WARNING: Please read this warning carefully before proceeding. This fic contains non-consensual spanking, death of an original character, self-harm and depression. It is a dark fic with lots of angst, hurt and comfort. If you think any of those subjects will be upsetting, please skip over this entire fic.

Authors Note: This fic was written for Latin Writter as a trade at the FF Exchange. Thanks to all my friends there - Sue, LW, WC, B-Rose, KS and DB, who joined me for the ride and offered light entertainment and encouragement along the a special thank you to the ever reliable Peppe for betaing this story.

Locus Desperatus

Drip…..…Drip…Drip…Drip…..The repetitive sound of the little water droplets hitting the concrete edging of the drain were like pin pricks to his skin. Drip….Drip…Drip…..… He covered his ears to block out the noise but knew with certainty the torturous sound would still be echoing throughout the room once he removed his hands. The fact that he hadn't obliterated the source of the auditory pest weeks ago was not from want of trying. He'd wrapped his jacket around the faucet, which seemed like an obvious solution and it was successful, but then he had to wait for days for his jacket to dry out while his body shivered and shook from the cold. It hadn't been worth it. On three separate occasions he'd tried to smash the object of his despair from its stronghold, during one final bid he recalled slamming his foot down onto the tap several times. He'd paid a heavy price for that foolish attempt as he spent several hours after, writhing and whimpering on the ground from the pain shooting up his leg.

Removing his hands from his ears he cringed as the noise re-entered his eardrum.… Drip… Drip… Drip….. Drip….. He pulled his hat over his head and curled up in a ball on the rock-hard unyielding ground. He heard his stomach growling and aching with hunger. He knew he should eat but he couldn't face the prospect of swallowing one more mouthful of slug soup. He'd have to wait till he was delirious with hunger like he was the last time. The slugs were so much easier to stomach once his brain began to play tricks. Perhaps this time he could imagine he was beginning the third course at La Chalice, a fancy a la carte restaurant on 48th and Broadway he remembered eating at some time in the distant past.

The thought of having to eat brought tears to his eyes and so he lay on his side and wept. He wept because at this point in time he had depleted his supply of every coping mechanism available at his disposal. Those acquired skills, which were second nature up until a few weeks ago, had slowly seeped the way of the waste water - down the unending abyss of the drainage pipe. He realised the sobbing was becoming a morning ritual, as he curled his arms around his legs crying tears that trickled down his face washing away the grime that had built up over time. Of course he was only guessing it was morning. How could he possibly know? Light was unable to penetrate the dense concrete walls of his chamber. Nothing could penetrate those solid walls - not light, not warmth, not sound, not life. And his lifeblood was slowly draining away with the rhythmic beat of the continual water that offensively leaked from the faucet.

Detaching his tie pin from his shirt pocket - his tie had long since gone the way of his resolve, discarded somewhere amongst the slug soup cans littered across the filthy concrete flooring - he began to scratch at a fresh section of skin on his forearm. As he had on previous occasions, he purposely avoided the semi-healed wounds pitted along his arm feeling appropriately gutless. As the pin broke the surface, he continued to scratch with added pressure till he felt warm tacky liquid begin to trickle from the laceration. He wished for the courage to do more. He wanted to do more. He wanted to turn his arm over and scratch at the knobby surface of his wrist where he could feel veins coursing blood from his heart to his extremities. He tried to tell himself he was working up to it. It was now his ultimate goal after failing so abysmally at starving himself and passing out from dehydration. Both those ideas had been complete failures after his delirious brain took over and forced him to eat and drink when he wasn't in any position to make decisions for himself. He'd been depressed for days after the realisation that he wasn't even capable of killing himself, but then he'd come up with the tie pin idea.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on which point of view was being considered, he'd never been good with needles nor blood so it was taking some time to get to the point where he could cut himself in an area that would have the required result. But getting to that place was still a long way off. Every time he felt the blood leaking from the wound, he'd quickly wrap it in his undershirt, which he had taken off long ago to become a makeshift bandage for every injury he'd endured since finding himself in this hell hole. He reattached his tie pin and began to weep some more.

During this current decent into hopelessness and misery he began to hear voices. That wasn't uncommon. He often heard voices; sometimes he even swore the dripping faucet was trying to communicate in its own language, which he was yet to decipher. Today the language was recognisable… "Neal."

He rubbed at his swollen wet eyes with his hat trying to clear his head of not only tears but confused thoughts that muddled his brain.

"Neal?" Clearly he was becoming delirious again. He guessed sooner or later he'd be tucking into the slug soup.

"Neal?" The voice was now more real than it had ever been. Perhaps this was the end that he'd been hoping for. He squinted in the darkness, something was hurting his eyes. He wasn't sure but he thought he caught a glimpse of a silhouetted figure kneeling beside him. He smiled, not only was he hearing voices that were only figments of his imagination, now he was beginning to see people that weren't real. Was this the beginning of the end? Was this how the insanity eased its way into a properly functioning mind? He knew that the visions had to be part of the delirium because there wasn't anything to see in this lightless chamber. The room was pitch black. He couldn't even see the fingers on his hand. He'd only found the food supply through feeling around and naturally he'd found the water through the incessant dripping.

"Neal, hey, it's me." The voice was soft and caring, and…familiar. He guessed that was all part of the mind playing tricks. If he was going to imagine a voice it was logical that it would have those comforting qualities.

"Neal buddy. Can you hear me?" A hand reached out and rested on his shoulder. As far as hallucinations went, this one was a winner. The voice was soft and caring, the vision had a kind and compassionate appearance and his touch was gentle and reassuring. He hoped he could hold onto this delusion for a little while, it wouldn't hurt to have company while he went out of his mind. He reached up with his own arm and placed it on the vision's knee. It was warm and solid and for some reason he didn't care that it wasn't real. He lifted his head and placed it in his 'companions' lap. It felt good, too good. He closed his eyes and drifted off feeling better than he had in a very long time.

###

Peter cradled his partner's head in his lap and watched him shut down after a brief moment of awareness. He ran his fingers through the young man's hair before shedding tears of relief. He'd all but given up hope of this moment, particularly during the past week. All the experts had said there was no chance but a small part of him held onto the belief that if anyone was capable of surviving this experience, Neal Caffrey could. He ran a hand across his eyes and turned back towards the paramedics, awaiting further instructions. He'd been sure to follow the medical team's directions carefully. They had sent Peter down first, carrying a low-light emitting lamp as not to burn the boy's retina after being so long in the dark. Peter had been instructed to use a soft, reassuring voice and only to reach out and touch the young man after he'd become aware of another presence in the room. Peter wasn't sure that had actually happened but had been comforted when Neal lifted his head and laid it in his lap.

The paramedics approached and wrapped a bandage around the young man's head, completely covering his eyes. They had explained earlier to Peter that it would be necessary while transporting him to the hospital and that it was going to take time before the boy's eyes could be exposed to full light once more. Peter stepped back, giving the medical team room to work as they strapped Neal onto a gurney and hoisted him up the retractable stairs dangling from the ceiling thirty feet above.

The agent watched as the last of the medics disappeared above, soon his own team would be down in this cellar collecting evidence but for the moment, Peter turned off his lamp and let it all sink in. This cold, desolate, lifeless basement was his boy's home for more than a month. He couldn't see much - very little light filtered through from the opening in the ceiling above – and that had been completely covered for the duration of Neal's stay. The room was devoid of all warmth, warmth of the humankind. At what point during the past weeks had the young man's soul given up any hope of rescue. The room was quiet, no sound, not even squeak could be heard from above, and that was with all the activity of fully equipped medical personnel and an entire FBI division searching the house. Peter was alone, all alone, just as Neal had been for thirty-eight days. He listened. Nothing. No, there was something, a tiny repetitive sound emanating from the corner of the room. Peter made his way across, careful not to tread on the multitude of canned spaghetti tins and discarded lids littered across the ground. He listened closely then crouched down beside the leaking tap. He reached up and twisted the leaver, or tried to. It had been soldered into position. There was an empty tin can sitting under the faucet, collecting the drips. The can was three-quarters full of water. Peter sat staring, mesmerised by the water droplets landing in the makeshift cup, unable to take his eyes of it or stop the sound from embedding in his thoughts. Drip…. Drip… Drip…