Author's Note: A big thank you to Gracie Holmes, whose writing is a constant inspiration and who went over this for me, catching my mistakes. Thank you!

October, 2013. Serbian base. Exact location unknown.

He was having a nightmare.

His body curled in on itself and his hands closed in tight, scarred fists. He was sweating too, and his whole frame shook when he gasped for breath. Natasha closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. She shouldn't care, but she did. He was going to cut into his palms with those fingernails if he kept at it.

She glided over and peered at him through the iron bars. He didn't stir.

"Hey," she whispered, cautious not to draw the attention of their guards. "You need to wake up."

He winced, but didn't open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Natasha cursed colorfully under her breath, turning her head to study her surroundings.

She didn't have much in her cell beyond the most basic of necessities, but there had to be something she could use. Her eyes landed on her sleeping pallet. She'd stolen a knife from one of the guards and hidden it inside for when she finally made her escape. It wasn't very long, but she could just about touch the tip of it to the sole of the man's feet if she tried.

Worth the risk? As if in reply, the man groaned low and quiet in his throat.

Natasha retrieved the blade, crouching gracefully on the floor once she'd made sure no one was looking. She snaked her arm between the bars and reached inside as far as she could, bars digging painfully into her shoulder. Her knife was still a quarter of an inch too short. She couldn't go much further if she wanted to avoid serious injury.

Cursing again, she tipped her head forward. Her forehead thudded against the bars. She was too tired and too sleep deprived to think of anything else.

"What are you doing?"

He spoke barely above a whisper. Natasha opened her eyes, drawing back her knife quick as a cat. He stared at her with impossibly blue eyes, sharp despite the drugs they'd surely given him to put him to sleep.

"You were having a nightmare. Thought you could use a wake up call."

He huffed, slowly propping himself on an elbow until he was almost sitting. "Risky."

"Maybe I'm just a charitable soul." Natasha moved away to hide the knife, returning quickly to her spot next to the iron bars. He'd moved closer, shirtless, scarred and dirty as he gripped the barrier between their cells. She sat in front of him with her legs crisscrossed and her hands on her knees, relaxed but unreadable.

She wasn't sure what he saw when he looked at her, but he was looking at her now. She felt oddly exposed. His eyes strayed finally to the rest of her cell. "Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same question," she retorted.

"And why would I answer?"

"Because I did you a favor." Natasha flashed him a faint smile. She couldn't tell whether or not he'd caught it, they were quickly losing daylight.

He exhaled, sharp and tired, and she thought it might've been amusement. "Why did you?"

Natasha didn't miss that he'd sidestepped her question, but that was to be expected. She was in a Serbian prison with a knife hidden inside her pallet, and she was making no move to escape. She had a mission to complete first. Someone she needed to kill once she got the information she was here for.

He had no reason to trust her.

She shrugged a slim shoulder and stole a glance towards the corridor outside their cells. Still no guards. "Maybe I heard what you said to the guard yesterday when they brought you in—"

"Deductions," he said automatically.

She smiled to herself. "Maybe it made me like you." She paused. "Or maybe I was bored, and in the mood for conversation. Who knows?"

He was quiet a long moment, gripping the iron bars without looking away. She cast a sideways glance his way. "Doesn't say much about your sanity," he said at length.

"Well," she smiled again, just barely, "I'd never claim to be sane."

His lips lifted at the corner in a subtle smirk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Natasha Romanov."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

Heavy footfalls cut off the rest of their conversation. Natasha moved away from Sherlock towards the front of her cell to get a better look, body tense and ready for a fight.

"How many?" Sherlock had pushed himself up to his feet.

Natasha spared only a glance his way. "Six," she answered quickly.

"They're here for me."

"Yeah." Natasha kept her eyes on the six guards as they moved closer. Sherlock stretched his limbs in the cell beside her, like he was getting ready for something. She had a nasty suspicion she knew what it was, but she'd seen enough to know he had a job to do here too. "I'll see you later."

He winked, straightening his spine as the lock on his cell clanged open. "Don't wait up."

Natasha watched the guards drag him away and paced to the center of her cell. A beat later she sat down to wait, moving only to retrieve the slop they were feeding her when they pushed it through the slot of her cell door. Half her portion of water sloshed out of its tin with the force.

She didn't touch either. She'd been picking at her food since she'd arrived, taking only enough to keep her strength up.

Hunger sharpens the mind, they used to say in the Red Room.

Hours later, they finally dragged him was damp, bloody and barely conscious, blue eyes dazed and unfocused. She thought they must've hosed him down once they'd done their best to break him, and given him something to keep him from fighting.

She didn't move, waiting until the guards dropped him on his pallet and disappeared before she glided over to the barrier between their cells. He was closer now. Close enough that she could reach between the bars and touch him without problem.

She pushed her hand through, fingers sinking into dark, damp curls. Sherlock tensed beneath her touch. "Just me, your friendly neighbor," she assured him quietly.

Sherlock breathed out. "I'm fine."

"If you say so." Natasha couldn't feel any bumps on his head, and her fingers didn't come away bleeding when she pulled away to check. She relaxed and resumed running her fingers through his hair.

Several minutes went by before he spoke again. "What about you?"

"They have other ways of torturing me," she said impassively, promptly changing the subject. "I've got water if you need it."

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's… fine. This is fine." He breathed deeply, relaxing as he exhaled. "How soon before they come for you again?"

"Soon. A day or two, at most." Natasha shifted to make herself a little more comfortable while she continued her gentle ministrations. She didn't plan on coming back to her cell after that. Once she had what she needed, she was going back to the limited comforts of her safe house and leaving this hellhole well behind her.

Sherlock's next words were a little slurred, like he was losing consciousness. "I won't see you again, will I?"

Natasha bit her lip, but it didn't stop her smile. She rested her head against the bars and gave in to the sliver of warmth curling in the pit of her stomach. "Would you like to?"

"No," he said quietly, drowsily.

"Liar." Natasha shifted her head, peeking at him through the iron bars. His eyes were already closed, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Did I win you over with my excellent hair playing skills?"

His lips twitched very subtly. "No," he repeated.

"Your nose is really growing now, Pinocchio." Sherlock huffed and Natasha closed her eyes, focusing on the sounds and smells around her. "I'll find you," she promised.

Sherlock reached blindly, long fingers finding her thin cotton trousers through the bars. He clutched the fabric, whispering a shuddering reply. "Good," he said.