Author's Note: Told you I was back! :) Thank you all so much for the reviews! I'm so glad y'all are still around. I was really worried that after so long, and with the show done for a while now, that people may not still be around or interested. Hope you all enjoy.


Because they had the worst – or best? – timing, Calleigh was quietly slipping from her room for her morning coffee just around the time Eric was emerging from her guest room to cross into her hall bathroom. He was less than refreshed from his lack of sleep, basketball shorts and a white tank clinging to his tired body.

"Hey," she said softly. As she crossed her arms over her somehow adorable grey Smith & Wesson gun t-shirt and reluctantly met his eyes, he realized she may have slept even less than he did. She was beautiful with her make-up-free, natural face and tousled hair, but her eyes were tired with shadows of darkness beneath.

"Morning," was all he could say as his eyes hesitantly danced over her features. There was no room for pleasantries; they both knew they hadn't slept, and that they had to make the most of their very inconvenient and emotionally draining living arrangements for his own safety.

She tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear, ready to head downstairs when she caught sight of the bandage revealed by his tank. His bicep was still wrapped from that bullet graze just days ago, dark red dried blood staining the layers just beneath the surface.

"How's the arm?" She nodded toward the bandage and he followed her gaze, surveying the damage. It was obvious he hadn't thought about it much and despite their night, despite the baggage between them, she smiled a little. "When's the last time you changed that thing?" she asked, knowing he couldn't very well change it himself with one arm.

"Uhhh." He looked absentmindedly at the wall, trying to remember. Truthfully, his arm was the least of his concerns, and although it was an annoying, dull ache that sometimes filled his senses with a sharp pain now and then, he'd almost forgotten it. "They took care of it at my post-op appointment."

Two days ago. She sighed, for some reason much less concerned with proximity and memories than she was last night. Maybe she was numbed from the lack or sleep and thinking about it all night, or maybe she was giving up on trying to preserve herself from what had to be guaranteed pain and awkwardness given this situation.

"Here, let me get it." She walked toward him, surprisingly assured as she brushed past him and started lining up alcohol, gauze, and bandages from her medicine cabinet, then taking a seat on the bathroom counter. He somewhat reluctantly followed her in, slowly unwrapping the bandage from his arm as he tried to ignore the way she'd crossed her dangling legs, her casual plaid pajama shorts revealing much more of her legs than he was generally used to. Except that wasn't true, he reminded himself. Not according to the bits and pieces of his past four months that were slowly coming back to him.

She wet a washcloth and squeezed it out over the wound, letting the fresh water begin to rinse away the dried blood that had clotted there. "I'm sorry," she apologized in advance as she began to run the cloth over the edges, trying to remove enough to prevent infection without reopening the wound.

"They didn't want to stitch this up?" she asked skeptically.

"No, they said it was pretty superficial." He gritted his teeth as she poured alcohol over his arm, flinching as the more raw areas stung sharply. She dabbed at it with gauze and then carefully applied an antibiotic cream. "I'm just not supposed to use it."

"How's that goin' for ya?" She smiled, meeting his eyes knowingly, and he watched her, transfixed at how she could do this after last night. But here she was, holding his arm in her hands as she wrapped a fresh bandage around his upper arm. She was so good at this: compartmentalizing, ignoring her feelings. It made him feel all the more guilty for pushing her to her breaking point last night, for everything he'd put her through over the past few weeks, maybe months. Calleigh wasn't one for complicated romantic entanglements or crossing professional lines, and yet here they were.

She sensed a shift between them and took a deep breath in, slowly pulling her hands back from his warm skin. But when he sensed her moving away he couldn't fight the urge to stop her, wrapping his hands around her forearms and leaning into her.

"Eric..." she protested, but she made no effort to fight him. His hands slid along her skin and despite every urge to run in her, she couldn't help but find comfort in it.

They'd been here many times before. Well, not here, but in her master bathroom, when she'd slide up on the counter and completely distract him while he was getting ready, his hands running along her thighs and slipping beneath her shorts to tempt her skin… She smiled sadly, focusing on the here and now, where his hands were much less bold and his eyes were searching hers.

"Calleigh, I may not remember everything that happened between us or what happened that day," he began, fingers grazing over her arm as though committing the action to memory so he could be assured he'd never forget again. "But I know I would never keep something from you without a really damn good reason. And I'd never put you at risk or do anything to jeopardize us."

His hands skirted over her soft skin until he was holding her head in his hands, his eyes piercing hers. "I'm going to do everything I can to find out what happened, even if it means talking to Sharova when they let me." He held her gaze, watching her eyes gloss over with emotion. "I promise."

"Be careful," she demanded, wrapping her fingers around his arm for just a moment, waiting until he promised her with his eyes. With her heart pounding in her chest, she tore herself from his touch and left to start what promised to be a difficult day.


Unfortunately for Alexander Sharova, Calleigh was fresh out of patience. As she'd predicted, it had been a long day, one that had started with little sleep as she battled painful memories last night in what should have been the comfort of her own home. But instead, haunting memories of their time there together crept into every corner of her bedroom and her subconscious, all the while she'd known he was likely awake just down the hall in her guest room wrestling similar demons. That had led to a difficult and emotional morning that seemed to push the bounds of their situation, the memory of his touch still fresh on her cheek and arms. And then she'd gotten the call: a murder-suicide in Coral Way – a 13 year old girl, her mother, and father, all gone in the blink of an eye.

The last thing she needed was her not-boyfriend's mob boss of a father summoning her in the middle of her already hectic and emotionally-draining day. But he'd stopped cooperating again, refusing to talk to anyone but her or Eric. And Eric most definitely wasn't allowed to visit him right now given that he was on administrative leave while IAB tried to figure out his involvement with this very man.

She jerked the chair across from him back and sat down hard, raising her brows impatiently. "What?"

Sharova furrowed his brows and pursed her lips, studying her. "You don't look happy."

"Look, I have far more important things to do than run around in circles talking to you, so you wanna cut to the chase and tell me why I'm here?"

"Why hasn't Eric come to see me?" Sharova leaned back in his chair and tilted his head questioningly, his dark blue eyes almost accusatory as he studied her.

Calleigh pressed her lips into a straight line, shaking her head and shrugging. "Maybe he doesn't want to."

"He would want to finish what we started," Sharova said knowingly, searching her for any indication that she knew something. But she had a good poker face, he had to give her that. "He has to, if he's ever going to be safe."

Unfortunately for her, he was clever enough to put the pieces together. Eric hadn't been to see him, and given what he knew, that meant that Eric wasn't in a position where he was able to or allowed to come see him...which also meant that he was in trouble of some sort. That he was either injured more seriously than Calleigh had let on, or that he hadn't been able to clear his name or explain his involvement.

"Something's wrong." It was almost a question, and yet it wasn't. He knew.

Calleigh narrowed her eyes at him, her curiosity getting the better of her despite her suspicions. But she couldn't let him get to her. She couldn't trust a single word that came from him, and she certainly couldn't give him any indication of Eric's current predicament. He was too likely to take advantage of it, to manipulate the facts and put Eric in an even more dangerous and vulnerable position.

"Are you ever going to tell me anything useful?" she asked.

He looked her over, knowing she wasn't allowed anything in his holding visitation room. No cell phone, no paper and pen. "How good is your memory?"

She sighed and sat back in the chair, crossing both her arms and legs in annoyance. "Very."

"Ask Eric about 09-57561."

Calleigh was good, but Sharova was, too, and he saw the flash of interest in her eyes that any detective, CSI, or problem solver couldn't mask when presented with a potential key piece of a puzzle. But it was short-lived, her temper flaring again after a long, controlled breath.

"You have another thing coming if you think I'm going to do your dirty work for you, or believe anything you say."

"Dirty work?" Sharova raised his brows in amusement. And then he made her chest tighten with anxiety and regret as he told her, "I thought you knew Eric. He's good to the bone, nothing like me."

Of course he was. Eric was good – heartwarmingly, never-leave-a-friend-in-need, annoyingly and sometimes condescendingly overprotective of women and children, to a fault good. Sharova had said it last time: that Eric was protective and careful about where they met, about who was involved, insinuating that it was because of her. And Eric had said it himself this morning. What she'd taken to be deception and lies may have been his steadfast determination to keep her away from the people who'd put a target on his back and wouldn't hesitate to put one on hers. It fit his profile.

It still pissed her off to no avail, but it was better – and more believable, if she were being truly truthful – than Eric getting in too deep with his criminal of a father. Was she really so jaded from all the other misplaced trust in her life that she hadn't seen it? She knew the answer to that in a heartbeat.


"So you knew about Calleigh and me."

Those were his first words to his sister as they sat down to lunch. Not hi, how are you, nice to see you. Just that.

"It's nice to see you, too, little brother," Christina said as she hooked her purse on the back of her chair and leaned forward. "Yeah, I knew. But mami told us not too bring up anything that happened over the past few months that would upset you. That seemed pretty high up on the list." She eyed him suspiciously. "How'd you know I knew?"

"I remembered." He blinked disbelievingly, shrugging his shoulders. "That day at the market, your text message," he recalled, smirking and shaking his head.

"Still applies," she said, smiling. He wished it did. He wished that he and Calleigh were even on the same page these days. "So your memory is back?"

"No," he admitted regretfully. "Not really, just bits and pieces. Certain memories."

"Enough to clear your name?"

"No." He sighed, biting at his lower lip. "Nothing like that, unfortunately. Just…" he began, hesitating and running a frustrated hand over the back of his head, avoiding his healing incision site. "Just Calleigh." He picked up the glass of water he'd already downed, swirling the ice around restlessly. "Maybe it's because I'm around her all the time at home."

"Home?" Christina raised a curious brow. "I thought you were staying with her."

"Her home," he corrected, but his sister was already eyeing him knowingly.

"Maybe," she finally agreed half-heartedly. "Or maybe it's because of how you feel about her." She met his gaze, unable to mask the sadness in her eyes at what he'd lost. "Eric, I've known you literally my whole life and I've never seen you act that way with anyone."

He smiled sadly back at her. "You don't have to remind me. I may not remember everything, but...I can feel it." He scoffed, shaking his head at himself. "That sounds crazy."

"It doesn't sound that crazy," she told him, giving his upper arm a supportive squeeze.


For the first time in a long time as she turned the keys in her door, her guard wasn't up walking into her own home. She was exhausted and relieved to be home, emotionally spent after the day, but mostly she was just tired. Tired of walking on eggshells around him to keep things from getting too deep between them, tired of assuming the worst, and tired of not trusting the one person in her life who'd proved himself dependable time and time again.

As she tossed her keys into the bowl on her entryway table, breaking the silence of her quiet home, she took in the numbers of the nearby wall clock. 11:21. Eric was probably long asleep, and she had nothing on her mind but a glass of wine and maybe a long bubble bath if she even had the energy. She took a step towards the kitchen, and that was when the realization hit her that she wasn't in total darkness. The dim lamp in her hallway was on – the one he'd always leave for her before when she'd gotten stuck at the lab much later than him.

It brought a sad smile to her lips as she crossed into the kitchen, wondering if he actually remembered or if it'd been completely subconscious. She shrugged her blazer off and hung it over a kitchen chair, then toed her heels off by the entrance to the kitchen, leaving her in a simple purple tank and black dress pants. After retrieving one of her favorite wine glasses and popping open a bottle of merlot, she swirled it around in the wide-mouth glass and turned, resting her back against the counter.

As she lifted the glass to her lips, she froze at the sight before her on her kitchen table. Her bleary eyes had somehow missed it when she was ridding herself of her work clothing. But now she saw it clearly: a fresh bouquet of lilies at the center of her table, her favorite way to make her house feel a little more like home when she had the time.

She took a much-needed sip of her wine and stepped forward, smiling as she did.

It wasn't that he got her flowers in a romantic kind of way, at least not really. That wasn't what this was, and she knew immediately. They were the exact kind she always bought, in her favorite vase from her grandmother's home, in the exact spot she always placed them. White lilies with light yellow bursting from the center, just like the ones she'd bought at the farmer's market with him the day his sister had completely busted their secret.

He remembered.

She ran her hand over a delicate petal and sat down, finally beginning to unwind. The wine was helping, and by the time she'd finished a glass, flipped off the lamp in the hall, made it upstairs, and changed into a fresh t-shirt and shorts, she almost felt like she might actually sleep tonight. Almost.

She pulled her comforter back and hesitated, letting the material fall from her hand.

The day had rocked her – her exhaustion, Sharova, the haunting image of a 13-year-old girl with her whole life ahead of her laying in a pool of her own blood, a gunshot wound to the chest. An innocent life stolen because of an unstable father who hadn't been able to get the mental health care he needed. There had been a time when she'd shouldered it all on her own, barely coping with sleepless nights and tearful showers and guns in her bedside table, but that was before. It was before there was someone to leave a light on for her and warm her bed, before comforting arms, healing hugs, and trust like she'd never known.

She didn't want to go back.

Before she could change her mind, she'd padded barefoot down the hall and found herself at his door, pressing her palm against it. Slowly turning the handle, she stepped inside and paused for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the shadow of his frame asleep in the dark, familiar and calming. Surprisingly steady legs led her to the bed and she slowly let her weight sink into it, trying not to startle him too much. She'd done this dozens of times, but it may not be familiar to the Eric before her, who was missing a large chunk of the past four months.

As she slipped beneath the covers and rested her head on the pillow next to him, she lightly ran a hand over his bare arm, gently skipping over the bandage. The feel of her hand on his skin and the dip in the mattress as she shifted lulled him from sleep, not as startled as either of them would've expected. It almost felt natural in the place between wake and sleep, until he came to and registered the sight of her across from him, his brain trying to make sense of the familiarity when he had no prior recollection of such a moment.

He blinked his eyes open wider, her hand stilling on his arm.

"Hi," she said softly, hesitantly withdrawing her hand from his skin. "Is this okay?"

Something about her hesitance relaxed him and his lips curved upward. "Are you kidding me?" This was like something from his wildest dreams – or memories, actually.

He heard her and saw her breathe out, almost a laugh, but he knew without asking, or even fully seeing her face in the dark, that something wasn't right. They'd been so far from this yesterday – even this morning. She'd been much closer to running away than falling into his arms. On top of that, it was late, which meant she'd had an ungodly long and likely draining day.

"Are you okay?" he asked knowingly.

"I had a really bad day," she said simply, her voice breaking at the end. She didn't have to say more – he would've understood if she didn't want to, but she did. "Kids." He could hear the emotion in her voice and he reached for her waist on instinct, letting his palm rest over her side. She moved closer, letting him know he was on the right track, and when she laid her hand on his arm again he pulled her against him, tucking his elbow around her and enclosing her in his arms. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, her forehead pressed against the base of his throat in what felt like the most natural thing in the world to him. It took his breath away, and he hoped to god he both recovered four whole months of this and had the chance to make new memories with her like this, in his arms, open and honest.

"I'm sorry." He ran his hand along her spine soothingly, hesitating when her shirt rode up and he found his hand graced with the warm skin of her back. But if anything, she relaxed further into his touch and he sighed, pressing his hand into her skin and letting their bodies kiss.

With the comfort of her body tucked against his, her hand resting on his bare chest and their legs tangled together, she finally felt like she could breathe under the weight of the day. Giving into the exhaustion and the rhythmic beat of his heart, she drifted to sleep, her presence quickly lulling him back into a deep and dreamless sleep as well.