Thirty-three hours ago, some off-duty neanderthal from Central Division had discharged his weapon into a moving vehicle carrying his ex-wife and her sister. Off-duty or otherwise, domestic violence or otherwise, it was FID's job to investigate, and ultimately, Sharon's job to determine whether or not criminal charges were to be brought.

It was pretty clear to Sharon that whatever Officer Dunleavy's character may have been (though Sharon had her doubts), his divorce had seriously unhinged him. Dunleavy's former sister-in-law, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, now had half a dozen pins in her ankle and lower leg, courtesy of a police issue bullet. Dunleavy showed no concern - no remorse - beyond saying, "I didn't mean to hit her; I was aiming at that bitch."

The cherry on top of the whole cluster fuck was that not only was Central actively obstructing FID's investigation, Lieutenant Elliot and Sergeant Markham had been physically threatened when they attempted to question Officer Dunleavy's partner and colleagues. 'That bitch' - meaning Dunleavy's wife - had it coming, according to Central's desk sergeant and the three other officers that had bodily obstructed her people's access to the premises and personnel.

These OIS investigations always went to shit when everyone knew the officer involved was as guilty as sin, and Sharon was in no mood to get into a territorial pissing match with the Captain of Central. So Sharon had called the Inspector General, and the Inspector General had, she presumed, called the Captain of Central Division, and by 12:30 pm yesterday, she had had twelve very angry police officers, all buddies of Dunleavy, and their union representatives in interview rooms and waiting areas. And because the Captain of Central had done some asinine thing or other to piss off the Inspector General, not only was Central now subject to a full IA audit for collusion, but Sharon had been ordered to interview every. single. officer. in the hopes that a verbal flaying by the ice bitch of FID would impress upon them the seriousness of the situation.

A flat, angry stare over the rims of her glasses had been enough to silence union representatives bitching about the late hour, so the final interviewee had been ushered out of the bullpen at 2:30 am. Now, it was a quarter till eight the next morning and Sharon was in triplicate paperwork hell. A copy for the LAPD, a copy for the federal government, and a copy for the poor IA bastards that were picking up this investigation where her OIS left off.

She heard the sound of high heels clicking their way through her bullpen, and Brenda Leigh Johnson appeared in her doorway, juggling a tray and a takeout box and her massive black purse. She hadn't had a chance to thank the blonde for her support the other night; or to apologize profusely for breaking down crying and taking a thoroughly veiled, but cheap, shot during their phone call when Brenda had been nothing but kind and supportive.

"Hey, Sharon." The blonde husked, voice barely louder than a whisper. Sharon leaned forward to push back her chair.

"No, don't get up." Brenda dropped her purse on the floor with a whump and changed her grip on the food. "I figured you'd still be here. I heard what happened yesterday." Sharon didn't really want to talk about it, so she grimaced and shrugged a shoulder.

"Business as usual at FID." Sharon hadn't quite been able to put her perspective back in place in the few days since Pope had run roughshod over her dreams of promotion to a position where her relationship with the rest of the force could be more congenial.

"Sharon, it may be business as usual for FID, but it isn't business as usual for you - not after the week you've had."

"No, but there isn't much I can do about that, not with this investigation to deal with." Sharon smiled sadly at Brenda, who looked at Sharon with an expression Sharon could not contemplate - not if she wanted to survive the rest of the day without losing it.

"So did you come to taunt me with whatever is in that box that smells so good?" Sharon changed the subject. There were tantalizing smells wafting from the takeout box in Brenda's hand.

"What?" Brenda looked at what she held, like she had forgotten her hands were full. "No, this is for you. Pancakes with fresh blueberry compote and an omelet with tomato, spinach and mushroom. And some kind of cheese. Do you want to clear a space? I don't want to mess up whatever system you have going here." Sharon was struck a little dumb at the gesture, but too tired and too raw and too edgy to really ponder what it could mean.

"Oh. Sure, let me just…" Sharon stacked up some file folders and dropped them on top of her keyboard. Brenda leaned over the desk to put the box in front of Sharon. She set the tray down next to it.

"There's juice and coffee, too. I don't know how you take your coffee, so I figured you could use whatever fixins' you have here." Sharon popped open the box and let the steam from the still hot pancakes drift up into her face.

"Enjoy, Sharon. And hang in there." Sharon looked up from ogling her pancakes, a bit alarmed that the Chief was dismissing herself so quickly. She couldn't let herself think about the reasons she wanted Brenda Leigh to eat with her, but Sharon didn't want her to go, either. She hoped it wasn't her surliness that was causing Brenda to leave so quickly.

"You're not eating too?" Brenda smiled and shook her head.

"I have a surveillance briefing at eight." She sounded genuinely apologetic. "Next time, definitely."

"Ok, next time. Thanks, Brenda." Brenda smiled again, scooped up her purse and headed back to the elevators and Sharon was left alone with what were, frankly, sinfully delicious pancakes. And even though she was in a foul mood, and not fit company for anyone, she found herself wishing Brenda Leigh had stayed. She pulled out her phone.

TO: BLJ

1 sugar for a small coffee, 2 for a large. A dash of milk regardless. For next time.

Across the building, in a dark media room, Brenda's phone chirped. When she read the new message, Brenda Leigh smiled.