Just finishing things up. It's crazy to think how many seasons have passed since Sonya died/the hug happened. If you're reading this, thanks and I hope you enjoy.

Note: Final chapter. From Elliot's point of view.

Elliot rubs his fingers over the ridged imprint on his wrist, noticing how his tan line has faded to the point that the color of his skin is almost even again, then slides his watch back into place.

Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes and stares at the circular face again, making sure that he's reading it correctly. An uncomfortable anxiety bubbles in his gut and creeps up the column of his esophagus as he calculates the time.

Olivia should be back by now.

She's already surprised him once today by stepping away from the Adam Grafton case, by permitting him and the guys to finish the follow-up on her list of names without putting up her typical fight. That's only happened a handful of times. If there was ever a sign that she's been worn thin by a case, it's her almost-too-easy agreement to take a break. As far as Elliot's concerned, she deserves every moment of respite she can get after the last 72 hellish hours. Olivia has done her part. She's already finished her fair share of the list. Part of his too.

The fact that she's gone past her hour shouldn't concern him. He should stop checking his watch and glancing over at the bullpen's entrance every fifteen seconds. Just let it go.

But running over on a lunch break - which he had to coax her into taking in the first place - raises more than a few flags in his mind. His gut instinct is to worry. If she's absent much longer, without any communication as to why, his brain will start tossing the word "panic" around.

Elliot doesn't want to overreact. There are plenty of rational, reasonable explanations for why she hasn't returned: traffic; lines at the café; unexpectedly meeting an old friend; getting caught up in a news article or book; forgetting the time. All perfectly logical reasons. Perfect for anyone other than Olivia Benson.

His partner would overcome such distractions or interruptions easily. She wouldn't be late. Or, in the off chance that something would keep her away, she'd notify him. What he'd really like to believe is that she actually took his advice for once, that she is currently at her apartment, sleeping off the dark circles under her eyes after shoveling last night's leftovers into her stomach.

Yes, but that would be his best case scenario. It's an unrealistic wish.

Elliot suspects she's around here somewhere. Of course, that makes her failure to reappear even more troubling.

He checks the time again: twenty minutes over. In ten more he's going to move into true detective mode. Because it is a big deal. He told her he had her back this time, and he didn't just mean the paperwork. After recent events, he wants to keep her close. He'll call it part of his job, looking out for his partner, but it's more than that. He wants to protect her from the fallout of this case, from the demons that plague her, from herself.

Having her in his arms in that hallway, feeling her vulnerabilty seep through the fragile point of her self-constructed defenses, made him realize that when she's not protecting herself, she has no one to back her up. Elliot has always had someone: his wife, his priest, his partner. He's taken shelter from many storms under her umbrella, but now he sees that he's left her to get caught in the rain on one too many occasions. He's determined to have that change, to offer nothing less than his full support.

He finishes his final call to a victim's next of kin, then types a brief report on the exchange. It's the last of three such reports. Of the nine names remaining on his list, only three girls had anyone left to mourn their loss. It is a tragedy he's all too familiar with. Saving the document to a file, he glances over to John and Finn's desks in an effort to stop worrying about Olivia's tardieness.

Finn catches his eye. "Any luck?"

"Not much."

John pauses in his work to offer the grim reality they face: "Grafton selected the girls carefully. He made sure no one would miss them."

Elliot nods, both in understanding and agreement. With nothing else to say on the topic, he turns his wrist until he can see the minute hand on the VI.

He pushes away from his desk as nonchalantly as possible, grabs his coat and keys to the Cadillac, and excuses himself for lunch.

Instead of leaving, Elliot investigates. He casually scans the halls of the precinct, the bedrolls in the crib, but there is no sign of his partner. Now the panic runs from his brain down his spinal cord and across his chest.

Perhaps she really did go home. At this point, he should try texting, or better yet, phoning, her. But Elliot knows he will need visual evidence that she is all right - in every sense - before he will be able to calm down.

Decision made, he heads for the parking garage.

It never occurred to him that she might be here, in the bowels of the parking garage, sitting on top of her jacket with her back pressed against the Cadillac. Her knees are bent and close to her chest, her hands rest near her ankles, clasping her phone. Everything about her seems weighed down. This is the first time he's truly seeing that, the heaviness.

"I forgot the keys," she says with a grim, self-depricating smile.

He doesn't say anything in response. There is nothing to say. Without hesitating, he approaches the Cadillac, makes a one-eighty, and lowers himself beside her, his back to the front left tire. Down here, the smells of the garage are compounded; rubber, gasoline, and the dank odor of wet concrete mingle in his nose.

Any question he can come up with would close her down, shut him out; he's learned to not prod for answers over the years. Though he has yet to master patience, he allows her to start the conversation.

"The files?" she inquires, because it is always a victims-first mentality with her. She will never put herself first - a trait he finds both maddening and admirable.

"Done, thanks to you. Not many had next of kin."

"Just what he wanted: 'throwaways.'"

The disgust in her voice is directed mostly at Grafton, but Elliot knows she reserves a small percentage for herself. If she wasn't so tired already, maybe he'd call her on it. He's done so in the past, but, right now, he can't find it in him to argue with her. He's already called her a liar once this week. There's no telling if their relationship could handle more honesty.

More than any other person in her life, Elliot knows what a list of forty-four victims does to her mental state. She's cracking under the weight of her guilt. She'll always think that she should have caught the criminal sooner, that, if she had done her job correctly, they would have found Grafton after his first murder. Perhaps, if she had solved the case a little more quickly, Sonya Paxton would still be alive. Olivia puts the blame on herself.

It's time that he took some of that away. It's time to reassure her, tell her that it is not her fault.

Elliot exhales and, with his chin against his chest, mumbles, "I'm sorry I went to Quantico. That I wasn't there."

The territory he's venturing into is dangerous and uncharted. And, yet, he can't keep the apology pent up, unspoken. He should have been with his partner, with Sonya.

"I'm glad you weren't there," she states resolutely.

She keeps tugging at the rope, pulling the blame to her side of the line, but he won't let go either. "Things could've gone differently," he explains.

"Yeah," she agrees, letting the line slack just enough to throw him off balance before yanking back with,"It could have been you."

"It could have been you too, Olivia," he counters with equal weight.

A puff of exasperation, of exertion, escapes her. "Well, it wasn't."

It's a desperate attempt to dig her heels into the mud and keep the flag in the middle of the pit. The middle is about as close to winning as he will get with such a stubborn opponent, so Elliot takes it as a victory.

The truth they both want to ignore is that either of them could have ended up in Sonya's position under slightly different circumstances. This time, they escaped another close call, and the troubled ADA took the fall. But next time - and there is always a "next time" lurking around the corner in their profession -it could be that one of them will not be so lucky.

Her breathing has changed. She inhales deeply through her nose, and exhales in a soft puff, as though trying to keep control of herself. Maybe she's upset because their minds have traveled down the same path, to that grim destination where one of them has a gash across their throat, and their body lay lifeless on a cold tile floor. Elliot doesn't need to imagine that feeling, because he's already lived it once. Back when they first started working cases together, he'd watched a perp slash at her neck, and he'd run to her side. He chose her.

At the time, he swore he wouldn't do it again - put her before a victim - but he'd said the words in anger, in haste. He told her that he shouldn't have to watch her back, and she'd responded by saying she never asked that of him.

That's just it. . .Olivia has never asked him to look out for her, as a partner or otherwise. And she never will. It has taken him close to twelve years to finally realize that she should never have had to, that she shouldn't have to now. Having her back is his job, his duty.

"You okay?" he asks. It's the question that started all of this. It's only right that he brings it full circle.

This time she doesn't lie, doesn't feed him the standard I'm fine and try to walk away. "She reminded me so much of my mother."

There it is, the truth he's wanted her to acknowledge all along. "I know."

Without glancing over, Elliot reaches for her hand, seeking to offer some amount of comfort through touch. But her hand is not where he expects it to be, and he ends up grasping nothing but air and a good intention. Instead of withdrawing immediately, he turns his hand palm up, offering an invitation instead, and waits.

He can feel the smile on her face in the touch of her hand. It's tentative at first, unsure, but then firm, like the squeeze she gives his fingers.

"Hungry?" he asks.