The bottle of cheap booze held loosely in John's hand as he sits on the roof of his apartment building threatens to fall off of the slanted tiles, and how John himself got up there is a mystery not even the detective himself can figure out right now.

"As above, so below..." John spits the words out drunkenly with a humourless laugh on his lips as he stares up at the stars, which he can swear are all laughing in his face.

Some part of John supposes that the most dangerous thing is to love, especially in his profession. Everyone says that he'll heal and then rise above, but recovery is taking forever.

John takes another swig, moving to throw the now empty bottle off of the roof, but his fingers won't let go of the neck of the bottle.

Long, calloused digits just won't let go of the smooth glass, no matter how hard John wills it.

He wants to get off the roof. John's absent of cause and excuse, and he knows it. No audience can ever watch him for long, but he craves the applause yet hates the attention and then misses it when it's gone.

His grip on the bottle tightens, and a strangled sob escapes his throat before he can stop himself.

All the feelings inside of John, they're chaos and confusion, and a small part of him understands that his own thoughts right now are wholly unworthy of feeding and wholly untrue.

With a deep breath, John focuses on that little voice, not realising how his fingers loosen their grip on the bottle.

Existence is pointless, and John feels he has no purpose. The world is all just conjecture and gloom, and despite it having no meaning, he finds himself dreading the thought of leaving the world behind to fend for itself.

There may not be a meaning, but that doesn't mean that he can't find one and seize it.

John's fingers loosen more, and he just wants to get down off the roof.

With a deep breath, he throws the empty bottle as far as he can and struggles to his feet, only to realise he left his phone in his apartment.

Welp. Time to shout for help. Again.