NOW...

There he sits. The room is painted in what he supposes is meant to be a lovely, calming colour. Not too white, not too girly, not too special.

Huh. It isn't supposed to be special, he thinks, then scoffs. He will be treated like everyone else in here. Not a very encouraging thought.

Tom sighs as he drops backwards on the tiny bed. This is supposed to be his home for at least eight weeks now? Well. Considering he doesn’t have anyone left outside to wait for him anyway, he can as well stay here.

His hands are already shaking as he holds them in front of his face. He doesn’t know if it’s simple nervousness or already symptoms. He experienced them before today. But he can’t do anything about them now.

And he shouldn’t. Of course, he shouldn’t. It’s what brought him here in the first place.

Fucking alcohol.

No, a tiny voice in his head says, it isn’t alcohol. He can deal with alcohol. Most importantly, he can deal without it as well. Most of the time.

No, what brought him here was that tiny incident where he maybe had not controlled himself that well. And because everyone now thinks he needs help. Diana, James, Emma, Sarah, their husbands, Luke and – most shockingly, though maybe not that much, because she witnessed that lowest point of his – Katharina.

His Kat. His Nina. Is he allowed to call her that now? After what she's witnessed? After he's embarrassed her in front of her colleagues?

So, maybe it is the best for him to be here. To face this. To admit to himself what he’s denied in front of others.

Tom feels a tear slip from his eye and presses his face in his hands. No. No crying. There was enough crying yesterday when they've told him to get here.

There's a knock on his door. Before he can answer, a female voice starts to speak. “Tom? We’re about to have our first meeting in five minutes. Maybe you can join us downstairs?”

It's a question, but Tom knows enough about places like this to be sure he doesn’t have a choice anyway. “Yeah,” he croaks and then clears his throat. “Yes, I’ll be downstairs.”

And he is. About eight minutes later all eyes are on him.

“Do you want to introduce yourself?” the nice lady whose name Tom didn’t quite catch asks as she leans forward.

He looks around, all eyes on him. He doesn’t want to sound cocky, but he doesn’t really need an introduction, does he?

But just as he wants to shake his head, the lady clears her throat. Okay then. He’s heard it from the two other patients before him.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Tom—” he starts and then adds a soft, “Hiddleston.” When everyone nods, he continues. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

Then he hears several voices at once. It’s just like they show in the movies, isn’t it? “Hi, Tom.”