Who? Hem & Shep Where? Gym When? Backdated to just after his text. What? FIGHT Open? No Warning Usual swearing, blood, talk of alcoholism etc.
Since arriving back on the station, Hemingway had mostly been keeping to himself. Writing was going surprisingly well, and when he was on a streak like that, he tended just to hole in and get on with it. That was what his life was like at home, after all. Periods of solitude where he could just write without anyone disturbing him, and then a shift. A need to be around people all the time, to soak up every last bit of lifeblood that he could, to fully experience the real world again. He supposed that was the life of the bipolar individual, after all - swinging between two extremes.
He'd felt himself start onto the upswing. That was progress in itself - Dr Cuddy would be proud. He was even finding solutions to deal with it, to stop himself from wanting to scratch his skin off, or down a bottle of absinthe and start a bar fight with a Russian, or find someone to fuck and fuck over. All in all, asking a friend to spar with him seemed a reasonably healthy choice.
Plus, Shep got it. He doubted she'd even blink when he showed up - wearing a vest that probably used to be white, loose pants, slightly more than a five o'clock shadow, and the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke on him. He could do without the lecture.