It's a fresh addition to his repertoire, still so comparatively new in relation to everything else. For lack of any other vices -- all so stringently, ferociously forbidden during the years he lived under Reginald's roof -- Luther has wound up latching onto caffeine and alcohol. Some nervous snacking, too.

Because as coping mechanisms go, it's better than the alternatives. So, so much better, and they've just had a firsthand reminder of it in the hospital tonight.

"I haven't started keeping a flask next to my bed," he says wryly (and okay, so some things haven't changed about him yet), "so. It'd have to be downstairs. But I could bring something up." Because she looks tired, and Luther had always gone and obediently fetched things for her in the past anyway, even without being rumoured into it. A forgotten tie or misplaced gloves, or a magazine she simply didn't feel like walking across the room to get.