Rating: Mature

Notes: This hurt to write, I cried and ached as it came out – this is not for anyone who has difficulty reading about a very sensitive topic. I don't know where it came from, but in a way I'm glad I've gotten it out of my system.

Warnings: Rape, trauma, racial slurs, homophobia, racism

Disclaimer: This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

Written: 1/2013

"Olivia," John forced himself to remain calm, his hand shaking as his body ached with every shift to find a comfortable position that just didn't exist. "I need you to come over." He paused, sucking in a breath and pushing back a whine at the stab in his bruised ribs. "Alone. Please."

"John?" Her voice asked, obviously worried and half asleep. "It's after midnight… have you been drinking?"

"No." He replied casually, but without his usual barb; "I need you to take a statement and DNA swab."

She was silent for a long moment, obviously confused before asking; "What's going on, John?"

"Not on the phone," he replied and managed to end the call before lowering his head back against the pillow – feeling the blood already sticking the fabric against his temple.

"Jesus, John…" Benson murmured, seeing the broken chain hanging off the breached door before she even pushed it aside. She'd been in John's apartment before, but the hairs standing up on the back of her neck told her something horrible had happened. A framed poster was knocked off the wall, the bedroom door was wide open and a dry towel still partially folded on the floor. When she heard a groan, she held her breath, sidestepping a familiar pair of glasses on the floor to assess what she could of the situation. "John?" she asked loudly, "what happened?"

He groaned again and managed to lift his head enough to peer at her blurry figure, giving her a good view of the split skin and freshly forming bruises.

"Oh God…" she covered her mouth and reached instinctively for her phone; "I'll call a bus."

"No." He moaned, closing his eyes against the pain. "Just you."

"You're bleeding, John."

"It's a scalp wound, its fine." He wasn't sure, but it sounded good enough. "I have the right to refuse medical attention."

She sighed and crouched down beside the bed, pushing herself into the fine line between friend and detective. "What happened?"

"Take the swab and I'll give a statement after I can clean up." Wide-eyed, she pushed back up on her feet and withdrew the sterile swab from her jacket pocket – opening the paper herself before holding it out toward his swollen, bloody mouth. "Rectal," he added, the first hint of pain entering his voice.

Stunned, Olivia stepped back and confirmed he was barely decent in the blood spotted sheets; "You were raped."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I don't want this all over the station, Liv. Why do you think I called you personally?" He managed his eyes half open and then once more laid his head against the tacky pillow.

"And if you want to catch the bastard you know we have to do this by the book."

He let out another low groan and briefly considered fighting it… but after the fight he'd been through he knew it would be a losing battle.

"My robe is in the bathroom."

Dissociation was easy for him; he's seen it done enough times to know the procedure. Full physical, one collecting evidence while another cleaned off the blood and put a couple stitches on his head. Nails clipped, swabs taken, humiliatingly thorough examination with words like "tearing" and "antibiotics", blood work for infection testing. By the time he saw Olivia again, she was still thankfully alone and gave him the pity look reserved for people she thinks are broken.

He wasn't broken. He refused to be.

"Tell me what happened," she said before she even sat down.

He sighed, swallowed a thick lump in his throat and rubbed his bleary eyes before muttering; "It's my fault." He'd heard it a hundred times from women and even men in hospital beds, looking up at him with those same dead eyes as they tried to piece together exactly how they ended up in that position.

"John... you know that's not how it works. You didn't ask to be raped."

"I was out on date," he explained, forcing himself to remain calm as he carefully picked his words. Part of him still thought maybe word wouldn't get out, that he could keep his secrets from everyone even when he knew they'd find it all out when the case was official. "After we made love I left so I could take a shower when I got home and sleep in my own bed."

She frowned and even with his old prescription making her fuzzy around the edges he knew she was thinking 'how romantic', but he had his reasons. Reasons he planned on keeping close until he didn't have a choice.

He continued; "I was getting ready to get in the shower when he forced open my door. I dropped my towel and went for my service weapon on the nightstand but he was already on top of me." His voice dropped as he spoke, starting confident but growing wary and cold with each word. "He took my glasses and laughed when he stomped on them like some grade school bully."

"He was on a power trip," she said softly, like he didn't already know that. "We can take a break if you need to."

"Spare me the victim routine. I know the drill."

"Like it or not, you are a victim." She frowned even deeper.

He closed his eyes and tried his best to recall details, keeping it clinical and to the point. "He had a gun, large and squareish – probably a forty-five, but I didn't get a good look before he punched me in the mouth."

"He was angry?"

"He hated me." John licked his lower lip, still tasting the blood as on the glued split. "He forced me to the ground and, uh… held my head while he took off his pants. Jeans, light blue with a black logo on the pockets. At least a size too big."

"What did he look like?"

"Uh…" he sighed again, closing his eyes tighter as he tried to remember through the haze of panic and humiliation. "About my height, but built like a linebacker. Dark skin, shaved head… big tattoo on his forearm but I didn't get a good look before he pistol whipped me."

"He forced oral sex?"

"Yeah." He swallowed again, but it tasted bitter and bloody all over again. "After that he hit me," he touched the fresh pair of stitches on his temple and continued; "and then forced me onto the bed. Face down, hands on the back of my neck."

"Did he say anything?"

It occurred to him he could lie, it'd be just as easy as pretending he wasn't the one being poked and prodded and swabbed, but it wouldn't help. Not when she would already read him the riot act when DNA came back with two donors. "Yes." He forced himself to look at her, to maintain some shred of dignity as he looked her square in the face and repeated calmly; "I thought you liked getting fucked by niggers."

Olivia was silent, but he knew there were more questions she wasn't asking. Ones he guessed she didn't want the answers to. After a long moment, she nodded and pushed up out of the chair; "You're taking a few personal days?"

"Until I look a little less like I went four rounds with Mike Tyson."

"You know your partner's going to ask."

He knew, and he knew that Fin was the last person he wanted to know about it. All the signs pointed toward something he'd been dodging since they started their little love affair – racism and homophobia were still alive and well in the city. "Tell him it's personal. I'll deal with him."

She stopped again, staring at him with that same thinly disguised pity. "I'll come by your place tomorrow and we can go over it again. See if you can remember anything else."

"I'll call you with the information where I'll be staying."

"You should be with your friends…" she started, more of the same routine for scared victims.

"I'll be in a hotel until my locks are fixed."

It was practically a race to see who'd get to him first, he checked into a cheap motel and pointedly ignored Fin's attempts to reach him on his cell, but almost hoped he'd give in and find the words before Olivia showed up.

No such luck.

"Why didn't you tell me last night?" She asked coldly as the heavy door swung shut behind her and locked.

"I'm doing fine, Detective, thanks for asking." He muttered as he returned to the nest of blankets he'd been unwilling to move from since he checked in save for the direst of bathroom emergencies.

Olivia tossed a folder down on the bed, but he didn't need to read it to know what she meant. "You had unprotected sex with another man last night."

"Consensual, yes. Before the attack."

"You knew it would come up, John. Why didn't you just tell me what was going on so I didn't have to have a lab tech tell me one of our suspects is your partner?" She approached the side of the bed and brushed back her hair, forcing an angry grimace; "Do you have any idea what I had to do to keep his name off the file? And then he tells me you won't answer your phone and I'm just supposed to act like nothing's going on!"

"He's not a suspect."

"You never told me you had sex with him last night."

John's lips creased and pulled open the split, drawing out a pained wince as he growled; "I went through hell last night, Olivia. The last thing I wanted to do was explain myself to you in a damn hospital bed."

"What am I supposed to do, John? I can't just conveniently leave off the part where you had his DNA all over you."

"No, but you can let the record show I had consensual sex with my lover prior to the attack."

"A lover that nobody knew about!" She let out a frustrated sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring another groan as he was jostled; "You know as well as I do what this could do to his career."

"And I know as well as you do that we can work around this so that his name is never mentioned. He's an eliminated suspect." It wasn't exactly the best police work, but they'd both been guilty of it more than once – not everything goes in the official report.

Olivia crossed her arms and shook her head before responding; "I need you to be completely honest and tell me what happened last night."

"Exactly what I said happened. We went out, then back to his place and then I went home."

"After you had sex."

"Yes."

"With Detective Tutuola?"

"Yes, okay? Is that what you want to hear? We had sex, that's nobody's business."

"It's my business now," she replied curtly, staring back at him when opened his eyes again. "And from the sound of it whoever assaulted you thought it was their business."

He knew what that meant, it meant dragging Fin into it and interviewing him and putting him smack dab in the middle of things. "I don't want him to know what happened."

"We can't just work around this, John. It's obvious this was a hate crime…"

"What about DNA?"

"He's not in the system."

"Damn."

She looked away and picked reached across to the table where his phone chirped to remind him there was voice mail and text messages he didn't want to look at waiting for him. "You need to call your partner."

When Olivia let him in, Fin started talking before he even saw his partner; "You can't answer the phone and now you two are playing spook? Telling me we need to talk but I gotta come to some shady-ass hotel before you say anything?" He took off his shades and scanned the room, settling on John curled on his side with the covers pulled up and his face mostly hidden in a pillow. "What happened?"

Olivia caught him before he reached the side of the bed, planting her palm firmly on Fin's chest; "John was attacked, last night…"

"Shit…" he muttered under his breath, breaking past Olivia only to have her grab his arm and yank him back with a forceful pull. "How bad is it?"

John answered quietly, mumbling into the pillow; "I'll be fine."

"We have to talk first," Olivia interrupted; "I need to take a statement before you can talk to him."

"What?"

"I need to know what happened last night." She spoke bluntly, gripping his wrist tight as she looked Fin in the eyes; "Where were you between eleven and midnight last night?"

His eyes widened and he looked back to John, putting it together easy enough. "Home. In bed."

"Were you alone?"

"Yeah, after… about ten-thirty." He pulled out of her grasp and folded his arms across his chest, turning to look back at his lover obviously not wanting to be seen. "We went to the Knicks game and picked up a pizza."

The barest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Olivia's mouth and she asked; "John Munch went to a Knicks game?"

"It was on TV last night if you don't believe him," John muttered, forcing himself to sit up but unable to look Fin in the eyes when he saw the fresh injuries. He reached for his glasses, but left them folded in his hand until he was ready to see.

"Right," Benson nodded and then added; "John, I need you to stay out of this for now. Please."

"It's all right, what else do you need to know? He took a yellow cab home and didn't answer when I called to find out why he wasn't at his desk when I got in this morning."

Olivia shifted on her feet, taking a moment to find a delicate way to ask the worst question. After a long moment, she said; "I need you to tell me what happened between the time you got back to your apartment and John left."

Fin couldn't take his eyes off his partner; it wasn't too bad – he'd seen a hell of a lot worse from people that were just in the wrong neighborhood – but it didn't look right. He was missing something. "Where'd you get jumped?"

"Answer the question, Fin. What happened after you got back from the game?" Olivia demanded, knowing full and well she couldn't let it go without at least a confirmation.

"We hung out," he replied coldly, finally turning his gaze back on her. "Are we done here?"

Olivia shifted again and picked the file up, opening to the lab results. "Positive match for fluids found on his right shoulder, inner thigh…" She flinched when Fin slammed his fist on the small hotel table and sent the file tumbling to the floor; "If you'd like to revise your statement…"

Instead, he took a step toward the bed and dropped to his knees, giving John a look that somehow managed both gentleness and rage. "You were raped and didn't feel the need to tell me what happened?"

"I didn't want you involved; it was… it was personal."

"John. Enough." Olivia shouted; "We have to do this as tight as possible, you both know that."

"We had sex." Fin shot back without pause, "And after that he left."

John's hand snaked out from under the blanket and he curled his knuckles against Fin's forearm, gently rubbing against him as though it might be some form of comfort to either of them.

"And what's your relationship with the victim?"

"The victim?" John sighed, putting on his glasses; "I can't do this, Liv… just… let's forget this whole thing."

"No, we're not dropping it until I've had a shot at this motherfucker." Fin spat, quickly adding; "We've been seeing each other off the clock about a year."

"This is off the record," John clarified; "there's a reason nobody knows about it."

"Captain knows," Fin looked back at him, and then lowered his eyes; "I told him six months ago so he didn't get any nasty surprises when someone finally saw us and put together it ain't exactly brotherly love."

"Well, apparently somebody knew and had a big problem with it." Olivia offered a sigh of resignation and picked up the spilled file.

"I don't follow you."

John answered; "I told you, it was personal."

"I thought you liked getting fucked by niggers." Olivia stated matter-of-factly; "He knew something was going on."

"Gimme that file," Fin pushed back up on his feet and away from John's bedside; "I'll find him."

"No, you won't." Olivia replied, "You can't go anywhere near this one, I'll handle it."

"I'll take it up with the captain; I think he'll understand the special circumstances."

"Fin." John gestured for him to come closer and frowned when he didn't; "Let her and Stabler handle this."

"What, now he's in on this too?"

"It's not like it won't get out eventually anyway. If we catch this guy we're both going to have to tell the DA… the judge…" John half-shrugged, "If we're going through with this we have to."

"It's not their damn business."

They all knew it was a fight with no happy ending, and Olivia was the one to break it up before they could start going circles; "You need to be here," she picked her jacket up off the table and slipped it on before either could protest further; "If you really care about him, Fin, you'll let me do my job."

They didn't talk about it, nobody did. The secret was out, but save for a few snickers and sideways looks some people didn't even try to hide, nobody mentioned anything. By the end of the week, Munch was back behind the badge and let both of them get lost in one case after another.

It was easier than facing the cold wall between them.

"Any news on the case?" Fin asked four days after they'd watched Olivia leave the hotel and tried to go back to living like it never happened.

John looked at him a brief moment, and then turned his eyes to back to the truck stopped in front of them as they queued to get out of the parking garage. He didn't have to answer; they both knew there were no leads. It'd been shifted under four more cases on her desk after they couldn't even get a single lead.

"I should have taken you home… or made you stay at my place." Fin muttered, resisting the urge to strike out. "I should have taken the case myself."

"No," John sighed; "you shouldn't have. It was the right move. Let it go."

"Fuck you." Fin growled, "I would have caught him by now."

"What're you gonna round up every big black guy from here to Brooklyn?"

"If that's what it takes."

John shook his head and pushed his new glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Just drop it, okay?"

"Some sick son of a bitch doesn't like seeing us out together and takes it out on you and you want me to drop it?"

"Yes."

Fin crossed his arms over his chest and let out a low sigh as he pushed back against the seat. After a long silence, he said; "Let's just turn around and head back to the hotel – we're not making it to my place in this traffic. I'd be better off taking the subway."

Munch turned his head to check traffic, but didn't make like he was about to move. "I checked out this morning. The super put in a new door frame and bolt lock."

"Tell me you're not staying there tonight…"

"It's my apartment; I can't spend my life in a hotel."

Fin frowned even deeper; "It's still a crime scene!"

"They cleared it yesterday." An uncomfortable silence fell between them and eventually, they made it to the exit and John made the compromise of heading toward home. "Would you feel better checking it out for yourself? Make sure there aren't any boogey men in my closet?"

Crossing his arms even tighter, Fin sighed. After a long consideration, he offered; "You ever think about moving to a better neighborhood?"

"What, like over to your rat-hole in Brooklyn?" John shrugged one shoulder, silently thanking himself for giving in and taking the pain medication a little longer.

"May as well, now that word's out I'm probably getting a shiny new transfer to another department."

"You know you could always move in to my place – I've already picked out a place for your big screen." John half-smiled, knowing full and well Fin would never take him up on the offer.

"Maybe something together," Fin looked out the window as they cut through the night streets at a slightly faster pace.

John didn't respond, in his view it was pretty clear what Fin was getting at – getting him out of Manhattan… like one attack changes anything. It's New York, and he made himself a target, it wasn't the first time someone hated his guts and it wouldn't be the last.

Fin insisted on walking him in, one hand on his weapon as John unlocked the door with the keys the super's daughter had been kind enough to drop by the station. Everything was more or less how he'd left it, his glasses and towel were gone and the bed had been stripped but it didn't feel frightening. In a way, that was almost worse… waiting for the warning signs that he was letting himself be a victim.

"I'll make the bed, you make some tea?" Fin offered, checking each of the windows and every door whether John thought there was a threat or not.

John was already grabbing the kettle, like clockwork. Come home, cup of tea, a little light reading - maybe check the blogs – and then a few hours shut-eye before his phone went off at some ungodly hour or he had the luxury of hearing his alarm clock go off. "I've got some instant coffee – decaf…"

"Decaf rots your guts." Fin replied, finishing his rounds as he shucked off his jacket. "Got anything edible?"

"I think there's some Szechuan shrimp from last weekend… it might not be fuzzy yet."

Fin passed him, straight to the closet he'd gotten towels out of before. "I'm allergic to penicillin. I think I'll pass."

"Your loss," John looked up from the sink as he filled the kettle, feeling a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It felt nice, really kind of nice to just exist together without talking work. "I'm sure the carryout down the block's more than willing to sell you a Cup of Noodles and some Vienna sausages."

Fin chuckled under his breath and went to work stretching a sheet across the bed. He knew John was taking things pretty well, but just seeing it himself made him want to do something about it even more than the bruises on John's face and ribs. Assaulting a cop… raping him… making it damn clear it was personal… it took a set.

And a man that don't plan on living long after.

"CSU already went through there with a fine-tooth comb, Fin." John sighed, putting on the kettle and approaching his room where his lover had stopped halfway through making the bed to lift up the mattress and check around the edges. "If there was something to find, they found it."

With a lingering look of guilt, Fin shrugged and replied; "Got any of that mint tea left?"

"Nope, down to the cheap stuff. If you're interested in partaking, I've got chamomile and whiskey."

One corner of Fin's mouth turned up, resisting the grin given their grim circumstances. "You Irish up your tea? Now I've heard everything."

"Hey, it's a nice little hot toddy when it's cold out and I can't sleep." John mirrored the partial smile, turning back to the kitchen. "You going down to Len's or not?"

"Nah, you mind if I bunk with you tonight? I'll head down in a bit."

"I didn't figure you'd be willing to leave me alone here." He snatched a pair of mismatched coffee mugs from the dish drainer and added a spoonful of sugar to Fin's – he took it sweet, when he dared to be the macho guy drinking tea. "I guess I can survive having you around."

"I'll sleep on the couch." Fin added easily, slouching onto said couch before finding the remote to click idly through tv shows he wasn't really interested in watching.

"Because victims don't like to be touched, or trust people." John muttered under his breath, his voice lifted slightly and he added; "You don't have to treat me with kid gloves, you know? I'm fine. A little sore, but a hell of a lot better than getting shot was."

"I never said that."

"You don't have to, I know we're not exactly the PDA poster boys but you think I don't know you haven't so much as put a hand on my shoulder since it happened? I taught you that, remember? No touching, don't make eye contact… don't move too fast…"

Fin set his jaw, staring straight at the wall just above the television. "I don't want to hurt you. You been through a lot, John."

"I said I'm fine, I'm not going to let this change anything. I am not afraid." John growled, wrapping his hand around the ceramic mug and squeezing as tightly as he could.

"And how many times have you heard a victim say that before they try to off themselves or end up in a psych ward?"

Angry, he picked up his mug and slammed it into the sink, unsurprised when it split open on the metal with a satisfying smash. "I am not a victim!" He shouted; "If this changes me, then he wins. I won't let him have the satisfaction."

He was on his feet before the mug even hit the bottom of the sink, and when John turned to finish his tirade he cut it off with his arms tight around John's waist, drawing him in close. The taller man fought, trying to pull away until he finally relaxed against Fin's unyielding presence – resting his head against him. He'd expected the rage, no matter how cool John was a person doesn't just shrug it off – no matter how bad they want to. Still, it was enough to make him hate the guy that did it even more if that was even possible. "We'll get through this," he murmured, letting one hand carefully rub his partner's back; "me and you, right?"

John sniffed, forcing down the lump in his throat once more – swallowing anything he couldn't handle out on the surface as he let himself be comforted. "You sure you want to put up with this?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head against Fin's.

Fin pulled away just enough to look him in the face, pushing up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm not going anywhere."

Slowly, John offered a mostly hopeful smile and nod; "I've got more mugs. That one had a chip anyway."

"Tell you what, why don't you go find a book and I'll finish up here. Give you something to do while I check the sports scores."

Len's didn't happen until after sunrise when John woke before the alarm to find himself wrapped around his lover, still wearing underclothes. Fin caught up to him in the shower, looking a little surprised – and a lot worried about the bruising his suit had covered up – when John invited him in. It wasn't sexual, Fin's hands working over his back and feeling the marks under familiar skin – letting himself get as close to comfortable with it as he could. Bruises heal, split skin and stitches heal.

People don't. Not like that, there's always a little piece left behind.

It was still early, so they bundled up and headed down together, collars turned up against the season's chill. "I'll get coffee," Fin offered as the battered bell above the door signaled their entry to a heavyset man behind the counter.

"Ooh, I've got doughnut duty? Bavarian cream or jelly?" Munch half-smirked, diverting down an aisle toward the glass case.

"Sure," he called back over his shoulder, nearly tripping over an employee taking a sleeve of lids out from under the row of machines. "Sorry man, excuse me."

"It's all good," a deep voice answered. The employee stood up slowly, an easy four inches taller than he was and a hell of a lot bigger. "I seen you around here a few times, you takin' up with that Jew, right?"

Fin raised an eyebrow and slipped his badge from his pocket without a second thought; "That Jew's my partner and I appreciate a little respect."

The man went silent and held up his hands with a nervous laugh, and Fin's gut dropped when he saw a faded black dragon winding up the guy's forearm. "It's all right, man. You don't have to go wavin' that around."

He waited until the guy backed off, letting him stock the coffee bar as he poured out a couple cups of dark roast – keeping an eye on him until he relieved the guy behind the counter. John had filled the box when he came up behind him, pressing in close to whisper; "Last Friday when I stayed over, we got coffee that morning."

"Yeah, it was garbage;" John whispered back, turning only to feel the warm paper cup against his jacket – holding him in place. "What's up?"

"I want you to put the box on the counter and then make like you're walking outside. I think we found our guy."

John's blood ran cold and he forced himself to look down at the box in his hands and not behind the counter. If Fin was right…

"Come on … I'll pay." Fin said loudly, pulling away with an almost playful squeeze of his arm around John's waist.

Reluctantly, John played along as they made their way to the counter and pressed a small kiss to the top of his head before turning toward the door. He didn't have to see the guy, the pockets of his jeans was enough to sell him – not a logo like he had thought before, but drawing with a permanent marker that was clear with his glasses on.

"What the fuck you looking at?" Fin tilted his chin toward the guy, "C'mon, cop discount."

John hesitated, shuddering when he heard the deep voice, just as clear in his head as it was five feet away. "Cheap-ass nigger." He made it out the door, not even registering the bell as he dialed for backup. He spat out the ten code and address, and within a minute heard the siren.

Part of him saw it coming, though he'd never admit.

Bang. Three seconds. Bang.

The loud scream of the other cashier.

Fin crashing through the door with one hand gripping his bicep as blood seeped out onto the ripped leather.

"Dispatch, we need an ambulance. Officer involved shooting, we got a man down."

John pushed back the curtain dividing the room for three beds in the ER, shaking his head as he sipped bitter hospital coffee.

Fin looked up and offered a forced smile, "We got him?"

"DNA's not back yet."

"No, but you're here."

"My partner got shot."

Fin shrugged, biting his lower lip when the bandages around his arm pulled. "Just a graze. Couple weeks pushing paper I'll be good as new."

John sat found a chair and dragged to the side of the bed, and then dropped down the rail. After a long, silent moment he said; "You know, when I worked homicide… there was this guy, Gordon Pratt." He ran his fingers over the edge of Fin's pocket, not straying when his partner indiscreetly offered his hand.

"I heard about him, killed three detectives."

"One was my partner."

Fin stopped John's fingers, resting his hand on top of them. "They ever catch him?"

"He was murdered during the course of the investigation." John replied calmly; "I wanted him dead, and I think it was the first time I ever genuinely realized how easy it would be for me to kill another human being. Sick justice, but justice."

He looked down at their hands, but then slowly looked his lover in the eye; "Did you?"

"The investigating detective closed the case, insufficient evidence."

"You didn't answer my question."

John leaned in, took off his glasses with his free hand and said softly; "The man that raped me died on the way here. You shot him in the chest, perforated his lung… there was nothing they could do to save him."

"Self-defense, I took the first shot I got."

"You could have disarmed him."

"You don't know that." Fin's fingers wrapped around John's squeezing them tight. "He shot me."

"In the arm. Barely. I've gotten deeper cuts shaving."

"Which side are you on here?"

John mulled over the question, he'd played it in his head a dozen times waiting outside the operating room for his partner to get stitched up as he told uniforms exactly what happened. Officially, he wasn't even supposed to know the guy. He didn't have to ask to know Fin's statement; the guy got hostile with him and pulled a gun – he acted in the heat of the moment because he felt his life was in imminent danger. "Justice."