He's in front of him, shifting in place, his limbs twitching with the raging emotions and thoughts that have finally seized complete control of his faculties. His hands are occupied. He uses one to clutch the side of his head, grinding his palm into his skull, attempting to muffle the cacophony heard only by him. The other hand…

Ian fixates his frantic eyes on that hand. The fluorescents emit their harsh light, somehow enhancing the dull metal being ominously wielded.

"Don't… don't you see?" he screams, desperation and derangement strangling the formerly smooth articulate voice. "Can't you HEAR them?"

Ian glacially moves one foot, then the other… He can help him, can reason with him. It's not too late.

"Listen to me," he says, his tone conveying a calm he does not feel.

"NO!" he bellows. His eyes flash with animal ferocity, as if a trapper is closing in on him. The free hand now beats madly at his temple, while the occupied hand remains aimed forward even though it's trembling.

"Please…" Ian's begging now, desperation and fear strangling him.

"You…You said they would stop! That you could make them stop! Why haven't they STOPPED?!" he roars, his cries echoing off the terrified silence. His head tilts ever so slightly, allowing the light to cast notice on his glistening forehead.

"I'm sorry…" Ian has no other words. He's failed him and there is no consolation for such a thing.

The grip tightens, the tremors cease, and he takes aim.

"NO!"

Ian sprang upright in a cold sweat, his arms flailing and gasping for air, the remembered gunshot still resonating in his ears. Without realizing, his left hand slid across the bed sheets, as if his instinctively seeking solace. All he found was empty space. His senses started to refocus and he realized he was back in his normal life.

Several shuddering breaths escaped him as he attempted to reign in the plethora of sensations that always came with these nightmares. As his breathing relaxed and his mind began to clear, Ian finally realized that his hand was extended out to the side. He quickly dismissed it; clearly, he was attempting to brace himself upwards and that was why his one arm was out to the side. Ian looked at the time and saw that it was nearly eight. Though he was exhausted, as was the usual after one of these episodes, he firmly decided against sleep; even if it was possible for him to drift back off, he most certainly did not want to risk the chance of another of those experiences.

Dragging himself from the bed, Ian trudged to his en suite and stepped into the shower, turning the water on as he did so. The initial blast was frigid and was a shock to his senses. As the water began to heat, almost to scalding, he felt the tension within his body begin to ease. He closed his eyes and was almost instantly struck with a barrage of images, more detailed than the ones in his nightmare. He hated the morning after one of these episodes, because he never just remembered the nightmare—he relived it over and over again. He could feel the fear surge through his veins, the blood pounding in his ears, the smell after the gun fired, even the wild desperation in the man's eyes. If he thought hard enough, he could feel the blunt force to his body as he fell to his knees, smell the metallic odor of the warm crimson that seeped through his fingers as he….

Ian's body acted of its own accord and he was suddenly bracing himself against the tiled walls, retching almost uncontrollably. He felt as if his stomach was clawing its way out of his body. His hands slid down the wall as his legs gave way and his body fell to the floor. He rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing haggardly as he reigned in and buried the emotions he refused to acknowledge he felt.

It was near ten before Ian was dressed and able to function at an acceptable level. He was in denims and an Oxford, which was a rarity for him. For the last five years his life had consisted of work and… well, work. There was no time or use for recreation or relaxation. The clothes felt strange against his skin, but then again everything felt strange in and against his skin today. Ian had heard his mobile alert several times while he was changing, so he walked over to the nightstand and checked his messages. On seeing who they were from, Ian wearily exhaled.

Coffee?

He stared at the simple question, debating his next move. Against his better judgment, he complied, texting back for details. Immediately there was a response.

Forster's around 10:15?

After sending his response, he pocketed his mobile and grabbed his keys. Forster's was only a few blocks away; deciding the fresh air would do him some good, he pulled on his coat and headed out.

Ian opened the door to Forster's, expecting to have to idly bide his time before her arrival. But as he stepped in, he immediately noticed her sitting at one of the front tables. Her eyes were instantly on him, and she smiled as she took a sip from her cup. He walked over and took a seat in the free chair opposite her.

"Hello, Sarah Jane," he said, offering her a small smile.

Her smile widened, highlighting the warmth in her eyes. "It's good to see you, Ian. It's been a long time."

"Guilt trip already?" he asked somewhat defensively, straightening himself up in his chair.

Even though his manner altered, Sarah Jane's demeanor remained unaffected. Her smile softened as a trace of sadness entered her eyes. "No guilt trip. Just stating fact—two months is a long time."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Weelll," he sniffed, "I've been busy."

He motioned to a passing barista and ordered an Americano.

"You're always busy," she said softly, taking another sip from her cup.

He furrowed his brow for a fleeting moment. "Thought you said this wasn't a guilt trip."

"It's not a guilt trip, Ian," she sighed. "This is me being genuinely concerned about you. Jack tells me th—"

"Oh, I'm sure Jack tells you all sorts of things, none of which I care about."

The barista placed the drink in front of him, and Ian handed him a few notes. He took an angry swig of his drink, scalding his tongue as he did so, yet not flinching.

"I know you better than that, Ian," she countered, scooting closer towards him. "I know you care—about Jack, about me, about many things. You just refuse to acknowledge it anymore."

"Did you just ask me down here so you could give me some sort of lecture?" he snapped, "Because I'm not interested in hearing it."

She pressed on her temples, trying to relieve the pressure controlling her emotions were causing. "It's not… Ian, the three of us… we're all the family we have left, and—"

Ian's eyes flashed with restrained anger, and his voice was as cold as ice. "You think I don't know that?" he spat. "Believe me—I don't need you to remind me of what we've lost!"

Sarah Jane's eyes started to glisten at his words. "That's not what I'm trying to do. I just wanted t—"

Ian stood up abruptly, halting her words. "You know what? I knew this was a mistake,' he muttered angrily, finishing off the remaining contents of his cup. "Always lovely to see you, Aunt Sarah. Let's never do this again."

With those words, Ian slammed his cup down on the table and stormed out of the café. Sarah Jane stared after him, a few silent tears finally breaking free as he faded out of sight.

After leaving Forster's, Ian just kept walking, cursing himself with each step. He knew better than to meet up with Sarah Jane after last time. They had met for lunch two months ago, after she hounded him relentlessly for two straight weeks. Things had been civil, bordering on enjoyable, when an uninvited guest joined them—Jack. At least Ian thought he was uninvited. It swiftly became apparent that their little family reunion had been orchestrated by their aunt. It lasted all of five minutes, before Ian stood up, knocking over his chair and leaving without ever looking back. After steadfastly ignoring her calls, Sarah Jane came down to his office and practically camped out until he agreed to see her. He'd expected to have her bombard him with various excuses and reasons for why they should meet and so on; but in the end, she'd offered an apology for ambushing him like that in public. They had parted ways on better terms than when he had left, but still more than a little strained. But after today, strained would be a miraculous improvement.

As he wandered the streets, Ian continued to turn his thoughts over and over, until they became one muddled mass. Deciding enough was enough, he made a hardened attempt to regain control and divert his thoughts to something, anything else. Where they turned was somewhere unexpected—Rose. He couldn't begin to comprehend why his thoughts continuously turned to her. Then again, there were a lot of things happening to him that he couldn't comprehend. He'd met her once, just once; and now she was a fixture in some fantastical illusion of his. What was it about her that could possibly be so special? Thinking about her made him feel…different. Good different, bad different? He wasn't quite sure which one it was honestly. What he was sure of, was that it was bloody maddening.

His surroundings became increasingly familiar, causing Ian to curse his subconscious. Apparently, it decided that merely thinking of Rose wasn't enough, deciding that it should direct him to her last known location; and before he realized it, he was nearing Rendezvous. He stopped short of the entrance, debating which move to make next. In a surprising show of decisive action, he exhaled exaggeratedly and marched the rest of the distance to the door. Unfortunately for him, once he reached it, he found it to be closed. And once again, he was irritatingly torn between feeling relieved and feeling severely disappointed. Ian was starting to believe he was utterly and certifiably barmy.

Turning away from the café, he continued his aimless wanderings down the street. Several blocks down, something caught his attention and brought him a complete halt. He was in front of a shop with a large red awning, and a golden wolf embossed on the door. He immediately recognized the design as the one on the cupcake box Rose had given him. Now he had another piece of the puzzle.

Bad Wolf Bakery.

When Ian finally ceased his walkabout, it was early evening. He approached the front of his building and the doorman readily opened the door for him. Ian tossed him a sideways glance, verifying that it was indeed a portly older man still manning the entrance, and sighing in relief when he saw him. He entered the empty lift and pressed his floor number. Once inside his flat, he searched for something to eat, even though he didn't have much of an appetite. Finding an aged banana, he peeled it and then poured himself a glass of Lagavulin, quickly finishing both. He entered his darkened office and walked over to his desk. He switched the lamp on, allowing just enough light to clearly see his intended target. He opened up his bottom drawer, and after moving a few files, found the desired object. Reverently, Ian pulled it from is seclusion and walked over to his sofa, stretching himself across its length.

Time passed him by as Ian immersed himself in what laid in his hands. Evening faded to night, and his eyelids became heavy. He shifted himself upright and off the sofa, placing the treasure possession back in security. Quickly stripping his daywear, he changed and crawled into bed, wondering what life would throw at him next.