Hello and welcome to another good old Morse-gets-kidnapped fanfic. I was in the mood for some sweet whump and ended up writing this. This one is also up on AO3, where the updates will come slightly sooner, but that's only a matter of hours at most. I've already written most of this story, so updates hopefully won't take long. This story will probably have about 4 chapters. Enjoy!

There weren't many things that were as satisfying as a difficult case coming to a good end. And there weren't many things that were as annoying as a case that had come to an end, but leaving a few loose threads that Morse knew he may never find the answer for.

He was grateful they had found the killer, he really was. He hadn't yet confessed and they still had to make total sense of the story, but the evidence against John Stackford was more than enough to guess what had happened. Morse knew however, that if Stackford would not start talking they would never get behind the true reason why he had killed a young man, Julian Ross.

Thus his decision to go out and talk to Miss Dion one last time, hoping she could clear some things up.

He shoved his hands further in his pockets as he walked down the road, reminded once more of the fact that he would have to buy a new pair of warm gloves soon. It was one of the coldest weeks of December in the last few years and in his flimsy coat Morse felt it all too well.

The thin layer of ice was slippery under his boots as he made his way up the small stairs in front of Miss Dion's door, careful to hold the bar firmly while wondering if the woman even knew what salt was. When he had safely reached the doorway he rung the bell, hoping for some answers and maybe a little bit of warmth.

With a creak the door swung open before him and Miss Dion appeared in the doorway. He flashed his badge and wanted to introduce himself again but Miss Dion spoke before he could.

"You're that policemen right? Do come in, it's icy cold outside, I'll make a cup of tea."

"Ah, thank you."

He followed the woman to the living room, a small space with a two sofa's across from each other with a table between them. He took a seat on the one closest to the window as Miss Dion disappeared to the kitchen.

Morse wrung his hands and blew on them to get them somewhere near warm again. They had talked to Miss Dion earlier already of course, the woman owned a bookstore in the middle of town Julian Ross used to visit often, but no obvious connection could be found between her shop and Julian's death.

Still, Stackford had been seen around there more often as well lately and Morse couldn't help but wonder if it was just a coincidence or the possible missing link that would allow them to make sense of the motives behind the cruel attack.

"What did you want to ask me?" The women handed him a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa across him with a cup herself.

"I was just wondering if you know anyone by the name of John Stackford? He has been to your shop a few times."

"I'm afraid I don't recognize the name." Miss Dion said, one brow arched. "Maybe if I were to see him I'd recognize him from the shop, but can't say I know him personally."

Morse hummed and sipped his tea, grateful for the warmth it brought. "And what about Mr. Peterson? You told me you met him a few times."

Peterson had been their first suspect, but that notion was soon dropped after the evidence started to point in the direction of the man they had in custody now.

The woman flashed him a smile, "Yes, I did. We actually went on a date together, can you believe that?" She looked at him as if she had just told him a joke, and Morse suspected it had something to do with the age difference between her and the 12 year older man.

"Nothing came from it of course, I was foolish to have thought so. But still." She sipped her tea and nodded almost unnoticeable. "It was a nice evening."

Morse smiled in his half empty cup. How many times had he himself gone on dates like that? Thinking that maybe he had finally found the one, having a great time and daring to hope. But it had always been over in a flash, whether by his hand or the girls'.

He emptied his cup and stood. "Well, thank you for your time Miss, that was really all I wanted to ask."

It hadn't been a fruitful visit, the connection with the shop appeared to be a coincidence after all, but having the loose ends out of the way always gave a sense of peace.

"Of course," the woman said as she walked him to the door. "Anytime."

As he nodded to her in thanks a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. Stood up too fast, most likely. He probably should've tried to get a bit more sleep last night, he had hardly gotten some, too busy thinking about the case. There was a connection they missed, he was sure of it.

The woman looked at him with concern in her eyes as his hand sought support against the wall.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

He shook his head to get rid of the fog that blurred his vision. Whereas normally it would have worked, now it had clearly been the wrong move to make, his vision didn't improve and the movement only caused nausea to rise on top of everything else. This wasn't just exhaustion playing up, what was happening? His legs were heavy, as if he had just run a marathon whilst having pitch-high fever.

He took a few deep breaths and blinked the fog away, he wasn't going ill was he? He staggered forward, positive it would pass soon, but his legs gave way and as he fell he vaguely registered two hands under his armpits lowering him on the ground. A blurry face appeared above him -Miss Dion. He opened his mouth to tell her to call the station, but no sound came out.

The woman was smiling at him and for some reason he found that very odd. Somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm was screeching for his attention. It hardly penetrated the fog though, and he couldn't figure out why her smile was so strange before the darkness overtook him.

He woke up in the most uncomfortable position ever. His head was throbbing and his arms were twisted behind him in a way he would never have gotten them himself.

And it was cold.

If his headache wasn't what had woken him, it would've been the cold. It was an absolute freezing cell in here.

Wherever 'here' was.

The hard material beneath him and the stiffness of his back told him he was seated somewhere. On a chair? Not a very comfortable one then.

Slowly he opened his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dark. As they did, the fog in his head finally cleared up a bit as well, although the pounding headache didn't cease. He reached for his head with his hand, only to find out he couldn't move it at all. Morse sucked in a breath and for a moment blind panic was all he registered. He tugged at his arms, but the ropes with which they were bound only scraped at his skin. The flash of panic chased all the remaining fog away, and his situation became ever so clear.

This wasn't good at all.

A short tug revealed that not only his arms, but his feet were tied to the chair as well. He whirled his head around, ignoring the pain the action caused, to look at his surroundings.

The chair stood in the middle of a room, with in front of him a door. To the right and left there was nothing but darkness, he couldn't tell just how much further away the walls were. It was clammy, damp and cold here, the stone floor and walls told him he must be in a basement of sorts. It was relatively empty -save for a few boxes and cupboards that stood against the wall. But more importantly, there was no one here. As soon as he realised that he tried to undo the knots that held his hands together, but could hardly even reach them.

Taking a shaky breath, he willed himself to calm down. Keeping a clear head would help him get out of here. Or so he hoped.

What had happened anyway? He had passed out in the hallway to Miss Dion's house, that he remembered. Had the woman dragged him here? It seemed highly unlikely, Miss Dion's wasn't exactly the bodybuilder type of woman. Then again, Morse knew he couldn't be fooled by appearances.

She had probably put something in his tea to knock him out, that much was clear, but why? Was she who had killed Julian Ross and not Stackford? And why do this, even if she was the killer, she might've gotten away with it. Their main suspect right now was John Stackford, and she just told him she didn't even know him. Could've been a lie of course, but he had believed her, so why take him down here anyway? Miss Dion didn't strike him as the murderer type at all either, something didn't add up.

Morse squeezed his eyes shut, cursing his headache and this bloody situation. Even if he got out of here, Thursday would have his head for being so careless. As if it was his fault the damn woman poisoned him.

By the time something finally happened, Morse's toes and fingers had become numb from the cold and he had to flex them every now and then to keep the blood circulating.

When the door opened, his head shot up, eyes narrowed to try and make out the figure who had entered the basement. As he came close Morse recognized the man as none other than Mark Peterson. The confusion upon seeing him must've shown on his face because the man grinned as he strode towards him.

"Well hello there, detective."

"What do you want?"

"What I want? You, out of the focking way." He brought his face down so close that Morse could feel the man's breath on his face. He bit back a snide comment about the use of toothpaste. "But luckily for you, there are other plans."

Morse wasn't sure if that was supposed to ease his mind or not, because it certainly didn't.

"It's a focking shame though," Peterson said, standing up straight again, "Would've been nice to kill ya." He formed a gun with his hand and pointed it a Morse, pretending to pull the trigger. "Beng. Just like that."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because, smart-ass," Peterson grabbed Morse's chin and lifted it up so Morse looked straight in the dark stormy eyes of the man. "you've got a friend of mine in that dark stinky nest of yours, and I want him back. You are going to ensure that."

"Don't think I'll do anything for you." Morse said to the dark eyes full of anger. He hoped the fear that held his heart in a death-grip wasn't portrayed in his.

"Ah, ya don't have to. Just sit back and flash a smile for your friends." Peterson released his chin and almost immediately punched him in the face. The action send waves of hot pain through his face, and Morse was sure he felt his nose crack under the power behind the blow. Warm liquid flowed down his lips and chin. He groaned. The bastard.

"What did you call me?" The man asked.

Had he said that out loud? The second time the fist collided with his face told him yes, apparently so.

Trying to ignore the blood, Morse watched Peterson walk to one of the cupboards next to the door and rumbling through the cabinets, anxiety very quickly seeping through his body.

He let out a shaky breath as the man came back with just a Kodak in his hands. For a moment there he had feared something worse. Upon seeing the Kodak Morse finally realised what the man's plan was.

"They'll never trade me for Stackford," he said, "They're not stupid."

"Not stupid? I'm not so sure about that. I've heard coppers are usually willing to go very far for their mates."

"He has killed someone! They won't set a murderer free just for some insignificant DC!"

At least, Morse dearly hoped they wouldn't. And at the same time, a small part of his brain really, really hoped they would. He suppressed it, there was no way Bright, or even Thursday, would allow that. He had to find a way out on his own, preferably before Peterson noticed his plan wouldn't work and decided to kill him after all.

Morse squeezed his eyes shut as the man flashed the camera. One thing was for sure, that would be one extraordinary picture.

Morse was late.

Although Thursday wished he could say it was unlike him, he also knew that once Morse was onto something, he wouldn't stop until he had figured out the solution of whatever it was he had thought of, forgetting they had agreed to meet back at the nick at 5. He would be here any minute now.

But the seconds ticked by and still Morse didn't show up. After another 10 minutes of waiting Thursday grew more worried. A few minutes late was one thing, but 20 was getting ridiculous, even for Morse in one of his I-need-to-know-everything moods.

He poked his head out of his office to see a lot of officers had already decided to call it a day. Half of them had been sniffling throughout the day, getting a cold with this weather seemed unavoidable. Now that the pressure was off the case they could afford to leave early, so Thursday had happily let them. Strange was still here though so Thursday called out to him, knowing that if anyone might know where Morse was, it would be him.

"Any idea where Morse was headed?" He asked the man.

The officer in question turned to him at the call and thought about it. "Don't know sir, he said he was going to talk to Miss Dion again, but that was just after lunch. Haven't seen him since." He shrugged. "He's probably gone off on his own again, once he gets his mind on an idea…"

Thursday nodded, it was exactly what he had thought. "Well, let me know if you see him, he was supposed to be back here at 5."

"Will do sir."

With that, Thursday disappeared in his office again, wondering what he could throw in to make Stackford talk.

It was just after 7.30 pm that they received the envelope.

Thursday was getting ready to go home, finally done with the paperwork. Even without a confession Stackford would go behind bars, they had enough evidence. They would confront him tomorrow and let him sweat for a bit in his cell for now, Thursday knew from experience it could help loosen tongues.

Morse still hadn't turned up and no one had answered the phone when he had called to his flat, but Thursday decided to wait just a little longer before heading down there himself. The lad probably had his reasons, and it wasn't as if he couldn't take care of himself. Besides, the case was as good as solved. They had the man, they had the evidence, and although Morse often liked to disagree with their choice of suspects, he seemed to be sure of Stackford as well. All there was left to do now was make sense of the what the why and the how, and that could wait until tomorrow.

As he made his way through the station he passed Strange, walking back to his desk with a flat package in his hands.

When Strange saw him looking he waved it around. "Just came in, sir."

"At this time of day? Does it say from whom?"

Strange turned it around in his hands, but the envelope was blank. "Nope. A mystery admirer perhaps?" A smile tugged at his lips.

Thursday snorted. "Well, good luck sorting that out then. I'm off to home, see you in the morning."

"Night sir."

It had already gotten dark outside and the temperature had dropped drastically. Thursday was glad to have brought a scarf with him this morning. He wrapped it around his neck as he stepped in the brisk winter air, his breath forming little clouds that evaporated as quickly as they had formed.

He had taken exactly four steps before Strange's slightly panicked voice stopped him.

"Sir! You had better come in again."

The baffled expression of the constable caused dread to rise steadily, sensing that nothing good was waiting for him. With a fast pace he followed Strange to the table the other man had emptied the package on.

Disbelieve was the first thing that he felt when looking at the papers in front of him. The second was fear, and then anger.

They had him. The bastards had Morse.

There was a note telling them they had to let Stackford go, otherwise the next time they would see Morse he would be dead. They had been given a time limit of 12 hours, they were to release Stratford before then and not to touch or follow him for another 6 hours. Then, and only then, they would let Morse go.

The second thing that was inside the envelope was a picture of the detective. Tied to a chair, with blood on his face and his eyes closed against the flash of the camera. Thursday's chest ached at the sight of him. The poor sod. 18 Hours before they released him. 12 Hours to make the decision.

"Damn it!" Thursday slammed his fist against the table, which shuddered heavily on its legs. "Get some men back here, find out who wrote this, and where the hell this was taken." He told Strange as he pointed at the picture on the table. The man stayed uncharacteristically quiet, no doubt just as shocked by this change of events as Thursday himself was. "I'm going to pay a visit to Miss Dion."

If it would be any other day, he might've been bothered by the thought of ringing someone's doorbell this late, but now as he stood in front of Miss Dion's door he just couldn't find himself caring. This simply wasn't a normal case anymore. This was personal.

Just when Thursday considered ringing the bell again, the door opened, revealing a woman somewhat his age. In what had become somewhat an automatic gesture, he showed his card. "Miss Dion. Detective Inspector Thursday, Oxford City Police. I was wondering if I could have a word with you."

The woman looked at him sceptically, no doubt ruffled by the late hour. "Yes?" She asked, hesitantly. Thursday noticed she didn't invite him in, but took no offence. No doubt she wanted him gone as soon as, so she could return to her programs or cooking, or whatever she had been doing.

"A colleague of mine dropped by a few hours ago, is that right? Bit of a young chap, brown-reddish hair?"

"Yes, yes he was here indeed. Had a cup of tea with me and then left. Must've been around 2 o'clock I'd say."

"Do you remember what he asked you about?"

The woman licked her lips. "Oh, about Mark Peterson, and some other guy whose name I forgot. Stanford?"

"Stackford was it?"

"Yes, yes that one! I told him I don't know anyone by that name though."

"He didn't happen to mention where he went did he, when he left?"

Miss Dion thought about it. "I'm afraid not. Has something happened?"

"We've lost him for a bit," Thursday told her, not wanting to give too much away. "But I'm sure he'll turn up soon. Thank you for your time Miss."

He turned and headed for the warmth of his car, resisting the urge to rub his face. He had hoped the woman would be able to give them at least a little idea of where he was headed or what Morse had been on to, but it seemed this trail ended right here at her doorstep. He hoped that Strange was having more luck than he had.

Cold nights like these often brought a sense of peace with them, Thursday thought. The sky was clear enough to be able to see the stars, and the quiet streets told of people sitting at home in the warmth of a fire. Often he couldn't wait to get home, to Win and the children. Now not even the cold could bring him peace.

He wondered where Morse was and what had happened to him, if he was somewhere warm at least. And if he was scared or already planning his way out. Probably a bit of both, Thursday suspected.

He pulled the door of the car open, they would find the bastard who did this.

Any and all reviews are greatly appreciated!