(Two days later)

"I've never been a pallbearer before." Spike adjusted the collar on his dress uniform, more to give his hands something to do than anything else.

"The hardest simple job in the world," Sarge replied quietly.

"I...I'm ashamed to say how much I dread this...how much I feel like I'm not…." He stopped himself, knowing that they would protest if he finished the thought, I'm not worthy of the honor. So he censored himself with a shrug. "But it's an honor to do it, of course….the last thing he ever asked me to do for him."

Sarge just patted his shoulder and went back to dressing.

"Have you ever been a pallbearer before, Boss?"

"Yeah. Twice before. And you're right that it's an honor, but it's a terrible thing. I won't lie to you. The weight of it…." His hand curled around an invisible bar, and his arm strained against it just a little. "Somehow it just makes it all more real."

"And you, Ed? Have you?"

Ed finished knotting his tie. "Yeah. Three times before today. Once for my uncle, twice for other cops." He slammed his locker closed. "It never gets easier."

Spike looked over at Wordy.

"This is my second time," Wordy replied to the unasked question.

"More than I care to count," Sam said as soon as Spike looked at him. "Only they weren't in any church, and they weren't caskets, they were bodybags." He shrugged. "You do what you can out in a war zone."

Spike just shook his head. "I can't even begin to imagine what this 'honor' will be like for Lew's dad."

The others grimaced and shook their heads, too.

Within half an hour they were driving to the Funeral Home. Only family and close friends would gather there.

A solemn gentleman directed them to the right parlor, and they made their way in.

Two objects riveted everyone's attention immediately. A huge but dignified photo of Lew, smiling that quiet smile, stood draped in black crepe. And beneath it, supporting it, stood the stately casket which concealed his ravaged remains.

Of course it's closed. It has to be closed. Spike battled down the horrific images, seen and imagined, which accompanied that thought.

Not now. Or I'll never make it through.

While the others went forward, he hung back, unsure of what sort of reception to expect from the bereaved parents. By now the story of Lew's final moments must have had time to settle into their minds and hearts, at least enough for them to know the truth that haunted Spike's dreams as well as his waking thoughts.

Lew chose to die rather than let me risk my life to try to save him. Every breath I draw is in debt to his ultimate sacrifice.

So how can they bear to watch me breathe?

Many faces turned to watch the other officers as they walked slowly up the aisle. Spike didn't recognize any of those faces, except a few that he was fairly sure were cousins.

I know there are lots of cousins.

His teammates arrived at the front row, where Lew's parents sat wrapped in their silent grief. Mrs. Young dabbed at her eyes, and sometimes laid her head on her husband's shoulder. But when they spotted the officers, Mr. Young stood and solemnly shook hands with each of them. Mrs. Young remained seated, but she too greeted them all with quiet dignity.

Spike didn't realize until that moment that he'd been fearing a repeat of her assault on the sergeant.

But the one-by-one greetings fell short by a man. Everyone turned back to look for Spike, and all eyes filled with compassion when they saw him.

Spike silently reprimanded himself, and walked without further hesitation to honor Lew's parents.

And Mr. Young, instead of shaking his hand, wrapped him in a hug.

Spike couldn't hold back a few choking sobs as he returned the hug. He felt several masculine hands instantly come to rest on his shoulders, and Jules' slender hand on his back.

Love seemed to bathe him in that moment, and he soaked in it. I can almost believe that Lew is here, too.

The hug finally ended, and Spike fished out a handkerchief to mop his face. He'd brought several.

A mortuary official quietly inserted himself into their little gathering. "Are you the pallbearers we were awaiting?"

"Yes," Sarge replied for them all.

"Can you all please accompany me so we can discuss the procedure?"

The six teammates and Mr. Young stepped into an office, where the official showed them a diagram of the six-bearer arrangement, and helped them decide who would stand where.

Spike and the sergeant received the two foremost positions on the two sides. The other four officers were assigned to the remaining positions by some logic or decorum that Spike didn't pay attention to.

Mr. Young would lead the procession, walking at the head of the casket in his rightful position of honor.

With these arrangements in place, nothing remained but to return to the grieving assembly, joining them in gazing at the photo, and at the casket, and at the contents of their memories.

Quiet whispers and weeping, interspersed with occasional louder cries, were the only sounds now. That and, of course, quiet, mournful music.

Winnie arrived shortly after they sat down. Spike made room for her to sit beside him, and he comforted her when she broke down. Somehow it helped him feel better, too.

The wait seemed interminable, but finally the time came. Spike and the others were beckoned up front, and for the first time Spike felt the casket's cold handle fill his hand. A quiet three-count, and they lifted the box with its heartbreaking cargo, and carried it slowly to the hearse.

Normally, as pallbearers, they would have ridden in mortuary vehicles. But since this was a police funeral, they drove a motorcade of SRU trucks instead, lights flashing, preceding the hearse to the church where the public memorial service would be held.

The church was much larger than the one which Lew's parents attended, because of course the turnout for a police officer would be tremendous.

The large marquee outside the church flashed the somber legend,

"Memorial Service in honor of Const. Lewis Young

10:00 a.m., Interment to follow Mount Pleasant

Come honor a TRUE hero.

'Weep with those who weep.'"

They had arrived early, of course, but already an impressive array of official vehicles filled a large portion of the lot. Officers in uniforms from many other cities, and even other provinces, milled around with solemn miens.

Spike's quick survey of the parked cruisers revealed that a surprisingly large contingent of officers had come from as far away as BC. He shook his head, marveling. The story had received heavy national coverage, of course, but this was still more than he had expected.

Many civilian vehicles already dotted the lot as well.

They pulled up to the Southwest entrance as per instructions, and parked at the curb of the well-tended sidewalk nearest the door.

The hearse pulled up behind them, and moments later, someone in a dark suit emerged from the designated entrance and walked over to them.

"I'm pastor Watts," he said in gentle tones. "We have a room prepared to hold the casket until it's time for the procession to the front of the church."

So Spike and the others found themselves hefting the casket again. And, once again, Spike tried to grasp the reality of Lew enclosed in that box.

It's so wrong, so wrong!

They set the casket down in the prepared room and looked to the pastor for instructions.

"Let me show you to the aisle that we've reserved for you. When it comes time for the coffin's processional, I'll let you know. And if you have family members who would like to sit with you in this aisle, you are welcome to have them join you."

The teammates nodded.

The pastor led them to the front, just behind the rows reserved for the closest family members. So there they sat and drowned in their thoughts again.

The church filled up quickly, and Spike was glad to see it. Lew deserves a full house. He deserves it.

Sophie Lane arrived soon with Clark beside her, and Shelly Wordsworth and her daughters came in not long after her. They were the only family members of pallbearers who would be in attendance, and the thought made Spike grind his jaw.

His parents had made a point of refusing to come. As if that would somehow punish me for still being a cop. He could still hear his mother's irrational concluding argument. "If I go to Lew's funeral, I'll be going to yours next. And besides, it's not even Catholic, so what good will it do, eh?"

You know...it's probably a really good thing that they're not here.

A stir at the end of the aisle made Spike look over, and his face broke into the first smile he'd enjoyed all day.

Here's Winnie.

Without a second thought, he indicated that the spot to his right was empty. And to his delight, she made her way down to sit beside him again.

She dabbed at her eyes, and after only the slightest hint from him she looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. He patted her arm, then let his hand rest on it.

That felt right in ways that he didn't contemplate now.

Even quiet voices, multiplied by many hundreds, add up to something a bit loud. Spike felt grateful to have something other than his own thoughts to listen to.

At four minutes before the designated start time, the pastor came and tapped on Sarge's shoulder.

The pallbearers stood and proceeded solemnly down to the room off the narthex where Lew lay. They arranged themselves around the casket, and they waited.

After about two minutes of standing there, Mr. Young began fanning himself with his hand and working his collar as if he needed more air. Sarge quickly left his place and escorted him to a chair. "Get him some water, quick, Eddie!"

"No, stay there, I'll get it." The funeral official, who seemed prepared for anything, appeared with a cold bottle in a matter of moments. Mr. Young drank only a sip, preferring instead to press its cool surface against his face. "I don't know if I can do this," he rasped, clearly feeling light-headed and faint.

Everyone had gathered around him now, but not too closely, so he'd have plenty of air.

"How can we help you, sir?" Sarge asked.

"I don't know, I don't know, I just feel like I'm going to pass out."

Sarge fumbled with Mr. Young's collar. "No one will mind if your top button's not buttoned, my friend. I don't know how anyone could breathe with it so tight."

Mr. Young began to look better before long, and was able to take his place in front of the casket only three minutes after the processional had been scheduled to start.

The signal was given, the pipe organ pealed its first chest-vibrating notes, and the team lifted Lew's casket for the next leg of its journey.

They moved slowly, slowly up the aisle, past faces which stared fixedly at the flag-draped box. Mourners stood as the casket reached their aisle, or sooner in many cases.

But Spike paid little attention to them. Most of his focus remained on Mr. Young, wondering what they would do if he collapsed. As heavy as the casket was, could one pallbearer safely let go of it? And would that be a breach of decorum? Would someone else run to care for the swooning man?

But Mr. Young bravely traversed the whole awful distance, stopping only to step into the front row beside his weeping wife.

Spike and the others hefted the casket onto its stand, and returned to their aisle.

The pastor mercifully asked them to be seated without any further delay.

When Winnie resumed her dependence on his shoulder, Spike felt a sense of unexpected relief. He hadn't realized how badly he'd hoped she would.

The pastor gave a brief homily, and then turned the pulpit over to those who were scheduled to speak. Police officials at the highest levels spoke first, and then a few of Lew's friends from outside the department shared their memories.

And then Sarge took the podium, and Spike's stomach knotted in anticipation of he knew not what. Sarge hadn't previewed his speech for their ears, but Spike had no doubt that it would be bittersweet. He also felt sure that both the sweet and the bitter would bring copious tears.

Next: Ch 5 - Requiem