[Content warning: Talk of suicide]

Tristan occasionally examined criminals in York, but he hardly ever came out as far as Whitby. Yet when the case had been passed on to him, he had jumped at the opportunity. The hospital was a dreary place that inevitably lowered even the staff's spirits when they spent enough time within its gloomy walls. He welcomed a trip to the seaside, not to mention the opportunity to see an old friend on his way back. 

He stepped into the questioning room, that was to double as examination room today. It was empty safe for a table and two chairs on either side. There were bars in front of the small window. The stone walls were unpainted, the wooden floor bare. Bleak and unwelcoming, but it would do. 

He sat down, placing his briefcase on the corner of the table, because the floor looked unclean to him and he did not want to carry any type of bugs back to the hospital. Then he unbuttoned his morning coat and started taking several items - a notepad, a pencil, a stethoscope and several measuring instruments - out of his briefcase. He was just flicking through the pages of his notepad when the door opened and he looked up.

So, this horrible day that he had been dreading and trying hard to avoid had finally come. Anthony had kind of zoned out for the entirety of the way to his destination, only kind of snapping back to reality once he'd opened the door. Or, well, he assumed that it was him who had opened the door. He was too out of it then to even remember.

There was a man in the room, much to his surprise, but he wasn't sure if this was one of them doctors that was supposed to look at him or what. Didn't really look the type, but he wasn't going to question it. He wasn't going to do anything at all, actually. He just stood in the doorway, hands clasped together, refusing to move at all at this moment, just staring awkwardly and standing there.

Tristan stood up. "You must be Mr. Rowe," he said, observing the delinquent. He was short, Tristan noted, but it was not unusual in his patients. Many had grown up in extreme poverty or had been neglected as children because of their condition. Stunted growth was often the result, although Tristan could spot no immediate deformities. The man certainly had an absent look, an indication that something might indeed be the matter.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing at the chair across the table, and he sat back down. "I'm doctor Wells. I'll be examining you today. I'm not a policeman, I'm a doctor, so I'm not here to get you in trouble, but to make sure you're alright, okay?"

Anthony nodded. The urge to just flip him off and leave was indeed very strong, but he was smart enough to resist it. He nodded awkwardly yet again, and sat down in the chair. He crossed his legs and tried very hard to supress his fidgeting, which made him even more uncomfortable than he already was. He ran his fingers through his hair.

Anthony was trying to avoid eye contact as much as possible, so instead of looking directly at him he was either just nervously looking around or just kind of looking past the man. "Right. Okay." He started to tap his foot. So much for not fidgeting.

Tristan carefully observed as the man walked over and sat down. He certainly seemed fidgety, but a bit of nervousness was not uncommon. The door was closed and Tristan know that there was a constable waiting outside. He made some notes on Mr. Rowe's restlessness and avoidance of eyecontact and then looked back up. "Do you know where you are, Mr. Rowe?"

Anthony made incredibly brief and incredibly accidental eyecintact for a moment when the doctor talked to him again, but he quickly averted his gaze. "Well, yes. Kind of. I know everything I need to know." In truth, he knew next to nothing about what this place was, he only knew why he was here.

Tristan frowned. Some people were good at masking their confusion. "Can you tell me where we are, please?" he insisted.

Anthony tilted his head as if thinking. "No."

Tristan's frown deepened. He looked down at his note pad and wrote something down. "Alright..." he said, looking back up. "Do you drink, or use any intoxicating substances?"

Only a few questions in and Anthony already wanted to kill himself. This was going great. "What's it matter?" he crossed his arms.