Written by Lynn. I read a drabble by Fringe Fanatic and this came to mind (it's called 'Shot'). This was done with her permission!
It had been, without a doubt, the worst day of Olivia Dunham's life.
Rachel, her sister, her best friend since childhood, had cancer.
Cancer.
Olivia could deal with alternate universes, Fringe cases, Cortexiphan. Hell, she could even manage with Walter.
But cancer? Rachel? Death?
As far as Olivia was concerned, it was all over now.
And, of course, Rachel couldn't get mild, treatable cancer. No, she had to get the same cancer that their mother had died from so many years ago.
Sitting down on the couch, Olivia remembered how hard it had been to lose her mom at the age of thirteen.
Ella didn't even have that long.
Rachel Dunham was going to be dead by the end of the year, and there wasn't a thing that Olivia could do about it.
It was all over now.
;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;
It had been two weeks since she had found out the news that turned her world absolutely upside down.
She had told Peter and only Peter of her predicament. He was, after all, her fiancée. He deserved to know.
Olivia was still going to work, she was still functioning, she was still doing her job well. But on the inside, she had crumbled. Her walls were back up, and she wouldn't let anyone in. Not even Peter.
She talked to nobody. She went to her office and crime scenes, solved cases, and went straight back home. She could tell that she was worrying everybody, but she didn't care. Not when her sister was dying.
Peter eventually let it slip that Rachel had cancer. Walter was suddenly bustling around the lab, convinced that he could find a cure, but Olivia knew it was useless. She walked out out of the lab right after throwing a betrayed look towards her future husband.
Or maybe not.
She was seriously considering breaking it off, separating herself from everybody she loved. This was one of those things that she needed to go through alone, something that she didn't want any help with.
As she sat on her couch at nine on a Friday night, Olivia could have sworn that she heard the door open.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Footsteps.
She grabbed her gun, tiptoeing from the living room to find the invader.
He was in the hallway.
Before she could stop herself, her finger was on the trigger, and a loud blast echoed through the room.
;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;
Breathing softly, she advanced on the man that had come into her home. He was dead, without a doubt. She had blown off his head, and even though she knew it was wrong, she was not feeling a shred of remorse at this moment in time.
Olivia was, however, sickened. Brain matter had splattered onto the walls and even on the fan, spraying the room in the man's blood. She cautiously leaned over him.
She knelt down and rolled him over to examine what was left of his body.
That was when she screamed.
There was no mistaking that black peacoat, with the large buttons and the folded collar. His jeans. His shoes. His cellphone.
Placing her head in her hands, Olivia sobbed for what seemed like hours.
She had just killed Peter Bishop.
It was all over now.
;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;
The room was completely silent.
Olivia sat in the corner of the room in a fetal position, her legs pulled up to her chest and her face emotionless.
She had killed Peter. She had killed a man.
She had lost her job. She had killed a man.
She had been put on trial. She had killed man.
And now she was in St. Claires.
Because she was absolutely insane.
Olivia didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She didn't talk or acknowledge other.
He was back in her head, like he had been on the other side.
Why did you do this, Olivia? I wanted to help you. I love you. By hurting me, you hurt yourself...
He never left her thoughts. He was always there, haunting her dreams, plaguing her vision.
She had killed Peter Bishop.
And it was all over now.