This is something of an epilogue, rather than a last chapter. I've really enjoyed writing this story these last four years (who knew 11 chapters could take four years to write?). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and please leave a review letting me know your thoughts.

Emma sat on the back of the ambulance, the silver emergency blanket she held about her shoulders crinkled as she shifted. The paramedic shined a small penlight into her eyes, asking her to look left and right. She did so without thought.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Emma had only one thought going through her mind. She had killed someone. It didn't matter what he'd done or what he'd planned to do, his death had come at her hands. She wanted to speak with Chandler, but he was – understandably – preoccupied with the condition of his sergeant.

Running a hand through her hair, she nearly vomited as she encountered a tangled patch of dried blood and brain matter. Quickly withdrawing her hand, she wiped it on her trousers. The shaking began to set in for a second time.

"Deep breaths," the paramedic instructed her. Easy for him to say. He didn't have someone else's brain splattered all over his face and hair. She couldn't control her gag reflex this time and catapulted herself to a standing position before keeling over and vomiting on the ground. As it was her third time vomiting that evening, she had little left in her stomach. It clenched painfully as she heaved. The acrid taste of bile overwhelmed her senses.

It was five minutes before she could breathe evenly again. Emma wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing together vomit, tears, and mucus. A towel was thrust into her hand. Gratefully, she mumbled a response and wiped her face properly. She raised her head, hair matted to the side of her face and mascara running down her cheeks, to come eye to eye with Joseph Chandler.

"Oh."

"How – how are you?" He asked, the grimace on his face clearly showing that he knew it was a stupid question.

She shrugged, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find an answer.

"You should sit," he said, already gently guiding her back to the ambulance. "Has someone taken your statement already?"

"Yes," she croaked, her throat dry and strained. She coughed and clenched her teeth through the pain.

"Water," Chandler demanded of the paramedic. A bottle was swiftly placed in his outstretched palm. He screwed off the cap and handed it to Emma, who accepted it gratefully.

"One of the uniformed officers spoke to me already," she said through greedy gulps of water. She was past caring that it was running down her face and splashing onto her sweater, though she dabbed at her face with the towel.

"CPS will be given all the evidence, but this is all more of a formality," Chandler explained.

"C…CPS?" Emma asked, startled and trying not to choke on her water.

"Crown Prosecution –"

"I know what it is," Emma interrupted rather more harshly than she'd intended. "Sorry. I just…I didn't know this would go that far. Not that –"

She blew out a long breath, ignoring the pain it caused in her throat.

"Not that I feel completely at peace with what's happened…with what I did. But I wasn't aware of the…the procedure," she finished at last.

"You have a room full of officers who will attest to the events, not to mention your own injuries," Chandler assured her. "As I said, it's a formality. You were protecting yourself."

"I don't suppose anyone is going to remember that you said 'no' just before I got his gun?"

Chandler shook his head.

"I didn't – it wasn't meant like that," he said. "I thought one of the officers had fired."

"It wasn't self-defense," she said quietly.

"Pardon?" Chandler's voice dropped about two octaves.

"He was going to shoot the paramedics," Emma told him. "I wasn't defending myself."

Chandler slowly let out a breath.

"At that moment, but he had the gun against your head and he already tried to kill you once this evening. Stands to reason he'd try to do it again."

Emma shrugged again.

"Let us hope that the Crown Prosecution Service sees it the same way."

"Have you spoken to her?" Miles asked, his normally gruff voice made all the more textured by the pain he was in.

"Not as such," Chandler said stiffly.

Miles laughed, then grimaced and gripped his stomach.

"My gut can't keep saving your ass," he grunted. He dropped his head back on the pillow with a sharp breath. "What does that even mean?"

"I haven't spoken with her, alright?" He just short of whined, sounding very much like one of Miles' children when they finally cop to doing exactly what they said they hadn't done.

"CPS pursuing any charges?"

The hole in his gut be damned, if they decided to prosecute Emma for the death of Haskins, Miles was going to march over the Southwark Bridge himself and put a stop to it.

"No," Chandler assured him.

"You should ring her."

"No," Chandler repeated, far more emphatic this time.

"Why not? Case is closed, she's got no charges comin' her way," Miles argued.

Chandler crossed his arms over his chest before uncrossing them, fixing his cuffs, and then crossing them again. He'd hit quite the nerve with his boss.

"It isn't a good time," Chandler countered.

Miles snorted.

"When is it ever?" Miles retorted before grabbing his stomach. He was getting himself a little too worked up. "I'd never married Judy if I'd kept waiting for the right time. The right time is any time you make it."

"M-marriage is not what we're – I'm not – just…butt out, Miles!" Chandler all but shouted.

Miles feigned looking hurt.

"You would yell at your sergeant while he's on his death bed?" He asked as sweetly as was possible with a voice that sounded like he'd gargled with gravel.

"It's not your deathbed," Chandler said with a sigh, looking guilty all the same.

"You don't have to ask her out," Miles plowed on, though more gently than before. "Just don't walk away from her."

Chandler looked at Miles skeptically. He took a breath and looked to be about to say something, but he closed his mouth before any words came. His phone rang.

"DI Chandler," he answered, his professional tone returning.

There was a moment of silence as Chandler listened to the other end of the line.

"I'm on my way," he said at last before ending the call. "We've got a fresh one."

Miles understood. He nodded and shooed Chandler out of the room. As soon as he was gone, he picked up his phone. One quick Google search and he put the phone to his ear.

"Archdiocese of Westminster, how may I direct your call?" Came the voice over the line.

'I should have called her sooner,' was Miles' first thought as he savored the contraband chips she'd snuck in for him.

Unlike Chandler, Emma had been ready and willing to indulge in his request for real food. He'd probably pay for it later, if his last experience with a stomach wound was anything to go by, but it was worth it. He shook more vinegar onto his chips.

"I meant to call," Emma said as she seated herself in the chair next to Miles' bed. "I wanted to make sure you were alright. And then everything with the CPS happened and work with Christmas coming and…I - I didn't. I feel terrible about that. You saved my life."

Miles held up a greasy hand. He swallowed the bite he'd just taken before speaking.

"I'm not hearin' any of it," he said with finality. "You had a shock."

Emma looked fit to argue the point, but let it pass.

"Will they let you out before Christmas, you think?" She asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Doubt it," was his short response. It was a sore spot. He ate another chip.

"I'm sorry."

"Only one needs to be sorry about it is Haskins and I'm pretty sure he's feelin' sorry right now," Miles said pitilessly.

Emma grimaced. She knew he had every right to feel the way he did about the man, but she was the one who had killed him. It had been her hand that had ended a man's life. Her stomach churned as she began to relive the moment again.

"Eat a chip," Miles said, shoving the bag in her face, knowing the sharp tang of the vinegar would help to clear her mind.

She gave him a forced smile and raised a slender hand to pluck a chip out of the wrappings.

"Have you…have you seen Joe?" She asked, very poorly affecting disinterest.

"Have you?" He responded pointedly.

She frowned.

"No," came her somewhat petulant response.

"Whose fault is that?" Miles continued to push.

She glanced up at him, surprised at the familiarity with which he spoke to her. She'd not dealt much with the man, but something about him was comforting. He spoke plainly and honestly, if somewhat brutally at times. It was a far cry from the men she normally dealt with; all politics and façade. Of course, Monsignor Garnet hadn't been like that. Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of him, but she pushed the feeling away. He'd be livid with her for feeling so sorry for herself.

"Half of it is fully mine," Emma said at last, her chin up.

"Good girl," Miles said fondly before shoving the last three chips in his mouth as he heard his doctor speaking to a nurse just outside the door. Emma rushed around his bed grabbing the empty vinegar packets and chip bag. She had managed to shove all the incriminating evidence into the bottom of her purse just as the doctor walked into the room. They shared a look, both clearly trying not to laugh.

"I'll just be going," Emma said awkwardly as she slung her purse over her shoulder.

Miles gestured for her to come closer to him.

"Don't let him walk away," were his parting words.

The three blinking dots letting him know that she was busy typing caused something to clench painfully in his chest. He scrolled up to read over their conversation. Her Christmas well wishes were more welcome than he could say. He looked away, putting the phone face down next to him on the sofa. The noise alerting him to the arrival of a new text message sounded overly loud in the absolute silence that reigned in his flat.

He stared at his phone's screen, the light shining blue on his face in the darkened room. Would he like to join her for a Christmas Eve trip to the pub? Of course he would. But he couldn't. The women around him – they all seemed to suffer, in one way or another. Chandler could keep them safe by keeping his distance. Some would say he was just playing the martyr. But this was simply the way things were, the way things had to be. Whitechapel had seen enough martyrs.