Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

"This is… Cammander Sharon Raydor of the Los Angeles Police Department. Badge number 951753. I - I’ve discharged my weapon. A man’s been shot. I need paramedics and responding units..."

She squeezes the cell phone in her shaky hand until her fingers hurt. Operator keeps talking, Sharon can hear the sound, but can’t make out any words. She didn’t just shoot someone. She killed him, one shot in the chest and one in the head.

“Are you in imminent danger?” she catches despite her heart pounding like a thunder storm.

“I don’t believe so,” Sharon responds. A short answer. Her voice trembles, adrenalin pumping through her body.

“Where are you, ma’am?”

“I…” she looks around, furrowing her eyebrows and forcing her eyes to concentrate. “Living room. I’m in the living room of what appears to be a private residence.”

The voice on the other end of the line keeps asking her questions. She can’t answer. Her head spins, she’s panting, her chest hurts even though she knows her heart is fine. She’s not going into a cardiac arrest, it’s just panic. Pure panic.

And perhaps relief, but Sharon won’t allow herself to think that.

She puts the phone onto a coffee table. Then places a gun next to it, and sits in the nearest armchair. It will take the operator a few minutes to trace her call and then a few more minutes for the nearest black-and-white to show up.

Depending on which state she’s in, Sharon reminds herself.

She could still be in California or somewhere in Colorado mountains, or… She coughs. Deep breath in, deep breath out. She sits unmoving, watching the blood from the dead body slowly spread on the floor. Sharon wraps her arms around her shoulders. She desperately needs to pee, but the less she moves around the house the easier the detectives’ work is going to be. She sits, takes several deep breaths, then shoves two fingers into her mouth and gags until she throws up onto a carpet.

There isn’t much in her stomach, so she spots the pills right away. All of them, slightly dissolved. This is probably the last time she’s going to be alone in the foreseeable future, so she cries out loud, the turmoil of the past few weeks overwhelming her. She cries until she starts panting, then leans back in the armchair and closes her eyes, trying to calm herself.

First, there are sirens, and then the lights, and then loud footsteps outside the house.  Sharon opens her eyes. The room swims. The front door is evidently locked – it breaks with a loud noise. Loud enough for Sharon to hear it through the fog her mind is in. She raises her arms to the level of her shoulders.

“LAPD!” a male voice shouts as footsteps come closer. “Don’t move!”

She stays still, hands in the air, the bra strap slowly sliding down her shoulder, eyes filling with tears again. LAPD. She’s still in LA, and Andy will soon… She grimaces, image of her dead husband too vivid in her memory. It’s her fault. If she hadn’t tried to escape, Andy would still be alive.

“I am…” she begins, but her words are stuck in her throat.

“Are there any more people in the house?” someone yells above Sharon’s ear, interrupting her attempts to speak.

Officers rush through the living room, several of them head upstairs, Sharon can hear the wooden steps squeak.  A pair of gloved hands grab the gun from the coffee table and shove it into a plastic bag. Someone checks the body on the floor.

“He’s still warm. No pulse.”

“Ma’am, are you injured?” a female officer asks, her gun in a read-to-shoot position. Sharon doesn’t move an inch. They have no way of knowing whether she’s armed. She’s only got her underwear on, but she can be sitting on a second gun. She can have a knife in her bra for what it’s worth.

“I don’t believe so,” Sharon shakes her head just in case her speech turns into mumbling. There’s really no reason to make the officers’ task any harder than it already is.

“Slowly get up with your hands in the air and turn around,” the female officer states, her voice steady. “Do you have any concealed weapons?”

“No,” Sharon breathes out before she attempts to rise to her feet.

She can’t get up. Her legs are cotton, and she falls back onto the armchair. It takes all of her self control not to jerk her hands down onto the armrests for support.

 “All clear!” comes from the far side of the house, then more footsteps, and then more police officers are walking into the living room. Sharon looks at their faces, but cannot recognize anyone.

“I’m commander Sharon Raydor,” she says, but her chin trembles and she stops half way through the sentence. “I’m commander Sharon Raydor of the LAPD Major Crimes division, badge number 951753,” she finally manages to say, and there’s confusion on the female officer’s face. Her hand is steady on the gun, her eyes studying Sharon. Her voice doesn’t change a bit.

“I’m going to have to verify that, ma’am. Please stand up with your hands in the air. Turn around.”

Sharon tries and fails again.

“Damn it,” Sharon whispers under her breath and winces. “I can’t,” she adds louder for the officer to hear.

The officer nods to someone Sharon can’t see, and big hands grab her wrists from behind the armchair, pulling her into an upward position. It hurts a little, the grip too tight, and then there’s agonizing pain searing through her left arm. She cries out, instinctively jerking her hand from the officer.

The next thing Sharon knows is she’s pinned to the floor, both hands tightly pulled behind her back, pain from her left arm blurring her vision. Someone’s knee is pressed to the small of her back, slightly moving her underwear down. She cries out again when the officer tightens the cuffs on her wrists and squeezes her hands with his to pull her up.

It’s her fault entirely. She should’ve mentioned she had her left thumb dislocated to escape a handcuff just prior to the shooting. Now it looks to the police like she resisted arrest. Sharon sighs, annoyed with herself.

"You have the right to remain silent..." the officer who pulled her from the armchair barks next to Sharon's ear. Unnecessarily loud, she notes to herself, but she appeared to be resisting arrest, so she takes a deep breath to steady her shaking body, but doesn't complain. "Do you understand your rights?"

"Yes, I do."

There's not much black-and-whites can do in this situation. It's a homicide, they've got to notify detectives and keep her at the scene until those arrive. How civil they are towards her is up to them and their common decency, and if she's honest with herself, Sharon doesn't care much after all she's been through.  She's just happy it's over.

Almost over 

They lead (almost drag - because she keeps stumbling on her feet) her to one of the patrol cars, cold air unpleasant on her naked body. The female officer catches up with them.

“Impersonating a police officer is a crime, lady,” she spits at Sharon right before shoving her into the backseat of a car. “The commander whose badge number you’ve given, she’s dead. Been dead for over a month now.”

And with that she slams the door. Sharon purses her lips. Explaining this right now feels impossible. Truth be told, she doesn't believe herself on the matter. It's surreal, and she's tired (and slightly drugged, cos she didn't throw up soon enough after the bastard made her swallow the pills). And she needs to pee. And even if the patrol officers believe her story, they won't be able to change the procedure.

Everything will go according to the law.

And according to the law, she's dead. Sharon freezes for a moment at this thought..

Deep down she had hoped he was bluffing. Lying. Playing tricks so she would lose hope of being rescued. Then a week went by, and another one, and another, and no one came for her. He kept showing her videos from her funeral and then from the cemetery when her loved ones started visiting her grave... And now she knows for sure, and it will be a legal nightmare to get her life back. 

Except...

Sharon shivers and starts crying.

Except Andy won't be there anymore. And this thought pricks at her desire to go on. Maybe she shouldn't have thrown up. They've said their goodbyes to her, they've moved on. And Andy... Poor Andy. She gasps for air and drops her head forward. 

This is nothing compared to her reaction when the bastard first showed her a video of her husband's death. It doesn't hurt any less now than it did before, and as the adrenaline rush is slowing down, Sharon regrets she's not dead. Because it would have been easier. For her and for everyone.

It’s cold in the car. Sharon shivers, unable to wrap her hands around her shoulders for even the slightest warmth. Cuffs are uncomfortably tight, almost digging into her wrists, and she distracts herself for a moment with that, thinking whether she should be filing a complaint with FID when all of this is over.

Just as she decides not to, the female officer returns, carrying a blanket. Her male colleague stops a couple feet from the car, while she opens the door and shows the blanket to Sharon.

“It’s cold tonight,” she begins, bending into the car to face Sharon. “I’m gonna cover you with this. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Sharon nods, then thanks her. She’s still freezing and her body trembles.

“You know you don’t have to do that,” the male officer says once the door is shut.

“It’ll be at least half an hour before detectives arrive. She'll catch cold.”

tbc

Chapter Text

“Good morning, captain.”

“It’s hardly morning, Sykes, and it cannot be good at this hour, trust me... What happened to the good old committing crimes in broad daylight.”

Sykes nods with a half smile, stepping back to allow him to get out of his car. He takes one last sip of his coffee, and then slams the door shut. It’s 3 a.m., and Louie Provenza is annoyed. He was asleep when he got a call about a homicide.

“By the way, congratulations on your promotion, sir,” Sykes shines like her life depends on it.

That was yesterday. They said he needed to be a captain to run Major Crimes, so they gave him a captain. Just like that, after all these years. 

He dismisses Sykes with his hand, then looks around again and mumbles under his breath, “Where the hell is everybody?.. Uh, don’t answer.”

He knew he shouldn’t have jumped out of bed so quickly, now he’s stuck with Sykes till his division arrives.

“I got here a few minutes ago, sir. This is officer…” Sykes points at someone approaching them, but Provenza is already walking towards to house. The faster they get over with it, the sooner he goes back to bed.

And from what he’s been told, it’s a waste of his and his division’s time.

The officer who approached them follows. She speaks fast and sounds emotionless, like a recorded message, “Captain Provenza, at 3:14 A.M. a 911 call was placed by the supposed shooter. We got here at 3:21 A.M. and secured the scene.”

“And it’s three…” Provenza checks his watch, his annoyance growing, “3:35 A.M., yes-yes… What have you got?”

“The victim is male, late twenties - early thirties, no ID. The suspect, female, late sixties, no ID…”

“What is it with murders these days, nobody cares to bring their ID before shooting someone,” Provenza rolls his eyes. He looks around the house, then stares at the dead body on the floor for a long moment. “No signs of struggle, I take it?”

The officer shakes her head, “And no defensive wounds as far as I can tell, sir. The door was locked from inside, we had to break it.”

“And what’s this?” Sykes calls their attention, kneeling by a stain on a carpet next to an armchair.

Provenza frowns, squatting next to her. He can see half-dissolved pills on the carpet.

“Someone took an awful lot of medication and then decided they didn’t want them anymore. And these don't look like they're for the flu. We should take a sample… Now,” he adds rising to his feet. “What does our suspect say?”

“Self defense?” Sykes suggests before the officer can answer. Provenza gives her a look.

“Hard to tell,” the female officer shrugs slightly, “We've searched the house, and nothing seems to be broken or misplaced. Nothing suggests either the suspect or the victim resided here. No personal items. And... What's interesting, our shooter was practically naked, but there are no female clothes anywhere in the house. No spare clothes of any kind actually.”

“Is there a second gun?”

“No, sir, but we’ll keep looking,” the officer responds, and someone from another room adds,

“But there is a pair of handcuffs in the kitchen!”

Sykes raises her eyebrows, curious. She walks to the other room and returns a moment later, a plastic bag in her hand. Provenza takes the bag and studies the handcuffs.  They're not police issued, but he knows plenty officers who bought their own handcuffs to go around. They’ll need to check them for DNA and prints. 

“A call girl? Role play gone wrong?..” Provenza suggests lightheartedly, then adds, ”Uh, Buzz, nice of you to join us. Please,” he motions towards the dead body on the floor. “So let me get this straight. We've got the body, we've got the murder weapon, we've got the suspect who admitted she did it... What am I missing?”

“Why she did it?” Sykes offers.

“Oh yes, detective, the motive," he chuckles with sarcasm, "Lucky for us, we have someone to ask that. Officer, where’s our suspect?”

“Patrol car, captain. One of our officers is with her.”

“Then let’s go ask her, shall we?” he waves his hand towards the door like he’s carrying a banner. “Has she said anything besides confessing to murdering the guy?”

“That she was from major crimes, even gave us a badge number, but…”

“And you didn’t lead with that because…”

If it’s an officer involved shooting that’s a whole new deal. His team shouldn’t be collecting evidence at the crime scene, it’s professional standards job, and those bastards are still sleeping in beds. The thing is, he can’t think of a single colleague who matches the description of the suspect. They don't have a sixty year old female in their division.

“It didn't stick, sir. We ran her badge number... She said her name was Sharon…” the officer checks her notes. “Sharon Raydor.” 

Provenza stops abruptly to look at the officer, his face immediately a grimace of sorrow. He points a finger at her.

“Now that's not a good joke at all,“ he says excruciatingly slowly, every next cyllable angrier than the previous one.  

“I know, sir.”

Whoever tried to impersonate their late commander is about to learn just how pissed off Louie Provenza can be. He quickens his pace and pulls the door of the car open.

“I don’t know where you got that idea…” he begins shouting, his usual light demeanor gone completely. “But the officer you tried to impersonate was a dear friend and…”

His words get stuck in his throat when the woman in the car raises her head and stares at him. It can’t be. Provenza checks his glasses, then rubs his nose. He all but pinches his own arm while glaring at the figure in the back seat.

Wrapped in a blanket, oily hair with white roots, lifelessly pale cheeks and lips pressed tightly together, it can’t be…

The resemblance is astonishing, and he stands there, staring at someone who looks absolutely like his late boss. Except it can’t be her, he gave a speech at her funeral.

This woman looks older, though, Louie notes. Much older than Sharon, so it’s someone else, he nods to himself almost ready to regroup and act professionally. That’s when Sykes catches up with them, and she, too, is shocked, but she’s loud about it.

“Commander?” Sykes all but yells and squats in front of the open door, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Detective Sykes,” the woman who cannot be Sharon Raydor responds in a calm, very Sharon-like manner and nods. Her lower lip trembles. Provenza wipes imaginary sweat off of his forehead and whistles.

He looks at the officers standing next to him, then at not-Sharon (who is now watching him wordlessly, tears pooling up in her eyes), then he looks back at the house, at the woman again - and sighs. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sykes beats him to it,

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

The woman nods in response and wipes her nose against the blanket on her shoulder.

“Commander,” Provenza begins, weighing every word he says. “Is this really you? How is it possible?”

His hands shake, so he hides them in his pockets and rocks from heels to toes and back impatiently.

“I’m afraid so, lieutenant,” Sharon responds slowly like she's talking to a sick child.

Sykes looks back at him, uncertain. What the hell do they do now? For lack of anything better to say, he mumbles,

“Captain. It’s captain now… Sorry… How are you?.. Sorry, commander, I just… How is it possible? What… What happened?.. No, don’t answer that,” he adds quickly, raising his hand to stop her from speaking when Sharon – it seems to him – is about to say something.

He wants to hug her and call Flynn, and yell at him for being off-duty right now, then call Rusty, then get a drink, perhaps not in this order. But he knows he can’t do any of it.

It's unclear what happened, and there’s a dead body in the house, and Sharon Raydor (who is supposed to be long dead) is a murder suspect. Louie scratches his chin, thinking. Excitement and shock are bit by bit replaced with concern and worry.

Looking at her, Provenza isn’t sure what she’s been through or what her state of mind currently is. The last time he saw her she was on the floor of her office in Major Crimes. He decidedly refused to look at her after her supposed passing (something that he now regrets). He desperately wants to know what is going on, but that’s a bell he won’t be able to un-ring. For what it's worth, Sharon doesn't look her normal self, and he fears she'll say something she shouldn't.

He owes her every bit of 'looking away' he can legally manage (because she won't allow him anything beyond that).

“Lieutanant…” Sharon interrupts his thoughts in a small voice, “Captain Provenza, I need to use a bathroom.”

He nods, still at a loss, glances at the officers; his mind is jumping from one thing to another. Louie instinctively extends his hand to help the commander out of the car, and Sykes rises to her feet to get out of the way. Sharon doesn’t move.

“My hands are behind my back,” she articulates rather than says it out loud.

Provenza frowns, then turns to face the officers, gesturing for them to hand him the key.

“Cuffs? Really?”

“It's okay, I...” Sharon stops half way through the sentence and inhales sharply. “I resisted.”

“Oh-h-h, commander, I find it hard to believe you would do such a thing.”

Sharon chuckles. And then she smiles with the corners of her mouth, and sobs and looks down. She turns around and leans forward so he can reach her wrists. The blanket only covers her front and sides, so the move exposes her bare back and underwear. Sharon doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Truth be told, whether she resisted or not, the officers would cuff her any way. Unless they knew who she was, and even then, with all the insanity of the situation he can’t blame them for wanting to be as safe as possible. He’s seen plenty cases of officers going nuts and shooting civilians, colleagues or even themselves.

He unlocks the handcuffs, noting how cold Sharon's skin is to his touch, then backs away and nods to Sykes for assistance. With what Sharon is wearing a decent thing of him to do would be looking away while Sykes helps her out of the car.  But he can’t stop staring. It all feels surreal, impossible.

Sharon sways on her feet once she’s in a standing position, and Sykes is quick to grab her by the shoulders for support.

Provenza waves a hand up in the air, “We need medical assistance here.”

There’s absolutely no way he’s taking the commander to a bathroom, and he’d prefer Sykes to be as far from there as possible, too. He'll let the professionals deal with it.

Sharon wraps the blanket tight around herself, but leaves one arm outside. Her feet unsteady, she takes a step towards Provenza, then smiles weakly and extends her free arm to give him a hug. Her other arm remains under the blanket.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Sharon breathes out, resting her forehead against his shoulder, and he slowly puts his hands onto her back for support. She’s crying, her sobs shaking against him violently.

Damn it, things would be so much easier if Flynn didn’t take a weekend off to visit his daughter. Talk about bad luck.

Provenza awkwardly rubs against her shoulder blade to soothe her, watching a paramedic approach them.

“Commander,” Provenza whispers and taps on her back to draw her attention. She withdraws from him, facing the ground. He keeps one hand on her back just in case she loses balance.

“I’m sorry, captain.”

He shakes his head. She's embarassed, and that's the last thing she should be right now.

“We need a urine sample,” he addresses the medic, then frowns, spotting a bruise on Sharon’s hand. “Check her left hand, too. And let’s do a rape kit and a tox screen.”

Sharon jerks when he finishes the sentence, but says nothing. She's shaking again.

"I..."

"Commander... Sharon, Sharon," Provenza's voice becomes quieter and turns into a whisper. "Whatever happened to you was not your fault, you know that."

Not very professional of him, but screw that. He moves a stray hair from her nose, then nods to the paramedic.

“Fingerprints,” Sykes suggests.

“There’s a chance they won’t match,” Sharon interrupts Provenza when he’s about to add a DNA test to the list. He tenses. What the hell is going on. “Fingerprints, DNA… Anything that was in the police database. Any database for that matter.”

If Provenza closes his eyes, he can forget the commander is standing barefoot on the wet ground wrapped in a blanket. She sounds like herself, her matter-of-fact tone contradicting her looks completely.

“Let’s do the tests anyways,” Louie smiles politely.

He mentally adds new questions to the long list he wants to ask once it’s appropriate. Sykes on one side and the paramedic of the other, they lead the commander to a gurney while Provenza is trying to make anything make sense in his head.

"Captain Provenza," Sharon calls for him from a few feet away, "You know Major Crimes shouldn't be at the crime scene."

He nods. This is going to be a long day.

He pulls his cell phone and dials Flynn.

tbc

Chapter Text

Sitting in an ambulance, Sharon watches more cars arrive. Without her glasses everything’s blurry, so she can’t make out faces. At first, it’s just her and the two paramedics that are taking her blood and urine and swab her mouth. They ask if she’s dizzy or in pain, whether she’s got any injuries… - she takes a second or two to think about every answer, then says she’s fine, over and over again. They already know about her hand, so it makes no sense to mention it.

She does tell them about the pills she had swallowed at a gunpoint. Sleeping pills that were supposed to end her life once again, for real this time.

The irony of going through the trouble of faking her death just to actually kill her a few weeks later doesn’t escape her. But Sharon discusses nothing of it with the medics.

They make her swallow activated charcoal, but don’t insist on dragging her to the hospital for stomach pumping. She’s really fine, just slightly lightheaded, Sharon insists. Her heart condition doesn’t come up, so Sharon doesn’t mention it either.

Sykes remains at a distance as does Provenza, and Sharon is grateful for it. She knows they’re here, just not necessarily in her face. Because she’s involved, there’s not much they can do until the crime scene is processed by a different division, and normally Major Crimes wouldn’t hang around. They stay nearby nonetheless. Sharon is certain she hears Buzz Watson’s and Mike Tao’s voices at some point, too. She doesn’t recognize anybody else.

When the initial tests are done, Sharon calls Sykes to come in. Every conversation she has, every word she says will be written down, she knows. Every person she comes close to – deposed. That’s protocol.

“Are my children alright?” she asks when Amy approaches her with a worried look on her face. Sharon can’t wait any longer, she needs to know.

“Um, yes…” Amy responds thoughtfully, then her face beams with excitement and she adds, “OMG, you don’t know! Rusty is…”

Sharon raises her hand quickly to stop her from talking.

“Yes or no, Amy.”

Amy nods and bites her lower lip.

“Yes. Yes, Rusty, Emily and Ricky are alright. Captain called them a few minutes ago.”

Sharon lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, smiles and bites her lower lip, then nods her thanks. Her poor children, just when they picked up their lives, she’s about to mess them up again. She hopes Provenza didn’t just tell them the news, he knows better. If she were in his shoes, she’d make up an excuse to ask them to come asap. Sharon won’t ask. The less she communicates with her colleagues right now, the better.

As soon as Sykes leaves, one of the medics carefully lifts Sharon’s left hand and applies an anesthetic. It tingles, then it burns, and then it finally gets numb. It looks pretty bad though, even without her glasses. Purple, swollen. Sharon notices just how cautious the medic is when he holds her wounded hand.

They both know this type of injury, so he asks nothing and she offers silence in return. Later on, he will no doubt make a statement to the officers from the internal affairs.

She feels nothing when he twists and turns her thumb; she would probably hear a distant click of it popping back where it belongs if it weren’t for all the noise around. Instead, she sits and watches the paramedic until he hums something along ‘a-ha’ to himself, then puts a splint and wraps her hand tightly.

“… because she doesn’t have any clothes!” she suddenly hears Provenza’s voice approaching the van. Nobody enters. “She’s a police officer and should be treated as such. There’s no way you drive her downtown like this. And considering her medical condition, she should be at the hospital!”

Whoever Provenza is arguing with remains silent. Sharon frowns, trying to listen in, but nothing comes.  

The mention of a hospital makes her shiver. Her vision blurs further until she sees nothing at all. Not a hospital, just please not a hospital.

Memories spiral in her head: the first time she fainted, the doctor telling her about cardiomyopathy, the pain of her heart being electrocuted, the confusion of waking up in an unfamiliar room tied to a bed… 

It scares the hell out of her how something so terrible and so massive could have happened, and she never realized what was going on. A social experiment by a psychopath.

She closes her eyes and counts to ten. 

She believed she was dying and she accepted it. She doesn’t regret a single choice she made in the process. But now that she knows it was all a lie, it hurts like hell.

“Ma’am, do you need help?” she hears the female paramedic’s voice above her head and opens her eyes.

“Pardon me?”

“Getting dressed,” she explains, extending what looks to be a pair of folded pants and a sweater to Sharon.

“Thank you, I’ll manage.”

She sighs and picks up the sweater with her healthy hand. These are not her clothes (which makes sense – her clothes are probably in Goodwill, gosh, she hopes they are in Goodwill, she hopes her children didn’t keep all her junk after her passing). A tear runs down Sharon’s cheek and she rolls her eyes, annoyed with herself. She’s a mess and she hates it.

She’s not sure how long it takes her to put on her clothes, but the female paramedic sits nearby the entire time. She’s not watching Sharon, she’s just there.

“Commander?” Provenza calls for her from outside when Sharon bends down to put on sneakers. She nods to the medic, and a moment later three people tower above Sharon. “Commander, these lovely gentlemen from FID whom I have no doubt you know are here to take your statement,” he sneers.

Sharon smiles weakly at them. She does know them, they’ve worked together for years. And while their reaction is not as colourful as Provenza’s was, they stare at her, too, as if they’re seeing a ghost.

“We have the weapon, commander. And the ballistics report should be ready in a few hours, so if you could walk us through what took place…”

He doesn’t get to finish his speech. Provenza interferes.

"As long as the commander, of course, is reminded that she indeed has the right to remain silent and have her attorney present."

"Do you know something we don't, captain Provenza?"

"I don't think so, gentlemen. As soon as we learnt the identity of the shooter, major crimes packed and left the crime scene."

"And yet here you are over an hour later."

"Purely as a courtesy to one of our own, lieutenant," Louie grins and bows slightly towards Sharon.

She clears her throat to draw their attention before their skirmish turns into something more, "Gentlemen, please," she keeps her voice quiet and steady. She can't go on record about any of what happened, not until she's had a moment to reflect on it.

It all happened so quickly. One moment she was swallowing sleeping pills, a gun pressed into her face.

"Because if you don't, I won't just shoot you. I'll shoot you, and then go get your son, Rusty."

And the next moment she saw a way out and took it without thinking.

She knows what she did and why she did it. But how FID or even DA's office sees it depends on the words she uses. 

"Lieutenant Staples," Sharon begins again, realizing all three men are staring at her because she's been lost in her thoughts for too long. "Let me assure you, you will have my statement in time for your OIS investigation. But before that, we need to consult with a union rep and an attorney as to my current status."

She stops talking and lets that sink in. Laws are there to protect both the victims and the suspects.  Provenza chuckles and waves his hand in the air, his voice perhaps a little too cheery,

"You heard her, folks, let's leave now."

With that, he turns on his heels to leave the ambulance while the FID officers glance between him and her, confusion on their faces.

"Sharon?" Staples calls her, raising his eye brows in surprise.

She nods and purses her lips into a thin line. This is just another case for him and his colleague. Someone made her and everybody she loves believe she died, kept her hostage for weeks, almost killed her...  And the lieutenant will wrap it up within seventy-two hours and move on with his life. Anger slowly rises and Sharon swallows hard, trying to contain it. It’s irrational, she knows. It's not the FID's or Staples’ fault and the lieutenant is doing everything by the book, but right now this might be the last push she needs to break.

“Captain Provenza,” she says, turning her gaze to Louie and completely ignoring her former colleagues. “I’d like to have a meeting with my attorney.”

She puts all the energy she has for her voice not to crack. Provenza nods. He waits until the FID officers leave, his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll call him and set a meeting at the hospital…”

“No,” she shakes her head so suddenly that it spins. Pulling herself together and clenching her right fist, Sharon slips off the gurney and takes a step towards the exit. He doesn’t argue when she insists on going to the Major Crimes. He shrugs helplessly, and rolls his eyes when they both leave the ambulance. Her walking is unsteady and slow, and the moment fresh air hits her face, Sharon almost loses her balance. Provenza slips his hand under her upper arm in a very gentleman-like manner. She notes how Mike and Buzz stare at her from a distance, and Amy is telling them something. Sharon stops for a moment to nod a greeting at them, and continues to Provenza’s car without saying a word.

She needs to think. She needs to talk to a lawyer. She needs to make a statement. In this order.

“Commander,” Louie says quietly the moment they are both inside his car. “There’s nothing more I’d like to know than what the hell happened. And also give you a big hug and a cup of coffee,” he adds in a funny voice, “But anything you say to me… I’ll have to put into my report.”

“Of course.”

“How are you feeling though?”

She turns to face him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure you’re fine enough to be outside of a hospital, commander?”

She’d like to tell him he’s got nothing to worry about. She doesn’t have a heart condition, she’s not about to have a cardiac arrest and die on him. But telling him any of that right now will only bring about more questions, so she says nothing and moos a yes.

They drive in silence, Sharon’s eyes closed, her head resting against the seat. She fidgets with the seat belt, memories so vivid she winces every time her mind replays her firing the gun at her kidnapper.

“Mrs. Raydor, what are you doing?”

He raises his hands, unarmed. Her vision blurs. She fires. Then she fires again.

“Mrs. Raydor, what are you doing?”

Her finger on the trigger almost feels numb. Bang. Bang.

“Mrs. Raydor, what are you doing?”

Her hand trembles when she pulls the trigger the first time. It’s steady when she does it once more.

It’s a ringing cell phone that pulls her out of the maze of her memories.

“Provenza here,” Louie says. “Uh, that was fast. No, we’re coming to the PAB. Well, you know how much your wife loves the rules, so I have no idea. You can ask her yourself, you’re covered by the spousal privilege,” he chuckles, the meaning of his words not yet reaching Sharon’s mind. “See you then, Flynn.”

It’s the last word he says that makes Sharon’s eyes fly open. She gasps for air, her whole body feels like it’s being electrocuted all over again. No-no, she must’ve misheard Louie. Her mind playing tricks on her, it can’t be. But just to make sure, she asks,

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Why, your one and only husband Andy Flynn,” Provenza smiles broadly.

tbc

Chapter Text

Wet mud slippery under her bare feet, she runs, grabbing onto the trees for support along the way. Some moments she thinks she hears footsteps behind her, maybe even a click of a gun, but then she realizes she wouldn’t be able to. Not with the rain pouring down and her heart pounding in her ears.

She’s cold. Her blouse wet and ripped, her pants covered in mud, Sharon shivers and leans onto a tree trunk for support when her head starts spinning. She’s out of breath, throat on fire, soles scratched and probably cut by the rough ground, Sharon moans and forces herself to keep moving.

She’s never been big on the gym, always preferring a swimming pool over it. But she’s not been to either in months, ever since the doctors told her she had a heart disease. A surgery and confinement to a tiny room certainly haven’t helped her body to stay in shape, and she’s paying the price now.

She’s in the woods God knows where, running for her life, and she’s too weak to continue. Sharon curses under her breath when she needs to make a stop again. She looks back for the first time since she escaped – the house is so far she can’t see it between the trees.

Wiping her nose, she continues her way down – the hill becomes steeper, and Sharon falls onto her back every few steps. If she’s lucky, there will be a road and she can hitch a ride. She just needs to be very careful and fast.

A yet another fall on the slippery ground – and this time her knee connects with a piece of rock, sending sharp pain to her hip. She hisses and presses her hand to her mouth to stay quiet. Her knee hurts and her movement becomes much slower. Sharon wonders if her absence has been noticed. She needs to hurry. She needs to –

Sharon falls again, this time losing her balance completely, and she rolls downhill, hitting every stone and root on the way. She cries out when she finally manages to grab onto something. That’s when she notices a flashlight on the far side of the forest. Air gets stuck in her throat – she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Limping, Sharon goes on. Her kidnapper might have been on his best behavior before but if he catches her now, she doubts he’ll be very forgiving. It’s been two weeks since she woke up in his basement, and no one came to rescue her. Maybe he told her the truth and everybody thinks she’s dead. Maybe they’re searching in all the wrong places, but two weeks is too long of a time for a kidnapping. She needs to help herself.

A beam of light goes right past her and Sharon jerks to a side, hiding behind a tree trunk and pressing her back to it. In a distance she can hear footsteps.

“There’s really no point in this, Mrs. Raydor… You won’t get far like this.”

The voice is coming closer, and Sharon blindly searches the ground with her hand. She grabs a stick and presses it to her chest, trying to even her breathing.

“You’re cold, tired, your feet are hurt. And you don’t know where to go… I am unarmed, Mrs. Raydor. Come out.”

His voice sounds calm and almost soft. As always. Tonight it might even be a little like the one you’d use when talking to a small child. Sharon shivers and squeezes her stick even tighter. Maybe she’ll be lucky and he doesn’t notice her. Green blouse and black pants, all covered in mud, are not at all that visible in a forest.

She’s wrong. The flashlight moves between the trees, and now she’s in its line directly, blinded by it, forced to raise a hand to cover her eyes. Not letting go of her improvised weapon, she watches him come closer, flashlight on her face.

“Harold, please,” she says in the calmest manner her trembling lips can manage. Begging won’t make any difference, that much she knows.

He stops a few steps from her, water cascading from his rain coat, face hidden under a hood.

“My car is that way,” he waves his hand to where he came from. “Let’s go.”

Instinctively, she shakes her head and digs her nails into the piece of wood she’s holding. They stay like that for a few seconds, then he apparently has had enough - because he comes closer and that’s when she strikes. A blow to his stomach with the stick, then her knee between his legs – and Harold moans, bending in half. Sharon swings her weapon for another blow, but he catches it, pulling it from her. He grabs the collar of her shirt and pulls at it. There’s a sound of ripping fabric, and then his both hands are on Sharon, pressing her arms to her sides.

“Should I leave you here, Mrs. Raydor, you will freeze to death long before you find help. It will all have been for nothing.”

She tries resisting but her body has had enough, she feels weaker with every moment. Harold holds her upper arm as they slowly walk through the forest towards his car. Sharon notes to herself that all the lights are off and the engine isn’t running.

Did he drive all the way from the house without lights just so she wouldn’t see how closely he followed? And how did he know exactly where she was? Her mind is racing until Harold lets go of her and opens the trunk.

“In here,” he tells her, his voice cold.

She looks down and sees plastic wrapper. His entire trunk is covered with it, and Sharon jerks to a side and screams for help before she even realizes she does it. They struggle for a few moments, Harold too strong for her to overpower even on a good day.

And then there’s pain.

Overwhelming burning sensation that runs through her body, paralyzing her.

Sharon gasps and drops down; he catches her, shoves into the trunk. Her head bumps against the metal – not strong enough for a concussion, but it splits the skin on her temple.

“This wasn’t necessary, Mrs. Raydor. I thought we had an understanding.”

He shuts the trunk, and she’s left in the dark, curled into a fetal position, shaking. She can feel the car driving up the hill for about half an hour, then it stops. She contemplates launching another attack, but quickly decides against it. Her body still hurts after the taser.

The engine goes quiet, but as minutes go by, the trunk remains closed. Sharon tries to push it, she punches it, but to no avail. Panting, she curls up in a ball to stay as warm as possible. She quickly loses track of time. Breathing on her hands to warm up, at some point she even smells the gas – that is until she realizes it’s her mind playing tricks. She listens to the rain and to her own pulse in her neck, and maybe falling asleep and never waking up isn’t such a terrible thing, Sharon thinks to herself half-conscious.

By the time Harold comes back and opens the trunk, it cannot have been less than several hours. He helps her up and out of the trunk, then into the house. She limps visibly, so they walk slowly – to the basement she’s spent the past two weeks in.

“You should take a hot shower. Call me when you’re done. Then we’ll discuss the consequences of what happened tonight.”

He leaves her, locking the door behind him.

Consequences. She’d think that leaving her in a trunk of a car for hours was enough of a punishment… It’s his calm, almost kind voice he uses to threaten her that sends shivers down Sharon’s spine.

Her first instinct is to drop onto the floor and cry. That won’t solve anything. Deep breath – and she walks to the bathroom, leaving dirty footprints on the tile floor. She undresses, tossing her wet damaged clothes into a bucket. Wincing, she approaches the mirror and turns around to see the taser burns on her shoulder blade. This is the first time the kidnapper physically hurt her, she notes.

After what feel like a very long shower (Sharon just stands there half asleep, hot water running down her shoulders until she finally stops trembling) she digs through the few items of clothing she has. It’s past midnight, and after the stress all Sharon wants is to crash onto the bed. She puts on a sweater and sweatpants, ties her hair in a low ponytail, then grabs a blanket and sits in an armchair. Her hands are shaking, but that’s not because of cold.

When she’s settled, she quietly calls Harold’s name – the room is bugged, and it is no secret. A few minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and then a sound of a key.

“I brought a hot drink with ginger. If you catch cold after today’s stunt, I won’t be able to take you to the hospital,” he says without any emotions, sets a big mug in front of Sharon and sits in the armchair opposite of hers. She looks at him then she stares at the drink.

“You didn’t search for me in the woods, you knew exactly where to find me. How?” she asks, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Thermal sensors,” he responds plainly, and she should’ve known a guy who can hack into a hospital database and equipment would have something like that around his house.

Sharon chuckles bitterly and lowers her gaze.

“I apologize for tonight.”

He nods.

She won’t flat out lie that this won’t ever happen again – if she has a chance, she’ll take it, they both know it.

“I dislike violence, Mrs. Raydor,” he says, locking his fingers and leaning forward. He’s still a decent distance of several feet from her armchair, but Sharon involuntarily pulls back.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I dislike it, but resort to it if unavoidable.” He gets up and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. “I’d like you to watch this. Brace yourself, this is going to be incredibly painful,” he nods, extending the phone to Sharon. She hesitates before pulling her hand from under the blanket. ”If you try to escape again, this will happen to more people you care about. There’s no sim card, so you can only watch the video I recorded. I’ll leave you to it.”

He hands her the phone and turns around on his heels.

For a moment Sharon stares at the phone in her hand. She taps on the screen, and the video starts immediately. At first it’s hard to tell what she sees: the camera jumps up and down, and it’s dark with glimpses of street lights here and there. Then the video becomes steadier. Sharon bites her lip and raises her eyebrows.

“Andy,” she whispers softly.

It’s Andy’s car on the video. The camera comes closer as Andy exits the driver’s seat and shuts the door.

“Andy Flynn?” familiar voice asks, and Sharon’s heart skips a beat.  

She watches closely – he looks tired, his hair is slightly longer than it usually is. Sharon got him the shirt he’s wearing.

Andy shrugs and nods, “Yeah. How can I be of service?”

The next thing Sharon sees is a gun right in front of the camera. It fires too fast for Andy to reach for his weapon – two shots, one hits his forehead, the other goes through Andy’s neck.

Sharon cries out and drops the phone. She presses her palms to her mouth, watching the screen on the floor. There’s not enough air in the room, she gasps, cries out again, then picks up the phone with a shaky hand. By now the video is showing Andy’s body on the pavement. A hand lifts his wrist and shows the wedding ring on his finger. Then the camera moves to a side, and it’s Andy’s face with blood pouring onto the ground again. Sharon slips onto the floor; she can’t breathe, she’s crying out loud, sounds coming from her chest are more like an animal than a human.

What has he done…

What has she done…

Andy, poor Andy…

“Sharon?” a painfully familiar voice calls her, and it takes Sharon a moment to realize she’s not on the floor and she’s not in the basement. “Sharon, honey?”

She’s standing in a parking garage, her husband - whom she believed dead – stands right in front of her, his fingers on her face. He’s smiling at her, tears running down his cheeks.

“Oh my God, Sharon!” Andy pulls her into an embrace, but she stands still, afraid to move even an inch. What if Andy disappears? It all is just too good to be true, and Sharon doesn’t believe in miracles anymore.

She watches her husband pull away from her, wipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb, all while staring at her face, and she can’t get rid of the image of his dead body on the ground. Blood spreading from his neck and forehead.

“Hey, Shar…” he says much quieter this time and moves his hands from her shoulders to the sides of her face. “Sharon, I’m here. You’re safe, honey. It’s gonna be alright, okay?” he mumbles and Sharon realizes she’s trembling.

“Andy…” she mouths without a sound and immediately tastes her own tears on her tongue.

Hearing Provenza tell her that her husband is alive and actually seeing Andy in front of her are two completely different entities.

“It’s okay, honey.” Andy pulls her into an embrace once again, and this time she responds, wrapping her arms around him, almost digging her fingers into his back.

“You’re alive!” she smiles through tears and kisses his cheek, brushing her hand through his hair. He’s really here. “How can it be? How…” she can’t go on, her voice drops and she coughs. Andy doesn’t let go of her, but allows more space between them.

“Sh-h-h-h-h, I’ve got you.”

“I saw you die, how…” Sharon tries again, and again cannot finish the sentence.

This is too much for her, she realizes, and everything around her goes black.

She comes to a short moment later – she knows it hasn’t been long because there are no paramedics around yet. It’s just Provenza at a distance, and Andy sitting on the concrete floor, holding her head on his lap.

tbc

Chapter Text

He can’t stop staring at Sharon. He knows he’s not just looking, he’s staring. At her pale face with no make-up (something he’s rarely seen even after getting married), at her messy hair with a couple inches of grayish white roots (that she had never allowed to grow in all the years he’d known her), at the slightly trembling neck, at her nails that are usually perfectly manicured and are now jagged short and shapeless and have dirt underneath. Andy’s never seen her like this, and he holds her, resting her head on his lap, unable to look away.

“I’m fine,” Sharon says before she opens her eyes, and to Andy it feels like eternity, but in reality, Provenza hasn’t even dialed the paramedics yet. “I’m just…” she takes a deep breath as if tasting the air, “Tired and…” her voice breaks into tears the moment Sharon opens her eyes and looks up, “It’s really you, Andy.” Reaching up, her hand freezes less than an inch from his face. She waits a few moments before her fingers caress his chin.

“One and only,” he smiles like the happy idiot he is. “Hey,” he adds a moment later, “let’s get you up, alright?” He carefully pulls her closer to him before helping her onto her feet. The concrete floor is cold, and the last thing he wants is for Sharon to catch cold.

“Captain,” Sharon calls, looking past Andy’s shoulder, “There’s no need to get the paramedics, I’m really fine.”

“She says she’s fine,” Andy repeats after her in a teasing manner.

“Course she is,” Louie grins, waving his index finger at Andy who still holds Sharon in his embrace. Provenza comes closer and chuckles patting Andy’s shoulder, “She didn’t faint when she saw me.” Andy smiles, but Sharon doesn’t look one bit amused. She stares down, visibly lost in thoughts. Uncomfortable, Provenza adds, “I should get going, see you on the ninth floor. Don’t let her out of your sight even for a moment, Flynn!”

Andy nods. He wasn’t planning to. He pulls Sharon closer into his embrace and rubs his hand against her back soothingly as he watches Provenza get into the elevator. Sharon’s cheek pressed to his chest, she closes her eyes and her breathing becomes calm, her arms wrap around Andy’s torso.

“Andy,” she whispers. “I’m so happy you’re alive.”

He frowns and kisses the top of her head. He has a million questions, and yet somehow none of them matter while he’s holding her in his arms.

“Hey, honey?” Andy calls softly after some time, his hand moving from Sharon’s shoulder up and rests on the back of her head. “I’m pretty sure Provenza won’t let me anywhere near this case, so why don’t I take you upstairs and fix you some breakfast? From what I’ve heard you had quite a night.”

He checks the time on his phone: it’s too early for breakfast, he might as well have called it dinner.

“You don’t have to pretend nothing is wrong, Andy,” she whispers softly.

“I know,” he nods. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready.”

Sharon hums a yes without pulling away from him or releasing him from her embrace.

He means it. As much as Provenza has briefed him about their current murder case, it explains nothing. Andy still remembers Sharon’s breathless body on a hospital bed after the surgery, all wires and tubes unhooked, face pale. He stood there, for how long – he has no idea, but it felt like forever. Her skin felt cold to the touch.

He remembers going through Sharon’s clothes in their condo, trying to pick out what she wanted to be buried wearing.

And he remembers the funeral. Coffin slowly lowered into the ground, Emily’s sobs on his shoulder, his own fists clenched, vision blurred with tears.

And yet somehow she’s in his arms right now.

And there’s a body in a random house that Sharon supposedly shot dead tonight.

Slowly, they make their way to the elevator and Sharon rests her back against the wall as they go up to the ninth floor. It’s still early, and the corridors are quiet as Andy walks her past the murder board (that somehow already has Sharon’s old picture along with a photo of the dead guy). Sharon stops for a brief moment, glances at the board, then continues her way to the break room. Andy follows. Her moves are much steadier now. (Perhaps being in a familiar environment has something to do with that, Andy notes to himself.)

A plate with two sandwiches and a cup of coffee on the table, Andy sits opposite of Sharon and feels lost. What does he say? What does he do?  Absentmindedly, he fidgets with the wedding ring on his finger while Sharon slowly pulls the plate closer and takes a bite of the food.

“The guy on the board, he…”Andy says and trails off. What was it he was going to ask his wife? Did the guy hurt her? She was half naked when she shot the son of a bitch, so that’s an undoubted yes.

Sharon looks up at him, tilting her head to the side like she’s waiting for him to realize something very obvious, then proceeds to take another bite.

“You look.. tired,” Sharon says half way through the first sandwich.

“Been having trouble sleeping these past couple of months,” Andy chuckles with a sad face. He opens his mouth to say my wife died, but then seals his lips before any sound comes.

“Me too,” Sharon nods and smiles with the corners of her mouth. “You still wear the ring.” For a moment Andy’s confused, then he realizes he’s still fidgeting. “I think I lost mine somehow,” she adds and her voice is full of sorrow. It sends shivers down Andy’s spine. She was away for two months. Alone, cut off from her family and friends, and God only knows what was done to her in that time.

“Oh… No… Sorry. No, you…” he mumbles, reaching under his collar. He pulls up a thin string with a wedding ring on it. “You didn’t. I…” Andy means to say he wanted to bury it with her, should have wanted to do so, but when the nurse gave him Sharon’s belongings at the hospital, he just couldn’t bring himself to part with her wedding ring. She only wore it for such a short time. He closes his eyes because tears begin to sting again, and he can hear Sharon breathe out a momentary sob.

“Hey, Flynn,” Provenza calls from the door, and Sharon jumps in her chair. Andy shoots him a disapproving look, Louie goes on, “Sorry to interrupt. There’s something Mike wants you to see… I’ll keep the commander company,” he adds with a broad smile, pulling a third chair to the table.

“Some company it’s gonna be,” Andy grumbles, rising to his feet as slowly as he can. He watches Sharon’s face for slightest signs of… anything really. But she just leans back in her chair and crosses her hands on her chest, her face blank like she’s a million miles away.

“What is it?” Andy all but barks as soon as he reaches Tao’s desk.

“His phone.”

“The vic?”

Tao nods. “Doesn’t look like he called anyone from it, there’s no simcard,” he extends a plastic bag with a phone to show an empty slot, “But watch… this.” Tao taps on the screen a few times, and there’s a video of someone’s feet. Andy glances at Mike, but Mike avoids Andy’s eyes and keeps looking at the screen; Andy follows his lead. He soon sees his own car and frowns.

“Wait…” As the video goes on, he sees himself leaving the car. “I remember this. Some weird guy came up to me, asked if I was Andy Flynn, and I told him he couldn’t be filming me…” That’s when the video version of him on the screen gets shot, and Andy shouts, “That didn’t happen! He came up, we argued, he left…”

“Without analyzing I think it’s safe to say this is a fake. But a good one! And they pulled your wife’s fingerprints from the phone, so it’s safe to say she saw it.”

“Son of a bitch… Any more videos?”

“Like this – no. But plenty from the church and cemetery, mostly near the commander’s grave. And a couple of ones with Rusty, nothing crazy though. Not sure if they’ve been altered.”

“Poor Sharon…” Andy scratches his chin thoughtfully. “The creep made this for her? That’s why she thought I was dead?”

“It makes sense. And we thought she was dead, too,” Tao shrugs. “If I saw a plot twist like this on Badge of Honour, I’d call it poor writing.” Mike visibly regrets making the joke the moment he says it out loud. Too soon. He purses his lips and quickly goes on as if to change the subject, “Was it this guy though?” He points at the murder board and the picture of the dead guy.

Andy looks closer, focuses as hard as he can. It was dark when he was approached, and he had a headache, and the guy was wearing a baseball hat that covered most of his face. It could’ve been him. It could’ve been someone else.

“Pretty sure the dirtbag hired some random dude to shoot the footage,” Andy growls and Mike nods.

“Lucky he didn’t hire him to shoot you.”

“Ha-ha, funny.” With that Andy turns on his heels and is about to head back to the break room, but Sykes waves at him,

“Sir?” She carries a stack of papers, and as soon as she comes close, she extends it to Andy. “Need your signature here and here. We’re getting a permit to exhume… Um-m… Dig… Sorry.”

“It’s alright. If Sharon is here, we…” the reality of what’s going on downs on him, and Andy takes a deep breath before continuing, “We need to know who’s in her coffin.”

“Or what,” Sykes offers, and Andy nods, somewhat relieved.

“Do you think we’ll catch another homicide?” Tao cuts in from his desk.

Andy raises his eyebrows and shrugs. He has no idea what they’ll find in Sharon’s grave. Empty coffin? Another body? Bricks? Dead animal?

It takes two hours to finish paperwork and almost five more to actually reach the coffin. Andy spends most of that time with his wife – first sitting in the break room (and it strikes him as odd when he asks Sharon what medication he should get for her and she shakes her head, but says nothing), then – when he notices how sleepy she is despite coffee – he politely kicks Provenza out of Sharon’s former office and she drifts to sleep on the couch with her head resting on Andy’s lap. At some point the attorney shows up, and Andy hates to wake her up, but he does, and Sharon heads to an interview room while Andy watches the grave digging progress on a screen.

“Does she seem alright to you?” Provenza asks him, coming to stand by Andy’s side. They both look at the door to the interview room, then back at the screen.

“Truthfully? I’ve no idea.”

“Her tox screen came back while she was sleeping. High dosage of sedatives, same as forensics pulled from the crime scene, nothing else.”

“And the rape kit?”

“What about it?” Provenza raises his eyebrows in a judgmental manner, but quickly goes on, “You should probably be asking this of your wife, but there was no physical evidence of an assault. At least recently.”

Andy nods. “But seven weeks is a long time.”

He tries not to think about it. While officially he’s not part of the investigation, Provenza keeps him in the loop. The grave digging squad haven’t reached the coffin when the ballistics report comes in. And Andy looks through it after the head of the division does, then he hands it over to Sykes and looks at her expectantly.

“Prints on the weapon match the ones we pulled from the commander at the scene,” she states, looking at Andy and Provenza. “And they match the ones we have in our database. That’s a good thing, right?”

“Right,” Andy spits. It’s the other part of the report that worries him.

Two shots, one to the chest from the front, and one to the head… In his mind, it was – it must have been – self defense. Except the second bullet entry is at the back of the skull. What the hell happened there?

As if reading his mind, Sykes says in a quiet voice, “A shot to the back doesn’t mean it wasn’t self defense, sir, and the victim’s fingerprints are also present on the murder weapon.”

“Yeah, but FID is gonna eat her alive for it, and Sharon’s not in the best shape…” Andy complains before he realizes he’s saying it out loud.

She cried in her sleep (and he still has a couple of tiny stains on his pants from it), and when he woke her up, she seemed so disoriented she couldn’t understand where she was. And she cried again, when she laid her eyes on him. It took her several minutes to calm down before she could comprehensively greet her attorney.

Through the fog of his thoughts Andy realizes Provenza is talking, “Patrols are still searching the neighborhood for the car our John Doe must’ve driven. There’s no way he walked a half-naked woman, he had to drive something. And we’ll find it.”

Andy nods and glances at the door to the interview room. It cannot have been less than an hour since Sharon walked in, and he’s fighting an urge to go check on her.

It’s a bad idea of course, and he shouldn’t (and probably won’t).

“They’ve reached the coffin!” Sykes pulls Andy from his thoughts and he almost jumps, turning his head to the screen. He wishes they could have some of the major crimes’ division officers present at the scene, but because Sharon is involved in so many ways all they have is a video feed on a big screen.

No matter the size of the screen, they all lean in to look closer when the camera zooms in on the coffin.

“It’s damaged,” comes a comment from the officer on the other side of the feed. “Checking for explosives…”

That takes time, and Andy doesn’t even know why he’s so invested in this. Sharon’s not in it, and that’s all that matters, but he still can’t look away when the lid is finally – painfully slowly – lifted.

“It’s empty, isn’t it?” comes a shaky female voice from behind their backs, and they jerk in surprise. Andy’s first to turn around. It’s Sharon – standing in the middle of the room, eyes red, lips trembling, her attorney by her side, she has her injured hand pressed to her chest while she massages her forehead with her other hand. She’s breathing through her mouth, almost biting into the air with each breath.

He looks back at the screen. Then he nods to Sharon.

She slowly looks between each of them, expectantly. Andy comes close to wrap his arms around her.

“Collecting DNA samples,” comes from a speaker, and they all look at the screen to see a gloved hand pick up some brown hair.

“Did we… Did we bury you alive, commander?” Sykes asks, her eyes wide in shock, and she’s got to learn to read the room at some point. Andy almost yells at her, but he doesn’t want to scare Sharon who is already trembling.

“What you want to ask,” Sharon says with metal in her voice, “Is whether I woke up before or after I was dug up.”

“I’m sorry, commander,” Sykes begins, but Sharon interrupts her, and her voice is completely different now. Soft, with tears in it,

“No, sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Shar,” Andy steps in front of her and pulls her to his chest. “It’s okay, you need some rest,” with that he leads her back into Provenza’s office and closes the blinds again.

tbc

Chapter Text

“I don’t know why I said that,” Sharon breathes out and shrugs, crashing onto the couch the moment Andy closes the blinds.

“You’re angry, and you’ve every right to be.”

She shakes her head, “Not with Amy, no… Or you… I’m sorry.” She drops her head onto her hands and closes her eyes. Everything infuriates her right now, and everything scares her just as much. After two months of complete isolation she expected to be thrilled to be around people, especially the ones she knows, but instead she feels strange and awkward among them. Sharon keeps her head down, but moves her hands and presses her palms to her temples.

Her meeting with the attorney drained her beyond words. She’s still shaking, and her eyes are still wet after crying as much as she did in the interview room. To calm down, Sharon taps the tips of her fingers against her scull in a rhythm slightly slower than her heartbeat. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Andy is talking, she realizes, but she can’t hear him.

He comes closer, kneels by the couch, and it seems like he’s about to hug her, but his hands freeze an inch from Sharon’s shoulders, unease on his face.

And that infuriates her, too.

He’s afraid to touch her, that’s how much of a mess she is. (And she expected to be fine, really, she tells herself, when in reality at some point she didn’t expect to survive at all).

“Andy,” she smiles weakly at him, lifting her head to look at his face. “It’s alright.” She nods at the space on the couch next to her, inviting him to sit, and extends her arm to squeeze his hand. “I won’t break if you give me a hug.”

There are tears in his eyes, again, and Sharon winces. He had it worse than her, at least for some time. The horror and pain she felt when she saw him die – that’s what he felt, too, and they’re equal in their ache. And she knows it, and she stares at his face, admiring how strong he is being for both of them. He didn’t deserve any of this.

Nobody did.

Carefully, he pulls her into embrace, resting her head on his shoulder, cheek pressed to his ear, and caresses her back with his fingertips. Sharon closes her eyes and breathes into his neck, slowly, wrapping her arms around him. She slept with her head on his lap, yes, but this is different. She feels more like herself, and this…This feels more like her life.

I wasn’t… He didn’t… She wants to tell her husband something meaningful to comfort him, but she can’t even phrase it properly. Of course he’s read the case file, the lack of clothes on his wife when the police had found her couldn’t have escaped him. He expects the worst, but Harold never -

To the best of your knowledge, her attorney’s voice pops in, and Sharon flinches in Andy’s embrace, and she can immediately feel tension rising in his body even if he doesn’t pull away from their embrace.

It’s not her attorney’s job to comfort her, Sharon knows. That’s something a therapist will take over once she’s ready.

Will it comfort Andy even slightly if she tells him she doesn’t remember being sexually assaulted? If she has no knowledge of it, can they move on like it didn’t happen? She wants to let him know he can and should keep her in his arms as much as possible, because that makes her feel better.

She’s not afraid of his touch. She craves it.

Clinging to him even tighter, she feels a shift in his body.

“Shar?” he mumbles to the top of her head, and she hums in response. “I know this is not a pleasant conversation, but...”

“It’s okay,” she nods into his neck. “I am… going to be alright.”

He stays quiet, but she can feel his mouth open and close against her hair. She pulls away enough to kiss his nose, then softly bumps her forehead into his and looks at him expectantly.

“I thought I lost you… I mean, I did. I did lose you,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to lose you again. Do you… Did you… Are you…”

“Out with it, Andy,” she half smiles, but her chest feels heavy.

“Are you really alright?.. I mean, your cardiomyopathy… Are you taking medications? Were you when… While…”

She shakes her head, and Andy frowns.

“There are still some at the condo, I can send…”

“No.”

“Sharon, please.”

She can’t quite grasp what she feels at the moment, but it’s boiling inside. He kept her meds. He kept the rings. He fears she’ll leave him again. Sharon shivers at the thought.

Confusion all over Andy’s features, he watches her.

“I recently learnt that I… I…” she takes a deep breath, grimacing to force the words out of her mouth. This is going to hurt Andy on so many new levels. She blamed herself for not picking up the signs, for not seeing what was really happening. For being so easily deceived. Now he will, too. “I don’t have a heart condition. It seems I never did.” Her lips feel numb when she says it out loud.

Andy’s mouth opens and closes without making any sound, then he coughs.

“How…”

She won’t answer. Partially because she shouldn’t, and partially because she can’t.

“Are you certain?”

She nods.

If she can trust Harold’s word. She didn’t – knowingly – take any medications while in that house, but now that Andy asks, she doesn’t know. Would she have survived the past twenty-four hours if she was actually sick?

It doesn’t make any sense, but –

What if Harold lied to her or simply misled her about this among other things? She tries very hard to remember what exactly he said to her about her health. Has she assumed she was fine just like she assumed he somehow kidnapped her from the hospital instead of actually digging up her grave?

Suddenly frightened of where her mind is taking her, Sharon shakes her head. Maybe the hair in that coffin isn’t hers. She’d have known had she been inside a coffin, wouldn’t she? Frowning, she stares at the sneakers she’s wearing. A size too big, they’re hideous. As are the blue sweatpants with stripes and the sweater, and she’s sure if she looks in the mirror, it’s even worse than she thinks.

“I don’t know if I had been buried alive. I have no idea, and now… now…” she says in a small voice. The thought of waking up in a coffin makes her entire body go cold and numb.

“And now you can’t stop wondering what else you don’t know,” Andy adds softly.

Sharon nods. “The last thing I remember is my office. And then it's a complete blur of sounds and...” she tries to sound clinical, indifferent, but her voice drops and she pauses. Sharon takes a bottle of water that lies on the sofa, fidgets with it, watching the liquid inside. "I thought I was at a hospital. An unfamiliar voice was calling my name..."

"Sharon. Sharon, wake up, Sharon."

The voice is distant and it slowly pulls her from what seems to be a dream, but one completely black and void. Her vision blurry, Sharon looks around, confused. 

"Andy..." she whispers, her lips and her mouth completely dry. The sound she makes is so quiet she herself can't hear it.

"The drugs are still wearing off, so you'll feel disoriented. It's to be expected," a gray cloud in a human shape says right in front of her, but she can't make out a face.

Sharon swallows, her throat is dry and it hurts. As the noise in her ears subsides she can clearly hear rhythmic beeping of a machine. Her heart. It's beating.

“Andy?” she repeats, hoping the doctor will understand her plea and call her husband.

“As you wake up, you’ll feel the urge to make sudden moves,” the voice speaks again, gentle and quiet, and Sharon blinks, trying to see his face. It’s someone she doesn’t know. This thought sends a jolt of panic through her body, but she’s too heavy to even flinch. The machine registers a slight increase in her pulse. “I strongly advise you against it, though, Mrs. Raydor. It will serve no purpose, but might add unneeded discomfort.”

Her vision becomes clearer. The man standing above her bed doesn’t look like medical personnel. Instead of hospital clothes he’s wearing dark pants and a turtleneck. There’s a massive watch on his wrist and if Sharon squints, she can spot what looks to be a wedding ring on his finger. Then the contrast between white bed sheets and her own black business suit draws her attention.

"Why am I wearing this? What…" She pauses to lick her lips.

This is her suit, she bought it almost a decade ago, and she loves it. But she can’t remember putting in on. Her legs are covered with a blanket just below her knees, and this is so strange, lying on a hospital bed but not wearing hospital clothes. The machine registering her heartbeat beeps faster. Sharon tries to lift her right arm to her face, and she can’t. She looks at it – there’s a soft wide strip on her wrist, like the ones they use in asylum. She slightly moves her head to the left and sees her other arm is bound, too.

Panic and anger taking over her, she pulls at the restraints (as hard as she can, but she barely controls her limbs) and moans, her voice hoarse, "What's going on? Who are you?"

Sharon tries to move her legs, but they, too, are apparently tied to the bed. She takes a few breaths through her mouth, then writhes against the restraints again.

“You can call me Harold… Please, Mrs. Raydor, stop doing that,” he puts a palm flat between her collarbones, slightly pressing it down. His voice is calm, gentle, with no urgency. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She’s panting. Eyes wide, she pulls her arms with even more force, now determined to somehow throw Harold’s hand off of her. As if he reads her mind, he pulls away and takes a step back. It takes several minutes for her to stop fighting and accept defeat, and by then she’s exhausted and nauseated, and her vision is blurred again, with black and purple spots. Headache rising, she tries to focus to see her surroundings…

“Sharon? Honey,” Andy’s voice pulls her out of her memories. She flinches when she sees his face in front of her and almost bumps with her chest into his. He smiles, his voice soft, “Where did you just go?”

“I’ll tell you when I can, I promise,” she replies in a voice that sounds like someone’s just been choking her. Sharon looks around: she’s been pacing her office apparently before Andy blocked her way with his body –

It’s not her office.

She closes her eyes, then opens them again. Provenza hasn’t changed anything in here, but looking at the desk she sees his name instead of hers. A painful reminder how dramatically her life has changed over the past few months. For a moment Sharon’s vision blurs and she almost allows herself to just slip onto the chair. She stops herself half way, and leans forward instead, pressing her palms against the surface of the desk for support.

If she’s going to make it through today, she needs to stop feeling sorry for herself. She’s here, her husband is alive, her children are fine. She’s lucky. She just needs to start seeing it that way.

Wiping her eyes with her good hand, Sharon adds, “I’m sorry I’ve put you through this, Andy. I wish I could…” She trails off. Perhaps Andy is better off not knowing everything. She’ll be a better judge of what she should and shouldn’t tell her husband once she’s less… like this. The last thing she wants to do is hurt him even more than she already has.

“Is there anything, anything at all I can do for you?”

“Can I have a moment alone, please?”

She knows she couldn’t have asked that a moment too late. Andy’s face betrays his despair: he hates saying no to her, but before he opens his mouth Sharon knows what’s going to come out of it.

“Protocol,” he shrugs and raises his eyebrows and smiles in that ‘it’s not my fault’ kind of way she usually finds cute.

Not today.

“I’m not suicidal!” she yells the first syllable, quickly switching into a whisper. Her brain, having been an officer for decades, knows it doesn’t matter: she’s a suspect, she’s traumatized, she’s in police custody; they can’t let her out of their sight. Should something happen to her while she’s here, it would be a disaster. Her emotions, on the other hand, are a separate thing.

Having finally regained control over her body, Sharon pulls away from the desk (and she’s grateful to Andy for letting her do that at her own speed and not trying to help) and walks back to the couch. She slips onto it, aware of her bandaged hand.

Under different circumstances she’d manage her composure better, but as she repeats her words again in a whisper, “I’m not suicidal, really,” and Andy doesn’t jump in to confirm it, it takes all of her willpower not to snap at him.

“You’ve been through a lot, I can’t begin to imagine, honey.” She pierces him with her eyes, but he goes on in the lightest tone of his, “We’ll get past this, all of this, I promise. How about…”

He doesn’t get to finish, because there’s a careful knock on the door, and they both jump in their places and turn their heads. It opens slowly, and Provenza is the first to come in. Sharon wipes her eyes and nose with her good hand, then moves to the edge of the couch and straightens her back, tilting her head in anticipation. She doesn’t expect to see the person who enters next.

“Sorry to interrupt, commander. Lieutenant. DDA Hobbs here wants to have a quick word, because apparently,” Louie holds back a chuckle when he says it, “Our John Doe is her case now.”

As much as Andrea had been obviously prepared to see Sharon, she still freezes when their eyes meet. A long moment of silence as if Andrea weights how to proceed, then she says quietly, rolling her eyes with a smirk, like everything is within the norm,

“Internal affairs tossed this case to my office because technically you are not currently employed by the LAPD.”

“I had a notion that could happen,” Sharon comments, nodding, her voice as close to business-as-usual as possible. She looks at the ceiling to catch the tears that are about to fall and takes a deep breath, trying to preserve this illusion of normality that Andrea graciously created. Even if it won’t last long.

“Now, judging by the tox screen,” Andrea turns to Provenza and continues, “Nothing she says would be admissible, so there’s really no point in holding her here.” She turns back to Sharon. “Go home. Sleep it off. Eat some ice cream,” with that she lifts her arm and there’s a paper bag Sharon only now notices that evidently contains ice cream. “We talk tomorrow,” her voice betrays her on the last word, but Andrea pretends not to notice, and so does Sharon.

If Sharon had her glasses, she’s pretty sure she’d see her friend’s eyes red from crying in a car on the way here.

“Thank you,” Sharon stands up when Andrea walks closer to hand her the paper bag.

“I…” Andrea almost loses her composure, clears her throat as if that will force her voice to sound steady. “I had to see for myself. I… See you tomorrow.”

It’s Sharon who initiates the hug, and at first she can feel Andrea tense, taken aback by the gesture. Then she wraps her arms around Sharon, and they stay like that for a brief moment. They nod to each other after pulling away, and Andrea leaves, calling Andy to follow. Sharon remains standing.

Home.

Going home.

She’s not sure what she expected, but certainly not this, not so soon. The thought of how this is going to be both normal and incredibly strange quickly turns into panic: Rusty. Home means meeting him, and he deserves to see her in a much better state. She’s no better than the other Sharon in his life, abandoning him, and then returning being a mess. Poor kid. She shouldn’t do this to him… Sharon doesn’t notice when her body starts trembling.

tbc

Chapter Text

The moment the door closes behind them, Andrea doubles over in a gasp, then takes a few deep breaths, tears running down her cheeks. Andy watches her from a foot away, his own hands trembling slightly.

“Sorry,” she mutters when he squeezes her shoulder supportively. “I know you…” she draws a sharp breath, unable to speak, and looks at his face. “How are you holding up?”

Andy remains silent and looks around the murder room, then at the door to Provenza’s office, at Andrea and at his boots. He’s running on autopilot, mortified of his own mind when reality inevitably catches up with him. He’s attended AA meetings every goddamn day since his wife’s passing, afraid he’d relapse. He went to a grief counseling. He hid in work - and for a time he thought his pain was – perhaps – going to hurt a little less.

But this entire time his wife was alive, and no matter how hard he tries to protest, his mind is taking him to the darkest places, drawing him the scariest pictures of what could’ve happened to Sharon.

And it hurts all over again, anger and fear so raw they cut through Andy’s bones every time he sees the state she’s in, her silence all the proof he needs.

Whatever was done to her, he allowed it. He didn’t protect his wife.

“She had the worst of it. Alone…” Andy trails off.

“You don’t know what happened, do you?”

“You saw her,” he pushes through his teeth.

“She’s got you. You shouldn’t be alone in this either.”

That isn’t wrong. Andy takes a deep breath, steadying his shaky hands, glancing at Sykes who’s clipping new photos to the murder board.

“Have you talked?” Andrea asks.

He shakes his head.

“I’m asking as a friend, not as a DA.”

That’s true and Andy knows it. The answer remains the same, and he shrugs, raising his eyebrows just a little.

“I don’t wanna push her, she’s…” She’s on the edge, he knows, and he’s terrified he’ll accidentally push her.

It’s somewhat easier to concentrate on Sharon than himself. He’s almost ashamed to admit it.

“I’ve checked the case file,” Andrea says, pulling a folder from her bag. She holds it pressed to her chest like a shield. Andy knows what she’s about to say in an attempt to comfort him: no signs of struggle, no injuries (except for the dislocated thumb, and they all know that’s how one gets out of the handcuffs). Preliminary reports suggest Sharon hasn’t been physically abused, but tears keep running down Andrea’s cheeks and she remains quiet.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumps when Sykes comes close and calls him by his rank. For a moment, Andy’s dazed when she talks to him.

“The doctor, sir,” she repeats and nods. Andy frowns. “The surgeon,” Sykes adds, then extends a tablet to him. “It seems he vanished about two weeks… Uh, after… He disappeared about a month ago, sir.”

“No one reported the scumbag missing?”

Andy fights the urge to use a stronger word. However Sharon ended up ‘dead’ (and until they get the DNA results, Andy refuses to believe his wife was actually buried in that coffin), the son of a bitch who operated on her and announced her death at the hospital had to be involved.

Sykes hums a no, then continues, “Lived alone, no immediate relatives. No credit card withdrawals. It’s like he vanished. We requested his dental records, gonna check them against John Doe bodies in the system.”

Andy nods. If the dirtbag is dead, it’s a shame he won’t suffer for whatever role he played in all of this. He also won’t tell them anything. It’s a lose-lose scenario.

“What about other staff from the hospital?” Andrea asks in a low tired voice. “One doctor can’t fake a patient’s death.”

There has to be more than just medical staff from the hospital. Funeral home, morgue, cemetery… Andy’s head spins. He’s almost glad he’s not running this case.

“We’re bringing in the nurse who was on shift that night, still keeping everything quiet. If we start knocking on all the doors, it becomes public,” Sykes nods. “Should I update the captain?” she asks, turning to face Andy again and nodding at Provenza’s office. The blinds are closed, and for a moment Andy wonders if Sharon is okay in there with the old grump. Then he almost chuckles to himself as an image of Provenza and Sharon sharing an ice cream pops up in his head.

“Let’s wait till the nurse gets here,” Andy finally responds, and Sykes turns around and walks back to the others.

If they’re too loud about this investigation, two things will happen. One – whoever was involved will run and hide. Two – and that’s essential for Andy – press will be all over Sharon’s resurrection, and that’s the last thing she should be dealing with.

“Why are you even here?” Andrea suddenly asks, her voice concerned. “Even if we skip the whole she was dead but not anymore situation, your wife’s a murder suspect, you’re not part of the investigation. Why aren’t you home with her?”

Andy takes a moment before answering. The short answer would be because Sharon insisted on coming here, and they all obliged. It doesn’t surprise him one bit that these walls are her comfort zone. This place is familiar. She probably feels the safest here. In control.

But that’s not what Andrea is asking.

“We requested someone from Behavioral Science Services for evaluation. Should be here soon.”

She frowns. “You’re sure that’s wise?”

“I don’t know if I’m enough for her right now. Here,” he gestures with his hand around, “She’s composed. To an extent. But at home…” He’s afraid she’ll crumble the moment she’s out of PAB. “Protocol says she needs eval by BSS.” Protocol says she should be in a hospital, too, but the way Provenza conveyed it, Sharon almost had a panic attack at the mention of it, so here they are.

“And it’s gonna be someone who knows Sharon personally. She's driving from Tahoe lake as we speak,” Andy adds after a pause. He’s not sorry to have cut someone’s vacation short – these are extraordinary circumstances.  

Andrea nods in understanding.

It’s not that Sharon wouldn’t talk to a specialist she doesn’t know. It’s that Andy wants someone who’ll understand just how far from usual the situation is. Someone who can base their opinion on the Sharon they know, not the one on paper.

He glances at the team, then at Andrea again. She stares at the murder board. He follows her gaze – his eyes don’t see anything but Sharon’s two year old picture under ‘suspect’.

“I’m sure she had a good reason to shoot the guy,” Andrea taps Andy’s back slightly. “The tox screen, the injury, the handcuffs, his prints on the gun.”

Andy turns to face her, confusion on his face. He’s almost forgotten about the murder case, overwhelmed with the broader investigation they’re tackling. And he’s afraid of what that investigation is going to uncover.

“I’m sure she did,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and scratches the back of his head, his eyes still glued to Sharon’s old picture on the murder board.

“As much as I hate doing this on weekends, I have an interview in the building. Let me know how the eval goes?” Andrea nods and shoves the folder she’s been holding back into her briefcase. She wipes her eyes.

Andy looks at her back as she leaves.

For a moment he considers going back into the office – surely Provenza needs to be doing something other than keeping an eye on Andy’s wife, but he can’t bring himself to open the door. He stalls, looking at the team, trying to find something he can do. Deep breath – and he walks to the break room.

Coffee – he needs coffee.

Andy grabs a cup, sloshing it, spills half of his coffee onto his hand and floor. Hissing, he sets it back onto the table before his urge to smash it into a wall takes over.

There’s still a plate with the sandwich Sharon didn’t finish on the table. He stares at it, takes a few deep breaths and throws it into trash, then sits, presses his elbows onto the table and rests his forehead on his fists.

It’s not just Sharon he’s worried about. His wife is strong, and truth be told, she’s given him no reason to think she’ll have a meltdown when they go home. She might, of course, but what he’s really scared of is his own reaction.

Here, inside these walls, it feels surreal to hold her in his arms. They’re both constricted by the norms, and colleagues, and that decades old habit of behaving like professionals. At home they become… them.

And home is where Andy spent almost every evening of the past two months staring at the wedding album his wife didn’t get to see… It’s where Sharon’s wine bottles glared at him from the fridge every time he opened it these past weeks… It’s where random trinkets Sharon’s kids brought from the storage unit after the funeral are still spread all over the place… and it’s not that Emily and Ricky and Rusty left those for him to deal with. They each took what they wanted, and the rest – the rest was supposed to be donated, but Andy never managed.

Just like he hasn’t managed to take any of Sharon’s clothes to the nearest shelter, even though he’d promised his therapist he would.

And now he’s got his wife back – and these past two months shouldn’t matter, they should be erased, but he can’t let go. He sips his coffee – it feels cold in his throat. How long has he been sitting here, feeling sorry for himself?

He jerks his head as if to wake up – just in time for Tao to appear in the doorway.

“Lieutenant? The Behavioral Science is here. Figured you’d wanna talk before…” He leaves it unfinished. Gulping the remains of his coffee, Andy gets up and follows Tao.

They walk in silence. As they approach and Tao makes the introduction, Andy studies the woman in front of him. She’s wearing a hoodie and loose jeans, and that’s not at all how he imagined a psychologist would show up to evaluate a high ranking police officer.

Whether it’s because she drove straight from her vacation or because this is how she chooses to look approachable for her… patients? Are they called patients, Andy briefly wonders, stretching his lips to one side in a whatever notion.

“Lieutenant,” the woman who Tao introduced as Sidney Wilson says, extending her hand to Andy.

Her voice is low, sounds almost like she’s been running for miles and hasn’t caught her breath, handshake firm. She stares at his face for a long time, uncomfortably long. Have they met before? Andy’s not sure, but he thinks he’d remember her short red hair if they did.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Andy smiles, his gesture polite but tired, and she seems to pick it up before he even realizes. She nods curtly, then gestures for him to sit by an unoccupied desk and joins him. Tao lingers a few more moments before he walks away.

“I understand you and your wife are in need of counseling,” she says quietly, and it’s not a question, it’s almost an insult.

Andy shoves his hands into his pockets and clenches his fists to contain annoyance.

“To keep it all by the book, LAPD is legally obligated to get BSS approval before we let an officer involved in a traumatic event…”

She smiles broadly, and Andy stops his robot-like muttering mid-sentence. Sharon’s not technically an officer right now. Screw the gray area they’re all walking.

“You know she wrote the book, lieutenant?” she asks quietly, somewhat amused. “Not in a literal sense, of course, but commander Raydor shaped the OIS investigations into what they are now. She helped write the questions we ask when someone’s shot by a cop.”

“Maybe, I don’t know, ask some other question then?” Andy snaps, and that’s not at all how he intended for it to come out. Sidney’s eyebrows fly up, her face relaxed even more than a moment before.

She chuckles. “Short temper,” she states. Not a question, not even an invitation for a discussion. “If we are following protocol, there are certain things I have to ask commander Raydor. You requested me specifically cause I used to work with your wife. And here I am, but,” she raises her index finger and taps it on the desk, “that was six years ago, and people change. So don’t expect a miracle.”

Andy laughs. For the first time in what feels like days or maybe even weeks, he laughs, because a miracle is exactly what he’s already got.

His dead wife, back among the living.

Everything else fades and feels so unimportant, it makes it hard for him to stop smiling - until that smile turns into a grimace of sorrow. That happens just as suddenly, and a heavy chunk of air gets stuck in his throat. He tries to swallow it, but he can’t.

“Are you sure you are okay? You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and…”

“I’m fine,” Andy barks, then sees a familiar silhouette heading their way.

DDA Hobbs is back from whatever interview she had in the building. She stops by their desk. The two women shake each other’s hands, then nod at the murder board and look towards Provenza’s office so in sync it looks deliberate. Andy sighs and tries to swallow his irritation. What is it with people assuming he can’t take care of himself today?  

“The DA’s office is not pressing charges. For now at least,” Andrea says in a calm voice and extends a folder to the younger woman. “So there’s really no legal justification to keep commander Raydor here much longer.”

Sidney skims through it, her face giving up no emotions.

“And she refused to go to a hospital,” Andy adds, shrugging. “Provenza… Captain Provenza said she almost had a panic attack when the paramedics tried to take her there.”

“So all the health check-ups were…” the psychologist lifts her face from the folder, frowns and lets her question hang in the air.

Andy nods at her assumption, “On sight. Inside the ambulance.”

She sighs, eyes scanning the space around them. That’s far off from the protocol, but then nothing about Sharon’s situation can be put in a box.

“I see she’s still under the influence, so no official statement.”

Or any kind of statement, for that matter, Andy grimaces, but keeps this remark to himself. Instead, he hums a yes, then proceeds to add, “She’s met with her lawyer and asked for a union rep, but…” But she’s not in a union at the moment, and they all glance at each other.

There’s a flash of understanding on the psychologist’s face as she nods.

The system doesn’t know what to do and how to proceed with Sharon – it would’ve been easier if she was at the hospital, under doctors’ watchful eyes, but then she doesn’t seem to require immediate medical attention. Andy sighs. When the evening comes, they can put a folded bed for her in one of the interview rooms like they did for Rusty when he was in danger, but then what?

It’s all a gray area until Sharon’s death certificate is void (and Andy’s sure Provenza has yelled at everybody he could think of to expedite that process).

tbc

Chapter Text

They find the surgeon who operated on Sharon relatively soon – he’s been in Hollywood morgue for the past month as John Doe. His disappearance unreported, no wonder he went under Major Crimes’ radar. Andy bites his lower lip when Tao shows him a video feed of the body.

“It’s not an execution style shot if you ask me, too messy,” Andy hears the coroner say on the other side of the feed. “Plenty of defensive wounds, and I would say he was shot from above… Maybe he was lying on the floor, hard to tell, but note these marks…”

Red marks on the wrists that now look rather black. Andy leans closer to the screen: Someone beat up the dirtbag, he was all black and purple even before he got the bullet, but it somehow doesn’t give Andy comfort. He sees Provenza send Sykes to escort the body to the other morgue, then checks his watch: BSS psychologist’s been with Sharon for almost an hour now.

“Do we have ballistics yet?” Andy asks and Tao shakes his head.

“No match at the time of the investigation. But we’ll check again once we get the body.”

Andy nods. He feels useless and doesn’t know what to do or where to be, because technically he can’t be participating in the investigation. He watches, he asks questions… But he can’t do anything, so he wanders from one desk to the other, looks at the murder board as if that is going to shed some light on what’s happened to his wife.

Then he heads to the break room for his fifth – he estimates – cup of coffee today.

“Yes, I know she’s breathing!” Andy hears Provenza yell when he approaches the break room. He frowns, briefly wondering who the old grump is arguing with. “But I need a judge’s signature to reverse the death certificate!” Andy enters and they exchange looks. “No, no and once again no. You don’t seem to understand a lot of things, and one of them is English.” Andy quietly moves past him and pours himself a cup of coffee. There’s no steam, so it’s probably cold - he doesn’t give a damn. “No, you listen. We sent the DNA and prints an hour ago, just get him to sign the damn paper,” he pulls the phone from his ear, holds it up in front of his face, and yells, “Sometime this year!” Then ends the call and takes a deep irritated breath. “Bureaucracy. I don’t think they understand what happened.”

“Does anyone?” Andy shrugs.

Provenza rolls his eyes. “You look like hell.”

“You’re not too far ahead, can’t get what Patrice found in you.”

“Oh, you didn’t know? I’m a great cook and an even better lover.”

“I didn’t need to hear that,” Andy waves his hand, chuckling and looking at his cup.

“What, just because you don’t get laid no one should? Besides, that’s about to change…” The moment the words leave his mouth, Provenza’s smirk fades. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the floor. A tight laugh escapes him, but it’s too forced, too thin. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Too soon?”

Andy hums without looking up.

They sit in silence until Provenza’s phone rings again, and he yells at whoever’s on the other end of the line before ending the call and almost slamming the phone against the table. That’s when Sidney Wilson’s voice reaches Andy. He jumps in place and rushes to the murder room.

“Lieutenant Flynn?” the BSS psychologist calls and waves her hand at him while leaning on the door frame and holding the door open with her hand. Frowning, Andy quickly walks towards the office. “I believe you should join us,” she says quietly to him and steps back to allow him to enter.

Andy glances between Sharon and the psychologist, confusion flickering across his face.

“It’s okay, Andy,” Sharon says softly, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. She sits curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket. “You’re a part of this.”

He mutters, “Okay,” and steps inside. Sharon lifts an arm, wordlessly inviting him to sit beside her. When he settles, she shifts closer, takes his hand, and wraps it around her waist, resting it on her hip.

Sidney gives her a long expectant look and only speaks after Sharon nods.

“First of all, there is something you should know. I’m sharing this with Sharon’s consent,” She glances toward Sharon, who nods again. Andy’s body tenses. “We’re talking kidnapping.”

Andy looks down at the floor. He knew it - of course he did - but hearing it said aloud hits him with a rush of nausea and cold sweat. Seven weeks. Whoever took her, they… he… Andy’s thoughts stutter -

“The vic?” he manages, though it isn’t really a question.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

“The vic,” Sharon nods and her lower lip trembles, her fingers tighten around his hand.

“It’s not an official statement,” the psychologist adds gently. “You’re only here as Sharon’s husband.”

Andy instinctively reaches up with his free hand, resting it on Sharon’s shoulder, trying to catch her eye - but she keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Sharon, I’m so…”

“Please, don’t,” Sharon cuts him, tapping her hand on his. “It’s hard as it is,” she grimaces, looks down and moves her gaze to Sidney who nods in encouragement. Sharon takes a breath before continuing, ”It’s imperative that you know what you’ll be… What… What you might have to deal with.”

“What do I do?” He nods at Sidney to continue.

“We’ll get to that,” Sidney responds softly and tilts her head. “I’d like to ask how you are feeling. Right now.”

“Me?” he flinches. “How the hell did this become about me? I’m fine, I’ve told you already…”

“Andy-y-y…” Sharon calls but doesn’t turn to face him.

“Your wife doesn’t show signs of distress. She’s oriented, coherent. You, on the other hand… Sharon is worried about you, and I have to agree… Look,” she adds before he can protest, “I’m not saying she is fine. She’s far from fine. If Sharon,” she nods to Sharon, and Andy can see they’ve discussed this already, “has a meltdown when you get home, someone needs to handle it. I’d rather have her under observation for at least twenty-four hours, but you said it yourself, we’re in a gray area and I don’t want to re-traumatize her.”

Andy rolls his eyes but doesn’t move. “Angry the dirtbag is dead. Relieved the dirtbag is dead,” he states in a mechanical voice. He still expects Sharon to flinch at his touch, so he slowly, almost reluctantly dives his nose into her hair (and he doesn’t care how much it smells like a dirty blanket at the moment), then adds with affection, “Over the moon my wife’s back.”

He places a soft kiss on Sharon’s temple, and she closes her eyes, her body relaxing a little in his embrace. Then she pulls his hand from her hip up and kisses his palm, her breath warm against his skin.

Sidney nods and writes something down. “Since your wife’s return, have you had an urge to have a drink?”

“Well, it’s not evening yet…” he starts in an annoyed voice full of sarcasm, but quickly shuts his mouth and purses his lips. “I haven’t missed a single AA meeting since the funeral if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not.”

“Of course I want a drink,” he spits, irritated. “I won’t have it, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting it,” he grimaces and huffs.

Just because he wants a criminal he’s arresting dead doesn’t mean he’s going to kill him.

Sidney writes something down again.

“Which brings us to another topic,” she says, offering a soft smile as she waves a pen at Andy and Sharon. “Most victims of kidnappings have trouble letting anyone near them. But this,” she gestures with the pen again, “I like what I’m seeing right now.”

Andy feels Sharon’s head nod against his body. She must have talked this through with Sidney before inviting him in, and he can see her ‘told you so’ expression without looking at her face right now. It was something that surprised him as well – in the best way possible: Sharon’s been in his arms ever since he saw her inside the garage. He feared touching her, tried being as careful around her as possible – only to apparently annoy her with his hesitation. The thought makes him chuckle, and both women glance at him, curiosity in their eyes.

“Sharon,” Sidney says quietly, “I asked this before, and there’s no shame in changing your answer. It’s why I ask again. How do you feel around your husband?” Andy briefly wonders what her initial answer has been.

“Like a tiny part of me is back to normal.” She turns to face Andy for the first time since he entered the office, and gives him a faint smile.

“The part where you worry about me?”Andy teases, and Sharon huffs.

“As perhaps funny as it sounds, Andy’s got a point. After things were done to you for so long, worrying and caring for someone might feel like taking back control.”

“I just don’t want to be treated like something’s wrong with me,” Sharon nods and pulls away from Andy to turn towards him. She lets go of his hand and fidgets with the fabric of her sweatpants. “I need a glimpse of normality,” she sighs heavily.

Andy’s jaw tightens and he licks his lips.

“I’m so…” he begins and shuts up under Sharon’s gaze. She hates when he says he’s sorry. She hates being pitied. If it were up to her, she’d want everybody to go around their business and pretend she hasn’t been gone for two months.

Like she didn’t die and wasn’t sick before that, like… His breathing hitches and he realizes his heart rate is speeding up. It’s anger. Rage.

Not at Sharon, though it does frustrate him she’d want all that, and how can she after everything that’s happened. It’s because he can’t do it for her. She deserves to get whatever the hell she wants, but he can’t make it happen; he’s letting her down once again.

“So what do I do?” he finally says, facing the psychologist.

“You’ll need to keep her in a safe, quiet environment. No visitors in the first 24 hours… You monitor her. She shouldn’t be alone. She needs to eat. Hydrate. Rest. Watch for changes in behavior, sleep disturbances, signs of dissociation, or suicidal ideation.”

Sharon lifts her head at that. “I’m not suicidal,” she states in a manner you’d explain something obvious to a misbehaving child. You can’t take this lady’s umbrella. You shouldn’t eat candy before dinner.

“No one is, until they are,” Sidney points out in a soft voice. “No one judges you, Sharon. Have you considered ending your life? I don’t mean planning a way out, but more subtle thoughts, perhaps?”

Andy shifts on the couch and looks at Sharon, the memory of her crying in his arms – whispering that things would’ve been easier had she died – still sharp in his mind. That was before her death, before the funeral, before everything that followed. He stays quiet, unwilling to betray that moment she might want to keep between them.

Sharon tenses, crossing her ankles. She takes slow breaths in and out before speaking, and Andy can’t help but wonder what goes on inside her head.

“There were times when I didn’t… Mind? No, that’s not the right way to put it,” she begins, her voice distant as if she’s speaking from somewhere else entirely. “I accepted that dying was inevitable. And it didn’t frighten me the way it does now..”

Sidney nods and glances at Andy. “And what are you afraid of now?”

“There’s one thing that scares me the most right now,” Sharon answers right away, facing away from Andy, “And I mean, really scares me…” Her voice breaks in the end, and it takes her some time to regroup and continue. “I don’t want to traumatize Rusty. He shouldn’t have to… to…” she gasps and sobs, bites her cheek and looks expectantly at Sidney who nods in approval. “Deal with how I am…”

“No-no-no, sweetheart, Rusty’s out of town. If he were in LA, do you think for a minute we’d be able to keep the kid from barging here to see you?”

She smiles relieved and tears roll down her cheeks, then sobs and wipes her eyes with the back of her good hand.

“Oh-h-h my God, I’m such a mess,” she cries and covers her face with her hands. Andy pulls her into a hug, resting her head against his chest. For a time he forgets there’s someone else in the room – the Behavioral Science Service doctor – entire space around them narrows down to Sharon shaking in his arms. “You shouldn’t… have to… deal with this…” she chokes on tears.

“Hey, in sickness and in health, remember?”

“This is what you get for marrying a sick woman,” Sharon mutters into his – no doubt wet from her tears – shirt.

“And check that out, now I get a healthy one,” Andy beams, placing a kiss on the top of her head. He glances at Sidney from the corner of his eyes. It’s strange to have an audience in such a private moment.

Slowly, Sharon calms down. Andy lets go of her, reluctantly, and she pulls away, her face somehow more tired and pale than it was before.

Sidney nods quietly while Andy helps Sharon wipe her face with a tissue. When they both take a deep breath and look at Sidney, she puts away her notepad and leans forward.

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling unwell. But if things start spiraling out of control or if you feel it’s too much for you personally – and we’ve agreed on with Sharon… You give me a call, and we do the 5150.”

“The what?” he snaps before he can contain his reaction. He turns to Sharon. “And you agreed to this? Involuntary hold?” She flinches at his loud voice and Andy immediately regrets shouting. 

That’s when they put you in a padded room with no windows, strap you to a bed and… and… His breathing accelerates. There’s no way Sharon can go through that after everything else. He won't allow it. No-no-no.

“It’s because of my legal status, Andy,” Sharon cuts through the noise of his panic. “On paper…” she draws in a deep breath, “On paper I’m dead. I can’t give informed consent to hospitalization or treatment without leaving the hospital liable.”

“Then we don’t do it at all.”

“We try,” Sidney’s voice sounds firmer than before. “This would be the last resort. Now…” she rises to her feet and steps closer to Sharon, extending her arm for a handshake. “I’m really glad to see you. I’ll submit my eval within a couple hours. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t at least try to go home.” She nods and heads towards the exit. Andy squeezes Sharon’s hand and gets up to follow the psychologist.

They stop by the door, voices loud enough for Sharon to hear them if she chooses to.

“She’s relatively stable now,” Sidney whispers, “But there’s no sure way to tell how she’s gonna progress. It can go either way. It’s possible she was in survival mode the entire time she was held captive, and now that she can let it go…”

“It’ll all catch up with her?” Andy sums up with a question.

“Precisely. So don’t take anything for granted, these first 24 hours are the most critical…”

He nods. Sidney leaves.

He spends the next three hours with his wife. She mostly sleeps on the couch, resting her head on his lap and holding his hand pressed to her body like a teddy bear. Andy mentally catalogues the things he has to take care of once they’re home. The place is a mess, she’ll hate seeing it like that. Dirty cups and dirty clothes all over the living room, bed sheets he hasn’t changed since the funeral (since their last night together, to be precise). He tries to remember if Rusty took out the trash before he left, then his mind drifts to the dirty dishes in the sink and he grimaces at the thought of the smell they must’ve produced while he was away for the weekend.

A few times Provenza’s head pops in through the door, but he doesn’t enter, he just waves his cell phone, signaling for Andy to check his texts.

We’re ordering food.

Food’s here.

Found the coroner. Says he signed off on the Commander without an autopsy.

Got the eval from BSS. Will prep transport when the Commander wakes up.

Sharon stirs in her sleep and he looks at her eyelids tremblung when she dreams. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t jerk when she wakes up either.

She flinches, opening her eyes, looks around and smiles when she lays her eyes on Andy.

“Hey there,” he whispers with a soft smile, looking down onto her crinkled from sleep face. “Feeling better?”

She rolls onto her side and sits up on the couch, visibly uncomfortable when she stretches her arms and legs.

“I’m starting to smell like old shoes,” she jokes with an almost relaxed face.

“If you wanna smell like old shoes with a hint of Chinese, the guys ordered some food.” Now that she’s not lying on his lap, he can move – and the lower half of his body feels numb. It takes him a few minutes to regain feeling and get control of his legs.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Doc said you need to eat.” She rolls her eyes and gets up only to – apparently – feel dizzy and sit back down.

As much as Andy wants to fuss and panic and jump up to ask whether she’s alright, he holds himself back. Normality. Sharon needs normality.

“See? That’s what happens to people who don’t eat properly.”

“Says the man whose preferred breakfast is coffee,” Sharon teases back. And if he doesn’t look at her, if he can’t see her white roots, and strange clothes and wrinkled face – he can imagine these past few months haven’t happened.

“Tell you what, I’ll make dinner when we get home…”

Sharon doesn’t respond, visibly lost in her thoughts. She doesn’t cry either. Andy lets out a breath of relief.

Once she’s steady on her feet, they head out. Tao hands Sharon a soft windbreaker, the LAPD abbreviation bright on the back, just as she and Andy prepare to leave. Sharon nods her thanks, slipping it over her sweater and zipping it up.

She mouths a thank-you once again, to everyone in the murder room, then lets Andy walk her to the elevators and down to the garage. As much as they don’t want to draw attention, Provenza insists – and Andy agrees with him for once – that until they know more about Sharon’s disappearance, there should be patrol officers stationed by her condo and outside her building.

So an unmarked van follows Andy’s car. And a black-and-white drives in front of him.

They spend the ride in silence. It’s past midday, sun bright in the sky, and Sharon visibly enjoys looking out the window while they move through the city. He glances at her every few minutes. She’s still pale, far too thin, and she looks like she’s holding herself together with duct tape, but it’s working.

Half-way home he gets a call from Provenza: ballistics matched the bullet in the dead surgeon to the ones in Sharon’s kidnapper. Andy locks his jaws to keep his face calm. Sharon doesn’t need to know this.

When they get to the building, Sharon’s movements are still sluggish, pupils slightly dilated – as much as she’s slept, the pills haven’t completely worn off.

He should have taken her to the hospital, Andy thinks one last time before he promises himself to leave it be.

He freezes before the door to the condo, turning the key, and looks at Sharon. “You ready?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Then, softly, “No.”

But she opens the door anyway.

tbc