He would retain only an ambiguous memory of the walk. He would remember being ambulatory, apprehensive, but decisive. And suddenly he was back at the precinct in front of Captain Peter O'Farrell's door. Oblivious to the usual boisterous activities of the bullpen, he knocked twice.
"Come in."
Suppressing his escalating terror and shame, Detective Donald Cragen entered, closing the door behind him swiftly. "I…came back, because I, I…did a bad thing."
Frowning O'Farrell rose and hastened to stand in front of him. "How bad?"
"After a…few drinks, I saw a guy driving a cab, on Lexington, and, he stopped to let out a fare, and, after the passenger departed, me and the driver locked eyes and, I don't know, I just…pulled my gun." He halted abruptly, dropping his gaze.
"Did you discharge your weapon, Don?"
His head snapped back up. "No sir!"
"Then what happened?"
"And then I realized that I was about to make the worse mistake of my life, because…I…have a drinking problem." He exhaled heavily, looked away briefly, and then continued. "So I holstered my piece, and, and came back here." Then he stopped, dropping his head, waiting for the termination.
Instead, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Don?" O' Farrell's voice was serious but soft.
"Sir?" He met the captain's surprisingly compassionate gaze.
"I know of an AA meeting that starts in about an hour. So why don't you use my phone and tell Marge you're gonna be late?"
"But…what…what will IAB do?"
Leaning slightly forward, O' Farrell responded softly: "Why don't you wait until you meet a few of them there?"
Don was agape. "What?" he managed eventually.
His CO signed. "Unfortunately, you're not alone, Don." Then: "But fortunately, you're not alone, either."