Welcome! The long-awaited sequel to "The Torchwood Jigsaw." Most of the references in this story will make NO SENSE WHATOSEVER if you do not go and read it first. So go do that! Maybe you'll get lucky and I'll have updated with another chapter here.

Special thanks go out to: DeMarcos for supplying all that info, and to Angel of Nevermore for her crackish ideas! Love you both!

And so, we begin.


"Excuse me, may I sit here?"

Jack glanced up at the elderly woman, smiled, and relinquished his seat, allowing for a place where she could sit and set down her grocery bags.

"Thank you, young sir."

"My pleasure." He smiled, lying. He really would have liked to sit the whole ride, but he didn't have the energy to be a jerk. He despised public buses. They were awkward enough when not crowded; the Tuesday afternoon proved to be an active one, and it was tacit human understanding to give your seat to someone more burdened than yourself. Hence why Jack was now standing, barely able to reach a hand-hold through the thick of bodies. The bus lurched forward and he bumped into a short man who was very thick through the middle.

"You wanna watch it, buddy?"

Jack only scowled at the man. He glanced behind him and saw he now stood near the stairs leading to the second exit of the bus, and decided the pole to one side of it was a good means of steadying himself. The two people he had to pass to get there were far more courteous than the other man. Jack sighed when he reached the greasy, semi-warm metal. A headache, slumbering for the past eight hours, hammered above his left ear with cruel force. He could really use some aspirin. Or water. Water would be nice.

The bus suddenly stopped, and Jack's other arm instinctively swung out to catch hold of something. He clipped someone behind him, and he couldn't help but cringe. No doubt they would yell at him, fuelling the pounding in his head.

An unfortunate pinging-ticking noise came from the back of the bus, and a few people grumbled loudly. Jack hazarded a look behind him and was relieved to see that whomever he had struck took no notice to the blow. He returned his attention to the bus driver, who was walking along the outside to inspect the slightly smoking area where the engine was housed. It wasn't a good sign that he immediately came back.

"Folks, looks like she's finally broken down. This is the kind of problem that won't be fixed quickly, so I strongly suggest you get off and catch the next bus. Should be at the stop a block up in twenty minutes. If you have any complaints, write to the DOT. No sense in yelling at me."

Jack took advantage of everyone grumbling a few more moments before moving and darted down the aisle, making sure his coat didn't flap open. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice his Webley. Granted, they probably wouldn't care. This was San Francisco, after all. It wasn't that uncommon to see someone with a gun, not with how much of the police force walked around in plainclothes. Jack almost smiled.

Almost.

He didn't particularly know why he had come, without anyone else. It wasn't that he didn't ask them to come with him; he had even invited Gwen and Owen. But neither had answered their phones, and Jack couldn't bring himself to disturb their solitary ways of coping. Jack had considered asking Ianto —injured leg or not, he would have at least talked to Jack— but he didn't think he could handle speaking to him. With any of them. He hadn't seen or heard from them in nearly six weeks. The one time the phone rang, he startled so badly he knocked his coffee-shop drink to the floor, spilling the steaming liquid everywhere. He didn't pick up either object needing attention; the coffee remained a pallid brown stain to the left of his desk, and the phone light still blinked innocuously to remind him of the message.

Jack had given them a whole week to respond before he left. It hadn't been easy, sitting around and waiting for calls he knew, in reality, would never come. A week of even less sleep, countless outings for coffee (he really missed Ianto's brew) and food, one rogue weevil which had been waltzing benignly through a park until a blundering woman sprayed it. She, luckily —both for her and Jack; he knew he wouldn't be able to fabricate an entire death and accompanying story on his own— escaped completely unscathed. Jack bought her a retconned drink and cursed the fact that he couldn't get drunk. Forgetting would be a thing very much appreciated at this point.

He had tried retconning himself, but that did about as much good for him as a month and a half of shitty coffee had. Jack still remembered the carcasses, the barbed wire trap, watching Ianto fall with a metal rod sticking out of his thigh. Extracting the blades from between his ribs, Gwen's huge, frightened eyes when the tank lid shut, Toshiko's seemingly large lack of sanity. No amount of alcohol, illicit and/or alien drugs, or self-mutilation could erase the guilt. Jack accused himself of warring consciences. Something told him it really wasn't his fault, that he simply needed to talk to them, make amends, regroup. Tell them it would be alright. Tell himself that.

But telling and convincing were two very different things.

Just like he told himself coming here alone was a good idea.

Which, he now saw, was one of the more stupid things he had done this decade.

The street the bus had broken down on was unfamiliar. And, as luck would have it, on the top of a hill. He'd have to walk the rest of the way, if his luck held out. Maybe he'd be hit by some careless driver, or mugged during the soon-to-come night. Both quite fun situations. Especially explaining to the emergency room staff why he could walk after witnesses saw his knees go the wrong direction, fly thirty feet in the air, and land right on his head. It would be a wonderful thing to deal with sans retcon.

Jack stepped off the bus and raised a hand to shade his eyes. He didn't have sunglasses and he hadn't brought a bag. Oops. He fully expected this to be a very short trip. Reconnaissance, he told himself. Get more info and then coaxed Gwen out of her flat. . . . Owen, he didn't think he could coax out of anything at this point; Ianto was relatively incapacitated, and Toshiko was just gone. If she was alive, she was either trapped or damaged enough to not be able to contact her colleagues.

The hill stretched behind the bus. Behind the broken behemoth was a line of cars, some honking impatiently. The bus driver walked off after Jack and was now waving at the traffic to go around. Jack glanced at the street signs. Lombard and Hyde. Priceless. The bus had shut down mere metres from the crookedest street in the world. He turned around and jogged across the street, heading towards the water that could easily be seen from this height. Perhaps he could get something to eat along the Warf.

His phone rang.

Jack halted in the middle of the street. A honking Mazda piloted by a cross Asian male restarted his numb legs. Jack reached into his coat pocket and flipped his phone open.

"This is Torchwood Four. They have us. We're trapped."

The line clicked off and left a dull tone in his ear.

"What?"

How . . . Torchwood Four?

"What?!"

x X x

A cool, not-quite-damp sensation. Surrounding him, blanketing him in something thin and uncomfortable. A space verging on too small and just wide enough, long corridor with poor lighting. He didn't feel alone, even though he couldn't see anyone else. Right behind him. Just outside his peripheral vision. But they were there. A small comfort.

Very small.

The floor fell from beneath him. Grainy down-slant rocketing him forward, toward something he knew couldn't be right, couldn't be safe, couldn't keep him alive. Clothes flapped past him, unfilled by ghost faces with names attached to personalities linked to occupations and residences. Names he knew, places he knew, all things familiar and forgotten. How could those clothes fall faster than his insubstantial, solid self?

Bodies. Rotten, rotting, falling apart, bleeding, laughing, jeering sneering lurking taunting him with their lack of restraint to consciousness, to pain. They were free of fear, free of gravity, free of the weight that life presses upon the soul in the material world. The stench that drifted behind them snaked around Ianto's head and constricted his air, tightened his throat and loosened his control and where had everyone else gone? Their clothes floated ahead of them, surely they couldn't be far? Wouldn't they say something? Owen hadn't sworn in nearly never forever, what was his problem? Bitten his tongue? Died? Hm, that one naked male corpse with obscenely enlarged genitals bouncing by look an awful lot like him.

And Gwen? Why wasn't she mothering over Jack? Or Owen, Owen was dead after all. Didn't they need looking after? And what about all those bodies falling on him, crushing him, crushing his leg, driving metal claws further in and ripping shredding tearing eating his leg. It'd be gone before he could move them, move anything. There'd be nothing left, he'd only have one leg, but they wouldn't stop there they would keep going and there was nothing he could do. Nothing . . .

Nothing.

Ianto awoke from the dream with an abrupt jerk. A soft cry shoved its way through his lips. Despite having the pins in his leg and the rack surrounding it for the past eight weeks, Ianto was still not used to the tugging sensation. Pain? Not much. Not any, not when the morphine was in full dosage. Which was often. They couldn't have him moving, not if his leg were to heal properly. Which it would. Just lay there for seven or so weeks, get adjusted, eat, press the little square orange button to summon the nurse whenever he needed to relieve himself (one of the most degrading things he could think of) in a bedpan. Click the small white button to drip more cc's of morphine when he started to feel pricks of pain. Don't be shy about it, Mr. Jones, we want to see you walking again.

That was all fine and dandy, for the first few days. Gwen had stayed a whole week, then up and left, saying good-bye in the form of a card bought from the shop down two floors. After that, Ianto's only company was the nurses that came in periodically, and the doctors who tightened and loosened various parts of the rack keeping his bone in place. The whole process felt sterile, unreal; Ianto surmised it to the medication and lack of pain. The feeling of biting a novocaine-numbed cheek. For a solid hour, there's no pain. As sensation slowly returns, the dull ache seeps through the offended flesh and eventually you have to knock back ibuprofen.

After one lengthy conversation where he learned just how damaged he was, Ianto asked if he could be moved to Cardiff. He reasoned that, once he was healed, it would be easier to set up a physical therapist, regular visits, and (Ianto almost snorted aloud at this one) get back in contact with his boss. Just settle some things before not seeing any of them for the . . . long months of recovery. The doctor said sure, once he had the rack off. She said it was better for Ianto that way; a two hour ambulance ride on a gurney with that thing would not be pleasant. Or feasible. No, Ianto needed to stay put. He nearly cried when the doctor left the room. No one but Gwen and Owen — possibly Jack — knew where he was, or what had happened to him. Gwen at least stayed for a few days, even if her departure was a bit abrupt.

Forsaken.

Even Gwen's caring seemed rushed, uncertain. Superficial. Ianto didn't blame her. At least, that's what he told himself. He believed it less and less with each scratchy, weary hour. Days of tedium he only vaguely kept track of. One nurse brought him a few paperbacks from downstairs, but they sat, abandoned and unopened, on the chair to the left of his bed. The chair that had remained vacant for the past month and a half. Not even the most sympathetic of the nurses would sit there; he always stood when he talked to Ianto. His earnest attempts at uplifting cheer only further made Ianto want to be alone. And made him miss everyone else even more. At this point, he'd even take Owen for company, however uncaring the medic could be.

Someone knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in."

A one Doctor Grant poked her head around the sandy wood. She was smiling. Ianto couldn't recall a time she wasn't smiling. Wait. Once. During that lengthy discussion about his condition. She hadn't smiled then. All serious, all information, all help. Ianto hadn't asked her many questions. She did. He avoided answering them, not caring when the awkward silence settled between them. They had all abandoned him. They didn't need him. Nothing mattered anymore.

Alone.

Again.

"Hello. Any pain today?"

Ianto waved the little morphine-release button. "No."

"That's good."

Ianto sighed. "Yeah."

Katrina Grant considered herself a kind person. She knew how to explain things to patients so they would understand, she knew how to calm and reassure, and she knew what a person who needed psychotherapy looked like. Although his skill in composure impressed her, she could tell Ianto Jones bordered on the sketchy line between relative okay-ness and post traumatic stress. Knowing this, and being the rational, understanding doctor that she was, she did not ask him about what happened. No one did. She only held conference with two of the hospital psychologists; the three of them were in agreement that it would be best to wait until Ianto was out of the rack and into physical therapy before anyone pressed the issue. Be it them or a doctor in Cardiff.

"Would you like to hear the latest update?"

Ianto nodded.

"Alright. In a few days, we're going to see how well healed your bone is. If we think it's enough, we'll remove the placement pins and the rack will be disassembled. You will then be put in a brace with elbow crutches, and you can go back to Cardiff. If you'd like, we can arrange for a physical therapist there, if you want to go home sooner. It's no trouble at all."

Ianto forced himself to smile. "Thank you."

Grant nodded. "No problem, Mr. Jones. That's our job, to make sure you get better and up on your feet. So, by the time we get all that arranged, which should be early next week when it's all said and done, you'll be in those elbow crutches. Is there someone at home that can help you out with your day to day needs? With the state of your leg, you will need some fairly frequent assistance until you get used to walking again."

No. Just me, alone, unwanted. Abandoned. No one will come. No one cares

"Yes."

"Would you like us to call them? To come get you?"

"No. He'll be expecting me. I can take a taxi."

He won't come.

Her smile wavered slightly. Ianto rushed forward a lie.

"He doesn't have a car."

"Oh," she gave a small chuckle, "I can see how that could be problematic."

"Just a bit." Ianto returned a false smile. Couldn't she just leave him alone now? Like the rest of them? She made too much noise.

She stood, putting her hands in white pockets of her lab coat. "We can pay for the fare."

Ianto nodded his head once, curtly.

Katrina Grant halted at the door, one hand on the silver handle. "You'll be fine, Ianto."

"Somehow I highly doubt that."

Katrina gave him the benefit of hearing-doubt and left the mumbled statement unchallenged. She could contact a psychiatrist in Cardiff and set up a meeting with the far-less-than-obviously troubled man. Katrina hoped he didn't have access to a firearm.

"Have a good day, Mr. Jones." And closed the door.

Ianto sighed and pushed his back further into the pillows.

x X x

Owen hadn't waited around in the hospital. Well, he had been kind enough to stay until Ianto was out of surgery and guaranteed not to die anytime soon. But after that, he acquired bus fare from one of the nurses and left for the nearest depot. Bought the ticket, waited for the bus, got on, went straight for the back, sat down, and leaned against the window. Put his feet on the chair next to him to ward off any passengers foolish enough to try socialising with him. His shoes, also, weren't very comfortable: they were a pair of some doctor's spare — and little-used — track shoes, and they were a size and a half too small.

But they were something to get home in. That was what counted.

He had fallen asleep some time during that two hour bus ride. Now, he wished that little girl had not awoken him (he very nearly slapped her) and allowed the bus to take him all the way back to London on a round trip. At least then he wouldn't be seeing this . . . mess.

His flat was far worse than he last remembered. Furniture lay canted in awkward positions, the black couch wounded and oozing its stuffing in a forlorn white pile. Papers had settled in scattered clumps, sullen and motionless like dead birds. Whomever had been through here must have been in a hurry, and struggling with someone.

With me, Owen corrected.

So . . . a little more of the mystery made itself known.

It didn't help much.

In fact, it had helped so little, Owen turned right back around and walked to the nearest pub. He managed to flirt a girl into buying the drinks and ended the night at her flat sans clothes. The following morning, he went back to his place. Owen avoided looking at any of the living space and went to where he kept his spare cash. Pocketed it and headed for a diner. As the day progressed, he slowly worked his way down from food place to pub, drank the night away and slept with whoever was willing. This was how Owen spent the last eight weeks, more or less. A little bit of hope sparked at the sensation of being very nearly perpetually drunk.

Owen rolled over with a groan. His head had bloated behind his eyes, and his stomach screamed its protest to the consumption of so much alcohol. From a body next to him on the bed, a muffled something came.

"What?" Owen whispered, annoyed. Even that was too loud.

"I said, don't wake Angie."

"Which one's Angie?"

"Closest to the bathroom. Can't keep tequila down for the life of her. Dunno why she still drinks it."

Owen scoffed. "Mate, with competition like you, I don't blame her."

The other man snorted and lifted the sheets off his head. "You weren't too bad yourself."

"Really? How could you honestly tell? There're three other people—"

"Did you notice the only other bloke with us at the pub isn't here?"

" . . . Ah."

The black-haired man (Owen dimly recalled his name being something like Vance or Gregory) smiled crookedly and stuck his head back under the sheet. "Your clothes are in the corner."

"Thanks."

"Vinny? Izzat 'ou?" A nude, long, lean, (and limber) blonde girl of no more than twenty said from the floor, half sitting up. She almost blocked the sliding door leading to the lou.

The addressed Vinny waved her over to the bed, where another woman had sprawled. Half across Vinny and half across where Owen used to lay.

"Over here, love."

"M'kay," she mumbled, staggered to the bed and collapsed on Vinny, forcing the other woman off. The other woman grunted once, but didn't make a return move. Owen shook his head and rooted through the pile of clothes near the door, extracted his, and stepped into the bathroom. He hastily splashed some water from the sink over his face and hopped into his boxers, pants. Slipped his stiff shirt on with a grimace and walked back through the sexed-body littered room, opened the door and walked down the hall to the front door where his shoes were deposited. Stepped into those — he'd have to live without that pair of socks, he didn't really want them back anyways . . . — and walked outside.

The bright light of nearly-noon stung his already aching head. He'd need aspirin — where the hell was he, anyways? He glanced down the road; still Cardiff. A step in the right direction. Now all he needed to do was find out which street. . . . He didn't really want to walk around the entire bloody city with a hangover. Although he would eventually end up near some store or another . . . Why the hell hadn't he driven? Perhaps he had, and he just couldn't call to mind where his car was parked. He checked his pockets. No keys. He definitely would have noticed if they were missing; locking his flat had become almost obsessively compulsive, as had locking his car. Locking anything he owned that had a key with which to lock it. He didn't want to be caught off guard again. He wished he had access to his gun. A gun, any gun. Something more than his fists to protect himself.

Owen winced and kicked an innocent pebble into the street.

x X x

It was better with all the lights on. Nothing could hide when there was no dark to cover it with. No surprises, no secrets. No little thing that she could have missed the first dozen searches, not a thing that could tell her where Rhys had gone, what had happened to him. Why he hadn't left a note, why he hadn't contacted her in any way. With the lights on, she could pretend night never came, because night meant sleep and sleep meant dreams.

Gwen registered the knocking only in an obscure corner of her mind and curled further into the couch. The softness contrasted completely with the dark of her dreams, the coarse reality of horrid memories. The soft was not the lukewarm water that encased her, trapped her. The couch was the counter of cold blood on her hands, of barbed wire snagging in her hair, of Jack's bloody ribcage, Ianto and his leg, the rats, Tosh, the cold . . . the stench of it all.

"Gwen! Gwen, it's Andy!" came a muffled voice from the door.

Andy?

"Andy? What . . ." Gwen rolled off the couch and slowly got to her feet, tugging her robe shut. She didn't care how bedraggled she looked. Why was Andy here?

"My god, Gwen. You're a mess!"

A fine, heartfelt greeting. Gwen didn't care.

"Rhys is gone," she sniffled. She rubbed at the dry tears crusted on her cheeks.

Andy's face fell into a frown. "We know, Gwen. We . . . we think we found him." He looked away, scratched at the base of his neck.

Gwen lit up. "Where is he? I want to see him." She started past Andy, but he put both hands on her shoulders.

"Gwen, he . . . he's dead."

"What? No, he can't be."

Andy squeezed her trembling shoulders. "I need you to come down to the station and help us ID him, if it is him. Gwen, look at me. It may not be him."

Gwen shook her head. "Andy, you know what Rhys looks like. You would know if it was him."

Andy took a deep breath. "Please, Gwen. If you don't come with me, it'll be someone else you don't know. Just half an hour."

Gwen swallowed thickly, glanced forlornly at her bright, cheerless, Rhys-less flat. "Alright."

She took her keys off the table near the door and pushed Andy out of the doorway. She pulled the door shut, locked both locks, and started down the stairs.

"Don't you want to get dressed first?"

"What for?"

Andy opened his mouth with an automated answer, but shut quickly shut it. Gwen's cold eyes froze him in place until she looked away. What had happened to her?

On Gwen's coffee table, her phone vibrated.