Hello again, all! Just wanted to give everyone who responded a big thanks, and to give mad props to my beta, ephemereal, for giving me a really wicked idea for this chapter and for the rest of this fic. Hopefully you all will appreciate it as much as we do. Timewise, chapter two takes place immediately after chapter 1 - I just didn't want to put anything about the time on top of the page.

Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta, or any of the characters described within. Those belong to David Lloyd and Alan Moore, and I wish to have many, many of their children. The movieverse is also not mine.

"Hello, this is St. Catherine's Memorial Hos – please hold – welcome to St. Ca –"

" –what in the – oh my swee–"

" –like we've got a government case… Finch, the Inspector –"

"–need how many pints! Fine, we need O neg –"

"Gotta get that mask off…"

"…allergic to any –"

V awoke groggily to the sound of crying and a muffled conversation taking place between two people somewhere off in the distance. The smell of roses hung heavily in the air, mixed with something else. It was metallic, rather like the scent of old coins or tarnished silver… in his state, it took him a long while to realize that what he actually smelled was blood. Even then, it still didn't register that it was his own.

"Who on earth are all these flowers for, miss?"

"Just, ah… just a friend…"

Roses and blood. Huh. Something about that particular combination sounded oddly familiar, though V couldn't, for the life of him, remember why.

"Hmm. What'd you say his name was again, Inspector?"

"Ah, yes, I'd almost forgotten. He's a John Doe we picked up…"

Something tugged at the back of his mind just then, a fact that seemed important yet unreachable at the edges of his foggy memory. He tried to sit up, bracing his arms against the bed, but he was stopped by a searing pain that rippled through his torso and back and arms. He found himself falling backwards onto something soft and warm, pulling wires and tubing down with him. Something was terribly wrong with his perception of time – everything was lagging, and though his body seemed to be in one place, his mind was somewhere behind.

"Finch, why did you say…?"

"Never you mind, Ha –"

Wires? He thought blearily. All around him there were disconcerting murmurs, and blurry shapes moving in and out of his field of vision. An antiseptic smell clung to the inside of his nose. They were binding his arms, then, though he could still move somewhat… he thought about it, but decided he was quite comfortable where he was. Except for one major thing, the sheets, which irked him by scratching at his bare back and sticking to the blood all over him.

Wait. These sheets…these are not my sheets, V noted somewhat indignantly, passing out before he could think about it more fully.

When V woke again he found that he was in the dark, though it wasn't pitch black – a small sliver of light came from the cracked door, offering tantalizing glances at the brightness beyond and voices at the other side. There seemed to be a buzzing in the air somewhere in the background, like the electronic hum of a television from many rooms away, but he couldn't concentrate enough to figure out to what it was due.

Overall, V found himself feeling tired, vaguely numb, and without the mental capacity to concentrate on much of anything. He also found that he didn't particularly care, and instead tried to study the rest of his surroundings: the smell of roses, the notable absence of the smell of blood, and the feel of his own sheets against his bare back. He had just begun to recall that, before, the sheets had been different when the muffled conversation startled him and his thoughts scattered.

It was disturbing for V to hear people without seeing them, and his mind stretched to find an explanation for the situation – the voices seemed disembodied in the dark, like songs from an audio cassette playing in an empty room or voices on the radio. His mind, still foggy with sleep, immediately latched upon that second idea.

A radio show? V wondered fuzzily, and the concept actually made him quite happy. Ah, yes, I haven't heard one of those in years! His mind drifted between the snippets of broadcasted conversation, picking up half-phrases and intonations and the occasional sharp word or two from the actors behind the blinding line of light behind the door.

"Yes, yes, just let it out… if that's what you need, then cry…"

These performers were especially talented, in his opinion. They were part of a dramatic scene, set starkly against silence – no, wait, the setting wasn't completely silent. Upon greater scrutiny he could hear faint background noises: the dripping of a faucet somewhere; the sound of rushing liquid, like a drink being poured, and a clunk as a glass was set down. Oh, and footsteps, heavy thuds that paced the same lines over and over again. They were headed away from him when he noticed them, to the back corner of some stone-floored room.

V strained to hear the dialogue, blocking out his other murky thoughts.

"Oh, Jesus, Eric, I almost –" The scene continued, a choked sob cutting off the rest of the sentence. The speaker was a young woman with a London accent, voice a little high and nearly unintelligible with grief. V sighed contentedly – such acting! Such marvels that a well-written script and a competent actress – even though he hadn't heard much of the script nor did this actress have a naturally mellifluous voice – could perform. He could picture her in his mind, sitting at a table, with clutching hands wound in her hair and tears streaming down her face.

He closed his eyes to block out the light, and his thoughts drifted to the source of his actress' grief. The death of a lover, perhaps? A word of passion, nearly uttered but held back, never to be mentioned again? Ah, yes… 'I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' (1)

V was proud to be a romantic at heart, even in his most feverish dreams.

"Hush, now, you couldn't have known…" There, the other voice, that of reason and comfort and the source of the pacing. The actor was older, V could tell – the sound of experience was rich in his voice, a monotone masterpiece like the policemen from Dragnet. Was this actor Irish? he wondered, noting the man's lilt.

Oddly enough, he sounded familiar, but foreign at the same time…

"But what I almost did…" the woman continued.

"The fact remains that you didn't. Calm down, please –" The actor sounded desperate, though V could tell that he was trying to hide it.

"… he would have been on that train, hurtling towardsGod only knows…", she followed with another wail. "Oh my Lord…" The woman had reached the endpoint of her tears and her breath hitched and she hiccoughed, the sound intermixed with throaty sobs. Oh, she was good – she actually sounded like he did once, crying and standing in the pouring rain after… after something that involved fire… oh my, what was that again?

Time seemed to slow as V was overtaken by a sudden rush of consciousness. It's said that life flashes before one's eyes at the moment of death – V had avoided that, narrowly, but in that dark room with the voices and the smell of roses, he remembered. Larkhill.

Prothero.

A man with dark hair and eyes, having his head shaved.

Surridge.

A line of people, arms bared, wincing as they were inoculated. Chalk X's on doors.

Lilliman.

The number 5. The good doctor, babbling about her hopes and fears. Violet Carson roses and the way he had read, long ago, how to make Gelignite out of woodpulp and fertilizer and cellulose.

Valerie.

The Salt Flats. The way she had changed him, made him human, and gave him letters written on toilet paper.

Creedy.

Sutler.

Finch.

A little girl with glasses.

He hadn't realized he was screaming until there were hurried footsteps – a woman's, for the footfalls were lighter – running in his direction, and thought it strange that while his mind was being flooded with all of its horrible imagery, he could still wonder who on Earth was running. The sliver of light increased until he could see a woman's silhouette at the door.

"Evey!" the man on the radio scolded, voice somewhere in the light. "Evey, what's going on?"

Evey?

A flicker of a memory – a waif with blonde curls and brown eyes who danced with him that fateful evening and put her hands to his mask, nearly lifting it off. Evey, his light, his complement to the darkness.

Evey… was the girl on the radio, he realized just as she bent over him and pressed a smooth hand to his forehead.

V passed out again.

Something had happened to Eric Finch in the early morning hours of November fifth, and as he sat alone in the dimmed interior of the Shadow Gallery he thought about his current predicament. Twenty-seven years with the Party, two major epidemics, a car crash, a murder, and a fake identity later – and what had he to show for his hard work? He pondered the answer through the glass in front of him, filled with amber liquid and set there silently by Evey – a wordless peace offering after she had calmed V somewhat and went to sit by his side.

Where was I? Finch thought, snapping his mind back into reality. Oh, yes.

Finch had a sidekick, a Robin to his Batman (and he remembered and cherished those fleeting memories of his childhood, when seemingly no one else did) – Dominic was a solid cop with a wonderful mind and a bright future, but with the discipline of a puppy. A fierce puppy, to be sure, but untrained and unthinking and overenthusiastic, having been raised with Party attitude and ethics. Dominic was probably frantic over the entire situation, he realized suddenly. Finch's phone was somewhere in the countryside, having been lost in the shuffle of his clothing during the heavier portion of his LSD experience. While he'd found the clothes, the phone had gone missing – probably some hoodlum. Finch sighed and wearily settled back onto the cushions, forcing himself to relax. Dominic would be fine without him. He'd have to be.

Now, Eric, think. What else?

Finch had routed out the terrorist, which he would have considered to be the crowning moment of his career. Unfortunately, he'd gone about it by dropping acid and wandering around the countryside like a loon in the process. How much of this night and the last was due to his hallucinations and how much to his own analytical insight? Could he really trust himself to find his way out of this hellhole, with its crazy, Rasputin-like masked inhabitant and his equally insane protégé? Oh, and even if he managed such a feat, could he portray accurately what exactly went on without getting black-bagged? He raised the glass and brought it to his lips thoughtfully. Probably not, he thought. Definitely not, after –

Well, Creedy and Sutler were dead. No more black bags.

By the way, old dog, you helped blow up Parliament.

Oh, Christ.

Why did I do that? He thought, gripping the sides of the glass tightly. The edge of the tumbler was tipped, and he felt the burn of the liquor pass down throat and warm his stomach. It was a pleasant sensation, that familiar warmth, and it calmed him for a moment before he continued his silent tally of 'accomplishments'.

He had, most importantly of all, stood aside while Evey Hammond, grief-stricken, had pulled that lever. That lever, which had sent off a train full of enough Gelignite to detonate small countries underneath Parliament. Twenty-seven years of loyal service, and he had blown up Parliament as repayment.

The benefits weren't that bad, really…

Finch snickered to himself at the flippant thought, well aware that its humor was probably due to the chemicals in his system. The plush surface of V's sofa was inviting, and he found himself sinking deeply into the leather and closing his eyes, willing himself to forget the last two days, trying his damnedest to block out the memories of Evey and her crying and the blatant lie he'd used to get V out of the Underground. He barely noticed the shutting of a door and Evey's soft footfalls as she padded over to the Wurlitzer and began pressing buttons.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a –

"Ugh," Evey murmured, abruptly switching songs. (2) The new tune was soft and serene to Finch's ears – background music, good for sitting on the sofa and staring into nothingness, or sinking into soft leather and plushness.

Finch chuckled from somewhere deep inside the couch. "Not in a Pink Floyd mood, then?"

"No, I suppose not." She wasn't satisfied with the new song either, and switched yet again to something he didn't recognize. A few more tunes came and went, and when Finch eventually mustered the energy to sit up, he found her standing over the jukebox's bright lights, staring into their electronic depths. Finally, after several minutes, she seemed to alight on the right tune with a soft "ah!" and there was a whirring while the machine readied itself to play.

It was a classical piece – Elgar's Enigma Variations, one of two pieces which had usually played on some radio station or another during Sutler and Creedy's reign (the other being, no surprise, Land of Hope and Glory). The thought sat rather oddly with Finch, considering how revolutionary he'd been over the last two days.

"Music?" he asked, crinkling his brow in thought as Evey tentatively sat down next to him. "I thought he was sleeping."

"He doesn't like silence," Evey responded after a long pause, looking at her hands. "He never has. There was always something going on in the background. Talking, or movies…"

"Or music?" Finch supplied, watching her closely. They were both aware of the uneasy truce between them, but somehow the silence between them was comfortable, like that of colleagues.

Evey smiled slightly. "Yes, and music. Especially music… I'm sorry, I've been terribly rude," she said abruptly, clapping her hands together briskly and rising to her feet. "Would you like something else to drink? Tea? More whiskey? If you're hungry, there's usually stuff for sandwiches–"

"No, thanks… I… eh, I should actually be getting home soon." He murmured the last bit as he stood with some effort, the exhaustion of the last two days weighing heavily upon him. "Need to return phone calls and all. Everything's in a tizzy now and I can't disappear off the radar forever."

The younger woman shrugged. "Whatever suits you best," she said nonchalantly, though the detective thought he caught undertones of please stay, I don't want to be alone. "I'll escort you out, then, if you'd like."

Finch pondered this, as well as her casual attitude towards him – an interloper – in V's private sanctum. "No blindfolds?"

"Not unless you want one." A brief smirk crossed Evey's lips.

Although she didn't say anything more, he knew why she was acting so blasé about their location. The thought of explaining the entire situation – the LSD, Larkhill, Victoria Station, St. Catherine's Memorial, and V – well, even the thought struck him as rather farfetched, despite him having just lived through it. He followed Evey to another room where she donned the black bob and took her mask from a peg on a mirror, looping the straps around her wrist. She inclined her head at him and he nodded, and the two began their trek out of the Shadow Gallery.

They walked in silence, abreast; the only sounds around them were their echoing footsteps on the cement and stone ground. The stones changed color as they moved further from the Shadow Gallery, from warm yellow to grey, and their surroundings became danker as the winds from above spread their rains and smog and filth to the world beneath the city. After a while Finch had lost track of the labyrinthine tunnels and twists of under-London, but as he opened his mouth to speak, they ascended a set of stairs and found themselves in a quiet alleyway.

No one had observed their coming. Finch breatheda sigh of relief; nearby, a cat eyed them warily, then resumed picking through the garbage cans that lined the side of a nearby building.

"Finch?" Eved asked suddenly, standing in the darkness between the buildings. He turned around, eyes adjusting to the luster of the streetlights and saw her there against the blackness. The stark white face of Guy Fawkes and his leer made her seem like a poltergeist in the dark, melded with the shadows – she had put on the mask sometime between ascending the stairs and dropping him off. "I just wanted to say thank you."

Her words were quiet but sincere. Finch sighed. "This isn't over, Evey. You know that, right?"

"Perhaps." He could almost detect the ghost of a smile in her words. He opened his mouth to respond, but she was already gone, back into the darkness below. The detective looked around him – at the broken glass in the streets, the alleycat chewing on a piece of garbage – and made his decision.

England may have just been set free from its bonds, but it needed a hell of a lot more than explosives and pretty words to survive. Eric Finch would be its lifeline, Evey Hammond its voice, and whether the other man wanted it or not, V was going to finish what he'd started.

(1) Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "In Memoriam A.H.H.", stanza 27.

(2) Pink Floyd, "Wish You Were Here".