Author's Note- Subtle, aren't ya? ;) Thanks for being so patient with me. I've been having a little difficulty connecting point A and point B, but I'll try to do better.

Disclaimer- I don't own it. Not even close.

Thunder, Lightening, and One Hell of a Storm: Ten-

Joan's POV-

Joan Hunt stood at the kitchen island, hands to either side propping herself up and head hung slightly in between. She was trying desperately to get her emotions away from the ragged panic they had been bordering all night, ever since Megan had walked through the door looking more like a drowned mouse than her fiery-tempered daughter.

Though Detective Morris and Dr. Murphy had told her a little bit about what she could expect, it had been more difficult than she could have imagined to see Megan so battered as she had helped to peel the rest of the water-logged clothes off her. The bruises made her furious, the cuts made her nauseous. She had immediately steered her shivering body into the shower and her panic had almost overwhelmed her when Megan had gone without so much as a single protest.

Her eyes tracked over to her water soaked sleeve, mind traveling back to the moment she had tried to help her daughter out of said shower. The look of panic that had briefly crossed her features would haunt Joan's dreams for a long time, even though the younger woman had immediately calmed. Unfortunately, Megan had refused to discuss what had happened or her reactions, pulled away from her, and shut herself away. All of Joan's questions went unanswered. Finally, as Megan plead exhaustion, Joan had been completely helpless to do anything to protest. All she could do was step from the room as asked.

Switching her gaze toward the closed door once again, she swallowed. As the night had passed slowly, she had fought the desire to go back inside or to even peek. Much to her shame, curiosity gnawed at her, mixing with her worry so they were almost indistinguishable from each other. What had that- what had the detective called him? Wilson something?- done to her little girl? What exactly was the damage? She fidgeted. It was becoming too much to bear and concentrating on her breathing wasn't helping.

To hell with it.

Slowly, she meandered over to her daughter's bedroom door and quietly opened it. It was early morning, the sun just barely peeking it's rays into the room. Simply seeing her daughter's sleeping form almost made her faint with relief. Megan was laid out on her stomach over the covers on one side of the bed, pajama bottoms riding up her calves and bunched up as though she had been tossing and turning. Her bare shoulder blocked her face from view, but her back was visibly rising and falling in a slightly uneven rhythm. Her arms were splayed about, one curled up near her head and the other hanging off the side of the bed.

Before her own logic could stop her forward momentum, Joan made her way to the unoccupied side of the bed and sat. She felt so useless, looking at her daughter. Careful not to wake Megan, she reached over, brushing some of the unruly hair away from her face. There was a crease in the middle of her daughter's brow, as though she was having a bad dream. From what little Joan knew, that didn't surprise her. So she gripped her daughter's hand hard and tried to sooth her, thinking that she hadn't been this scared since Megan's accident. When Megan's father had died, she had coped by being overprotective. The accident had driven home the painful reminder that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't protect her daughter from life and here she was again, with nothing she could do. No way to sooth the hurt. She looked down at her daughter's hand in hers, the small stitches dark against the pale skin. It looked so small, slack in sleep. So frail. Blinking back tears, she gently kissed the deft fingers and then slid away, hurrying out of the room before her crying could disturb her daughter's sleep.