A/N: Another two parter, although considerably more brutal this time I suppose. Poor Charlie. warnings: Eye trauma, blood, kidnapping, starvation. Leave a review if you like it, all that good stuff :-)

"Another one." Blake said, as Charlie nodded his head.

"Third this month." He agreed, as they stared at the body.

"Same injuries?"

"Well I'm not a doctor but it certainly looks like." Charlie said, holding the tape up so Blake could pass though. Lawson sighed and nodded.

"Samuel Peak." He said, introducing the dead man. "Rap sheet as long as I am tall, well known dealer."

"He's only a boy."

"It's the baby face, he's actually thirty five." Lawson sighed. " Cause of death?" Blake looked up from where he's knelt.

"Well it's just a guess but I'd say blood loss."

"From the...Eyes?" Charlie asked, indication to the eyeless sockets that the corpse possessed. Blake nods. Lawson rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Munro is going to have a field day." Lawson said, with a long sigh. Blake nodded in agreement.

"He certainly is."

….

"Where are you off too, Charlie?" Blake asked, as Charlie tugged his coat over his shoulders.

"Mrs Beazley needs eggs." He said. "So I'm going to go buy some." Blake frowned lightly. "Why?" He asked, pausing.

"Charlie come with me." Blake said, before pulling him into the office. On the chalk board, he'd pinned up the photos of the four victims.

"Yeah?" He asked. "I'm working the case Doc. I don't need a visual." He sighed. Blake shook his head and pointed at each of the victims before back at Charlie.

"What do you notice they all have in common?"

"White men about thirty with dark hair?"

"And what are you?" Blake asked, with a raised eyebrow. Charlie scoffed loudly.

"Blake!" He complained. "All of these men are much smaller then me, and none of them are trained to arrest people three times their size." He said, "And it's broad daylight. No one's going to attack me." he said, rolling his eyes.

"Call me crazy, Charlie, but I'd feel a lot better if you wore your uniform."

"Yeah the crazy person gouging out mens eyeballs is not gonna attack me because I wore my uniform." He scoffed. Blake sighed at him.

"Please?"

"Fine." Charlie said, shaking his head, and then going back upstairs to put his uniform on. He paused at the door before he left. "But if Munro finds out I was wearing my uniform to...Buy eggs…Then it'll be my head on a platter." He threatened. Blake scoffed, but stopped Charlie just before he left.

"Thank you."

…

He stumbles. Having been lost in his thoughts, he'd almost lost his precarious balance on top of the wooden crate he was standing on, he thinks back to when Blake spoke to him, how he'd brushed it off and god did he feel stupid.

That was a great deal of time ago now and Charlie wishes that he hadn't been so stupid. He really should have listened to Blake. What did he know, anyway? He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, trying to keep himself upright. His arms had been tied above his head, in some kind of prayer position that he thought had less to do with religion and a whole lot more to do with him not being able to use his shoulders to keep the weight off his aching leg muscles. At first, he'd thought that he might be able to twist and pull his hands out of whatever was holding them there, but it must be handcuffs or something because it had only cut into his wrists. At first, he thought that the blood might make it easier because it was slippery, but it didn't take too long for it to turn into a sticky mess under his fingers. At some point, the slow crawl of blood had made its way down his arms and dried in clumps along his arms and sides. He pulled at the bonds half heartedly, before focusing on trying to not fall down.

While he couldn't see any obvious death traps waiting for him if he lost his balance on the box, he got a feeling that it would probably rip his arms out of his sockets or something. Breathing is also getting more and more difficult as the pressure on his chest came down heavily on him like a weight.

The door opened.

Charlie looked up, his eyes easily finding a figure in the darkness of the room. Whoever it was moved forward so Charlie could see him and he was shocked to find that he didn't know them. "Mmmmm." He commented, putting a hand on Charlie's perspiration stained face, dragging it down his face and then down his neck, and moving away. "You are a pretty one, Sergeant."

"Stop it!' Charlie said, trying to move back as far as he bound hands would allow him too.

"why would I do that?" He asked, " We're barely even started." He breathed out, and then went over into a dark corner where Charlie couldn't see.

"I've got friends you know!" Charlie called after him. "Big friends!" He said, as the man returned with a knife. "And whatever you do to me is gonna be nothing compared to what they do to you!" He said, as the man dragged the dull half of the knife along his clavicle.

"Is that so?" he asked, turning the knife over, and dragging it slowly across Charlie's exposed chest, just enough to nick him. A few drops of blood welled up along the small cut, two made their way down his chest, The man pauses, and then drags a finger along the slightly bloody slice, and examines the redness on his fingers, before forcing them into Charlie's mouth. He was more intent on breathing then anything else. He gags around the fingers, until the man removes them. "This is a bad town for pretty boys like you." He breathed, " A bad town for all those pretty boys." He said, softly. "Of course, nothing will ever match the spread of a story like this hm? Those other boys, they scared them, but taking a police man? And one who's very close to the superintendent at that. Ballarat will crumble." He breathed.

"Was I your ultimate target?"

"Don't be pretentious. I have dozens of targets walking around this city. You..You just happened to be the easiest to catch." He said, softly. He breathes out, and Charlie can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he wants to choke on it.

"Blake will find you." he said, in a soft voice. "And he's gonna make you suffer." He breathed, as the man examined his knife under the light, and then smiled at Charlie, a menacing look in his eyes.

"Not as much as you will."

…

How long has be been lying here? He slowly tried to roll over, but to no avail. He could barely get his arms to move in time with his mind. He felt like he was covered in a layer of grime, and looking down he noticed his once white boxers had turned a rather disgusting brown kind of a colour with dry blood and dirt. He wishes, rather desperately, that Blake had come to save him already. He didn't know how much time he had left until the man finished toying with him and decided that his time was up.

His arms had been numb since his captor had released him from what he had come to refer to as his hanging position. He'd done that, however, by kicking the box he'd been standing on out from under him and watching him hang from his wrists for what felt like a lifetime. He'd never screamed so much in his life.

At that moment, of course. He'd screamed a lot more since then.

…

"And there's no trace of him at all at the station?"

"A t all." Munro said, for the tenth time. "If he left Ballarat, it wasn't by train or bus." He sighed, as Blake drew a line though the white writing on the chalk board.

"Which means that our earlier suspicion was right." Lawson said, taking a piece of chalk and circling 'abduction' on the board.

"Maybe he's hiding?" Munro offered feverishly.

"He's not." Mattie said, from the desk.

"What makes you so sure?" Munro asked.

"Because that's not like him." She said, rather firmly. "There's no way he'd leave all his things here." She said, "He told me that was the only photo of his father, there's no way he'd leave that behind." She insisted. "If he didn't come home then it wasn't by choice. " Blake nods.

"I agree with Mattie, he wouldn't leave with out at least telling someone at the station to fill his place." He nodded. Lawson nods.

"He's loyal, if nothing else." Lawson agreed. "Not to mention, he looks just like the other victims of our killer." He said, indicating to the four other pictures Blake had up on his chalk board, and then he stuck Charlie's photo up next to them. A picture cut out of the paper, it was an over the shoulder shot of him arresting a faceless suspect.

"Now we have to solve the case before Charlie is gone forever."

…

It's very dark and very cold. He wonders if this is what hell is like. His mother had said that in hell everything was always on fire, but he can't think of anything that would be bad about fire at the moment. He'd love fire right now. He might even like to be on fire, if it means that this will end. The bone deep coldness would dissipate and he can't imagine anything better then that. After a moment, he's disgusted with himself. He used to dream so big, but stripped down to his very base desires, he wonders what he could ever have done to suffer such a fate.

He's disgusted by his own dirty hair, plastered to his forehead with dried brown blood. Once neat, now a mess of tangles and dirt He supposes it hasn't grown much, so it cant have been too long, could it? Maybe it has. He would have had a sure way to measure the time if his facial hair had been allowed to grow past its initial stubble. For whatever reason, his captor took a great joy in nicking his face with the razor so he supposes that it might not even be because he wants Charlie disoriented, but maybe because he just likes humiliating him. And really that would make sense, wouldn't it? Think Charlie, he told himself, as he tried to move one arm up to move his hair back from his face, but it doesn't work. Blake will be so disappointed in you, he thinks, as he slowly moved his knees up to his chest. It hurts, sure, but being unprotected hurts a lot more.

His stomach aches again, and his head throbs. He's past the point of being sore because of the hunger and now just feels a rather permanent feeling on neasuea. The sort that claws at your stomach walls, tossing the acid like the sea on a windy night. The sort that growls like some kind of monster and you wonder how long until you actually start to digest yourself. Even his mouth is dry now, the sort of chalky dryness that you wake up with in the morning and no amount of saliva will help him.

Blake must be coming now. He has to be. He perks up at every loud footstep, listens for hours at a time, trying to decipher any and all sounds that he hears as them. Maybe it's not Blake. Maybe it's Lawson. Maybe it's Munro. It could be any of his friends because there's no way Blake would willingly let this go on, would he? Maybe he would, Charlie realizes. After all, Blake had told him not to go out alone and he should have listened. Maybe this is punishment. Maybe his suffering is Blake's I told you so. Maybe this is on purpose. And maybe he deserves it. And maybe, a tiny part of him says, he should just give up and give in.

Maybe that's what Blake would want anyway.

…

Ha hand drags him up by the hair. He chokes rather suddenly, his impossibly fragile stomach threatening him. He knows by now that there is nothing to come out except bile. And sometimes, maybe even blood. If he was really unlucky. When had fate ever been nice to him anyway?

The captor, who he still has no name and no desire to come up with one for, seems to be pleased about something. Maybe that's lucky for him. Maybe not. He pulls him up, and deposits him on a stool. His top half just kind of slumps over, unable to find any desire to stay upright. With a sigh, the man drags him backwards so he's leaning against the wall. Whatever tasteless gruel the man had given him twice since his arrival was, it did little to give him any energy. He has a dented metal cup in one hand, and squishes his lips open with one hand, his fingers pressing his cheeks up against his teeth, his lips crinkle and he wishes he had the energy to be upset. A hot tin cup presses up against his lips, it's hot enough to burn them but he doesn't complain. Partially because he doesn't have the energy, partially because he doesn't care anymore.

It's not until the contents of the cup hits his tongue that he actually reacts. It's salty, with a second taste that he knows. He tries to use what's left of his mind to come up with the answer.

Chicken.

It's soup. Or broth, probably more like, he can't feel anything that would actually require use of his jaw to eat. Just liquid. He sits up slightly, assisting his captor as much as he can because after nothing for so long, it just tastes so good that he doesn't even have the extra brain capacity to be disgusted with himself.

Then the cup moves away, and the man runs a rough hand down his cheek. "I thought you'd be thirsty." He commented. Charlie wants to tell him to not play these games with his mind because he'd be so easy to trick right now. But he doesn't, he doesn't want to move too much and upset his stomach. "And maybe a little hungry." He murmured, rubbing a thumb over his cheek, probably noticing that the only places on his face that even resembled clean were two lines on his face where his tears had run off his nose and down the side of his cheeks. His thumb doesn't catch on any stubble and Charlie supposes that its a good thing, he doesn't want to be shaved again tonight, its just humiliating and he could do without it.

"Did you like that?" He asked mockingly, as Charlie's slightly hazy blue eyes followed him. He grabbed Charlie's jaw tightly in his hand, and then snapped a photo of his face. Charlie was temporarily blinded by the sudden bright light, having been kept in the dark this whole time. His stomach lurches as the man pushes him to the ground. He takes deep breath after deep breath, trying his hardest to keep his stomach calm. He couldn't afford to lose whatever sustenance the broth had contained, he might not be a doctor but he knew this level of lethargy was not normal.

The man sat on top of Charlie's poor chest, it creaks under his weight, he smiles, and takes another photo of him while he was dazed. He can't help but wonder why all this was necessary.

…

Blake wants to be sick. It's been a long time since he'd felt like this. Munro had stormed out of the room shortly after they opened the yellow folder that had been delivered to Lawson's desk earlier in the day. They hadn't seen him since. All the other cases had been put on hold, everyone was hunting him down. The two photos sat on top of Lawson's desk, each one glossy and daunting. Lawson was holding one, and he had just set one down.

The longer he looked the worse he felt. He could almost feel the misery that Charlie seemed to be extruding in the pictures, but at least he still had his eyes, Blake thinks. "Is it wrong that I wish he'd just run away?" Lawson asked, setting the photo back down on the table. Blake let out a long sigh,

"If it is, then I'm not sure I want to be right." He murmured.

…

He comes to the conclusion that Blake musn't be looking for him. It's never taken Blake more then a week to solve a case before, and it has to have been more then a week. He must still be upset that Charlie went out even though he said not to. He wonders if Mrs Beazley ever got the eggs he was sent to buy. His thoughts refuse to align themselves into a train that he can follow.

He's laying on his back this time. A huge boot shaped bruise has formed on his stomach, blossoming in purples and brown. Thick bile and saliva stick to his chin and dribble down his neck. The longer he lies here the more likely he is to choke on it. If Blake's not coming for him, then that might be for the best anyway.

…

His eyes follow his captor as he paces slowly back and fourth in the room. So far, he hasn't put a hand on him, and he realizes, that something must have changed. The tiny hope in his chest starts to blossom again, and he lets it. He'd rather have hope then fall into the abyss of apathy that loomed in front of him. Maybe Blake is coming for him after all? Maybe, just maybe, there is still hope for him in this world anyway? His captor turns to face him, with a grim look on his face. "I was hoping to play with you for longer." He comments, kneeling, and running his fingers along Charlie's chin. "Seems time is not on my side however." He sighed, softly, as if he were upset. "Oh well." He said, leaving Charlie alone.

…

He returns some time later, although Charlie has no idea when that would be, given his skewed sense of time. He'd propped up on the chair again, and he knows this isn't going to end well. He tries to pull himself into a tight ball to protect his face and head from incident. He'd learned early on that he would go for anything he left exposed.

The man grabs him and forces him back up, trying his hands to the handle of the chair, so tightly that they bruise, he can feel it. Blood pounds in his ears as the man puts his fingers under his chin, and tilts his head up. He held the razor where Charlie can see it. "Be careful. It's sharp." He breathed, before taking the brush and covering it with cream. He's always been largely indifferent to shaving cream, but on his dirty cheeks, nothing has ever felt so disgusting.

He's never really been to a barber to shave. Never needed to. Why would he pay someone to do something he could do himself, after all? He's been even more hesitant to go to a barber for anything since Lawson sat him in the chair looking for the (as he called it) chop chop partner.

The razor nicks his upper lip, just under his nose and a small dribble of blood escapes down his face. Thankfully, this is the only time he does that today. He wonders if he should be thankful .

It doesn't last It never does. At least his chin is clean now, he thinks, as the man tilts his head back, and uses his fingers to peel back his eyelids. Oh God. He'd been wrong. Blake was not going to save him. He was going to die here.

He was going to die here.

His captor shows him a knife, and then holds the blade up to a lighter until it was red hot. He discarded the lighter, and then proceeded to drive it under his eyeball and sure he'd felt pain in the last few weeks but this was something else. He screams. He screams, and screams and screams until he throws up. Bile escapes down his chin as he tries to sit back away from the knife as the man continues to push it into his eye, the metal burns him and he screams and screams and screams until he passes out.

…

He can't see. He's not bleeding so much but he cannot see. He can hear something, but he cannot see them. Yelling, there's yelling. Are they yelling at him? He's not sure.

Very suddenly, there are arms around his upper body, pulling him up. "Charlie? Charlie?" That's his name. He tries to reply but it comes out as nothing more then a slurred groan. There's fingers on his face and he considered that it might be nice to have more soup. The voice doesn't register with him, there's a hand running though his dirty hair and that's new. That's different. "Stay calm for me." He knows that voice. It's new, but old at the same time.

"Charlie? Charlie? Charlie?" The chanting continues. His name. Why are they saying his name? Hands on his face, hands on his cheeks. It hurts. He should have known better, he thinks, as the arms wrap around him, he should have known better. He's going to die in here, eyeless and cold. Perhaps this is death? Perhaps this is the end.

And then he feels something on his face. Cloth? Buttons? Fingers clutch him tight. Warm chest near his cold face. A beating heart and another "Charlie? Charlie?" He breathes in though his nose and he can smell the strange clinical smell of a hospital mixed with something so unique that he didn't even mind it. He's never smelt this before. But he knows it. He know it.

Suddenly he's of the ground and there is talking again. "Hold on, Charlie. We're going home." He almost doesn't dare to think it. It seems so forbidden now to have such a hope, such a selfish hope. Was this Blake? Was he going home? He doesn't want to go home now, what life was there? No future as a police man, no future working with Blake, just an endless inky blackness.

All he does, on the way out, is mourn that he has no eyes to cry with anymore.

…

Charlie? Charlie?" he calls, as he crashes into the room. Munro and Lawson sprint off after their killer, leaving him here in the dark hunting after the missing sergeant. The room smelt like blood and death, as if something had rotted here, and the bones had decomposed as well. In the darkness, he watches something shift, and against his better judgment he runs to it. His feet pound the dirty floor and he slides to his knees by the very dirty form left on the ground.

He hoists his upper body up and pushes dirty hair back from his dirty face, trying to look at him in the darkness of the room. Hesitantly, he pulls slightly on his cheek, revealing an empty eye socket. He gasps softly and pulls him close to his chest. "Oh God. Hang on." He murmurs, getting to his feet, and taking Charlie into his arms he doesn't respond but Blake isn't sure that he needed him too. He jogs up the stairs, only pausing before he left, having realized that Charlie would be blinded if he took him out now, only to realize, standing by the door, fingers on the broken door, about to move out of the way, that Charlie was already blind. After a moment, he flings open the door, and continues out to the waiting ambulance.