Wow, thanks for the reviews! They made my day! :) A big thank you also goes out to everyone out there reading. Thanks for keeping up with this!

I was all excited -not- to mark this "M for Mature", but ... it's M for Mature. Or at least, Bullock's section is. Gordon's section is, as usual, squeaky clean. (Oh, Jim. Ever the gentleman. How I missed writing you.)

(x)

Harvey groaned to himself. The receiver of his phone was becoming one with his ear.

Your call is very important to us. Please enjoy the next forty-five minutes of this penny-whistle solo of "My Heart Will Go On". Little fun fact: if you're a real rat bastard to everyone all your life, you'll get to hear the exact same song playing on repeat in hell. It made him long for the days when an actual human being would answer the phone. Progress wasn't always a good thing.

He tried to surrender himself to settling in and waiting. (A woman's voice that sounded like two valiums and one quaalude again reminded him that his call was very important to them.) Both because he had no other alternative and also because if he ever wanted to see Gordon set foot outside Blackgate, there were just certain things that needed to be done. This was one of them.

Above him he heard familiar echoing laughter. Madeline stood with Barnes right outside his office door, both of them leaning against the wall, sharing some kind of joke. Harvey made a grumbling sound as he held the receiver up to his ear and turned away. ...Nice to see everybody getting along around here lately.

Not a second later, Ed Nygma popped into his eye-line. All Nygma needed was a green hat with a couple short antennae and he could be the GCPD's version of the Great Gazoo. His sudden appearance wasn't heart-attack inducing enough for Harvey to threaten his life, at least not this time around.

Ed asked, "Detective, are you … are you on a call-"

"I'm on hold." Harvey added, "Again. What do you want, Ed?"

He handed him a slip of paper. "I ran diagnostics on the massage oil the killer used on both call girls. It's Benzoin essential oil. A little too rare to be picked up at your local drug store. The suspect would have to order it online."

Harvey accepted the paper. "Got it. Thanks for the rundown."

He detailed, "From what I could ascertain, it comes from a Balsam tree in the Middle East. Used in cleansing rituals in medieval times. At least, that's the only time I've ever heard of it being used."

Madeline's high-pitched laughter once again broke through the everyday hustle and bustle of the station. Harvey squinted over at her and muttered to himself. "What… the hell are they laughing about?"

Ed answered automatically, "Life threatening injuries to their arteria femoralis."

Harvey arched an eyebrow at Nygma in reply as the spaced-out feminine voice over the line reminded him, 'Your call is very important to us.'

Ed looked over at them and said frankly, "I don't get it."

That meant he and Nygma were finally on the same page. He decided that was a pretty chilling red flag as to the direction his life was currently taking.

Ed drew up suddenly and asked in a high-pitched voice, "Is there any more news on … Jim Gordon and his very unfortunate sentence in Blackg-"

"They dropped my call." Harvey sat bolt upright as he listened to a sudden blaring, beeping dial tone. He pulled back the receiver to look at it. "My call is important to you? Right, my call is so goddamn important to you that some robot on a satellite in outer space disconnects me after I've been waiting here, getting hemorrhoids and listening to the Titanic soundtrack, for the past forty-five minutes!" He slammed down the phone on its cradle, setting off a short 'brring'. "Flame-broiled cock-knocking automated piece of donkey shit."

Ed backed away out of pure habit, leaving Harvey to hunch over and pinch his fingers on the bridge of his nose.

That's it. It was officially fuck this shit 'o clock. He'd go down to city hall tomorrow in person. Maybe then he could talk to someone that wasn't tape-recorded.

When he pulled his hand away from his face, he looked up to see Captain Barnes staring down his nose at him. "Where are we with taking down this escort-stabbing serial killer?"

Harvey wanted to tell him that two deaths didn't technically constitute a serial killing, but he could already hear Barnes telling him that wiseass remarks like that didn't technically mean he had to work there anymore. He said, "We got some diagnostics back on a massage oil found on both the bodies. We're looking into it. Other than that, no different than the last time you asked me."

"And what're you doing to change that?"

He said, "Let me find Alvarez. We'll get on it. We'll pull in this dirtball before you can say 'mamasan.'"

Barnes frowned. "That some kind of cat-house slang?"

"I think it means you want ginger with your sushi." Harvey hoped to Christ that Barnes would use it the next time he went to order lunch at the Dancing Shrimp sushi bar. Then he'd learn how to properly ask for a 'happy ending for my dingle' in Gotham.

He eyed him, saying, "Get on the ball with this thing. I want an update on my desk first thing tomorrow morning."

"You got it, boss."

As Barnes took his leave, Harvey scooped up the report Nygma left on his desk, got to his feet, and went looking for Alvarez. He was suddenly thankful that he wasn't alone in this investigation. If somebody was gonna get blamed for there being no movement on this bullshit murder case, it wasn't going to be him.

(x)

Madeline's heels clicked as she headed back to her office. She was about to step through her door, when she saw a flash of a familiar white lab coat. Dr. Lee Thompkins rushed past before disappearing back into the lab, barely sparing a second outside closed doors.

Madeline understood why. Nobody knew what to say to her. What had happened to Jim Gordon (and by proxy to her) made everyone uncomfortable, so they avoided her. Now Lee caught on and was avoiding them right back. Madeline would have walked into the M.E. Lab and addressed the issue herself. … Except even with all her wanton post-graduate education on how to effectively communicate, she didn't have the first idea what to say either.

She might have shrugged a 'whatever' and improvised anyway, except Detective Alvarez caught her right at the door of her office.

He walked up to her saying, "Hey. It's … Madeline, right?"

"Yes, it is." I can understand your confusion. After all, we've only known each other for seven years. It said everything she needed to know about where she fell on Alvarez's radar.

"Have you got a minute? I want to, like, float something by you."

Madeline squinted at him but allowed him into her office with an uncertain, "... Okay."

Alvarez illustriously presented his proposition, and she immediately narrowed her gaze, looking at him over the top of her glasses. She repeated, "You want me to dress up like … a prostitute?"

He opened wide his hands. "Well, we'd pay you."

"You want to pay me … to dress up like a prostitute?"

At that moment, Harvey popped his head into the office. "Here you are," he said to Alvarez. "Been looking all over the goddamn office."

Alvarez looked over at her. "So, is that like a …" He weighed his hands in 'yes-or-no' question.

"No. Thank you," Madeline said definitely. She looked at Harvey and got him up to speed. "Alvarez here is suggesting that I get out more and be part of the community by monetizing my sexuality and walking the streets."

Harvey's shoulders dropped and he rolled his eyes. He pointed his flattened hand to Madeline. "So that's it?" he snapped at him. "That's your big idea you were so fuckin' excited about?"

Alvarez's eyes widened in aggravation. "Look, all our regular undercover girls have had their T and A out on the street way too long. They're gettin' made left and right. I've got Barnes riding my ass about this."

Harvey shot a look at Madeline, one she knew well. A 'these are the idiots I work with.'

Alvarez kept complaining, "He keeps saying we get need to get on the ball. Don't drop the ball. Keep the balls in the air."

Madeline made a dramatic show of rolling her eyes. She'd officially lost her patience for men and their balls. Not that she'd ever had much patience in the first place.

Alvarez said, "He's sayin' we gotta think outside the box."

Harvey rested his hands on his belt. "How 'bout he's saying 'don't fuck up'?"

Madeline suddenly stood with her posture and stance fully straightened. She drew near and asked them, "So … is this regarding the case with the steak knives and the call girls?"

Harvey nodded. "One dead lady of the evening and one dead chick with a dick of the evening." He said, "Must be one of those open-minded, equal opportunity murder-rapists."

"More like it's just the opposite," she said. "With all that rage, blood, and self-hate, you're looking for someone deeeeeep down in that closet." But she spoke in a distracted tone. She made a loud humming sound of consideration, and slowly, she circled Alvarez in a close inspection tour.

Alvarez flinched. "What the…What's this? ...Why're you doin' that?"

Madeline looked up at Harvey. "You said one identified as transgendered, right?" She shrugged and smiled widely.

Harvey caught on and cackled out a laugh.

For a long moment, Alvarez frowned in confusion. Then he sprung to life, sputtering, "What? No. Uh-uh. No freakin' way."

She blinked her eyes with doe-eyed innocence. "Hey, now. Don't get all offended. I'm just floating something by you."

Harvey pointed to him. "Hey, you're the one who brought up this shit in the first place."

Alvarez threw up his hand at Harvey. "No. This is -your- case. If anybody's gonna cross dress and go undercover it's gonna be you."

Harvey put up both his hands. "Wait a minute. You're gonna want to think this one through. I don't know about you, but I ain't lookin' to meet the mope that'd have me in a dress for a fetish."

Alvarez shouted, "Have you seen the pink sequined pieces of crap we got in the back? This isn't happening."

"Now, now," Madeline said, drawing out the words. "The pin-up girls of Gotham are in danger. They need your help." She added, "And you know…anything old can be made new again. With the right pair of shoes."

Harvey let loose another long laugh. He clapped Alvarez on the shoulder and started to lead him out. "C'mon. Let's go 'float' this past Barnes."

Madeline's eyes widened once again before she said, "He's gonna just love it."

"Of course, he will." Harvey's voice sounded like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. "It's your idea. He'll just eat it up."

She smirked at him as she threw on her suit jacket and grabbed up her briefcase.

Alvarez was already down the hall and loudly called back, "This is the worst cockamamie scheme I've ever heard."

Madeline addressed Harvey, not Alvarez. "That's baloney. All my cockamamie schemes are pure genius."

Down the hall, Alvarez bitched and moaned about how he didn't even have a dress size, when Harvey nodded to her. "Where you hurryin' off to? Dr. Phil doesn't come on 'til four."

She passed by him saying, "Got a session. If you need any help with the fashion show, let me know."

Harvey sent her a quick flash of his cynical, saucy smile as he turned heel to follow after Alvarez. As he left, Madeline swept an assessing eye over him as he stalked away. He walked with swagger, with clout, like a man commanding respect.

He could no longer be found in the bottom of a bottle. He was back.

(x)

Jim Gordon woke up to feel the ache in his back and the crick in his neck screaming silent obscenities. He ate his breakfast that was gray and tasteless and had the consistency of glue. Then he hunkered down in the laundry room, washing sheets and inmates' clothes that reeked of every foul smell his prison mates' bodies made.

The whole time he did it, he kept his head down, avoiding all eye contact. He didn't look directly at the guards and he especially didn't look at the other inmates, many of whose colorful criminal pursuits were put on permanent hiatus after he cuffed them in bracelets. Even looking away, he still caught their dagger death glares in his peripheral vision. Their hatred was naked, up front, and filled with icy resignation. Some of the men shooting him murderous looks he recognized. Others he didn't. He guessed some of the prisoners at Blackgate were simply beating the rush, starting to hate him now before he gave them a compelling enough reason.

To keep his mind off the imminent, ever present threat of attack, Jim did every task assigned to him with complete focus and absolute precision. On some level he recognized that it was all merely a distraction, a philosophical sleight of hand to keep his mind from snapping like a dry twig.

Every hour on the hour, he wondered if he could keep it up for the whole day. For the whole month.

For the next forty years.

Then he acted a slavemaster to his mind and put his nose back to the grindstone. Aching back, breakfast, run around the yard, lunch, laundry room, dinner, (look at the blissfully smiling picture of Lee, hold the image of her and their child in his mind's eye, push the image back into the deep closet of his subconscious), try to sleep. Repeat.

That was the drill. Except for today.

There were two things that deviated from his norm that afternoon.

After hearing the sniffles, coughs, and nasally voices all around him, he knew it was only a matter of time. Jim caught his first prison cold. Whatever virus hung stale in the air, the strain was a nasty one. Outside the 'cooler' in the 'free world', Jim never took a decongestant, cough syrup, or even an aspirin if he could help it. Something about taking over-the-counter meds always felt like cheating.

Now with only crack, adderall, heroin, and toilet hooch readily available from your local pharmaceutical rep on every corner, he suddenly wished he'd taken more advantage of the medicinal wonders of the outside world.

If he had anything to give, and he didn't, he would have given it up for a hot cup of tea and some cold medication.

So there was that.

Also Wilson Bishop, one of Blackgate's veteran prison guards, took him gently by the arm and steered him back into an older, closed off section of the prison past F Wing. The hallways and rooms had been shut down for either construction or condemnation, Jim couldn't say for sure.

Decay was the first word that came to mind. The hallway was more than falling apart. It looked like scene from a war newsreel. Frankfurt after the Allies broke through enemy lines and gained ground. Even though it no longer held inmates and guards walking up and down its floors, it still smelled distinctly of B.O. and sour eggs, as did every other part of Blackgate.

Jim would have been concerned about the sudden change in schedule, except Wilson stood out as the only openly human prison guard he'd met so far. And Wilson knew Bullock. This was a check-in from his no-longer-technically-a-partner, despite Harvey's adamant assertion otherwise.

Wilson stopped in front of a closed door, looked at Jim, and opened it.

He stepped forward into the room, expecting to see Harvey leaning comfortably, rogue-style against the far wall.

Instead, he saw Dr. Madeline Scott dressed in a starched, sleek top and pencil skirt, sitting pertly in an aluminum chair behind a flimsy upright folding table. A second empty aluminum chair sat across from her, and two steaming cups of coffee sat on the tabletop.

Jim felt the stages happen. He stared at her with shock, then aggravation, then concern.

"Hello, Jim," Madeline said.

The block of ice in his stomach began to melt. "Madeline," he said through his teeth. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for your session." She waved a vague hand at the styrofoam cup to her left. "Coffee?"