The Whistler's Whistle.

The Blackness Of Oblivion.

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update, life's been hectic recently and I found this chapter impossible (I still don't like it) but I had some great advice, so hopefully, it's okay. It was originally twice as long, but I decided to spit it up into Chapter six and seven. Anyway, I hope this chapter is okay (I'm kind of nervous about posting it) and I realise it's not my best, but it's needed. Thanks again to my beta SherlockXHolmes23.

Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, that's about it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing here.

"People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces, little things you can't quite account for: faces in photographs; luggage; half-eaten meals; rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely." – Doctor Who

When Neal Caffrey was a little boy, he thought that the world wasn't real.

With everything he had, Neal believed it. The stars, the world, all the people, the trees and flowers and police cars were all just illusions.

Dreams.

The playthings of a giant, not real and not living. But at five years and forty three days old, no one listened to Neal. He was just a stupid little boy, as his teacher so kindly pointed out. A boy who couldn't tell the difference between reality and the cruel, twisted nightmares that haunted him at night.

Those nights were spent alone and hungry because his mother was out working all the ungodly hours no one else wanted because it was that or Neal would go without dinner.

And a roof.

Even at five, Neal knew it wasn't his mother's fault but that didn't stop him crying when the sun disappeared and the lights wouldn't turn on because the electricity bill hadn't been paid in weeks. So rather than sit in the darkness on the single mattress in the centre of the room that had become their 'home', Neal would wrap himself up in an oversized navy blue coat that had once belonged to his Daddy.

The Hero.

Neal's hero.

Just by wearing it, the little boy felt that little bit safer, that little bit less alone and suddenly the shadows that swamped the flat and concealed the monsters would shrink away back to the pits of wherever they'd come. The hem of the coat dragged just below Neal's ankles and no matter how hard he tried, the zip always remained stuck, allowing the cold air to engulf him once again.

It was a Monday night when it happened. Just like every Monday night, his mother had cooked him what little she could for dinner and then left with only a quick kiss on the cheek as a goodbye. He'd watched her go, a book open in his lap and he attempted the read the long, complicated words but his mind wasn't in it.

There was something wrong.

Neal had bundled himself back in the coat and left the apartment, shutting the door softly behind him (he didn't need to worry about taking a key because that friend of his mothers had smashed the lock a few months before) and without pausing for a moment in the shadowed hallway, Neal had run from the building.

The cold didn't hit him nearly as hard as it should have because Neal was used to it, but what did strike Neal as peculiar was the little man sat on the bottom steps, smoking quietly away at a cigarette.

He coughed every few moments, hacked and choked on the dirt in his lungs before taking another drag, the only thing that made it all worth it.

He pretended not to notice Neal Caffrey hovering behind him and instead decided to talk to hushed city night, his listener.

"The city is supposed to be quieter at night, but I've always thought it was louder."

Neal jumped and balled his fists tighter around the coat but the man continued to talk, smoking away without ever looking around.

"There's that bleeping of the car alarm that doesn't seem to come from anywhere. Those footsteps, not as many as in the daytime, but just as dogs. Midnight taxis. The drunk man singing down that alley way and the sad thing is, he's got real talent. Then there's the sound of the babies crying-"He cut off and stubbed his cigarette out on the concrete beside him, "Do you like the city at night, kid?"

Neal felt his breath catch in his throat and a few moments passed where neither said anything but then Neal, being unable to resist the company of anyone, replied with a tiny voice.

"No."

The little boy could tell that the man smiled without ever seeing his face. "Why's that?"

"It's too dark." Neal suddenly felt incredibly exposed and the only thing that stopped him from running was his Daddy's coat, a symbol of bravery and courage and everything his father had been. Everything Neal wanted to be. "I don't like the dark."

With a real laugh, the man patted the step beside him, his thinning brown hair blowing slightly in the breeze. Neal licked his dry lips and shuffling forwards before sitting down next to the stranger, without looking at him directly, he was too shy for that.

"It scares you?" The man asked, gruffly and softly at the same time. "Don't worry, it scares me too."

"Then why are you sitting out here? That's just silly." It was a sudden boldness that had made Neal ask the question and he winced, slamming his tiny hand across his mouth because that was a rude thing to say to an adult; especially one he'd only just met.

But again, the man just chuckled and didn't look down at Neal, just continued to stare out at the deserted street and it was only then that Neal noticed he wore thick rimmed sunglasses, the hinges taped together.

"Well, it scares me but if I didn't sit out here now, when else would I?"

With a puzzled frown, Neal looked back up at him.

Sharp finger nails that scratched absently at his beard.

"I don't understand what you mean….."

"No. You wouldn't."

The little boy wasn't sure whether he was meant to reply to that, so instead stayed quiet and played with the coat zip, tongue stuck between his teeth in frustration.

A half hour passed and the man lit and tossed away another cigarette and Neal watched it burn and flicker on the pavement, a little orange ember dying.

"What's your name?" The stranger questioned calmly.

"Caffrey. Neal Caffrey." The little boy was simply copying what the men said on those lame cop shows, the thing his Daddy must have said. "You can call me Neal."

"Well, hello, Caffrey Neal Caffrey." There was a smirk, but no mocking tone to his voice. "I'm Ben. You can call me Ben."

"Ben. I used to have a dog named Ben."

"Really? I had a dog."

"Had?"

"Yeah, he got run over. He's dead now."

"Oh." Neal felt that familiar wave of sadness wash over his head and he swallowed, before shoving it back down deep where it belonged, somewhere it couldn't touch him. "Sorry. My dog Ben, he went away with my Daddy."

"Where did your Daddy go?"

"Heaven."

"Oh."

Ben felt uneasy but his cool, collected exterior gave very little away about himself. That's just the way he liked it. He felt Neal shift at his side and heard the child breathe through his nose, clicking his teeth every now and again.

"Why don't you like the dark, Neal?" Ben asked yet another question, one the boy couldn't really answer.

"I…..guess it's because I can't see anything. When its dark…and I'm on my own….it's….I can't really explain." Neal truly couldn't. But everyone was afraid of the dark, how couldn't they be?

Even when you weren't alone (which Neal too often was) you couldn't see anybody and so it was like you were alone. There were just noises that made no sense and sounded like snarls, the growls of monsters out to kill and the shadows seemed so much bigger and much scarier.

But it wasn't just that, not for Neal. It was dark when his mother had told him that Daddy was dead and never coming back.

It had been the blackest night when Neal lost his hero.

"I know what you mean, kid." Ben sighed and shifted his legs and it was then that Neal noticed a walking stick propped up against the steps. The stranger didn't look that old but again, Neal thought it was better not to ask. "I'd give anything to see the light again."

The little boy blinked slowly, nervously and suddenly his coat wasn't enough to protect him.

He didn't understand.

That all Neal ever wanted.

"What….?" The boy's voice was a timid whisper but he trailed off because Ben turned around to face him and gently, hesitantly removed the thick framed glasses and let them fall into his lap.

Neal gasped.

Even in the electric orange glow of the street lamps, the boy could see it.

The whiteness, the nothingness that lay in Ben's eyes. There was no colour, no life, just a clouded film across his irises and Neal fought against the urge to run away inside again.

"Your eyes….."He murmured in a soft voice, "What happened to your eyes?"

"I'm blind, Neal. It just happens sometimes." Ben shrugged weakly and shoved the glasses back on his face, almost as if he couldn't stand to have his eyes on show for more than a few moments.

"How did it happen?"

"It just did."

Neal felt his heart thud harder and he wished he'd stayed inside, never met the man but something stopped Neal running. It wasn't anything big or important, it was just the way Ben hung his head with a limp roll of his shoulders, like it was too much effort to hold it up and face the world.

"Are you okay?"

Ben smiled at the question and ruffled Neal's dark, curly hair with a calloused hand. "I'm okay. You get used to it. It takes time…a lot of time, but you adjust. You have to, Neal. It's that or die."

It only took a few months for Neal to forget he ever met Ben, ever saw his eyes or heard his pained, tired voice but the moment Neal had woke up the next morning after the meeting, he had made a blindfold.

While his mother was sleeping, Neal had wrapped it over his eyes and swore to keep it on all day and deal with the darkness, just like Ben had too.

But Neal Caffrey was only five years old, after all and soon the fear became too much and after ten minutes, he ripped it off.

Neal didn't like not being able see.

It was too scary.

It didn't worry Neal at first that he couldn't open his eyes. They were heavy and fluttered like butterfly wings with the effort and he soon gave up and resorted to moving his limbs. He thought perhaps they were chained down too, because they just remained in place no matter how hard he fought against them.

Neal was drifting, floating in this airy, light and quiet place and the warmth tempted him to stay there. He considered it, but underneath the hazy layer that stopped his thinking, Neal knew there was something important.

Something so, so important.

Neal wasn't sure how much time passed but the light was blinding when he finally did prize open his eyelids and he felt his face screw up comically. Through blurry eyes, he watched the world whirl and swirl before sliding back into focus. It took too long for his liking.

And then he saw Peter.

The man was sat on a chair beside the bed Neal was tucked tightly into, papers spread across his lap and Neal's legs.

He was eating and Neal felt repulsed.

And sick. And way too dizzy for logical thoughts.

The ex-con man watched his best friend for a few minutes, absorbed in the tiny, bored movements he made. The twirling of his biro pen around his thumb, the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs whenever one started to tingle, the way he cringed at every sip of his coffee but still continued to drink it.

Hospital coffee was meant to be awful

When Peter yawned and finally looked up from his work, his face broke out into a smile at the sight of Neal's glassy blue eyes. He leaned forward and mouthed Hello.

Neal raised one hand and let it drop in greeting, ignoring the pulse monitor clipped to the end of his finger. Over the last few days, Neal had managed to pick up a few phrases when watching a person's lips. Not nearly enough, but Neal wasn't in the mood for talking anyway.

You okay, Neal?

Neal was going to nod and then he realised that he wasn't or at least, he didn't actually know. He felt numb, detached from the world even more so than usual and the buzzing continued to scream from all directions. But he barely noticed it was worse than before, his mind was too fuzzy for that.

"M'tired." Neal pushed all his thoughts away as some came back, slowly and in chopped segments that made no sense at all. "Head….hurts a little bit."

But he was tired and it didn't bother Neal that he couldn't remember that very important thing. He just let his head loll into the pillow and he soon fell quickly to sleep, too exhausted to give a damn.

Peter studied Neal's pale features as his eyes fluttered to a close and he dropped back into that black, unnaturally deep sleep that disturbed the agent. He sighed and let his hand drift up to brush the stray strands of the Neal's dark hair away from his forehead, his hand remaining on his head for longer than Peter intended. Running his fingers through the messy locks, the older man didn't noticed Elle or June come back into the room until Elizabeth's delicate hand touched his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Peter?" She whispered as she sat down next to her husband and June went around to the other side.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The agent pulled his hand back from his CI and smiled tightly at June, who began to pull out the food from the bags that she'd brought. She pulled out a thermo cup and handed it across the bed to Peter.

"Italian Roast." June said and the man gave a grateful nod, it was certainly better than the stale black liquid that the hospital 'claimed' was coffee.

"He woke up a second ago…."Peter began to stack his files in no particular order. "I don't think he understood what was happening really."

"The doctor said that was normal, the sedative. " Elle replied softly, eyes on the young man. "We'll just have to wait. It shouldn't be too long."

"Peter…." June took a sip of her coffee, carefully. "After the tests, we'll know whether….I don't mind Neal coming back home with me. In fact, I'd like him too."

Peter avoided her gaze because he knew this was going to be a difficult situation. He wanted Neal where he could watch him, stop him from retreating back inside that shell he was no doubt going to set up for himself.

"Well, Peter and I-"

"Hun, I think we should let Neal decide for himself. It's his life."

Neal had waited, hands wringing nervously in his lap as they attached various amounts of complicated looking equipment to his aching head, a bustle of nurses and doctors and specialists talking all the while. If he only he had known what they were saying but Neal couldn't be sure of anything at that moment.

All he knew was that he was in pain and the fear he felt was painted across his face and he hated that. He was so good at hiding everything he felt, from everyone and yet as sat there, it was unnaturally difficult. It was like not only had his hearing been stripped away but his ability to fool others into believing whatever he wanted.

Believing that he wasn't scared when in fact, it was the most true fear he'd ever felt.

His lips were pursed in a thin, straight line and he chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. He used to do that when he was a kid. Sometimes, he chewed so hard that he broke the skin and his mouth flooded with blood. Neal swore he could see scars maiming the pink flesh when he shone a light inside his mouth.

He'd woken upproperly no more than an hour before. Disorientated. Dizzy and the buzzing in his ears had reached merciless levels and through the viscous, shrieking whirring of his injuries, he couldn't actually tell if he could hear anything.

All sounds that could have leaked through were caught and pushed back by the buzzing, the tinnitus as the doctor had called it. It trapped everything, trapped Neal.

He still didn't know.

All he knew was that his ears had been repaired.

But not fixed.

His life still hadn't been fixed and Neal winced at the harsh light from the beeping equipment, tearing his gaze back towards Peter, who spoke along to the beats of the buzzing.

Dr Arnolds didn't seem to display any particular emotions and that only heightened Neal's fear.

He couldn't read the man and that was the one thing Neal Caffrey was good at, relied upon. Hand gestures, the rate at which they blinked, where their gaze would stray when no one was looking.

The Doctor returned his attention to his patient. Finally, reluctantly and it was then that the tests began.

First they looked inside his ears and he found himself breathing through the dull pain that ignited the moment they did. The tiny camera with its distorted, hazy image meant very little to Neal but he found himself watching it up on the screen, remaining deathly still.

The body was a peculiar thing to look at. Pink, fleshy and dark and Neal couldn't pick much out and that also unnerved him. With art, the colours could mean nothing to most people but everything to Neal.

That he understood. Art he could look at and really see.

He thought he saw some stitches.

Then an advanced, complicated set of earphones were attached securely to the ex-cons head, so tightly that it hurt and through a few short, straight to the point notes, Dr Arnolds said he was going to play sounds of different pitches to see which ones Neal could hear.

If he could hear any, that was.

Two minutes.

This particular pitch which was a mystery to Neal.

One hundred and twenty seconds of buzzing was all that he heard.

The next sound and a few tense seconds of waiting and again all that greeted Neal was the continuous droning that he still hadn't grown accustomed to and very little else.

There's still hope, they said.

Fifteen more minutes for the pain to increase, the unblemished sense of fear to bubble.

Fifteen more minutes of silence.

Neal felt sick, like something was forcing its way up his throat; choking him and Peter's warm hand on his shoulder did nothing to ground him, stop him drifting away in the depths of oblivion.

He wanted to run.

Forget what he couldn't hear.

But it wasn't over yet.

A few more pitches to try and then we'll know, they said.

A few more candles, beacons of light and a few more buckets of water ready to extinguish them.

They pressed play and then they waited.

Waiting was a tortuous game. Forget patience, it was worthless.

A few minutes passed and everyone was studying Neal's expression, desperate for any hint, any clue that the young man heard something.

Anything. A tiny sound, a little flicker of noise, just something so that his world wouldn't crumble into nothingness.

Peter would have given anything for Neal just hearat that moment.

But he knew, just by the absence of emotion on Neal's young, pained face, that it was over.

And he tightened his grip on the others shoulder and met the feverishly bright, cobalt blue eyes with his own and it was impossible not to see and whither like a dying rose at the despair within Neal's gaze.

Neal George Caffrey heard only silence.

A/N: If this chapter didn't go how you wanted it to, please don't abandon me because this story is not finished yet! A review would be much appreciated.