Okay, so I woke up yesterday morning with this screaming its way to get outta me, so I worked on it all day yesterday in-between classes and sent it off to PNWgal last night to see if it was worth anything...

She assures me it is, so here I am posting it. Although, I'm still pretty nervous to hear what you readers think of it... : S

This is a piece on Josef mourning Sarah's death, so no happy fluff here. : (

Thanks so much for the edits and suggestions on this PNWgal! You're the best! : )

okay, I'm going to shut up now, before I lose my nerve, and decide not to post it after all.

This is a one-shot, rated PG-13, and I do not own Moonlight nor any of the characters, but I sure do have fun writing with them. ; )

Enjoy!

Cataclysm

The call came in the middle of the afternoon. The small buzz of his cell phone vibrating on the bottom of the freezer was enough to wake him.

Josef rolled over and groggily looked at the time on the cell's small display window before flipping open the phone to answer. 1:45pm. Urgh. This had better be damn important. "What is it?" he snapped over the line.

"Mr. Kostan, this is—"

Josef recognized the voice instantly and interrupted, "Paula?" His stomach suddenly twisted with a sickening dread, "Why are you calling? Is Sarah all right?"

When he heard Paula take a deep breath on the other side before answering him, he knew. What she was going to say was going to throw his world one way or the other. Josef clung feebly to the desperate hope that the caretaker was calling with good news. But Paula's next words dashed his hope to pieces. Her tone was very gentle. "I'm sorry, sir. You need to come to New York. Miss Whitley—" a swallow on the other end, "—Miss Whitley has passed away."

Josef stopped breathing. The words sliced through his heart, icy sharp, leaving him shredded and bleeding. He said something to Paula, but he didn't know what he was saying. He felt detached from himself. He heard Paula respond, but her words were coming from far away, and he couldn't make sense of them. His phone slipped from his hand and fell against the floor of the freezer.

Sarah was dead. After 53 years of endless sleep, and desperate hoping, his sleeping beauty was gone—forever.

He felt numb.

Josef righted the armchair he had overturned, and sat down. In a fit of rage he had ripped open the material on the back, and a few pieces of stuffing bulged out from the slashes. He didn't give a fuck. Sarah was dead—his Sarah, his love.

Her body was gone. The machines and IV lines were gone. He had dismissed Paula and the rest of the staff—told them to go home. Paula had been reluctant to leave him alone, but Josef had insisted. The New York townhouse stood empty, deserted and silent.

That had been a week ago. Josef stayed, haunting the bedroom where his Sarah had once lain—looking for all the world like she would wake any minute and he would get to see her beautiful eyes once more, hear the sound of her voice, see her perfect smile…Josef hadn't realized before how much he had been depending on that hope until it was gone—ripped viciously and unexpectedly away from him.

He had been emotionally dead when dealing with her body. He had flown to New York the same day Paula had called. He had left within the hour. When he had arrived and had seen his Sarah lying there, so still, so cold—no soothing heartbeat gracing his ears, no gentle rhythm of her breaths—he had felt a part of his soul wither into despair and die with her.

It was later, when everyone and everything was gone, and he was alone in Sarah's room that the emotion came. It had been something little that had sparked him off—seeing the imprint in the bed where she had once lain peacefully. The faint imprint was all that was left of her. The finality of her death overwhelmed him in a tidal wave and he drowned in the onslaught of his grief. Sarah…Sarah…409 years of suppressed pain and hurt burst free and before he quite realized what he was doing, he had destroyed the bedroom in an unstoppable frenzy of heartache and fury.

While bitterly cursing the universe and fate, he had shattered the window, ripped the blankets from the bed, snapped the bed frame into splinters. Nothing in the room was safe from him. Each act of destruction had only added more fuel to his brokenness. He had hurled a pristine vase into the wall where it had smashed into hundreds of pieces, and it still wasn't enough. He destroyed the armchairs, picking one up and throwing it against the wall with all the strength of his years, breaking the wood. The other chair lay overturned behind him.

At some point during his wrath the tears began to fall. Slowly at first they trickled from his eyes, but by the end they were pouring from him. The weight of the centuries pressed down on his shoulders, and this time it was too heavy for him to bear. He sank to the floor, crying silently with an abandonment he hadn't allowed himself to feel for over a hundred years until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

When he woke later, night had fallen. He was lying amid the ruin and rubble he had created, stiff and sore and hungry. He didn't feel like eating, but he went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of blood anyway, forcing himself to drink it. And now he had returned to Sarah's room, righted the overturned chair, and half collapsed into it, absentmindedly looking down at the object he had retrieved from the hall and that he now held in his hands, turning it over and over—contemplating.

It was his revolver. He kept a Smith & Wesson in New York, just as he did in Los Angeles, loaded with silver bullets, intended as a defense against a possible attack by an enemy. He had never seriously thought that one day he might consider using it on himself. He sat in the darkness of Sarah's room, and stared down at the piece. The cold metal of the gun gleamed in the moonlight.

He thought about it. It would be easy, quick. A fast and painless way to go—a silver bullet through the roof of his mouth, and he would be reunited with his Sarah. The idea appealed to him. He was so tired of being disappointed, of having his heart broken. The memories from his past piled up and suffocated him. Eternity stretched before him, a gaping maw that was going to swallow him down—never had immortality seemed like such a curse.

Josef was tired. He wanted peace. He turned the barrel of the revolver towards himself, bringing it up to his mouth…He was going to do it…He cocked the gun…

"Josef…"

Josef jerked the gun down, startled, and stood, whirling around to see who had dared intrude upon his grief. Mick stood in the doorway to Sarah's room, framed by the light in the hallway, his troubled eyes taking in everything.

It had taken Mick about two days to realize that Josef was no longer in Los Angeles. Mick had been calling him, and had grown frustrated when his friend hadn't answered his phone. Going round to Josef's office, Mick was told that Josef hadn't been in, that he had called and said he was going to be taking some time off. Mick was confused. Something seemed off-kilter…Why would he want to take some time off? He told me once he didn't believe in vacations…So Mick had driven out to Josef's house, only to find no one answered when he knocked. The mansion was quiet, still—Josef was gone.

It hadn't taken Mick too long to figure out a likely possibility of where Josef might be. He had caught the first possible flight to New York, wondering what he would find upon landing. A hunch told him that it would be nothing good—surely if Sarah was okay, Josef would have answered his phone. Josef's silence was unsettling. A week had passed before Mick had thought of New York, a week since he had heard from Josef. It wasn't a good sign.

It was dark when he landed in New York. Mick had caught a taxi to Waverly Place, hurriedly paying the cab driver and dashing up the steps of the townhouse. For some reason he felt as though he was running out of time, and that if he didn't reach Josef soon, he would be too late.

Light from the hallway was spilling through the glass windows on the front door. Mick tested the knob, and gave a silent prayer of thanks that the entrance was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside, locking the door behind him, just in case.

Instantly, he was hit with waves of unbearable grief—Josef's grief. Mick staggered from the force of it. His friend was here, mourning, and Mick found it hard to breath under the assault of Josef's emotions. He had never realized just how much of his emotions his friend kept locked away, hidden. He had known that Josef wasn't an unfeeling person—the way he liked to pretend he was—but Mick had never realized before how deeply and powerfully Josef felt things. His grief—Mick could literally feel Josef's despair as his own.

He sensed a small shift in the airflow, and knew from the movement that Josef was in Sarah's bedroom. As Mick walked down the hall, in the silence of the house he heard a small click. Mick's heart froze—the sound of a gun cocking…

He dashed to the doorway and took in the sight in an instant. The room was in shambles. Glass, wooden splinters, and pieces of fabric from torn curtains and bedding littered the floor. Josef sat in an armchair, his back to the doorway, but Mick could still see the gun Josef was about to put in his mouth.

Mick spoke, panicked. "Josef…" Urgency laced his voice.

Josef jumped and stood, lowering and un-cocking the gun and spinning around to face him in a smooth motion. Mick knew then just how upset Josef was—the old man hadn't even been aware of his presence. Mick saw rage flash in his eyes, before Josef recognized him. His heart reached out to his friend. He had never seen such pain in Josef's countenance; the older vampire's eyes were bottomless wells of anger and agony, bloodshot from tears.

Josef met his eyes briefly and then looked away. Mick didn't say anything, knowing there was nothing he could say to Josef in this moment that would help. The two stood in silence for a long while.

Finally Josef whispered, "Sarah's dead."

He sounded so broken, so lost—Mick felt a wave of sadness sweep through him. "I know, Josef." He saw with apprehension how tightly Josef held the six-shooter in his white-knuckled grip. Mick took a cautious step forward into the room.

Josef whispered again, and this time Mick didn't think Josef was even aware of what he was saying, "She's dead…" A tear spilled slowly down Josef's cheek, and the old vampire didn't even bother to wipe it away.

"Give me the gun, Josef," Mick said quietly. His heart was pounding away nervously in his chest.

Josef turned and leveled a glare at him. "What are you doing here, Mick?" he snapped. He didn't hand over the gun.

Mick wetted his lips, speaking slowly and carefully. "I couldn't get a hold of you. I was worried. You just disappeared." Mick paused a moment, wondering if it would be wise to continue. He didn't want to push Josef even further over the edge. He tried to comfort his friend. "Josef, I'm so sorry." The words sounded horribly inadequate even to his own ears, but he didn't know what else to say. "I'm sorry—"

"Shut-up!" Josef screamed at him. "You're sorry? Sarah's dead, Mick! She's gone. For 53 years I have hoped and prayed for her to come back to me. I waited for her to come back to me. I never stopped hoping…" Josef choked. "Now she's gone, and I'm alone!" With a wild look in his eye Josef brought the gun back up under his chin, re-cocking it. His finger hovered over the trigger.

Mick lunged forward, "Josef, don't!"

"Why the hell shouldn't I?" Josef hissed.

Mick took a deep breath, "Because you'd leave me behind," he whispered. "Because you'd leave me alone—"

"You wouldn't be alone. You have Beth!" The words were flung bitterly at him.

Mick's eyes were watering, "I still need you, Josef. Don't do this. Don't do this. It's not your time yet. I need you, Josef."

Josef's expression wavered, his hand holding the gun started to tremble. Mick took a small step forward and held out his hand, "Give me the gun, Josef."

Josef stared at him, teetering on the brink. Mick knew the wrong word could push him one way or the other. He took a deep breath and used the one thing in his arsenal he knew Josef wouldn't be able to push aside.

"Please, brother," Mick whispered. "Give me the gun."

Josef's face crumpled, and he brought the gun down. Slowly he placed it in Mick's hand. Mick breathed a sigh of relief, and un-cocked the gun, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

Josef was wringing his hands…His face was twisted in a desperate effort to keep his composure. Mick didn't say anything—he simply reached forward and pulled Josef into his embrace. He felt his friend trembling against him, shoulders shaking, and heard Josef whisper, "I just can't believe she's really gone…I'll never get to see her again—ever."

"I know, Josef. I know." Mick soothed. "I know you want to die right now, but it's gonna get better. You're going to get through this."

"How do you know that?" Josef gasped.

Because you gave me the gun, Mick thought. But he only answered, "I just know, brother. I just know. You're a survivor. You're going to be okay again one day, I promise."

Keeping an arm around Josef's shoulders, Mick guided his friend from the room, shutting the door to the destruction. Josef eyed the closed door, he reached out and his fingertips brushed the knob, but he kept the door shut. Squaring his shoulders, he put his back to the room, and took a shaky step down the hall with Mick's support.

Mick grabbed Josef's coat from the hall closet, and held it out to his friend, "Come on, Josef. I'm taking you home."

They left the townhouse, empty, quiet, the only other witness to the disappointed hopes of a man's fierce love. The last remnants of Charles Fitzgerald were finally no more.

Fin