David E. Kelley owns everyone you recognize. The OCs, storyline and text are mine… and that's it!

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Brad Chase appeared in the doorway to the conference room. "There's been a shooting at the District Court."

Paul, Tara and attorney Denise Bauer looked up in alarm. "What did you say?" Paul asked.

Brad took a deep breath. "Channel Five is running a live story about a shooting outside the courthouse this morning."

"Alan and Shirley were there this morning on the Curtis case," Tara said, turning cold inside.

Paul stood up. "We need to stay calm; we don't know that anything has happened to them. Denise, try calling Shirley on her cell phone; Tara, you try Alan. Brad, where's Denny?"

Brad shook his head as the ladies whipped out their phones. "I think he's still at a meeting with Alderton Pharmaceutical."

"Fine, let's not disturb him until we know there's a problem."

"Shirley's phone is going to voice mail," Denise announced after a minute, clearly worried.

"That's nothing to worry about," Paul told her. "If she's in court, she won't have it on."

"Alan's is ringing out, too," Tara added.

"And he'd be with her. Brad, who do we know at the courthouse?"

"I have a friend who's a secretary in Judge Howe's office."

"Call her. See if she knows anything. I'm sure they're fine, but we'd better put this to rest right now. Brad, let's see what the television is showing us."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan Shore was aware of being annoyed, despite the surreal situation he was in. First of all, he had been quite willing to retreat into the painless black void closing in on him, when he had been interrupted by do-gooders trying to save his life. And second, it was during the transfer from the stairs to the stretcher that someone had asked him his name. The fire the move had ignited in his chest was so intense that he had only gotten out part of the answer when he had actually cried out in pain, so this man tending to him was quite irritatingly, and incessantly, calling him Al.

He wished they hadn't moved him. He wanted to get back to that void in the worst way. This was all too much. But someone was determined not to let him go.

"Al, we need you to stay with us, Al. Okay?"

Alan, he thought. He wasn't strong enough to say it. His mind wasn't even in the ambulance, not really. It was wandering, struggling to take him away from here. The light shining in his eyes was bright and he wanted to get away from it, but he was confused as well as tired and in pain, and, if he'd had a chance to think about it, he would have realized he was also scared.

"Al?"

He was aware of things moving very quickly, but unsure of the cause of the urgency. He felt someone moving his arm, he was sure he heard his hundred-and-fifty-dollar shirt being ripped away from his body. "Al, we're going to apply this pressure bandage to your chest. It's going to hurt, but we have to do this to help you. We're going to give you something for your pain in a minute. Are you allergic to anything? Al?"

The answer was no, but Alan could do little more than move his mouth in the hope that words would come out. Sudden pressure on his chest made him cry out in pain and frustration and anger. For a brief second the face of Shirley Schmidt flashed in his mind. She'd been on those steps when the shooting started but didn't seem to understand what was going on. He'd tried to get her out of harm's way. Had he succeeded? "Shirley!" he burst, terrified that he hadn't. His mind not comprehending what had happened to himself, he tried to sit up. An avalanche of pain pushed him back down, and guiding hands kept him in place. He gritted his teeth and hissed as tears sprang to his eyes.

"Shirley is fine, Al. She's following the ambulance to the hospital. You're the one we need to look after. We're going giving you something for the pain now. You're going to feel a little prick in your arm, and in a minute or two you'll start to feel better, okay?"

The noise of the traffic, the Velcro of a blood pressure cuff being opened, the radio static, the voices, they all swirled around him. He moaned, lost in this confusion. Why was he here? Alan's eyes were scanning his surroundings, seeing everything but taking in nothing. Everything seemed to speed up, and then slow down, and before the drug was even administered, Alan gratefully passed out.

* BL * BL * BL *

Shirley burst through the door to the emergency room, trying to see everything at once. She quickly approached a woman in scrubs who was writing on a clipboard. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for Alan Shore. He was brought in here with a gunshot wound a few minutes ago."

The woman looked at Shirley's clothes. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

Shirley ignored the shocked look. "I am. But I need to find Alan Shore. Where is he?"

"Are you related?"

"He works for me." The woman hesitated. Shirley grabbed at her own blouse. "This is his blood. We were at the courthouse. We're both lawyers. I need to find him. Please help me."

A final second of doubt, then the look in Shirley's eyes must have convinced her. The woman patted Shirley's arm, said, "Wait here; let me find out," and then disappeared. Shirley stood alone, waiting, unsure what to do, and not thinking about anything but the look on Alan's face, and hearing the way he tried to call her name. She ran her hand across her mouth. He had pulled her down onto the steps. And he if hadn't, he might have been the one standing here, with her blood on his shirt. She shivered.

"You're looking for Alan Shore?"

Shirley whirled around at the voice, seeing the woman she had spoken to a minute ago returning with a man in a white lab coat. The doctor, she presumed. "Yes."

"Mr. Shore is in X-ray. We're preparing the operating theatre for him now. Are you in contact with his family? They should be told."

"Uh—" Shirley was embarrassed to realize that she knew almost nothing of any of Alan's personal life. "He doesn't—uh—he doesn't have family here. I'm his boss. Can I see him?"

"He'll be out of X-ray in a minute." The doctor paused for a moment and looked her over. "Are you okay? You look a bit shaken up."

"I'm fine."

"You've had quite a shock yourself. Let one of the nurses at least have a look at you, okay?"

"Really, I'm fine. I just... really need to see Alan."

"Okay. Wait over there—I'll have someone come get you when he's out."

* BL * BL * BL *

"You have about one minute," the orderly warned Shirley. He hooked Alan's chart to the foot of the bed and cleared out.

Shirley came straight to Alan's side and grasped his hand, studiously ignoring the beeping monitors, the leads hooked up to him, the oxygen tube crossing under his nose. "Hey," she said softly. Alan's eyes were open just enough for her to see his fear. His breathing was quick and shallow, though she couldn't tell if that was from pain or anxiety. "Alan, I'm here," she told him. "You're not alone."

Continued silence, then Alan's eyes fluttered slightly, as though he was just waking up. Then for just an instant he seemed to come into awareness. His voice, though without strength or power, seemed urgent. "Shirley—you—"

"I'm fine, Alan." She smiled, tried not to see the oozing red bandage on his chest. "You saw to that."

The relief in his eyes brought Shirley close to tears. She tried to smile encouragingly.

"Your... shirt..." Alan gasped.

Shirley glanced down at her bloody blouse and jacket, then averted her eyes quickly. "All yours, I'm afraid."

"...sorry..."

Alan's eyes closed. Shirley watched him taking panting, difficult breaths for a moment. Then she said, "Alan, when I first met you in the men's room at the office, I said you were a self-loathing narcissist with a small penis. I was wrong."

She waited for his comeback. She was sure—she was hoping, somehow—that he would retort, "So you admit I have a big penis?" But he said nothing. "Alan, what you did today..."

She didn't know how to finish, and she suspected he could no longer hear her anyway. She leaned forward, and kissed him ever-so-gently on one cheek.

It was as she was straightening up that people started moving into the room. "Okay, it's time to go, Mr. Shore," said the orderly who had been here just a moment before.

Shirley released Alan's hand and backed up as medical personnel rushed around, pulling the railings up on the sides of the bed, unhooking the IV drip of whatever-that-was off the pole and laying it gently on the bed near Alan's hip. "Alan, we're going to get that bullet out and stitch you up just fine," said a nurse who seemed to take no notice of the fact that her patient wasn't responding to her.

Another nurse came up beside Shirley, who could only watch what was happening. "Ms. Schmidt, there's a police officer outside who wants you to give a statement. And we have to take Mr. Shore to surgery right now."

"Is he going to be—is he—"

"We have to take care of this now, Ms. Schmidt. Now, the police are waiting, and you're in the way. Please move out of the doorway."

And suddenly there was Alan's bed, moving toward her, past her, and down the hallway through a set of swinging doors through which she knew she couldn't follow. "They'll be at least a couple of hours," said the orderly who had been left behind to reorganize the room, not unkindly. "Go talk to the police, and then have something to eat and try to relax. He's in good hands."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Anything from your friend at the courthouse?" Paul asked Brad anxiously, catching him in the hall.

"No, afraid not."

Tara appeared beside them. "Still no answer on their cell phones," she reported. "We should have heard something by now."

"I'm going to head down to the courthouse now and see if I can find them," Paul announced.

"What? I thought you said they were fine and they wouldn't have their phones on!" Tara said.

"I still believe that. But I'm not going to get any work done until I'm looking at them myself. The news said three people were shot, and I want to make sure that none of them are Shirley and Alan."

He broke away from them to head to the elevator when Shirley Schmidt appeared from around the corner, walking fast.

"Oh-my-God, Shirley!" Brad exclaimed. The trio took in her expression, her walk, her clothes. They gathered around her as she kept walking.

"Shirley, are you all right?" Paul asked, shocked by her appearance.

Tara felt sick. "Shirley, where's Alan?"

Shirley threw quick looks at the three of them. "There was a shooting outside the courthouse. We have to talk."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Denny, we have to talk to you."

Denny glanced up as Shirley stepped into the room, followed almost too closely by Paul Lewiston. At first he didn't notice anything unusual, but he frowned quickly and deeply when he saw large patches of red on Shirley's shirt and suit jacket, and even a smudge across her face. "Shirley?" he began, standing. "What happened?"

"We have to tell you something, Denny," Shirley said, coming toward the desk.

"Shirley, what happened to you?" Denny asked. He came around and led her to the sofa. "Sit down, let me get you a drink. What happened?" he asked again.

Shirley allowed herself to be brought across the room, but shook her head when Denny held up a decanter as an offer. "It's important, Denny. Please, let me speak."

Denny furrowed his brow but then came to sit beside her. It bothered him that Paul was remaining so close to her. Even though he was standing, Lewiston was too close for his liking. He preferred Shirley alone, even like this. "Well, what is it?" he asked.

"Denny, it's—"

"What happened to your shirt? Did you cut yourself? "

"No, Denny, I—"

"And your face, you have it on your face, too. What happened? Did someone—attack you, Shirley? Let me get my gun and I'll—"

Shirley started to seem more unsettled. "Denny, no. I need to talk to you about Alan—"

"Alan? Alan Shore did this to you?" Denny started to rise. "I know just which gun to use. I'll pick the one with the dirtiest bullet—"

"Denny, no."

Denny had stopped listening. But he was jolted back to the conversation when Paul's voice came crashing over him. "Denny, she's trying to tell you that Alan has been shot." Denny stopped abruptly, not quite processing what had been said. He stared at Paul, waiting for more. "This is Alan's blood, Denny. There was a shooting outside the District Court this morning," Paul continued, calmly but clearly upset. "Alan was hit."

Denny sank back down into the sofa. Shirley moved a hand to his knee. "Alan... was shot?" Denny asked. "He was shot?"

Unhappily, Paul told him, "It was a drive-by, Denny. Alan pulled Shirley out of the way and got shot. Another man at the scene was wounded, and a young woman, as well. The police are still looking for the gunman. They're not sure who the actual target was."

"Alan was shot?" Denny asked again.

Shirley exchanged looks with Paul, and then looked back to Denny. "The bullet hit him in the chest, Denny. He's been taken to Mass General. They're operating now. I didn't want to leave the hospital, but I thought we should tell you in person, and we didn't want to wait..."

Denny's eyes stared at nothing as he realized what they were saying. "...in case he doesn't make it."

Paul spoke up. "No, Denny, that's not why. The doctors are doing a fine job—"

"But he might not make it."

"We have no reason to believe that, Denny. We just thought you should know before you saw it on the news."

Denny stood up. "I've got to get down there."

"You won't be able to see him," Shirley told him. "He'll be in surgery, and even you can't get in there."

"But I have to be there, Shirley. I have to be there. He'll know if I'm not. Alan always knows."

* BL * BL * BL *

Tara and Brad sat impatiently in the waiting room, having come to Massachusetts General Hospital after Shirley explained what had happened. Tara was going to go on her own, but Brad had insisted on coming, saying she might be too upset to drive.

"Thank you for bringing me down here," Tara said after they had been quiet for awhile. "I know Alan's not your favorite person."

"Well, just because he's not my best friend doesn't mean I want him to get shot," Brad said in his own defense.

"I know that," Tara replied quickly. "I'm just saying you could have let Denise bring me, or I could have come on my own, or—"

"Not with the state you're in at the moment. No way," Brad answered. "And Denise is helping sort out Alan's caseload. Someone had to be here."

"Shirley will be back once she tells Denny. And I'm sure he'll be here as well."

"Well, that doesn't take care of now, does it?"

"No." Tara smiled, genuinely grateful. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They were quiet again for a time. Then: "I really thought I had Shore pegged. But now, I'm not so sure."

Tara looked at Brad. "What do you mean?"

"I was pretty sure Alan would never do anything that didn't promote his own self-interests. I was certain he would never do anything that would put his pretty-boy self in any jeopardy. But this just knocks that theory on its head. Who is this guy, really?"

"I would think his actions today speak for themselves."

"Yeah, it was pretty noble of him," Brad admitted.

"Marine Corps noble?" Tara pressed.

"Maybe," Brad acquiesced. "I gotta admit, Tara, I just can't understand why all the women go after him the way they do."

"Because they should be drooling after you instead?"

"Yes. No!—Stop putting words in my mouth. I mean I just can't see the attraction."

Tara's lips quirked in a smile. "I'm sure Alan would appreciate that."

Brad shot her a look, then replied, "Seriously, how can you moon over a guy like Shore? He's self-centered, he's pompous, he moved in on Denny as soon as he came here to protect his own ass, he—"

Tara cut him off. "Brad, he's in the operating theatre with a bullet in his chest because he tried to protect Shirley Schmidt today. Can't you give him credit even now?"

Brad ran his hand through his hair. "Sorry. I can. I just don't get him. Why doesn't he show his noble side at work? Why does he have to be so… so…"

"So Alan?"

Brad sighed and folded his arms in front of him. "Maybe."

"Brad, did you ever make room for the possibility that maybe he's just a very complex person and you don't know him well enough?"

"No. Did you ever make room for the possibility that he's just a jerk?"

"Yes. But he's not."

How do you know that?"

"It's quite obvious to anyone who cares enough to take notice."

"Really," Brad replied.

"Really."

"Well, I must admit I haven't wanted to afford him the chance after our first few encounters. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Very well: he has a very strict sense of right and wrong, he always stands up for the oppressed and the underdog, he's fiercely loyal to his friends, he quite freely admits his shortcomings, and when it comes right down to it, he'll do anything to make sure that someone he cares about isn't unfairly dealt with. No matter what the potential cost to himself." Tara smiled a gently smug smile at her colleague. "These are not the characteristics of a jerk."

Brad made a face.

"You don't believe me!"

"Well, he's sure done a great job of fooling people. Until today."

"Alan Shore is a wounded soul. He's been hurt so badly that at some stage he closed himself off and now he lets no one get close to him. Except for those rare occasions when the urge to love, and to be loved, is so strong that he can't help himself, and he opens himself up. Unfortunately, human nature being what it is, he invariably gets hurt again. And so he retreats. Again. Not so hard to understand, really."

Brad shrugged. "Quite the psychiatrist, aren't you?" he said. "So, who hurt him enough to turn him into this?"

"I don't know," Tara admitted. "But if they ever cross paths with me, they're dead."