Disclaimer: The characters used within this story do not belong to me, but were borrowed for
the purposes of this story. They belong to CBS/Viacom and their associated copyright holders. No profit made, and I promise to return them un. . . well, relatively unscathed. The plot and original characters, such as they are, are of my own imagining.

Author's Note: This story has minor spoilers for the episode "Jake's Women". If you haven't seen that particular episode, all that you need to know is that Steve met and briefly dated a woman. He didn't know that she was married until Amanda told him. *Special thanks to the ladies who encouraged and helped me with this. You know who you are. You all are great!*

Hero Complex

by WriterJC

[he·ro] noun. 1. In mythology and legend, a man, often of divine ancestry, who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated for his strong exploits, and favored by the gods. 2. A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life. 3. A person noted for special achievement in a particular field. 4. The principal male character in a novel, poem, or dramatic presentation. 5. A priestess of Aphrodite loved by Leander (who drowned during one of his nightly swims across the Hellespont to be with her).

[com·plex] noun Latin: complexus. 1.A whole composed of interconnected or interwoven parts. 2. In psychology, a group of related, often repressed ideas and impulses that compel characteristic or habitual patterns of thought, feelings, and behavior. No longer in scientific use. 3. An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear. 4. Medicine. The combination of factors, symptoms, or signs of a disease or disorder that forms a syndrome.

Part One: The Past Returns

Frantic footsteps echoed against concrete as legs too young to outrun the night struggled on. He ran behind them, urging them, determined that none would be lost. Then there was a sudden whoosh! Suffocating darkness closed in, pressing down like malevolent waters, blocking out all sound except the staccato thudding of his heart. Time dragged, pulling them backward, slowing their steps.

Every slow motion movement out toward the dim light was a step away from that terrifying place. Every heart beat was a hope at finding freedom.

Sound came, rushing and indistinct and then he was outside. It was like breaking the surface of water. They were all around him, a dozen sets of eyes looking up. Tiny souls pleading that he tell them what to do, that they didn't have to be afraid. That should the bad man return, he would stand between them and the darkness.

He didn't know what words he spoke, but he felt them spill out, taking pieces of him with them. But they found their targets and the young faces brightened with renewed life and a return of peace. But his heart held on to the terror and magnified it. The darkness had never left. It was calling for them.

He turned back and looked at its face. It was a hulking monstrosity of a building. Dark and foreboding, it belched smoke which seemed to take on a living for. It taunted him, holding the sweet sounding voices in its noxious grip.

He knew that he had to go back.

A haze washed over him and time passed. Almost too much time, and then his partner was there, begging him not to leave, not to go back. But the other voice, the one that called to his pounding heart, begging with him to save them from the darkness, was louder. He tore away.

"Sloan!" Fred Mancini's voice was raised, and angry now. "You can't go back in there! Back up is on the way!"

The words faded behind him and then he was back inside with that living smoke. The smoke that cursed him and pleaded with him at the same time. It wafted ahead of him like a siren's call. The wailing seeming almost distinct, crying for his help. He knew exactly where to go. Down the hall, and into the bowels of the building. To the place where he'd first seen them.

They were there. Pale and sleeping. Like angels. Angels that he needed to save from the smoke. And then they were in his arms, one on each side. Their bodies as cool as night. It sent a chill straight through to his heart, but he had to keep moving.

The smoke pulled at him, stealing his breath and slowing him down. The tunnel was back, the darkness washing in and out. His heart pounded and his lungs begged for breath. And the smoke called, bidding him to stay and rest in its deadly embrace. But he ran on. For them. And then he was outside. He'd made it. He could breathe again. But before he could rejoice in that small victory, everything ignited and the world was on fire. The smoke, the voices and the stars all screamed. And there was no air at all.


No! The word was a scream in Steve's mind as he sat bolt upright in bed. Though his eyes were wide, they were unfocused, and for several heart stopping moments he didn't see the light of day filtering in through the balcony doors; couldn't draw breath into oxygen starved lungs. Nor did he recognize the gentle wafting aroma of his father's coffee or feel the soft, though slightly damp sheets beneath him. There was only darkness and smoke and pain.

The smoke cleared from his mind and his vision as he gradually came back to himself. His chest rose and fell erratically and his heart thudded in his chest. He leaned forward and rested his damp brow in his hands. It had been a long time since he'd had that dream. He'd hoped that it was gone for good. Last night had changed all that.

Throwing back the covers that remained over his legs, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweat pants. It was his day off, but there seemed little chance that he would be sleeping in. Studiously avoiding the framed certificate and plaque that he'd left laying on his dresser, he set off upstairs toward the smell of coffee.

~*~

Mark turned at the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. "Congratulations," he said, pausing in his cooking long enough to hand over a copy of the morning news, folded over to a page which showed a black and white departmental photograph of his son. Beneath the picture was a short article regarding the award that he had been given as a part of a ceremony the night before, as well as highlights of Steve's long career with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Though Steve accepted the paper, he barely glanced down at the page before setting it aside on the counter. Mark pretended not to notice that he placed it face down. An expression that Mark labeled as half between embarrassment and something else crossed his face.

"I was just doing my job," he said. "I don't think it was necessarily worthy of a citation from the mayor, or this."

Mark's brow furrowed briefly in mild concern before he chuckled at his son's modesty. He tucked away the other reaction to be revisited later if necessary. He was hoping that it didn't become necessary. "Steve, you went above and beyond the call of duty. If it wasn't for your bravery, a dozen children wouldn't be alive and well and at home with their parents now. That is what you're being recognized for."

Steve's expression shifted slightly. "I wasn't able to save all of them, Dad. At least two young girls won't have a chance to grow up."

Mark turned away from his cooking and focused all of his attention on his son. Though the situation surrounding the kidnapping of 14 boys and girls from a local school had been short and intense, it had lasting repercussions on the community, and those officers who had been closely involved in the case. Especially Steve. Despite the fact that he wasn't the officer officially working with the FBI, quite by chance, Jose Guano had chosen him to communicate his demands to the families.

"That wasn't your fault. You're the one who figured out it was the janitor, and you risked your own life to save the others. You did the best you could, more than anyone would have expected. And you made it possible for those two girls to have a burial, to provide their families at least with a little closure."

"Yeah, maybe." Steve nodded, accepting his words on some level, but it was clear that he was still troubled. Plastering a smile on his face, he moved closer to the counter and peered into the bowls nearer the stove.

"What are you making?" he asked, deftly changing the subject.

Mark sighed, but let the change pass for the moment, and pointed to one of the bowls. "How do omelets sound to you?"

"Sounds good. Do I have time for a run?"

"Uh. . sure," Mark glanced around at his preparations. He could easily adjust his timing so that things would be hot when Steve returned. He felt certain that a run would help his son clear his head and shake off the resurfacing of past anxieties. If not, maybe at the very least he would be ready to talk.

Flipping on the radio, he began to sing along as he began to add blueberry muffins to the breakfast menu in an attempt to extend his cooking time.

~*~

Steve stepped out of the balcony doors and headed out toward the beach. It was a little later than his usual time for running, and there were more people out and about. As he set off, he passed a group of girls with blonde pigtails playing in the sand. His mind flashed to the scene in the boiler room of that old building where the two girls had been found. After managing to get away from their kidnapper, they had been overcome by carbon monoxide poisoning. They had looked like pale sleeping dolls surrounded by darkness and dinginess.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he pushed the thought away. He had gotten past this months ago. Why was it coming back now? He knew that the ceremony probably had something to do with it. But there had to be more than that. Maybe it was the fact that in his mind things seemed one-sided.

So much emphasis had been placed on the heroism and bravery of the team and on the appreciativeness of those who had survived. There had even been a monetary reward that came with the citation for his part in saving them. It had felt as if it burned his skin when he took it. He was happy for the other children. But who was remembering Myra Blankenship and Lucy Carson?

As he continued along the beach, lost in thought, he gradually became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Unsure of whether he should label it intuition or paranoia brought on by years of being a cop, he kept running while surreptitiously taking in his surroundings more carefully.

He was running along a portion of the beach that ran behind a string of condominiums. People could be seen in parking lots, on the beach, in back yards, going through normal Saturday morning activities. He didn't spot any thing that appeared unusual. He was about to settle on paranoia when, upon glancing over his shoulder, he caught a flash from the direction of his home.

He was too far away to catch much in the glance, but his senses moved into high alert. Nonchalantly, he changed direction and headed for home, eyes focused on the form. Now that he was looking head-on in that direction, he was fairly certain that there was a man standing on the beach, just in the shadow of the far corner of the gates of the beach house with something up to his face. Maybe binoculars, he decided.

There was another quick flash as the man removed the item and turned away, heading quickly toward the Flemlin's backyard. Steve knew that there was no way the slim form that appeared briefly from behind the gate belonged to Mr. Flemlin. Besides, they were away on a 2 week anniversary cruise.

Steve put on a burst of speed, increasing from a mere jog to a sprint. But still nearly a minute passed before he reached the Flemlin's home. Several sun bathers looked at him oddly as he passed, but he kept going, not slowing until he reached the brick gate that separated the beach from his neighbor's patio.

Breathing harshly, he leaned over to examine the sand, while simultaneously working on catching his breath. Foot prints were everywhere, leading right up to the squarish plot of grass at the end of the sand. There was nothing he could learn there. Moving to a standing position, he continued onto the patio and checked the outside of the house. It appeared to be locked up and secure. There was no man and no sign that he had been there.

Resigned to the fact that the mystery would remain unsolved for the time being, he took a few minutes to pace, allowing his muscles to cool down, then headed for home.

~*~

Mark was surprised when he heard the faint sounds of Steve's private entrance being used. It was far too early for Steve to be back yet. He glanced at the clock, checking to be sure that more time hadn't passed than he'd thought. Frowning at the confirmation of his suspicions, he moved toward the steps and headed down toward Steve's apartment. It bothered him that Steve had come back early, especially considering how troubled he had been when he'd left. He knew his son well enough to know that a troubled Steve would spend twice as long than he usually did on his run.

Mark's mind replayed another occasion where Steve had returned early from a run. Having taken a miss step in uneven sand, he had gotten a bad sprain in his left ankle. Of course, Steve's verbal displeasure concerning the injury had been more than adequate to alert Mark to what had happened.

Mark noted no unusual sounds at all as he stepped into Steve's living area. Just the normal movements about his bedroom. Still, intuition urged him on. Something wasn't quite right. He was halfway across the living area when he heard the phone ringing in Steve's bedroom. He reached the door just as Steve picked up.

Steve glanced at him, acknowledging his presence before speaking into the receiver. "Hi Amanda. It's my day off, remember?"

A deep frown settled across his face as he listened to Amanda's response. "What?! Where?" The frown quickly transformed into shock as he turned a worried gaze in Mark's direction, before refocusing on the conversation.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. Bye, Amanda, and thanks."

"What is it, Steve?" Marked moved to his side, deeply concerned about whatever Amanda had imparted as it had left Steve looking more troubled than when he had left to go running.

"Dad, do you remember the woman I was seeing a few weeks ago? The one who was married to a friend of Amanda's? Maeve Michaels?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark remembered Steve's reaction to the relationship. "I remember her. She had an open marriage."

"Yeah, one she didn't bother to tell me about. I had to hear the news that she was married from Amanda."

Mark thought he sensed a touch of bitterness there. "Yeah." He nodded, willing him to continue.

"Well, someone killed both him and the woman he was with. Maeve is the prime suspect."


Part 2: To The Rescue


Steve pulled onto the street leading to the Michaels' home. The place was distinguished by the number of departmental vehicles parked both in and near the driveway. On previous visits, his attention hadn't been much focused on the details of the house. It had been dark, and there had been another, much more engaging focus for his attention.

The outside of the home was neat and well cared for, obviously by hired professionals. The exact image a couple like the Michaels' might want to present to the world. Unfortunately, the large vans marked 'Coroner' and 'Crime Scene Unit' marred that visual.

Forced to park a ways back from the driveway, he brought the truck to a halt behind one of the cruisers on the scene. As he climbed out, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. It was a man, standing in the driveway across the street, operating a video camera.

"Can you believe that?" he asked his father, gesturing purposefully as they headed past the official vehicles and toward the drive. The man shifted from one foot to the other at the attention as if he half-expected to be run off, but he didn't halt in his activity.

"Yeah," Mark agreed, following Steve's gaze, musing the point.

"Nothing like a good neighbor," Steve muttered under his breath. He didn't know what the man expected to get on tape. Lots of boring police procedure and little else.

"That her?" Mark asked, drawing Steve's attention forward again.

Steve turned and saw an obviously upset dark-haired woman standing near a decorative bench that sat in the corner of the yard. A tissue was clutched tightly in her palm as she haltingly spoke with Detective Ben Sternen, a newly promoted officer at the precinct.

"Yeah, that's her." Steve came to an abrupt stop, and for a moment felt completely out of place. This wasn't his case. Ben Sternen had been assigned to work with Maureen Gruber. Gruber was a good officer, and he had no doubt that she would get to the bottom of what had happened to Adam Michaels.

As he stood, considering what his next move should be, Maeve turned and looked directly at him. Pale and shaken, her eyes were red from crying. But as she focused on him, he saw the light of hope appear.

He simply stared back at her, not sure what he felt. He only remembered the day when he'd confronted her about her marital status. They hadn't exactly parted as friends. But that didn't seem to matter to Maeve. She moved past Sternen, practically at a run and buried herself in his arms.

"I'm so glad you came," she cried. "I couldn't kill Adam. I wouldn't. Not over this."

Steve wrapped his arms around her reluctantly, then pushed her gently away from himself. He would do what he could to help her, but he had to make her understand his position. On several levels. "I'm not the investigating officer on this case," he said, gently. "And if I was, I would be removed as soon as they discovered our previous relationship."

Maeve looked up at him, confused. Then looked from him, to Mark and back. "Then why did you come?"

Steve frowned, drawing back slightly. "I came because Amanda called me and told me I should."

"What are you doing here, Sloan?" Another male voice broke into the conversation before Maeve had an opportunity to respond. The question was asked with a friendly tone, but it sent slivers of apprehension up Steve's spine.

He looked up and beyond Maeve, having immediately recognized the voice of Fred Mancini - the lead detective and FBI liaison during the missing children's case. Steve took a step away from Maeve, and felt his face settling into the inevitable grim lines as the salt-and-pepper haired man approached. He noticed that Sternen stood a little back from the group, almost as if he wasn't sure what he should do next.

"Good morning, Fred." Steve greeted the man coolly, and nodded a greeting toward Sternen. "You know my dad."

"Doctor Sloan." Fred greeted the man who stood unobtrusively at Steve's side. "I'm surprised to see your son here. I thought this was his day off." He glanced toward Steve. "Came with the award didn't it, Steve?"

Steve stared back hard at the man. "Where's Mo? I thought she was working with Sternen."

"She called in sick. Can you imagine that out of Reliable Maureen? But don't worry, Sternen and I will do just fine." Fred slid an oily, suggestive look between Steve and Maeve. "I'm sure you have other . . . affairs to attend to."

With that the older detective turned toward his young partner. "You got everything you need, Sternen?"

"Yeah, I got . . . ." The younger man's reply died as Steve cut him off, dragging Mancini a few steps away from Maeve and his father.

"You have something to say to me, Fred?" Steve demanded in a low voice, tinged with anger. Something was off with the older detective, and had been for weeks, now. He had thought at first that it'd had to do with the missing kids case. But as time had gone on, he hadn't been able to get anything out of the other man aside from animosity.

"Same old Sloan." Fred shook Steve's hand off his arm and smiled a derisive smile. "Not much changes with you does it? Still a slicked back pretty boy with an eye for the ladies. Still got a nose for the high profiles. Oh, and," he looked around Steve to where Mark was standing, talking quietly to Maeve. "Still dragging your father with you on your cases. Whatever works for you, pal, but this one is mine. Stay away from it."

Steve's hands tightened into fists. He would love to grab the man by his collar and shove him into the nearest wall until he could talk some sense into him. But it was useless. And Fred was right about two things. This was his case, and he had brought his father along. Not for the reasons Fred thought, but there was no way the other man could know that, and Steve had no intention of filling him in. So instead of following his instinct, he impaled the other man with a hard look and stepped around him without a word.

"Remember what I said, Sloan," Fred called after him.

Steve didn't turn, just kept moving toward the house and Amanda. She'd called him, asking him to come here. He hoped she had a mighty good reason, because best he could tell Maeve hadn't been the one to ask her and Amanda knew how badly that relationship had gone.

He felt a small amount of the tension leave him as he entered the door of the home. There were crime scene technicians everywhere, examining carpet fibers, gathering bits of evidence, going over every inch of the house.

Steve sighed as he moved through the living area. He hadn't worked with Fred since the missing children's case. But he knew Fred had been a good detective, he had even worked with the man for a while after he had been promoted to the detective ranks. Maybe whatever grudge the other man had was with him alone.

He followed the sound of voices into what he assumed to be the master bedroom and got his first look at Adam Michaels. He was laying sprawled on top of plush blue carpeting, a large bloody hole in his chest. A blonde-haired woman lay face down where she had fallen half over his thighs. She appeared to have been shot in the back. Neither of them were wearing shoes, but they were both dressed in business attire.

That caught him off guard and made him pause. Not that he normally walked into crime scenes with a predisposition as to what the scene would look like, but this one he had. He had expected a sordid display which had ended in what appeared to be a crime of passion. These people looked like they were on their way to, or from, a business meeting.

~*~

"I don't like that man," Maeve said as she watched Fred Mancini watching Steve stalk off toward the house. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered slightly.

Mark followed her gaze. "He does seem to be a little upset," he agreed absently as he turned back and observed her closely. Her eyes and nose were red, obviously from crying, and she had the mildly dazed look of having received a nasty shock - such as finding your husband dead. He also noticed that she wore the proverbial 'little black dress' with a pair of strappy-looking shoes. Hardly the way he would have expected to find her that early in the day.

"So you're Steve's father?" she asked, catching him looking her over.

"Oh, uh, yes," Mark replied, smiling abashedly. "I was with him earlier when he got the call."

"Did he tell you about us?" she asked, her face reddening slightly with embarrassment of her own.

"Yes, he did," Mark said gently. "And I'm very sorry to hear about your husband."

She nodded and blinked when her eyes begin to fill with tears again. For several moments, her chin quivered and she seemed unable to speak. "Thank you," she finally managed to whisper.

"Why don't we go and have a seat," Mark urged, directing her toward the bench that she had been seated on before when he and Steve had arrived. "Can I go inside and get you a drink or anything?" he offered.

"You're very kind." She smiled tearfully up at him. "But that isn't necessary. Actually," she looked sheepish, "If you could just stay with me. Just for a few minutes."

"Of course." Mark gave her his best reassuring smile and settled beside her on the bench. "You've had a terrible shock. Is there anyone I can call for you?"

She shook her head. "Just my dad. But he's in Boston at a seminar. Since it's his seminar, he can't leave right away. He won't be back in town until day after tomorrow. And this isn't the kind of thing I want to invite my friends over for." She seemed to shiver again.

Mark nodded. "I can understand that. Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"No, of course not."

Mark directed her attention to the man across the street with the camera. He was barely visible, standing between an SUV and a hedge.

Maeve frowned a little in confusion for moment. "Oh, that's Kevin Masterson. He's been trying to get us into trouble with the neighborhood association for months now. This'll probably do it."

The wheels in Mark's mind began turning. "Why would he want to do a thing like that?"

She curled her hands in her lap. "He said that we were a blight on the neighborhood."

"Oh." Mark thought he understood. "Have the police spoken with him?"

She nodded. "Yes. One of the detectives did. He must have gone and gotten his video camera later."

"Do you know if he might have seen something that might help the police figure out what happened?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. They didn't tell me what he told them. Just that --"

The sound of a cleared throat interrupted the conversation. Mark turned and looked up to see Fred Mancini and his partner were standing behind him.

"You'll need to come with us down to the station now, Mrs. Michaels. We'd like to get your prints for the purpose of elimination, and we also need to have the powder residue tests done as soon as possible." Fred spoke gruffly.

Maeve gasped a little. "Right now? Do I have to go now? In your car?"

Mark could well imagine that Maeve wouldn't want her neighbor video taping as she was loaded into the back of a police car. So when he saw the look of growing suspicion on Fred's face, he spoke quickly, cutting the man off.

"I could go with you," he said. Then, glancing back at Mancini. "That should be okay, shouldn't it? I'll just need a moment to let Steve know. I'm sure he'd be happy to come and pick us up from the precinct." Without giving anyone time to object, he sprung up from the bench and hurried toward the house. Glancing back at the small trio with a smile, he caught Maeve's relieved look and Fred's mutinous one. He had a feeling that Steve might not be overly appreciative of his move either.

Part 3: A Sheltering Place

Amanda, stooped near the bagged hands of the female victim of one of LA's most recent crime scenes, looked up as a pair of shoes moved into her line of vision. She recognized those shoes and followed them up to the face of her friend Steve Sloan.

He acknowledged her with a quick smile which immediately turned to a frown as he gestured back toward the bodies. "I know this is an awful thing to say, but I thought they would be undressed. Is that why you called me?"

Amanda shot him a telling look as she moved to her feet, but couldn't resist chastising him slightly. "Well, since you've already admitted it's an awful thing to say. . . . "

She was glad that he had come so quickly, and that he didn't appear to be angry with her. With a slight gesture, she directed him toward a corner of the large bedroom that would put them out of the earshot of a couple of the technicians who were working nearby.

Steve followed with a curious expression, and then listened intently as she began to speak. She hadn't been sure where she wanted to start. Now that he was right there in front of her, there was no time to decide, so she just jumped in.

"Steve, I know that you and Maeve have some history together. And I know that I'm somewhat involved in that history, too." She remembered vividly the way she had accused him of being hypocritical, and of having a relationship with a married woman. He hadn't deserved to be the focus of her anger.

"Amanda," he offered a reassuring smile, "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you told me."

She smiled back at him, thinking what a great friend he was. His taking of the situation so well was only adding to the minor amount guilt she felt at calling him in the first place. "I am, too, especially since you didn't know. But I know that you were hurt by what happened. And I'm sure that it didn't help that I was so rough on you."

His smile broadened. "I survived."

"Still, I'm sorry about that. I wanted to apologize."

"Amanda, it's okay," he assured her, stressing the words this time. "Okay?"

"Okay." She chuckled at him, happy to have the incident off of her chest. Not that Steve had ever held any sort of grudge. In fact, when Maeve had returned a piece of jewelry that Steve had bought for her, he had offered it to Amanda. She had been touched by the gesture, and things had immediately returned to normal between them. It wasn't until after she had called him that morning that the memories had returned. Looking back, she was appalled at the fact that she hadn't apologized for her earlier accusations. In usual form, Steve had brushed the incident away, assuring her of his continued friendship. She smiled into his eyes, communicating her appreciativeness, before getting down to the business at hand.

"And now for the reason I called you." She led him back over to the bodies. "I know that this isn't your case, but I knew Adam, and I really want his killer to be caught."

Steve shrugged. "I don't have any argument with that."

"Well, I talked to Fred Mancini and I don't think he's going to give this case a fair shake. When I told him my findings, he barely seemed to listen, almost like he's already made up his mind. I may not agree with Maeve's opinions on certain . . . things, but I don't think it would be fair if she was wrongly accused of her husband's murder."

"So you don't think she did it?" Steve asked, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"I don't know if she did it or didn't do it. I just know Mancini thinks she did and he's barely even looked at the evidence. He's not looking to find a killer, he's looking to find ways to prove that she is the killer."

A grim expression settled over Steve's face. "So what have you found?"

Amanda opened her mouth to respond, and was surprised to see Mark appear in the bedroom door. "Hi, Mark. I didn't know you were here." Though she had to admit she had expected him to show up with Steve, she was just surprised that she hadn't seen him until then.

"Hi, Amanda," Mark greeted her. His twinkling blue eyes gave the room a once over, but Amanda knew that he hadn't missed a thing. He finally settled on the victims as he moved over near them. "You know, I would have thought . . . "

"Yeah, us, too," Steve said, his smile broadening as Mark looked again at the position of the bodies and then scanned the room, his eyes settling on the patio door where a technician was gathering samples. Steve turned an amused look in Amanda's direction, and she knew that they could both almost hear the gears going in Mark's brain.

"They were shot through the patio?" Mark asked, a frown appearing as he stepped closer to the object in question. He looked through what remained of the glass out onto the large, beautifully manicured back yard.

Steve visually followed the trajectory he thought the bullets would have taken and answered. "Yeah, it looks that way."

"The blood patterns suggest that the bodies weren't moved." Amanda added.

Mark looked downward at the ground outside of the patio, and then peered in both directions. Then he jerked as if remembering something, and then turned and headed back the way he'd come. "Oh, Steve, I'm going to go with Maeve and the detectives back to the precinct. Will you come by later and pick me up?"

Steve's brow puckered. "Sure. But Da--" Before he could speak further, Mark had made a very hasty exit.

Amanda met Steve's gaze and shrugged. Mark was up to something, and they both knew it.

~*~

"Hi Partner. I thought today was your day off." Detective Cheryl Banks smiled a greeting at him as he approached her desk. "What are you doing here?"

"Easy come, easy go." Steve returned her smile and settled in the seat across the desk from her. "I'm here with Dad. He's down in booking."

"Really?" Cheryl raised a brow. "Steve, don't tell me that your . . . "

"He isn't." Steve chuckled, knowing without her completing her statement that she was asking if his dad was being charged. Considering the number of times he'd stepped into a situation where he shouldn't have been, it was a minor miracle that he hadn't been arrested more often. "He's here for moral support for someone else being fingerprinted."

"Uh Oh," Cheryl smiled, but then frowned in confusion. "One of your cases? I really hope you weren't working today. You do deserve to rest every now and then, you know."

"It isn't one of my cases." Steve assured her, then glanced around. "It's one of Mancini's."

"Ugh." Cheryl winced. She knew about the bad blood that had been going on between the two of them, having been caught in the line of fire on one occasion. "Still no go with him, huh?"

"No." Steve sighed. "Maybe he's just burned out. It does happen." He thought of the kidnapping case again. It had changed him; he could feel some of the previous feelings returning with just the memory. Surely the case must have changed Fred in some way, too.

"Yeah, maybe." Her look clearly communicated that she had another idea of what the problem might be but was sure that he didn't want to hear it again. She had long ago told him that it was because the other detective felt as if Steve had stepped on his toes on the children's case.

Steve wasn't convinced. He thought that there had to be more to it than that. He had known and respected Fred for a long time. In fact, just before the case, he'd been invited to Fred's for a sports get-together.

"Well." He turned his attention to the scattering of files on her desk. Fred was a subject that they weren't going to agree on. "What are you doing?" He turned one of the folders in his direction and caught the name across the top. "Jarvis murder. You must really be bored. Last I checked we didn't have any leads."

"And nothing has changed since," Cheryl assured him. "But I got the ballistics report back today -- which is a no match, by the way -- and thought I'd give it another once over before putting it with the rest of the pile. Since it's my partner's day off, a certain captain thought it would be a good idea if I got all of our current cases in order."

"Oh, Cheryl." Steve felt badly that she'd been saddled with all of that paperwork because he'd been awarded with a day off that he hadn't even wanted. It hardly seemed fair that others should have to take up the slack in the meantime. "Why don't you give me a some of those. I'll look through them while I'm having a beer on the deck."

"No way." She snatched the file playfully away from him.

"Oh, come on," Steve cajoled, offering his best pleading smile as he pulled the file back in his direction. "Reviewing files, on the deck, with a beer. That is a vacation for me! You wouldn't deny me that, now would you?"

Cheryl rolled her eyes and laughed at him, but let him have the file and several others.

"Thanks." Steve smiled at her, enjoying the teasing banter.

Her expression changed slightly. "Uh oh." She spoke while pretending not to move her lips. "Here comes your dad. And his um . . . moral supportee. You sure you didn't put him up to that, Steve? She looks like your type."

"Oh, like I have a type," Steve shot at her before turning.

"My point exactly," she said to the back of his head, and then before he could respond, she was greeting his dad.

"Hi, Cheryl. Thanks, Steve," Mark said on reaching her desk.

Both Steve and Cheryl stood as Mark took care of introducing a very pale looking Maeve to Cheryl. She seemed uncomfortable in the station and was avoiding Steve's eyes. Which was fine with Steve, considering. A strained silence reigned for a moment, but was quickly filled by Mark.

"Steve. Maybe we should be going? Maeve has had a rough time. I'd like to get her back to the beach house so she can get some rest."

Steve couldn't help it. His mouth dropped open for a stunned moment. Surely his father hadn't . . . . He caught a knowing look from Cheryl and then closed his mouth. There was no use fighting this -- at least not with an audience. Especially since his father was giving him the innocent look, the one that meant he knew full well how Steve felt but was taking advantage of the fact that Steve couldn't speak openly to get his way.

Grumbling internally, he snatched the files up from the desk, bid good-bye to Cheryl and led the trio out of the precinct. At first opportunity, he and his dad were going to have to have a little chat.

Part 4: To Protect . . .

Jesse Travis peered into the deck doors of the beach house, trying to get a better look inside. The grill wasn't set up, and far as he could tell it looked like no one was even at home. He looked back at his watch. He might have been a few minutes early, but surely he hadn't misunderstood Mark's invitation to a meal the night before.

Feeling a little let down, he turned and looked out toward the beach. It was nice out, maybe Mark had decided to take a walk. Steve's truck was gone, so Jesse figured he was picking up last minute items. It was getting late in the day and the number of people strolling the beach was diminishing. None of them looked like his friend.

Maybe the two Sloans had decided to have a father and son dinner in honor of Steve's award. He didn't want to interfere with that. And he really couldn't blame Mark for forgetting him. It was a pretty big honor that Steve had won. He headed back down the deck stairs with a dejected frown.

As he circled around the house, he thought he caught the sound of Steve's truck. He immediately brightened. Maybe he hadn't been forgotten after all. With more energy in his step, he hurried around to the front drive, arriving just as Steve cut the engine.

Mark climbed out of the truck and assisted a dark-haired woman. All the while an apologetic expression lit his features. "Oh, Jesse, I'm so sorry. Something came up and I completely forgot about dinner."

Some of the spark went out of his greeting. "It's okay, Mark. I see you've got a guest, anyway. We can make it for another time." He shot a weak smile in Steve's direction and was surprised at the irritation he saw warring in his friend's expression. He was obviously hiding it, but Jesse could see the tension around his mouth and in his shoulders.

"No, I don't want to interrupt anything." The woman spoke up, recapturing Jesse's attention. He gave her a second look. Beneath a pale and utterly worn out look, he could tell that she was beautiful. "I can just go to a hotel."

"Nonsense," Mark told her. "Maeve Michaels, this is Dr. Jesse Travis. And he's practically family. Jesse, Maeve is going to be with us for a couple of days. She has had a very bad shock and I really don't think she should be alone right now."

Jesse felt himself brightening at Mark's description of their relationship, but he sobered at hearing that something awful must have happened recently to their house guest. "I'm pleased to meet you," he told her. Then turned to Mark, "I'll call later."

"Uh, Jess. Could you stay for a little while?" Mark asked.

"Sure." Jesse was happy to stick around, despite the fact that he hadn't missed the look Steve sent in his father's direction.

The whole group headed into the house. Mark immediately led Maeve off to the far guestroom. Jesse wasted no time in cornering his friend and business partner.

"So, what's going on? Who is she?"

Steve shot him a look that clearly said he wasn't interested in talking about it. He dropped a stack of files on the coffee table and headed out toward the deck.

Jesse could smell blood and wasn't letting him off the hook. "Come on, Steve. Tell me. And what happened to her? What bad shock?"

Steve steadily went about the task of setting up the grill.

Jesse was undeterred. "Maeve Michaels." He repeated the name silently in his mind. Then, You know that name sounds really familiar for some reason. Was she one of your cases before? Maeve . . . " Suddenly Jesse gasped. "Maeve!!"

"Shh!!" Steve put a hand to his lips. "Could you at least keep it down?"

"Sorry. She's the one? The one you were smitten with. The married . . . " Jesse frowned. Mark had said that she'd received a very bad shock. Suddenly this didn't seem like so much a fun game. "Why is she here, Steve? What happened?"

"Someone murdered her husband," Steve replied.

"Whoa!" Jesse was stunned. That was the last response he'd been expecting. "And they're letting you work the case?"

"No. But since when has that stopped dad, before?"

"Good point." Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to him. "Are you a suspect?"

"No, Jess." Steve sighed and his tension seemed to increase. "She is."

"Oh." Jesse was beginning to understand. "So, do you know why Mark asked me to stay?"

Steve offered a humorless smile. "Obviously he thinks that there's safety in numbers." Having completed the task of setting up the grill, he turned and headed for the steps that led down to the beach. "Tell dad the grill is started, would you, Jess? I need some air."

~*~

Mark was putting the finishing touches on the meats when he heard Jesse come in behind him. He turned and smiled at the younger man. "Is he still upset?" he asked, feeling as though he was hiding out from his own son.

"Maybe a little," Jesse told him.

Mark made a face. "Oh. Deep down he understands why I did it. He just needs to get used to the idea." He gestured toward a cupboard with a shoulder. "Could you grab another platter for me?"

Jesse retrieved the item. "Is the cook out still on?"

"Sure. Why not?" As far as he was concerned, they all still had to eat. And since he'd gotten the burgers and steaks and chicken prepared to go over the fire, it seemed only logical that they cook them that way. There was more than enough for everyone.

A voice in the doorway caught his attention. "Mark. I don't think I can rest just yet. Do you mind if I take a walk on the beach?"

Mark turned to see Maeve standing there, wearing an old outfit of Carol's. "Of course not. Go right through those doors and the deck will lead you down."

"Thanks, Mark." Maeve smiled at him sadly and headed off.

Jesse turned widened eyes on him and muttered under his breath, "Mark, Steve's out there."

Mark chuckled softly, and responded in an equally quiet tone. "I know. And your point?"

"You're meddling!" Jesse gave him a sly look.

Mark gave the younger doctor his most innocent look. "Did I make Steve go out to take a walk along the beach?"

"No, I guess not."

"And did I encourage Maeve to go?"

"Well, no. But . . . " Jesse looked confused for a second. "At least not that I saw . . . "

Mark just smiled. "Grab a couple tomatoes out of the refrigerator, would you please?"

~*~

Steve found that he couldn't just sit in his usual spot. He had to be moving, expending energy. That translated into walking out to the water's edge, pressing at the damp, packed sand, and backing up every so often to avoid his shoes being washed over by the waves as they flowed onto the beach.

His body carried out the movements necessary on autopilot. His mind was busy elsewhere. Maeve Michaels was in his home, probably sleeping, in the guest room. This was the woman who had played him for a fool -- toying with his emotions while knowing that she wasn't available. Fidelity had meant nothing to her. And his father had invited her to stay for the weekend.

It was just too much, the wrong case and at the wrong time. Those two little girls were still in the back of his mind, nipping at his conscience. He knew that there was no way he would ever be able to spend that award check. In his heart, it just felt tainted.

And then there was Fred. The other detective's animosity was sure to escalate once he discovered that his prime suspect was staying under the Sloan roof. He shook his head and blew out a breath. His dad sure knew how to stir up a pot.

His mind flowed back to Maeve. He had to admit that he didn't think that she could maliciously kill her husband. Especially not because she thought that he might be having an affair. It just didn't fit. He firmly believed that she was incapable of killing Adam Michaels and his assistant Tessa Cohen. If Amanda was right about Fred, and he didn't doubt that she was, Maeve was going to need his and his dad's help.

He groaned inwardly. Why did his dad have to be right about this? Now he was going to have to forgive him. Maybe even apologize for the cold shoulder that he'd given him all the way home. He groaned again, this time aloud.

"Are you okay?"

He turned, mildly startled, at the sound of her voice. The crashing of the ocean had drowned out her approached. "Yeah. I'm okay." He looked back out toward the ocean as she came up beside him.

"I couldn't rest," she explained. "I just kept seeing --" Her voice began to waver, and she broke off. She swallowed and then focused out on the tumbling waters for a moment before beginning again.

"Steve, I am sorry that you were hurt. But I'm not sorry that it happened. And now I realize that I've invaded your home -- It didn't occur to me that you lived here with Mark. As soon as I've gotten myself together, I'll call a cab and . . . "

"No." Steve interrupted her. "Don't do that. I have the downstairs unit. It's basically a separate apartment. But regardless, you still don't have to leave. You're welcome here." He offered a smile that was surprisingly genuine. He didn't agree with what she had done, but he couldn't turn her away as someone who needed help. She was just as much a victim as the two who were lying in the morgue.

The genuine smile soon transformed to a look of dismay as Maeve burst into tears. What had he done wrong? He moved toward her and placed his hands on her arms, hoping to find a way to calm her.

"I'm sorry," she managed to say between sobs. "I'm just a bit of a mess today. Your being so kind and forgiving just pushed me over the edge." There was a self-deprecating smile somewhere in the tears. She sniffed and tried to pull herself together.

"It's okay." Steve smiled back at her before pulling her into his arms. "I'm just that kind of a guy, I'm told." She held on to him for a long moment and then pushed gently away.

She laughed a little. "I can't get too used to that."

Steve smiled. "Friends. Friends can hug." He wiped at her tears and gestured back toward the house. "You know, the grill is probably just about ready. My dad makes a mean hamburger. Feel like heading back?"

She nodded and turned with him toward the beach house. As she did so, she dropped one of her shoes. It tumbled down the grassy dune and a little way out toward the water. They both laughed, and Steve stayed her motion to go after it, telling her that he'd get it.

The shoe wasn't very far away, no more than a couple of yards. Steve quickly retrieved it and found that she'd followed him. He smiled and handed the white sneaker to her. As she grabbed hold of it, one of her feet seemed to sink suddenly in the uneven sand, causing her to stumble slightly toward him. He reached out reflexively to catch her. That was when he heard the crack of weapon's fire. The burning edge of something sliced along his side just as the world tilted and they both went down.

They hit the sand in a tangle of intertwined arms and legs. He immediately began to maneuver his body between hers and the properties along the waterfront, using the slightly raised mound of granulated earth to his advantage.

Screams erupted from farther along the beach as the sparse occupants ducked behind umbrellas and coolers, some pointed to a construction site a few houses over from his and his dad's home. Steve scanned the area, searching for any indication as to who the shooter was or if there would be more shots forthcoming. Moments later, the sound of squealing tires against pavement registered.

For several more heart-pounding moments, tension reigned as both he and Maeve remained frozen in position. Waiting. Then, deciding that the shooter was likely gone, he moved to bring them both cautiously to a standing position. He was surprised at how unsteady he felt, but brushed the thought aside and persevered toward full upright.

"Steve!" Maeve called his name, her tone frantic. "Steve, you . . . !"

He turned his head toward her, and the world seemed to tilt abruptly, before righting itself. He blinked, and shook his head, struggling to focus on her voice. It seemed to be coming from a very long way off. He dazedly followed her frantic gestures downward. The right side of his once gray shirt clung to him, saturated with an alarming amount of dark red. Pain receptors suddenly kicked in on overdrive, and the world began a slow spin.

Part 5: Good Deeds, Punished.

Mark and Jesse were in the kitchen when they heard the sound. For a moment both of them turned and looked at one another in confusion.

"Did that sound like a gunshot to you?" Jesse asked.

Mark didn't answer him, but moved toward the doors that led out to the deck, his concern deepening with each step. Jesse wasn't far behind. He stopped and squinted urgently through the glass. The fading light made it difficult to immediately identify the ducking and running forms. But it was enough to send a stab of justification to the fear that lurched through his heart.

He noted absently the sound of skidding tires. It was difficult to make out where exactly the sound was coming from. And it didn't matter. He hadn't found Steve in his initial perusal of the beach front.

"Do you see them, Jess?" he asked, pushing open the doors and stepping out onto the deck. Maybe the younger man had spotted them when he couldn't. He leaned across the railing, forcing himself to go more slowly.

"No." Jesse's response sounded as frustrated and frantic as he felt. "Maybe we should go down there."

Mark was already moving in the direction when the words left Jesse's lips. He'd taken one step down the stairs leading to the sand before looking back out toward the ocean when he saw two people rising from among a cluster of grassy dunes a couple dozen yards beyond his property line. He could just make out their forms.

He recalled that Steve had been wearing jeans and a gray shirt, both of which faded to near black in the half light. But Maeve had worn one of Carol's baggy pink outfits. Even against the setting sun, the color was identifiable. An audible sigh of relief rushed out of him. They were okay. But then Steve faltered, and Mark's heart faltered with him.

All thoughts of possible danger to himself fled his mind as he turned and took the remaining steps at a run. He could only think of getting out there, to Steve. Worse, he couldn't tell what happened next, as he could no longer see them once he reached the lower level as the dunes and privacy hedges blocked his view. All that he could do was run across the loose sand, worrying and hoping.

~*~

When Maeve's hand clamped against Steve's arm, the contact acted as a stabilizing factor, bringing him back to himself. They were still out in the open, and though he had somehow managed to instinctively clamp a hand over his injured side, blood still escaped through trembling fingers and dripped to the sand at his feet.

The red droplets blurred against the sand momentarily before he shook his head and regained his focus. He set his sights on the visible portion of the beach house, and with Maeve's arm wrapped about his shoulder, they set off toward their goal.

Each movement across the uneven sand was a torment, but they couldn't stop. He couldn't give in to the weakness that settled over him like a blanket, making him feel as though every step he took would be his last. But he forced his fading legs to continue to trudge through what felt like ever thickening sludge. Finally the gate which led into their back yard appeared blearily before them. The narrow opening looked impossible to navigate in his current state, half-supported by Maeve. His vision was starting to darken around the edges, and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to make it much farther. But he had to. They weren't safe, yet.



"Oh, God . . . ." Mark met them at the gate, his voice fading at the amount of blood visible on Steve's clothing. Worried over a venus bleeder, he tried to get Steve to stop so that he could examine him. But Steve pressed on, attempting to speak as he did so.

"In . . . side . . . "

The potential danger that they remained in out in the open registered vaguely in Mark's mind. Not because of fear for himself, but fear that his son might be wounded further and the instinctive knowledge that if Steve thought that there was danger, he wasn't going to allow himself to be cared for until he thought that they were reasonably safe. So he hurried to Steve's other side, and helped him along, hating the pain that each gasped breath bespoke as they continued on.

Steve began to sag more in their arms. What little strength he might have used to get across the sand to the house seemed to be fading, and Mark knew that there was no way that they could get him up the steps to the patio. He headed directly for Steve's entrance, and though he didn't see Jesse, he yelled for him to open Steve's patio door.

The younger doctor must have been thinking along the same lines because before they reached Steve's patio, the doors opened and the younger doctor was standing there. As they moved inside, Mark noticed that a couple of folded blankets had been formed into a pallet on the floor, and his doctor's bag was sitting open nearby.

"Easy, Son," Mark urged as Steve's legs seemed to give out just as they reached the prepared padding. He'd known that was coming, having been unsure of how Steve had managed to stay upright and helping for so long considering the blood loss and the stamina necessary to approach the house from the shore. Jesse stepped forward to help take his weight, easing him very carefully to the blanketed area, where Steve simply collapsed, exhausted.

Mark felt the same way. Seeing his son hurt stole every ounce of energy he had. But he forced his mind to function, and looked across at his colleague. "Ambulance?" he asked.

"On its way. Police, too," Jesse responded, shooting him a glance as he went to work on cutting through the material of Steve's shirt. "How ya holding up, big guy?" Jesse asked, his eyes roving over Steve's pale, drawn features.

"How . . . you think?" Steve managed to gasp out. He then reached a bloody hand weakly toward Mark.

Without hesitation, Mark covered the hand Steve had touched him with and focused intently on what he was trying to tell him.

"Maeve. . . in danger."

"Okay, Son," he replied to his rapidly fading offspring. He'd almost forgotten Maeve's presence, she'd been so quiet. He glanced back to where she sat huddled a small distance away. If the shots had been meant for her, she might have been hit, too. "Are you hurt anywhere?" he asked her, gently.

She shook her head wordlessly, her gaze never leaving the movements of Jesse's hands as he skillfully separated the material covering Steve's abdomen and got his first look at the wound. There was little response in her eyes. He had the feeling that she had seen one thing too many that day. She might not even know if she was hurt. He needed to see to her needs, check her over for himself, but he also needed to know how serious Steve's injuries were.

"Jess?" He turned back to the other doctor.

"It looks like the bullet plowed a pretty deep laceration, Mark." Jesse spoke without looking up as he applied a large bandage over the wound. "It's going to need to be irrigated, and he's lost a good bit of blood. He's going to have a nice new set of sutures to add to his collection." Mark knew the details that Jesse was leaving out such as shock due to trauma and blood loss, and the possibility of infection. But he knew also that Steve's chances were pretty good.

He released a breath and squeezed Steve's hand. "You're going to be fine," he reassured him. But the reassurance was just as much for himself as for Steve. Patting his son's hand once more, he left him to Jesse's care while he went to assist Maeve.

~*~

Steve opened his eyes and blinked slowly up at the ceiling, knowing immediately that he was in the hospital. His brain felt muzzy, like it was floating around in cotton, but the events of the evening were there, playing back in a rapid stream of sound and visual images: the struggle to save Maeve from the sniper at the beach, his father running toward him, Jesse looking down at him, someone talking about volume expanders and antibiotics.

He turned his head and took in the room, happy to find that he was only connected to a single IV, half full of clear liquid. That couldn't be too bad considering his stays often included being attached to some kind of monitoring machine or other. But whatever was mixed in with the fluid being delivered intravenously into his system packed a wallop. He'd managed to surface for less than a minute and already his lids were beginning to droop again. His body was free, floating in the clouds with his brain. . .

A loud smack as the room door was pushed forcibly open jerked him back to wakefulness. It seemed that only a moment had passed. There was really no time to consider it further as Detective Fred Mancini entered the room on the heels of the noise. He looked less than thrilled as his eyes settled on the room's only other occupant.

"I see you're awake. Good." He walked up to the side of the bed. "Maybe you can tell me why Maeve Michaels is staying at your house?"

Steve blinked sleepily back at the other detective and noted the coldness of his return gaze. His initial instinct was to tell Fred that it was none of his business. But some logical portion of his sluggish brain reminded him that he had no such luxury, especially after what had happened that evening.

"She's a friend," he said quietly. "We didn't think she should be alone. Her dad is her only family, and he's out of town and won't be back until Sunday."

"Just a regular Good Samaritan aren't you, Sloan?" Fred shot back. "How good a friend was she? You two looked mighty cozy this morning."

"What are you getting at?" Steve demanded, feeling his temper beginning to rise. Sparring with the other detective was also having the added effect of bringing him further into wakefulness. But their bickering wasn't going to help solve the case. There was a killer on the loose, and unless they found him, Steve had a very bad feeling that someone else was going to end up dead. That someone, he feared, would be Maeve.

"But I hear some people like it better when they're married. Makes it more fun, more exciting." Fred continued on as if Steve hadn't spoken.

"I'm not one of those people," Steve ground out angrily. The action pulled at the stitches in his side, causing them to sting a little.

Fred's eyes widened in disbelief. "Not what I heard."

Steve refused to the give that line of discussion another moment of his time. There were other, more important, issues at hand. "Look, Fred. Whatever you've got against me, put it aside. There's a woman in danger, here. You need to assign someone to Ms. Michaels. Whoever was shooting at the beach was probably gunning for her."

"I've got a different theory," Fred objected to his reasoning. "I think there is a possibility that she could have had an accomplice. ME's report says that time of death for both victims was at about eight o' clock this morning." He stared at Steve as if waiting.

Steve shook his head. "And?"

"And where were you this morning at eight o' clock?"

"You think I'm a suspect?" Steve gaped in amazement. "You're kidding me."

"I'm just investigating all of the possibilities, Sloan. A woman like that -- male friends would do a lot for her. So, your whereabouts at eight? Unless I need to go to the captain about your hindering an investigation."

"I was at home in bed, sleeping."

"Alone?" Fred taunted.

"Yes. Alone." Steve resented the other man's accusation, and made sure that it was clear in his tone.

"Anyone corroborate that?"

"My father."

"Oh, yeah. Your dad." Fred made it sound as if Mark was hardly a credible alibi. "No vested interest there. I guess that's one of the perks of living with daddy. Okay. Now tell me about your . . . uh . . . friendship with Ms. Michaels, and don't leave anything out."

"You know where I was, and you know we were friends!" Steve's entire body tensed in his anger, further aggravating the wound that was attempting to heal. As far as he was concerned, his and Maeve's relationship had nothing to do with Mancini's investigation. He was convinced that the man was just digging for information because he could. Steve knew that anything he shared about himself and Maeve would be all over the precinct by morning. It was dirty, and he refused to play along.

"Oh, so did you meet before or after your little accident in the parking lot at Mickey's grocery? You filed the report yourself, just about a month ago. Said it was all your fault, seems you backed into her?"

Steve closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down as he realized how this was all starting to look. "In case you haven't noticed, Fred, I was shot today. A sniper was firing from somewhere on the beach front. Ms. Michaels was standing very near me."

"Yeah, you were grazed. Pretty lucky don't you think? Either the shooter was a bad shot, or a really good one."

A flood of indignation coursed through him, and he wanted nothing better than to lunge out of the bed and demonstrate physically how little he appreciated the inferences that were being made. He was saved from having to check the reaction by the opening of the room door.

Mark appeared, his expression immediately altering when he noted Fred's presence. He seemed to sense the tension as well as he looked between the two of them. The frown morphed to concern when his eyes settled again on Steve, before returning to Mancini. Though he had yet to say a word, Steve knew that his father had accurately accessed the situation.

"What's going on?" Mark asked.

"I'm conducting a murder investigation," Fred replied. "And if you'll give us a moment, Dr. Sloan . . . ."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we need to get these details while they're still fresh."

"I know of that necessity," Mark assured him. "But Steve is under the influence of some fairly strong medications. As a physician, I'm recommending that you hold your remaining questions until a later date."

Fred looked as if he might argue, but then closed his notebook, and headed out of the room without another word.

Mark watched him go, then approached the bedside. "What was that all about?"

Steve shook his head, feeling himself relaxing even as Fred left the room. "I think I've just become a suspect in the murder of Adam Michaels."

"Steve, no." Mark looked increasingly worried. "Based on what? Amanda said that the murders happened this morning. You were home with me."

"I know, Dad, but I don't think that matters."

"Can't we do something? Talk to the captain?"

"It's his investigation, and a case can be made that he's just following the evidence."

"What evi . . . . " Mark's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh. Well, he won't find anything because there's nothing there to find. It's just an unfortunate set of coincidences."

Steve smiled, warmed by his dad's confidence in him. So many people that he knew had strained relationships with their fathers. But he could talk to his dad about anything, at anytime. He knew he could count on him under any circumstances.

The smile dimmed as he remembered the day's earlier disagreement. "Dad . . . . about my attitude when we left the precinct . . . ."

"Steve, there's no need." Mark rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. A sheepish expression crossed his face. "Besides, I did sort of spring her on you. And if there is anyone who should be apologizing, it's me."

"You did surprise me," Steve admitted. "But I understand why you did it, and I agree." He stifled a yawn before he could continue, "Speaking of which, how is Maeve? I'm surprised Fred didn't go after her, too. With the releasing of tension, his body was headed back toward that cottony feeling. He fought it, and blinked several times in an attempt to maintain focus on his father.

"Oh, he did try." Mark's eyes twinkled with mischief. "But your dear old dad has a few tricks up his sleeve, yet."

Steve chuckled slightly, finding the effort to remain awake becoming more and more difficult. "You're hiding her somewhere in the hospital, aren't you?" His voice sounded slightly slurred to his own ears.

Mark's return smile was hazy, and seemed to be coming from a far distance. "She needed to get some rest, and I made sure that it's happening. And speaking of rest, you need to get some, too. That is, if you're planning on going home tomorrow."

Steve knew a reply formed in his mind, but the only sound that he was aware of that escaped him was a sigh. After that, everything faded away to peaceful nothingness.

Part 6 : Frustration & Surprise

"I've got it, Jess!"

Jesse blinked at Steve's grumbling outburst as he tried to help him out of his car, but persisted anyway, providing a guiding hand to help him to a standing position. Steve could be a little ornery when he wasn't feeling well, although Jesse knew that it was more than his injuries that brought on the bad mood.

He looked across the top of the car at Maeve and shot her a reassuring smile. "He gets this way when he's not in control of the situation. But we love him, anyway."

Maeve chuckled, and lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender as S