Authors Note: Double post tonight, you have Devin Bourdain to thank. You should do so by reading some of her awesome stories. Love to all my followers, favouriters and reviewers. xx

Chapter 6

John really didn't want to see Dorian that afternoon. Rather than ease up, he was actually feeling worse. He hadn't managed any of his breakfast and yet had still thrown up the small amount of coffee he'd had to drink. He'd spent his yard time trying to sleep it off in the shade of the building but it hadn't helped. A shower had, momentarily, but by the time he'd gotten dressed again, the effort of putting clothes on had made him exhausted and he'd struggled to keep his stomach from protesting the exertion again. By the time the MX came to collect him and escort him to the visitor room, he was pale and clammy and barely still on his feet.

He should have made an excuse and refused to see him, he realised, as he stood in line, ready to go in. His bones ached and his joints were stiff, and the handcuffs chaffed on his wrists, despite them being looser than normal. As he was lead in, he could feel the waves of concern emanating from his partner, who this time managed to restrain himself for fear of getting into trouble again. John kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact with his friend, but as the MX pulled his hands to clip the cuffs into the table, he slipped and lost his balance.

As his unsteady feet skidded out from under him, he smacked into the table and he hit the floor, caught from going any further by the handcuffs that bit into his skin painfully. Dorian rushed to help, but the MX held him at bay. John hauled himself up into the seat and met Dorian's pity-filled expression.

"What the hell has happened to you?" Dorian asked quietly, his lip quivering.

"Don't look at me like that." John grumbled. "You look like someone just killed your damn puppy." He kept his head down, studied his hands on the table, but realised they were trembling so turned them into fists, to try and hide it. He could feel Dorian analysing him, and it was unnerving.

"You're sick. Have you seen the doctor?"

John shook his head forlornly.

And then it seemed to dawn on Dorian. "Hey man," he whispered, quiet enough that the MX, who had stepped to the side of the room couldn't hear, "are you high?"

"I…" John stumbled over what he was going to say. There was little point in lying to Dorian, he'd always been too good at picking up on body language, but neither was he prepared to give him the truth.

"John, what are you doing to yourself?" Dorian had clearly taken his lack of an answer as an affirmative. "You have to stop. How did you even get hold of any anyway? You're going to end up killing yourself. You have to stay strong, I know it must be hard, but you're worth more than this." The words came out in a whispered torrent of panic.

The amount of concern Dorian was showing was heart-warming, and John found himself thinking how thankful he was to have someone so caring in his life, but all that fell away as he was hit with the realisation that Dorian thought he'd done this to himself. He knew he had a tendency to be a little self-destructive, especially when he and the android had first met, but even in his darkest days he would never have resorted to anything more than a few shots of bourbon. The realisation that Dorian thought him that weak made him well up with unshed tears, and yes, he saw the irony, he thought as he wiped his eyes angrily. It had to be the drugs, he reasoned, they'd made him a mess. More than ever it was beyond him why anyone would want to willingly put themselves through this.

He put his hands over his face and took a few deep breaths. When he'd steadied himself, he looked back at Dorian with a weary sigh. "It's complicated." He said eventually, hoping it was enough to restore some of his friend's faith in him. "You have to trust me."

The silence that followed was damning. John threw his hands back up to his face as he fought back another emotional outburst.

"I do trust you." Dorian said hurriedly, reaching across the table for his friend but stopping himself before he made contact, aware of the MX that was watching the exchange closely. "I trust you. I'm just worried about you that's all. It's killing me to see you in here and worst of all I can't figure out why."

"I know you don't. I'm sorry for that." John said, his voice sounded hollow. Why did these conversations always have to be so difficult?

"Help me understand. I've seen the security footage now. Facial recognition software says it's you, but I just can't believe it. Someone has hacked the computers, or used a FaceMaker or…"

"It's me." John said.

Dorian stared at him, mouth open. "Why?"

"I had my reasons. You'll have to trust me on that too."

"That's why you didn't fight it? That's why Maldonado won't back you up?"

John nodded. He felt sick, and it wasn't just the effects of the drug.

Dorian gave him a long look, "Whatever you did it for, is it worth five years in here?"

John sighed. "I'm hoping it will be."

When Dorian realised that John would give him nothing else on the subject, they moved on to talk about other things. Any sort of work talk was off the table so Dorian passed the time by recounting the night Rudy had made him go bar hopping to try to distract him and when he ran out of those stories, he gave John the highlights of the football games he'd missed. John just sat there, taking comfort in the sound of his partner's voice and the chance for normal conversation, but lacked the energy to participate himself. Thankfully, despite the DRN being full of nervous energy and looking like he was about to scoop him into his arms and march him into the infirmary himself, he, for once, respected John's wishes.

By the time visitation was over, sweat was standing out on John's forehead and he'd been reduced to putting all his concentration into not throwing up on his own feet. He could barely hear what Dorian was saying, and he was actually thankful when the MXs called 'time's up' and he was able to go back to his cell. Dorian gave him a heartfelt goodbye and he was barely able to mumble something back before stumbling out of the room.

When he got back, he ignored Guerrero and Adam who were sat on the lower bunk playing cards again, and he fell face first onto his bed.

"Dude, you look like shit." Guerrero commented.

John responded by groaning into his pillow. "How long does this shit last?"

"Maybe a couple of days. They gave you too much." Adam said. It was the first time the young man had spoken to him since the detective had entered the prison. "You're lucky you didn't OD."

"Yeah, I feel lucky." He snarled. He sank his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.

He could feel the cold sweat of fear slide down beneath his ballistic vest, the air was thick with the smell of gunfire and blood. His heart pounded in his chest and he gripped the failing body of his partner to his side as he pulled the shorter man along with him on their desperate escape. And then a blast knocked him forward onto the concrete and made his ears ring. With his head pounding he looked over to see the lifeless eyes of Marty Pelham. He felt the emotions well up in him, and then he was hit with the pain. He heaved his body over painfully and stared down in shock at the charred mess of his thigh and the gaping void where his leg used to be. There was a noise to his side and he looked back to Pelham, who was staring at him with dead eyes, and then he blinked.

"What are you doing to yourself John?" Dead Marty asked.

John jumped as he awoke, making the metal frame on his bed creak and rock violently. Once he realised where he was he sank back into the bed and tried to steady his breathing. The light in the room was too bright and he felt shivery and feverish. He looked over at his cell mates who were ignoring him and carrying on with their cards. Sat between them on the bed with his back against the wall was Marty with blood pouring down one side of his face.

"You need to get out of here John." Dead Marty said. "He's going to kill you."

"Shit!" John scrubbed a hand over his face. "What is in this crap?" He looked back but now Dead Marty was stood at the foot of his head, bleeding from the chest wound that had killed him in the raid. "God! Go away, go away, go away!" He muttered.

"Hey Kennex? You okay?" Guerrero asked. The two of them had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him.

"You're not okay, are you John?" Dead Marty said, stepping forward. The blood gushed down his face and was pooling on the floor, drops splashing on the bedsheets. As his old partner stepped forward, John was suddenly filled with an overwhelming fear and he scrambled backwards, tucking himself into the top corner of his bed, against the wall. Dead Marty frowned at him, "What are you doing in here? What would your dad think?"

"Don't bring him into it. He would have understood." John muttered.

"Really?" Dead Marty taunted. "You think he would want you killing yourself in here? Tryin' to make friends with the kind of scum he spent his life putting away? The kind of scum who killed him? Having the shit kicked out of you? Getting fucking high?"

"Shut up." John scrubbed a shaking hand over his face but Dead Marty was still there.

"You still think you're tough enough to do this? Two years of therapy and you're still fucked in the head, with your anger issues and the nights you can't sleep without getting blind drunk. You can barely make it through the work day, why did you think you could survive prison?"

John was so focussed on his former partner that he didn't notice Guerrero until he reached out and touched his arm. John snatched it away, drawing himself further into the corner and wrapping his arms tightly round his legs, knees drawn up to his chest.

"Hey man, you're freaking out." Guerrero said. "I was just gonna give you a little sumthin', take the edge off."

"No." John shook his head rapidly, eyeing the syringe that the young man had in his hand. "I don't want any more of that poison in me."

"Just a little." Guerrero offered. "It'll calm you down. You shouldn't be going cold turkey from a hit that strong."

John shook his head again. He knew he wasn't thinking straight but he knew he didn't want any more of the drug, no matter how bad the come down might get.

"Listen!" Guerrero whispered harshly. "You need to calm the hell down. If the screws find out we're all in trouble."

"I'm not taking any more of that shit!" John cursed, shoving the man away with enough force to have him land on his ass, arms flailing.

"Then you need to get it together man." Guerrero grunted. Adam watched the whole thing in silence. He too seemed nervous and was absentmindedly scratching at his arms. The syringe was probably his and John doubted he'd been happy about offering it up.

John nodded, gulping down a few deep breaths. He knew Marty wasn't real, but he was so vivid, and his condescending voice rang in his ears crystal clear. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears to try and block him out, but it just made the voice louder. Dead Marty had now clambered onto the bed with him and was whispering in his ear, "You're too weak for this. Your dad would be so disappointed in how you turned out. Why don't you kill yourself now and put yourself out of your misery?"

In a fit of rage, John yelled, "Shut up!" and swung a punch. Of course his fist flew straight through the image of his friend and the next thing there was a loud crack as his knuckles met the concrete wall of his cell. Agony flared and shockwaves reverberated up his arm. Hot blood spilled out over his cracked knuckles and ran down his hand. John stared down at the injury in shock, the pain had jolted him back to reality for a moment and Marty was gone.

"What the hell is happening in here?" A deep voice sounded. John looked up to see the guard from his first day, Belton, stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. An MX hovered just behind him.

"I… er…" John usually prided himself on being able to talk his way out of most situations but he was struggling to get any of his thoughts in order. But then there was a deep booming sound and then the lights flickered and died. They were plunged into near darkness and then there was a thud as the MX behind Belton thudded to the floor.

"What the hell did you do?" Belton snarled but then his voice was drowned out as someone cheered and other voices joined in.

The cheers got louder and louder and was coupled with the stamping of feet and the rattling of bars building to a crescendo and echoing throughout the building. Then a voice rang out clearer than the rest, "Have you pissed your pants yet Belton? We're coming to get you!"