One beep, two beeps, three beeps...

Joe opened his eyes. He blinked. White walls.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

Still white walls.

Either he was really in hospital or Tommy Carter was getting a cell mate.

His memories were hazy: there were times he was sure he'd been emancipated from his prison, other times he would have sworn he could feel the water rising past his ears and flooding into his mouth. He remembered the agony of water expelled from his body after fresh air teased his face. He remembered how his knees shook trying to walk down the slippery slope. He remembered the ambulance. Sort of. He remembered being guided into the cab, coaxing at his ear to sit down, breathe deep, track the penlight. He remembered feeling so thirsty, just a small sip, sir, watch it, it's still hot—

Coughing. He remembered coughing so hard, he had folded forward, his stomach cramping, eyes watering from the effort.

There was shouting. Much shouting. Then hands on him, too many hands, tilting him back, lifting his legs. A mask. He reached out to capture the images zipping by too fast for his comprehension; he thought he felt a hand gripping his tightly. He thought he heard Miles.

He thought he heard "He stopped breathing!"

Then, nothing.

Was all a delusion; his mind's last attempt to hold on to some sort of acceptable reality?

Joe frowned at the possibility.

Joe's attention was diverted when he sensed a pinch in his inner elbow. He realized there was a nose cannula blowing cool air under his nose. It smelled vaguely metallic, artificial, and left the back of his throat too dry.

A clear IV bag floated high above him, partially deflated. He eyed it with distaste, tracking as it emptied into the tube that went into his arm and into his body. A heart monitor and an oxygen reader bookended him, chiming in sync, a concert of heart rates and exhales.

Hospital, then.

The heart monitor chirped faster.

Deep breath. Close your eyes. Open them.

"Joe?"

At the gravelly voice, Joe turned to see a blurry figure by the door. The doctor had advised him it might take days before his eyes adjusted from being in the dark for so long.

"Miles?" Joe mumbled. When the person didn't answer, he squinted harder.

"Commander." When Joe heard himself, he sat straighter in the bed. The bed was pulled up, he suspected in deference to his congested lungs. A weight still sat on his ribs, discouraging him from drawing a full breath.

"No. Relax." The figure didn't sharpen in focus but Joe made out the uniform, the medals, the dark eyes watching him. The visitor stood with one foot in his room, one foot out, as if he was still deciding whether to come in. "Just came to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine, sir," Joe scanned about the room. He spotted a stainless steel thermos; must be Kent's. Joe fuzzily recalled a cup pressed to his hand. It felt warm as he sat in the ambulance, an orange blanket over his shaking shoulders. It helped distract him from the press of bodies milling around him like flies. Until he tried to drink and ignited a coughing fit that contorted his body in misery.

Joe tentatively took a deep breath. He was heartened to see his body didn't reject it as before.

"In fact, I think I will be discharged in the morning."

"How odd," Andersen remarked dryly. "I was told the earliest would be two days after tomorrow. Something about pneumonia?"

Joe inwardly winced. "Oh, well. Possibly..." he fumbled.

Andersen's sigh stopped him. Joe smoothed out the rough blanket over his legs. He had been given two, yet his arms still prickled with gooseflesh.

"Is Colbert in custody yet?" The thought of the killer out there picking the next person he would save made Joe's fingers itch to pick each pilled bit of fluff off the blanket.

Andersen was quiet for a moment. He appeared ready to leave the room, but after a moment of indecision, he stepped completely inside.

"Colbert's dead."

"Oh." Joe couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for Colbert. He couldn't bring himself to hate Colbert either. He just felt numb.

"Your team figured it all out. Cornered Colbert but he was killed when he pulled a knife."

"Oh." Again, Joe couldn't think of anything else to say.

"This never would have happened if you had listened to me. There were many positions of power I could have offered."

Joe smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm happy where I am, sir."

Andersen grunted, unimpressed.

"I haven't forgotten how your sergeant humiliated me at the awards ceremony, you know," Andersen stated, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Refusing an award like that, in front of everybody?"

Joe bit back a smile. Even today, he would turn the memory round and round like a puzzle box and it still amazed him.

"Staying a DI was never what we planned, Joe."

Andersen scoffed, his face wrinkling in distaste. "And a Rippologist, once a murder suspect, occupying your basement? What were you thinking?"

Joe chose not to comment.

"Your team ignored protocol entering Colbert's home, utilized half a shift to scour cemeteries, called Cazenove's widow in the middle of the night. We are still getting complaints about repetitive calls to witnesses, never mind the complaints about your pet researcher taking over the basement and random food not properly dispos—

The commander glanced out the hallway, jaw clenched. His mouth pressed thin, holding back what Joe suspected was a plethora of complaints. Joe tensed, ready to defend his people.

Andersen sighed, oddly resigned.

"You have a good team, Joe."

Joe relaxed. He smiled. He could feel something unraveling inside him. He knew exactly what to say to that.

"Yes. Yes I do."

At the sounds of pages rustling, Joe opened his eyes again. He stared at the ceiling, listened to the light, crackling noise of dry, thin paper until the last of the dark images that had wrapped around him ebbed away. When it felt like he was no longer trapped in another's skin, he turned his head. It still surprised him he could move so freely.

"Hello, Ed."

Buchan started, his face brightening as soon as he realized Joe was awake. "Good evening, Joe! You know who I am? Yes, they mentioned you have your wits about you." Hearing himself, Buchan grimaced and was suddenly fascinated with the floor. "I mean… Good, good!"

Joe winced. "Yes...good." He scanned his room. Somehow, he warranted a private room yet it felt too—

"What are you reading?" Joe asked hastily before he could turn that feeling around and around in his head.

Buchan perked up, delighted at the question. "Ah. Fascinating book about the Burke and Hare murders of the nineteenth century." He leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Two men in Edinburgh made a trade smothering their victims, killing them that way in order to preserve their bodies so they could be sold as medical specimens—" (11)

Buchan glanced at Joe and something flickered over his face.

"It isn't important." Buchan took great care in taking off his glasses. He cleaned them, then tucked the pocket square back in his pocket. He slipped his spectacles back on before he turned his chair, making sure the legs didn't scrape across the floor, and faced Joe.

Joe studied Buchan, sitting unusually straight and looking solemn, as if bracing to tell him some bad news. And yet, Joe was finding it a struggle not to yawn in front of him.

"What is it?" Joe asked tiredly. He opened his eyes wider when he felt them droop.

"I...I'm afraid I must confess something, Joe. I did something at the time I thought was helpful but upon reflection, I know now how wrong it was for me to do it and...and..." Buchan trailed off. His shoulders lifted, almost to his ears as he inhaled.

"I lied to Detective Constable Kent," Buchan said in a rush.

Joe's brow knitted.

"You lied to Kent," Joe repeated slowly.

Buchan slouched. "Yes, I am afraid so, and during the investigation, I might add."

"I..." A yawn broke free, so large it rendered tears at the corners of his fever-swollen eyes.

Buchan mistook the wetness around his eyes. He wrung his hands. "Oh Joe, I'm terribly sorry! He looked so distraught at the car park, I couldn't leave him there and he was positive of your fate, I just had to—"

"What did you lie to him about?" Joe interrupted because he neither the energy nor experience to deal with a distressed Buchan if he started to cry.

"Oh." Buchan shifted his weight on his seat. He toyed with one of his glasses' earpieces. "He wanted to know about cases of premature burials such as yours."

"You've looked before," Joe reminded him.

"Yes and I must apologize for that as well." Buchan's shoulders slumped. It reminded Joe of when Buchan had publicly burned his books.

"I wasn't able to provide enough information to contribute to the case. Had you been better informed, you would have caught the killer sooner. I had such high hopes for this archive you entrusted me with. I have failed you." To himself, Buchan muttered, "Perhaps I need to acquire more records, more cases to complete the archives, fill the gaps. Possibly, we should search beyond British crime. Yes. America, perhaps? Asia?"

Joe felt like he'd opened a Pandora's box. He cleared his throat. He grimaced; it'd hurt more than he'd expected.

"So what did you lie to him about?" Joe prodded. Buchan had started muttering about 'mannequins' and 'artifacts' that Joe doubted even the Commander's clout could provide.

"He wanted to know how many in history had survived being buried alive. I did some careful editing. I included Harry Houdini of course and—"

"So you led him to believe many had survived being buried alive?" Joe's stomach churned. "Not many did?"

"No. Sadly, most can't survive such an ordeal. And the rare few who did went mad when they were found. Why, the odds of surviving are astronom—" Buchan stopped. He cleared his throat.

Joe's mouth twisted ruefully. "The odds were in my favor then." He dropped his head back. He ached everywhere and lying here, not of his own volition, he could no longer ignore or distract himself from the pains burrowed deep beneath his skin.

"Yes, you were truly fortunate, unlike poor Tommy Car—" Buchan stopped at Joe's expression. "Oh…I assumed Sergeant Miles would have informed you when he visited."

"Informed me of what?" Joe asked. He didn't bother correcting Ed about the visit, or lack thereof; he didn't want to wonder why he needed to correct anything. He also didn't want to analyze why it bothered him.

"It's really not my place," Buchan hedged. "As your sergeant has repeatedly reminded me, I'm not a detective therefore such things should really be left to—"

Joe grimaced as he struggled to sit up. Buchan squawked, chair screeching as he bolted up to help him.

"I should let you rest," Buchan babbled. "It's lat—"

"Eddie." It took effort to keep his voice even. "What happened to Tommy Carter?"

Buchan pulled at his gray cardigan's neckline like it was strangling him. He blinked myopically at Joe, even though his small spectacles were perched on his nose, and his shoulders dropped.

"Tommy Carter jumped from a fourth story window, unable to cope with the demons in his head any longer."

A weight settled on Joe's chest and for a brief moment, Joe was grateful for the nose cannula streaming air into him. He inhaled as deep as he could manage and released it as slow as his lungs would permit. It didn't help.

"I see," Joe managed, because Buchan stood there with his hat in his hands. He bit his lower lip as he gazed down at Joe.

"I should not have told you." Buchan fretted. "It wasn't my place." His brow furrowed. "Although why hasn't Serge—"

"There's much to do after an inquiry," Joe cut him off. "He probably forgot."

Joe wondered why it sounded false and uncertain to his ears. He glanced at the empty doorway. No, it didn't matter. He dragged his eyes back to Buchan. At the very least, he looked convinced.

"Very true. An investigation is never over just because the culprit is apprehended! There is much work left to be done!" Buchan appeared to be looking forward to it though. Unfortunately for Miles.

"Joe." Buchan stopped fidgeting. He gazed down at Joe with a serious expression. "I am truly sorry. For both lying and for failing in my duties as your investigative researcher. I promise this will not happen again."

Joe wanted to joke that he hoped not, that his wardrobe would suffer for it, but the words felt ill-fitting when he tested them in his head. He nodded, drowsy, and tracked Buchan as he shuffled out of the room. When he was finally alone, Joe closed his eyes and tested his confines by moving his limbs up and down, spreading out like a starfish.

Satisfied, Joe let the steady beeps of his heart monitor lull him back to sleep.

He clawed the walls over and over. Strips of wood peeled away into honeyed curls under his bleeding nails.

He had no voice, otherwise he would be screaming.

Over and over, one scratch, two scratches, three, he dug deeper until he felt the wood shatter under his torn fingers. Free. He was free.

A hole formed from the claw marks he left. The hole stretched wider and dirt came down on him, over his body, weighing him down.

He tried to cover the hole with both hands but dirt and water trickled out between his fingers. Brown and wet, plenty of it dropped down from the hole until he realized it was uncovering something. A face. Tommy Carter's face.

He stared up at the face framed by the hole he made. Still speechless, he shakily reached up towards it.

Tommy Carter's eyes flew open as he began to scream...

With a jerk, Joe awoke. His head felt many times heavier and his pillow was damp with sweat. And it was dark.

The prick in his arm didn't belong. It dug deep and burned like his fingers would clawing the mud. Feebly, he tugged at whatever was there.

"Leave it alone. Nurses weren't happy the last time you did that."

Joe's fingers traced the tubing down to his elbow.

"Don't. Damn it, you never listen, do you?" A hand knocked his away.

Joe couldn't help it; he flinched. He immediately hated himself for it.

There was a ragged sigh by his ear. Joe turned his head towards it but all he could make out were fuzzy blots.

"Shit. Sorry. Sorr—Look…It's…it's alright. You're out of there. You're safe now, To—" There was a sharp inhale. "…You're safe."

Joe rolled his eyes around his head, and blinked as much as he could, but everything was still blurry. It was like a curtain of heat shimmered up from the ground, obscuring everything.

A hand hesitantly patted his shoulder. Joe started. Something rattled against the raised bed rails. Joe jerked in alarm. He had thought he wasn't a prisoner any longer.

There was a metallic squeak as the bedrails were lowered.

"There. Better?"

Joe sagged deeper into the bed. He blinked dizzily at the ceiling, or what he assumed was the ceiling. Was that the ceiling? It looked high enough.

Please let it be a ceiling.

A broad hand slipped over his forehead. Joe felt like he could sink under the weight of the cool hand. He felt winded yet he hadn't left his bed, had he? He panted.

"Damn," the voice swore. "Hang on. I need to get the nurse."

"Wait," Joe croaked. When the hand slipped away he was startled to realize he felt bereft. He watched, his eyes fogged over, his body shook with chills, as a figure left the room before he could call him to stay.

As nurses and doctors rush in, lights flaring too bright, Joe squinted blearily at the doorway.

No one was there.

By the way, feedback is like cookies. I like cookies! LOL.

Just 2 more parts to go...