A/N: Hey guys, sorry it took me a while to update. I kinda had a birthday in the past few days with a generous sprinkling of family issues…Anyway, thanks to JJ, Kayla, Leslie Emm, SomebodyWhoCares, and Smuffly for the great reviews on Don's POV in the last chapter.

Characters: Det. Don Flack Jr/OC – Savannah 'Anna' Patia Cormier, Danny/Lindsay, Mac Taylor, and other members of CSI NY.

Set: Mostly AU after season 6.

Rating: M

Warnings: Swearing and angst.

Disclaimer: I do not in any way own CSI NY or affiliates. I'm using the characters to no profit. I do not own the song or song lyrics at the beginning of each chapter that inspire me. But I wish that there were a few clones of Don Flack…mmmm….Oh, but I do own Savannah Cormier.

Finding Our Way – Chapter 25 – Fleeing Comfort

Cos everyone's waiting
But it's getting harder to hear
What my heart keeps saying
Turn it off, I wanna turn it all off

Missy Higgins – Everyone's Waiting

Savannah POV

I have to be careful not to speed as I leave New York behind me, twinkling brightly in my rear-view mirror. It would ruin everything if I got caught for speeding. Something else I don't need.

I'm so torn already, that would be another stressor.

It's funny, everyone is so skeptical when another person says they're torn about a decision. It's like 'yeah right, how can you be torn? It's just a choice you have to make, surely there's a right path.' No such thing right now. I'm torn. Torn straight in two, a perfect half on either side of the line – between emotion and logic, instinct pulling me two different ways. Every mile that I travel my heart longs to be back in Don's bed, snuggling into the warmth and security I yearn for.

And yet, at the same time, another part of me knows that this is the right decision. I have to leave for a few days to take a good, hard look at myself. I have to be able to live with myself after shooting someone else in self defence.

I can just imagine what would happen if I stayed with Don. He'd be the most amazing man to me, making sure I'm getting on alright. But I fear – and it scares me only half as much as thinking I was going to die a few days ago – that if I depend on him to prop me up with this issue that I'll end up being too dependent on him in time. And then he won't try and challenge me to get me to do things and I'll be satisfied in trying to find myself and end up being a completely different person than what I am.

Irrational? Slightly. Do I need to get away? Definitely.

Oh damn, here come the tears again.

So I don't cause a crash, I quickly and safely pull over as they overwhelm me again. I'm resolutely pulled forwards and backwards. Between love and peace, and how does a person chose between which one they want to fulfil more?

I know the flip side to this. What if I end up healing myself and I come home and Don breaks up with me?

That would render me asunder further.

"You gotta go, Savannah," I say to myself, wiping away the tears. I take a deep breath and keep driving. I've left a note for Aunt Emilie and Jacks explaining what I'm doing and asking that they pardon my flight – and the fact I've taken the car. Being my family, I'm hoping they'll be more understanding than most. I can only hope this isn't going to backfire on me.

I don't have a clear idea of where I'm going. All I know is that I'm heading north and I intend to find a place that has a lot of nature.

It was mid-morning by the time I finally found a place that I could find myself getting in touch with myself and coping with what I've done.

It's called the Rose and Thistle B&B. I'm in Connecticut somewhere, I don't know. I think I saw a sign somewhere announcing a town starting with 'B.' I chose this place because of the surroundings. The place is on the edge of a secluded valley: Beautiful, sprawling gardens, and there's a waterfall, a small one, not far from here open to the public during the day. It's a quaint, peaceful place. I almost didn't get a room because of the dark rings around my eyes and my fatigued features. The manager of the place took my bank card and suspiciously looked at it, asking, "You're not on the run from the police are you? You have that look…"

"No sir. I'm on the run from sadness," I informed him respectfully, giving him a small smile.

I think the smile changed everything, for he nodded and beckoned to a young woman standing off to the side. "Hazel, take our new guest Ms. Cormier to the Moonlight Room," the manager instructed.

I eagerly followed Hazel to my room, dragging my duffel bag with belongings behind me. Now that I was here, I felt the all consuming need to sleep.

The young woman opened the door to a large, clean room, perfect for spending up to a week in. I instantly knew this was the right place to stop. It was calming with light blues and whites and I knew that I'd be able to get my thoughts organised here. I thanked Hazel and turned to the bed. I crawled on it, flopping down. My last thought before I slept was of Don, most likely already having found my letter.

Dusk is beautiful here.

I don't feel trapped or enclosed, like the world is pressuring me. I really feel like I've just travelled halfway across the world to get away from New York when I've only hopped one state away and not that far either. It's almost summer but the refreshing burst of spring is still in the air here. From my window I see the young woman, Hazel, and an older lady (must be her mother for they looked alike) tending to the bright, beautiful gardens. It's so tempting, just to go out there and lay next to them.

But I deny myself.

Why?

I need to work through what I feel first. If I don't, I'll just tamp it all down below a false face of happiness and laughter. And then this trip, this risk, will all be for nothing. I need to sort myself out. I feel so…burdened by what I've done.

To put it shortly, I feel like a leper.

No matter how much Don, or Jacks, or anyone tells me that what I did needed to be done – one of those terrible things that needed to be done – it still feels so wrong to me. I'm an alien in my own body. I feel like anyone who looks at me can tell that I've taken away someone's life.

It makes me wonder, the murderers, the coldblooded ones, the serials…how do they handle it? This slash across their lives, this complete darkening of their hearts…or am I just unusually sensitive? Or do I just care so much about everyone and everything that I take it on so much and in the end it takes its toll on me? I know I can't be sad that I'm alive while the man, Grant, is dead. I was so relieved I have another day with my family, with my friends, with my love, and I still am. The other side is that there is possibly someone out there weeping over Grant.

My detective friends might scoff at that. Whether it's true or not, it doesn't matter.

I took his life to save my own, and I have to make peace with that. I can't do that in New York. As much as Don loves me and cares about me, I think he'd be overprotective to the point where I wouldn't be able to find my absolution. I'd have advice thrown at me in so many directions from everyone my head would spin. I can't have advice. I need to listen to my heart.

I move to the bed, pulling my notebook from my bag and a pen.

The inkball is poised, ready for me to move it.

Where do I begin?

I wait a few moments, and then I write 'I am lucky to be alive.' It's the laying of a foundation. Something solid. I have to keep coming back to that point. I'm very lucky to be breathing still. Grant's bullet could have taken my life too. He could have started killing as soon as he entered my cafe and slaughtered not only Paula, but the rest of my staff and customers and I. It would be a horrible massacre. I'm lucky I even had a gun – if not for Don when he decided to get me gun licensed, I would have never had it.

The next heading: 'You saved others.' Self explanatory.

'I wish I had never been placed in that position.' That is the crux of the matter. I never should have to be in a position where the only choice is either me dead or my opponent dead.

It's sad how greed over a matter of drugs and money led to this.

The writing flows after that, sentences turn into paragraphs as I count my blessings and curse that I was unprepared for such emotional backlash.

In the moments after I shot the drug dealer, I hated myself with the heat of a thousand suns. I was the most, lowly, disgusting human ever. That passed, but I was scared with how strong it was. Is that how people who are suicidal feel just before they take that jump or hack their own skin open? If that's true, I feel even more empathy for anyone that feels like that. It's a tidal wave of black emotion. I'm still not comfortable with myself, but that's the purpose of me being here.

I pause and change direction in my writing.

I write about how terrified I was.

This was how scared I was after Wallace kidnapped me times ten at least. Not only did I have myself to worry about, but what about Jacks? What about my customers? Luckily, there had been no children on the day – that would have been even more tricky to handle! – but it's among the blessings I count that no kids were around. Would I have acted sooner if someone like Callum Brent or Lucy Messer (who I both adore) had been there? Numerous, rhetorical questions scribbled down between lines of my own stomach tightening in anxiety at the time. I was also so scared that if I died, the effect it would have on other people.

I was scared that Don would go over the edge.

He was so angry that I landed in the hospital after the Waverly fight. Not at me, but at the trouble I got into through no fault of my own. There's this little thread of fear behind the anger and the concern he expressed that he'll lose me. It's understandable. After all, his last girlfriend got gunned down. After the way we found each other and healed, I think losing me would hit him worse than anything else before – because we're so emotionally invested in each other. We're so connected on many levels and it's more than love. It's understanding of pain, it's respect, it's laughter and playfulness, it's desire as well. So many things I can't even describe. To have another life slip through his fingers would turn Don bitter and hard for a few years at the very least.

I would rather lose him than he lose me. I don't want him to ever go through the same pain he went through with Jess. Me? I'd break down, but I'd manage.

I always manage.

With a sigh, I write one final sentence on the third and final page of my ramblings, my method of purging:

'I forgive myself for having to take his life, but no regret for saving myself.'

If I remember that, I know each day it'll be easier to see myself as me…not an outsider.

The moonlight shines through the sheer curtains and highlights the teardrops on the notepaper. Drops I didn't even know fell. Tucking the book away, I gaze out the glass and over the scenery presented to me.

The temptation is too strong.

I wander out of the room, locking the door behind me, and kneel in the centre of the garden where all the flowerbeds meet. I'm sure I'm quite a sight! I've got on an old green shirt with a smiley face on it and jeans, my hair I threw into a careless, messy side plait to get it out of my eyes, and I don't think I've smiled truly for a few days. I must look crazy, just sitting here in the garden and staring at the flowers. Doing nothing but admiring their innocence.

About half an hour later, someone approaches me.

I notice it was the lady working in the garden earlier.

She tilts her head to the side. "Y'know, my husband, the manager of this place was uncertain about you. But one thing I've found is that those who visit the garden are just folks trying to figure things out."

Her point? No idea, so I tentatively ask, "Are you kicking me out of the garden?"

"No. Just saying that I recognise a searching soul when I see one – I'll make sure my husband doesn't pry, he can be overly suspicious. Stay out as long as you like…just be careful of the begonias, they are freshly planted," the woman replied.

I nod in reply and she leaves. It's nice of her to say that. I don't know many other people who are so accommodating.

I go back to my room not long after. I'm weary from the emotions I'm fluctuating between. I hug myself after eating a quick meal of a few muesli bars and an apple from the stocks I filled up on when I got into Connecticut. It's not much, but I'm not up to the effort of going out and finding something to eat or making something in the tiny kitchenette here. For the time I'm here, I don't want to cook.

It'd feel wrong somehow.

When I finally sleep, it's with tears as I realise that I've well and truly run away.

The next day is harder.

Nightmares visited me last night, pulling their chariots of fear and anger. I dreamed that I had died, a body in the many as the drug dealers went mad, murdering us all. And then, it changed. I acted in self-defence, I made the shot…only for Grant to morph into Jacks and causing me to kill her instead. I wouldn't wake from these, trapped in my imagination. The final one before I broke free is Don cynically laughing at me, fury etched on every line on his face as he rejects me, slamming a massive door in my face.

I woke early in the morning, around 4am, due to these terrors, sweating and shaking, tears dampening the pristine pillows. I went back to sleep but it wasn't for long. I was too tense.

What makes this morning worse is the environment beyond my room.

It's a bright, beautiful day outside, calling with sweet birdsong and yet I impose my own gloom on myself. I feel so unworthy of the joys of nature. All I want to do it cry quietly until my tears dry up and just stay under the covers.

Knowing I can't do that is what gets me up and to the Bed & Breakfast's little dining hall where the breakfast included in the room price is served. As soon as I step into the room, I can smell hot maple syrup. Pancakes. Oh, that's going to help in my effort to get in tune with myself – a nice homey breakfast to start the day. I greet the other people staying at the Rose and Thistle as cheerfully as I can given my mood.

I'm usually the one to sit next to strangers, engage them in conversation and bring out the best in them if I can.

Today, I sit far removed as Hazel brings me breakfast.

I check my phone, turning it on for just a few minutes to see how many calls I've gotten.

Oh.

Thirty missed calls and twenty messages.

Over half of those missed calls are from Don and the rest are either from Jacks or the CSI family, and one or two are from the insurance companies that handle my cafe. I can deal with all of those later. My finger hovers over Don's name. Do I call him, hear his voice and get pulled back to New York out of my own guilt? No. I can't.

I'll…I'll text him later. I don't think I'm strong enough right now to deal with the fallout of me leaving.

As I eat my food, I can't shake the feeling that the other people in the room are staring at me and know what I've done. It's a prickly feeling up my spine that won't be shaken. I finish the rest of the breakfast quickly and escape to the garden, slowing my anxious breathing and reminding myself of what I wrote last night.

It's so hard to come to terms with this.

How do I move on from this so that the weight of my conscience doesn't drag around behind me like the proverbial ball and chain?

"Do you have an answer for me?" I whisper to the flowers at my feet.

They merely sway in the breeze on their green filigree stalks.

I sigh and meander to my room, grabbing my bag. I might as well explore my surroundings if I can't find something immediate to quench the hurt and pain locked within me.

I have to admit…it's really picturesque here. Like time slowed and technology doesn't exist. Little stalls selling their homemade wares pop up on the side of the roads near the more modern shops, but even they seem to be stuck in time. There's nothing sleek and new about it, it's all homey, warm, if slightly rough around the edges. It's all a little bit romanticised, but pretty nonetheless. I stop at as many stalls as I can, marvelling over the fresh honey I found and a bracelet with the pendant of St. Christopher – the saint of safe travels – I bought off an old man who sat behind a chestnut tree with his wares.

While some stall owners aren't up to chatting with outsiders, there are the others who are comfortable talking to me, telling me about the local treasures like the wineries and the state forest as well as the best places to eat. I note down everything I'm told before heading back to the B&B in the afternoon. I'll discover the recommended places tomorrow.

As I pass the sign informing visitors about the waterfall, it piques my curiosity.

I'm here. I might as well take a quick look to see what it's like.

I take a detour down the path and then when I eventually get there, I'm breathless.

It's amazing.

It's not a big waterfall, maybe just over two storeys high, the water cascading down to a wide bay before it thins in the distance to a strip of a river. I watch from the pathway as someone jumps from a ledge splitting the water flow and into the water below. They surface, excitedly grinning.

The urge to do the same is just so strong. I watch as other people jump from the same ledge, a man in boardshorts and a shirt with a logo I can't make out from here on the pocket letting them know when it's safe to jump. It looks like a thrilling experience. One I want.

Maybe I can feel free.

Making the impulsive decision to just do it before I doubt myself, I turn and rush back to the B&B. I change into the old shorts and shirt I brought with me and head back to the waterfall.

As I come around, the man acting like a lifeguard sees me at the end of the line and says, "You're the last for today."

I nod at him, and suddenly it feels that much more special that I'll be the last person to jump off the top of the waterfall today.

Ten people take their time diving off the stony ledge, whooping and cheering with delight. I take it all in. The trees overhead, a shady canopy to this little slice of paradise, and the sun sinking slowly beyond the horizon, winking out at the turn of the new night. When it's finally my turn, the instructor murmurs, "Take your time. No rush. You are the last after all."

I stride forward to the edge of the rocky precipice, careful not to slip with the watery mist spraying up and wetting the rocks. I curl my toes to grip, taking deep breaths and staring down into the clear pool below. The wind picks up at that moment, tossing my hair about behind me. I raise my arms to either side of me and suddenly, everything fades. Everything but the beating of my heart, the wind carrying me, and the sound of the water thundering all around me. A wild laugh escapes me as I finally take a big push off from the outcrop.

I'm flying.

In those scant, precious seconds, I'm flying through the air, all my grief and anger, hate, loneliness and loss of direction whipped away by the wind rushing past me. I get into a safe position to enter the water, and take a deep breath of the fresh air. When I hit the water, it's like I'm being cleansed. The water is cool, wonderfully clear, and buoys my body towards the surface. It's soothing.

I needed that. I needed something different to pull me out of the rut of self-pity and misery. A jolt of adrenaline.

Swimming through the water to reach the bank so I can pull myself out, it's like the fluid is holding me up, giving me the strength, sustaining my flagging spirits so I can keep working through the conflict I'm going through.

When I return to the room and change, curling up on the bed, I write and write in my notebook, filling page after page of emotion and then, something new. Coping mechanisms. Things to look forward to each day now that I'm alive. Goals to set, things to do when I get back to New York. I don't pay any mind to my hungry stomach or to the time. While the motivation to write is there, I'll use it.

It's 1.15am in the morning when my fingers are finally exhausted enough that I can't note down anything else.

I stare at my phone lying next to the clock.

I promised myself I'd reopen communications up with Don so he doesn't come looking for me if he gets too worried about me. I know it's late, but…surely a text is better than nothing.

Text to: Don

From: Savannah

I don't know how open you are to me right now. But, if you're still worried about me, I'll be emailing you about my days starting from tomorrow. Just so that you can see I'm okay.

I turn my phone off after that. I still don't think I'm ready to actually talk to him and hear how he feels about me leaving. Because I know it'd be painful for the both of us. Until I return to New York, I need to eliminate any obstacles to having a free talk with Don.

A/N: So…this is a bit all over the place too, but I felt like it was really needed as with the last chapter, because they're both a bit messed up by this. Reviews are always appreciated.