I realize this is pretty long for a one-shot, but if need be, i'll lengthen it to a full-length fic. Sorry if it's OOC. I'm not good at Munch dialogue. Hope you like this. Please R&R.

John Munch was working at his desk late one night. Everyone else had gone home already—no one else was there. The room was dark except for the lamp sitting on John's desk, but it may have been as if the light wasn't there. He was hovering over a file in front of him, blocking the light from hitting it. But still he was able to read it. It was the file for their latest case. A 17-year-old girl had been found raped and murdered, her body discarded in a dumpster. So far, they hadn't been able to I.D. the girl, but John was working to change that.

After a while, John's eyelids grew heavy and he started nodding off. He figured he might as well head to his apartment to get some sleep, before he zonked at his desk. There was nothing more he could do for the case, so he put the file back in the stack on the corner of his desk. Looking down at his watch, he noticed it was 12:43 a.m., just enough time to get home and grab a few hours of sleep. John grabbed his jacket, turned off the desk lamp, and left the building.

Once outside, he looked around. New York City was much different at night—one couldn't be too careful, especially when walking home. He set off walking to his apartment.

The whole time he couldn't stop thinking about the mysterious girl from that photograph in that file on his desk who still remained nameless. What if this girl had a family who's worried sick about her?, John wondered. It was set, he was going to figure out who this girl was if it was the last thing he ever did. Somewhere this girl had to have had someone who cared about her.

As he passed a dark alley, he could hear voices yelling at each other over drugs or something. John ignored them and just kept walking (thankful he had his gun on him). When he went to cross the street, a gunshot could be heard coming from behind him. John shook his head, New York, the city that never sleeps. More like the city with the most crime and drugs. A bureaucratic trap where the hierarchy are the one's who can make the most money by feeding on the innocence of ordinary people. It made him think, taking his mind off the picture of the dead girl.

All around him the sounds of the city could be heard: a loud screech followed by a bang, people screaming, music blaring, and even a dog barking. At this late at night, too. It made him wonder why he moved here.

A man walked past John wearing old torn clothes with a tattered blanket wrapped around him—a homeless man, no doubt. John couldn't help but to feel sorry for the man. Life can be cruel to some people, or at least the government can. Victims of that damned trap. He sighed and just kept walking.

He passed a store with a TV in the window. John backtracked a bit when he heard what the anchorwoman on the screen was saying. Below the woman was the name Kristina Donati; he had never seen or heard of that name on the news before.

"In other news, the body of a young 17 year old girl was found in a dumpster today. So far, authorities have been unable to identify the victim." That's the case I'm working on. How did it get on TV? John was amazed at what the world of television was capable of doing nowadays.

The anchorwoman continued, "Anyone with information should contact a Detective John Munch, since he hasn't been able to figure it out yet." Her eyes focused right on him. "Have you, John?"

John took a step back; no way could this be happening. The TV woman was talking directly to him as if she knew he was there. Impossible.

The anchorwoman suddenly changed into the dead victim, blood and all. "Have you given up on me, John? Figure I'd never be identified or that no one cared about me? Don't you . . . John?"

For once in his life, John Munch was speechless. He couldn't come back with anything, not even a witty comment. What do you say when a person who is dead was speaking to you?

John felt a hand on his shoulder and he quickly spun around. There, in front of him, was the actual body of the girl. The blood covered her clothes from the long slice in her neck and her eyes were cold and lifeless. "John . . . John . . . John . . ." She kept repeating over and over again.

"John . . . "

"John! John wake up!" Olivia yelled as she shook his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, "Huh?" Suddenly, he jerked straight up, the nightmare still fresh on his mind.

"You alright man?" Fin asked from behind him. "You really should go home and get some sleep, or you're gonna die at your desk."

"I'm fine." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before putting them back on. "What time is it?"

"Around quarter till 8." Olivia bent down to his eye level and looked straight at him. "Go home John. We'll call you if we receive any new information."

Fin walked over to them, "Come on Munch, I'm driving your sleepy ass home." John didn't argue, he just followed him out the door.

The whole drive home, John stared out the car window at the many people heading to their jobs and wherever they needed to be. It was very different that what he saw when he had fallen asleep—then again New York wasn't as bad during the day as it was at night. The images from the nightmare came back to him. Reminds me of a quote I heard once. 'Dreams are not merely an expression of neurotic problems, but an attempt at working through them.' Oh yeah, I'm a recovering psychotic. Wonder if they have psycho's anonymous.

"Well . . . you gonna tell me what's bothering you or do I have to beat it out of you?" Fin asked, breaking John from his reverie.

"Nothing. I'm fine." To Fin—who had become used to his partner's inability to talk about his feelings—it was an obvious cover up, something was wrong.

"Bullshit. Something's obviously not right."

Not in the mood to start a fight, John sighed, "It's that damned case."

"That one with the young chick the police found dead in the dumpster?"

"Yeah, it's driving me crazy."

Fin laughed, "You're already crazy. What sane person would believe your crazy ass conspiracy theories?"

It was John's turn to laugh, "You really think that J.F.K. died the way the Warren Commission said he did?" Before Fin could answer, he continued. "Anyway, It's just that girl's face is haunting me."

Fin pulled up in front of Munch's apartment building. "Listen, get some sleep. If you come back to the precinct looking like death warmed over, I'll—"

"You'll beat my bony ass. Gotcha." John got out and muttered a thanks before he shut the door and walked upstairs to his apartment.

After getting inside, he headed for his bedroom. Gently, he took off his glasses and set them on his nightstand. Then he changed out of his black suit into a wife beater and boxers. Laying down in his bed, it wasn't long till he fell asleep, this time with no nightmares.

3 hours later, his cellphone rang. A groggy Munch woke up and answered it.

"Munch." He said, half-awake.

"Good morning, John."

"This better be good, Olivia."

On the other side, Olivia chuckled. "Remember I said I'd let you know if we found anything new. Well, we I.D.'ed your mystery girl."

My mystery girl? "And . . . ?"

"Her name's Kristina Donati."

John went silent. He remembered that name from somewhere, but where?

"John!" Olivia yelled at him for the second time that day.

"I've heard that name before."

"What?"

Finally it dawned on him. The dream! It was on the TV, underneath the newswoman, who then turned into the dead victim. I should have known. Without thinking, he closed his phone, while Olivia kept yelling his name. John then laid back down, satisfied that they had found out who 'his' mystery girl was. No longer would her face haunt him in his dreams. Eyelids shut, John fell back asleep . . . with a smile on his face.

Special thanks to my brother and sister for the title suggestions. As for anyone wondering about Injured Soul, it'll be updated ASAP, once I figure out where I'm going with it. Once again, please R&R.

-Silvarius