Disclaimer: Numb3rs isn't mine, but, damn, does it feel good to have a fandom again.
--
The shot rings out, and Colby knows it's not the sound of a high-powered rifle. A shot is a shot is a shot, especially in a situation like this where there are way too many armed men all teetering on a knife's edge, but something in his gut says 'handgun' and 'suicide'. He can hear the LAPD radios squawking, but he's only got eyes for David right now. The stiff set of Sinclair's shoulders that melts into a posture of despair.
Hours later, when the scene's been secured, and Colby's gut has been confirmed (revolver, single shot to the head, and there was blood spatter across a picture of Owen's son, whose killing had set off so many of those 'shooting chains'), he catches Sinclair in the elevator. "Hey, man," and waits until the doors shut to crush his partner to him. "Not your fault," Colby says quietly to the side of David's head.
"I helped him stack chairs at the community center," David says back, talking into Colby's shoulder. Both of them have been too busy to take the Kevlar off, so this isn't the world's most comfortable hug. But it's not about comfort so much as just hanging on. Giving David something to grasp at while Colby stops him from slipping away.
"You stuck your head out from behind the riot shields to talk to the guy. You saved lives today…hell, you probably saved mine."
"He wasn't a bad guy. He taught the conflict resolution classes at the center. And he was a serial killer. How the hell am I supposed to reconcile that?"
It's not a question Colby has an answer for.