A/N – I haven't updated for a bit because I have been busy writing and have nearly finished this story now. There will be twenty-two chapters I think, to let you all know. And I have written the last chapter and it is a happy one, for all involved, I promise if you bear with me through all this depressingness.

This chapter is sad, it's the funeral. So I suggest you read the first bit then skip and just read the end if you think it might upset you.

Israel - Chapter Fourteen

The banging had started a few minutes ago and hadn't ceased since then. Mac barely heard it, so lost in his own thoughts as he was.

"Mac Taylor! You come and open this door now!" an angry voice cried from the other side of the gateway to Mac's home.

Mac stared out of the window unaware of the worry in Jo's voice. He couldn't see much from his apartment, just the building opposite and the people there going about their lives. So much life, so little time.

"Oh, thank the Lord you've arrived!"

There was the murmuring of voices outside the door, a shuffling of feet, a clicking of heels and then the sound of a key being turned in the lock. Mac was oblivious to it all, so lost in his own head, so lost in the emptiness of it all. He didn't hear the door open and close and somebody approach. It was only when a hand was placed on his shoulder that he turned and stared straight into their face.

"Mac, how're you doing?"

"Stella..." Mac murmured and then stood to hug her, somehow her presence made everything seem a little less dark.

"What's going on here, Mac?" Stella asked sympathetically. "Jo's going crazy outside, she says we've only got less than an hour to get to the church."

"Right," Mac nodded and then sat back down in his chair.

Stella glanced around the apartment she knew so well. It was just how she remembered it; tidy, clean...spotless. There wasn't a thing out of place. The only difference was the pile of cardboard boxes stacked up against one wall of the lounge.

"What's in the boxes, Mac?" she asked, feeling like she already knew.

"Oh...it's Don's stuff. His sister is going to come and collect it at some point. I thought it best get it ready."

Stella looked sadly down at her friend who was still staring out of his window. She felt her heart break for him. She alone had known him when he'd lost Claire. It had been hard to grieve back then, so many people in the same situation, so many people in worse situations. And it had been their duty to help those people, they were officers of the law, they were the heroes people turned to in situations like that. However this, what had happened two weeks ago, was more of a personal attack on Mac than anything he had suffered before and he should be grieving, longing for his lost love, not sitting and staring placidly out of his window. He shouldn't be packing up Don's belongings as though the man had never existed, as if he'd never been a part of his life. It worried her that Mac seemed so calm, that Jo had told her he'd been back in work only a day later, getting on with cases and shutting himself in his office doing paperwork when there was nothing else to be done.

"Mac," she said softly and knelt before him. "No-one expects you to be okay, you know?"

Mac looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

"They don't expect you to carry on like nothing happened..."

"Stella," Mac said warningly, his tone low.

"Don't take that tone with me, Mac. I've known you longer than anyone. I can see through this," she said as she gestured around his apartment.

"There is no 'this'. I'm getting on with things, getting on with my life. That's how it works. People die, we know that better than anyone, and those left behind carry on with their lives," Mac stated.

"No they don't. They grieve, they cry, they shout...they curse the world and their God...they don't just carry on."

Mac blinked at her. "Stella, I'm fine. Really. I appreciate your concern but there's nothing to be done. Don's dead. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wallow in self pity and loathing? I'd end up destroying myself."

Stella sighed. Mac was such an obstinate man, and clever too, making him impossible to deal with sometimes, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

"Sometimes you just need to let it all out, Mac. Have a good cry. People are worried about you."

Mac's face remained blank but Stella noticed how his fingers suddenly clench into the armrest.

"I can't," he hissed.

His tone should have shocked Stella but it didn't. It made her feel relieved to hear some sort of emotion coming from him.

"Yes you can!" she told him sharply.

Mac turned to look at her, a slight anger burning behind his eyes.

"If I start...if I let it out... I won't be able to stop it," he said in a low, severe tone. And Stella at once recognised the fear in his voice. It wasn't that he couldn't, it was that he was scared. Scared if he let himself mourn Don's passing, let the floodgates open...he'd never be able to close them again.

"Oh, Mac," she said sadly and placed on hand on his.

Mac turned away and stared back out of his window, wanting so much to be alone, while at the same time wanting so much to never be alone for fear of that self same solitude.

"Mac, we should get going," Stella eventually said. "You don't want to be late."

Mac never acknowledged he'd heard what she said and if he hadn't replied quietly a moment later she would have been certain he hadn't heard her.

"I'm not sure if I can."

His voice was small, quiet, scared and Stella knew how lost and alone he must be feeling. That he was holding it all together very tenuously on a knife-edge.

"You don't want to say goodbye?" she asked gently.

Mac took a deep breath and looked at her. "They expect me to talk, Stella. To make a speech about how great Don was."

"And you can't?" she asked.

Mac swallowed. "I wrote the perfect speech. Beautiful, poignant...describing what a great cop he was, what a brave man he was...how kind and giving..." he sighed. "I wrote a speech so generic it could describe any one of the numerous cops that work in this city."

"Mac, if that's all you're able to say, then it's fine," Stella said kindly, stroking his hand.

"He deserves so much more though," Mac murmured.

"Then speak from the heart, Mac. Tell them the truth."

Mac closed his eyes and sighed before turning back to stare out of the window. "The truth...that it's my fault? That the last thing he ever said to me, was that he couldn't wait to be my husband...and I killed him. How am I supposed to tell them that?"

For once Stella couldn't reply, she didn't know what to say. There was so much pain in Mac's heart, so much hurt that she honestly didn't know what she could say to make it better.

Mac sat through the service, barely aware of it, lost in his own head where it was so empty and yet at the same time so full of thoughts and emotions wanting to get out. He could hear Sam crying a few seats along, could see Irene with her arm around her comforting her. Next to him sat Stella, a hand in his the whole way through, an ever reassuring presence throughout and he was grateful to her for that. Jo sat on his other side, not contacting any part of his body but shooting him sidewards glances of worry and care every so often. Along from Jo were Sid and Adam, Sid was comforting the younger man who was trying desperately not to cry. And then next to them were Hawkes and Lovato, the detective was clearly upset and the doctor was comforting her in only a way a loved one could. Reed sat on the other side of Stella, the young man arriving early to support Mac as the older man had always supported him. Mac turned to look behind him, ignoring the stares and looks of pity he received. Other cops were sat further back; Marchini, Purvis, Officer Hontz, the new CSI Kate Lucas and even Hatcher. Sinclair was also there, looking smart and foreboding and near the back was even Terrence Davis, a man who had once saved Don's life. Mac's eyes were suddenly drawn to the pale figure of Lindsay, sat right on the back row. She looked ill, sick and Mac couldn't even imagine what she was going through. She had been released from hospital a few days ago but Danny was still there, unable to come. He'd woken up a week ago and hadn't spoken much to anyone, not even to his doctor or Lindsay. Mac hadn't visited him yet, afraid to do so, but he'd heard that the prognosis for him ever walking again wasn't looking good and Mac knew it was just another thing he only had himself to blame for. The only good news was that their baby was doing well and had started to breathe by himself.

Mac turned back to the front and stared numbly at the priest spouting out all the crap about God. Mac was no longer sure he even existed. He hadn't even been sure if Don had thought he existed. They'd talked about it once, about God. Mac already knew Don had denounced his Catholic roots but the detective had spoken of how he believed in something, that there was someone out there looking down at them all, helping them on with their lives. Yet what that force was he didn't know. Mac smirked at the irony. No-one had been looking down on Don the day he had died, that was for sure. No-one had been helping him out with his life; instead it had been cut short in the cruellest of ways. But Don had believed in something and so here he was, sat in a church, listening to some fool spout off about God's love all the while hating that very being for destroying his life for the second time.

"Mac..." Stella whispered in his ear.

Mac blinked and looked at her. The priest had stopped talking and was staring at him, waiting for him to come forward.

"From the heart," Stella murmured as he stood and made his way to the stand, taking out his notes.

He stared down at all the blank faces around him, all the red eyes, all the tears. What could he possibly say to these people? What on Earth could he tell them to make them understand? To explain how his world was falling apart around him and nothing he could do was stopping it. That he was powerless.

Mac cleared his throat.

"Don Flack was a great man, a great cop and a great friend..."

He paused and looked down at his notes, the letters scrambling before his eyes. Don wasn't this, he wasn't words on paper, he wasn't a bland, boring cop who lived his life to the full but died tragically young. He was Don...Donald...Donny...Flack. And Mac knew him better than this, he knew him better than anyone and Don deserved better from him now. He shouldn't be thinking of himself, now was the time to think of Don, of all he had been. Stella was right.

"You know what?" Mac said, looking up at the congregation, all eyes fixed on him. "This..." he picked up his notes tight in his hand. "This is not who Don Flack was."

A barely audible gasp went round the church as Mac folded up his notes and placed them in his coat pocket.

"Don Flack was our friend. Don to some, Flack to others but we're all here today because he touched some part of our lives and made it better."

Mac glanced round at the congregation, they were hanging on his every word and he knew this was right.

"I knew Don better than anyone. I knew him better than myself. I could probably shock you with some of the things I knew about him. For instance, he could play the piano. I bet not many of you knew that? And I don't mean the Entertainer, he played like a professional...beautifully."

Mac smiled at the looks of surprise he saw on the faces of the congregation. It didn't matter that he'd only heard Don play once, that it had been the last thing they'd done together before his death. These people were Don's friends and they deserved to know the true Don. The beautiful and loving Don that he'd known himself.

"He also liked the ballet...how it continually showed the struggle between good and evil, what's right and what's wrong. He said it reminded him of his own life, the continual struggle he had every day against the evil of this city. His favourite was La Bayadere and the Kingdom of the Shades. How very apt that should be now."

Mac coughed and felt himself relax. This wasn't as hard as he'd imagined. Talking about Don was easy, it came naturally, despite the guilt he felt.

"His favourite food was peanut butter because he said it made him a little bit nutty and you couldn't live life without being a bit of a nut. He liked to sing, he would sing every morning because what is life without music? In fact he loved to sing and dance, though he could do neither very well. And he enjoyed reading classic novels; Poe, Dickens, Dostoyevsky and even Austen. He'd kill me if he knew I'd told you that last one," Mac smiled.

A brief laugh went round the congregation and Mac nodded. Yes, this was how Don would've wanted it to be. He'd want it to be lighthearted, just as he had been himself.

"But Don especially liked Shakespeare and Hamlet."

Mac sighed as he felt that all too familiar sadness return that had briefly dissipated during the mention of singing and dancing.

"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?" Mac murmured. "I guess we never know until we get there ourselves. But what I do know is that wherever Don is now, he is happy and at peace. Don was everything that is good and right and pure in this world. He was one of God's angels, taken before his time, taken far too young. And I am honoured to have been blessed with knowing him even for a little while. He was my side, my safety, my heart, my all. And without him here, the world is a little bit of a darker place."

Danny lay in his hospital bed, propped up against the pillows and watched the small TV that was in the top right hand corner of his room. It was showing the Simpsons and yet not even the funny-looking yellow characters could make him smile. His mind kept going back to that basement, to what had happened down there, to those awful words he could hear on repeat in his head. "Save Danny. Take Danny to the hospital..." That had been Flack's death sentence. Save Danny and boom, the life of his best friend snuffed out just like that. Danny turned off the TV using his remote and sighed. He'd so wanted to be at the funeral, he wanted to say goodbye to Flack, he wanted to be there for his best friend and he couldn't. He couldn't do a damn thing. He was stuck in this bed and no-one seemed to know how long it would be for.

"Ah Mr Messer, I see you're awake. I'm Doctor Caramel," smiled a friendly young man in a white coat as he entered Danny's room.

Danny turned his head to look at the doctor. He was quite young, maybe thirty-five and had curly brown hair. He smiled cheerfully at Danny in an attempt to make the situation seem less dour but Danny wasn't having any of it.

"So Mr Messer, Danny, may I call you that?"

Danny nodded his head.

"Excellent. How are you feeling today?"

Danny ignored what he deemed was a stupid question and turned to stare at the opposite wall. He just wanted to be left alone.

"I'm here to explain your condition to you," Dr Caramel stated, forgoing his attempts to lighten the mood.

"Just tell me," Danny said gruffly, his voice not used to being used. He closed his eyes and braced himself. He knew what was coming, had done so since waking and discovering he couldn't move his legs. The doctors had done numerous tests on him, an MRI scan and now here he was, waiting for the inevitable.

"You have what is called Brown-Séquard syndrome. This is a loss of sensation and motor function caused by the lateral hemisection, sorry I mean cutting, of the spinal cord."

"Go on," Danny muttered, his eyes still closed, face not betraying any emotion.

"The cutting of the spinal cord in your case, resulted in the nerve fibres being damaged on the left of your spine and caused a lesion in the three main neural systems; the spinothalamic tract, the dorsal columns and the principal upper motor neuron pathway of the corticospinal tract," the doctor explained slowly.

He paused for Danny to make some sign that he'd heard and understood. When he didn't get any response he sighed and carried on regardless.

"As a result of injury to these three main brain pathways, the cut to the corticospinal tract has caused ipsilateral spastic paralysis below the lesion due to moderation of the upper motor neurons."

The doctor paused again and surveyed his patient with some concern when he didn't receive any response.

"Please, Doc, don't stop," Danny rasped, eyes never opening.

"Very well. The lesion to the fasciculus gracilishas resulted in ipsilateral loss of vibration and proprioception as well as the sensation of fine touch. And the lesion to the spinothalamic tract has resulted in a loss of pain and temperature sensation and crude touch on the contralateral side below the lesion due to where the nerve fibres crossover once they meet the spinal cord from the peripheries."

Danny nodded his head as a tear dribbled down his face. "I understand."

"Do you?" the doctor asked seriously.

Danny blinked open his eyes and stared at him. "Basically what you're saying is the lower left half of my body is completely paralysed and the lower right half will have a loss of pain, temperature and crude touch."

"I'm afraid so," Doctor Caramel nodded.

"Tell me, Doc, is it permanent?" Danny asked.

"The presentation of Brown-Séquard syndrome can be progressive and incomplete. It can advance to complete paralysis of the body. However, it is not always permanent, and progression or resolution depends on the severity of the original spinal cord injury and the underlying pathology that caused it in the first place."

"Do you know which mine is? Likely to get worse or better?" Danny muttered.

"At this stage it is too early to tell," Doctor Caramel answered honestly.

Danny nodded again and turned away. "I think I want to be alone."

"Would you like me to get a nurse to bring your wife up to see you?" Doctor Caramel asked kindly.

"No. I don't want to see anyone. I just want to be alone."

The doctor nodded sadly and then left the room.

Danny opened his eyes, not even realising that he'd closed them and noticed his wife sat beside him, head held in her hands. He wondered if she was crying.

"Don't cry," he rasped.

Her head shot up. "Danny. I thought you were asleep."

"Thinking."

Lindsay nodded and then gently touched his hand.

"How was it?" he asked.

"I only stayed for the service. But it was nice, well, as nice as these things can be. Stella was there. And Mac spoke well."

Danny grimaced and turned his head. He couldn't bear to think of Mac right now.

"It wasn't his fault, Danny," Lindsay murmured.

"I know. It was Andrew Bedford right? He did this to me. He killed Flack. He destroyed our lives. And why was he here? Who brought him into our lives?" Danny snarled before coughing and taking a sip of water from the glass by his bed.

Lindsay looked away she couldn't bear to see Danny like this. Hating Mac, hating himself.

"Danny, Bedford is the only one to blame here. Mac couldn't control his actions..."

"He shouldn't have picked me," Danny snarled suddenly and then coughed again.

"Why? So that you'd be dead right now? So I'd be alone with two kids? You can't blame what happened to Flack on yourself or on Mac. It was a terrible, terrible thing that happened but it's not your fault."

Danny shook his head. "You have no idea what it's like. Absolutely no idea. To sit here knowing that your best friend died for you to be alive."

Lindsay looked away. They'd been through this countless times now. Danny was clearly suffering from survivor's guilt. He blamed himself, the fact that he was still alive, for Flack's death. He knew if he had died, then Flack would still be alive and well. But ultimately he blamed Mac, he blamed Mac for choosing him over Flack.

"Would you like to see the baby?" Lindsay asked changing the subject. "The doctors said I can take him home in a week."

"Well at least someone's told him," Danny muttered. "It's more than they've told me."

Lindsay stood up. "I'll go and ask if he can be brought up."

"No!"

Lindsay stared at her husband. "What?"

"I don't want to see him."

"Danny..." Lindsay struggled with what she wanted to say. She couldn't understand him. She knew he was angry, upset, scared but the baby should make him happy. Make him think about the future.

"I don't want to see him," Danny repeated.

Lindsay ran a hand through her hair and sat back down. She still felt tired, ill and exhausted from everything that had happened. Danny's mother was still taking care of Lucy but she couldn't do that forever. Lucy would need to be with her parents and Lindsay was well aware that any pain or discomfort she was feeling she'd have to put aside so she could look after her little girl. Not to mention the new baby would be coming home in a week and then Danny hopefully. Her whole family would need her, and need her to be strong. She was the glue that was holding them together at the moment.

"Have you thought what we might call him?" Lindsay asked quietly.

"No."

"Any suggestions? You wanted something Italian didn't you?"

"Don't care. You decide."

Lindsay breathed deeply, trying to keep her patience.

"I want to call him Don."

Danny turned to stare at her. "What?"

"I want to name him Don."

"Like that will bring him back?" Danny laughed.

Lindsay blinked her tears away. "No. But Flack was going to be the godfather. It seems appropriate."

"Whatever," Danny muttered, shaking his head and then turning away. He picked up the remote and turned the TV back on. Another Simpson's episode had started.

"Danny, I..." she started.

"Hey Linds?" Danny murmured, looking at her.

"Yes?" she said hopefully.

"I wanna watch this, if you don't mind."

Lindsay nodded trying not to fall apart and then stood. "I'm going to see Donny and then get him registered."

Danny watched her leave and then flicked off the TV. He sat and stared numbly into the nothingness of his room.

"Thank you for coming today, Stella," Mac said gratefully as they walked the last few steps up to his floor.

"Of course I was going to come, Mac," Stella replied.

"Don had a lot of friends," Mac murmured thoughtfully.

"Of course he did. He was very likeable," Stella laughed.

Mac smiled at her. God, he'd missed her being here. She always managed to make the best out of a bad situation.

"When do you have to go back?" he asked as they walked along to his apartment.

"Tomorrow I'm afraid. You know what it's like..." she said apologetically.

Mac nodded. "Sinclair has ordered me to take a few days off."

"And so you should, Mac," Stella said sincerely. "It's not healthy to dive straight back into work. Especially not when your work is dealing with death."

Mac sighed as he searched for his key. "I'm not sure what I supposed to do."

Stella laughed a little. "That's because you never take time off."

Mac found himself smile slightly as he opened his door. "Are you coming in?" he asked.

"I can't," she apologised. "I promised I'd catch up with a few people whilst I'm in town. But I'll come by later on."

Mac nodded. "Sure. It would be nice to spend an evening not alone."

Stella felt something clutch at her heart and placed a hand on Mac's arm. "You're not alone, Mac."

"I miss you, Stella," Mac finally admitted.

"I miss you too, Mac," she smiled and gave him a hug. "I'll see you later on. You did well today."

Mac nodded and then closed his door as she turned down the corridor. He walked into his apartment and paused as he looked at the boxes. No. No, he couldn't do it yet. He couldn't look at the remnants of Don's life. It had been so easy to throw everything into boxes, to hide it all away so he wouldn't be reminded everyday of what he'd lost. But it hadn't worked. The pain of losing Don was still so close, Don was still so close, even if he'd hidden him away.

A knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts and he smiled as he thought Stella must have come back. He went to the door and opened it.

"Stella, I thought you said..."

Mac froze as his heart leapt from his chest. He took a step backwards and almost choked on his words.

"Don?!"

A/N - I have zero medical knowledge so let us all thank the wonderful internet for enabling story research!

Oh and no blasphemy meant in this story! I have nothing against God, it's just Mac does a bit at this point but only cos he's sad!