When Jackson next wakes, he feels... far from wonderful. He has that feeling, that need, that runs right through him, affecting every sense and thought.

He reaches blindly for the bedside table, eyes still closed, fingers seeking out a laudanum bottle. When his hand clasps around empty air, he slowly begins to remember. Why did he ever think he could cope without the drugs? He was stupid. This was never going to work.

"Drake?" He croaks. Hopefully the other man's not taken his stuff far.