Kind of like “The Final Problem,” but without any waterfalls. Also, fun researching late-1800′s medical practices!

Words: 3,242 Warnings: None(?)

Water splashed on Michael's face. Strong arms heaved him upright. He clutched at them, plunging towards unconsciousness. All he could hear was ringing. All he could see was sparks. His chest was like a crushed tin can. Somebody shouted his name. He couldn't speak, lips and tongue numb. He pawed at his own chest.

Roll...credits?

Words: 3,154 Warnings: Mind games, manipulation, panic attacks

It took more than ten minutes of slogging through the graveyard mud for Michael to find the Devil.

He was seated in a wicker chair at the foot of an open grave, framed in a single shaft of moonlight. There was a little white table in front of him, an empty spot across from him. He waved as Michael approached. Michael kept his hands on his wheels, his aching arms occupied with shoving him the last few yards through the cold, sticky mud. He pulled up to the table across from the Devil—his back to the open grave.

Filler? I don’t know her.

Words: 3,262 Warnings: None(?)

Although Michael had explained the situation right away, everyone elected to wait to talk about it until they were safely back on the train. Free's tail—another grimy street kid—had lost Ryan in the crowds around some place called Westminster, from which Free concluded that Ryan had guessed he was being followed and gone there specifically to lose the tail. He'd given the kid a couple of coins, and then a couple more to buy his silence. After that, they all went on a long and convoluted roam around London, switching cabs and ducking in and out of buildings for over an hour until they were reasonably assured that Ryan was not following them. As such, Michael was forced to spend a good amount of time squirming and stewing, and by the time they actually got around to talking, he was about ready to just shoot himself.

Just some down-time ;)

Words: 2,949 Warnings: Drug use, delirium

The four of them spent the rest of the day planning, although what they had by the end was less a plan and more a gamble. Lindsay and Free would travel back to London with a hefty sum of cash and attempt to bribe the prison higher-ups to set Michael's old cellmate free. If that didn't work, they'd try for a meeting with him to see if he'd discuss his failed heist of Parliament. If that didn't work, or if he demanded to be released before he'd talk, they'd fall back and come up with something else—ideally, something that wouldn't get them arrested. Meanwhile, Gabriel and Michael would stay at the cottage with the animals and try to figure out what they were going to do if Ryan entered the picture.

Jimminy Christmas, how are we this close to the end of the act?!

Words: 3,441 Warnings: Gore, death, self-destructive behaviors, drug use

Six o'clock rolled into seven, then eight, nine, ten. Christmas Day arrived with a great ringing of church bells, bright and noisy and very far away. The ever-present flood of people thinned down to a trickle, most of them very drunk. Michael was in so much pain he could hardly see past the end of his nose—but the pain was the only thing keeping him awake, so he had to bear it. His hands were caked with grime. Cold needled at every inch of exposed skin, dug claws into his joints and pulled a constant dribble of snot from his nose. They'd combed a hundred blocks on foot, but London just went on and on and on, an infinite tangle of slums and ghettos and tenements, and none of them with any sign of Gavin. Michael had called until his voice gave out. Free had picked it up, but not with much enthusiasm.

Coming back to edit this one was, hahah, jarring to say the least....

Words: 3,491 Warnings: Drug ab/use, panic attacks, implied/referenced gun violence

By four in the morning, Free's confidence was waning. He'd taken to staring out the window, twisting his fingers together and chewing on his lip. Lindsay was asleep upstairs. Gavin had settled on the cushiest chair he could find and was snoozing, occasionally waking up to make sad faces at Michael.

Michael, for his part, had tried to do without his nightly dose of laudanum. He'd rather be awake and in pain than asleep and vulnerable. Unfortunately, he'd been in so much pain that he couldn't do much other than wallow in it, so he'd had to resort to laudanum anyway. The fog had just rolled in—metaphorically and, outside, literally—and it wouldn't be long now before it dragged him under.