When he woke, it was dark.

Not pitch black, persay, but dark like the far corner of a room with only one lamp. Everything was faded, shadowy. The ground underneath him was smooth and cold. Stone. The walls, reflecting dimly a distant, yellow light, were the same.

His ribs didn't hurt. He frowned, pressing a hand to them for a moment. They were a little tender, but nothing like the breath-stopping pain he'd been expecting. Healed.

How long had he been out?

He looked around for a few moments, but Harrison wasn't in sight. Dead, then? Or just separated? He stood, slowly. The gun was still in his trousers, and a few feet away was a covered tray, identical to the one that had been there last time. He walked over, opening it. An MRE, and a bottle of water. No bullet.

He ate the MRE, and drank about half the water, before tucking the bottle into his pocket and evaluating his options. He took a few steps forward, and saw that whatever passage he was in turned, and then split off into two, the two-meter ceiling and jet black, smooth stone walls never changing. He took a breath. Right... some sort of maze, then?

He started mapping. Walking carefully and slowly through the featureless tunnels, committing each turn to memory, creating a mental picture of the labyrinth he was in.

She came to feeling remarkably good for someone with a potentially fatal gut wound. She shifted, out of habit, and braced for agony, which didn't come. Pain, yes, but not the paralyzing kind she was expecting. She managed to peel her eyes open, her hands shuddering into motion, feeling gingerly for her stomach. Gauze. Gauze?

She lifted her head a little to see, and there was the telltale lump of it under her shredded dress. Carefully, she peeled up the edge, brushed a finger over the wound with a hiss. Stitches. A lot of them, in fact. And not nearly as much raw skin or inflammation as there should have been. What had happened? Why couldn't she remember this being done? Where was she?

It took her a long time to get up the courage to move, and when she did, it hurt, but there was nothing to do but press on. That was when she discovered the platter to her left. A little bit of shifting and wriggling and she had it in her grasp. Opening it, she discovered a bottle of water, an MRE, and a bullet. This was about when she looked around for Jim, then instead took in her strange surroundings. Was she in a cave?

She just ate for a little bit, discomforted by the feeling of the food hitting her obviously completely empty stomach, as in days empty, and she was careful not to overdo it. Even when she was done, though, she stayed put. She would get in a few good sleeps before she moved.

It wasn't long before she passed into a fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares of giant wolverines, and an awful lack of Sebastian.

It was a few hours before he took a break, sitting against the wall. He was exhausted. Two MREs in Christ knew how many days was not enough. He took a few sips of water, tucking it away. He fully intended to keep moving, but the cool stone was far more comfortable than it had any right to be, and he drifted...

There was pain in his arm, for a moment, and... footsteps? But then that all faded into a haze as warmth- familiar and terrifying- spread up his arm.

Then he didn't have a care in the world. Life was fucking wonderful.

She woke up in a lot of pain, which was telling in and of itself. That meant she'd been on some painkillers the last time she'd woken. She opened her eyes, and flinched. The man crouching in front of her also flinched, then frowned and pinned her arm down. She felt the familiar stab of a needle, then her worries were gone.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, blissfully content. But he was aware of every second the moment the high started dwindling away.

He took a few slow breaths, trying to master himself. How could feeling normal be so... utterly agonizing? Then he dipped past normal, his body urgently informing him of every discomfort, shouting loudly for him to do something about it.

He sat up, closing his eyes tight for a moment. His head ached, but his body was almost as sore. He felt like he had the flu. He took a few more breaths through his nose, grabbed the bottle of water and took a couple of sips. It didn't help. Finally, however, he shoved everything aside, forced himself to ignore the pain as he stood, slow but determined.

Mapping. He needed to get back to mapping.

The first time she'd ever had heroin was after she'd met DeWitt. She'd smuggled it before then, yes, but she was too young, and timid, and too smart to try sampling the product. But Ryan, when he put his mind to something, had been very persuasive. The months after, she lived hit to hit, starved for it, clung to his side in the hopes that he'd give her another free dose, free as long as she stayed with him.

She'd always wondered if he would have ever become a criminal, had he not met her. But he'd taken to it like a fish to water. Maybe it was meant for him. She knew, though, that she wouldn't be in this situation now if he hadn't hooked her so many years ago. The inspiration might have never struck Holmes. She wouldn't be lying here, feeling like she was falling apart with every breath.

Eight thousand, nine hundred and seven seconds since he'd come off his high.

Eight thousand, nine hundred and ten.

He did his best to ignore the counter in his mind that he certainly hadn't asked for, and instead concentrate on the map he was creating. It had large gaps, but he was slowly expanding it. There was no telling how large this maze was. He'd found no obvious limits yet.

Eight thousand, nine hundred and twenty four.

Eventually she remembered to drink something, and dragged herself up, shifting and grabbing the bottle, taking a sip. Then she heard a distant sound, and she looked towards one of the tunnels that led out of her little cave. "Jim?"

He looked up at the voice. After hours of nothing but his own footsteps, it was oddly... nice. To hear another voice. She wasn't dead, then. Encouraging, he supposed. Her voice sounded stronger than it had been. So they'd healed her up. Also interesting. Mycroft wasn't interested in them dying. At least not yet.

"Harrison?" he called back, walking towards the voice.

"Oh, good," she muttered, then raised her voice again. "Yeah, it's me. How long you been awake?"

"Going on eight hours, I believe, but I took a... nap in the middle." He rounded a corner and there she was, sitting on the floor, silver platter and half-eaten MRE to the side.

She gave him a half-hearted wave, too tired to do much else. Too dragged down. "They stitched me up. And I'm way less inflamed than I should be."

He nodded. "The bruising on my ribs is healed. I'd say we were under for five, six days at least."

"How many staff members do you think have bit it since we were wiped off the face of the earth?" she snorted, rubbing her eyes. "Oh my god, can you imagine? Both of us gone? Christ, we'll be lucky if he hasn't gone through two a day."

"He'd better not have," he muttered. "In the event of my absence he has clear instructions. He should be here soon, hopefully." He didn't mention the tracking unit aloud, in case their captors overheard him. Even if it was offline now, it would have given Moran at least a general area to search.

She rubbed her eyes, nodding. She really didn't want to be stuck in an enclosed space with Jim any longer than she had to be. "They drug you again?"

He nodded quietly. "What about you?" he asked, sitting down as well and leaning back against the cool black stone.

"Yeah. Woke up just in time for it," she sighed. "At the very least heroin makes for an amazing pain relief medication."

He nods just a little. "I don't suppose you got a bullet," he asked, studying her expression.

She cocked a thumb to the platter. "Yeah," she replied quietly, and then carefully lowered herself back down onto the ground, feeling as if her core strength really wasn't up to snuff at the moment. "Really hope the next thing is slower."

"Agreed," he said quietly, loading the gun. He glanced at her. "Are you up to walking, or are we staying here for the time being?"

"Do I have a choice?" she asked, raising her eyebrows a little at the ceiling. She didn't see what good it would do, anyway. Maybe it was the shitty feeling from after the heroin that was saying it, but she didn't think they were going to accomplish much. They just had to stay alive until Moran came for them.

"I'd rather stay here than have to drag you around. But if you're capable of walking then I'd rather explore."

"I might be able to manage it, in short bursts," she groaned, letting out a huff of a sigh, mostly to brace herself, then pulled herself into sitting position. Then dragged herself to her feet, with a very strained swear.

He observed her carefully as she stood. She was unsteady on her feet, and he was well aware that between her injury and the drugs this was going to be slow going. He pocketed the gun and a few unopened packets from her MRE.

"Let's get moving."

She followed him, sluggishly, very near to the walls. Moran, please, airlift us the fuck out of here.

They walked on and off for a few more hours, but eventually he knew she was hitting her limit and stopped. "Sit," he ordered quietly.

She did so immediately, sliding down against the smooth wall, a grunt of pain escaping her. She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes sliding shut. "I never got captured or tortured when I worked for Vince, you know. Plus, the boss being madly in love with you has its perks."

He sat a few feet away. "Here you have the boss's lieutenant. Almost as nice. As for the kidnappings, take it as a bloody compliment," he muttered, pulling out the bottle of water and taking a sip before passing it to her. "Armetti is small time. Here you're bigger fish."

"Small time, yeah," she sighed, taking a small sip like him, then giving it to him. "But I had a lot less disappointing sex with strangers. And I got to torture and kill more people. Did it for fun, those days."

"What made you stop, anyway?" he asked, tucking it away. "I've seen your work. You're good."

She gave a bit of a shrug. "He got carried away. Kids started getting hurt. I didn't love him anymore; not sure if I ever did. I left New York, came back to the Isles. I wanted to start over. I still had grifting skills. I slipped up, of course."

"Oh?" He closed his eyes, only half listening.

"Some old bloke was rude to me on the Tube. I followed him back to his place. He knew, I think, but I guess he thought he could take me. He was wrong. I garroted him with a length of wire he had in his shed and then I made a Menorah out of him. I'm not Jewish, but I thought it was more creative than making a Christmas tree."

He blinked.

And again.

Just stared at the ceiling for a few moments before turning to look at her. "Describe him."

She gave him an odd look, but decided to fulfill his request without questioning. "Uh, I think he was in his early sixties. Graying hair, but it looked like it had been dark beforehand. He was short. Barely taller than me. Green eyes. Had blackout curtains over his windows, which I thought was weird."

He sat up more fully, studying her with intent eyes. "Walk me through everything you did," he ordered quietly. "From the first time you saw him."

"The first time I saw him was earlier that day," she snorted, looking at him a little cautiously. "It was a random selection. He walked into me, then snapped at me like it was my fault. I didn't say a word to him, just kinda... faded back into the crowd a little and started following him. There's no way he couldn't have noticed, but I didn't care. Even if he called the police, what would they do? A pretty young thing allegedly following a grimy old man home. What kind of a threat is that?

"I climbed over the fence in his backyard once he went inside. The shed was a nice surprise. Always a tool to be used in sheds. Found the length of wire. I didn't bother with the doors; went in through an open window. He was reading the newspaper on a sofa from the late 1970s. Dropped it when he saw me. I ran at him. I couldn't believe how easily I got the wire around him. He struggled until I cut into his windpipe. Then I got a meat tenderizer, a baseball bat, and a butcher's knife from around the house and started to work on bending him into shape."

He nodded just a little, settling back against the wall, eyes on the dark tunnel almost directly across from him.

How had Harrison succeeded where he had failed?

"Why, it mean something to you?" she asked, looking at him, eyebrows raised skeptically.

It did. He had lied to Moran years ago when he had told him that his bastard of a father had been dealt with. In reality, he'd only seen it on the news. And through all the odds, somehow the person responsible had ended up in his network, attached to his bodyguard, and hadn't even been recruited because of the murder. "Not particularly," he said, shrugging. "Just had seen it on the news. Wondered who was responsible..."

She got the feeling that he wasn't being particularly truthful, but at the moment, it was the least of her concerns. She hurt, and she was exhausted, and if he let her sit in silence, fantastic.

The next few... days? Weeks? Passed much the same. Every day they woke up in one of the three levels with a bullet, food, and water. By the end of the day they had fought off a variable number of creatures with as much ingenuity as they could. If they saved their bullet, the number of creatures increased significantly the next day, so they stopped saving and lived in the moment.

They were dosed just often enough to drive them absolutely mad, although the days they were there was never more than one creature. They were meant to be kept alive, apparently. What they were being saved for, she didn't know. Entertainment, maybe? Either way, this latest dose was late. Her body was telling her so, loudly and obnoxiously. She fell asleep that night uncomfortable, wishing desperately that she'd wake up feeling high.

He had difficulty falling asleep.

He and Harrison had developed an odd sort of camaraderie. He still kept her in line as best he could, but it was difficult when they spent a lot of the time trying to save each other.

He fell asleep with his hands shaking slightly, dying for a dose.

She wasn't sure why she woke up, but she had a few guesses. She rolled over, groaned, a hand going to the stitches in her abdomen. She was healing as well as could be expected with such a shitty situation, though there times that it hurt like nobody's business. She cracked an eye, looking across the floor. Her eyes caught something silver.

He woke up to her groan, looking over at her before sitting up slowly and rubbing his eyes. He had stitches across his shoulder where one of the creatures had sliced into him, but it wasn't as bad as Harrison by any means. He looked around, caught sight of the tray, and leaned over to pull it open.

"What's in it?" she mumbled, pushing herself into sitting position with her arms. She was careful not to overuse her abdominal muscles these days.

"The usual," he said quietly, taking the bullet and tossing her one of the MREs. Then his eyes lit on a syringe, sitting dead center on the platter, with a tiny bit of liquid in it.

He knew immediately what it was.

"Christ, can't they ever mix it up a bit?" she sighed, tearing open the MRE with a practiced movement. Not for the first time, she missed Sebastian. He'd have something derisive to say, here.

He shrugged just a little, taking the MRE and doing his best to palm the syringe out of sight.

He moved different, and it caught her eye. She looked over at him, frowning. "What is it?"

"Nothing,'' he said calmly, though his hands shook slightly. There was barely enough for a proper high, just enough to take the edge off. Split between two it would be hardly anything.

She sighed and let it go, eating ravenously. One meal a day wasn't a lot to be running around on, but that wasn't going to stop the creatures from having a go at them. She was losing weight again, and fast.

He considered for a moment just sticking the thing in his arm and pushing the plunger before she could get to him, but that wouldn't be enough time to find a proper vein.

Instead, he tucked it into a pocket when she wasn't looking, and went about eating his food.

She missed showers. She missed television and bagels and pillows, but most of all she missed Sebastian. Usually when she was captured she was with him. This time, she wasn't even hallucinating him. How close was he to finding them? How long were they going to be stuck in here? She shook the thought out of her head and continued eating in silence.

He stood after a few moments, heading off down the hall with a muttered "Going to go piss." He rarely had the energy or patience for niceties anymore. He turned a few corners of the dark stone halls- their prison for the day- and as soon as he was out of sight he was ripping the syringe out of his pocket and pulling the cap off. He flicked his arm a few times to find a vein before pushing the needle onto his arm, closing his eyes as he depressed the plunger and the familiar warmth spread through him. He slumped against the wall happily, pulling the syringe out and capping it before he was lost in cheerful oblivion.

Jim was usually pretty quick to return to the relative safety in numbers, so when he was conspicuously absent for a few minutes, she got concerned. She stood and headed down the path he'd taken, which was blissfully absent of forks, and nearly jumped when she found him, a relaxed puddle on the floor. "Jim? What the hell happened?" she asked, exasperated, crouching down to shake him. The glint of glass caught her eye, and her fingers tightened on him. The exasperation turned to anger. "You son of a bitch."

He smiled up at her. "Hello, Harrison..." he sighed absently. He flinched just slightly as her fingers dug into his arm. "Eeeeaassyyy..." he grumbled.

"You fucker," she snarled, fingers curling into his collar, pulling him up off the floor. "You shot up without me?" A moment later and her fist was crashing into his face.

"Jesus!" he half whined, half snarled, his hand going up to grab the wrist of the hand that had his collar. Her fist hadn't caused much pain, more pressure, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. "Yes, I did. I outrank you."

"Fuck rank," she hissed, slamming him back into the floor, furious, the need for a hit swelling up again now that it'd heard that heroin was close by. "How long have we been here? How long? The second fucking day I got my guts ripped out so you could take a shot. THIS is how you repay me?"

"Yes." His voice was casual. Nonchalant. "There wasn't even enough for a full hit. You don't matter to me, Harrison. You're useful. If you think that somewhere in all of this we've gained some sort of... camaraderie ... well, that's amusing."

"Of course we don't have a camaraderie," she snapped, nails digging into his arm. "You're an arrogant, annoying, blind piece of shit who thinks he's hot shit, even in this godforsaken pit. There are two reasons nobody's killed Sebastian yet. They're afraid of him, and at the end of the day, he looks out for his men. They respect that. There's one reason nobody's killed you, and it's him. And he's not here."

"I survived a long time before dear Sebby came along," he said, and though his voice was mellow, it was deadly. "People don't kill me because I'm smart. I have survived because compared to me, you are moronic. Go ahead, Harrison. Kill me. See how well that sits with Sebastian. Do you really want to find out who he values more? Could he forgive you?"

"I don't give a shit, right now," she replied quietly, glaring down at him, hating the dilation in his pupils, the slight unsteadiness to his small movements. The clear signs of his high. "I care that I feel like shit."

"You'll live," he said quietly, settling himself back against the wall. "You shouldn't be using this stuff anyway."

She hit him again, as hard as she could, and then once more, just because she could, and then got off him with a frustrated shout. She hated him. Hated him. But she couldn't kill him.

He took the blows listlessly, letting himself melt against the wall in quiet satisfaction, amused by her outburst (which was probably the only reason he didn't put a bullet in her retreating back.)

She collapsed back by their meager possessions, her body aching, head splitting. God, she wanted a hit. She wanted a hit so bad.

He came back an hour or so later, and picked up their belongings. He didn't speak to her, and she seemed fine with maintaining the silence.

They kept moving.

It was another day before they passed out under an outside force.

When she woke up again, it felt wrong. This wasn't like the other times. She was too neat, too put together. Someone had picked her up and put her back down again. This was not the form of someone who had fallen from their feet. She stifled a groan, shifted, getting a good look around. Something familiar caught her eye. "Sebastian?..."

He didn't turn. He was talking to Mycroft Holmes quietly on the other side of a window.

She was in some sort of lab. On a cot, straps over her hands and feet.

Mycroft turned, caught her gaze, and suddenly his expression was livid and he was shouting-

Sebastian turned to look at her for just a moment, then a flood of cold ran up her arm, and she was unconscious again.

She woke up again, and immediately felt a crushing pain in her chest. It wasn't physical, not really - it wasn't caused by any physical symptoms.

Sebastian... No.. It can't be. It CAN'T be.

She rolled onto her side, a hitched breath escaping her.

Moriarty woke slowly. He had to think that all these drugs and spending so long unconscious was bad for his mental capacity. It was like he could feel neurons sloughing off every time he woke.

He blinked a few times, rubbing at his eyes before slowly sitting up.

Back in the hotel again. Brilliant. Maybe they could find some toilet tissue.

She heard him shift, but she stayed where she was, paralyzed, hands pressing into her chest, trying to stuff the broken pieces back into her chest, trying to rationalize it, trying to cope. The tears spilled over, a sob wracked her. Why?

He looked over at her at the broken sound that made its way out of her throat, curious. He shifted into a crouch. She didn't appear injured. Not more so than usual, anyway.

"What?"

"Seb... Sebastian," she got out in a choked sob, rolling back onto her back again, a hand going into her hair, trying to get a grip on something real. "I saw him."

He studied her, took in her expression.

"Is he dead?"

She took a shuddering breath, shook her head, wondered if it would be better if he had been. She didn't know.

"I- I saw him with- with Mycroft."

"Being tortured? More details, less sniveling," he ordered, annoyed.

"With him, Jim, with him," she snapped, too broken to keep it together. "He's WITH HIM!"

He studied her face carefully, looking at the anguish there, and knew that there was only one explanation.

"Don't be ridiculous."

She turned away again, curling into a ball, breaking down into sobs. All this time. All this time, he'd been with Mycroft. That was the only conclusion she could draw. All those times she'd been captured with him, stuffed somewhere with Mycroft's approval, he'd been playing her, earning her trust, her love. DeWitt. The time he'd come to her, confided that he couldn't remember whether or not he was a mole for Mycroft. The sleep-deprivation experiment. They'd made such a convincing game of it. He'd convinced her that he loved her.

"Harrison!" he snarled, grabbing her shoulder. "Tell me exactly what you saw."

It took her a minute to get herself together. But she did, shockingly, and turned over to face him again, tears still streaming from her eyes, even if she'd gotten the sobs under control. "I... I woke up strapped to a cot. There was a window. They were talking. Holmes saw me wake up, started to freak out - Sebastian didn't even look at me until I started to pass out. They shot me up with something. I don't know. I saw enough. He wasn't hurt. He looked like he does when he talks to you."

He grit his teeth slightly. "Very well." He closed his eyes, trying to think.

There was a tight, sharp pain in his chest, and he realized that it might have been considered betrayal.

He swallowed it back. He was James Moriarty. He didn't do betrayal.

He killed.

She shut her eyes, tried to stop thinking, to forget what she'd just learned, to stop drawing the only conclusions she could. The past three, fuck, maybe four years of her life were suddenly reduced to nothing. Suddenly they were meaningless. To have survived so much by his side, to have continued living just because he was there, to have come back in New York for him, to have pulled him out of that root cellar and attempted to nurse him back to health...

That was when the first doubt entered her mind. He'd had amnesia. He'd been blind, and he'd had no idea who she was, had had to remember. If that hadn't been an elaborate scheme... It meant that it hadn't all been for nothing. He'd cared about her, had gone out of his way to save her, to keep her alive. What benefit had that given Mycroft? Her, who had taken away the full usage of his hand? He'd betrayed her, had betrayed the both of them; but at least she could take comfort that he really had looked out for her. Those years weren't meaningless. The future remained to be seen.

He stood after a few minutes. "Well, then, it seems we're on our own," he says calmly. "Let's get moving."

She got up, feeling hollow, and nodded. "Okay," was all she said in response.

He nodded just a little, and started along the familiar, indistinguishable hallways. But something was missing. The surety he had had that he was going to escape... that was...

No. He was going to escape.

He was going to kill Sebastian Moran.

This hurt worse than the betrayal that had first gotten her mother killed. At least he hadn't cared for her during that one. He'd simply been using an employee for his own gains. But this time...

He walked through the next few days in an exterior daze. He ate, drank, walked, fought, all with the minimal engagement required by his brain. The rest was reserved for planning. Plotting.

Escape.

It took her a while to realize she was still wearing her rings. The necklace she'd been wearing to the party had been torn off within a week of their capture, and she'd ditched her earrings when she'd recognized the risk it was keeping them in. But the rings, she'd forgotten, hadn't had a chance to notice in a while. Once she'd realized, of course, there was no going back. The SM carved into the underside of the engagement band felt like it was burning into her skin. Still, she didn't take it off. Just rubbed her thumb against it occasionally, thoughtfully.

I'm not trying to point fingers at you
And I'm not trying to lay any blame
But when it comes to the punishment
Girl, you know how to bring the pain
Like I told you, I'd do it all again

-Red Hot Chili Peppers - Even You, Brutus? -