A/N: There are 7 Beatles' references in this last chapter, excluding the final excerpt.

About 2 months had passed since Jeannie's departure for college. It was tough for Mike, but gradually he adjusted to life without her. They spoke on the phone, but it never really filled the void he felt in his heart. He carried the red bandana with him just as she had asked. It was a token, not unlike his wedding ring, that didn't replace the ones he missed, but reminded him that he loved and was loved in return.

The bit of advice Jeannie had left was also proving to be of value. As the days and weeks wore on, he found that his partnership with Steve was quickly developing into something much deeper and it eased the emptiness Mike felt. Though they we polar opposites in many respects, they both had an underlying passion for life which drew them together. Mike brought wisdom and experience to the table and it blended seamlessly with Steve's enthusiasm and intelligence. He truly cared for this sometimes brash young man and that affection was returned. Mike was amazed at how comfortable and right this relationship felt.

Mike tapped the horn as he pulled up in front of Steve's Union Street apartment. With toast in his mouth, tie and jacket over one arm, Steve exited the apartment. He finished his breakfast, tossed his jacket and tie in the backseat and sat behind the wheel as Mike slid over to the passenger side for their trip to Bryant Street. Steve noticed the broad smile on his partner's face this morning and had an inkling as to the cause.

"Did you talk to Jeannie last night?" Steve asked, pulling away from the curb.

"Sure did. How did you figure that out wise guy?"

"I don't know, maybe that cat that ate the canary grin on your face this morning. I am a detective you know," Steve said with a wink that earned him an affectionate swat on the arm from his older partner.

Steve found he cared more and more about Mike and his daughter every day; almost as though he was part of the family, and that surprised him. Due to Mike's endless stories, he felt he knew Jeannie, even though they had only met a few time. For some reason, Mike and Jeannie's history vaguely reminding him of something, but he couldn't quite get the feeling to coalesce into a conscious thought.

As Mike finished his latest glowing commentary on Jeannie, the car radio crackled to life. "All units, on all frequencies, 406 - officer needs assistance, shots fired, 609 Union Street, 6-0-9 Union Street, cross streets Stockton and Columbus, all units respond code 3."

Mike was reaching for the radio before Steve even looked in his direction and barked out, "That's only a block up across from Washington Square Park."

Steve hit the siren and Mikes replied, "Inspectors 8-1 responding, code 3."

They heard the sound of gunfire, ahead of seeing the cruiser pulled along the curb, when they crossed Stockton. Mike favorite restaurant, Mama's was on the corner of Union and Stockton, so both men knew the area well. Steve swung the LTD hard to the right and slammed on the brakes, skidding sideways and effectively blocking the street, but leaving the driver's side vulnerable to the shooter. He dove below the dash as a bullet shatter the driver side window showering him with glass.

Mike was already out of the door, crouched behind the protective shield of their vehicle and calling for units to block Union on Columbus. Another shot ripped into the car, disabling the radio. He sighed in relief as he heard sirens approaching from all directions.

Steve's heart pounded with a surge of adrenaline as he low crawled across the bench seat joining Mike on the street, sitting with his back to the car.

"You see any movement?" Steve asked Mike.

"Haven't even looked yet." Mike replied as more shots pinged off the far side of the car.

"What do you think, rifle?" Steve asked as he shook bits of glass from his hair and shirt collar.

"Yep, maybe an M16, but with these old ears I can't tell one rifle from another. I'm gonna bet he's got a scope, the way he took out the radio," Mike commented as he went to hand Steve his white handkerchief. "That from the window glass?"

"What?" Steve looked down and saw a tear across the upper left sleeve of his shirt, accompanied by a spreading crimson stain. "Oh, man." He swore and flinched as Mike blotted the blood with his handkerchief in a fatherly gesture. "I guess, I don't know, it's not bad… hey that HURTS…would you stop it?!" Steve answered, snatching the handkerchief from Mike.

"Looks like you might need a few stitches there, buddy boy. But hey, at least you didn't ruin another fancy jacket."

"Uh, Mike I think we have a lot bigger problem than a small cut and ruined sports coats." Steve said as he gingerly tucked the white cloth under his shirt.

The cacophony of shots had momentarily ceased. Mike looked from Steve over towards Washington Square, which fortunately was deserted at the early hour. "We need to figure out where the shooter is."

Several more squad cars screamed onto the scene, one directly behind the LTD. Both sides of the block were now sealed off.

"What do we have Lt. Stone?" a patrolman asked as he duck-walked over to Mike and Steve's position.

"Hell if I know," Mike replied, pointing at the ruined radio, "Whose unit is out front?"

"McCartney and Harrison. Both are ok, but pinned down inside the car. They're actually too close for that rifle to be effective and the shooter doesn't really have an angle on them, but we can't get them out either. They have no idea what set the shooter off, they were just stopping to get some coffee from Mama's when everything went helter skelter."

Steve had used the distraction of the new arrivals to turn and gradually inch up the side of the car, trying to get a fix on the shooter. His motion garnered a new volley of shots. Mike grabbed Steve's belt and hauled him back down to the pavement.

"You trying to get yourself killed wonder boy?" Mike barked at his young partner.

"NO, SIR." Steve answered sarcastically," I made the shooter, third floor window, 4th house in." he finished with a huff.

Despite the danger of the situation, the patrolman rolled his eyes at the interaction between partners. That was until he saw the rapidly growing stain on Steve's arm. "Um, Lt. Stone, he said pointing toward the now seated Inspector. Mike stared at Steve. The once white handkerchief and upper sleeve of his shirt were now the color of the poppies that grew wild in California. Mike reached in the pocket of his raincoat and paused. Steve raised an eyebrow as Mike tightly tied a worn red bandana around the wound without hesitation, thinking idly of pictures of wounded Civil War soldiers.

00000

Several hours later, Mike sat next to his partner as the doctor applied the last of the 16 stiches it took to close the gash on Steve's arm. The nasty gouge was the result of a bullet, not glass as Mike had first suspected, but ultimately it was not life threatening. Steve had resisted the trip to the emergency room but inevitably surrendered to the power of the Stone glare.

Steve was dozing, adrenaline long gone and blissfully pain free thanks to a shot of lidocaine, his head resting against Mike's arm. The shooter had been apprehended with the aid of tear gas and trained officers. No one knew why Desmond Jones, a Vietnam Vet with no record suddenly decided to shoot up Union Street, but as Mike said, that was someone else's department. While there was significant damage to several police vehicles, no one, save Steve had been hurt in the incident.

The nurse collected Steve's ruined shirt, the handkerchief and bandana and started to place them in the trash bin, but Mike stopped her. "May I have the bandana please?" Mike asked quietly, not wanting to wake Steve. The nurse looked at him quizzically, but put the soiled cloth into a plastic bag and handed it to the Lieutenant. Mike looked at the red cloth, turning the bag over and over. He gazed protectively over at his sleeping partner, wondering what twist of fate had brought this special young man into his life exactly when he needed him.

The stress of the day finally caught up with Mike. He drifted off and for the first time in a long time dreamed of Helen. They were in Golden Gate Park with a 4 year old Jeannie, enjoying a picnic. Mike and Helen sat on a blanket holding hands as Jeannie ran and chased butterflies. Jeannie stopped and peered intently at something in the long grass just short of the wood. "She loves you," Helen said as she released Mike's hand. She smiled contentedly as Mike ran to Jeannie's side. When he turned, Helen was gone.

In the grass, sat a bird with a broken wing. Jeannie looked at her dad with tears in her eyes. She was no longer a little girl, but a teenage. "Its ok sweetheart," he said as he reached for her, but found she was beyond his grasp. A young man walked out of the wood. He had long hair and a beard and kind green eyes. He picked up the bird and wrapped its wing lovingly in a red ribbon, handed it to Jeannie and disappeared into the woods.

The scene shifted to DeHaro Street. A now adult Jeannie sat at the kitchen table with her hair tied up in a red ribbon. On the table sat a cage which housed the bird with the broken wing. Jeannie removed the ribbon from her hair and opened the birdcage. She looked at Mike with a smile and placed the bird in his hands, carefully tying the ribbon on it wing. She kissed him on the cheek and said "All you need is love," and was gone.

Mike walked out the front door. He sat down on the step with the bird nested in his hands. He was startled when Steve sat down next to him. Steve reached out a hand and pulled the red ribbon. "Let it be, Mike," he said as the bird flew off.

00000

"Won't even have much of a scar!" Steve and Mike both startled as Doctor Robert loudly pronounced the completion of his task. The nurse handed Mike Steve's release papers and prescriptions. Mike shoved the plastic bag with the bandana in his pocket. Steve looked at him sideways.

"Later," Mike mouthed as he and Steve, clad in a hospital scrub top and a sling, left the exam room.

"Thanks, Doc," Mike called as he led his partner out to the parking lot.

"What time is Mike? I'm starving." Steve commented as Mike looked at his watch. It was well past four pm.

"I have just the thing," Mike replied sliding behind the wheel of their replacement vehicle.

Mike heard Steve groan as he pulled up in front of Mama's.

"Really, Mike?" Steve said incredulously.

"Come on, Steve, best pizza in the city," Mike said jumping out of the car and opening the passenger door. "Besides, after today, I think we'll have a standing reservation here for a long, long time."

After ordering their early dinner, Mike and Steve sat in silence, too wrung out to even engage in conversation. Someone got up and put a dime in the juke box and the strains of a hauntingly beautiful song filled the restaurant.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."*

A shiver traveled down Mike spine as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag with the red bandana. He handed it to a puzzled Steve. "A very wise 18 year old gave this to me. There's a story that goes with it, but for now do me a favor, just keep it safe with you."

*Blackbird - Lennon/McCartney

A/N: I am a firm believer that coincidences are signals from the universe. When I began writing this chapter, I chose 609 Union Street out of the blue, because it was a few blocks up from Steve's address. As always, I checked to make sure it was a valid address in the 1970's. Little did I know that Mama's, the restaurant mentioned in the series, was located on the corner of that block of Union Street, although it has a Stockton Street address. I am taking it a sign from above that this final chapter was on the right track.

An M16 rifle's optimum killing range is about 200-600 meters. By a quirk of physics, it is fairly useless against steel at a range of 10-25 meters (The height of a 3 story building) as the bullets fragment instead of penetrating. It will however penetrate brick, drywall, wood, glass and of course, flesh at that distance.

This completes the trilogy. Once again I acknowledge EKWTSM9's Rocky Raccoon comment in A Very Bad Day for the original inspiration. I have to say, this last story about sending kids off to college was very close to my heart. (I sent three off in the last ten years.) I hope you all enjoyed it and until we meet again on the Streets of San Francisco, adieu.