CHAPTER THREE

Waking up for Mike had not been a slow process, but a jolt into instant consciousness, and ever since, he'd been battling nausea and pain, not to mention a growing sense of unease that refused to fade with each passing moment.

It's so damn cold.

Mike cursed his skinny frame as he attempted, yet again, to get comfortable on the hard floor, wrapping himself tighter and deeper within his suit jacket. He wished the thin fabric could somehow swallow him whole, engulfing him and saving him from the iciness that seeped into his pores. At this point, he'd gladly take a few blissful moments of stillness, where he didn't find himself shivering from the lack of heat… or from the adrenaline crash.

He couldn't be sure which.

Probably both.

Usually he was adept at keeping track of the passage of time, but Mike had lost all of his senses when he'd woken up and found himself in an unknown place that lacked light, sound, and, most bothersome at the moment, heat. He wasn't sure how much time he'd spent crawling around the floors, forced to find his way with his hands considering his eyes saw nothing but black, black, and more dark black. After figuring he was in a room about six-by-ten feet, he'd tried finding a door or a window or anything that indicated a possible exit, but he came up empty, leaving his mind reeling around the mystery of how he'd gotten in this place at all.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

"I'd like to report a missing person. However, I am quite certain he can be found at 106 East 71st street."

"I'm sorry sir, but I thought you said he was missing?"

"He is, but I know where he is."

"Sir, either he's missing or he isn't. Which is it?"

Mike tried shouting for help, of course, but all that earned him was a sore throat. Not to mention that it aggravated his apparent head injury… something else he'd discovered when he'd initially tried to stand. The wave of dizziness, and the instantaneous churn of his stomach, had told him that sitting here was the smarter idea, and he felt slightly better when he stayed on the floor, leaning against a wall, even if his butt was numb from the frigid, unforgiving surface.

Even if he had no idea where here was.

But, wherever here happened to be, it was where he found himself now, shivering within his suit coat and mulling over the what-if's and maybe's that swirled around in his memory. If only he could get his head to focus, then maybe he could figure out where he was and, more importantly, how to get out.

Think Mike. What happened?

Jerry the butler had brought him a drink. Whiskey. Mike smirked. He remembered the first time he'd tried whiskey. He and Trevor had snuck into the Dean's office late one Saturday evening. There had been a bottle of George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey hidden in his desk drawer. And of course Mike, never one to pass up a dare, toasted the Dean, his beautiful daughter, and downed his first swallow of whiskey. Mike had hard liquor before college, or course… he'd never exactly been a saint. But whiskey, until then, had been off limits.

Whiskey had been served in great quantity the night his parents had been killed…

…and whiskey had been consumed in great quantity by Mr. Fenton…

…and whiskey made Mr. Fenton's blood alcohol level a .15…

…and how did he get so sidetracked? What was he thinking about?

Right. Whiskey. The butler had brought him and Marjorie some whiskey. Whiskey that was infinitely better than Dean Winchester's George Dickel, but probably also infinitely more expensive. And then Mike had passed out, hitting the floor hard, which thoroughly explained his massive headache, though it didn't explain where he was or how he'd gotten here. He off-handedly wondered if Marjorie was okay… she seemed to be the last he could remember. But then again, he couldn't remember much… something which, in itself, was disconcerting. His muddled musings, however, allowed him to reach two conclusions.

One: he probably had a concussion.

Two: he had been drugged.

The butler had drugged him!

But why?

It wasn't Mike's fault that Charles was divorcing the butler's boss and taking all of her money. He had only dropped off the paperwork! What was he supposed to have said? Don't kill the messenger? It wasn't like Mike was even the lead counsel on the case. Why take out his aggression on him? What did he do? Why not Charles? Or Harvey?

"Pulaski."

"Phil, it's Harvey Specter."

"Harvey! You're calling awfully late."

"I know. Apologize to Patricia for me. But this is important."

What would Harvey do?

The thought made Mike grin and he closed his eyes against the heavy darkness. Harvey, of course, wouldn't have left the papers behind in the first place. He would have strolled into the Carrow home, wearing his $8,000 suit, said something witty yet somehow intimidating at the same time, and Mr. Carrow would have signed the forms in thirty seconds – flat. Harvey wouldn't have been taken in by Mrs. Carrow's sob story, letting his guard down long enough to be drugged by a vindictive butler…

"Caring makes you weak!"

…Or he would have done one of 146 other things. Mike laughed, opening his eyes again, though really… what difference did it make? He couldn't see anything anyway. But, what were Harvey's other 146 options for stopping a man who pulled a gun on you? He'd already offered up the prized advice of taking the gun, pulling out a bigger gun, or calling the man's bluff. What else was there? What could Mike have done differently?

Wait, there hadn't been a gun. Mike had been taken down with a glass of whiskey. Mike licked his lips. Whiskey. He hated whiskey. All it did was remind him of his parents. His parents and Mr. Fenton.

Mike groaned.

"Didn't I already go over that story?" he angrily asked the darkness. "Focus, Mike," he grumbled. "And now I'm talking to myself. Damn concussion…"

He screwed his eyes shut again and sighed, mentally reviewing everything he'd ever read, and subsequently remembered, about concussions. It did nothing to improve his situation, or his mood, but he supposed it helped pass the time between his occasional shouts for help, sore throat be damned. He was cold, tired, hungry, and hurting, but he couldn't just give up that he'd eventually find a way out of this mess.

"This is highly inappropriate, Chief."

"On the contrary, Mr. Carrow, we have a witness who places Mr. Ross on your property."

"As I already explained to Harvey earlier, his associate was not here."

"That's interesting, Mrs. Carrow, considering that the officers out front have a statement from that same witness which states not only was Mr. Ross seen entering your home, but that your husband disposed of his bicycle some time later."

"Well, I… I, uh…"

Mike was reminded of when Trevor was in trouble and Mike had thought he could have taken care of the situation all on his own. He hadn't asked Harvey for help... he hadn't even wanted him involved, considering his overt disdain for Mike's oldest friend. But Harvey had swooped in like a superhero and saved the day, and damn if Mike wanted nothing more than that right now.

But Harvey wouldn't be expecting him back so soon… would he? How long had he been stuck here? It had only been a few minutes since he'd woken up… right? Or had it been hours? Surely not days, but his memory was still foggy, especially when the rest of his body was trying desperately to fight against the cold and pain he constantly felt.

And, given the fact that all he could focus on was the cold and the pain, Mike thought his body and mind were both failing miserably.

Not to mention there was no way of knowing how long the drug had knocked him out. With any luck, he'd been missing long enough that someone would notice his absence. At the very least, Harvey would notice that his paperwork was missing, and his concern over losing the Carrow case in court would motivate him to track it down.

And hopefully, as a side thought, he'd ask around for Mike, too.

"I want my lawyer present."

"I am your lawyer."

"Shut up, Harvey."

"Listen to me, you son-of-a-"

"I know where Mr. Ross is. But I want full immunity."

"Shut up, Gerald!"

"I will not be put in jail over you and Mr. Carrow's stupid game of blackmail and deceit! Follow me, Mr. Specter."

"This is your fault, Charles."

"My fault, Marjorie?! You're the one who drugged him!"

"If you hadn't slept with the maid, I wouldn't have had to!"

Mike moaned as he shifted position in yet another vain attempt to wrap his jacket tighter around him. His head continued to bother him, but at least the jackhammering had been reduced to a dull drumming. He was still cold, but surprisingly it wasn't bothering him as much as it was earlier. Part of him felt like he should be worried by that, but the other part told him to shut up and be thankful for the dulling of his senses.

He slouched lower down the wall, his head listing to the right as his eyes stared forward into the blank nothingness. He didn't know how long he sat there and stared – all Mike knew was that he was too tired to do anything else, and his eyes slowly began to drift shut. He figured it was probably a better idea to try to stay awake with a concussion, knowing that if he were to sleep, there was no one to check on him or wake him.

So he fought unconsciousness for as long as he could.

Which, unfortunately, turned out to not be very long at all.

"Harvey, I don't have a search warrant."

Harvey narrowed his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me, Phil. The man just admitted to kidnapping my associate, locking him inside a wine cellar, and then lying about it. You think I give a damn about a search warrant?"

The Chief Detective sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before finally nodding under Harvey's scrutiny. "Fine," he yielded. "But this makes us even. Got it?"

Harvey smirked. "Understood. Now – push."

"What I don't get is why there is a fridge on top of a wine cellar," the older man grunted as he and Harvey slid the heavy Northland refrigerator. "Seems like poor planning. How are you supposed to get to the wine?"

"Mrs. Carrow hated wine," Gerald stated simply from behind them. "She covered the cellar out of spite for Charles. The cellar is empty, and you'll need a ladder to reach the bottom. I'll fetch one for you."

The butler left the grandiose kitchen just as the large appliance was slid completely away from the wall, revealing a hatch in the floor. Harvey took off his suit jacket and handed it to Pulaski before crouching down. He lifted the steel handle and pulled open the hatch door, revealing nothing but darkness below.

"Mike?"

Nothing.

"Mike!"

Harvey shook his head and rocked back on his heels so he was resting on his knees. "I can't see damn thing."

"Here." Gerald appeared from around the refrigerator with a heavy-duty flashlight, as well as a tall step ladder. Harvey snatched the light and leaned back into the hatch with some trepidation, suddenly seized with worry about what state his young associate would be in. Holding his breath, Harvey shone the beam around the barren cellar, the light finally falling on a lone figure leaning against a far wall.

"Mike!" Harvey shouted again, but Mike didn't stir. Tearing his eyes away, Harvey directed the light to the floor of the cellar, at least fifteen feet below the hatch's opening. "I'm going down there," Harvey announced as he handed the flashlight to Phil. "Toss that down to me when I land."

"But Mr. Specter, the ladder…"

Ignoring the butler, Harvey slid on his knees and turned, lowering himself into the hatch. Hanging by his hands for a split second, he let go and landed solidly in the cold floor. Glancing up, he saw Pulaski's head appear momentarily before the flashlight was dropped down.

"Call the paramedics and lower the ladder so they can get in."

"Will do."

Harvey took a few quick strides and in an instant, he was across the room. Mike was sitting on the floor, slouched against the concrete wall with his legs sprawled out in front of him. His eyes were closed as if he was asleep, but Harvey didn't miss the egg-shaped lump on his forehead or the fine tremors that occasionally shuddered through his body. Harvey bit back the anger over the ordeal the younger man had been forced to go through, and he squatted down so he was eye-level with Mike.

"Mike?" he said as he gently reached out and shook his shoulder.

Mike's brow furrowed and his body twitched slightly, but he didn't open his eyes or respond in any other way. Harvey squeezed his associate's shoulder firmly, shouting out his name this time, and Mike's eyes popped open. He stared a long moment into the darkness just over Harvey's shoulder, until he seemed to finally notice another presence, and his wide, unguarded eyes locked with Harvey's.

"You with me?"

Mike swallowed and blinked slowly. "Harvey?"

"Yeah, Mike. You okay?"

He didn't answer.

"Hey!"

Mike flinched. "Stop… yelling at me." He turned his head away from his boss a moment, closing his eyes as he did. "You came."

Harvey waited until Mike turned to look back at him. "You didn't think I would?"

Mike shrugged. They sat in silence for a moment until the flashlight's batteries started to die, causing the light to dim and eventually flicker out. Harvey noticed the change in Mike's demeanor immediately. The younger man tensed, his breathing quickened, and he slammed his eyes shut. Harvey recognized the panic attack for what it was, and after cursing the flashlight, he pulled out his cell phone.

"Mike? Mike, hey, calm down."

Mike's eyes popped open again. It was still dark, but in front of him knelt Harvey, his silhouette barely visible from the light emanating from the smart phone he held in his hand – the screen's soft glow a welcome break from both the previous harsh darkness and subsequent shocking light of the flashlight.

"Jesus, kid, relax."

"I… I thought…"

"What?"

Mike shook his head. "Nothing."

"That was a hell of a nothing," Harvey commented, still disturbed by his associate's uneven breathing and glassy eyes. He was about to push further, but a voice in the darkness interrupted him.

"Harvey?"

"Yeah?" he responded, turning away from Mike to gaze into the darkness.

"Paramedics are on their way. Five minutes."

"Good."

"Who are the paramedics for?" Mike asked, and Harvey just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You."

Mike nodded, and then asked, "Why?"

This time Harvey did roll his eyes as he lowered himself to the floor next to Mike. "Because you're an idiot," he said in an attempt to bring some lightness into the dark situation. Next to him, he could feel Mike beginning to relax with the return of their usual routine. Their usual banter. Harvey figured Mike deserved a little normalcy right now, after a night that turned out to be anything but normal. There was also the fact that Harvey hoped the repartee would conceal the genuine concern he had felt… was still feeling… over Mike's disappearance.

"You tell me that a lot, you know," Mike grumbled. "You feel like your argument will be more solid if you have a medical professional's opinion?"

Harvey sighed. "You were drugged, kid." Mike shrugged as if that piece of information wasn't a big deal.

"Marjorie Carrow admitted to spiking your drink with-"

"Flunitrazepam. I know. But it wasn't Mrs. Carrow, it was the butler."

Harvey cocked a single eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"He brought us the drinks," Mike stated matter-of-factly. "And Marjorie wouldn't drug me."

"Oh? You and Marjorie are close now?"

"What? No. I just know that she - "

"Admitted to it," Harvey interrupted.

For the first time since Harvey sat down, Mike turned to look at him. He still looked a bit disheveled and glazed-over, but his eyes were clear.

"Really?"

"Really. She was blackmailing her ex-husband… threatening to reveal his numerous affairs to the company's shareholders."

"Oh."

"And don't think I didn't notice that you just admitted to taking Flunitrazepam before."

"I may have had taken it once. A long time ago!" Mike hurried to add at the look on Harvey's face. "What? Trevor and I wanted to do a little… experiment to see if I'd get the anterograde amnesia, or if my brain was immune to it."

"Immune?" Harvey jeered. "And how did that go?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Really," Harvey deadpanned. "Did it really seem like a good idea at the time?"

"…Yes?"

Luckily for Mike, he was spared a lecture as two paramedics lowered themselves down from the ceiling and approached the pair on the floor, careful to aim the high-powered beams from their flashlights away from Mike's face. Harvey stood but hovered close as he carefully watched the men examine Mike. As they began discussing if a trip to the hospital was necessary, Harvey walked back over to where the younger man still sat on the floor, his face etched with pain.

"How'd you find me, anyway?" Mike asked as one of the paramedics pulled him up to his feet. The world immediately tilted, and Harvey grabbed his bicep to help keep him upright.

"The Manhattan Chief of Detectives owed me one."

Mike blinked at him slowly. "You called in a favor? For me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

Mike's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't get it. Why did Marjorie do this to me? What was the point?"

Harvey shook his head at the sudden change in topic. "I told you," he started, carefully helping Mike step away from the wall. "The family is devious."

"But she thought hurling me in a hole would solve all of her problems?" Mike asked incredulously.

"It's a wine cellar," Harvey corrected.

"No, wine cellars aren't as cold as this. If wine is exposed to temperatures that are too cold, the wine freezes and expands, causing adverse chemical reactions in the wine that leads to faults in the wine."

Harvey just stared at Mike as he spouted off the random information and shook his head. The sooner the kid got checked out at the hospital, the better.

"Those are fun factoids, Mike, thank you for sharing. As I was saying, Charles went along with Marjorie's plan to hide you, and the papers, until after the court appearance, thus voiding the deal. Charles would still get his divorce, but Marjorie would get to keep all of her money. And no one hurled you in here. Gerald assured me that he lowered you in here gently. Although I do think he's just trying to weasel his way out of an assault charge."

"Stop deflecting!" Mike immediately regretted shouting as the pain level in his head spiked. Again, he swayed where he was standing, and Harvey put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I just want to know why, you know?"

Harvey understood the need to know why someone could be so cruel. But by the sharp look the paramedic was giving him, Harvey knew that he had to wrap this up and get Mike to relax enough to be guided up the ladder and out of this hole.

"I don't know," he said softly. "Why don't we figure that out later, okay?"

Mike seemed to consider that for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay. After all, tomorrow is another day."

Harvey smiled. "Really? Scarlett O'Hara? That's what you're going with?"

Mike shrugged, and Harvey was reassured by the first genuine smile Mike gave in return. Mike was right… a little corny, but right. Tomorrow was another day. And he would make sure that it was a day that Charles and Marjorie Carrow would regret ever deceiving Harvey Specter.

END.