You Can't Leave Me

Rating: T

Summary: Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

BrooklynBabbii

Aww, some of you guys were worried about Kiku. Some of you thought he was pretty much dead and gone, and chose to worry over Elizaveta. Either way, you guys are some fearful readers. So here I am to please, after such a long absence!

Chapter Six:

December 31st, 20XX

Dear Awesome (Journal),

I haven't been completely honest with you, Awesome. But I've kinda been slacking off at writing to you and kinda going to school, y'know, going to *

It's this ** and it's so**

Now I know what you're thinking, Awesome, and you know what – save it. You wanna know why, 'cos I know what I'm doing. I even found ***

That's gotta be a sure sign, right?

Alfred F. Jones

P.S. Mattie's probably catching onto why I'm coming home so late. Ah well.

Detective Kirkland had flipped to a new entry. All the ones prior were too burnt to make much of them. But this one, it was still salvageable. Ever since the last date, in late February – Alfred had been writing about going off to places to meet up with someone or multiple persons. Names were either burned out, or far too scratched out by pen to make much of it.

He had even come to make the finds of a new discovery – sentences burned or blacked out in the middle of a sentence. It wasn't just ends anymore. Kirkland found this very peculiar. The Chief of his department had come to talk him when he was deemed well enough to be semi-working by the hospital. The older man said that Detective Bonnefoy had almost not gotten the warrant from the first judge he had asked – but had somehow won out over in the end.

But that had been a week ago, and only now was Kirkland hearing the news.

"He got the warrant?" Kirkland asked, surprised at how quickly it had been won over. He inwardly wondered what the French officer had done. Had he gone to a favored judge or one that had owed him a favor? Either was a possibility with the Frenchman – he had connections seemingly everywhere.

A small well of irritation came up in the Brit before he pushed it down and sighed softly to himself. He was almost ready to be sent home, the nurses had only told him not to get overworked and to remain calm. Apparently the break at his head was over sensitive skin – and extra stress on his part could lead to an aneurysm or some sort.

Grumbling to himself as he tried not to think of how much he'd rather be outside on the force, Detective Kirkland went back to focusing on the journal in his hands. There other prints than the missing boy, no other hand writings beside his and some unhelpful pictures -

Wait, Kirkland looked back at the entry he had read. There were fewer scorches here, and more ash. Not feeling the least bit sorry for who would later have to clean it up, he removed the ash and shook it to the floor.

There was a sketch of something. Possibly made from looking back at a photograph. One figure was concluded to be Alfred – the boy's facial features clearly made, along with his rebellious strand of hair and exuberant grin. He wasn't wearing his glasses, well not really – they were half drawn but at some point had been harshly erased. Kirkland inwardly mused that the missing boy was not too fond of his poor eyesight.

The other figure was much taller than Alfred. Very tall – taller than Alfred, with seemingly exaggerated broad shoulders and large nose. Their hair was short. They wore a scarf of some sort, at least that was what it looked like to Kirkland. That's when Kirkland caught their facial features, in particular -

Their eyes seemed dark but they were smiling -a smile that unnerved Kirkland, even if it was only drawn. It rubbed him the wrong way, and Kirkland made to focus on another detail. Their smile seemed cruel and/or off – the Brit had never felt such a feeling of foreboding from a simple sketch.

He didn't like that.

But the last figure stood to Alfred's right, almost in his shadow – short in height, and almost seeming to cower on the page. Their facial features were not as distinct as Alfred's. Dark eyes seemingly emotionless, dark hair cut short over their head and mouth pressed in a thin line as if they were uncomfortable.

It took Kirkland a moment, before it clicked in his brain – he recognized this figure, even though they had never been close. Kiku Honda – the Japanese-American friend of Alfred and grieving male from Yao Wang's murder case.

What was he doing there? Kirkland had to wonder and then worry set in. Kiku's image was nearly burnt completely, while Alfred's and the cruel smiling one were near perfectly intact. A knot of worry tightened in the Brit's gut. He had known this feeling for a long time, since he was a child – it might he was being given the whole picture in fragments.

He was seeing parts or chunks of the horrors but not fully realizing it.

He looked at the picture for any hidden clues. Nothing. He nearly jumped out of his skin as his phone rang on the small table next to him. Trying to calm himself, hearing his heart monitor startle him and let him know he was still in the hospital and not about to tortured – he answered the phone, trying to regain his usual voice.

"Hello?" He managed. There was some crackle on the other end, voices going on all around – was that an ambulance siren?

Francis almost sounded frantic, voice accented and breathing heavier than normal. "Arthur? Mon Dieu, we found something – someone – we found Mr. Honda."

His heart almost set off the heart monitor again. "What- ?"

"He's alive – kinda, barely – but he's being delivered into the hospital as we speak. I'm riding with him." Bonnefoy said. There were some words spoken to someone on the French officer's end, and then the noise of shuffling. "I don't – I don't know he was still alive, Arthur...it's more than a miracle."

The Brit's throat felt dry, as his eyes went against his will to look back at the sketch. Kiku's nearly scorched figure, Alfred's oblivious face – and the unknown person's cruel smile. The smile that seemed so knowing and so mysterious – it sent chills up his spine.

" -several of his ribs are broken, ah, his leg is twisted...very abnormally, I don't even want to know what he got hit with. There are scratches, heavy bruising over his throat and lower abdomen. He might have been struck in the head, there's blood there too, but there's too much to say where he was hit until it's cleaned -"

Kirkland blinked, shaking his head to bring his mind back to reality. He marked his place with the bookmark and then closed it, and for some good measure – he put it in the nightstand drawer. If the book was cursed or had something to do with voodoo – Arthur was going to will his fears to die. At least, until the other detective came back and touched it too. They could share the curse that way.

" - His heartbeat seems weak, he's obviously been locked up for several days. He was starved, and on the verge of severe dehydration. Arthur, we even found a puncture wound. We won't know what he was given until toxicity reports get to analyze his blood, but Arthur?"

"Yeah?" The Brit licked his dry lips.

"We're not going to be able to touch him for a while," Francis sighed, and Kirkland could almost imagine him running a hand through his hair. The French officer was tired, he was sick of the case – and the horrors it brought up, the sensitive buttons it pressed. Especially for the Frenchman, abuse was not taken lightly with him. He had experienced and seen it first-hand, and he didn't like seeing others go through it. "We...we'll have to wait for him to regain consciousness, whenever that is – and only if he wants to speak. If he doesn't, then we can't touch him."

Kirkland swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, a small speck of hope crushed in him. Of course he thought of the victim, but it still hurt him when he thought of how paranoid the victims must have felt to not want to bring their attacker to justice. It made the Brit all the more angry and disgusted with the assaulter in the first place. No one deserved to be that afraid.

"O-okay," Kirkland said shakily, and after a few reassurances and some stern words to get some rest after a promise to come by in the morning, Detective Bonnefoy hung up. Kirkland stared at his phone in the dark room, and felt a growing urge to look over his shoulder. A nurse squeaked and ran off, apologizing profusely.

The blond sighed, lying back on his bed, and listening to the nurses and doctors working outside. His mind was rampant. The clock's ticking seemed loud in the near empty room. The window seemed too dark. It was too quiet in the room, and yet almost too nosy in the hallway.

Kirkland couldn't wait to go home.

Begrudgingly, he shut his eyes to go off to sleep. But right as his breath was evening and he was finally relaxing – his phone rang. He almost thought to ignore it, but in the end, his manner nagged at him and he answered. "Hello? Hello?"

"I don't have much time to talk -" the voice said. They sounded familiar, but the Brit couldn't put a name to it. Maybe that head wound had done more damage to him than he thought. "But I think you should be warned. Get out while you still can. Please, he's not worth it – it's not as simple as you think."

They hung up.

Kirkland blinked and tried to call back – but his phone wouldn't let him. The number was private, or either a pay phone. Most likely, the latter.

It was a long moment, one in which Kirkland could almost feel weighing down on him – and then the phone seemingly blew up with calls – one after the other, multiple numbers – well, he supposed, they were so many different voices – all warning him or threatening him.

It wasn't until he was about to throw the phone out the door, scream for it to shut up – when it all stopped. It had been...a dream? Had it all been a dream? Without even remembering he had been screaming bloody murder or at other times, holding his breath, he finally opened his eyes and gasped for sweet breath.

Bonnefoy was standing over him, fear still plastered on his face. A nurse was restraining him, a syringe in his arm. "Mon ami," the other detective tried, brushing the Brit's hair from his face. The Brit had the fuzz of a stubble on his face, emerald eyes wide with fright. His breathing slowed, thanks to the newly injected drugs.

Kirkland let his hand flop back to the pillow, taking deep breaths. Bonnefoy waited for him to calm down. The nurse removed the syringe and took a step back to make sure he was okay before she left. Francis patted his head gently, trying to help. It was working – the Briton's shaky breaths evened, and he opened his eyes without the same horrid fright. "I am alright, you can stop now," he said, trying to swat at the hand petting him. His cheeks tinged just the slightest.

Bonnefoy kept on for a moment until Kirkland mock bit at his wrist, pulling away with a short chuckle. "So I see," he began, leaning back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He looked a little better. The bags under his eyes weren't as bad, and he looked slightly more rested.

"Anything new?" Kirkland asked first thing, sitting up to lean against his pillow. His arm tingled from the needle. He swallowed a bit, he was calm – but he was still slightly anxious. The medicine had taken the worst of it, or at least suppressed it far deep in his nerves. He'd get a back-lashing from it later.

"Besides Kiku? Nothing really – they're stabilizing him right now, he might just make it," the French officer said. He ran his hand through his hair, once again wincing at the shorter ends. He had dearly loved his long hair.

Kirkland thought it over, "I got a call last night."

"From the chief?" Bonnefoy asked, crossing his ankles and yawning. He must have still been tired. "That's nothing really interesting. He has to make sure you don't over exert yourself in the hospital -"

"No, from someone else," Kirkland said. "They told me to get off the case – said it was too dangerous. That Alfred wasn't worth it," he mumbled the last part darkly, bunching his fingers in the covers. People were always worth saving – no one was an exception. "They said it was more complicated than we thought -"

Kirkland stopped talking as he looked at Francis, he looked stern and a bit frightened. "What time did they call? Was it a private number?"

"...Yes, yes it was," the Briton answered. "How did you -"

"I got one like that too, even the chief." Bonnefoy said, biting his lip. "I don't know how they got all of our numbers, but it concerns me."

"The message or the phone calls, in general?" Kirkland asked. Bonnefoy shrugged.

"It wasn't the private number that worried me so much as the message." He said, "Did they say 'please' at the end for you too?"

Kirkland frowned, trying to remember. His head wound almost throbbed at the attempt, but he managed a nod. "Yes, they did..."

"Then, they're somehow involved is my guess," he said, rubbing at his stubbly chin. "And something else is going on that we haven't found out yet."

"Reason enough for us to have this case, instead of the damned FBI," Kirkland snarled. He hated when the government tried to take matters into their hands. They never did it correctly. Always sloppy work – and then, the killer became a household name as the media made it spread all around the country. Kirkland didn't want that.

"I swear you hate the FBI more than a conspirator," Bonnefoy remarked. His partner huffed, and mumbled that had he been one – he still would've done a better job than the government in covering up his ass.

The Frenchman huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed at his face tiredly, pinching at the bridge of his nose and then tilting his head back. So maybe the other hadn't gotten much sleep at all – or it had been fitful?

He mumbled something behind his hands, and Kirkland asked him to speak up. "I said – why do you care so much for this case, beyond all others? What stands out to you, Arthur?"

Silence.

"I can't break my promise – I promised to save him," Kirkland responded at last. "I have to fulfill that promise. No matter what it takes."

"Even your life?" Bonnefoy dared, as he looked solidly at him.

The Briton stared him right back in the eye. "If that is what it takes – yes, even my life. I do not go back on a promise. I'll find him, Francis, watch me. I'll find him alive, if it kills me." Although he sincerely hoped it wouldn't go that far – he had meant every word. He would save Alfred at all costs.

You guys – I think I might have a heart. Nobody died this chapter! Hurrah -!

/bricked.

READ AND REVIEW!

* to : Alfred is referring to doing other stuff rather than schoolwork. Basically some serious procrastination and slacking off and skipping. Bad Alfie.

** It's this ** and it's so : The first gap in the sentences, these come more often later in the story – are the banes of Arthur's detective existence. They frustrate him to no end – one reason why I like them.

***even found: Alfred would have been referring to a person, not an object, had the sentence not been burned off.