His vision blurred, the world around him canted at an unnatural angle, he can't remember having left work; Montgomery leans against the door (not his -- hates home; this is home) and breathes deep, hears barking and realizes he's already knocked halfway through the motion of doing it again. He can't remember what he's taken or how much, but it's simultaneously too much and not enough -- he closes his eyes and waits for the wild urge to let loose a wordless, agonized howl to pass -- his thoughts are acrid and oily and unwelcome, and he'd give anything to dash what little coherency remains to pieces.

Only an hour ago he'd killed a man (let him die, watched him die, it's all the same, it'd been under his knife and he'd watched it happen, let it happen, felt a dull pang of fascination and wondered for a brilliant, endless moment who would stop him if he disassembled the man on the operating table piece by piece to find the flaw that'd bled him dry even as it happened). He hadn't felt such a thrill as he had in that moment in almost a decade, the desire to explore the furthest reaches of medical science thrumming through his veins as the patient's tenuous condition worsened, the magnitude of it rattling him so severely that the nurses mistook it for shock as they led him from the operating theater. He'd burned the letters in a fit of pique, years ago, but Moreau's invitation still weighs heavy on his mind in times like these. If only he'd--

"Will," he beats a flat palm against the door: two hard, solid thumps. "Will, honey, puppy dog. I need you."