Yay! FF is back up! I wanted to post this hours ago. Better late than never. Oh and I just realised I forgot to do the whole disclaimer thingy. I don't own Hetalia.

EDIT: Gaahh! Sorry! I just realised I made a terrible mistake at some point in this chapter, so I went back and edited it. :S

next several hours were spent with England pacing fiercely around his cell.

"How did I get here? Think!"

England knew talking to himself would certainly look bad for the whole 'am I crazy or not' situation with his supposed doctor (if he was watching somewhere), but he needed some kind of noise, even if it was just the sound of his own voice, to help him figure this all out. …And even if it was the hundredth time he'd asked that very question.

He remembered waking up at five in the morning in his holiday house in America. It was America's turn to be the host country of their meeting, which was at 11am that day.

"Couldn't go back to sleep so I made breakfast…"

Just a scone with jam and cream (extra had been put on to cover up where he'd burnt the scone slightly) and then a nice, hot cup of tea...

"Then-"

A jog. An early morning run to keep himself fit and fill in time before the meeting. He'd gone around back behind his holiday house, down the backstreet towards the old factories, up through the small desolate park- he could remember it all so vividly!- back up the main avenue and back to his… house…

"Wait…"

Everything up to that last bit he had recalled with absolute clarity, but after he got half way up Main Street, he found he wasn't quite so sure. The details blurred and became fuzzy. Had he gone straight home? He should have, but he had the impression that he didn't. Had he taken a longer trip? Had he encountered somebody?

He didn't recall anything particularly violent, so it was likely that he hadn't been attacked or kidnapped at that point…

England rubbed his temples unhappily then took yet another peek out the small window of his padded prison. Still nothing of note. He sighed angrily and went back to his attempted recollections.

"I do remember being at the meeting…"

Though he couldn't mentally trace his steps from his house to down to the meeting place, he did remember an intense discussion with France –though about what he couldn't say, probably another argument about nothing-, talking to America –with an overwhelming feeling of apology –and…

And then he could swear he remembered being grabbed. He remembered rough hands grabbing his arms and he remembered this strange feeling of satisfaction that went with it. Not satisfied about being snatched, surely. So about what then? Something he'd done before being grabbed.

Suddenly a voice spoke.

"Kirkland!" England jumped, startled by the before unnoticed presence of another person. In the doorway, now wide open, stood a tall burly man dressed in a nurse's scrubs. "You've got a visitor."

England blinked at the man blankly for a minute. "Who is it?"

"Hell if I know. Now are you comin' peaceful-like or are things gonna get hairy?"

England frowned at the orderly. This guy had definitely wanted to be a cowboy when he was young. Probably still did. England followed quickly, however. If there was a visitor, he could get the entire story concerning why he was in there.

The walk was a long one and through the entire ordeal, the orderly glared at him. England was surprised he hadn't been suited up with a straight jacket. Grateful, but surprised. Finally they reached a white metal door with a large glass window. The orderly ushered England through and the man found himself in a common room of sorts. There were circular tables scattered around the room and a row of cushioned chairs lined against the wall.

He didn't see any other inmates. Maybe this was just a waiting area? It didn't matter. God, his head felt so foggy.

"Where's my visitor?" England asked, eager for some real answers.

The orderly pointed to an empty table with two empty chars sitting across from each other. England rolled his eyes at the burly man.

"Look. Maybe this is how you people entertain yourselves during the long dull hours, mate, but don't screw with me. I'm not crazy. There's no one there," England growled.

The big orderly's nostrils flared a bit and he grabbed England roughly by his arm and dragged him to the table.

"Sit down, Kirkland. He hasn't come in yet," the man sneered. "And you're definitely crazy."

Feeling a little foolish, but in no way apologetic to the bully in a nurse's uniform, England sat himself down in one of the two empty chairs and began drumming impatiently on the table. He wondered who had come to visit him. The orderly had said the visitor was a 'he'. Not that it ruled many people out.

A door on the far side of the room opened and a man with long-ish blonde hair was ushered in. England frowned, foolishly hoping the man was there for some other reason (even though he knew that was ridiculous), but his hopes were dashed when, upon noting England, the man hurried over and sat down across from him and flashed him a toothy smile.

His distress must have been plain on his face for the damn frog leaned in a bit and gave that toothy smile again. Perhaps it was supposed to be comforting. It wasn't.

"What's wrong, mon ami? Not happy to see me?" the man asked in his silky creeper voice.

"If I never saw you again it would be too soon, cheese muncher" He snapped, perhaps a little too sharply. France jumped.

England winced. Strike two for Arthur Kirkland, he thought. Maybe he was being a little too twitchy.

The visitor pursed his lips and watched England watch him a moment, then motioned to the orderly.

"Could you perhaps give us a moment, si' vous plait?" he asked.

England tensed. Private conversations were always a good sign of fruitful intel, so he was quite disappointed when the orderly shook his shaggy head of hair.

"Sorry, mate. Can't. Not with a case like his."

France nodded and fiddled with his jackets sleeve.

"Understandable." He turned his attention back to England. "So, 'ow 'ave you been? 'ad any luck with your treatment?"

England lifted a bushy eyebrow.

"Well… if my treatment's results are supposed to cause amnesia," England replied slowly. "Then I suppose so. I can't remember how I got here and so far no one has told me a single thing."

"Amnesia, hmm?" France repeated. Was that...disbelief England heard in his voice?

England frowned and forced himself to be patient a little longer. France watched England as if expecting him to say something, but since England couldn't imagine what that might be, he was disappointed. The other country pursed his lips then gave little sigh.

"Ok then, I guess I'll go. Fairwell Angleterre"

England's jaw dropped. That was it? And he couldn't believe France could be so stupid as to almost give away his identity, he glanced at the burly man in the corner was glad the orderly didn't seem to know what Angleterre meant. As France stood, England followed suit angrily. The orderly appeared behind England without a sound, but England didn't back down.

"That's all? You come down here to ask me about luck with my treatment?" His voice had risen a few notches and out of the corner of his eye, he noted the orderly edge even closer. He didn't care. "What's going on? Why are you really here? And for that matter, what the bloody hell am I doing here?"

The visitor stepped back at England's outburst, nearly tripping over his chair in bewilderment.

"I-I am a friend, Arthur, non? I 'ave known you for a long time. So naturally I came to visit you! I simply wanted to know 'ow they were treating you-"

"That's no answer!"

The orderly's heavy hand landed on England's shoulder. "Calm down, Kirkland."

"All I want is information!" England cried. "Why can't anyone just give me a straight answer?"

France seemed quite perturbed. "I should go," he said as he headed for the door.

"No!" cried England, both commandingly and pleadingly. He made to follow, but the strong hand of the orderly kept him still.

"Yes," the orderly countered.

England briefly considered ripping it off and going for a more forceful approach but decided that wouldn't convince anyone of his sanity.

"Wait!" France exclaimed. He reached into his overcoat's inside pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. The orderly wrinkled his nose but didn't stop the visitor from approaching them and tossing the letter on the table. England leaned in and picked it up almost warily.

"Who's it from?" he asked.

"From Monsier Callahan," France replied.

And with that, the french man turned and hurried for the door. England opened his mouth to question France one last time, but the orderly's deterring hand tightened its hold on his shoulder. England didn't argue. One last question wasn't likely to make France any less useless than he had been. As the old wooden door swung shut England turned his attention back to the envelope.

It hadn't been sealed, but the back flap had been folded inward to keep it closed. Ignoring the orderly behind him, England opened the envelope and slid out the note inside. The paper, torn from some larger piece, had been folded in half. In his frustration England nearly tore it again as he pulled it open. Surely the letter would be of some use.

He was disappointed. The semi-neat hand read:

Arthur,

Hope you're feeling better. Sorry I couldn't come see you in person, but you know how things are at work. I'll probably visit soon. Maybe on the 12th or 14th. Don't worry about all this, we'll make it right. You just worry about getting better and doing what the nurses tell you. Give them the old ten two!

-H. Callahan

England frowned. "Feel better? Ten two?" Wasn't the saying 'one two' anyway? "This can't be it," England muttered. He flipped the page over but found only a coffee stain.

"What? Not from your secret admirer?" the orderly jeered.

England just scowled, wondering how many times a perfect opportunity for information would wind up being worthless.

"Who's 'H. Callahan'?" he questioned aloud.

The hand on England's shoulder gave him a gentle push towards the door leading down to his cell.

"Don't know, don't care," the big man barked.

England looked over his shoulder to the door through which France had vanished and suddenly felt very claustrophobic. He wanted out. He needed air. If he could just-

As if sensing England's tension, the orderly pushed him a little faster towards the opposite door.

"Come on, Kirkland. I've got other things to be doing," the man growled.

The door slammed shut behind them, locking automatically behind them. The noise was surprisingly loud and England's hands went to his ears as they rang painfully. The orderly seemed unperturbed as he pushed England further along and the country had to wonder if the man had a hearing problem or if he was just extra sensitive from the meds. Shaking his head to clear it, England looked wearily to the man just behind him. All the fretting, annoyances, and confusion were taking their toll. He was tired and it was all giving him a headache.

"Please," he begged. "Just tell me something."

The bigger man sighed and pushed England forward again. "Fine. What?"

"Just tell me why I'm here."

The orderly snorted. "You really are crazy aren't ya'? Arthur Kirkland, you brutally murdered three people and are too crazy for plain old normal jail. That's why yer here."

-.-.-.-.-

-.-.-.-.-

At the sound of the sharp rap on the door, America straightened in his chair, but didn't get up. He couldn't tell who it was standing out there, but he had a pretty good idea. He placed the half-eaten burger he had in his hand down and flipped shut the folder he'd been reading with he'd snatched from the FBI, leaving visible only a few words on the outside; Case Number 28471020 - Triple Homicide, and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk.

"Come in," he called. Pretty politly too, he thought. He regretted his good manners immediately when the two men entered.

The british Prime minister, America had been expecting after the incident. The second man, well… America would have been happy if he'd never seen DCI Smith from the Scotland yard's homicide department ever again. Smith wasn't the least bit deserving of what few manners America might possess. Catching America's glare, Smith gave an arrogant smirk that made America's blood boil. If only the Prime minister wasn't there he'd take Smith's ridiculous polka-dotted tie and-

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," The Prime minister greeted cordially. You could tell the guy was new to his job, America thought. He still retained an energy and honesty that drained away after years that high up on the food chain. "I don't know if you remember me, as we've only met the once. I'm Britain's new Prime minister, Benjamin Rowe. And this is DCI Derek Smith, though I believe you're already acquainted."

"I remember you, Prime minister," Anerica replied, pointedly ignoring Smith. "So, why are you here?"

"That would be me, Jones," came Smith's nasal drawl. He took a half step forward and looked about to continue, but America interrupted him.

America scowled, "Look dude, I was talking to Mr. Rowe!"

Aggravated, Smith too raised his voice. "And I believe-"

"Gentlemen!" Rowe exclaimed before Smith could finish. America gave a disgruntled but acknowledging "hmph" and Smith stepped back to let his superior have the floor. "Thank you. Now, Mr. Jones, Derek here has made known to both your President and I an interesting matter of jurisdiction."

"Oh?" America asked innocently. The truth of it was that he knew exactly what Rowe was referring to, but he wasn't about to make this easy on Smith. He looked at the shorter of the pair and stood up, straightening his trusty bomber jacket. "Ya' know, Smith, you coulda come to me about any problems you have. You didn't have to bother the Prime minister, I mean, isn't he usually kinda busy?"

Just as America had hoped he would, Rowe looked to Smith with annoyance and disappointment. For a happy moment the elder man down looked on Smith, obviously displeased that Smith was wasting his time. Then Smith, his usually calm though snooty demeanor broken by the slight flush of color in his cheeks from his superior's disapproving stare, responded.

"As Mr. Jones knows, I already came to him about this matter," Smith explained, his cool returned. The man motioned to himself. "I told him that the case was well within our jurisdiction and that it should be handed over to Scotland yard. He… colorfully refused to do so."

Rowe's stern eyes moved now to America. He didn't care. That moment had still been very worth it. America leaned forward on his desk.

"I dunno what you mean, Smith. All you do is whine and it all starts to sound the same."

"He's referring to the triple homicide, Alfred." Rowe elaborated, already annoyed at Smith and America's childish rivalry.

There it was. Smith was trying to steal the case from the FBI. To move in on America's territory and do the job he'd assigned to his best people. America put his attention back on Smith, sizing the man up.

"The murders happened in America, so the american authorities will handle it. We're totally the heros, after all." America replied.

"The suspect involved is an important english politician! Jurisdictional law states th-"

"La la laaa, not listening!"

Rowe started softly. "Gentlemen-"

"How childish! How on earth did you get to be so high up in your government? You must be a bunch of id-"

"Gentlemen!" Rowe's shout silenced them both. The Prime minister sighed and fidgeted momentarily with his mustache as if trying to decide where best to start. America took the opportunity to speak.

"You're both on American soil, so I'd be a bit more polite if I were you guys. You're not my boss, I don't have to listen to you Rowe. Besides, you're too late, he already confessed"

Rowe looked angry, "Well then tell your men they did a good job on apprehending our murderer, Jones, but I'm recommending that this case now be handed over to Scotland yard for the duration of this investigation."

"But," America growled, rounding the side of his desk. "He's in a british asylum, he's in your country, you should be satisfied with that. The investigation is over."

Rowe threw a cautious look in Smith's direction, before grabbing America roughly and hissing into ear "I'm afraid not, America. There is more going on than just the murder of a few countries, not that one of them even counted as such and I believe it can best be handled by Smith's team."

America pulled himself away as Smith narrowed his eyes suspiciously and opened his mouth, presumeably to ask what had just been said but a quick glare from Rowe stopped the words from coming out of his mouth.

Just a few countries? As if their lives meant nothing? As if they were worth less than a humans life? America felt himself turning red with anger. "No offence bu-"

"No more about it," Rowe interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Your president agrees with me and he is your boss and you do have to listen to him. As soon as possible, I want all pertinent information concerning this case and personnel files on this Kirkland fellow given to DCI Smith. I also fully expect you to explain just what you, the culprit and the victims are."

And with that the Prime minister left America to stare at his door in bewilderment. That was it? 'Good job, we'll take it from here? No doubts to my country's involvement as a murderer or questions about the why he had confessed? Didn't he care that this whole incident could start a war? They were both being dicks. Why on earth did the president agree with them?

America sighed, he hated having to be the mature one. He wished England was here.

"So." Smith was still there, a smug smile on his face. "Care to tell me what he meant by what you are?"

He received no other answer than a fist to the face.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Moral of the story so far: OCs are dicks.

P.s. Sorry for the ocs, I don't like them and don't normally use them but the story kinda called for 'em.

Guess it's time for a little headcannon to make this fic make sense.

In this fic, only high up government officials know about the countries, as well as army generals when countries are at war. Normal people aren't technically supposed to know about countries, although it is possible for them to find out. Humans know them by their human names.

Also, countries can die, but only a few things can kill a country. Whole armys and powerfull political leaders can, as well as anyone who would be able to bring down a government, so a normal person on the street wouldn't be able to kill a country. Countries can kill other countries and can kill themselves (that would be why germany was so... errr... "worried" when italy had that grenade, it could have killed either of them). Societies colapsing or dissapearing can also kill a country.

Prussia has the same traits as a country in these matters, as do principalities and micro-nations.

Countries have to listen to their boss, even if they don't like it. As the Prime minister in this fic had the American presidents agreement that the case should go to scotland yard, America ended up having to give the case up.

And on that point, countries can meddle in law enforcement if they want, I mean, the higher-ups in the FBI are hardly gonna refuse their own country are they?

Oh and biologically, countries are basically the same as humans, so medicine and stuff would work the same on them, there's a few exceptions but I probably won't need to get into those.

End of rambling headcannon

~Please review, it'll get the chapters out quicker 'cos it motivates me. ^J^ ~