This story was written for my lovely AO3 Fundraiser Auction Winner, Barawen. Thank you for such a fun prompt, and for being patient with me when this fic grew to be much larger than I expected. I hope you like it!

Also, this is part two of the "Dawn" series, set prior to the story "At Dawn They Sleep" in the timeline. You don't need to have read that one to enjoy this, but some of the world-building in that story will help this one make more sense.

I have to give a million thanks to my friend, beta reader and brit-picker extraordinaire, DancingGrimm! Without her support and help and feedback, this story would be shorter, clunkier, and way less interesting. I couldn't have done it without you, my dear!

The first time it had been frightening. The second time it had been intimidating. The third, fourth, and fifth times it had been unsettling. But at this point, it was getting ridiculous.

Unable to stop himself, Greg Lestrade laughed out loud.

"Am I amusing you, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft Holmes asked in an acerbic tone as he approached the place where Greg was standing, directly in front of the unmarked but elegant black car that had delivered him.

"No, it's just… we have to stop meeting like this." He chuckled again and gestured around them at the dusty and disused warehouse in which they stood. Two tall padded chairs, looking as if they had been pulled out of a hotel lobby somewhere, had been incongruously placed in the center of the cavernous space, their carved wooden legs casting strange angular shadows now in the harsh glow of the car's headlights.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, are our little chats inconveniencing you?"

"A bit, yeah," Greg answered with a grin, enjoying the way that Mycroft's face pinched up even more at the response. "For example, right now I'm absolutely starving. Maybe next time we could meet at a café or something? I could murder a bacon butty."

Mycroft blinked at him for a moment, and then a tiny smile snuck onto his face. "I see." He looked around the vast empty warehouse and then turned back to face Greg, his smile just a bit wider. "I suppose I might be able to provide some refreshments for our next meeting, then, if that's what it takes to make you comfortable."

"Yeah? Sounds good." Greg grinned. He loved those moments when the tightly controlled man seemed to unwind a little bit, letting a hint of genuine emotion slip through his façade. "But since we're already here, I guess we should go ahead and sit."

Mycroft bowed slightly from the waist and extended a hand toward the chairs. Greg inclined his head in return and moved toward the seats, grin still fixed on his face.

With a soft grunt Greg collapsed into the seat facing toward the car, the lights glaring in his eyes. He knew from experience that Mycroft preferred to sit with his back to the light and his face in shadow. Maintaining the mysterious air he worked so hard to cultivate, no doubt. Greg had got pretty good at reading the cues in Mycroft's body language at this point, though, so the darkness did not provide as much concealment as Mycroft might believe.

Mycroft folded himself into the other seat with a slow and easy grace that Greg admired, so different from his own artless and sloppy motions. He sat primly, back straight and knees together, holding his umbrella across his lap with both hands, while Greg sprawled out and settled back to get comfortable.

"How do you even get chairs like this here?" Greg started before Mycroft could open his mouth. "I mean, they're not collapsible, are they? Do you have someone haul out two heavy cushy chairs just before you send the car, or are they always around in case of a clandestine meeting?"

"Sorry, trade secret," Mycroft answered, completely deadpan. Greg chuckled again, pleased that Mycroft was permitting the teasing. Despite the rocky start to their relationship, revolving as it did around Sherlock's incarceration after appearing a crime scene spouting details about a murder, these days Greg found the man to be pleasant company.

"Ah well, to business then."

"Yes. How is my dear brother these days?"

Greg had just opened his mouth to respond when a shrieking alarm suddenly filled the room, almost deafening in its intensity. He clapped his hands to his ears and jumped out of his chair, as across from him Mycroft stood and spun in place, his eyes sweeping the vast dark space around them.

He turned back to Greg and said something, but Greg could not hear him over the alarm, which was loud enough to make his eyes water even with his ears plugged. Mycroft wore an expression of confusion, possibly even touched with fear, and the sight of that emotion in Mycroft Holmes – of all people – caused a wave of something suspiciously like terror to wash through Greg, weakening his knees.

He turned away, looking around the apparently empty space, but his eyes could not penetrate the dusty gloom of the far reaches of the room. When he turned back around, seconds later, Mycroft was gone, the space between Greg and the car stretching out bright and empty but for the chair.

Shocked, Greg jerked backwards and tripped over the chair behind him, dropping his hands from his ears and nearly falling to the ground before he was able to regain his balance. The ear-splitting shriek of the alarm pounded into his head, but for the moment he could ignore it as he spun on his heel and searched the room again, looking for Mycroft this time. How could the man have… vanished like that?

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned again, facing one side of the huge warehouse. It was too dark to make out any details and he could hear nothing but the pounding fury of the alarm, but after a short moment of fixed staring he was rewarded with another flash of movement. He took two steps toward the motion before he felt it, a sharp stinging sensation in his neck.

He cried out, but the shrieking alarm drowned out his yell and he could not even hear himself. His hand jumped up and he found a small metal pellet attached to a needle which was lodged in the side of his neck. He had time to take one more aimless step, tugging futilely at the dart, before the blackness closed in, crowding around the edges of his vision and then swarming forward to engulf it entirely.

The last thing he felt was a sharp sting as his face slapped smartly against the dirty concrete floor.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Greg woke slowly, his head crowded with confused disjointed images and foggy recollections. His mouth was dry, his throat sore, his entire face heavy and throbbing with pain. His impulse was to groan, roll over and rub his hands down his face, maybe check to see if his nose was broken, but something stopped him. He could not remember how he came to be in this state, but instinct was screaming at him to freeze, think, attempt to ascertain the situation before demonstrating that he was awake to anyone who might be watching.

Greg slowed his breathing, allowing the air to flow through his mouth because his nose was too clogged to be any help. The air tasted stale, tasted of stone and soil and damp, like the air in an old disused basement.

Listening intently, Greg could hear the gentle sound of water trickling, a soft collection of splashes and plinking noises. It sounded like a fountain. Nothing else. Greg continued to lie still, listening hard, straining all of his senses, but could not detect the sound of anyone else in the room. After a long period of time, the silence punctuated only by the quiet splash of water, he decided to risk opening his eyes.

Cracking one eye just a tiny slit, he could see nothing but an unmarked expanse of grey just in front of his face. He risked opening the other eye, but the view remained unchanged. Evidently he was facing a wall.

Finally, still hearing nothing but the soothing sound of running water, Greg decided it was time to move. He flexed his shoulders first, bringing his hands up to his face. He was surprised to find that his hands were unbound, and then confused that he would expect such a thing.

Greg dragged himself up into a sitting position, unable to stifle a groan at the sudden stab of pain through his head and face, and rotated until his back was to the wall. He raised his eyes to look around the room, and immediately his attention focused in on the figure across from him.

Bound in startlingly heavy chains and shackled to the wall by both wrists slumped the battered, unconscious form of Mycroft Holmes.

Greg's immediate impulse was to leap across the space and check on Mycroft, but he held himself back, waiting instead to see if their captors reacted to his wakefulness. He kept his eyes on Mycroft, though, and felt relief when he saw the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest.

As he waited, he took a moment to examine the room in which they were apparently confined. The space was not large, long but fairly narrow, roughly oval in shape. The walls appeared to be made of raw stone, barely worked at all, rough and jagged like those of a cave, and the floor was level hard-packed dirt, dotted here and there with small stones. A narrow stream ran the length of the room near to the far wall, and from where he sat Greg could see that the small opening through which the stream exited the room was blocked with thick metal bars. The only source of illumination was a single bulb, naked and glaring, which jutted straight out from one rough wall.

Greg brought his fingers up and gingerly prodded his own face. His nose was swollen and very tender, and dried blood crusted his upper lip and chin. Probably broken, then. His cheek felt bruised, and he suddenly remembered the stinging feeling in his face as he collapsed in the warehouse…

The warehouse! Meeting with Mycroft, that horrible alarm, the awful sensation of a dart in his neck, and then… nothing until he woke up here. Wherever this was. Jesus.

After a few minutes, during which Greg sat quietly and struggled to control his rising panic, he decided that either he was not being observed or his captors were waiting to see what he would do. Either way, it was time to check on Mycroft.

Greg stood gingerly, using the rough wall to support himself and wincing against the pain in his head. The ceiling was quite high, arching above him and gnarled with twisted broken ridges of stone, strongly reinforcing the cave-like impression of the room. Grunting with the effort, Greg staggered the few steps along the wall to the place where Mycroft was shackled.

Mycroft was sitting on the dirt floor, his back pressed against the wall, his wrists clad in thick bands of a dingy brown-grey metal and connected to the wall by massive chains of the same material. His seated position indicated that he was likely conscious at one point, but now he was slumped forward, his head hanging down so that Greg could not clearly see his face. The chains were not long enough to let his hands reach the ground, so instead they hung at a strange, uncomfortable angle at his sides.

Greg reached out a gentle hand and rested it on Mycroft's shoulder. "Mycroft, hey," he said quietly, not sure how to go about waking the man. When there was no reply, he tried again, shaking Mycroft softly and calling his name.

This time, Mycroft stirred, rolling his head with a groan. Greg shook him again, and Mycroft raised his head, blinking wearily.

When Greg caught sight of his face, he gasped. Mycroft looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, stark and vivid against his incredibly pale skin, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. Beneath the marks, his face was gaunt, his skin stretched tight across his bones. Greg caught himself wondering if he had perhaps been unconscious longer than he thought, for Mycroft to look so withered so quickly.

After a moment, Mycroft seemed to regain some awareness of his surroundings. His eyes cleared, and then locked on Greg's face. He opened his own mouth to speak, but all that came out was a harsh hacking sound that made Greg wince.

"Wait, hang on. I'll get you some water." Greg turned to the stream that ran through their prison and examined it briefly. It looked clear and smelled alright, and he did not really possess any other means to make sure it was safe. He shrugged to himself and scooped up a handful, drinking quickly. Tasted fine too. He cupped his hands and gathered up another handful of water, moving carefully back to Mycroft. Even so, he had nearly spilled half of it when he reached the other man.

Gently, Greg placed the edge of his hand at Mycroft's mouth and tipped the water toward him. Mycroft opened his mouth and drank the meager offering greedily, drops spilling past the corners of his mouth to run down his chin. As soon as his hands were empty, Greg repeated the act, bringing Mycroft another small handful of water. When he moved to do it a third time, though, Mycroft stopped him.

"Wait… help me," he rasped. "My wrists…" he trailed off and let his eyes fall closed, seemingly exhausted by the effort of talking.

Greg looked closely at the wrist nearest him, but it appeared to be fine. He could not see any visible bruising. There was a weird smell, though, this close. Almost like… cooking meat.

Mycroft shook his arm, and the manacle shifted slightly, giving Greg a glimpse of raw red flesh. With a startled cry, he grabbed Mycroft's arm and slid the cuff further, revealing severe burns concealed beneath the band of metal.

"Mycroft, what the hell?" Greg gently released the arm he was holding and moved to check the other, which was as severely damaged as its counterpart.

"Wrap them… cloth…" Mycroft gasped out before falling silent and limp again. Greg nodded and stepped back, looking around. Mycroft was still wearing his usual three piece suit, the jacket sleeves pushed up to make room for his shackles. For a moment, Greg considered just sliding the sleeves under the cuffs, but decided against it. He needed something that would not move every time Mycroft shifted his arms.

Immediately, Greg pulled his own shirt off, and then removed the vest he was wearing beneath it. He dropped his shirt, ignoring the deep chill of the room, and took the vest in both hands. Very quickly, he managed to rip the thin material into strips.

Working carefully, Greg pushed the soft cotton strips under the thick bands of metal encircling Mycroft's burned wrists, gritting his teeth against the sharp gasps his actions elicited. Finally, after an interminable time, he finished. The cloth covered and protected the burned flesh, and also held the heavy metal bands up off of the damaged skin. It was the best Greg could do for Mycroft with his limited resources.

When he was done, Mycroft slouched back against the wall, breathing hard. Greg watched him for a moment, not sure what to do.

"More water?" he asked finally, unable to think of anything else.

"Just… rest," Mycroft responded without opening his eyes. Greg nodded, even though Mycroft could not see him.

Greg pulled his shirt back on, shivering slightly in the chill of the room. Then, unable to think of anything to do, he stood staring at Mycroft's limp figure. The man looked smaller like this, hurt and bound, but even unconscious he still maintained some of that impressive aura of power that he wore like a second skin. Greg had always respected Mycroft, even back when they used to butt heads over Sherlock's unacceptable behavior at crime scenes and the appropriate ways to respond to it. Lately, he had to admit, he enjoyed the man's company, infrequent and unpredictable as it was, and even found himself looking forward to those moments when an expensive black car would slide up beside him as he walked and a door would open in silent invitation.

Looking at Mycroft now, Greg was suddenly filled with the unexpected desire to offer some kind of comfort, like maybe a hug. If he thought for a moment that the man would accept, he might have tried. However, he had no doubt that such physical contact would be as unwelcome as an attack to someone like the elder Holmes brother, so he kept his hands to himself.

Feeling restless and anxious, Greg tuned away from Mycroft and looked around the room once more. Set in the wall at the opposite end of the room, right near where he first woke, he could now see a thick heavy metal door, apparently made of the same ugly brown-grey metal that was locked around Mycroft's wrists. The little stream entered the room through another heavily barred opening just beside it. And that, it seemed, was that. Nothing else.

Greg got himself another drink from the stream, but forced himself to stop after one scoop. He still did not know whether the water might be contaminated with something, so he thought it was best to wait a while to see what happened before drinking much more. He did, however, dunk what was left of his vest in the stream and use it to wash his face. The cool touch of the water on his bruised skin was an instant relief.

Frightened and nervous, worried about Mycroft and flushed with unused adrenaline, Greg could not stand still. He moved carefully around the perimeter of the small room to the door and ran his hands across it. The metal was very cold and felt rough beneath his hands. The door seemed to be one huge solid piece of metal, with no interruptions in its smooth surface, without even a knob or a latch. It fit perfectly flush in the stone wall, not even space enough for a piece of paper between the edge of the metal and the beginning of the stone. The half-hearted and rudimentary effort involved in shaping the room itself was not in evidence here; someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that this door was impenetrable.

Greg shivered.

He contemplated the door for a few minutes, his mind skating between what little he could recall from the warehouse, possible means of escape, and fears about what might happen to them here in this place. He could not stay focused on a single idea for longer than a few seconds, though, and standing still quickly became intolerable. So instead he paced.

Their cell was just over six strides in length and about half as wide, Greg discovered. He fell into a pattern of steps, unconsciously counting them as he had once done as a child, trying to sooth himself after fights with his brother. One, two, three, four, five, six steps in each direction. The sameness, the unchanging rhythm calmed him, and he found himself growing less frantic as he walked and walked.

He was nearing the door when he thought he heard Mycroft make a soft noise behind him. As he turned back to face Mycroft, his hand dropped to his side and his knuckles bumped against something in his pocket. Surprised, he reached in and pulled out his mobile. A quick pat revealed that his keys were still there as well, though his wallet was missing.

He was still staring at the phone in his hand, baffled, when Mycroft spoke again.

"Yes, they left me mine as well," he said, and Greg's head jerked up.

"Mycroft, god! How are you feeling?" Greg rushed across the small space and knelt beside Mycroft, examining him closely although he had no idea what he was hoping to see. Mycroft still looked bruised and battered and ill.

"Better, thank you Detective Inspector. I cannot tell you what a relief it is, having my wrists wrapped."

"It's no problem." Greg paused, and then gave a little grin. "Don't you think you could call me Greg? I feel like being kidnapped together is really more of a 'first names' situation."

Mycroft responded with an exhausted but genuine smile. "Certainly, Gregory."

Greg felt himself flush slightly as Mycroft pronounced his given name for the first time. To cover it, he cleared his throat. "Those were some nasty burns. How did you even get those?"

Mycroft looked at him sharply, and Greg felt himself come under the intense scrutiny of a Holmes. Fortunately, he was used to it and withstood the examination stolidly. He had no idea what Mycroft was trying to find, though. Finally, after a short time, Mycroft's eyes closed and his head rested back against the wall behind him.

"I don't know. Something to do with the capture, I suppose."

"Strange that they're exactly in the same place that as the cuffs."

"Yes." Mycroft kept his eyes shut and appeared to be resting. Greg returned his attention to his mobile.

"No signal here."

"I know. I expect that we're fairly deep underground. That's probably why they didn't bother taking our phones."

Greg considered this. "That doesn't sound like a very good sign. I mean, if we're ever expected to leave this room, I would think they would have taken them just to be safe."

"Yes." Mycroft did not move.

"Jesus." Greg twisted to the side and sat back against the rough stone wall beside Mycroft, letting his head collapse backward hard enough to send a throb of pain through his swollen face. He winced and pressed his fingertips against his cheekbones. He could feel the tension and fear rising up in his chest again, but he fought it back down. No reason to exhaust himself when there was nothing he could do. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that.

"So, do you know what this is about then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The kidnapping. This is a real kidnapping, right? Not like your kind, with posh cars and politely worded questions. We're in a… a damned dungeon, you're chained to the wall, both of us all bashed up. You must have some idea why they wanted to kidnap you."

"How do you know they were not after you?"

Greg barked out a surprised laugh. "Right, that's a possibility I haven't considered. Maybe they wanted to kidnap a DI rather than a 'minor' government official, just happened to decide to take me when we were meeting, and just happened to have the force necessary to overcome your ridiculous level of security. Come on, Mycroft. Why?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Gregory. There are several groups who may believe they can benefit from detaining me in this way, though for the most part they are mistaken. I barely saw anything of our captors before they rendered me unconscious, and certainly not enough to reach any conclusions. Until they decide to come and talk to us, you know just as much as I."

"Well, we both know that's not true." Greg almost thought he could feel Mycroft's smile, though he said nothing.

Several minutes of silence passed, both men sitting up against the wall. Greg could not speak for Mycroft, but his own mind was still racing, working to find an explanation, an angle, some kind of inkling of a plan to improve their position. But it was no use. He just did not have enough knowledge of the situation, and virtually no resources.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "If it would not be too much trouble, Gregory, I would very much like another drink of water."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure!" Greg jumped up and stepped over to the stream again. He cupped his hands and scooped as much water as he could hold, which was not very much, and then turned and carefully walked the few steps back to where Mycroft was chained. Despite his care, by the time he returned much of the water had trickled out from between his fingers. Greg gently placed his hands against Mycroft's lips and tipped the remaining water into his mouth, studiously keeping his eyes turned away from where Mycroft's lips met his skin, fighting down an inexplicable blush.

Once he had slurped all of the water from Greg's hands, Mycroft let his head fall backwards against the rough wall behind him and let out a long breath. Greg almost did the same, but stopped himself. Instead he sat back on his heels and rubbed one wet hand across the back of his neck.

"Would you like some more?" Greg asked as Mycroft's eyes started to fall shut again.

"In a moment, perhaps." Mycroft stayed where he was, resting against the wall, his head tipped up toward the ceiling and eyes closed. The bruises on his face stood out vividly in the glare of the light, and his cheeks were hollow enough to give Greg the impression that he had not eaten in weeks. But despite this, there was something compelling about Mycroft's face, something strange but attractive. And although he had only just recently admitted it to himself, Greg had always enjoyed looking at him.

"So," Greg said, and then stopped. He had no idea what else to say, but the quiet and the soft splashing of the little stream were starting to get to him. He wanted to break it, interrupt the inappropriately soothing sounds with loud indications of life and action. He wanted to do something, anything, other than just sit here helplessly and wait.

Mycroft did not reply to his sad attempt to start a conversation, but Greg saw that he had opened his eyes. Greg swallowed and tried again.

"Someone must have noticed… I mean, you probably have whole teams of people responsible for finding you if something like this happens, right?"

Mycroft smiled briefly. "Not teams, no. But yes, despite my relatively minor position in the government my movements are usually tracked. It is likely that there are people seeking us in order to come to our rescue right now."

"Your rescue, you mean. But if you can get them to take me along too, that would be great."

"Don't you think your colleagues at the Met will be looking for you as well?"

Greg felt the bitter smile that crept onto his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I doubt they've noticed I'm missing yet. I was off today, so no one would be expecting me. And since my divorce I haven't exactly had anyone waiting for me at home, have I?"

"Oh. I… may I offer my condolences?" Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and Greg mentally kicked himself for letting his self-pity leak out into his words.

"Hey, no, I'm sorry. It's fine. In all honesty, I have to imagine your people will be better at finding kidnapping victims than mine, unless they decide to call your brother for help. And I really can't imagine Donovan doing that."

Mycroft let a soft puff of air escape, a sound that was nearly but not quite a laugh. "No, nor Benjamin."

"Benjamin?"

"My personal assistant. They have not got along since Sherlock informed the rest of my office that Benjamin was having an affair with a married woman. But he is quite competent and will be directing any rescue efforts that are underway."

"Right." Greg sat back, able to relax slightly. He felt just a bit better at the idea that some of the nameless, faceless shadow people who were always hovering menacingly behind Mycroft might be out there somewhere right now, searching for them. His helplessness still chafed, but not quite as much. "So, more water?"

"Not right now I think. Thank you Gregory." Mycroft paused, dropping his eyes and clearing his throat in a way that Greg was coming to recognize.

"Do you need something else?"

"I was wondering whether you might provide me with the cloth that you used to wash your face. I think I would find that very refreshing just now."

"Oh, sure. Of course." Greg snagged the remains of his vest from where he had draped it over an outcropping that protruded from one wall of their stone cell and dipped it back in the stream before handing the damp cloth to Mycroft. Mycroft scrubbed the fabric over his face, groaning aloud at the touch of the cool water on his abused skin. The sound sent a shiver down Greg's spine.

Mycroft lowered the wet cloth and looked up at Greg, who was standing beside him. His eyelashes were dark and clumped together from the water, making his eyes look luminous and huge in his gaunt face. "Thank you Gregory, that is much –" and right at that moment the light went out, plunging the room into the blackest darkness Greg had ever experienced.

There was a brief pause, silent but for the gentle gurgle of the stream, and then Mycroft continued, "– better."

Greg did not respond. His eyes darted frantically around, but he could not see a thing, could detect absolutely no light whatsoever. He blinked hard and then opened his eyes again, but there was no change to the absolute blackness that surrounded him. It was uncanny, the pure and endless quality of this darkness, like nothing he had ever experienced before. Greg could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the black closed in and started to suffocate him.

Without intending to, Greg found himself holding his breath and listening intently, trying to use his ears to make up for the lack of sight. He could hear the splashing of the inexplicable little stream that ran through their prison, the nearly inaudible sound of Mycroft breathing and shifting, the echo in his own head as he ground his teeth. Nothing else. He leaned forward, rotating his head slowly like a satellite dish, straining to pick up any other sounds, but nothing came.

After a period of time that may have been thirty seconds or ten minutes, for all Greg could tell, Mycroft again broke the silence.

"Well fuck."

The profanity was so unexpected and startling coming from Mycroft that it jolted Greg out of the near trance of strained perception into which he had fallen. He could still see absolutely nothing, could hear nothing apart from the tinkle of water and the tiny sounds of two people in an enclosed space, but he could feel his heart rate slowing to a less panicked speed as he straightened up and drew in several deep breaths.

Slowly, with his arms outstretched, Greg took a fumbling step in the direction that he thought the wall must be, based on his own recollections and the sound of Mycroft's voice. He had been standing a few short steps from the wall when the lights went out, so he should reach it quickly.

He stepped forward, bracing himself to stub his fingers on the rough stone wall, and was surprised when his questing hands found nothing. Carefully, he shuffled forward another step, and then another, before he felt cold stone under his hands. He moved up against it and then gradually slid down to sit on the floor.

"What's wrong?" he asked, once he was sitting. He was answered by a low snort which reminded him sharply of Sherlock, and for a moment he could clearly picture the detective, the image painted on the blackness before his eyes, looking at him with that condescending scowl and a single arched eyebrow; could imagine that deep rumble of a voice saying in his posh accent 'Oh nothing, Lestrade. This is exactly how Mycroft was hoping his day would go. How could anything possibly be wrong?'

Greg closed his eyes, trying with limited success to wipe the picture of Sherlock from his mind, and then turned his head toward the source of the snort.

"I meant, 'what else'."

Only silence greeted this question. The silence stretched on and on, until Greg started to feel uncomfortable, started to worry that maybe Mycroft had fallen asleep or passed out from pain or possibly just disappeared into the darkness while Greg could not see him. He shifted uncomfortably and had just opened his mouth to speak when Mycroft finally answered.

"I can't… I can't tell what's going on," Mycroft said in a low, frightened voice. The sound of it, so unlike his usual powerful, confident speech, drove an icy stab of fear into the pit of Greg's stomach. "I can't tell, my senses are all confused. The stream is messing it all up, nothing but echoes and distortions. And this goddamn bloody silver!" By the end Mycroft's voice had risen to a shout, angry and desperate, and the last comment was accompanied by a loud clinking sound as Mycroft shook his manacles.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Greg answered, hoping he sounded soothing, and not as badly shaken as he felt. He scooted closer to where Mycroft was sitting, kept scooting until he felt his shoulder collide with Mycroft's bony arm. Beside him, Mycroft froze at the touch, but Greg stayed where he was and after a moment Mycroft seemed to relax, leaning just slightly into him for a moment. "I can't see or hear anything either, but it's okay, we'll be okay." An idea suddenly occurred to him, so blindingly obvious that he kicked himself for not having thought of it sooner. "Hang on, I thought of something."

Greg groped at his trousers, felt the solid reassuring weight of his mobile phone. He worked it out of the pocket and flipped it open, and the dim blue light of the display filled their stone cell, sudden and startlingly bright after their time in absolute darkness.

"Oh," Mycroft breathed beside him, the sound caught somewhere between a word and an exhalation. Greg turned to look at him, and felt his heart give a strange lurch in his chest.

Mycroft's face hovered just inches from his own. The bluish light from the phone reflected off of his pale skin, painting him the color of a corpse, and the position of the light source cast the planes of his face into sharp relief, making him look nearly as gaunt and angular as Sherlock. The marks of violence on his face stood out obscenely, stark and vivid brown in contrast to his icicle skin. His eyes were open wide, downcast as he looked at the phone in Greg's hand, and they glittered strangely in the artificial light. His expression was one of almost childlike shock, the most honest expression Greg had ever seen him wear. He looked like a work of art, a beautiful, terrible painting, a horror movie victim frozen in the moment before the final scene.

Slowly, almost painfully, Mycroft's eyes rose to meet Greg's, and when they did Greg actually felt his lungs go still as his breath stopped in his chest. Mycroft's eyes were colorless pools of black, a pure and horrible darkness exactly as deep and endless and consuming as the darkness that had surrounded them before Greg thought to make a light. And as Greg looked, he could feel the blackness reach out to swallow him, drawing his mind out and down into the pit.

A feeling of warmth and comfort started to seep into him, the knowledge that this was fine, this was okay, everything would be okay. He found himself leaning forward and to the side, moving in as if to give Mycroft a kiss. And that was okay too, was more than okay, he decided. He would be happy to kiss Mycroft, had actually been thinking about it a bit, and this seemed like a good time. Right now, when everything was so good. But then, as he got closer in, he unintentionally arched his neck to the side, twisting his head. Well then, maybe he was going to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder instead, give him a bit of a hug. That would be fine too.

He felt Mycroft's breath puff softly against his neck, the cool moisture making him shiver, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Then there was a sudden, disorienting jolt, and Greg's eyes flew open as he reeled backward, knocking his sore head sharply against the stone wall behind where he sat. The feeling of wellbeing fled, leaving him cold and frightened in a way that he had not been before. Unable to stop himself, he immediately looked at Mycroft, feeling a thrill of fear and something darker shoot down his spine.

"Gregory, are you alright?" Mycroft asked as Greg turned to him. He was looking back at Greg with his brow furrowed, his eyes full of concern. His perfectly normal, somewhat narrow blue eyes. "What happened? It looked like you were going to pass out for a moment, and then you suddenly… twitched."

"I…" Greg paused. What had happened? He remembered Mycroft sounding frantic in the dark, remembered sitting down, pulling out his mobile. He remembered looking at Mycroft in the light of the phone, and there was something strange about his appearance, something about his eyes… he rubbed his face hard with his empty hand as he tried to chase the memory, but it was gone. "I'm not sure. I feel okay now. Maybe I had a bit of a panic attack or something." All the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.

"Yes, well, I'm pleased you are feeling better. It was a good idea, using your mobile phone for light. Something I should have thought of. I apologize for my earlier outburst, as well. It was a momentary lapse, and I will not let it happen again."

"Hey, Mycroft, don't worry about it. Anyone would get upset, kidnapped and chained up in the dark. You're allowed to have emotions, you know."

A tired smile appeared on Mycroft's face and he looked away from Greg before he answered in a voice so soft that Greg could barely hear it. "No, I'm really not."

The statement made Greg feel sad, made him feel sympathetic toward Mycroft for possibly the first time in their acquaintance. He had never really considered the constraints under which a man such as Mycroft Holmes must operate, but they must be pretty severe if he felt that he could not be emotional even in these circumstances. But he was not at all sure that his thoughts on the subject would be appreciated, so he kept them to himself.

A thought occurred to him, and he looked down at his phone screen. "It's about midnight, according to my phone. It should still be keeping accurate time, right, even without a connection?"

"Yes, I would imagine so."

"I wonder if they turned off the lights specifically because of the time. Bedtime for the prisoners and all that."

"It is possible."

Greg had been randomly pressing buttons on his phone in order to keep the light on. Now he looked down at, considering.

"You know, I can't keep this on all the time. The battery will go dead."

"Yes, I understand. You may shut it off at your leisure. I will not lose control again."

Greg shrugged. "I guess this is as good a time as any to try to get some sleep, then. First, though, I'm going to have a bit more water. Do you want some?" Mycroft nodded, and Greg went about the difficult process of scooping water in his hands and bringing it to Mycroft, before having a drink himself.

He looked around the room as Mycroft was drinking, trying to decide where he should lie down to sleep. The rounded room did not offer any corners, so Greg selected a spot along the wall, on the opposite side of the room from the stream and a good distance from the door. The spot he picked was also out of reach of Mycroft, which seemed important for some reason that Greg could not put his finger on.

Once both men had slaked their thirst, Greg moved to his chosen spot and sat down, still using his phone as a torch. Mycroft watched him through hooded eyes but did not comment. Greg shifted around a bit in an attempt to make himself comfortable, but the ground was hard and he did not have many options. He briefly considered using his shirt as a pillow, but the chill in the stone room stopped him. Instead he lay down with his back to the wall and folded one arm beneath his head.

"I'm going to kill the light now," Greg said, looking past his knees to where Mycroft sat propped against the wall, his chains glinting dully in the pale light.

"Fine," Mycroft responded, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. Greg waited, but when Mycroft remained still and quiet, he went ahead and flipped his phone shut. The sudden dark was still shocking, even though he expected it. Greg immediately felt isolated, alone, and had to resist the urge to scoot over to where Mycroft sat just to feel him there.

"Goodnight, Mycroft." His voice sounded tremulous and weak in the darkness.

"Goodnight, Gregory."

Greg settled down, pillowing his head on one bent arm, and shifted until he was as comfortable as he could be on the hard dirt floor. He was not sure whether he would be able to sleep in these circumstances despite his exhaustion, but it would be better to face whatever was coming well-rested if at all possible. He closed his eyes, which made no difference at all in the quality of the darkness, and let his mind drift.

Predictably, his thoughts centered on their incarceration. His mind spun from the warehouse to waking up in this cell to the second that the lights went off, trying to find some detail, some new information that might help him figure out how to escape, but nothing caught his attention. And slowly, as time passed and the darkness and quiet echoed louder, Greg felt himself start to drift away.