"I think it's like when you lose something so close to you, it's like losing yourself."
― Ava Dellaira, Lover Letters to the Dead

She had been running an errand. That's precisely what she had told him when Nick Durand, concerned, had called her whilst feeding their son who had visibly decided that the dog was far more interesting than the flashy orange mixture seating in the spoon.

Conrad Harlow, most notorious serial-killer of Boston was still on the loose, and the FBI had never been able to get close enough to the man to even get a look at his face. Nick was supposed to be on the case with Emily, and he was. He was working on it, but he knew when it was time to go home. However, Emily had delved head first since they'd found the first body and she had yet to come up for air. She was tenacious in a way he had always been enticed to, it was like a raging fire that crackled and shone like anything else he had ever witnessed. He had always admired her tenacity, and her devotion, even if it meant he was the one who put their son to bed – alone. He had always known it was just who she was. She experienced everything with a passion that could make anyone grow dizzy, that same passion with which she loved him and their son. However, it was also a passion he had grown to worry about when it came to work. She constantly pushed and pushed, often too far, often too much. She was good, she excelled even, but he had seen her put herself in danger enough times to fear that passion.

She had texted him, a little less than an hour ago that she had a lead, which she hadn't wished to share. He trusted her, always had. But he now started to feel his guts twist and turn uncomfortably, making him swallow heavily as he guided the spoon in his son's wide open mouth. Something felt off, and his whole being was currently screaming at him, triggering the alarms one by one until little stars began to burst behind his eyelids.

He checked his phone, but no texts. No calls. Nothing.

With a sigh, Nick rose up to his feet, getting Flynn up and into his arms as he did, smearing a gentle kiss against his forehead as he headed to the nursery with heavy steps.

Nick laid his son on the changing table, doing a quick work of changing him as his mind reeled and reeled. A shriek made him come back to his senses, and staring at the babbling baby, he smiled.

"Yes, I know. She promised she'd be back by ten, and it's barely eight," he told the boy and caught a tiny fist. "Daddy is just being silly, now."

He was not being silly. He most certainly was not.

It was well past midnight and still no texts. No calls. Nothing.

He had been pacing in the living room for an hour now, his hair totally disheveled and oily; a result of his hands mechanically rubbing his face before running up and through his hair as anxiety hit another notch every minute.

The sharp ringtone of his phone tied his legs together and when hope should have been radiating through his chest, a sensation of dread consumed him. Swallowing heavily, he fished his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen.

The FBI.

He released a heavy breath he had apparently been holding for a while, and let his thumb hover above the green icon.

It could still be her, he told himself. Perhaps if he believed it hard enough, it'd be true.

"Nick, we need you at the office."

It wasn't.

For the following thirty minute, he solely acted on autopilot. He took Flynn to Emily's dad, giving the old man a weak smile before leaving, and drove to the office trying to shut out any thoughts he had going on.

When he walked in, all eyes were on him. All eyes except those he wanted so badly.

"Where is she?" It came out rough, and raspy, the fatigue of the last three hours slowly taking his mind hostage.

"Not here, Nick, my office."

Nick eyed the director with tired eyes, shoulders slumped under the weight of what was to come. But wordlessly, he followed the man, waiting for him to close the glass door and stand before him with an expression on his face that had him clench his fist.

"We got Harlow," Adam said gravely as he crossed his arms on his chest, a hint of defeat tinting his words.

"Good, that's good," he answered with a nod before studying the man who appeared to be searching for his next words.

"It is. However, that's not why you're here."

He stroke a hand across his stubble with a dismissing sniff. "Where's Emily? You and I both know what she was doing tonight."

"Harlow got her."

Nick let out a bitter laugh with a shake of his head, a hand going through his hair. "No."

The room was spinning, the ground collapsing, his heart and soul shattering.

Walking round and round, he pulled on his hair with trembling hands, muttering a mantra of no, no, no.

Wetting his lips, he faced the director with red rimmed eyes and a disbelieving look. "Where's your proof?" he accused the man, a finger pointed towards him. "Where is her body?! Where is she?!" he shouted before heading to one of the chairs and letting himself fall down on it, his head dipping low in between his arms as his hands were once again scraping his scalp, his knuckles going white.

A hand came to his shoulder, squeezing. "I'm sorry, Nick."

Shaking his head, he shrugged off his hand jumping to his feet with a dark laugh.

"Don't be. She's not d-"

Cringing, he pressed his palms against his eyes for a few seconds before taking in a wavering breath as determination slowly came to replaced his features of panic.

"So long as there's no body, she is alive," he started with a dark and deep voice, his eyes intend. "I refuse to get played."

With that, he stepped away from the man and practically ran to her desk, shuffling papers around even before sitting.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't.

The man was playing them, had been since day one. And what was Adam playing at? Didn't they know better than trust the words of a psychopath?

Something felt wrong.

Letting himself fall against the back of the chair, he threw his head back, eyes transfixed to the ceiling as his mind kept running wild. Desperately trying to make sense of the last four hours. His world had spun and fell apart so fast, it made his stomach churn. Had him closing his eyes tight, hoping she would be standing right in front of him with that sly smile of hers once he'd opened them.

They had talked about that possible outcome, they both knew they had a dangerous job, but never had he imagined even for a second that one of them would not come back home.

Letting out a loud breath, he flung a number of files under his arm and left the office without looking back.

Something felt terribly wrong.

He did not go back to her father's and pick up their son before another week - telling the old man something important had come up at the FBI. He hadn't truly lied, he had mentioned the Harlow case, dismissing the most brutal, life changing fact.

He hadn't had the courage to face the man, nor their son. Hadn't had the strength necessary to look into her father's eyes and tell him his daughter would not come back. Hadn't had the strength to look at the boy who was even now, the spitting image of his mother.

That probably was the worst part.

The first night had been dark and brutal, the reality of it all bringing him to his knees in the middle of their living room; the guilt weighing him down until his forehead hit the floor with a thud, the grief, an untamed and merciless beast that had clawed his chest open until he was left gasping for air, calling out her name in the dead of the night again and again and again.

The rest of the week had been spent lost in tons of files. Nights, trying to figure out where she had gone to that night. Days, on road trips that led him nowhere.

Later, he realized that a part of him had vanished along with her. So much so that he did not recognize himself. Everything around him had gotten meaningless, his senses had shut off, his mind turned off. Pain had become a part of him, and he let it consume him.

He tried to be good for their son, he really did. But the need to keep trying to make sense of everything slowly grew stronger, at least until her father made him snap out of it one night when he, once again, had been late to pick up their son. "You listen to me, I won't let you abandon that boy, so you can wallow in peace like a coward," he had said harshly with a fierce stare that had made him lower his own to the ground in shame. "Show me you are the man she kept telling me you were. Take care of your son, and find her."

After that, he had fully devoted himself to the boy, who kept growing and getting so brilliant. Everyone knew and told him how much everything was a milestone at such a young age and the boy made him proud, helped him find parts of himself back. He wasn't whole, would never be, and each new sound he made, each effort he poured into walking and running on his own had him wishing he had her to share it with. He could picture the bright and warm smile that would stretch her lips, the fierce forest green in her eyes that would turn liquid, and wet her cheeks – like droplets of morning dew running along a leaf.

Weeks turned into months, and new pieces of evidence solidifying her possible death slowly emerged one by one. DNA under Harlow's fingernails, and an official full confession.

She had thought she had found him, right outside of Boston in the middle of a forest. The man had told them he had known she would be coming, had assured them it had been quick and had refused to inform them of the location of her body.

Nick hadn't been allowed into the interview room, but instead, had been watching on the other side of the mirror with a blank face and the jaw tight, fist balled at his sides as he had been struggling to refrain himself from running into the room and slit the man's throat

It wasn't right. It was far from the guy's MO, and something in his bemused smile and knowing look in his eyes had his hair standing on the back of his neck.

It wasn't right.

During the following months, nothing new surfaced and he was still not allowed to see the man. The case was considered to be close and he was expected to be grieving. He did stop searching for her when it became too much, when he looked at his son and decided that he had to move on – if not for himself, for the sake of the boy. His conscience and heart were at war; a part of him telling him to give up and realize that she was gone, and another part shouting at him to keep digging. But, he didn't like the person he was when he let himself fall into the rabbit hole, the paranoia that wrapped around and squeezed his guts, the incapacity to tell apart days from nights, what was real from what wasn't. Their house was now an archive room, files and pictures of evidence scattered on the floor, where he sometimes sat to run his eyes over it all again and again until he could no longer bear looking at it.

When the boy turned two, he stopped everything, for good, and accepted to organize the funerals, although something inside him still kept telling him it wasn't right, but he had gotten good at shutting that voice down.

The day was as heavy as his heart was, thick, dark clouds threatening to burst at any time as the glacial and humid air started to expand a haunting fog all around them. His hair started to drop in wet strands on his forehead, droplets hanging on his eyelashes, as lonely tears came to join them in their course along his cheeks. The small boy was crushed tight against his chest, his face smashed at his shoulder as he swept over the place with quiet eyes - solemn.

He didn't quite understand yet, even though he knew they were saying goodbye to his mom. He had tried to explain the best way he had been able to, he really had. But the two year old seemed to be more hopeful than he himself ever had been, answering him in his own way that, perhaps she'd come back.

He envied his son's peace of mind, and was thankful for it.

The dog was here, too. Nick knew how much Emily had fallen in love with him right away and it had been mutual, it hadn't felt right to leave him behind. He was silently sitting on his haunches a few feet away from the tomb, his head held high and proud, of perhaps was it expectation. Towards the end of the priest's speech, he would lay on his belly, head on his paws with a low whine that had Flynn reaching his arms towards him.

It was a small and quiet ceremony, only him, Flynn, the dog, Emily's dad and Adam were standing around her, eyes staring straight. Her dad had purposely chosen to stand apart, his look holding such anger that Nick hadn't even felt comfortable standing all that close to him. He knew that her dad blamed him, both for her disappearance and for having stopped his research. He would own that, he still brought Flynn to his place, but no longer engaged with the old man, who preferred to ignore him. He knew Emily would hate it, but there was nothing he could do, she was gone and so was a part of him. He had accepted that.

It was over. She was truly gone, believing otherwise would only hurt them more.

It was over. She was gone.

This was written a little while ago, but I meant to share anyway because why not. It kind of just happened and I really did not mean to write a freaking fic out of it, my first intend was only to make sense of things. Anyway, there might be more though, depending on how this one is received. However, as I'm currently trying to work on a Castle story for the winter ficathon, that'll come second.

Thank you Alex for going over this for me and adding your reactions along the way - it was very cute.