Case Closed

• Four •

She seemed to have spent a lot of time rushing around London recently. Not for one single good reason though.

The first problem Lucy encountered was that she didn't actually have a clue where the Prof lived. After pausing for a second she decided that it would be best to stop at the office and make a plan before confronting what was mostly likely to be a very bad-tempered Potty Prof. She almost laughed out loud at how un-Lucyish that was. Make a plan? Think before charging in? It was laughable to say the least.

Hilda was certainly shocked when Lucy burst into her office at 9:30 in the morning, desperate to know Alfendi's address. It was not allowed in the office to give out people's address, but Hilda could tell that something was genuinely wrong. As a result, after five minutes of Lucy pleading she handed over a slip of paper with, '109 Willow Place, 7B' written in neat black handwriting. Lucy was already half way down the corridor when Hilda called after her, "Lucy wait! You shouldn't go by yourself, he- it's not safe!"

After no reply, she turned back to her paperwork. That girl...

Half an hour and three miles of speed-walking later, Lucy found herself standing at the bottom of a run-down looking tower block of 11 floors. She took a deep breath and drew herself up before stepping through the main door, into a dusty corridor. Seven flights of stairs later - with each level making Lucy want to turn and run just a little bit more - she came to a hallway with flats 7a, 7b and 7c leading off of it.

No wonder the Prof spends all his time in the office, if this is where 'e lives... she thought. In all honestly though, it was definitely not what she had been expecting, for an esteemed, if not slightly eccentric member of the Scotland Yard. Almost like some kind of some empty warehouse, there was a derelict air around the place. She wouldn't have been surprised if the Prof was the only living person in this block. Popping into her head was the clear image of a newspaper advert: 'Not recommended for families due to antisocial and possibly dangerous neighbour/s.'

Lucy's laugh was high-pitched and nervous as she raised her hand to knock.

"Go away."

The Pr- Al must have heard her laughing. Though she was ashamed to admit it, the bruises on her shoulders were enough to remind her that he could still be angry with her, still want to attack her. However, something in his voice, though defiant, sounded broken. There was nothing to be afraid of; she trusted him, after everything he'd put her through. He'd got her back out, right?

She knocked again.

"Go away... Lucy."

Her name sounded weird on his lips, like he relished but hated saying it.

"Nope. I'm not leaving till you let me in."

"You'll be there a while."

"I don't care!" She meant it.

Alfendi sighed as if getting up and unlocking - what sounded like multiple locks - the door was the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. He didn't open it however, just left it for her to do. 

As she pushed the door open, the smell of junk food and... alcohol? was like a physical hand pushing her back. Coughing and spluttering, she glanced first at the state of the apartment then set eyes on Al.

His hair was neither purple nor red- more a washed-out mauve. There were stains on his white coat and he was wearing the exact same clothes that he had been almost a week ago. His pale face only made red, bloodshot eyes stand out even more.

"Don't say anything." His voice was hoarse.

"You look awful."

Neither Placid or Potty, he just slumped back down on the sofa and put his head in his hands.

"Can I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Are you gonna come talk to me then?"

"Nope."

"Right," she said, stepping over the doorstep.

The apartment was a mess. It looked as if he'd trashed it, and only made half an attempt to clear it up.

Something else had caught her eye though. On the table, among pizza boxes, plates, cutlery, old case files and yet more old newspapers, were wine bottles, cans of beer and shot glasses.

"Pr- I mean, Alfendi, have you been drinking?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe." He couldn't even look her in the eyes.

"'Onestly Alfendi. You're supposed to be a great mind! A genius! And here you are, sulking over a few days off work and drowning yourself and your sorrows in alcohol!"

It was like he hadn't heard anything past the first few words.
"I'm not sure... I'm comfortable with you calling me that... Lucy."

"Why does that even matter?!"

Potty Prof snapped suddenly, "You come to my house, to wave what you've done to me in my face! I have nothing without my job. Nothing!"

You have me...

"Now look at me! Here, in my wreck of an apartment, drinking," he brandished a beer bottle, "and eating like a slob!"

"For God's sake, get a grip! You're an Inspector, not a 3-year-old."
Lucy was so angry she was almost shaking. With no idea where this courage had come from, the realisation of what she had just yelled at him hit her. You shouldn't go by yourself! He- it's not safe!

For a second his eyes bored in to her's and a flicker pure crimson rage sparked across his face. Then, his eyes turned dull again; his gaze dropped and his body sagged.

"I used to be."