Sebastian Moran took his time lighting his Cohiba, his eyes never moving from the high definition monitor. The night vision image didn't hold the detail he would have preferred personally and professionally, but he had to settle for it. There were goals to be achieved.

The room had been kept at .5 lux, like a clear night with a setting full moon, for just over a month. Never brighter or dimmer, no sunlight had crept in nor true darkness fallen. Shadows blended out to irrelevance. In the few square yards hidden in the packed earth, time stood still. The one lone occupant, light, humidity, a bank of armored regulators and the waterless toilet were the only constants the space held.

Music was pumped in irregularly, sometimes quieter than a whisper, sometimes at teeth jarring volume. Gregorian chants, symphonies, commercial ditties, punk ballads and even techno raves were turned on and off, softer or louder at random, driven by computer generated tables. The only limit was to not draw attention from the world above.

A small device in the ventilation system allowed scents to be forced into the room. The unpleasant ones were obvious; sewer, old blood, sulfur, corpses. The pleasant had secondary effects; roses and lilies associated with rare social settings, soaps and detergents with the cleanliness the room and its occupant were sorely lacking, sugar biscuits and chocolate cakes made Pavlov's dog howl in agony. When the scents were used, they were used sparingly so their power would not dilute.

Temperature control turned the minuscule chamber slowly from cold enough for breath to make clouds in the air to near sauna conditions, again at a completely arbitrary frequency. Never let the flesh settle or the mind would follow.

Food was delivered on a randomized schedule and in ever decreasing amounts. Water had disappeared almost entirely, but after a dangerous choking incident, had been recalibrated. Death was to never access that room, for a single death there would trigger dozens of deaths above. He had personally guaranteed it.

No one was to touch the electrical controls but Moran himself. A constant current ran through the door, the regulators, and the delivery mechanism. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to convince the occupant that freedom could not be achieved by such obvious routes. Wiring had been embedded across the small floor, and even across the lone bunk hung on the wall. He had intended to use it for sleep deprivation techniques, but they had proven ineffective. Now the electricity was used only to test the occupant's alertness.

Moran had fast forwarded through the recording again and again, watching the occupant's slight movements; on the bunk for thirty six hours, curled in a fetal ball, fists crossed before his face, rocking minutely. He switched back to the live camera. Food had remained untouched for six hours, but the poor quality wasn't much of an incentive. What concerned Moran more was the ignored toilet. Kidney damage could ruin everything in a shockingly short time. A quick thermal scan showed that the bunk was efficiently drawing the occupant's body heat away, but no shivering was visible. Moran tapped a few keys, triggering a short burst of "Ode to Joy" nearly as loud as a jet engine, but the occupant barely flinched. Adjustments would have to be made or the bait would be lost.

Sebastian tried to breathe past the sharp ache in his chest, a void nothing could ever possibly fill. Friend? Partner? Mentor? Lover? Soul mate? He could almost hear Jimmie laughing at him as he tried to pick a label for what they had been. For what they should still be. He snorted derisively at himself. One thing they had never been was equals. Jimmie had been amazing, brilliant, easily the most creative and insightful mind Sebastian had ever witnessed at work. There had been nothing that could frighten Jimmie and it made him impossible to resist. Jimmie dreamed and Sebastian found the ways to bring those dreams to life.

The dreamer was gone now, but Sebastian remembered the dreams with painful clarity. One of the few things they had ever fought about was the occupant of that room. Jimmie had been obsessed with him directly while Sebastian saw him as a means to a possible end. Perhaps his time in the military had given him a different perspective.

Either way, things had changed. He had always suspected Jimmie would leave him in the end, which made the next steps his to choose. Jimmie had loved the dance, but this was to be a route. He would crack the man in that room; use him as chum for the Iceman himself. Once the score was settled, the chum itself could be simply disposed of. Disposal would be his tribute to the fallen.

Movement on one of the gauges caught his attention. A microphone was picking up the first sounds made in more than a week. Sebastian turned up the speaker, curiosity pulling at him.

"582, 097, 494, 459, 230, 781, 640…" the voice was low, thick, and stiff with disuse.

It took a moment for Moran to fathom, but he suddenly laughed for the first time in months. If calculating pi was the best defense left, perhaps this would all be in motion soon.

This couldn't go on forever. Sooner or later enough systems would shut down and the entire organism would give out. Breathing had gone raspy ages ago. Hunger had always been a familiar sensation but it had faded away to be replaced by a dull burning. Throbbing ache in various limbs and in shoulders where joints had separated under stress. Electrical charge leaving ashes in the mouth, prickling numbness echoing for days. Tongue sticking to roof of the mouth, lips sticking to teeth. Mind driven back, thought shattered until no focus remained. Poetic justice. Deception made real. Her help traded instantaneous for this prolonged exit. Don't let the body be found. She would be the only one to understand. Don't ever, ever let her know she had made it worse. Waves of nausea returning. Would they carry him away this time?

Wiggins watched her slight form seem to play peek-a-boo through the warehouse windows. It may have looked abandoned from the street, but he and his had known better. It was more like a rising anthill, entrances and exits made from various points, most hidden from view. Assaulting this particular fortress would be a nightmare, but the options were running out fast. No packages large enough to hold his body had left the warehouse. No fresh concrete had been poured in the broken mess of the basement floor. Odors had been noted but had dissipated too quickly to be traced down. It might still be too late, that's why he had asked her for this surveillance attempt. His jaw hadn't stopped grinding since her soft boots disappeared over the sill. Wiggins couldn't lose her too.

It had been a full thirty days since he had disappeared inside. They had kept tabs on the ever-increasing activities without seeing him. He would have ridiculed their efforts, jeered their loyalties, but none of them would easily let him be taken from them. Memories ran long when they were all a person had left. He would know that, even if he lacked the faith to know rescue had to be tried. He was different but had never seemed to believe that different meant better. He had earned a measure of loyalty, wanted or not.

She silently slipped out a different window than she had entered, drawing her oversized bomber jacket close and moving toward the nearby park. She would draw no attention to where Wiggins had hidden himself, to any connection between them. Her loyalties were to Wiggins alone and no one would threaten her lover.

Her lover caught up with her beside a fountain. "Hello, beautiful Spyder." he bent slightly, whispering into her jet hair, knowing her emerald eyes were alight. She must have had a different name once upon a time, before the damage had been done, but he had never known that person, only the tiny willowy form before him now. He wove the stolen daisy into the end of her braid.

Her smile was false, her eyes burning in a way he hadn't anticipated. "The raven is in more trouble than you thought, my love. Special tools have been brought in. I've broken them, but the raven won't live long enough to see the repairs."

The word had given Wiggins a chill. "Tools?"

She leaned close, mouthing the word like a caress, intimate and familiar. "Electroshock." Spyder smiled bitterly, easing away. "It won't touch the raven, promise. I made sure it can't touch anyone for a long time."

"He is still there, then?" Wiggins fought the urge to wrap her tightly in what safety could be found and hide her from any who might hurt her again. He had that impulse before and she reacted badly to it.

"Hmmm…most of him." Her eyes stared beyond the horizon. "Two sunsets left, maybe three and his clipped wings won't keep him in the cage any more." She returned to her lover's arms. "We have to be clever before then or ignorant after. You've a preference, my love?"

"For you to stay out of it now?" he tried to laugh but it fell flat. Wiggins knew he'd given her a place in the plan as soon as he'd told her the tale of the disgraced knight. Fairy tales and an unnerving physical grace had been among the few things she had retained from whoever she had been before. Ballet, maybe. Acrobat? Aerialist? Wherever the skills had come from, they would be sorely needed.

She breathed against his lips. "I'd move without you if I had to. No cages. Not for the whitest doves or the blackest crows."

He kissed her then, desperate to capture this one moment before everything changed. She tasted of smoke and cola and boiled sweets. A breeze caught the hairs loosened from her braid, tickling his skin. "I love you, Spyder."

628, 620, 899. The fuzzy edges bothered him the most. Retreating like this had always brought a clarity that was missing this time. All input had been stopped to preserve what tenuous hold remained. Some demand should have been made, yet none had arrived. 862, 803, 482. Being killed outright had been expected, even some level of torture had been anticipated, but this was without any justification. Nothing had been asked. A term floated up unbidden; tabula rasa, the blank slate. What possible benefit could that provide? 534, 211, 706. Thought processes were notably slowing, thought itself beginning to unravel. If the thoughts stopped, what would be left? No way to answer that question so it was discarded. If he stopped, what would be left? 79…

Molly tugged the loose disposable gloves back up her small hands, continuing to pass out the yeast rolls. She'd been tempted to bring some of her better fitting gloves from work, but crossing the sensations she experienced between the homeless shelter and the morgue just seemed like a very bad idea.

It was strange that the shelter could be more heartbreaking than the morgue. True, death was final while those she met here moved on, but at least their lives held a chance to be better. She never could settle on which was the easier fate.

She had done some volunteer work from time to time, but since the Fall (she couldn't think of it without capitalizing it), she was here twice a week. It had been the one thing Sherlock had asked of her and as always, she couldn't refuse. She hadn't understood it at the time, but it had proven to be invaluable in the strangest ways.

Wiggins, the one name Sherlock had left her, had found her in the first week, offering to do some handyman duties at her flat in exchange for food and cash. When he came over the first time, he swept her flat with an odd box, claiming to check for any bugs. He pulled some small bit from her phone, but she hadn't been sure what it was. Sherlock had ordered, and paid for, Wiggins creating a "panic space" at the end of her hall. She had known her building had been an old Victorian mansion divided into flats, but she hadn't realized the end of her hall had a large plastered-over linen closet. Wiggins pulled the plaster and shelves out, creating a false front that would open outward if pressed at the right spot. The following week, he wired in a light and a phone that was on a different circuit than the rest of the building. Per Sherlock's request, she had given Wiggins a key, but she hadn't seen him since. It felt vaguely like living in the Bat Cave.

Many times over the past year, a person in line for food had pressed envelopes or small resealable bags into her hand as they passed her. Most of the time she couldn't guess the contents until she got the lab results back. She'd seal the results in fresh envelopes, wrap them in several pound notes, and wait until the same face would return to collect the same way. Twice the envelopes contained picture postcards, folded in thirds and without writing. They were her most prized possessions, yet she gave the one of the First World War trenches at Vimy Memorial Park to John Watson. It was an interest of his, even if she couldn't explain the full meaning.

The tiny black haired girl caught Molly's eye for a number of reasons, not the least of which was her diminutive size. Her bomber jacket was two sizes too big and the leather had seen better days. Her suede boots had to be a decade old yet had been brushed to an amazing clean. Denim jeans whose knees had given out long ago judging by the frayed edges. As she approached with her nearly empty tray, Molly saw the ragged and dirty bandage wrapped haphazardly around her right hand. Blood was visibly spreading through the stained cotton.

Molly grabbed her arm, passing the tray to Emma beside her and explaining she would give the small woman some proper first aid. She walked her over to the more private table at the back of the room that was more commonly used for counseling expectant mothers.

"My name's Molly, by the way." She unwrapped the filthy cloth carefully, unsure of the damage below. The wound wasn't deep, was even remarkably fresh. Had she been cut like this here?

The small woman's other hand gripped her hard. "Look to the door, Maid Molly. My lover waits."

She looked up sharply to see Wiggins nod solemnly, and then leave. A very heavy weight seemed to settle in her stomach. This had to be bad. "Let me get the first aid kit, and then we can talk."

"Understood." She began pulling apart a roll, eating only the bits no crust clung to.

Molly began to daub the cut with peroxide. "Can I know your name?"

"Spyder." A small smile disappeared quickly. "And I will call you Lenore."

"Poe? Bit ominous." Antibiotic cream applied with a cotton bud.

"Good evening for it. Have you seen the fog outside? Worst in a decade, they say. Do you have any gum? I'd like to blow bubbles." Spyder watched her work with interest.

"Um, here." She handed Spyder one of several small bags of sweets donated by a nearby school. "Did Wiggins want to give me a message?"

She watched Molly apply several butterfly bandages while she sorted through the sweet pile. Three pieces of obnoxiously fruity bubble gum were unwrapped in seconds. "I'm about to free your raven, fair Lenore. His wings are broken but not as badly as mine. Can you be ready?" The gum disappeared behind even teeth.

Molly's mouth had gone totally dry. Spyder didn't seem totally sane, but what she was saying… "How badly broken? Will he…" she hadn't meant to ask but the words hissed out. At least she hadn't said a name.

Spyder took the bandage wrappers out of Molly's hands, turning the palms up and grasping her wrists. A smile grew on the smaller woman's face as tears welled. "I will bring your raven home." She whispered. "Wings heal. The rest is up to you. Be ready."

"When?" Molly asked as Spyder stood. She cursed herself for being so loud. At least no one was looking.

"Go home, fair Lenore. Boring tellie calls. There will be a gentle tapping." Spyder gave her a smirk. "But I may need to blow a bit first." With a bubble growing from her lips, she left the shelter and the fog swallowed her whole.

Two hours later as Molly curled up with the television on; breaking news came of a warehouse fire near the Thames. Cameras were on site and what they saw chilled her to the bone. Most of the witnesses carrying on to get the camera's attention were familiar to her from the shelter. She tried to dismiss it, but there were too many to be a coincidence. As she watched, an explosion shook the camera, knocking a few people to the ground. The witnesses and reporters were pushed back by a fireman yelling that a gas line had blown.

"Sherlock?'