Title: Closure
Author: Megara79
Series: Major Crimes
Rating: K
Summary: Some cases are more heartbreaking than others, and certain choices are more difficult to accept. Set just after episode 3x01.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
AN: So this is my first attempt at a Major Crimes fic. Yee Gods! It's been almost five years since I last managed to finish a story let alone posted one, so the fact that this thing, aka the story, has found its way here fills me with a little bit of elation and a whole lot of terror! A BIG thank you to the lovely, talented SChimes who has inspired me with her awesome fic writing and who gave me brilliant beta advice and a title. I suppose I owe some gratitude towards Mary McDonnell as well, more specifically her damn expressive eyes and her ability to kick me in the feels with just a tilt of her head (I mean this in a non stalkery not crazy kind of way, naturally). Anywho, I ramble. On to the thing...
She's not a squeamish person.
Broken bodies.
Rotting flesh.
Mangled parts of what once was human.
The dead speak to her in a different voice than the living, but she understands their language all the same.
Burnt, stabbed, shot, drowned.
She analyses each victim with little hesitation and an objective eye. Heinous acts that would have others screaming, are everyday life for her.
She's a puzzle solver and a deal maker, and most days she leaves work not questioning the evilness of man or her own capabilities.
Most days she feels like her job matters and that the circumstances that have lead her to the position she holds have been fortunate.
Most days she doesn't find children stuffed in suitcases.
She swallows.
Today is not a good day.
Today she questions everything.
Sharon steps into the empty hallway and the elevator doors close behind her. The smell of formaldehyde hits her olfactory centre before she's ready for it and bile hovers at the back of her throat. She thinks of little girls and big brothers, and the horrors seemingly spotless walls can reveal when bathed in ultraviolet light.
She feels somewhat faint, her breathing shallow in an attempt to fight off the aforementioned smell. It sidles through the stale air flirting with decomposition and congealed blood and settles in her clothes and at the back of her nose where she knows it will linger. The nausea rolls through her in waves and she wants to turn around, take the elevator back up to Major Crimes and hide in her office.
In the end her discomfort means little. The case will stay with her longer than the smell, and this is something she has to do.
She steadies herself and gains control over her breathing.
Her heels on the linoleum floor echo around her as she walks, the distance from the elevator to the morgue a mile long in the space of twenty steps. She grabs a disposable gown and begins to cover her shoes, her mind weary and overflowing with images she doesn't want to see.
"Captain?" the voice of Doctor Morales starts her and she stumbles a little.
Straightening, she unnecessarily run her hands down her front, smoothing out invisible creases. "I apologise, Doctor, I know it's late."
He stops her with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. The two of them have been here before. He knows why she's here and his esteem for her grows every time she shows up like this. "203 and 204," he says and opens the door for her. As she slips past, he touches her arm and she stops.
"Don't stay too long."
Her eyes meet his and she sees the respect he has for her. It's almost too much and she takes a moment before she makes her promise. "I won't." He lets her go with a comforting squeeze, and they part.
The quietness of the morgue feels a little oppressive after he's gone, and she hovers by the door.
Clasping and unclasping her hands, she finds she wishes the gown had pockets. In the end she lets both arms fall by her side and tells herself to grow up. She exhales through pursed lips, and makes it over to the cold storage units.
She puts latex gloves on, opens the first door and pulls the slab out. Her fingers tremble as she carefully pulls at the sheath covering the body. She only exposes the face. She doesn't need to see the sutures from the autopsy that stretch across the child's chest.
At first glance, Ellie Logan looks like she's merely sleeping, eyes closed and blonde hair framing her small face. It's the grey tinge to her pale skin that hints at a far more malevolent truth. The cool, almost doughy texture of her cheek is felt even through the gloves and it strips away any doubt of Ellie's fate.
Sharon tucks an errant strand of blonde behind the girl's ear and irrationally thinks that someone should find her glasses.
Images of another little girl with auburn coloured curls and inquisitive green eyes flicker through her mind, and though that girl is now a young woman, panic grips her with blinding force. It bites at her, screaming her own daughter's name and for a moment she wants desperately to be back with FID where the anger of disgruntled co-workers is the worst she encounters.
She fights the panic, thinking of the life her daughter has led and imagines what Ellie's could have been like.
Dance recitals, birthdays, Christmases. Her high school graduation, her wedding day.
It all comes back to a twisted body in a green suitcase, and the only gratification that Sharon has is knowing that she's not with FID and that she's helped put the man who killed Ellie and her brother away for good. It's a small consolation, but one she clings to as she memorises every little detail of the girl's face.
The small scar by her right ear.
The slight upturn to her nose.
The angle of her chin.
When she's done, she gently strokes Ellie's cheek and covers her up again. She doesn't know why, but she needs to remember their faces, what they look like both alive and in death. She can't explain it, only that it's important to her. Maybe it's penance for withholding the children's death from their mother for so long. Maybe it's just a need to know that in ten years' time someone other than their family will still remember what they once looked like. Whatever it is, she feels it's the least she can do and so she closes the door on Ellie and moves on to her brother.
She stays down in the morgue longer than anticipated, learning the features of the boy like she has his sister's. She thinks of her own children and is almost ashamed at the insurmountable relief she feels knowing that all three of them are alive and well. She can't even imagine what Cynthia Logan must be going through, and the mere thought is enough to send another wave of nausea through her, so strong she nearly doubles over.
She rides the elevator back up to Major Crimes with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, taking even measured breaths.
Her division is empty bar one.
She stops at the sight of him, her immediate surprise being replaced by a sense of calm she's not sure she either can or cares to explain. "You're still here," she manages, not trusting herself to say anything else.
He looks up from his work at the sound of her voice. "Hey." He shrugs and smiles a little, "I said I'd wait."
She doesn't know what to say to that. She looks away from him, her eyes beginning to sting.
"Go grab your things," he says, pretending not to notice. He busies himself with paperwork, allowing her to regain her composure. "I'll drive you home."
"You don't have to..."
"I know," he interrupts, "but I'm doing it anyway. Despite what you may have heard, I do have it in me to be somewhat gallant," he grins, then adds, "Don't tell Provenza!"
She can't help the way her lips curl upwards at that, and it suddenly becomes a little easier to breathe."I wouldn't dream of it," she assures him, and for a moment this is all they do - smile at each other across the empty murder room.
He gestures toward her office, warmth and humour still colouring his features, and it jolts her into moving. She gets her trench coat and bag, and doesn't protest when he takes the bag from her so she can shrug into her coat on their way out.
They enter the elevator in silence and he pushes the button to parking.
"I went to the morgue," she blurts when the elevator starts moving, not sure if she really wants to tell him this or not. "I do that sometimes," she explains, before she can change her mind. "It's something I have to do after certain cases. It's..." she struggles to find the right word.
"Closure," he says, looking at her. "It's closure."
"Closure." She tries it on for size. "Yes, I suppose it is." She scoffs a little. "What kind of a person finds closure in the morgue?"
"I used to find closure in a bottle of bourbon," he tells her. "Trust me when I say your way is better."
"I remember you back then," she murmurs, more to herself than him.
"I wish you didn't."
His words are honest, and there's no shame in them. She still feels that she's steered the conversation in a direction that might make him uncomfortable and she wants to clarify. "No, I'm glad I do." She hesitates for a minute, then chooses to return his honesty. "I know addiction. From a different viewpoint than yours, granted, but to know who you were then and to see who you are now..." she takes a breath. "It makes my admiration for your accomplishment even higher."
He stares at her, indefinable emotion flickering in his eyes. The silence stretches between them, until he clears his throat. "I thought I was supposed to make you feel better."
She smiles. "Don't let it go to your head. I really didn't like you back then."
He barks a laugh. "Likewise!"
"I know," she hums. "The wicked witch."
"Not so wicked anymore."
They both smile at that.
"It was the right call," he tells her then, and she knows he's referring to her decision to keep the deaths of Ellie and Owen quiet for as long as she did.
"I know," she admits, and is almost a little shocked to find that she means it. She turns to him, a light touch of her hand on his arm, "but thank you for saying it."
"Anytime," he answers, and she believes him.
Silence fills the elevator again. It's comfortable and welcomed, and Sharon exhales leaning against the wall. Next to her, Andy does the same, his shoulder touching hers.
It's strange, she thinks, having such unrelenting support from these men who used to show her nothing but contempt. She's had moments when stray thoughts have whispered at her that Major Crimes may not be worth it. That after the relative calm of FID, the harrowing cases she now deals with might be too much.
On darker days, like today, she thinks that she isn't strong enough to play such a vital part in someone else's tragedy. That maybe she doesn't want to.
But she thinks of the man by her side, his partner who followed her after the notification, the doctor in the morgue. Her entire team rallies around her in a way she's not used to, and she hopes that she does the same for them. She's slowly learning that they are the ones who will help her get through the bad days, and that confiding in them may not just be therapeutic but vital. She knows she's good at her job.
She knows her ability to speak for the dead might even be better served now than before.
She exhales again and when the elevator stops and the two of them leave, it's with acceptance. She sees the faces of the Logan children before her, but it's not with guilt any longer. She makes a conscious effort not to think of them the way they were found, but how she imagines them in life. She can't change what has happened to them, or to their father, but she can speak for them.
And she has.
And for that, she's grateful.
The end