Hello fellow Prison Breakers. This idea came to me and has turned into quite the story. I have a lot more of the story...finished? How about, written and needing to be reviewed, but I'll be publishing more soon! Reviews/comments/etc are always appreciated!

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Sara stared at the gruesome abstract painting on the cement wall. Painted by Michael's hand that was mangled and bloody; curled into his chest as he lay on the floor.

A giant "X" was in the center with lines crossing each other in every direction. The room was dark; so small and stale that she could detect a slight metallic odor in the air.

She'd been worried something like this might happen from the moment he got thrown into solitary. Ever since the conversation she had with his former psychiatrist, she'd been observing him a bit more closely. Not that she was giving him preferential treatment, but she had to admit that her concern for him ran deeper than it did for the other inmates. His need to help people combined with a high IQ, an overactive mind, and now a criminal record made him quite the enigma to her.

Despite her watching him like a hawk, waiting for any tell-tale signs, something inside him must have snapped, and now here they were.

He hadn't moved an inch since she'd entered so she slowly moved towards him, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal.

"Michael, it's Sara," she spoke softly as she crouched next to him, "you're going to feel my hand on your wrist." She felt his pulse through her gloved hand, slow but steady. He didn't move.

"Come on, I need your eyes," she whispered as she lifted his chin and shone a flashlight into his vacant stare. His pupils reacted normally, but his expressionless face was unsettling. She clicked off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket with a sigh, sitting down on a chair to start tending to his hand.

He was hunched over and started leaning to one side until his head rested on her knee. Her heart fluttered and broke simultaneously; she'd never seen him this vulnerable, without his normal charisma and charm.

But whatever it was that he was going through, she could relate. She knew darkness. She knew self-destructive behavior. And in that moment, aside from fixing his hand, she felt utterly useless. One person can't just "fix" another; bring them out of an undesirable mental state with the wave of a hand.

Sighing, she reached over and patted his back to offer the small comfort of human contact, hoping it would be enough, but knowing it wasn't.

"It's ok…you're gonna be ok," she repeated several times, feeling the warmth of his back beneath her hand.

She let his head rest on her knee for a while as she cleaned and bandaged his hand. The cleaning part took quite a while; he'd done quite a number on his knuckles. So worked slow and steady, careful to keep all of her movements as soothing and gentle as possible. His head was heavy against her leg, the short stubble of his hair poking her through her slacks, but she didn't mind. He stayed motionless as she worked, not even reacting to the disinfectant she used to clean his wounds.

Once the bandage was secure, she gently slid a hand under his head, the other cupping his chin and removed it from her lap. He slowly leaned even further to the side until he came to rest on the floor, his hand raised slightly off the ground, but curled towards his chest.

She slung her bag of supplies over her shoulder and walked to the guard waiting for her by the door.

"So?" he asked her.

She sighed. "Uh, we're going to have to get him to psych ward for an evaluation. I'm sure they'll want to keep him there for observation." He gave her a nod in response.

"Sara," she heard a low, familiar voice from down the hall. The sound of her name echoed in the small space as she looked at the guard, raising her eyebrows, silently asking for permission. He shrugged as if to say, "It's up to you". She turned and walked down to where Lincoln was being held.

"Lincoln," she addressed him through the slit in the door, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Is my brother ok?"

"Yea, he's gonna be fine." She shuffled her feet, "Uh, physically he's ok…mentally…I don't know, Lincoln. I've never seen him like this before, have you?"

He paused a moment, "No."

"Does he have a history of black outs? Anything like that?"

Lincoln hesitated. She bent slightly at the hips to see through the slot, into his eyes. He was clearly trying to avoid her gaze- his eyes alternating between the floor, and looking up to the side, like he was debating whether or not to share something.

"Lincoln," she scolded in a mother-like tone, "anything can help. Is there anything I should know?"

He slowly but finally made eye contact before asking, "Was he bleeding?"

His question confused her, "His…his hand was, he'd been punching the wall but that's it. Why?"

"Thanks doc."

"Right." She said with an eye roll as she looked back towards Michael's cell. Lincoln was a man of few words and he was obviously done talking. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned around to walk back to the infirmary.