thirstforvice | Ripper Street/They tried to make me go to rehab...

Drake shifts Jackson closer, kissing his temple.

"Let me wake up proper before you talk all serious, Homer," he says gently.

"Then wake up quick," Jackson grumbles, his determination sure to wane. He's been in two minds about this conversation since he thought of it, and it's only the memory of Bennet half-dead on the dead room table that keeps his resolve now.

Drake opens his eyes wide. "All right, I'm awake" he says, shifting upright and rubbing at his eye.

The bruises have faded on his arms and his strength is finally starting to return.

"What do you need?"

"My effects," Jackson points at the bags still mostly unpacked. He doesn't trust himself to go into them, sure he'll sneak one bottle of something and hide it away.

"I need you to take... there's laudanum in there. Cocaine. Opium. Take it all, and throw it out. Or hide it somewhere I can't find. Please."

Drake frowns and sits up, scrutinising Jackson's face.

"Are you sure?" he says slowly. "Don't you need those?"

Jackson laughs bitterly.

"More than anything, Bennet. But when you brought that plague-ridden sailor to me, I'd just overdosed on the stuff. You'd have asked me my own name, I don't think I'd have been able to answer. Never mind doing my job. I almost killed you, Drake. If I hadn't taken what I had, I'd have made the diagnosis the first time, and you'd never have been sent onto that Godforsaken ship. I won't let that happen again."

Drake takes in all those passionate words, turning them over in his mind. He knew that Jackson hadn't been at his best that day, but he'd put it down to his knees first. But now that he thinks on it, he realises how unnatural Jackson's attraction to the laudanum had been, how he's always seemed a little more than drunk when Drake's pulled him out of gutters.

"It weren't your fault," Drake says stubbornly. "You're a good doctor - the best."

"Not when I'm injecting cocaine twice a day, I'm not. And maybe you lived, but how long before that happens again, and you don't get so lucky. Or what if it's someone else ends up dead on that slab because of me? The Inspector, or young Hobbs? You have to stop me, before it goes too far."

Passion burns in Jackson's eyes, sure that this is the only way he can live with himself now. If Drake had died because of his incompetence... he'd probably already be weighing down his pockets with stones.

"You know that I'd do anything for you," Drake says softly, the words a confession that he can only voice because he's a man walked through the valley of the shadow of death and Homer Jackson is in his bed.

He slowly climbs out of bed, knowing he's thin and wasted where he should be ale-bellied and brawn. He tucks his nightshirt into his trousers, sensing the urgency with which Homer wants this done.

And then he starts to gather all the bottles from the table - he figures it's better to take them all rather than risk leaving a bad one behind.

Getting up also, hobbling over to his chest and bags, Jackson starts to empty the bottles and vials from all the hiding places he uses for just such a purpose. Placing them all on the table, he does think about hiding something away for emergencies. But he remains strong, and places everything where Drake can see it.

Drake silently collects all the glassware into his satchel, the bag feeling like a lead weight in his weakened state.

"Is that all of it?" he asks, meeting Jackson's eyes. He wants to trust him, but he knows how important it is to get this right.

"Yes," Jackson nods, and then with considerable effort adds, "In this room. But neither of us are strong enough to go anywhere else, right now."

When they're stronger, he'll have to tell Drake about the loose floorboards at Susan's house. And they'll have to come up with some plan for the dead room. He actually needs some of the drugs he abuses there, for his professional work.

"All right."

Drake leaves the room, manages to shuffle downstairs while gripping tight to the bannister, and deposits the satchel in the startled arms of the kitchen maid.

"Take these down the apothecary and don't bring any of 'em back."

Drake then thinks about what happens next. He's seen opium eaters shaking and shivering in the cells, begging for a doctor or an undertaker, anything to end the agony. He'd give anything to spare Homer that, but if it sees him through the other side...

"Tell Mrs Ramsey to leave the meals outside the door. She mustn't open the door for anything."

The maid nods dumbly and Drake drags himself back up the stairs to their rooms. He carefully locks the door behind him and places the key on its string around his neck. "All gone."

"Thank you," Jackson says, already back in the bed, pressed against the wall to allow Drake as much room as possible beside him.

"You have to promise me, Bennet, that you don't let me give in." He too has seen more than his fair share of those in desperate need of what they can no longer obtain. "No matter what I say, what I do. Please, say you promise?"

Drake returns to bed, trousers neatly folded over the chair, and sits hip to hip with Jackson in the small bed.

"I promise - not until you're free of it."

Drake offers a shadowed smile. "Just don't rough me up too bad - I'm not what I used to be."

"I won't hurt you," Jackson says, wants to promise, but then thinks better of it. He can't predict what he'll be doing this time tomorrow.

"Get out, if you think I will. Lock me in here. Or call Reid and lock me in a cell at the shop. But don't let me hurt you."

"I ain't leaving you," Drake says firmly, and as far as he's concerned, that's that done with. The thought of Jackson shaking apart alone on the floor of a police cell...

"Don't put yourself in danger, Bennet. Please." He's flattered by the other man's pledge to be his guardian angel, but he doesn't want to come through the withdrawal to find that he's hurt... whatever Bennet was to him now.

"Danger? I've faced Dervishes in Egypt and Sudan, and I was the Army's heavyweight boxing champion."

Drake looks at Jackson fondly. "I can take a shiner or two from you."

"You shouldn't hit the people you care about," Jackson mumbles, lying down and letting his head rest in Bennet's lap.

"I don't think it's right."

Drake runs his stiff fingers through Jackson's hair, enjoying the contact that he's still afraid to start himself.

"Me mum raised me better than that, God rest her," Drake says. "I won't hurt you - and I won't let no one else hurt you neither."

"We'll see," Jackson murmurs, closing his eyes. Everyone brings a fist to his face, or belly, eventually.

Drake is hurt that Jackson doesn't trust him but he knows that the man's life has been less than perfect. Drake knows a bit about being knocked around, but he's never played house with a harridan like Susan.

"You get some rest," he says gently, fingers curling in Jackson's hair. "I'll be right 'ere."

"Sorry. For whatever happens next." Jackson apologises before settling back down for more sleep. He knows when he wakes up, he won't feel so calm.

Drake just holds Jackson close, unable to rest when he doesn't know what's going to happen next.

The first thing he notices is that Jackson's trembling, his arms covered in goose pimples. Drake shushes him, stroking his hair, quietly terrified.

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