Disclaimer: The characters used within this story do not belong to me, but were borrowed for the purposes of this story. They belong to CBS/Viacom and their associated copyright holders. No profit made, and I promise to return them un. . . well, relatively unscathed. The plot and original characters, such as they are, are of my own imagining.

Synopsis: Trouble. Sometimes you don't have to go very far to find it. Steve and Mark discover that it can be found far away or close to home. . . .

Author's Notes: This is the first Diagnosis Murder story that I have presented for public consumption. While working on another, longer story, I thought I'd get my feet wet with something a little shorter. Though I am new to DM fic, I'm not new to fanfiction writing in general. But since these are essentially 'new' characters for me, I'd like some constructive criticism (either publicly or privately) especially on the characterizations. I am without a beta reader, and hope that I haven't made any embarrassing errors with background information that everyone was aware of but me.

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Close To Home

by WriterJC

Steve Sloan slipped quietly into the beach house, closing the door gently behind himself. He paused as he reached the top of the foyer steps, catching the very faint sound of falling water. Caution gave way to an exasperated sigh as he continued on at a more normal pace. There was no more need to creep through the house as his dad was obviously up and taking a shower. So much for hoping he would have slept in after an exhausting extended shift the night before.

Exasperation changed rapidly to an affectionate grin. What else had he expected? His father wasn't much for sleeping in, even though he did finally have a day off. As he moved into the kitchen, and toward the file folder that was his reason for returning home in the first place, the grin and thoughts of his father were still with him. He paused in a moment of introspection to truly take a look around the spotless abode. There were so many memories here - breakfasts, laughter, case files. If he just closed his eyes, he could almost taste some of them. Suddenly bypassing the folder on his way to the refrigerator, he cast a glance at his watch. 9:39 A.M. Yes, he should just have enough time to return the favor in a small way.

Minutes later, he breathed in the rich aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon. All that remained to be done was to scramble the eggs. He'd save the toast for when his father arrived in the kitchen. He smiled as he imagined the look on the older man's face when he stepped out of the bathroom and caught a whiff of his morning surprise. Of course, he would then feel the urge to 'investigate'. Steve especially enjoyed the image that brought. His father would appear in the entry to the kitchen, his gray hair tousled, smiling that loving smile especially reserved for those he loved. Right on cue, the sound of the shower stopped. It was time to make the eggs.

With quick motions, he removed the bacon to paper towels to drain. He wanted to be sure everything was ready when his father appeared in the kitchen. Figuring he had five minutes at best, he reached into the refrigerator for the egg carton then flipped the lid open. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. There was only one egg remaining, and it had a decidedly unappetizing little crack down the side which was oozing something yellow.

"Great," he grumbled. How was he supposed to do a surprise bacon and egg breakfast without the eggs? Another quick glance at his watch alerted him that time was running out. Then he remembered the gas station across the street. Sure, he was going to pay highway robbery prices, but if he ran, he could make it to the store and back before his father appeared. He hoped.

==

Mark Sloan ran the towel briskly over his head a final time before placing it around his shoulders. Looking into the bathroom mirror, still partially steamed, he stared at his reflection. There were lines of tiredness around his eyes, and if he was honest with himself, he'd admit that he could use a couple more hours of sleep. But he just couldn't remain in bed any longer. There were too many other things that he'd rather be doing on his day off. One of which was to go to the market. Both his and Steve's lives had been far too hectic of late and the cupboards were getting bare.

Deciding that there was really no time like the present, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the cooler air of his bedroom. The remnants of steam and the smell of shampoo and soap followed him, then dissipated in favor of the wonderful twin aromas of coffee and bacon.

"Steve," he murmured, a smile lighting his features and warmth encompassing his heart. He was sure his son would have left hours ago for work. Quickly dressing, he followed his nose.

"You really didn't have to . . . " he began as he entered the kitchen. His smile faded away as he encountered an empty room.

==

Steve kept a careful watch on the young man who was hovering near the front of the store. He thought the young man looked a lot like Jonah Andersen's son. What was his name? Jimmy? Timmy? Steve wasn't sure. The age looked about right, anyway. Although, the last time he'd seen Jonah's son, a couple years prior, before Jonah and his wife had split up, the young man had been more clean cut. Not the scraggly, baggily dressed teen before him. Worse, when he moved, Steve could detect an ominous bulge just about waist level beneath his shirt tails.

"Earle, you're killing me with these prices," Steve called to the burly man at the counter. Earle Tatum had run the counter at the gas station/convenience store for as long as Steve could remember. The man had seen kids come and go. He and Steve had once joked that the older man could pick out a shoplifter on sight. More, Earle knew all of the kids in the neighborhood who frequented his store.

"What is it that you want from me? I've got to make a living somehow." Earle joked back. But Steve looked across the rows of merchandise into the man's eyes, and saw the seriousness in the brown gaze. Earle had spotted the young man, too.

"Maybe you could give me the cop's discount," Steve suggested, emphasizing the word 'cop' ever so slightly. "I am sorta on duty, you know."

The kid's head jerked in Steve's direction for half a second, before his gaze shifted quickly away. Then an expression that Steve could only describe as surprise tinged with fear settled across his features as he focused on something on the opposite side of the large glass windows. Steve turned further to see what had caused such a reaction. The only thing he noticed was an old black and red Cadillac pulling into the parking lot. The vehicle was overflowing with young men who appear to be dressed in like fashion as the teen before him.

Steve refocused his attention on the young man only to find that he was already being watched. Their gazes locked for several moments, blue looking into blue. Steve thought he saw something there, as if the youngster desperately wanted to say something to him. Then, the boy's features hardened, and he began to move steadily toward the door and out into the parking lot. It was not until the glass door slipped shut behind him that Steve caught the motion as he reached beneath the hem of his shirt.

==

"Steve? Son?" Mark called, a frown marring his brow as he took in the open egg carton sitting on the counter near an empty pan bearing a bit of butter. There was also bacon for two draining on paper towels, and the coffee pot was full of what smelled like fresh coffee. Under normal circumstances his mouth would be watering. But he was curious about the son that he wanted to thank. Unfortunately, that son was nowhere in sight.

==

"Call the police," Steve murmured toward Earle as he moved out after the kid. Something in his gut warned him that things were not quite right. The young man was headed quickly toward a faded blue Dodge parked a several spaces over from an outside storage building. His body language screamed trouble, as he moved, head down, practically running toward the Dodge.

"Jimmy!" One of the young men in the convertible yelled his name, and still he did not turn, but continued on toward the blue vehicle. Steve, watching the drama unfold with increased alarm, did turn. And that's when he caught the motion of an upraised arm.

==

Moving closer to the counter, Mark picked up the carton, noting the single cracked egg. He placed it absently back onto the surface and moved on. His hand next settled on the McClellan case file which sat off to one side of the counter. Surely Steve wouldn't have left without that. Wondering if perhaps his son had headed back downstairs, he left the kitchen and headed toward the top of the steps leading to the lower part of the house. That was when he heard the sound.

Pop!

Initially he frowned in confusion. But then the sound was followed by the more distinctive rat-a-tat of automatic weapons fire. And it sounded as if it was coming from across the street. Mark gasped, feeling as if his heart had dropped to his toes. With little thought for his own safety, he rushed out of the front door and toward the driveway, confirming his worst fear. There sat Steve's police sedan. There was no one inside of it.

==

Steve tackled the younger man, pulling him to the ground as automatic weapons fire sailed over their heads. Jimmy, having had no expectation of the move, completely lost his balance, falling heavily against Steve's left side as they both impacted the hard concrete.

Steve grunted as he felt something give in his shoulder. Only adrenaline kept him going as he pushed the young man up to his knees and around to the far side of the car away from the buddies who had decided they wanted to kill him. It wasn't until they were there, leaning against the side of the car that he realized just how 'wrong' his left arm felt. Almost immediately the pain started, an agonizing throbbing sensation that radiated through his upper arm and along the side of his neck. His legs gave out on him, and instead of crouching behind the car, he found his backside firmly settled on the ground with his right shoulder propped up against the side of the car.

"Man, I think your arm's gone out," the frantic teen stated the obvious, speaking for the first time.

Steve, calling on every stubborn gene in his body, bit back a sarcastic remark and tried to pull himself together. The pain in his shoulder was growing steadily worse, and they couldn't stay out in the open. Waiting for back up wasn't much of an option either. Already he could hear the other vehicle's doors being opened. The only light in the situation was that there were no other patrons at the station. He hoped it stayed that way.

Reaching to his side, he removed his gun right-handedly. "What are the chances I can talk some sense into these guys?" he asked.

Jimmy made a sarcastic noise. "Slim to none."

"That's what I thought." Still, he carefully levered himself up, and yelled over the hood of the car. "I'm a police officer and back up is on the way. Put down your weapons."

He fully expected the laughter and derisive comments he received in response. Then, surprisingly the laughter began to die away, and he could make out the sound of a police siren. It sounded close. Running footsteps and squealing tires followed as the young delinquents quit the scene. Pushing himself up the side of the car, he attempted to focus on the retreating license plate.

One of the young men leaning out of the passenger window raised his gun and fired. It was a lucky shot. The bullet impacted the Dodge's gas tank causing a small explosion. The entire back end of the car jolted, knocking Steve off his feet. Off balance, and unable to control his momentum, he was along for the ride as his body was hurled backward into the side of the storage building. The pain receptors in his brain registered momentarily off the scale before he crumpled to the ground motionless.