24th September, 8 am. Prison cell.

[therealpm]

*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards

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[ribble_mp]

*After half an hour wandering around the corridors below Westminster Palace- as intimidatingly gothic as those above ground, but these ones are lit by flickering florescent lights and their ceilings are interwoven with an incomprehensible web of pipes and cables- Nigel manages to find the entrance to Peter's laboratory. He's had to backtrack twice, and the shadows and rats that keep moving at the edge of his vision and the sudden rumblings of furnaces and hissings of air have him coated in a cold sweat by the time he arrives.*

*He steps cautiously over the threshold.*

Hello?

[bamfbercow]

*John is tempted to reply with "Yes, let's accompany Peter back to his room." but concludes that creating another argument with Nigel when he's like this would be counter productive.*

Yes, yes, alright. Come along, Peter.

*The three of them make their way back to Peter's cell once Peter has said goodbye to The Machine (and made sure the control room is locked away). While Peter is out of his cell, John's wand only stops being pointed at the werewolf's throat when the wards are taken down. Peter returns to his cell without any fuss and the wards are instantly replaced.*

Goodnight, Peter.

[therealpm]

*Peter bids John good night, then notices the blankets on the bed and scowls.*

[ribble_mp]

*Nigel settles in anxiously at the desk and starts counting down the minutes until Frances shows up to relieve him.*

*Even Fifty Shades of Grey isn't much comfort to him now. He's been imagining Paddy Ashdown as Christian, but every time he tries to lose himself in the fantasy the image of that horrible skull with the strips of flesh hanging off it bobs to the surface of his mind like a drowned sheep in a pond.*