Hello! This a story that takes place around a month after the finale so, obviously, all the spoilers for that. Mostly, it's Simmons-centric, though the rest of the team will also be making an appearance. Any and all feedback is much appreciated. and I hope you enjoy it!

Also, as you might've guessed, I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fitz was gone. His room was empty. The myriad machines that had been keeping him alive had vanished, the room oddly quiet without the constant beeping of the heart monitor. The bed was made, and the little touches that betrayed all the time Jemma had spent there - the books, the mess of papers, the toy monkey, the blanket and the pillow - were nowhere to be seen. She shook her head, hoping the small action would erase everything that was wrong with the sight in front of her. She just didn't understand. Even if the worst had happened, even if Fitz was — She shut that line of thinking quickly. she refused to even entertain that notion. Someone would've called. The hospital staff would've told her what was happening. Someone would've stopped her. They would've let her see him before just taking him away.

A warm hand on her shoulder startled her out of her bleak thoughts. She turned, finding a short orderly she'd seen a few times before.

"They moved him this morning," he explained, guessing at her thoughts. His voice was soft, probably meant to reassure her. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That even if there was an innocent reason, someone would've let her know.

"Moved him where? Why? Is he okay? Did he wake up?" She couldn't help the small note of hope that tinged that last question, even though it wouldn't make sense. As his emergency contact, they would've called her too, were that the case.

A small smile curled the orderly's lips. His response left her cold.

"Well, I've been ordered not to tell you where yet. As to why... to ensure your compliance, of course."

Jemma opened her mouth to speak, but she quickly shut it as she spotted the glinting scalpel in the man's hand and the almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message was clear: don't do anything, don't say anything. She took a deep breath, folding her arms across her chest and staring at the man. She knew she probably should be scared. Whatever this was about, it wasn't looking too good for her, but her thoughts kept returning to Fitz. If they'd hurt him, it would be her fault. Again. If something happened to him because of her, again, she'd never be able to forgive herself.

The man seemed pleased.

"Now, I'm going to need you to come with me quietly and not make a fuss. If I show up without you, your friend is dead. If I don't show up at all, your friend is dead." His tone remained soft and casual, like they were discussing the weather, instead of the life of one of the people she cared most about, and she suddenly felt like hitting him. She'd never been a very violent person, but the breeziness with which he was discussing her plight was almost too much. Instead, she simply nodded. She had no way to know if he was telling the truth - for all she knew Fitz could already be dead (her throat tightened at the thought) - but she knew for a fact he wasn't where he was supposed to be. She couldn't risk doubting him.

"Let's go, then." Without warning, he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, his hand crawling beneath her cardigan so that the scalpel was hidden from sight. Her immediate reaction was to pull away, but the pressure of the small blade against her hipbone stopped her. She'd used enough scalpels in her life to know how sharp they were.

His other hand started searching the pockets of her jeans, pulling out her cellphone, lanyard and keys, dropping them on the ground and kicking them under the bed.

As they started moving, she felt her hands start to go numb, and a cold weight settle into the pit of her stomach. She knew it was the effect of the adrenaline pumping through her system, filling her with nervous energy and the need to do something - anything - to get out of her predicament. It felt wrong, leaving without much of a fight. She had the feeling that if it had been May or Coulson in her place, they would've handled the situation much better, figured a way to incapacitate the man, or leave a message for the rest of the team. As it was, she had no choice but to make her way quickly through the corridors with him. She tried, as she went, to catch the eye of some of the hospital personnel she recognised, but the man ordered her to keep her head low as he steered her past the nurses' station.

"And stop looking like you've seen a ghost," he added with a growl "If we get made, your friend is going to be beyond any help."

Once they made it to the lift, his grip on her relaxed slightly, and she decided to take a chance at speaking. If nothing else, she could try to figure out what, exactly, he wanted from her.

"I - why are you doing this?" The man rolled his eyes.

"I thought we'd agreed on the quiet."

"I just want to understand."

"I'm following orders," was his succinct answer. Not a very informative one, either. Kidnapping a comma patient from a hospital without raising an alert was probably not a one man operation, Jemma had figured as much.

"From whom? What do they need me for?"

"You'll see soon enough. Now, shut up." The elevator dinged. The man's grip on her tightened again and he dragged her out towards the exit. As they stepped through the doors, she chanced a look at the cameras that she'd noticed before on one of her many trips. If she knew her teammates, she knew sooner or later, Skye would be looking through that footage for a hint as to what had happened.

She had only a fraction of a second to mouth something to the camera before she was steered onto the sidewalk and towards a black car with tinted windows. The man opened the back door and pushed her into the back seat, where another man, blonde and wearing sunglasses, sat. On one hand, he held a small handgun and on the other, a white rag.

"Hold her for me," he told the orderly, who did as requested, with one arm draping across her chest and one across her hips.

As the rag was brought in contact with her face, Jemma couldn't help but struggle, holding her breath and trying to angle her face anywhere else.

"No!" she cried out, trying to squirm out of the man's grasp.

"Now, don't make this harder on yourself," the blond man cooed as the orderly brought the hand draped across her hips up to hold her chin in place. In the end, it was the burning sensation in her lungs and the notion that she'd probably black out anyway from oxygen deprivation that had her relenting, inhaling the sweet-smelling chemical that laced the rag.

The last thing she heard, as her world turned black, was a muted 'Hail Hydra' as the hands holding her loosened.