"Your father was going to kill you."

Those words silenced the static. Even the dark things that taunted and jeered at him seemed content with letting someone else torment him for a while.

Only his father refused to allow Watkins the privilege of dominating his mind. Malcolm turned his head away in an attempt to block him out.

To no avail.

Nothing ever silenced his father's voice.

"I gotta admit that those words, taken out of context sound, uh, rather bad," his father admitted as he stood over him. "I assure you, though, that once you remember the entire situation that you will understand why I told him that."

Malcolm didn't believe him.

Why should he?

Everything his father ever told him was a lie.

"Not everything," his father countered. "I did, uh, tell you how to escape from that cuff. Course, I also told you to kill John. But, well, you." His low chuckle caused Malcolm's already frayed nerves to snap further. "Well, we'll, uh, just say you're a work in progress."

Malcolm went to deny those words but a voice calling his name snagged his attention.

Sorcha?

His brow furrowed.

How? She wasn't there with him.

Not that he could exactly say where there was.

His memories got a bit fuzzy after his conversation with Ian Corbin.

He remembered hitting Watkins in the back before locking him in the trunk.

His mother and Ainsley hugging him.

His mother asking him if he killed Watkins.

Gil grabbing him in a gentle hug when his knees buckled.

Dani and JT standing over him before going to arrest Watkins on Gil's order.

Sorcha combing her fingers through his hair and softly humming as the paramedics examined him.

Being loaded into an ambul...

Aha, the hospital, he realized. Of course.

Given the amount of blood he likely lost, dehydration, mental state, and fractured thumb?

No way was he getting out of a trip to the hospital.

His mother and Gil would have insisted on it.

Sorcha, Ainsley and Dani would have seen to it.

Malcolm found himself wondering if Sorcha had them take him to the hospital where her mother still worked part-time as a nurse.

It was likely.

More than likely, he realized as Sorcha started to sing quietly. Malcolm floated between a state of conscious and unconscious, comforted by the soft cadence of her voice, and the feel of her warm hand atop his.

The words washed over him, brought desperately needed comfort to his ravaged mind and body.

As they had when he heard them in the playroom his father and John Watkins used to torture their victims. Only this time he wasn't hallucinating Sorcha or her father, Ian, singing them.

"Here comes the sun..." Her thumb lightly traced the back of his hand. Stimulating, soothing, seeking comfort as much as giving it. "And I say, it's all right..."

Everything inside him shifted. His lingering panic and lethargy eased. His breathing became less tight. Even the dark things slithered back to the depths of his mind.

Taking Watkins and his father with them.

For the moment, everything in the world was alright.

He was alright.

Well, moderately alright, he amended as her fingers stroked his face, slid into the hair at his temple, traced the curve of his ear.

He'd never be completely fine.

Not that she'd believe him.

She hadn't any of the other times he told her he couldn't be fixed.

"I can tell you're awake."

His lips inched up into a smile.

"Didn't want you to stop singing."

"I'll never stop singing for you."

"Promise?"

Her lips whispered over his.

A bare meeting of flesh that left him wanting more but unable to take more because of his injuries.

"Promise." Her lips brushed his as she spoke. "I will never stop singing for you."

"I heard you," he told her. "Saw you. You and your father."

"Did we tell you to fight smarter, not harder?"

"You implanted those words in my head in case something like this ever happened, didn't you?"

"I did, yes," she admitted without shame or reservation. "It's also why I sing whenever you start to have a night terror or disassociate."

"Because it works."

"Yes." That haunting scent of hers wrapped around him, teasing him, taunting him, tempting him. "Mal..." Her sigh drifted over his face. "What were you thinking? Going after Watkins on your own..."

The same words he spoke to her when she had been the one lying in the hospital bed after a serial killer almost took her life. His belly cramped as the memory of Owen Shannon's lifeless eyes staring up at him flittered across his visual field.

"I should have waited for backup."

"Yes, you should have. Dammit..." Her voice broke. His only clue to her emotional state. Which was his fault. He put her in that state when he chose to go after Watkins. "Malcolm, we might have lost you if we hadn't figured out where Watkins took you."

"You didn't lose me."

She harrumphed. "Beside the point, you idiot."

He opened his eyes to look at her. The eyes that stared back at him were red-rimmed, haunted, and reflected the pain licking at his insides.

How long had Watkins held him in that playroom?

He had no clue.

"How long was I..."

He swallowed the rest of his words. Not that he needed to worry. Sorcha understood what he was asking.

"He had you for about fifteen hours."

"Fifteen hours." That explained why fatigue haunted her face. "It felt like much longer."

"It was forever to those of us trying to find you, you danger prone dumbass."

He didn't take her caustic words to heart. He put her — and everyone else — through hell.

He put himself through hell, too.

"How did you figure out where he was holding me?"

"Gil went to see your father. He gave us the clue we needed to figure out where you were."

"Did you?" His hand spasmed with the force of the emotion that rolled through him at the thought of her standing face-to-face with his father while he was locked away in some basement. "Did you go see my father with him?"

"I listened to the conversation to determine when and where your father might be lying or telling the truth."

Her words rang true. She refused to meet his eyes, however. A clear sign she was not being completely truthful with him.

"You confronted my father, didn't you?"

"Gil wouldn't let me talk to your father."

"But you have, haven't you?"

She glowered at him.

"Profiling isn't allowed, Malcolm. We agreed on that years ago."

"You also promised to never keep things from me."

Now she glared at him.

"Also not fair to remind me of things like that when you broke your promise about not doing anything stupid."

Malcom grimaced. She had him there.

"I'm sorry." He was. More than he could express. His impulsivity in finding Watkins led directly to Owen Shannon's death. "I didn't mean to break my promise."

"It's a wonder Gil doesn't drink more after the hell we've put him through the last three months."

"We haven't caused him that many problems."

"Mal, you were sitting by my hospital bed after I was almost killed by a serial killer three months ago." She indicated his hospital room with a wave of her hand. "Now, I'm sitting beside yours after you were almost killed by one. We're a pair of dumbasses. Admit it."

"Think we need to find hobbies that are less painful."

"And here I thought you enjoyed pain."

"Not this much," he said as the wound in his chest twinged. "I expect Gil has already put me on leave."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Second you get a hint of a murder case you'll be out the door."

"I promise to not go anywhere until I've healed from the knife wound."

It was the only concession he was willing to make. It was enough to his way of thinking. He could profile with a broken thumb. Profusely bleeding while he chased a suspect?

Not such a good thing.

Even he had to admit that.

"You're also going to be seeing Gabrielle twice a week until you heal." The set to her jaw told him there was no negotiating with her on that. "You need to process what happened and to deal with it in a way that is opposite of how you usually do."

"Sorch—"

"It's either you agree to willingly go to therapy and let me take care of you or you're going to your mother's so she can take care of you."

He rolled his eyes.

"As if I'm going to pick that option."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Told your mother you'd see things my way."

"Oh?" He shot her a suspicious look. "What else did you tell my mother?"

"That you like it when I wear a naughty nurse costume."

Embarrassed heat filled his cheeks.

"Not something I wanted my mother to know."

She slanted a look at him.

"Kinda like you didn't want me to know about the charm bracelet you bought me?"

"You found it?"

"When I was checking your coat for anything that might give us a clue."

He glanced at her wrist, hoping to see the charm bracelet circling it. He frowned when he saw her wrist was naked.

"Why aren't you wearing it?"

"Because, you dope," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I want you to fasten it around my wrist." She slid her hand around his non-bandaged one. "Like you did the other one."

Malcolm indicated his bandaged hand.

"I don't see myself able to do that anytime soon."

"Then I'll wait." She stifled a yawn with her hand. "Gives us something to look forward to once your home."

"Why don't you get some sleep?"

She rest her head on his shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"Don't be stubborn."

"That's funny coming from a brick wall." Her eyelids fluttered closed. "You sleep, too. You need it if you want to heal."

"I will."

He stayed awake while Sorcha slept, though, kept watch in the dim light.

Just like he did when she was the one in the hospital bed.

Too afraid if he slept that he'd wake to find her gone.

And himself back in that underground torture room.

A/N: Hello, all, and goodbye! This is the end of the road for this particular story. Reason for that is I'm a symbolic writer and I thought the parallel of them both surviving attacks by serial killers was a good way to end this story. Never fear, there are more stories to come!

I want to send a special thank you to Rookblonkorules and everyone else for all their lovely reviews! Your support helped turn a little story into something I'm deeply proud of. Thank you all so much!

Take care!