He drags her outside. The bag over her head is pulled away and she can feel the morning breeze on her cheeks. By a crumbling wall, ivy tumbling over the top, Jane is chained to a ring on the floor. John clips her chain to the ring and she falls to her knees by Jane's side. The earth is soft, still slightly dewy, she can feel it's wetness through the rip in her jeans and she can feel Jane's warmth pressing up against her arm and the sun is rising slowly and she realises that she's cataloging everything and the thought bleeds a coldness throughout her stomach.

John leaves.

Jane turns on his knees to face her. Hands clasped in front of him; expression unusually blank.
'Hi,' she says, finally, because, really, what else is there to say?
Pause. Then his face crumples and he topples forward, his forehead resting on the side of her neck, 'I tried the cuffs, but...' And she hears what he's not saying.
'It's okay,' It isn't.
'VanPelt? Rigsby? Cho'
'Dead.' The coldness in her belly is spreading, strange sense of calm taking over.
'Oh.' He exhales heavily and presses his lips to her skin, just once, 'Teresa-' and this? This is defeat and she turns her head away,
'Jane-' his fingers find hers and interlock awkwardly.
'Count with me, down from 100, it's okay...' he begins, voice not quite, but almost steady.
'Jane'
'75, 74'
'Oh God,' she pulls at her chains, tugs with all her might but the ring in the ground doesn't move an inch, 'Oh God'
'52, 51, it's okay, you're safe with me, 50'
She can't remember the words to the Lord's prayer. Eight years at a Catholic school and she can't remember the words.
'30, 29'
A dull calmness takes over her, the surroundings blur and all that is clear, all that's real is Jane and his voice.
She hears John. Hears his slow, staggering step.
'15, 14'
She hears him cock the gun. Hears him laughing. But it's from a long way away, echoing.
'4, 3'
The gun dances in front of her face. She closes her eyes and manages 'Amen'.