WARNING:NO graphic sex, Bobby in pain, angst

Female in story has no name. She could be you, me, Alex, whoever.

"I own nothing, it's all about Dick Wolf"

I didn't want to do it. I had no choice. He had gotten too hard to handle, he had needs I could not begin to address. I worried too much that he would wander off into the street and become lost, hurt, homeless. Some cop would never know that he was one of NY's finest and treat them him just like another bum.

It was pitiful that day I had him committed. "I've been a good husband! I'll be a better one, I swear!". But we both knew it wasn't about that.

He'd been a wonderful husband; loving, attentive, affectionate, passionate. We'd even discussed having children until the symptoms started. First it was slight deafness, as often happens in late onset schizophrenia. Then delusions, both paranoid and visual.

It became impossible to hide from the captain. The medication was not strong enough to help him maintain his judgment and well being at his job. He had his darkest day when he had to turn in his badge. They called it "temporary medical leave" but he knew, as did the rest of the precinct, that it was over.

He hated taking the meds; they made him sick to his stomach. Once I had to force them down his throat, which was a miracle in itself, the rest of the time stashed in his food, to which of course I could never fool him. Either way it was a 30 minute ordeal. Once, when Logan was kind enough to stop by and pay his respects I had to use him to help me administer them.

"I don't want to hurt you, Bobby. Please," he said, as he handcuffed him while I shoved the spoon down his throat.

Of course, that's when his paranoia became it's worst. "Now I know. You just me out of the way so you can have him." He accused me of sleeping with him all the time. If I was someone would be hard pressed to blame me. Our sex life had become all but non-existent. How can you make love with someone who is either sick, unable to perform or just slightly confused? Most nights I just read while he laid his head on my lap.

But it got worse. He used to stay in bed all day, now he started to leave the house, sometimes without his medical bracelet. One night I went looking for him for hours. I found him asleep in the park, under "our" tree. The next time I found him at the playground, leaves covering his hair and army jacket, children pointing and staring. That's when I knew I had to do something.

Those first 72 hours not being able to see him were the hardest of my life. When I could see him he waxed between angry and sad. "Why did you do this to me?" he shouted. I tried to explain but in his state he would hear none of it. It was a daily regimen of therapy, exercise, pills. Oh god, don't put him in a locked ward. His self esteem will never recover from that one. His mother's son, his greatest fear. He had been brilliant once and he knew it. It could never hurt me as much as him. I felt even more horrible when I saw the bruise on his cheek. I wanted to think he had somehow done it to himself but I knew an orderly had been to rough with him.

I stormed into the management's office. "What is that mark on my husband's cheek?" I thundered. They assured me he rolled over on his bed railing when they had to restrain him. In the absence of proof I could not argue but something far worse was brought to my attention: the attempt at contact by a certain blond visitor.