A/N: thanks to SWWoman and those in the Careese chat last Friday. Here's the completed fic, although it didn't come out at all as I had thought it would. Hope you all enjoy it, anyway!

"Hell is to sit alone in the dark, remembering past sins." - Richard Wurmbrand

She sat in the dark. Not quite pitch black – there was light, but not much. She couldn't see a source for it. Everything was monochrome. It was cold. It was uncomfortable, the floor rough and hard and covered with some gritty substance like coal dust. Where am I?

After a while she stood up, and groped her way over to... what? A wall? Cold stone, more gritty stuff. She looked down. Hey! There's a hole in my chest! She patted the area. Her hands came away sticky. A dark stain had soaked her top. There was a bullet hole right in the centre of her chest.

Panic. I must be okay, this is some sort of weird hallucination. I'm alive, right?

But where was she? She crisscrossed the tiny rock chamber: no way in, no way out. No door, no window. Where the hell was the light, what little there was of it, coming from? And how had she gotten in here in the first place?

After a while she got sick of standing up and sat down again, back to the wall. Nothing to do either. Where the hell am I? Then a more disturbing thought. Who am I?

Real panic this time. What's my name? How did I get here? She pressed the heels of her hands, filthy as they were, into her eyes. Maybe I've always been here. Maybe I don't have a name.

Calm down. Calm down. Look at yourself, there must be some clues there. She was wearing slacks and a gray top. Well, presumably gray; not enough light for colour vision. She felt for pockets. Something in there, something flat, an odd shape. Leather backing and a raised, bumpy, metallic thing attached to it. She pulled it out, squinting at it in the gloom. A police ID, a shield-shaped badge. NYPD 55432. I'm a cop?

There was nothing else in her pockets.

Okay, so I'm a cop. Guess that explains the bullet hole. She glanced down again. But if that's a real bullet wound, how am I alive? Gingerly she prodded at the hole. It didn't hurt. On an impulse she pinched herself. That didn't hurt either. Come to think of it, she didn't feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired. If I had a real bullet wound there, there's no way my heart would still be beating. Then she realized. My heart isn't beating. I'm not breathing.

I must be dead.

Xxxxx

A long time passed. Or maybe it didn't. There was no way to tell, no variation in the quality of the light. No sounds. She sat there, fingering the badge. I'm 55432. I'm just a number.

Just a number...why did that phrase seem to mean something? Just a number, just a number... when your number's up... here's my number... the Number of the Beast... lucky number...she sat turning over in her mind all the phrases and fragments of phrases she could think of which might jar something loose.

What's my name?

"You know what's funny? The best parts of your life you don't need a name. You get to be dad, sweetheart, pal. Seems like the only time you need a name is when you're in trouble." She nearly jumped out of her skin. A memory, a real memory! A man's voice saying those words. Someone important. She shivered. Well, I'm in trouble now. Damn straight I need a name.

She tried to encourage herself. I know I'm, I was, a cop. In New York. I took a bullet to the chest. And there was a man, and he was important. She played his words over in her mind, hoping they would trigger something else, trying to recapture not just the words but the voice, the tone in which they were said. Anything.

After a long while she gave up. She wished she could sleep: at least it would pass the time. But she didn't feel remotely tired. She looked down at the badge again, running her fingers over its smooth ridges. 55432.

The stain on her chest was still wet, which was funny. She'd have thought it would have dried by now. On an impulse she lifted her top up to try to get a better look at the hole. Her bra was pretty much soaked with blood, still wet but not uncomfortable, how icky and bizarre was that? But she didn't seem to be leaking. She was pulling her top back down when she glimpsed something on the skin at her waist. A big mess of scar tissue. She felt it, a rough patch the size of her hand. Her lips pursed in a soundless whistle. Wow. How'd I get that? She pushed the waistband of her slacks down to get a better look. Hey. Another scar. Neater. She ran her fingers along it.

"Mrs Carter. Joss. You've got a little boy, and he's fine." Hospital lights, a nurse leaning over her, sounds of a newborn crying. Taylor. Taylor?

Joss crouched in the dark with her hands over her face as the memories cascaded back.

Xxxxx

After a while she collected her thoughts. She could remember it all now. In fact, she suspected she could remember better than when she'd been alive. There were some things from her childhood she hadn't thought about in years.

A new thought struck her. If I'm dead, this ain't heaven. She patted the rough floor on which she sat, with its curious gritty feel. Though it doesn't fit the stereotype of hell either. You couldn't say it was a remotely pleasant place though. In fact the thought of never getting out of here again made her blood run cold. Figuratively. She started to feel a little angry. So why am I here? I was good, I don't deserve hell. I always tried to do the right thing.

Well, actually, if she was honest she mostly tried to do the right thing. Snapping at Taylor the last couple of mornings before she'd sent him to live with his father, that was because she was tired and worried. He'd been hurt, but he'd understood. Hadn't he?

Oh, God. Betraying John to the CIA. That one still made her toes curl. She'd known in her heart that Snow was playing her, but she'd allowed herself to be conned. John had been incredibly forgiving, but how do you ever atone for putting him through that? He'd nearly been killed. All those morally dubious things she'd done for Harold and John, well, from this perspective she wasn't nearly as worried about them. Strangely, it was the little things which bugged her the most: small kindnesses she'd been too busy for, little acts of cruelty she'd persuaded herself didn't matter. She'd been pretty shitty to poor old Lionel when he'd tried to reach out to her, share his past with her. Too holier-than-thou to listen to him. She'd chopped him off at the knees.

She pulled her knees up and sat hugging them. She wanted to cry, but tears wouldn't come. Another piece of strangeness, but she was in no mood to even think about it. Rage boiled in her. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Okay, maybe she hadn't really tried her best, no-one did really. But all the good stuff she had done, didn't it count for anything? All those dirty cops she'd taken down? She'd taken a bullet for John. Come to that, he'd seen something good in her. Maybe even loved her, though they'd never get the chance to see where all that might have led. And now she was cut off from him, forever. Cut off from everyone.

It was that thought which really broke her. She turned her cheek to rest on her knees and let out a long, silent wail. "Please. Someone. Help me. Oh God, please, help me." She closed her eyes.

Xxxx

When she opened them the light had changed. She blinked for several long moments. Soft, yellow light like a misty predawn somewhere outside. The light made her hands look even worse: gritty black dust and her own blood smeared all over them. She bet the rest of her was no better. She stretched her legs back out and looked up. There was a man standing there. The light wasn't coming from him, it was like he was silhouetted against it, even though it was coming from all around. But at the same time she could see every detail of him. Black hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones. Still in the suit, damn but it looked good on him. The shirt was whiter than white, the jacket and pants a pure crisp black. Shoes polished to a high shine as he squatted down to get on a level with her.

"Hey, Joss."

"John. Umm..."

He smiled, a real movie star grin. "You don't look so good right now, Carter."

She tried to pull herself together. "Well you're looking great. Umm... what are you doing here?"

The smile faded. "I'm just visiting, Joss. Actually I'm hoping to spring you."

"Spring me? From where?"

The smile was completely gone, and his eyes got that intent look. "You haven't guessed?" he said softly.

"I figure I'm dead," she said slowly. "Which means if you're here..."

"Yes," he said. "Harold and I are both dead." He seemed pretty cheerful.

She gathered her courage. "Is this hell?" she asked.

He got a faraway look in his eyes. "It's a little hard to explain," he said slowly. "The short answer is, kind of." He paused and looked at her with a little twitch of his lips. "You know, on the rare occasions I thought about this, I always figured our positions would be reversed."

She didn't disagree with him. "So, um, how did you get to be, um, wherever you are...usually?"

He was silent for a long moment, seemingly trying to find words. "When Harold and I were killed, there was a moment when I wasn't quite dead, I think. It seemed to stretch into the longest time. I, I reached for something. Someone. And he, she, it, grabbed me. Held me. Seems Harold did the same thing." He looked rather sternly at her. "But you, Joss, you never did. In fact, you never liked asking for help. It was all pride, really. That's what landed you here."

She thought about this for a long time. "So how do I get out, then?"

John stood up again. He extended his hand. "All you have to do is take my hand."

Joss sat staring at his fingers. She lifted her own hand towards his, but stopped the motion. "I'll make you all dirty." Her hand really was completely filthy; for some reason she recoiled from the idea of soiling him with blood and muck. The blinding whiteness of that shirt cuff peeking out from the sleeve of his suit – she could just imagine the black grit marring it... something forbade her even coming near it.

"Never mind about that," said John. "It's been dealt with."

Her hand wavered.

"Joss." It was just a whisper, but it seemed to come from all around, like the pale yellow light.

She grinned, would have taken a deep breath if her lungs had been working, and grabbed his hand. He grinned back and pulled her to her feet. The light intensified, and the gritty, gray-black walls rolled away elsewhere. They were standing on grass under a bright sun. A breeze seemed to bring the scent of spring flowers from somewhere. John tucked her hand, all clean now, into the crook of his elbow and they began to walk. Where, she was not quite certain, but somehow she was sure it would all become clear.

"So, come on, John. Tell me how you and Harold died," she said to him as they went.

He chuckled. "Oh, we went out in a blaze of glory, believe me..."

The end. Or, to be more accurate, the beginning of a much greater story...