Disclaimer – You recognise it, I don't own it.

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It didn't take long to organise a doctor. Quite literally they just went to Gotham's Central Hospital and asked to see one. There wasn't a disaster going on, so it didn't take long.

Tim was perched on a hospital bed, as a doctor fussed around him. His two friends watching from the side-lines.

"Well, the leg is most certainly broken." The doctor declared quickly, "Every scan agrees. But there are a large number of other fractures showing up on the x-ray. Some going back many years. You would have only been a child at the time."

"Abuse?" Montoya queried gently, "We have discovered that your home wasn't a normal household."

"Not abuse." Tim shook his head quickly, "As a child I had a fascination with Batman and Robin. Particularly Robin. I wanted to take photographs of them. I would sneak out the house at night, go into Gotham's darkest places and wait to try and capture them on film. It wasn't a safe hobby. I'm quite lucky I got off as light as I did."

"Seriously?" Allen stared, "Why would you do that?"

"I was a kid. I wasn't thinking."

"Did you ever get a photograph."

"Not a single one." Tim sighed, "At least not of Batman or Robin. I got some pictures of the Arkhemites though."

"We should have heard of such pictures. The developer would have reported it."

"I develop my own photographs. Always have done. I prefer it. I can get the style I want."

"He's actually really good." Bart put in, "They look professional. I've got one of his landscapes on my bedroom wall."

"Ma put hers in the sitting room." Conner agreed, "Beautiful shot. He could make a living out of it, if he wanted."

"Guys," Tim looked embarrassed, "It's just a hobby."

"What about the more recent breaks? The ones that still predate your disappearance?" The doctor pressed, "Your arm for example."

"That was me." Conner admitted sheepishly.

"Not his fault," Tim was firm, "Someone slipped something into his drink. He was kinda out of it at the time. I just got in the way."

Montoya and Allen exchanged a look; they'd seen expressions like Tim's before. Usually on the really good liars amongst the abuse victims. The ones who actually believed the lies themselves. However, it was Conner's expression that was interesting; he clearly blamed himself, despite Tim's words, so perhaps Tim wasn't so far off.

It was Bart's look that clinched it though. The tightness in his eyes, the tension in his body. He knew exactly what had happened, and while he wasn't blaming Conner, he certainly wasn't going to let it happen again.

"Very well," The doctor conceded, "You must have been very lucky with that bullet wound on your hip. There's no related mark on the bone. That could have been much worse."

"I was lucky." Tim smiled, "What about my leg?"

"I can see the signs of a very bad break, which also started to heal wrong. So it was rebroken and set properly. You will not be able to remove the cast for at least four months." The doctor stated, "You should have sought medical attention immediately after the break. Then you wouldn't be in this situation. It could have knocked a month off your healing time. As it is, you might still require surgery. Usually a misaligned bone is repaired with a rod or a plate and screws. A cast might not be enough. I would recommend that you spend as much time as possible off that leg."

"He will." Conner and Bart chorused. Judging by the glare that Tim levelled at them, he was not on board with the plan, but that didn't seem to matter to them.

After a short glaring competition Tim sighed and deflated a little.

"Now that the x-rays are done," the doctor continued, "I would like to look at your ribs. Top off."

Tim had steadfastly kept an old cotton shirt on during the examination. Refusing to swop it out for a hospital gown. Neither of the two detectives really blamed him.

"It's not pretty." Tim stated, "Phobos had a fair bit of fun."

"What do you mean?" Montoya frowned.

"Phobos likes fire. Likes making sure you can't get away from his memory." Tim had awkwardly risen to his feet.

He turned his back to them.

"He found it amusing that I had taken and then dropped the surname Wayne. Called me their servant. Their pet. Their slave. Said I needed to be marked as theirs."

Montoya watched as the soft cotton shirt was lowered down Tim's back, and slowly bandages were unwound; no-one dared to step forward and help, there was a tone in Tim's voice that rejected any and all help.

The reason why quickly became clear. There were burns across his back, still in the early stages of healing. At least Second Degree if not Third, by her inexperienced estimation. In some places it could never have formed First Degree burns, due to a lack of skin to burn. Lash marks and bruises could be made out. No wonder he has sat so upright. Montoya was reminded of cases of abuse she had responded to in the past. The markings were similar, albeit smaller. A whip of some kind had been used; the marks were far too thin for a belt. The skin had been literally flogged off his back in places. Gauze littered the floor, previously held in place by the bandages.

There was not enough skin to tape the gauze in place.

Montoya felt her stomach churn as she took in the markings. Redness, swelling and yellow pus showed clear signs of infection. She could almost imagine the heat radiating from them.

The burns themselves were infected, yellow filling places where flesh ought to be.

The worst part was that it looked to be forming letters.

"How did he manage that?" Crispus' voice shook slightly in shock.

"Two different lengths of brands. I had to watch him heat them up."

"What does it say?" Montoya breathed.

"Wayne." Tim's voice was quiet; barely audible in fact.

"And the flogging underneath?" Crispus managed to hold down his nausea to ask.

"I did say that Violence didn't like the fact that I wasn't talking."

"And the cuts underneath the burn?" The doctor queried, even as he started drawing an antibiotic into a syringe.

"The Boss turned up. I didn't see his face. I was so out of it in pain that I couldn't take in his voice. Only the words. He liked the brand. He suggested scarification. More words. But I don't know what they decided on. I passed out from the pain, part way through."

Montoya couldn't help herself, she moved closer and tried to make out the words; looking for the deeper wounds amongst the cuts

"Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian, Titus." She managed to make out; many years of reading Harvey's bad handwriting paying off.

"He even put the dog on there." Tim's voice was only a few degrees away from hysterics.

Montoya could see and hear the pain in Tim. He was hurting, and not just from the physical pain; the emotional pain was clear.

The doctor crept closer, obviously intending to inspect the wounds. The wounds clearly needed tending, and so it made sense. The syringe nearby to deliver bolus dose of antibiotics.

The tension in Tim's shoulders increased as the first light touches made their way across his back. Given the injuries it was only to be expected that Tim would find having someone behind him unnerving.

However, neither detective was prepared for the reaction when the doctor caught a particularly bad spot.

Suddenly Tim moved.

Later, Montoya would reflect that she hadn't been fully able to follow Tim's movements. Despite the splint the boy had moved like lightening. She had been too much in shock to react either.

All that was left was the aftermath.

The doctor was on the floor, clutching at his right shoulder, while the associated arm hung limply.

Bart stood in front of the detectives, his arms spread wide to stop them from moving any further into the room… Towards where Tim and Conner were.

Tim was backed into the corner; his badly injured back pressed hard against the painted plaster. Only the grace of the fact that he was in a corner relieving some of the pain, in Montoya's opinion. In his white-knuckled grip, he held what had once been an IV stand. The top and the bottom were both missing now, leaving only the light-weight metal pole.

Light weight though it was, it no doubt could cause pain, if used properly. Judging by the grip that Tim had on it, Montoya wasn't certain that Tim didn't have the training.

Conner, though, seemed to have no fear of being harmed. He had both of his hands pressed against Tim's cheeks. Forcing the smaller boy to look him in the eyes.

"Tim. Tim. Tim! Listen to me! You're not there! You're not there!" Conner was desperately trying to break through Tim's panic.

He was far too close for Tim's staff to be of any real use, though Tim was still lashing out as best he could.

"He's not hearing you." Bart put in, "Kon… You need to do something. He's going to hurt himself. If he hasn't already."

"I know Imp!" Conner fired back, "You think I like this?"

"We could help." Allen put in.

"He doesn't know you." Bart shook his head, "Not like he knows us… We're the closest thing he has to family. Leave this to us."

Conner closed his eyes; Montoya thought it was from pain, due to a particularly strong strike from Tim. However, then she saw his posture. It was resignation.

Then the boy turned his head to face them.

"If any of you talk about this ever I will end you!" He declared.

Despite his voice never rising above a pleasant speaking volume, the fury and determination in Conner's eyes verified that he was speaking the truth.

He turned back to face Tim; took a deep breath.

"I didn't know what you were going through, I thought that you were fine." Conner began to sing.

His voice wasn't bad. And the song seemed to be getting through to Tim. If only because the frightened boy couldn't imagine his captors singing to him.

"I can't believe you're doing this!" Bart breathed, "Disney? Seriously?"

Conner clearly heard Bart, but ignored him, to continue singing.

The two detectives couldn't see Tim very clearly from their position, so they weren't aware of exactly when Tim's mind returned from wherever it had retreated to.

"Kon?" Tim's voice was gentle and cautious, "What… Where… Who did I… Oh, God!"

A twist of the body and Tim started to heave. Clearly trying to empty his stomach of its contents. However, judging by the clear liquid leaving his lips, he didn't have anything to empty it of.

Conner shifted to support his smaller friend, his hands staying clear of as many injuries as possible. Bart moved to hold back hair, and position a bin to catch as much as possible. A gentle hand rubbed the back of Tim's neck, clear of the majority of the wounds.

"We got you, Timmy. We got ya." Bart murmured, Montoya having to strain her ears to catch the words.

"Did I hurt anyone?" Tim asked.

"Nothing serious." Conner shrugged, "Bruises mostly. Don't worry about it."

Montoya watched as Tim was wracked with heaving once again. Although she couldn't see him clearly from her position, with his two friends blocking a lot, what she could see caused her heart to sink.

"I can count his ribs." Allen murmured.

"You can count his vertebrae." She returned, "They starved him."

"Are you okay?" Allen addressed the doctor.

"Minor bruises. I've had worse from druggies before now." He shrugged, "Although the nerve strike was new. He was just desperate. I've seen it before. I'm sure you have too."

"Yeah," Allen nodded, "Just never expected it from him. He's a rich kid."

"A rich, traumatised kid." The doctor countered, "I'm going to recommend a psychiatric assessment. But I doubt he'll take it."

"Why not?" Allen asked.

"Our best psychiatrists are in Arkham. And I've heard that the Wayne's have a bad history with Arkham. They won't go there. Plus, despite the oaths, some psychiatrists would only see him as a payday. Either from himself or from the media. I'm not blind to the faults in the profession. I know a few who would quite willingly sell out a rich kid. A Wayne? That would be enough money to retire on."

Allen knew it was true, as much as he hated to learn it. It certainly didn't surprise him.

"Do you have any alternative suggestions?" Allen tried.

"I might give those two boys some leaflets on PTSD. But that's about it on the mental front. I'll give him a prescription for some strong antibiotics and painkillers. As well as one for dressings… There's not a lot I can really do."

After a few minutes the three boys straightened up and Tim returned to the hospital bed.

"Is it okay, if we take some photographs?" Montoya asked gently.

"Don't… Don't let Alfred see them?" Tim countered, "I couldn't… I couldn't deal with that."

"Not the other Waynes?" Allen frowned.

"Doesn't matter what you do, they'll manage to find them." Tim shrugged, "It's just how they are."

"But Alfred?" Montoya tailed off.

"He hurts when we hurt. I won't do that to him. He's never been anything but kind to me… Despite everything."

"Everything?" Allen queried, "What was everything?"

"Let's just say I wasn't always the best of kids." Tim shrugged.

"What happened after…?" Montoya tailed off; her attempt to distract from the camera being poor, at best.

"I'm not entirely certain. I have a compromised immune system. And my wounds got infected. Next thing I really knew for certain was when I was in a bed. I'd been rescued."

"By who?" Allen was surprised.

"Pru… Prudence. Don't ask me her last name. I've never known it."

"Who is she?" Montoya pressed.

"There was a time when I had major argument with Dick. He thought I needed therapy, and wasn't shy about telling me or getting my friends to try and lean on me."

"I know Cassie tried." Conner put in, when eyes flicked to him, "I wasn't involved. Nor was Bart."

"I went off the map for a while." Tim continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Started investigating different avenues for WE to go down. As part of that I went to Iraq. It's not safe for a young businessman to be alone in Iraq. So, I hired bodyguards. Three of them. Owens, Z and Pru. Pru didn't like me. The others I got along with. One night I wanted to see the stars. So we went out into the desert. That was a mistake. We got attacked. Owens and Z died outright. I lost my spleen. Pru her vocal cords. We were left for dead. I managed to get Pru into the jeep and we got to safety. Pru felt she owed me one. That I saved her life."

"Even though it was your enemy who crippled her and killed her friends?"

"That's just it. It wasn't my enemy. It was theirs. There was a group that decided the best way to prove they were the best killers was to go after the best killers."

"Then why go after bodyguards?"

"Because their organisation doesn't just provide bodyguards. Sometimes they provide what you need bodyguards from."

"So she came to rescue you?"

"Yeah. I don't know who the doctor she used was. I don't know where she was keeping me. But she knew I was missing. She found me. She saved me."

"She could have filed a missing person's report. She could have informed us."

"Yeah, Pru wouldn't do that." Tim shook his head, a small smile on his lips, "I don't know her story. But I do know she doesn't trust many people. Certainly not after Iraq."

"Could she have killed your captors?"

"Certainly. Would she? I don't think so. Do you have any more questions?"

"You didn't check in with anyone?"

"Pru didn't let me have any tech. I couldn't call anyone. When she deemed I was capable enough to cope on my own, she took me to a park and gave me a phone. I called Kon. I knew he'd come."

"I'll always come." Conner swore, "Any time. Any place."

"That goes for me, too." Bart added, "You're ours Timmy."

"I contacted Bart," Conner took over, "We told Tim about you. He insisted we come straight to the police station."

"Could you describe the men who held you?" Montoya asked.

"Here." Tim pulled a bunch of papers out of a bag he had with him, "This is everyone I remember, with the names I overheard for them, and the identities I gave them."

"You've used police identity-kits. Where did you get them?" Montoya blinked in surprise.

"My uncle works for the Keystone City Police Department." Bart shrugged, "Tim asked me to bring some kits. He did them on the way here."

Conner and Bart had taken over the job of bandaging Tim's back, once the photographs were taken. Tim seeming more at ease with their hands than the doctor's.

"Is there anything else?" Tim inquired politely.

"We may need to ask you some questions later. Please make sure you are available." Montoya stated.

"I'll give you my number." Tim started scrawling on a piece of paper, "I'm going out of town to recover. I don't think it's a good idea to be on my own while I'm limited in mobility."

"Where are you planning to go?"

"In country." Tim replied quickly, "I'd rather not state any further. I know what pressures could be brought on you to locate me. This way, you can't say what you don't know."

"Who are you avoiding, kid?" Allen demanded.

"The Waynes." Tim shrugged, "Bruce always gets a little strange when he nearly loses someone. I'll be honest, I forced my way into the family in the first place. And it hurt when they… I wouldn't say pushed me out… But forgot me. I can't let myself get that invested again. You know the saying: "Better to have loved and lost"?"

"Yeah." Montoya nodded.

"I'm not sure I agree. But I'm not willing to let myself get hurt again. Bruce and Dick will try to cling to me. Jason and Damian won't want me around. There'll be fights. Better if I'm not around to cause the conflict in the first place."

"Do you know where Prudence is now?"

"No. I never do. She drops in. She goes away. That's how things work with us. I don't even know if I'll see her again. She might consider us even now."

"We found a number of dead bodies in the warehouse where you were held prisoner."

"So Kon said. I don't know what happened. Either I was locked up or delirious. I got sepsis. I'm more prone to infections these days. Are there any other questions?"

"We'll contact you if there are." Montoya declared.

"I need to check you further." The doctor put in.

"Why?" Tim frowned, "You have all the evidence they need. There is nothing left for you to gather."

"I need to check lower." The doctor countered, "There could be damage that you have not informed us of."

"And why would I not inform you of it?" Tim challenged.

"Shame." The doctor responded quickly.

Conner and Bart froze, both of them turning towards Tim in absolute horror. Both of them managing to follow the suggestion the doctor had made.

"No." Tim shook his head, "There was no rape."

"You cannot be certain. By your own words, you don't remember much towards the end."

"I would have remembered that!" Tim snapped, "And while I don't remember faces, or words, or actions… I remember pain. I remember hands on my skin. And stone under my hands. I remember metal beneath my knees. They never went that far. And I will not allow you to investigate further, just to disprove your own theories. The worst that happened to me, was my back. And the ensuing septic shock."

Tim started towards the door, his back stiff and straight; before pausing at the threshold.

"One last thing, detectives," He spoke softly, "Please find out what happened to Jake. Find out who hurt him. Who stopped him from coming to me. He's a good man. A good friend. He didn't deserve whatever they did to him."

"He means that much to you?"

"Jake was there for me in some pretty dark times. And he did a lot for me. If you need me, call me."

Tim continued hobbling out the room, quickly being joined by his two friends. It was slightly amusing watching the pair of them try to offer help without actually offering help.

It was also heart-breaking, given what Montoya had seen.

"I always knew Wayne was going to ruin one of those kids one day." Allen muttered, "I just never thought it would be like that."

"Not just him." Montoya agreed, "Grayson bears a good portion of the blame."

"Did you see how he flinched when I walked in and accused him of lying?"

"Yes. He's known violence before. That was an old flinch. That wasn't new. He covered it too well."

"I never thought he'd be the damaged one." Allen sighed, "I thought he'd just be another rich kid going from rich family to rich family."

"Well, doesn't mean he's not damaged. I don't know if he can bounce back from this."

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Please Review.

I write stories because I can't draw. I have all these images in my head that I cannot reproduce. So I try and describe them with words. If anyone else would like to try to translate what I have written into what they think I saw in my head, they have my permission. I only ask that I be notified of it, so that I may look and go "OOoooh!".

Many thanks to my reviewers:

Loftcat27 – Tim's return was carefully planned, but the story's not over yet.

Rehabilitated Sith – Actually I'm currently just cross-posting. I've got a large amount already written, but I'm still moving forward. I never know how long these things are going to be, so I'll take it as I go.

BatWingteenavenger – Absolutely. Always the people you need to worry about the most.

Inthenightguest – I'm currently cross-posting from AO3, I'm there under the same name. And I'm glad you're enjoying this.