Author's Note: I admit to wanting to get this out last weekend, but things don't always work the way to want them to. I just hope – as I always do – that this was worth the wait. Thanks at the end.

I'm just going to get rid of it. Just cut it all off. Who cares if I'll look like a newly shorn sheep? It's got to be better than this. Carly was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, glowering at the bush that was sprouting from her head. Now, she was used to bed-head, but this was a truly exceptional case. Throw in a case of trembling hands, heavy-lidded eyes, and a raging urge to throw back a few shots of anything with a higher alcohol content than a wine cooler. . . Well, it was just not shaping up to be a good day.

Resolutely, Carly braided her hair back into a French braid that pulled at her temples. She knew it made her look strict, but she didn't care. The only people who were going to see her were colleagues who probably thought she was a repressed dominatrix, and patients who couldn't care less.

Oh, wait. Self-pity, party of one. Carly had resolved long ago that she wouldn't let herself linger over all the crappy things that had happened in her life. She wasn't the only person to ever deal with a failed marriage, or alcohol addiction, or school payments, or disagreeable coworkers, or overbearing mothers. Besides, her line of work tended to make self-pity seem extremely foolish and self-indulgent. When she set aside all political correctness, the truth of the matter was that she dealt with some seriously screwed up people. Many who just happened to be worse of than she was.

However, these comforting thoughts didn't make her need for a beer go away.

Coffee. I need lost of coffee. With sugar. And –

"Mrow. . ." Looking down, Carly found her cat sitting patiently at her feet.

"What's wrong, kitten?" She smiled as Bast started twining around her ankles, meowing piously. "What do you want, precious?" More meowing and pitiful eyes. "Alright, alright. I'm coming."

But she obviously wasn't coming fast enough. In protest of the delay in petting and pampering, Bast jumped up onto the counter, almost ending up in the sink. Carly merely sighed and picked the animal up, rubbing and scratching its ears as she walked of her room and towards the kitchen. As much as Bast appreciated the petting, she started purring even louder when she recognized the direction they were headed in.

No sooner had she set down both cat and food bowl, than the phone rang. Carly eyed the ringing contraption suspiciously, wishing she had caller ID. It could have easily been the office or a patient calling from their home, but then again, it could be her mother, and Carly was in no mood to deal with that headache.

If it's the office, they'll page me. If it's mother, she'll try my cell phone. And so would any patients. And the cell phone has caller ID. Smug at the solution she'd found, Carly broke open an English muffin and put it into her toaster oven.

She made her coffee, dug a canister of nearly expired cream cheese out of the fridge, and quickly washed a knife. It wasn't until she was in the midst of spreading reasonably safe cream cheese on her muffin, that the pager on her hip went off.

Office. With a mental sigh, Carly set down knife and muffin, and went to the phone. The number for the facility was clear in her memory, and she dialed it absentmindedly, wondering why they couldn't wait another hour until she came in on her own. Either something was terribly wrong – like Rainey had killed himself – or something amazing had happened. Like Rainey woke up this morning and started shooting the breeze with the orderly who brought in his breakfast.

"Briar Ridge State Mental –"

"Give it a break, Leo." Carly was a but more brusque than she'd meant to be. Why? Because she'd just realized that her thoughts were revolving around Rainey. She was becoming obsessed with curing him, and that got under her skin.

"Carly? Is that you?"

"Yes. I just got paged."

"You also woke up on the wrong side of the bed." There was a tone of reproof in Leo's voice. Enough to make Carly feel even more sorry.

"Yeah, look. I'm sorry about that. My nervous system seems to be at odds with the rest of me this morning."

"Aww . . . PMS-ing?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Carly crossed her ankles and leaned against the wall. "Like I said, Leo, I just got paged."

"Well, it wasn't me."

Obviously. "Do you know who it might have been?" She didn't want to have to make phone calls all morning to track down the original caller. That'd drive her to drink for sure. That or a cigarette, and she'd gained twenty pounds the last time she'd quit, and didn't want to have to work that weight off again.

"Why don't you check the number on the pager?" There was quiet amusement in Leo's voice.

Carly mentally slapped her forehead, and accepted the gentle mockery. "Well, I suppose I could, but that would be much too easy, wouldn't it?" It was too late to save face, so she might as well give in to the part of her mind that was urging her to see the humor in the situation. Humor that Leo clearly saw if her laughter was any indication. "Just tell me before I hang up and use my head – is there anything big going on? I'd like to know before getting myself embroiled in any messes."

"There's an uproar on the third floor, but they're always ready to make a fuss up there. Working up there winds people too tightly. What all those crazy kids need is two weeks vacation."

"Something tells me it's more than that," Carly murmured while wishing that she'd picked up the phone earlier. "What kind of uproar?"

"Just the kind that requires a lot of coming and going. Not the kind that requires the police or an ambulance."

Then Rainey is at least alive. She caught herself doing it again. If he's even the one in the middle of this. I somehow doubt it. "Alright, I'm going to come in early. Please tell me you've got coffee brewing."

"I've got coffee eating away at the Silex. If you hurry, you might catch it before it dissolves the carafe altogether."

"Why don't you have ulcers?" Carly asked in mock bewilderment, infusing a good dose of sarcasm in her words while she was at it.

"Don't worry about it. You'll just upset your delicate digestion," Leo shot back.

Carly shook her head, and hung up after exchanging a few more pleasantries. Don't worry. Right. Something was causing a hullabaloo on the third floor, and while it was unlikely that her patient was the instigator, Carly couldn't shake the possibility of What if.

When Carly entered the front doors of Briar Ridge, it was like walking into a center of scrupulously controlled chaos. Everyone was on task – the secretaries and office assistants had their heads bent to their work, orderlies and interns buzzed to-and-fro with purpose, a janitor was waxing the floor of the common room before patients started using it – but there was an air of expectation and excitement held tightly under reign. But Carly could tell that reign was about to break. Something big had definitely happened.

But first . . . coffee. With that thought foremost in her mind, Carly strode towards the staff room, intent on getting a cup of hot caffeine and her files for the day. No one was allowed to take coffee out of the staff room – the chance of someone getting scalded in an accident was too high – but if she drank it quickly she should be able to be in and out within minutes.

The coffee was too hot to drink quickly, but Carly didn't have the time to wait for it to cool. She was in the process of adding creamer to cool it when she heard someone in the corridor calling her name. Out of shear perversity, she didn't answer; if they were really looking for her, they'd find her sooner enough, and this promised to be the only quiet moment of her day. It was another two or three minutes before the searcher found her. By that time Carly had donned her jacket, and was preparing to leave the room anyway.

"Dr. Beckham," the unfortunate young man gasped. He leaned against the wall and braced his hands on his knees as he panted, his head bowed to reveal a blond streak in his cropped hair.

Carly just raised an eyebrow and waited for the man to catch his breath before demanding to know why he was looking for her. Since he looked like a fresh nursing recruit from one of the nearby community collages, she had decided to give him a bit of a break. If doctors were too tough on newbies, they lost their nerve and didn't make it past their first year. Carly personally thought that if they couldn't stand tough doctors, then they needed to either toughen up or make a break for it. This wasn't a field for the weak of heart or spirit.

However, I think this young man is going to make it. He took no more than twenty or seconds to catch his breath and straighten up. "Dr. Beckham, you're wanted on the third floor. Immediately."

Speed was all well and good, but Carly wanted to know who and what she was rushing for before she expended the energy. "And just who is demanding my presence?"

"Dr. Marchman, ma'am."

Mort. Without saying a thing, Carly pushed past the young man in the doorway and made for the elevators.

"Dr. Beckham, wait!"

"I don't like standing still, boy. If you've got something to say, you'd better keep up." While that brisk declaration would have made most people decide that whatever they had to say wasn't worth it, the nurse jogged to catch up with her. Only the few seconds she had to stand and wait for the elevator let him though. They stepped into the elevator together, and Carly turned to the boy. "What's your name? And why aren't you wearing your ID tag?"

The young man flushed. "Toby. Toby McWade. And I was in a hurry this morning and forgot to grab it from my locker."

"McWade?"

"My aunt works in the office."

Ahh. Well, perhaps she'd go a bit easier on him then. "I suggest you go get it the first moment you have free, Toby."

"Yes ma'am."

Yes, this one had potential. "Now, what was it you needed to tell me?"

"Just that I was supposed to accompany you back up. Dr. Marchman's orders." A bell dinged as they reached the third floor, and the doors swooshed open. Carly immediately made to walk down the hall that led to Marchman's office, but Toby caught her arm. "We're supposed to meet him outside of a patient's room, doctor."

She nodded and walked towards the visitor checkpoint. The orderly on duty there was just as bored as always, but Carly couldn't figure out why. The feeling of suppressed tension was stronger up here than it had been on the ground floor. Perhaps all that safety glass blocks out any changes in the environment, she thought wryly as she waited for the door to be buzzed open and for a guard to let them through.

The guard who finally came wasn't one she recognized. "Where's Ralph?" she asked as they were taken through the small, caged area and released into the ward.

"He's with Dr. Marchman, Dr. Beckham."

Too many doctors. Carly just nodded politely at the guard and started off down the hall, Toby close on her heels. He obviously was urging her to walk faster, but despite her own desire to find out what was either happening or had happened, she knew she had to remain professionally disinterested. At least for the moment.

"Dr. Marchman," she hailed once they came into view of her exalted colleague.

"Dr. Beckham." The man nodded to her, then turned back to the small viewing window that was set into the door he was standing before. It was a familiar door. Every door in the hall looked exactly the same, of course, much like lockers in a grade school. But students had a way of finding their lockers without having to look at numbers, and Carly knew whose door that was.

"What has Rainey done to merit such attention?" she asked coolly, coming to stand next to the man. If he'd been polite, he would have recognized her position as Rainey's head doctor and moved away to let her see for herself, but Marchman did no such thing.

"Tell me, doctor. Did you say anything to Rainey yesterday that would have made the man agitated?"

Did Rainey have a relapse? Or another panic attack? Is that what this is about? But that didn't make sense. If Rainey had hurt himself, he'd be in the infirmary. And if he'd merely been heavily sedated, he wouldn't be drawing this sort of interest.

"Doctor?" Marchman's tone was not patient. He'd asked a question and she'd obviously left him answerless for too long.

"I asked him to think about telling me what happened at the lake. He's been making progress, but he won't make any more unless he can at least try to remember what happened. His denial is a roadblock that has to be moved before we can proceed. You know that."

The implied reprimand was enough to wrench Marchman's attention away from the window. "You are far too insolent, doctor."

"I'm not the one ignoring the common courtesies of telling a doctor what is wrong with her patient. And I think I've been fairly tolerant in waiting for an explanation." In the back of her head, Carly could hear Dr. Holshack telling her that this wasn't the time to get into a confrontation with Marchman, but she couldn't care less. She was tired, on edge, and left out of the loop. Let them complain. She was going to get answers.

"I could make a note of this in your file, doctor."

As threats went, that was a weak one. "My objections are valid. If you wish to take note of them, that is of course your decision."

Whether Marchman decided she was right or just that continued debate of the subject was a waste of time, Carly didn't know. And she didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that he backed out of her way and allowed her to look inside the room.

Words. Walls and walls of words. "Oh my god." Rainey must have worked through the night to write so much, all in a small, scrawling script that was difficult to read from across the room. But it was there, crammed together, taking up the entirety of at least two walls.

She recognized the importance of this almost before the shock of seeing it had fully settled in. "Now will you let him out!?" she exclaimed as she turned to look at Marchman. "You can't just overlook the significance of this. This is an important breakthrough."

"I can't do anything until we know what he's written, doctor. For all we know, he's done nothing but confess to murder a thousand times over."

Carly bristled at that, but forced herself not to protest. Marchman was right. "Why hasn't anyone gone in?"

"We tried." Ralph was the one that answered that question. Carly had almost forgotten he was there; he stood in the shadows behind Marchman, obviously trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. But that he was the one to answer her calmed some of her overwrought nerves. "Several orderlies tried to go in to find out what was going on, but Rainey grew incredibly agitated. Nurse Ratchet and I decided it would be best to wait for you to come in, since Rainey knows you the best. He's used to having you in the room with him."

That made sense, and Carly was grateful for their delicacy in handling this. She thanked Ralph with her eyes, then laid her hand on the doorknob. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Marchman, I have a patient to tend to." Without waiting for an answer, Carly opened the door and stepped in, closing the door softly behind her.

Mort worked feverishly to finish. He had to finish. He had to. Before the words disappeared. They clamored in his head. They rolled around and smashed into the sides of his skull in their efforts to get out. If he didn't get them out, he'd lose them.

So much of his concentration was focused on getting the confusion and chaos out of his head, that his mind barely registered the sound of a door opening or closing. But his body was paying attention, even if his mind was elsewhere, and his shoulders tensed as if preparing for a battle of some sort.

Can't stop. Can't stop. Can't stop. His left hand flailed at his side as if pushing away imaginary spider webs. So close.

"Mort?"

Not here. Not here. Have to finish. He ignored the person calling his name. They weren't important. Only the story was important. He had to finish it. Unfinished stories were dangerous. He had to finish it. Have to write. Have to finish. Have to write. Have to finish.

But how does it end?

Carly was absolutely stunned the moment she stepped into the room. Three walls were covered with close, sprawling writing . . . in crayon. The words started about a foot from the ceiling – if she had to guess she'd say that was as high as Rainey could reach – and continued for an arm's length before moving onto the next line. The effect was that there were several columns of writing along each wall. From up close, Carly could see the small capital letters that formed each word; they were neat, but hurried. As if Mort was running out of time or something.

For a moment she tried to read what was in front of her, but without the beginning of the story it was hard to make sense of it. All that she could really tell was that it was written in the first person, and seemed to be written in the Gothic style. Perhaps her fooling around of the previous day had made more of an impact on Rainey than she'd suspected.

I wonder where the story starts. Looking around, Carly absently noted that the only wall in the room that had no writing was the one with the window in it and for the hundredth time she wondered why Rainey avoided windows so persistently.

"Mort?" She moved into the room, pausing as she crushed a crayon stub under her foot. There were several other stubs scattered across the floor, as if Mort had dropped them the moment they become unusable in his haste to finish what he was doing.

"Why is this so important, Mort?" Until she'd spoken, Mort had ignored her. Now though, he grew a bit agitated, and she kept her distance. But she didn't give up.

"Mort? Can you show me where the story starts? I'd like to read it." The hand flapped again, but this time it seemed to have a direction to it. "Your corner. Is that where you started?" Rainey didn't reply; he just kept scribbling away. Carly could almost feel his desperation, so she didn't try to interrupt again. Interrupting someone in a period of mania could be dangerous. Especially if you were trying to get them stop working on the act of creation that so often went with mania.

So instead, Carly decided to catch up with Mort. If she wanted to better understand what he was doing and why, then she needed to know how he'd spent the night. And that meant finding where the writing on the wall – so to speak – started, and where it went from there. Was it all connected? Had he written an actual story that went from point A, to point B, and so on? Or was it all disjointed and confused, the ventings of a confused and disoriented mind?

Finding his corner, she located what she thought might be the beginning of the story. She was half surprised to find herself reading

It was a dark and stormy night. The gargoyles on the stone eves of Killingsford Manor seemed to scream in blatant defiance of the unexpected, irregular light. For most it might seem an omen, and looking back, I might think the same, but that night I was filled with expectation and hope. A new beginning away from the horrors of my past. It was a beginning that had come at a dear cost, but I would survive.

It was her story. Or at least, it was her story with a twist. Instead of being written from a female's point of view, the protagonist was a man. He was a tutor, come to Killingsford to further the education of two young men. The owner of the mysterious manor was a widow, no longer young, but no yet middle age. There were rumors among the servants that she had killed her husband because of gambling, infidelity, rage, madness. There was no ends to the reasons, but the cause was all the same: poison. The master had dropped dead in the midst of a party celebrating his fiftieth year. And why was madness in the mistress the favorite choice for why he'd been murdered? Because of the hysterical laughter she'd emitted at seeing his bloodless, goulish face, and the conversation she'd held with someone none of the guests could see. The physician said it was shock, but the servants knew the truth . . .

The story went on and on. Carly read about the widow's two sons. The youngest hadn't spoken since his father died, and the oldest said he saw ghosts. A mysterious man told the hero of the story to leave. Strange accidents started occurring: a maid fell down the stairs and broke her neck after bringing the widow tea, the head groom was killed by a terrified horse after the widow had returned from riding, the widow's favorite lap dog disappeared.

Eventually Carly caught up with Mort. By now the story had progressed to the point where there was a low level of attraction between the tutor and the widow, – whose sanity was doubtful – the servants were all leaving because they believed her mad, – for who actually saw and conversed with ghosts? – and one or more of her sons was in mortal danger from an unknown opponent. It was truly a mess with more than one character displaying symptoms of madness, paranoia, or psychosis. Mort had was staring blankly at the wall while leaving his characters in the midst of a veritable cliff-hanger. Not to mention while leaving Carly in an agony of curiosity. But he made no effort to add or bring the tale any closure.

She had seen enough of Mort himself throughout the tale – fictional events that could be reflections of memories from that autumn on Tashmore Lake if memories could be pulled and teased in the same way as cooling taffy. More to the point, each character seemed to represent Mort. Each displayed a characteristic that either she'd seen in him, or had been recorded in his chart. The sons – one unable to communicate after a trauma., the other claiming to talk and see individuals that no one else could. The widow – her guilt that stemmed from her inability to remember whether or not she could have killed her husband. The tutor – his passion even if it was in only wanting to teach and mold young minds instead of writing.

So why is he having trouble finishing? Is it because he doesn't know the ending yet?

Carly would have devoted more time to hypothesizing, but Mort was growing more and more agitated by his inability to write. He went so far as to write a line of ellipses before pausing once again, clearly searching for the right words. She heard him make a mangled sound of frustration even as she watched his knuckles whiten as he fisted his hands. The crayon broke.

That action seemed to break through the churnings of his mind, and he panicked. His hands flattened against the wall and he started pounding, his fingers tracing words roughly against the wall.

She knew it was a risk, but Carly had to take it. Very gently she took Rainey's right hand in hers, and slid a pencil into his grip. The broken halves of the crayon fell to the floor and he calmed . . . but he still didn't write.

"What's wrong, Mort? Why can't you finish the story? You've come so far to stop now." He didn't respond, but his hand tensed inside of hers. "What is this story, Mort? What is it that you're trying to tell? Are these people you?" He tried to move away from her, but would have to give up the pencil to do so; he stayed for the time being. "Is that why you can't finish it? Do you not know how the story ends?" His head twitched. "Tell me . . . why don't you finish?"

She had to stand before the blank wall with Rainey's hand in hers for a good five minutes before he showed any signs of responding to her question. Carly waited in patient expectation, unreasonably certain that Mort would answer her when he could tell himself what the answer was.

Her patience did pay off though. Very slowly, doing his best to write while his entire body trembled with exhaustion, fear, or a combination of the two, Mort wrote I can't remember. . .

The pencil fell from his fingers as his knees gave out on him. Carly did what she could to help cushion his fall, but he was too much dead weight for her to support. Ralph and Toby rushed in the moment he hit the ground, Ralph making sure she was okay, and Toby catching Mort's shoulders before his head could hit the ground.

"S'okay, Dr. B . . . you go ahead and go talk to Dr. Marchman. I'll take care of our patient here."

"What?" she asked the young man, sounding stupid even in her own ears. This had just totally blown her away.

"To get all the details settled."

"I still don't understand."

"Marchman decided to move our man Rainey down to the check-in ward. Decided he was safe to be moved out of the lifer's. But he wanted a nurse on duty with Rainey at all times."

This stunned Carly. Not so much that Rainey was going to practically have around the clock care, but that Marchman had finally caved. She thanked the psychiatry gods for that blessing.

"Doc? Doctor?"

Her head snapped up and she focused on Toby's face. "Thank you. Yes. I'm going."

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Toby…or at least his appearance. He's based on Johnny Depp's character in 'Lost in La Mancha.'

Interesting fact: just because so many (well…two or so) of you said that the writing on the walls bit reminded you of 'Quills' I thought I'd clear up where I got the idea. I confess that it's not mine, but I didn't get it from 'Quills'. I believe it's from one of the season premiere of 'Star Trek: DS9' where Sisco is a writer in the past and he's locked up in a mental hospital because he keeps ranting about star ships. In that, he's using the stump of a pencil to write, and all the walls are covered. That image stuck with me.

Author's Thanks: as always, thanks to all who read, and especially to you who reviewed. pandagal (I'd love to see some of those doctors brought down a notch or two as well, but I'm not sure about the full recovery. Mort wouldn't be Mort without a few character kinks.); Dawnie-7 (You're not the last to say the bit about 'Quills' and frankly, I'm honored. ; ) And I get the feeling that I need to move my plot along, so something tells me Mort might be getting better faster.); Merrie (see, told you I'd get this written with you gone. : P And you end in evil places to, so don't complain. And I'm not planning for Shooter to show up. But you know how that goes. ); Sternenlicht (I'm glad I was able to make your day. I love updating, and reviews make my day, so I'd say we're even. ; ) The bad writing bit was too good to pass up. I hope your friend enjoys this as much as you do, and I'm honored that you thought to recommend it. Thank you.); Nithke (lol. Sounds like Mort is in an egg. I hope this chapter was as good as the last.); vanillafluffy (WOW. Your review was really great to read. I'm glad that you're finding all this enjoyable, because I certainly love writing it. It's not crap I make up for a living, but it'll do. ; ) Thank you for the compliments to Carly, and I'm glad you find some the humor I put in because I think its funny too. And the reason for intermittent posting is I'm also writing an OUATIM fic, and by the time I get a chapter of that done, I'm no longer in the mindset for this one, and then I finish a chapter of this, and have to jump to that…. I hope you see my dilemma. ); Gaze (yes, Mort is indeed showing them. Now all we need is for him to keep showing them because I'm going to start making things a little freaky. smiles manically); Spidy-fan (love the new SN. And yes, I love my cliffhangers. Hope I didn't leave you hanging for too long.); HumiliatedGrape (lol, I can see why you didn't notice it sooner. I seem to have a habit of re-writing clichés, so I'm easy to pass by at times. And Steve…I love Steve. He's a good foil. Hope this chapter didn't disappoint.); puremalevolence (what can I say? For this enormous review, I hope mine were satisfactory. I gotta admit you've got a certain brilliance for those one-shots. I admit to only taking one semester of psych in my entire life, and it was more the biology of senses and how they effect us than mental disorders. But I did do my homework – online and in a psych book I bought dirt cheap on Amazon – because I do like to sound like what I'm talking about is passably plausible. And I have not seen 'Quills.' I hope you saw that explanation further up. Anyway, just many thanks, and I hope to hear from you again.); PirateBlacksmith (Thank you so much for the review. Each and every one I get brightens my day and inspires me, even if for another fandom. I kept up my end of the bargain, hope you got to do the same. ); SS (I do not apologize for the ending. It's what keeps you coming back. The ending is the most important part of the…chapter. ; ) I update as soon as I can. : P ); Spoofmaster (No, I don't believe in trite romances. If this even heads in the same direction as romance, I can guarantee it'll be anything but trite. ); Wayward Slinky (You wrote more than I can ever hope to respond to, so I'm just going to work of your review for chap. 7 and thank you strongly for the rest. ; ) I hope this wasn't too unsettling…I'm saving that for later. But if curiosity brings you back, who am I to complain? : P I got tired of seeing fics that matched Mort with a woman writer, so I decided almost from page one that Carly wouldn't be good at it. For awhile she was a freelance editor in her free time, but I decided even that was too close to what Mort does, so I scrapped it. And I totally agree about character faults. It's what makes humans human, and most of us want to read about people we can relate to. And as for you wanting more from me, I want more from you too. So get to it! : P)