Disclaimer: The characters used in this story do not belong to me, or at least I'm not making any money off of them. In fact, I think I'm feeding into the franchise. Copyright holders, you guys should be thanking us . . . .

Rating: PG to PG-13ish, due to themes. One might potentially see most of this on the show.

Author's Note: I wrote this solely based upon a line in the episode "You Bet Your Life". The episode was mostly unremarkable, but the line simply stuck with me. I'd love to tell you what the line is, but it'd be a spoiler at this point. So, I'll add a little note at the end in case anyone misses it. Also, in this universe, either Carol Sloan did not die, or this story takes place before that episode in the time line.

Special thanks to a very encouraging bunch of ladies who know who they are.

Summary: A stake out that Steve is involved in goes very wrong.

Where the Sorrows Are

By WriterJC

"Beautiful day for a stake out. How you doing out there, Sloan?"

Steve glanced skyward, grimacing at the steadily falling streaks of wetness. Then, leaning his head toward the collar of his jacket, he replied to the static-y voice. "Drenched. Wondering who I offended." He hadn't quite figured out how it happened that of the 8 man team outside of one of LA's many old abandoned buildings, he was the one who had gotten tagged to play the bum huddled in the rain, especially as he was the one who had provided the lead that had gotten them to that point.

He had considered himself fortunate to have come by the tip while investigating a homicide earlier in the week. He'd even rewarded his snitch handsomely, including buying him a beer. But now, after nearly two hours in the rain, he was beginning to think the joke was on him.

"This is what happens when we invite you homicide types," the disembodied voice replied in his ear. "Always whining."

Steve half chuckled, preparing a rude response, but the chuckle and the response were quickly forgotten when he caught sight of movement at the far end of the alley. Alert adrenaline kicked in as he noticed headlights flicker and bounce as a vehicle maneuvered uneven pavement.

"Look alive," he murmured into his collar and hunkered farther down into the ratty overcoat. The overhang under which he sat provided some cover, but droplets escaped around the edges of the rusted metal shelf and its torn once-green tarpaulin. He'd discovered early on in the evening that if he sat just so he could avoid most of the moisture. But as the dark colored SUV rolled through the alley, he leaned farther back into the darkness and directly into the path of much of the falling water. Getting wet was a small price to pay if it meant that he'd be helping to bring down Julio Rodriguez, one of the city's newest up-and-coming drug lords.

He remained in the uncomfortable position as a man dressed in a dark suit climbed out of the passenger side of the vehicle, adjusted his jacket and took a surreptitious look around.

Steve's own gaze swept over the two large industrial-sized garbage bins. Old and rusted, they looked innocuous enough. He doubted that the man would notice anything amiss with either of them. Short of a direct tip off, there was no way he could know that the big containers served as camouflage for the LAPD van and the second part of the team.

Should the man happen to look farther into the shadows, past the stacked crates and old boxes beneath the old 'walk-up' counter, and notice one more bum on the mean streets of LA, so be it. Just the same, Steve remained hidden in the dimness.

Apparently deciding that the coast was clear enough, the man drew out a black umbrella from inside the vehicle, opened then extended it over the rear passenger side of the vehicle before opening the door.

The man that Steve immediately recognized as Julio Rodriguez stepped out. Dark haired and fit, even beneath a suit and from a distance, he had the attitude and demeanor to match his reputation as a cocky young upstart.

Rodriguez turned and spoke some words to someone remaining in the rear passenger section of the vehicle. Then he and his accomplice turned and headed toward the building.

"Positive ID on Rodriguez," Steve spoke into his collar. "Two entered the building; two remaining in the vehicle."

"Team A, move out. Eliminate beta target."

Steve felt a heightened awareness at the order to go. He quickly removed his gun from its hiding place and prepared for action. The bulky overcoat was peeled off, revealing black Kevlar emblazoned with the letters "LAPD" in white reflective lettering. He then readjusted his comm. device, all the while his gaze remained fixed on the shadows that were closing in on the unsuspecting occupants of the SUV.

In under thirty seconds, the two men in the truck were cuffed and unconscious and being dragged behind the large garbage bins. The command came to take the building and Steve moved out with the rest of the team. Half a dozen dark-clad forms, weapons at the ready, closed in on the old structure.

Rodriguez and his side kick weren't difficult to find. Once they penetrated into the inner sections of the old building and wound their way through abandoned sections of machinery, they simply followed the distinctive smells of a meth lab. Dim, barely functioning bulbs hung from high above lit the way.

Rodriguez, his accomplice, and the three college kids that they'd hired to brew up the highly addictive substance went down with little fight. Steve was beginning to think that his good fortune was returning.

"Heckuva lead, Sloan." The words from Alan Siskar, the trim blonde-headed team leader with a receding hair line, were accompanied by a slap on the back. "Guess you got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Steve joked with the man. "Or maybe you vice pukes need homicide to come over and show you a thing or two every now and then."

"Not possible, bro. You missed your calling. You should step on over to vice full time."

Steve shook his head, chuckling. Though it was always flattering when someone complimented one's work, Steve knew where he stood on the matter. "I've already had that calling," he said. "I'm where I need to be."

"Alright," Siskar shrugged good-naturedly. "But if you ever change your mind . . . ." He let the words hang, then, "You know that there might be an accommodation in this."

"That's not why I signed up," Steve told him. Then softening the words by teasing, he added, "It's you vice yokels who are the glory hounds, while homicide just quietly plugs away."

"There you go, proving my point. All that homicide cop whining. Want some cheese to go with it?"

They both shared a laugh, but an out of place sound ended their mirth. They both reached for their weapons, attracting the attention of two members of the team who were standing among the lab paraphernalia.

Siskar raised a silencing hand toward the other two members. "What's the story on the black and whites?" he asked, his tone completely at odds with the serious expression he wore.

Brinker, knowing the question he was really asking, responded, "Just pulling in now – loading up the prisoners and helping to secure the scene outside."

"Why don't we go ahead and get this stuff catalogued, then. Help CSU out." He said the words, but his gesture told them to stay with the lab equipment. Then, sharing a significant look with Steve, he gestured his head in the direction from which the noise had come.

Steve nodded, and they headed out into the dimmer areas beyond the lab. He understood that if the patrol units had only arrived on scene, they wouldn't be on this level of the building yet, nor would they have had time to reach the dark confines on the other side of the illegal laboratory. There was someone else inside.

The lighting that had worked to their advantage in finding and capturing Rodriquez and his operation were of no use in this new search. It seemed that they hadn't bothered to ensure that good illumination was available in the section of the building that they weren't using. Large shadows were cast by abandoned crates and machinery, scattered haphazardly about, no doubt moved by the college students or Rodriguez's goons to clear working space.

Another sound came, and Siskar gestured that they split up. Steve, in agreement, moved the opposite way around a stack of misshapen boxes. He paused there, his back against the boxes as he listened for further sounds of movement. Nothing. He crept slowly toward the edge of the side of the box and peeked around it before moving quickly and silently toward his next bit of cover: a large section of some unknown piece of equipment. He continued in that manner for several yards, until he worked his way to a section of the room that reeked of human smells and he wondered who Rodriguez may have had to run off before setting up shop.

He followed his gun from behind another section of stacked debris and found himself staring into a stunned pair of eyes. It took a moment for him to come to terms with the fact that he was looking down his barrel into a familiar young face. The young man's name eluded him, but the heavy caliber semi-automatic that he was pointing in his direction did not.

"Drop your weapon," Steve ordered, staring into the boy's eyes, weighing his resolve, trying to gauge whether the fear he saw there would drive him to surrender or fight. Worse than the boy's fright was the unmistakable signs of a drug user in need of a fix. Steve waited to see how he would respond.

"I can't. I can't stay here. You've gotta let me go." The boy's voice shook, and desperation crowded into his eyes along with all of the other emotions.

"You don't want to do this," Steve told him, his heart sinking at the battle that was before him. The kid obviously needed help, but the situation that he had gotten himself into was dicey, and could only lead downhill. "There are police officers crawling all over this place. You have nowhere to run. Your best bet is to just put down your weapon and then things will go more easily for you."

"No. My dad would find out and it would kill him. You've gotta let me go."

In that moment, Steve recalled where he had seen the young man before. Community General's annual family banquet had been held several weeks prior, and as he recalled the young man had remained morose during most of the event. That was why he had come to Steve's attention – everyone else had enjoyed the magic show and the dunking booth and other things that were going on, but this young man had looked as if he'd rather be anyplace else but there. He had meant to try to draw him into one of the games, but someone had come along and he had become distracted. When he had looked back, the boy was gone.

"I can't let you go," Steve told him. "I want to help you to get better. Your dad would want that. Your new life can start today, if you'll just put the gun down. That's all you have to do." He tried not to look into the shadows where Siskar was quietly moving in from behind. They might be able to take him without too much of a fight after all.

"No, you don't understand." The young man's face hardened. "You put down your gun, and I'm leaving. That's the way it has to be."

In the next moment everything seemed to happen at once. Something slammed hard into Steve's chest, followed by two loud bangs which reverberated around in his brain. He felt the recoil of his own weapon and then he felt himself going down. He never felt the impact of hitting the ground.

Time became hazy, leaving him afloat, unsure of its passage. He thought he might have sensed blurring images and far away voices and then suddenly, loud noises and pain rushed in on him. The whole of his chest felt as if someone had taken a giant sledge hammer to it; the agony extended down his arm and toward rapidly numbing finger tips. He wanted to cry out but couldn't find the breath to do so.

"Sloan, you okay? Sloan? You with me here?" The anxious voice was suddenly too loud, pulling him back from some precipice. He then felt someone removing his gun from his slack grip. Worry and fear filtered through him, and he managed to force his eyes open wide enough to recognize the face of Geoffrey Brinker. Another cop. It was okay.

"You with me, Steve?" Brinker asked, staring at him, an urgent expression on his square, mustachioed face.

"Yeah," Steve gasped out the reply, and tried to push himself into a sitting position. "What . . . ?"

"Maybe you shouldn't move just yet," Brinker suggested, glancing to a point out of Steve's view from his current prone position.

"No. I'm okay," Steve insisted, wincing his way through the pain as he struggled to get up. The need to know what had happened became paramount. He looked across the open area and saw Siskar bent over the young man who he suddenly recalled had been holding a gun on him. The boy wasn't moving, and there was a growing pool coating the concrete flooring around him.

Steve wasn't sure how he covered the few yards that separated him from Siskar, but that's where he found himself, trying to help staunch the flow of much too much blood. He didn't need to ask to know that things weren't looking good.

"I think I sorta knew this kid," he confessed to Siskar, but the words did nothing to alleviate the heaviness and dread that were at odds with physical pain. The kid had barely begun his life, and already it might be over.

Siskar looked at him, sharing his regret. "'Medic unit is on the way," was all he said as they continued to do what they could, but the young man's blood continued to flow.

(tbc)