left the squad room without saying a word to anyone. Running down the stairs he ignored the officers who spoke to him and got to his car as quickly as he could.
He sat in the driver's seat and closed his eyes; he could feel his whole body shaking as the enormity of his actions hit him at full force. Hitting out at the steering wheel in anger he growled under his breath and willed his hands to stop shaking. "Pull yourself together, you idiot," he told himself, now was not the time to fall apart.
Climbing the stairs to his apartment slowly he felt as if he'd aged a decade in the last few months, the pressure of leading a double life began to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He had no idea how long Collins was going to drag this operation out for; it was hard enough living from one day to the next without thinking that far into the future.
He opened the door and flicked the lights on, relieved to find no unexpected visitors. He threw his jacket down and made his way to the bathroom in an effort to wash away his sins. He turned the water on as hot as possible and hissed as it hit his tired and aching body, the temperature turned his skin bright red and scalded him as he stood under it but nothing he did would soothe his troubled mind. He stood under the water until it turned cold, only then stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. He took a long look at himself in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. He could see the effect the last few months had had on him, his face gaunt and his clothes hanging loosely on his body. He had spent most nights eating little and drinking too much and now it was starting to show in his appearance. It wouldn't be too much longer before people started asking questions.
He opened the medicine cabinet and found the half-empty bottle of painkillers he'd been prescribed when he'd been released from hospital, against his better judgement he picked up the bottle and shook two tablets out onto his hand before throwing them in to his mouth, picking up the glass by the sink he filled it with water and swallowed the pills down. He closed his eyes as he made his way back to the lounge, sat down and waited for the drugs to take effect.
He waited, and waited. Thirty minutes later and he still felt no different, he walked back to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle from the cabinet and took another two pills hoping they would knock him out and leave him with a nightmare-free night. He sat back down on the couch and waited for the opiates to take effect.
He could feel the walls close in around him, the Oxycodone exacerbating his already weakened condition. Visions of his loved ones dead or dying by his hand flew through his mind, he screwed his eyes shut and tried to block their screams out but nothing seemed to work. He grabbed at his head with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could but still the images and voices hounded him. He reached out for the bottle of pills with a shaky hand and tipped a few more out, he swallowed them dry and closed his eyes again, unable to stop the tears that escaped from beneath his lids.
He could feel everything slowing down, the visions playing out as if in slow-motion and the voices becoming lower and deeper. He tried to open his eyes but he felt as if he were made of stone, suddenly the world seemed to twist violently sideways, he felt as if he were falling and then, nothing.
"John, wake up!" He could have sworn he heard someone calling his name, the noise sounded like it was coming from miles away. "John, what happened? Talk to me!" He heard the voice again, louder this time. Then he felt it, the slap to the face. "Open your eyes, come on!" He felt another slap, this time harder.
He tried valiantly to open his eyes, eventually he saw the blurry outline of a woman straddling his hips her hand positioned for another blow to his face. "Urgh." It was unintelligible and the only noise he could force his body to make.
She sat back as relief washed over her, "Thank God. Stay awake, I'm going to call an ambulance." She stood up and walked over to the phone.
He managed to turn over and grunt at her, trying to pull himself up by the coffee table. It took all of his strength but he managed to put the words together breathlessly, "No. Don't."
She froze with the phone in her hand, "You need to see a doctor, what happened?" Her eyes widened as she followed his eyes to the bottle of pills on the table. "How many did you take?" she asked as she picked the bottle up.
"I…..don't, I don't…..know." He could feel the arm holding him halfway off the floor shake; it wouldn't be long before his strength ran out completely. "Coffee…I need coffee."
"No, you need to go to the hospital." She placed the bottle down and crouched down next to him. "Please, let me get you checked out." She pleaded at him with her soulful eyes.
"No." His voice was stronger this time, "Help me up." It was his turn to look at her with pleading eyes and she knew she wouldn't be able to resist. The same gorgeous blue eyes of the man she fell in love with all those years ago, they may have been divorced for nearly a year but it didn't stop her caring about the man in front of her. She held her hand out to him and smiled as he took it, it was only then that she realised he was wearing nothing but a towel.
Together they managed to get him sitting back down on the couch, she walked to the bedroom and brought the quilt back out with her, placing it over him as he began to shiver. He smiled gratefully at her and watched with heavy eyes as she made her way to the kitchen. She returned some time later with two steaming cups of black coffee, she handed him one and commanded him to drink it. He screwed his face up when he tasted it, "You wanted coffee. Drink it." He never could deny her anything, he obediently did as he was told and downed the strong-tasting beverage.
She sat watching him as he drunk several more cups of coffee until she was satisfied that he was somewhat coherent. She had been devastated when she heard about the attack on him; she remembered the look on Andy's face when she opened the door to him that fateful night. It was the look she had been dreading seeing ever since she fell in love with the redheaded detective. It was also partly the reason she called time on their marriage, she couldn't bear the thought of her beloved husband being slain on the streets as he went about his job, it was the one thing that every wife of a cop dreaded, to hear those words that their husband had been killed in the line of duty.
She was in a state of shock as Andy told her that John had been taken to hospital and that it looked pretty bad. Her heart thumped in her chest as she tried to take in the news. She only remembered parts of the drive over to the hospital but would never forget the sight of her ex-husband lying so still on that bed, looking so battered and bruised.
She looked into his eyes and found him watching her, taking a long hard look at him she could see how much he'd changed in just a few short months. He looked haggard and ill, it was obvious that he wasn't taking care of himself properly. She placed a hand on his knee, "We need to get you some help, Johnny."
He shook his head, "No. I'm fine."
"You're not, look at you. What the hell happened tonight, why did you take these?" She held up the bottle of Oxycodone and he felt his cheeks flush with shame.
"I had a headache, I just wanted the pain to stop so I could sleep," he lied.
"You shouldn't still be taking these; you need to see a doctor." She tried to reason with him again.
"Look, I was just tired and forgot that I'd already taken some. It was a simple mistake, I'm fine." He ran a shaky hand through his hair.
"Please, Johnny. I worry about you." She looked at him again with those pleading eyes.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could carry on looking at her before the urge to confess to everything became too much. He hated himself for what he was about to do, he steeled himself as he spoke. "You divorced me; you've got no right to worry about me. Why don't you go and play house with that paediatrician you've been seeing?"
She flinched and removed her hand from his knee, she knew him too well and was aware that he'd lashed out in an effort to push her away; it didn't make the words hurt any less though. "You need help, I can…."
He cut her off, "I don't need help, especially yours!" he said as he raised his voice, "You were the one who ended it, not me. You've got no right to come around here and tell me what to do. Just go home and leave me alone." He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the look of hurt on her face.
She leaned forward and placed her hand on his leg but removed it when she felt him flinch. Sighing, she grabbed her purse and let herself out of his apartment and closed the door quietly behind her. Once he was sure she had gone he leant his head back and let the tears fall from his eyes.
He was woken by the shrill ringing of the telephone; he opened his eyes and grunted as the room came back into focus. He got up from the couch on shaky legs and answered the phone with a gruff, "What?"
"My, my. Not a morning person, are we?"
He ran a hand over his face in an effort to wake himself up; one glance out of the window told him that he had slept on the couch all night. "I can't do this anymore."
"Can't do what, Detective Kelly?"
"I can't keep lying to everyone, this has got to stop. I want out."
"You know that's not an option. How did the raids go yesterday, were you able to get word to the Malucci's in time?"
He let out a long breath, "Yeah, I spoke to Benny. He said they'd get the places stripped before we arrived but he needed help with one of them."
"What kind of help?"
"He asked me to…" he hesitated before trying again, "He told me where to find the stash, and he wanted me to get to it before my colleagues did."
"And did you?"
He gulped deeply, hating to admit to what he'd done. "Yes, I managed to get it out without being noticed."
"And where is it now?"
"In my locker at the precinct, I had nowhere else to put it."
"Interesting…"
He could feel his temper rise, was this all just a game to the other man? "I'm serious, Collins. I want out, I can't keep doing this. Something's got to give."
"Really, do you always have to be so dramatic? Leave it with me; I'll see what I can do."
"That's it? You're not going to give me anything to go on?" His voice rose, "You can't just leave me dangling, I can't do this anymore."
"Give me a few days; you'll know when the time is right. Just try to keep your head until then."
The line went dead; he threw the phone down in frustration. Knowing Collins whatever he intended to do would not be good.