A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone. I appreciate the reviews! Thanks for all the encouragement too, Sithy and Betty!

Connor was waiting at the door when he walked inside. He bombarded Murph with questions when all Murph wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Murph had asked Helen to drop him off at the church, where he had spent a few hours in silence following the events at the hospital. Despite the noise in the streets on his subsequent walk to the apartment, he still felt a reasonable tranquility in him. And he was exhausted. If this was what it was going to be like after the killings, he welcomed them for this feeling alone.

"Connor, please. Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow." He said, flopping down on his mattress without even taking off his boots.

"No, Murph, ye've got ta talk ta me. Ye've been gone hours." Connor said, moving in next to him on his bed.

He closed his eyes and pulled his brother close to him. "I got three names and where they live. Now let me sleep, Connor."

"But—"

"Please, Connor. I'm so bloody tired. Please."

Connor positioned himself so that he was lying on top of Murph. That had always his trick when they were kids to keep Connor up. At least Connor wasn't sticking his fingers up his nose or giving him wet willies in his ears. God, I must have been an irritating kid, Murph thought.

"Just open yer eyes and tell me one thing and I'll leave ya ta sleep, Murph."

Murph opened his eyes and looked into those of his brother, eyes that were pleading and desperate for an answer.

"Yes, Connor. The answer is yes. One is gone now."

Connor buried his face in Murph's chest and began to cry. Really cry. Murphy did not discourage him. He cried for his wife. He cried for his child. He cried for their shattered lives. He cried for the journey on which they were about to embark. And then he cried because his brother had killed. Hands made to heal, Connor sobbed. At that, Murph told him quietly it was time to be quiet and go to sleep, that they had to sleep now, that they just had to sleep for a bit and not to worry about him. God knows ye've worried enough about me yer whole life.

As he listened to his brother's breathing become even and uniform while Connor lay clinging to his chest, he thought back to what would soon be three years when he had undertaken a rotation in psychiatry. Connor's tears this dark night had been the best thing for him. Grief was the only thing that would heal his brother. He would have to walk through that pain and acknowledge its existence. Murph was not discouraged.

When Murphy woke the next morning, Connor was sitting at the table reading the file he had brought home from the hospital. Their eyes met. Nothing about the previous night needed to be verbalized.

As they readied themselves for work, Connor was brimming with plans, naturally. And Murph smiled, seeing a visage of the old Connor, imagining him at his desk in all the places they had lived since leaving their childhood home. He saw that the contents of the file were neatly laid about on the table.

Connor's plan was to buy a non-descript junker car, so they could cruise the Bromley-Heath project in Jamaica Plain without standing out. Since it looked like the gang was dealing crack cocaine, they could probably easily identify potential members near pay phones. Murphy remembered the same news story of which Connor was no doubt thinking, the one about how mini-mart owners around Boston did not want payphones in front of their stores because they claimed the phones attracted prostitutes and drug dealers. Then, Connor said, it was a matter of taking out the men, and we've certainly got the firepower and ammunition for it.

"Sounds pretty fuckin' simple, Connor." Murph commented.

Connor nodded.

"'Tis not, Connor. We're not doin' the fuckin' drivebys ya read about and killin' innocents. It's like I told ya last night. We've got ta hunt them."

"None of 'em are innocent, Muph."

"Only the ones that killed her, Connor, will we take. The others are not our business." He replied evenly, somewhat harshly. "We will answer to Him for enough."

Connor threw up his hands. "So what are ya proposin', goin' up to every fuckin' bastard in Jamaica Plain and askin' to see his tattoos?"

"Would ya listen ta yerself? We've got ta do this smart, Connor. Now, Helen's gonna see if she can get addresses and medical records for tha names tha kid gave me. We need pictures. We need ta know their habits. We can't take them when they're in a crowd. We've got ta hunt them down alone, take them down when they're not expectin' it. Don't ya have some things ya want ta say ta them, Connor?"

Connor stared at him indignantly but he knew his words were sinking into his brother's brain.

Murphy told him the first thing they were going to do was go to the kid's funeral. "Don't ya think we'll get a little bit better picture of his friends than after dark 'round phone booths?"

"We're still getting a shite car."

"I think it's a capital idea, Connor." Murph said. "And then afterwards, we go to the church, and yer goin' ta pray for stillness of heart and hand."

Connor glared at him but Murphy touched his shoulder and spoke gently. "When I look at ye, I see a part of meself, Connor, tha better part. Don't lose yerself in this, or else I'm lost too. Ye must ask fer His guidance and His forgiveness fer what we are about ta do."

It would have been so easy to have taken them out at the funeral three days later, a peaceful Saturday, when the brothers observed ten young men who were likely involved in Leah's rape and homicide. Murphy found himself deeply conflicted, thinking that all ten of them needed to die. No, only the ones that had touched her. But what if the others had watched? What if twenty had watched? What if the whole neighborhood had watched, his conscience whispered, are you going to kill all of them?

Only the ones that touched her.

Connor and Murphy stood side by side in their matching black coats, sunglasses and anonymity at the graveside service. They memorized every last detail of Luis Battiste's closest friends. Surreptitiously, they copied down license plate numbers and noted who left in which vehicle. Then they tailed them to the project that was worse than anything either had ever imagined.

"Worse than Southie." Connor said.

"Connor, quit drivin' so fuckin' close ta them." Murph muttered, trying to absorb every point of reference. "Just act casual. Christ."

"Do ye want ta drive?"

"Do I need ta?"

Connor glared at him but slowed a bit as they watched the cars start parking and the funeral party begin pouring into one tall, red brick building. The building was covered with graffiti and in poor condition. You're not in Cambridge anymore, Dorothy, Murph thought.

"We could take 'em right now, Murph. We could go inta whatever shite apartment they're in and kill 'em right now. And it would be done. Done."

"Pull the car inta that parkin' place there." Murph said calmly.

Connor's eyes danced with frenzy, something in them uncontrolled and something Murph was afraid was uncontrollable. Once Connor killed the engine, Murph smacked him hard across the face with the heel of his hand.

"No innocents, Connor! His mother is in there. Women and children. Have ya lost it, brother? If we go in there now, we kill 'em all. Do ya understand? And we'll not kill innocents. We've enough to answer fer already." Murph yelled at his brother, who stared needles back at him. "Yer gonna pray until ye get yer answers, brother. Yer blind fury will be tha thing that gets ya killed."

"And ya think I really care if I live, Murph?" Connor snarled vindictively. Of course Connor knew this would hurt.

"Well, ya must know I care if ya do, ye fuckwit. But if ya want ta die so much, Connor, why don't ya just kill yerself? Why don't ya just put a bullet in yer brain? The gun's in yer pocket." Murph said just as nastily, drawing his own gun and sticking the damned thing in his mouth. He watched Connor's eyes widen. "Be sure to put the gun in the roof of yer mouth, like so."

Once he removed the gun, he put the gun back in his pocket. "Ya see, Connor, the ones who put it ta their temple survive lots of tha time. It's such an ugly sight in the ER. And ya feel embarrassed fer them, failures at everythin' and even failed at killin' themselves properly. But, brother, don't be such a fuckin' coward that ya would go inta a gunfight, so somebody else would have to commit yer suicide fer ya."

"Bastard."

"Church, Connor. Ask Him for stillness."

Murphy dropped Connor off at the church and went home to find the phone ringing. It was Helen with news. She had all the names. And she had addresses. Photographs too.

Murphy figured that they had come through a hospital at some point and their criminal records had been attached to their files. He drove to Helen's house to pick up the information.

"How is your brother, Murphy?" Helen asked, as he sat on a plush sofa in a room that was painted a deep green. He had not forgotten what it was like to be in a home, a home that was maintained and smelled like things other than dirty socks, bad plumbing and takeout food. He had forgotten, however, how much he missed walls with color on them. His room in their house had been a sage color Leah found and somehow known he would like right away. He remembered telling her she didn't have to paint his room, that she didn't need to worry about it, and how he came in from working all afternoon with Connor on the fascia boards to find that she and Clarissa had painted his room that color. They had moved all the furniture into place and he couldn't believe that room was going to be his. It was just that nice.

"Somewhat manic." He answered. "We've left the world of health, Helen. There will be no formal grief counselin' fer Connor."

"It never helped me." She remarked sharply. "I wish I could help you kill these men."

"Ye are, Helen. But no disrespect intended, I don't ever want ye ta know what it's like ta take someone's life. It doesn't mix with tha life ye've chosen." He told her.

"Very true, Murphy. Very true."

"I best be goin' now. Thank ya fer the coffee and all the information."

"You'll call when it's finished?"

"Aye."

"You'll call if you need my help?"

"Aye."