A/N A dark little one-shot written a while ago and revived by discussions of what it might be like if Liz went over to the dark side. Totally AU, nice and bleak so don't read if you need Lizzington fluff tonight. You've been warned! Disclaimed, majorly disclaimed. Don't hate me.
3. Sacred Things
When Red entered the house he was greeted by sombre looking Dembe. They hugged. He removed his hat and coat, placing them neatly on a chair, folding his coat with more care than he might usually have taken.
Prolonging the inevitable.
He glanced towards the closed dining room door. The silence was disconcerting. He turned back as Dembe began to speak.
"Raymond, I'm sorry my friend. There was no easy way to tell you. It is now certain."
It was certain from the day that we ran. She had to change.
"She is working with the people who took your daughter. The information used to locate Jennifer was sent from a laptop found in her hotel room. The calls were also made from a burn phone in the same location." He paused, and Red nodded, his expression blank.
When the light becomes the dark, there is nothing left to cast a shadow of doubt.
Dembe looked at the floor for a moment. "This is the only lead we have. If we are to find Jennifer we will need to know who she passed the information to, if she met with them and where." He paused again, and Red knew what he was going to say.
The logical thing to do.
"Would you like me to call Mr Brimley?" Dembe finished, his discomfort evident.
Red stared at the door of the dining room for a moment. "No. I'll handle it personally."
Let that be the punishment for my failure.
"I thought this would end differently" Dembe said mournfully.
Red looked at his friend for a moment. "Nothing in this world is sacred."
Not anymore.
He straightened his vest and tie, before opening the dining room door and closing it carefully behind him.
Elizabeth Keen was in the centre of the room, tied to one of the tasteless gothic dining chairs. A respectful distance away, a table had been prepared with instruments laid out neatly. A standard set of scalpels arranged in order of size, several syringes of different gauges still in their packets and accompanying vials, and a leather case, which he recognised. Were he to choose to open it, he would find it contained cuffs of varying sizes designed to deliver an electrical current to pulse points throughout the subject's body.
The subject.
He forced himself to look at her. Her eyes were the same brilliant blue, he noted, but they had grown so hard. It had been a punishing five years. He could have saved her from anyone. Anyone except herself.
Anyone except me.
She gave him a cold stare, still challenging.
He returned her gaze calmly. Accepting. Evolving, again. He slowly removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
No, nothing is sacred.