DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, or at least next to nothing. I certainly don't own Flashpoint or any of its characters. If I did, Spike would have a real girlfriend. I'm only taking them out to play for a while and promise to return them in good working order. No copyright infringement is intended and I'm sure not making any money from this, so please don't sue me. (See the first sentence of this disclaimer.)

Author's Note: This is just my third fanfiction and my first foray into Flashpoint, so please let me know if I missed anything with characterization, plot, history, etc. All constructive criticism is welcomed. Any flames will likely be ignored so don't waste your time or mine. I've only been to Toronto a few times and not recently, so some details may be off. I do my best to research locations and other details, but I'm only human. Thanks for reading and be sure to let me know what you think.

Sergeant Greg Parker looked up at the clock for what seemed like the hundredth time. It had been nearly four hours since he'd received the call from 52 Division, more than three hours since he'd arrived in the emergency room. His second in command and his team's tactical leader had been shot in cold blood in an apparent road rage incident. Of all the possible ways he'd imagined his friend going down, this one hadn't even occurred to him. And, to top it all, the man's wife and son were three floors up in the maternity ward. Ed Lane had been on his way to meet them when he'd been shot.

Greg glanced around the waiting room taking in the harried features of the rest of the team gathered there. His team – Strategic Response Unit Team One – or, at least most of it. Two members were currently absent. One was in the OR and the other hadn't responded to their repeated calls. He couldn't really blame his MIA officer, though.

It had been a hell of a day. He'd arrived at headquarters only to be informed that the outside psychologist chosen to perform his team's psych evaluations was none other than Dr. Larry Toth, a military psychologist with a reputation as a team buster. It had never been his intention to break up the team. They were the best the SRU had to offer; why would he want to split them up? He simply hadn't trusted himself to be objective with his team. They'd been through so much the past two years, he'd grown closer to each of them than he'd ever intended. They'd become more of a family than a SWAT team. And, while they still functioned as a well-oiled machine, it was obvious to anyone with a critical eye that cracks were beginning to form. Still when all was said and done, here they were standing around the ER waiting room, supporting each other as they awaited news of their fallen team leader.

He glanced up at the clock yet again, then around the room once more. Time had seemingly stopped. Officers Jules Callaghan and Sam Braddock were sitting in the corner talking softly. Officer Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth was standing by the door, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Greg watched the man sigh and shake his head as he closed his phone.

Wordy walked over to Jules and Sam.

"Have either of you tried to call Spike?" he asked, clearly apprehensive. "I've tried at least four times and he's not answering."

Jules nodded, "Yeah, I've tried a few times myself and he didn't pick up for me, either."

"I'm pretty sure the boss has tried, too," offered Sam.

Wordy shook his head again. "I can see why he doesn't want to talk to me, after what I did to him on the obstacle course," he said.

"What? Are you saying you intentionally broke the slat and made him cut his hand?" Jules asked incredulously.

"Of course I didn't do it on purpose!" Wordy fairly growled. "It's just I know he blames me for it and I did take too long to help him over."

It was Jules' turn to shake her head. "No, there's got to be something else going on," she said. "Spike's not that petty. He might have taken it personally at the time, but I'm sure he knows it wasn't your fault. Besides, why would he ignore my calls or the boss's?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "If his psych eval was anything like mine, it could've messed with his head." He shot a look at the other two and shook his head. "I'm telling you, the military inquiry following my friendly-fire shooting wasn't half as nerve-wracking as my psych eval today," he continued. "It's like Toth was looking for anything he could use to break me down."

"And, he found something, too," added Jules as she and Sam shared another look.

Wordy knew exactly what they were talking about. It had become common knowledge on the team that Sam and Jules had been seeing each other against department rules, though they'd broken it off after Jules had been shot by a sniper nearly two years ago. While the two clearly still had feelings for each other, they remained professional on the job and worked well together. Wordy didn't see it as a problem and he knew the others on the team didn't either.

"You'd think Spike would answer his phone in case it was about the requalification, though," Wordy steered the conversation back to their missing colleague. "I don't know about you, but I didn't want him to find out Ed was shot by voice mail."

"Me neither," Jules agreed, "I just told him to call one of us as soon as he gets the message."

"What about you, Sam?" Wordy looked at the blond.

"I haven't tried calling him yet," he shrugged. "I figured you guys would be pestering him enough and maybe he just doesn't want to talk right now."

"Okay," Jules gave a wry smile, "but, it's been over three hours and at least seven calls and messages. He should've called back by now."

"Maybe he'll talk to you, Sam," suggested Wordy. "You're probably the least talkative after Ed. He knows he wouldn't be pressed to say much if you called."

Sam pulled out his phone. "How about I just text him? Then he won't have to talk at all," he compromised.

Michelangelo Scarlatti stood just inside the kitchen door only half listening to his mother as she chased after her husband. He could hear his father coughing and some part of his brain registered the fact that it was getting worse. However, the only thing he was consciously aware of at the moment was the tightening in his chest. It had started when he had pulled into the driveway and it had just gotten worse as he had stepped into the kitchen only to watch silently as his father got up from the table and left the room without so much as looking at him. Now, it felt as though a band was wrapped around his chest, an unseen hand pulling it tighter and tighter until he was struggling to breathe.

He looked down at the salad his mother had started for him when he'd come in. He knew he should eat something since he hadn't had anything but water since breakfast. Given the difficulty he was having breathing, though, he wasn't sure he could get any food down anyway.

How long he stood rooted to that spot he wasn't sure. He was torn between moving farther into the house or just turning around and heading back outside. If he stayed, he'd end up in his bedroom for the rest of the evening. The alternative would be this ritual that had become his home life. He would walk into a room and his father would get up and leave without a word, without even looking at him if possible. And, the band around his chest would tighten that much more.

But, if he left, where would he go? He couldn't go back to HQ. After what had gone down during the annual requalification, not to mention the psych eval, it was bound to be nearly as oppressive as home. In his mind, he kept going back to the psych eval. Dr. Toth had been almost heartless in his interrogation, what with the psychologist's fixation on the incident that had taken Spike's best friend and partner. Toth had gotten him so flustered he'd inadvertently let it slip that his father was sick, that he was dying. Why had he said that? The last thing Spike wanted was for the others to feel sorry for him. His job and the team were his refuge from the misery he now endured on a daily basis at home.

Taking a long look around the kitchen to the table with the half-eaten meal abandoned there, he finally made up his mind. Turning around, he opened the door and left the house. He got into his car and sat there staring out the window, not the least bit sure of where to go. Before Lew died, Spike would often end up at his friend's place. Sometimes they'd go out for a pizza and beer, other times they'd simply hang out. Just being around Lew had had a calming effect on the Italian and he realized just how much he still missed his best friend.

Spike started the car and backed out of the driveway. He'd figure out where to go once he got on the road.

After ensuring her husband had taken his medication and that he was comfortable and breathing fine, Mrs. Scarlatti went back to the kitchen to check on her son, only to find him gone, the salad on the counter untouched. She looked in his bedroom, finding it empty as well. She had not heard him leave, but she had seen the look on his face when he'd arrived home. The growing rift between father and son was wearing on all of them, but she was determined to support them both. It was difficult at times 'being Switzerland' as her son would say. Mike's decision to become a police officer instead of following his older siblings into the family business had resulted in recrimination and hurt feelings on both sides. Dominic Scarlatti sometimes accused their son of caring more for strangers than his own family. She saw the worry in her husband's eyes whenever he thought of his youngest child risking his life day after day for complete strangers. Every time the phone or doorbell rang, her heart would stop for a second and she knew her husband felt it, too. Would it be an officer telling them their Michelangelo was dead?

As she started cleaning up after the now forgotten evening meal, she thought back to happier times. She remembered a trip the family had taken to Europe. They had visited both her and Dominic's relatives. Mike had been about eleven and he had been so excited to meet his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. He spent hours each day exploring the Italian countryside and delighted in telling everyone at dinner what he'd discovered.

Mrs. Scarlatti sighed as she realized the day they had lost their son to his eventual career in law enforcement was probably the day he had stumbled across an undetonated bomb leftover from World War I. She, of course, had been mortified when she'd learned about the discovery. But, her little Mikey had been fascinated and he had set out to learn everything he could about chemistry and the history of explosives. He had a razor sharp mind and a photographic memory and when his curiosity was piqued, there was no stopping him.

Add to that enthusiasm the fact that they had raised all their children to respect others as well as the law and to help others, they really shouldn't have been surprised when Mike announced his intention to apply to the Toronto Police College. By that time he had already earned undergraduate degrees in Chemistry and Computer Security and had even taken a few criminal justice courses along the way. Mike had always been a bit of a thrill seeker and that hadn't changed. She knew the thought of working with his siblings in his father's company would have seemed dull and boring to him compared to police work. No, it shouldn't have surprised them one bit.

Spike drove around, not really paying attention to where he was going. He wasn't sure how long he'd been driving when he pulled up in front of a pair of familiar wrought-iron gates. He drove slowly down the narrow road stopping near an oak tree that stood watch near his friend's grave. He got out of the car, grabbing the six-pack he'd stopped for and walked over to the headstone.

"Hey, buddy," he spoke softly though no one else was nearby. He looked around listening to the quiet rustling of the leaves in the light wind. He could almost feel his friend's presence.

"Your folks sure picked the right spot for ya, Lew," he said, returning his gaze back to the grave marker. "It's so quiet and peaceful here, just like you." He flashed a sad half-smile and sat cross-legged, pulling out a beer and opening it.

"Hope you don't mind, but I thought we could hang out," he said before taking a swig. He proceeded to tell his friend about his day. He talked about Toth and how he'd admitted to still feeling guilty about being unable to save his best friend. When he got to the part about the obstacle course, he started scratching absent-mindedly at the bandaged cut on his left hand. The guilt he felt about how he'd treated Wordy mixed with the guilt he still carried about Lew and his breath hitched a little. He lifted the bottle to his lips only to find it empty. He started to reach for another one, but something stopped him. He looked around again.

The sun now cast long shadows over the cemetery and the wind had picked up, causing him to shiver slightly. He hadn't brought a jacket and he could almost hear Lew's voice in his ear telling him that a six-pack of beer on an empty stomach probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever come up with. He gave a sad chuckle.

"Yeah, you're right, buddy," he whispered. "Well, I guess I should get going. Thanks for listening, Lew," he said as he got up and started walking back to his car. He put the beer in the trunk, no point in tempting fate, before getting back in behind the wheel. He heard a faint buzzing noise and looked down at his cell phone sitting in the cup holder. He picked it up and looked at it.

"Wow, ten missed calls," he spoke as he scrolled through the list of calls. Jules, Wordy and the Sarge had all called. He also had several new voice mail messages waiting as well as the text message that had just come through. His thoughts instantly went back to the requalification and his psych eval. "I'm not really sure I want to know how it turned out," he thought to himself.

He checked the text first. It was from Sam. "911 - Spike, U OK? Call me when U get this. Sam," it read.

He hit reply and typed his response, "Whats Up?" and hit send. Then he checked his voice mail. The first few were from Wordy and Jules, both of them asking him to call them back. Then he listened to one from the boss.

"Spike, listen, I'm sorry about the way today went, but there's been an incident. Listen, just please call me when you get this message, okay? Thanks, buddy."

He disconnected just as another call came through. He looked at the caller ID; it was Sam. With a sigh, Spike hit the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

"Spike?"

"Yeah," Spike said.

"Hey, buddy. You okay?"

Spike considered the question, but didn't reply because, honestly, no, he was far from okay.

"Spike?" Sam tried again after a moment or two of silence.

"What?"

"You need to get to Toronto General."

Spike closed his eyes, certain he didn't want to hear the rest of whatever Sam had to say.

"Why?" he asked.

Sam hesitated. "Ed's been shot," he said.

Once again, Spike found himself struggling to breathe. Would this day from Hell never end?

"Spike?" he asked again after another moment of silence on the other end.

"Thanks," Spike managed to croak before ending the call. He sat there looking out over the darkening cemetery and worked to control his breathing. As soon as he felt he wasn't going to hyperventilate, he started the car and drove slowly down the winding cemetery road to the exit. As he turned onto the main road he started calculating the best way to get to the downtown hospital.