Disclaimer: I wished I owned something…

Summary:

A/n: I wrote this after reading a story about Tom refusing to take a joint, and then reading one about Tom handling Amy's death and I thought the two made for an idea.

His Highest Low.

Doug had thought Tom was dead.

At this, Tom had laughed and opened bleary eyes from his position on the bed- on his back, legs crossed, hands near his head- and had brushed him off, slurring that he'd only been smoking.

Doug didn't need to ask him just what exactly he'd been smoking. He reached across the door frame to turn the light on but quickly snapped it off again at the Officer's weak protest and agonized cry of pain. In the dark, the larger man made his way over to the bed, coming to sit on the corner near Tom's legs; the bed dipping slightly. He stared at the pale face and glossy eyes, bangs plastered to his head in sweat and incoherent mumblings coming from his mouth about the sudden wave of colors.

How had his friend gotten so bad?

Doug knew though, even though he denied it like everyone else did. Fuller pretended they were prescribed and turned a blind eye, Harry never questioned, probably still didn't know, and Judy avoided the subject. And Doug, well, Doug made excuses to visit Tom and see him through each painful night.

After two months, though, it was getting harder and harder to find excuses to be at your best friends apartment, and reasons and room to invite him over to your own became non existent.

After Amy's death, everything in Tom's world had crumbled and he seemed insolent to pick his life up again. Night after night they all took turns to be with him, to watch the game, to see a movie; to stay up, to drink, to eat, to anything. Yet only so many container foods could be kept and frozen in the fridge, uneaten like the one made before it, thrown in the bin, or on the better nights, heated and tasted and left on the kitchen bench to decay. The season was out, and replays became tedious, movies were dull and Tom just couldn't focus; they all ended in pain according to him, and didn't he already have enough pain? Staying up and drinking only proved to be worse, starting Tom up on something he now did frequently when no one was there to play 'watchdog.' There really wasn't any other option left.

Just to let him heal in his own time.

But Tom's time was running out and he wasn't close to healed at all.

Where he had found the money to buy them, Doug didn't know, but he knew Tom had knowledge of where to get them. It was the flaw in playing a 'kiddy cop,' you knew too much of the wrong thing. To be honest, he wasn't sure when Tom had started, or even if he had a long time before Amy's death, but the day Tom had walked into the Chapel, delirious and hallucinating, was when things had really started to get bad.

He never seemed to be awake, but was never asleep. In a trance that he controlled, yet had no control over. He could move and talk, and even drive but everything had an odd touch, an odd jolt, a little slur. It all went purposely unnoticed. No one wanting to be apart of what Tom had weaved himself into, everyone somehow understanding.

Except for Doug.

As often as he could, he would get to Tom, drive him to and from work and have him over. It wasn't often enough though, with him having troubles with Dorothy and having to make up for Tom's unusual slack in work, but he hoped it helped. Just like he hoped Tom would one day wake up and get better. Just like he hoped that Tom wouldn't do the unthinkable and never wake up.

For that's what life now was like with Tom; full of false hope and potential.

Doug grabbed at his partner, gripping his slim wrist in his hand, frowning at the jutting bones. The pulse was there but slow and detached- not worrying enough, not yet. He let the wrist fall to the mattress and felt bony fingers curl around his hand, chilling him. Tom was too many things these days; too cold, too pale, too sick, too thin and too high.

Sometimes, Doug wished he felt that high.

He gently squeezed back, asking if his Partner, his friend, hell, his brother, was okay. All he got back was a small nod, a weak smile and a firm squeeze in reply. Tom didn't like to talk these days either, unless in spite, malice or hurtful sarcasm. It seemed when Amy had died, everything good and nice, everything that had made Tom, died.

He leaned closer, tones soft, knowing it would make Tom's eardrums throb. Doug keeps quiet the malicious voice that jeered at how funny it would be, and what a way to teach the Cop a lesson, if Doug were to yell. Instead, he asks if Tommy needs anything; a drink, food, light, music, something?

Mouth a gap, Tom runs a tongue over his dry, chaffed lips, shaking his head lazily side to side. His eyelashes flutter and slowly his eyelids drop, captured in a world full of colors and sounds, pictures and words. His breathing becomes shallow, face scrunched slightly; something fearful has crossed his path of fantasy. Then with a smile, sweet, harsh laughter emitts from him; eyes scrunched in joy, mouth twisted in happiness, and an uncontrollable amount of laughter filling the room.

Laughing at what wasn't there; would never be there.

Doug pushed back the sweaty strands of hair, concerned at how cold his friends forehead is, how slick with sweat it is. Could he get Tom a blanket, a warm drink, start a steamy shower?

Doug didn't wince at Tom's next words, didn't cower, grow angry or become upset. Doug's immune to Tommy's harsh snarls of fuck you, fuck off, or get fucked. He had come to expect it after the night when Tom hadn't known where he was and hurled abuse for hours on end at Doug and the people who weren't there, but were.

It didn't bother Doug anymore, didn't hurt him like the very first time he had heard Tom smile and, sickly sweet, sing song the words. It didn't enrage him like the second time Tom had said them, Doug threatening to haul Tom's sorry ass down the many flights of stairs to the nearest rehab centre. And it didn't worry him like it used to, when Tom had stood at the top of the stairs and proposed to fall if Doug didn't leave, and leave now. When Tom had lost balance and nearly slipped, grabbing onto the rail just in time, he had broken down in harsh, heart wrenching, uncontrollable sobs.

It was the only time he had let someone comfort him like Doug had; cradling him and rubbing his back in slow circles, soothing tone and words, carrying him, exhausted from crying and adrenaline, to his bedroom.

Tom would never be who he use to be.

Neither, would Doug.

The solemn man ran a last hand through Tom's hair before brushing over the foul smelling paper and 'grass' and burnt out joints and sweeping them all hatefully onto the floor. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down on the man who use to hold so much, use to be so much, that three months ago, Doug never could have foretold this. Knowing that it is pointless, that he won't get a reply, Doug still voices if there isn't anything he can get Tom, anything at all.

The words are soft and barely audible but Doug hears them. He hears them because for so long he has been waiting for them and it would be only too cruel to deceive himself of this. With a sad smile, and a shuddering sigh that forces the tears at bay, Doug nods.

'Help… Doug'

Time is still ticking.

E/n: Thanks