This chapter is somewhat dark. Triggers for depression. There will be two-three chapters after this one.
_

Peter looked at his reflection in the mirror. To all others, his face would have appeared void of all expression, void of emotion. There was a raw anger thumping inside, pulsing through his veins. His eyes were cold.

Four months.

Four months since he'd been shot in the hospital. Four months since that bastard Bennett had waltzed in, waltzed past security, taken Neal. Was Neal paralyzed? Was he even ali- he ended the thought.

There'd been a lawsuit against the hospital. How could a man get past security like that, enough to take an injured patient? The legal issues were a jumbled mess, and the case had yet to go to trial. It had made the local papers, the local news. The name of the lost man had been omitted- Neal Caffrey- but James Bennett's had not. His face was plastered around FBI headquarters. He had been on the news as a wanted fugitive for the first two weeks.

And then the world moved on and forgot about Bennett… forgot about Neal.

Peter had been shot in his side, right below his right shoulder. He'd lost 30% of his prior range of motion. He was still going to physical therapy.

Elizabeth had been a mess when it had happened. She'd been all tears and brokenness and clinginess. She'd held tight to Peter each night as if she was afraid he'd vanish in the night, as if he would disappear in her very arms.

And maybe he would.

Because the world had forgotten about Neal Caffrey ,and Peter sure as hell couldn't exist in that kind of a world.

The little man, Mozzie, had visited Peter in the hospital once. He couldn't recall all of what had been said—he'd been coming out of surgery—but other than that, nothing. Peter didn't doubt that Mozzie was looking into things on his end of things, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't.

Peter had been forcibly removed from the case after he'd been released from the hospital. Hughes was reinstated, and the incident with Pratt and Calloway had been neatly swept under the rug, all prior positions reinstated. But Peter was too close to this case.

After the first month, he'd snapped at Hughes about nobody taking it fucking seriously, nobody remembering Caffrey. He'd lost his temper. His outburst earned him a week of unpaid leave.

The second month brought him isolation from his wife, his loving and beautiful wife. God, he loved her. But he had so much anger in him, so much frustration. And he didn't want her to see any of that. She was too good for that, to be subjected to that side of him.

And so when she asked about his day, he gave simple answers. When she asked what was on his mind, he gave simple answers, sweet nothings.

Eventually, she stopped asking.

One night, he caught Elizabeth crying in the bathroom. She was holding Neal's pocket square in one hand, moreover clutching it to her chest. Her eyes held such a sadness to them.

"Some of us are still here, Peter," she'd said.

The third month and he was going through the motions. His nights were spent looking into leads, more often than not, false leads.

Once every other week, he would put phone calls out to morgues for anyone fitting Caffrey's description. It never got easier.

On the fourth month, Elizabeth told Peter that she was going to spend some time with her sister upstate. She'd looked at him sadly.

"I'm still here, Peter. I love you… I just… ."

She'd returned after a numb week. She unpacked her suitcase, and they resumed their skeletal existence.