When Letha's chair cracked, it was not met with nearly as much excitement as Mickey's.

"You have got to be frickin' kidding me!" she snapped as she stumbled away, free from the bottom of the chair, but unfortunately not the back of it.

Allowing the rest to clatter to the ground, Mickey ground out a few grated chuckles before falling forward to bump his head against the wall. "Great. Just great."

"Hey!" Letha spun to face him, eyes once again narrowed into a fierce glare. "Cut the melodrama. If anyone has the right to have a meltdown right now, it's the one who could still use a reverse IKEA manual."

He rocked his head to the side and cast her a flat look, barely even bothering to open his eyes. "I'm not being 'melodramatic'."

"You're right – the term 'mellow'-dramatic does imply a certain amount of calmness that is absent from your demeanour!"

"Well at least I'm finally 'right' about something," he shouted, slamming his open palm against the wall.

Curling her fingers so that she could sink her nails into the wood of the chair, Letha sneered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Mickey said, pushing off the wall with his head to stride over to her. He covered the distance in a fraction of a second and would have grabbed her by the shoulders if his hands hadn't been bound. He had no doubt that he would have also shaken her for all he was worth whilst she was still trapped by the zip ties. "It means that everything you have said to me over the last few days has been a critique or an insult or a thinly veiled attempt to... wind me up!"

"Oh don't flatter yourself – as if I'd waste the energy on you." She jerked away from him and put a few metres distance between them.

He snorted, but didn't follow her.

"I barely notice you or acknowledge you," Letha continued, "because you are not worth my time."

"Then why," Mickey asked quietly, his features schooled into a blank mask, "did you get into my car and come down here with me?"

She froze. Looking back over her shoulder, she aimed a ferocious glower at his face. "You mean why did I get into a moving death trap, allow myself to be driven to who knows where, and get kidnapped by two guns and a headscarf? I couldn't possibly postulate a reason for that kind of idiocy – except a brain tumour!"

"Have you noticed that whenever you get royally pissed, you start using really long words?" Mickey replied, raising a brow.

"It's far more likely," she snapped, roughly trying to jerk her hands free from what remained of the chair, "that you sense danger and your vocabulary reverts to that of a caveman."

"And we're back to the insults."

Neither looked at the other. Shaking his head, Mickey sunk to the ground, laying on his back. Pushing his hips off the cold concrete, he situated his bound hands as far in the direction of his feet as he could before lowering his butt between his arms. Sitting up, he leant as far forward as he could and stretched his hands, bending his knees at acute angles. He lifted the first foot and placed inside his arm circled. Then he lost his balance and toppled over.

Letha snickered.

"Shut up," he said, but he was hiding a smile. Laying down, it was actually easier to push the leg all the way through the gap and then manoeuvre the second into position. In only a moment, Mickey's hands were in front of him. He let out a squawk of satisfaction.

As Letha rolled her eyes and walked away, he stilled, letting his eyes trace her path.

"Look," he murmured, raising both arms to drag his hair out of his eyes, "I get it."

Drumming her fingers against the seat, Letha turned slowly and stared at him flatly. "What do you 'get', Sherlock?"

"I get that we are not friends." The blunt assessment caught her by surprise. "I understand that we won't ever be friends: we're far too different and far too incompatible. And you're far too stubborn!"

Letha coughed and he dropped his head abashedly. "Well, perhaps we're both too stubborn. But the fact is that I was wrong to pressure you into talking to me or doing things with me or..." Mickey caught a glimpse of her outraged expression and raised his bound hands in surrender. "And I know that you're gonna want to say some brave, macho thing like 'As if you could pressure me' or 'Could your ego get any bigger, Sherlock', but just shush for a moment: I'm trying to apologise. If it weren't for me, we wouldn't be in this mess."

He paused, for a breath or a response Letha wasn't sure, but she nodded anyway. "True."

Mickey's eye twitched, but he swallowed and pursed his lips. "Exactly. So I'm sorry. And Min... I thought... It doesn't matter, I was obviously wrong. It was just...I really..."

Eyes wide, she watched him stutter with a pained expression. She made a noise. "Just stop talking."

His mouth closed with a click.

"This is not the opportunity for a pity party," she snapped, wrapping her hands around the part of the chair she was attached to. "Your promised escape plan is only half executed, and I need to be back at school in an hour."

Mickey looked at her blankly, then to the door, and back to her. Her expression remained stern and he nodded weakly: apparently she wasn't kidding. Turning in a slow circle he surveyed the room. Apart from the remains of two shattered chairs, the room was practically bare. A table was shoved up against the far wall, which wasn't actually that far from the opposite wall, and had several stacks of paper strewn across it. The door was imbedded in a third wall, plain wood, and he approached it with arms outstretched. He gave the handle a cautious twist, but it refused to budge and he let out a sigh.

"It's locked."

Drifting over to the table, Letha shot a withering glance in his direction. "You sure?" Angling her arms to the side, she used the edge of the chair to move the top layers of paper. She froze. "What the Hell?"

"Of course I'm sure," Mickey muttered, reaching for the door knob again. Just before his palm touched the metal, it gave a rattle. Flinching away, he hissed over his shoulder, "Letha!"

But her gaze was still fixed on the papers. "Sherlock – get over here and pick this up for me."

He glared at her as the door swung open, forcing him to take a few hurried steps back. The hinge creaked and Letha spun around, knocking papers to the ground with the half-chair. Deciding that diplomacy was out the window, Mickey grabbed for a piece of his shattered chair, snatching it off the floor and swinging.

As he'd been expecting a taller attacker, the wood sailed over the woman's head – the same girl from the side of the road – and splintered against the door frame. She obviously hadn't expected them to be standing, let alone armed and she screamed, darting away from Mickey and further into the room. He hesitated, looking between her and the door. Letha, who had tilted back to lean lazily against the table, raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well are you going to do something?"

"Are you?" He demanded. He tried to hold her gaze, but glanced away after a moment. "I'm not comfortable attacking a girl," he commented softly.

Letha rolled her eyes. "Luckily, I don't have your moral integrity." Pushing forward, she stalked towards the quivering girl, eyes narrowed into furious slits. "So you're the bitch with 'car troubles'..."

The girl seemed to realise she should have called for help, but as her mouth flew open and Letha's foot flew at her waist, the biker appeared in the doorway.

"Gun!" Mickey shouted, diving out of the way as the large man tore into the room. He hit the floor and rolled, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder. He hit the wall and let out a throaty groan, turning over and coming face to face with the barrel of a gun. "Well," he grumbled, "That never gets old."

Letha glanced over at the two men, smiling when she noticed the biker, and changed direction to approach him. When she was only a metre of so away, she coughed loudly. "Hey, arsehole?"

He turned quickly, blond hair swinging across his face, and she did the same, raising her still trapped arms towards his waist as she swung the chair into him.

"That's for my face," she spat as he toppled over, gun clattering to the floor and skidding against the wall. She gave him a kick in the gut for good measure. "And that's for wasting my time."

Mickey raised himself off the ground, leaning against the wall for support as he watched Letha pant, glare still focussed on the coughing mass on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a second gun shift slowly into the room, aimed at Letha's head. On reflex, he kicked out at it, sweeping his leg through the air to send it flying upwards. The owner let out a squeal, stumbling into the room and to the ground. Mickey tried not to flinch as Min stared up at him, mouth open in shock.

Letha laughed. "Now it's a party!"

The words had barely left her mouth when the biker swept a foot across the ground, tripping her and sending her sprawling backwards. She hissed when she landed, rolling onto her front and wriggling towards one of the guns. He lashed out again, this time connecting with her shoulder, and she changed her tactic. Now, she focussed on kicking back. To Mickey's astonishment, Min joined the fray, throwing herself across Letha's back in an effort to pin her down. Like a wild animal, that only angered Letha more.

"Everybody stop!" Mickey thundered. His glare held steady as they paused in their scuffle to look at him, all breathing heavily and trembling. They eyed each of the pistols he held steadily in each hand, as if trying to remember how he'd gotten hold of the weapons. His eyes flickered to Letha's, where he took in her maniacal grin without reaction. She almost seemed to be enjoying this. "Step away from her now."

Min was more than happy to oblige, pushing herself off and away towards the other girl. The guy followed grudgingly, folding his arms across his chest when he was standing. He kept a wary eye on Letha though, but then again, so did Mickey.

A choked chuckle emanated from her as she rose, and without hesitation he swung one of the guns to face her. Fearless, she raised a brow.

"You going to kill me too, Sherlock?" She spread her arms wide, throwing back her head. "Go ahead."

"Pull your head out of your arse," he snapped, "Of course I'm not going to kill you. I just don't trust you not to try and attack them." he blinked. "Or me. So if you move, you get a bullet in the foot. Got it?"

She snorted, rolled her eyes, and folded her arms across her chest. "Wow, over reaction much?" It was like he'd threatened to ground her, Mickey thought in amazement.

Switching his attention back to the other three, who each looked like they'd rather be anywhere but here, he jerked his chin at them.

"Time for an explanation: what the hell are we doing here?"

"More importantly," Letha snapped, stalking back over to the table and jerking her head at the few photos that were scattered on top, "What am I doing in these?"