A/N: Sorry for leaving you all hanging! I had exams over the weekend and was drowning in the revision of what felt like a million pathologies, and the thought of writing/ thinking about anything else even vaguely medicine-related was enough to make me want to cry! With those out the way now, I'm back! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and reviews would be lovely :)
Cold.
So cold.
These words play over and over in the blonde's head no matter how many times she scolds herself for fixating on circumstances currently out of her control, and she nips warningly at the tip of her tongue in an attempt to break the cycle. The repetitive nature of her panic is giving her a pounding headache, and she doesn't wish to think about it any longer when there's nothing she can do to change things.
Stop. Stop with that. It'll do you no good.
No, she knows, but it's hard to ignore the deep ache gnawing at her bones.
It could be worse... It could be so much worse...
It could. She's miserably cold, beginning to feel a sense of urgency brewing in her bladder, and her lips sting from where she's bitten at them fretfully, but things could be worse.
She could have been found.
"Fuck."
She mouths the word she's come back to time and time again this disastrous night, despite it being one she tries to use sparingly day to day; deeming it generally unnecessary and impeding of more sensible thought.
Nothing sensible about any of this...
No. Nothing at all. Everything about the situation she's found herself in reeks of madness, and she's rather impressed that she hasn't lost her mind over the last few hours. Impossibly, she is fairly sure that she'd even dozed off for a little while.
Not impossible, and not something to take lightly. You know full well that drifting off when freezing and terrified isn't the miraculous embrace of sleep, but rather a sign of shutting down. You need to get out of here, and you need to do it soon. Never mind how dangerous whatever's on the other side of that door might be, you need to start concerning yourself with baser issues, like hypothermia.
True. Hypothermia, and whatever it is she might be breathing in. Whatever it is that led her down this doomed rabbit hole in the first place. Moving stiffly, she stifles a groan as every muscle feels as though it's made of broken glass; her body having seized as she's lain still so long.
What's it been? Four, five hours?
She frowns as she pulls her scarf over her mouth and nose; knowing it will do her little good, but not seeing any harm. She is unable to say how long she's been hiding out on top of the locker- sprawled out as flat as she could make herself in the limited space- only that movement sends sharp pain coursing down to her extremities, and she feels a little lightheaded due to lack of sugar.
When did you last eat?
She doesn't recall, but she's fairly sure that she'd fuelled herself entirely on coffee during her last shift; a bad habit the boys- when they had still been her boys- would scold her for frequently, earning themselves an eye-roll and the irritable agreement that she would join them on a quick trip down to the cafeteria. That was then and this is now though, and while the team has been haphazardly strung back together in the most strained of ways, there's been too much going on for normality to rear its head, and she's subsequently been left to her own devices; rarely an issue, save for her tendency to ignore her fuel-gage until it drops seriously low and demands her attention.
For all the crap you give the young girls that come into the ER for abusing themselves so foolishly...
She sighs, trying to let the matter rest as it will do her no good fretting about it now. Now, she just needs to formulate some sort of plan, and she'll deal with her hunger and other such low priorities once she's found her way out of this mess.
Okay. Sure. But how...?
A good question, as while she finally dares to move, this does little to better the situation.
It's a start.
Foolishly naive perhaps, but she grabs onto this thought just the same. It is a start, and she lets out a low breath as she welcomes the room's darkness.
It could have been worse.
It's dark now; the door once more closed.
And locked. Don't forget that telling, metallic noise that accompanied the shadows.
Still.
Could be worse.
A lot worse. She'd thought for a moment that she might be done for when her phone had sounded to herald silence from the group of voices upstairs. An odd thought- a rather dramatic thought- yet a hatefully plausible one at the time.
She tries not to think about how close a call it had actually been.
Silence had followed the idiot ringing of her phone, but it had been a baited, hungry breed, that much she'd been sure of. Voices had finally broken that terrifying stillness, accompanied by footsteps as one male had warned another
"I heard something."
A gruff argument as mention of the tampered locks had come up between them- now joined by a third voice- and then the room- currently not dissimilar to a walk-in freezer- had been thrown into focus as the door swung open and light spilt down the iron staircase. Cameron hadn't dared to move other than flatten herself against cold steel, but she'd seen- for a moment she'd seen- that her mind's eye hadn't been playing tricks on her, but rather had been hatefully accurate; maroon swatches painting the concrete floor, along with various other stains of bodily fluid she doesn't care to think about.
Time stood still.
Light had vanquished the shadows and time had stood still as footsteps had sounded down the stairs; one, two, three, four treads into the storeroom.
"It's nothing. You must have left it open."
One voice had accused the other after a palpable pause, to which the man on the stairs had mentioned the damage to the main door, and another argument had broken out; this time in a blend of English and something more exotic.
Spanish?
No, not Spanish, she'd recognise that, and really, what does it matter? What matters is that after a couple more seconds during which Cameron had feared the hammering of her heart must be audible, the man on the stairs had ascended; joining his comrades in the office for a raucous conversation now solely in their mother tongue.
That had been good.
What had been less desirable had been the fact that the door to the Faulty Goods room had been left open; rendering the blonde helpless, with no option but to lie perfectly still and pray to a god she has been out of sorts with for the best part of fifteen years to allow her to remain undiscovered.
That had been four or five hours ago now. Four or five hours spent waiting for one of the men to descend the staircase and spot her hiding on top of the locker.
See, it could have been so much worse.
She realises that this little mantra has the capacity to become a little hysterical, and so tries to push it from her mind in order to focus on the now, and not how badly things could have gone.
But they coul-
"-But they didn't."
She whispers firmly; her throat dry, and for a moment, she's terrified she might start coughing. She is fairly sure that she's been left alone- no light in the small room at all, meaning the office must also stand dark- but doesn't deem it a good idea to tempt fate in order to find out. After all, it's only been a couple of minutes since the door was thrown shut and the voices stopped, and who knows whether the men have left, or simply moved on through to another part of the factory.
Paranoid.
Her mind scolds, and she is bemused to find that the voice in her head strikes a remarkable resemblance to House's taunting tone.
No, not paranoid. I think we left paranoid in the rearview mirror a while back! Paranoid is how I started out in this whole mess, and I should have taken it as a sign. I should have allowed myself that feeling of unease and run with it. Run far!
"Idiot."
She grumbles, and this is a term she is more accepting of, as she reckons it sums up her recent actions quite nicely. Moving slowly so as to allow her muscles time to get accustomed to the fact, she pushes herself up so that she sits with her head brushing the ceiling; an odd, prickling sensation running from her breasts down to her thighs from where she's pressed herself against cold metal for so long.
"What do I do?"
She asks the shadows, and when they don't answer, she pulls her phone- very nearly her undoing!- from her pocket and presses a button to bring it to life.
4% battery life remaining.
She blinks down at that little traitorous number, feeling a mixture of panic and dismay.
Can't catch a fucking break!
Apparently not, but it is just one more thing that it will do her no good crying about now, and so she opens up her contact list and, after a moment's consideration of her options, scrolls to find Chase's number.
Please pick up, I know it's probably getting late, but please pick up. Ple-
But her silent begging does no good, as a series of beeps pierce her ear, before the phone falls silent.
No service.
And, she supposes she shouldn't be all too surprised, but she still lowers her head into her hand while thumping her other fist hard into the muscle of her thigh a couple of times.
"Fuck..."
She sermonises once again, and she no longer considers it an unnecessary word, but rather the perfect summary of her doomed day. Pulling herself together as best as she can, she holds her phone out at arm's length and moves slowly, hoping that she might pick up a bar- or even half a bar!- of service. For a moment, she's successful, a brief flicker igniting her hopes as she leans out so far she's in danger of toppling off the locker, but it's gone in an instant, and no matter how desperately she waves her cell in that direction, it remains out of contact from the outside world.
"Damn..."
3% battery life remaining.
"Fuck!"
Again with that, and she sits back on her heels with her hand going again to her head; worrying her hair which has become tangled with her fretting. Nipping her lip and opening up a shallow groove left previously by her teeth, she hisses as she considers her options. Holding out little hope, she creates a group text; adding Chase and Foreman, and, after a moment's hesitation, House.
Need help! At the garden and pesticide factory, 7th. Can't get out.
She frowns, wondering if she should tell the others to call the police, but she's concerned about what that might entail. The last thing she wants is to wind up an unwitting hostage if the men upstairs- the men responsible for the smell of horror in here- decide to enter a standoff.
Please... That's a bit dramatic!
Maybe so, but so is the rest of all of this. Opting instead for a less explosive conclusion, she warns
Be careful.
Considering this short and rather strange message, she considers adding more, but isn't sure what.
That you're scared. That you're cold. That you're worried this won't end out well for you...
But she can't bring herself to express any of these things, and so instead she simply presses send. A loading bar appears at the top of the text message as she had known it would.
"Well... If it goes through, it goes through..."
She mutters, cursing the fact she'd left her pager in the car with less venom than she had upon initially realising this idiotic mistake.
She's tired, and ruing the events that have landed her here won't change her current circumstances. Checking that she has no apps open on her phone that might further drain the battery, she sighs and pockets the device; leaving it on in the hopes that her texts will go through should she receive another flicker of service, whilst knowing that in doing so, she's sacrificing her means of reaching out when it inevitably goes dead.
"Damn."
She sighs again, running her finger over the volume buttons with her hand in her coat pocket, before giving in to a sudden urge and pulling her cell back out. Lighting up the screen to cast a small dome of gloomy light, she opens up her voicemail service and considers the messages she's received from House.
"You better not be doing what I think you're doing."
And, oh, if she'd only listened.
He was winding you up.
Most likely, but she presses the phone to her ear and plays the full message all the same, supposing that at least they're in agreement over her stupidity in recent matters.
"... If you're home already... Let me know, okay? I'm not sure if that's allowed with your whole 'avoiding me' thing, but... Please just do it, Cameron. Ta-... Dr-...I ... I'll see you tomorrow."
Swallowing as her expression reads of troubled surprise, Cameron considers House's words uncertainly, before playing the second message.
"...Don't force me to act like I care... That's not the man you fell in love with...
...Just let me know you're alright."
"Uh."
She makes a choked noise as she feels as though all of the air has been punched out of her lungs, looking down at her phone in disbelief. She wants to play the message again- to hear House's uncharacteristic concern again- but the red '3' in the top right corner of the screen forces her to resist, and she pockets her phone a final time while wiping distractedly at her cheeks.
"What an asshole."
She breathes; salt colouring her words before she grins helplessly in the dark.
Please, House. You love a puzzle and I'm offering you a real winner, here. Please, any ill feelings aside, I know we both agreed I was hardly looking to you to be my Prince Charming, but if you could do the whole knight in shining armour thing right now, I promise I'll never mention it to anyone, not even Wilson. Especially not Wilson. Just... Please. Trust whatever crazy instinct allows you to solve the cases others can't and solve mine. Preferably soon, if that's not too much to ask.
Preferably really soon.