(no subject)

[washtheblood]

The good old doctor had long since left the Deck behind. Incapable of keeping things from falling apart, he'd left many things behind. It was the fate of his kind. Eventually, things fall apart. Its why many die young. A luxury he never knew he wanted until about now. So what was he doing? Yes, the warrant was still out on his head but he wasn't out of his uses yet. Still beneath the ever watchful eye, E, his role had taken on the old and familiar. When they're really in need, they call him in.

Johnson sits on a chair opposing the full ceiling to floor windows of a penthouse in London. A limp wrist fell down over the table by his side where a tray and glass of brandy lay. He's been clean for a year straight, from the blow that was, but it never slips his mind. He's always reminded of it. You're just not as good as you used to be. Now he waits for his time to hit zero; for that one singular and extraordinary person to come along and do him in.

But that could wait for another time. He seems to have a visitor and without looking back, he acknowledges the man.

"Hello David," before putting the cigarette back to his lips.