Title: Turn Back the Clocks

Summary: A post-Paraguay story. Mac is forced into counseling, and comes to terms with Paraguay, Harm, and her life in general.

Part Seven: Mac

I hand an elderly woman my ticket and force my mouth into a smile. She returns the smile, although hers is much more genuine, and hands me a program. I step past her into the lobby and take a deep breath. I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm actually out of my apartment on a Friday night, and I'm doing more than picking up a carton of Thai food. I'm not doing anything exciting - just attending a lecture at the Smithsonian Art Museum on Paleolithic cave art. But it's something. I'm out of my apartment and I'm in a surprisingly crowded auditorium. I feel like it's a start, and I'm pleased I'll have something new to tell Dr. Peyton on Tuesday. Unfortunately, being here is completely terrifying, and I feel shame at how low I've let myself get. I used to do this all the time. I've always been a regular at the Natural History Museum's lecture series, and now I feel like I need a round of applause or a stiff drink just for stepping into this building.

I make my way to the bar and ask for a bottle of water. I pay for the drink and make my way into the auditorium. The seats are filling up quickly, but I'm on my own and I'm not picky. I slide into an end seat a few rows from the front and take a deep breath. I usually hate end seats, but I just don't have it in me to squeeze by dozens of people looking for something better. The end will be fine. I look around the room, partially just checking out the crowd and partially making sure I don't see any familiar faces. I'm not surprised that I don't see anyone I know. It's Friday night. I imagine the people I know home with their families or out with their significant others. I imagine Harm and Catherine Gale in his apartment. I can see it so clearly – the dim lighting, candles on the table, a gourmet meal, a bottle of wine… It's so vivid in my head I briefly wonder if my psychic abilities are increasing. But then the vision morphs into an actual memory, and suddenly it's not her sitting at his table. It's me. It's not a bottle of wine, but a bottle of sparkling water. And I'm on the verge of tears again. I open my program quickly and flip through it, trying to calm myself, and I spend a few minutes taking in the photographs and reading the captions.

"Mind if I join you?"

I jump at the proximity of the voice and look up. I raise my eyebrows in surprise - it's Sophie, the owner of that coffee shop. "Uh, you can if you'd like." She smiles, squeezes past my legs and sits in the chair next to mine. I watch her for a moment. She takes out a notepad and a pen, as well as a tape recorder and I have to admit I'm curious.

She realizes I'm watching her and looks at me. She blushes slightly and sets the pen on the notebook. "I'm writing a book. This event is research."

I nod. "What kind of book?"

"A novel. Kind of DaVinci Code-esque. Only instead of trying to find the Holy Grail, my protagonist is sucked into a mystery involving ancient cave art in France."

I wish I could pretend that premise didn't sound appealing to me, but it does. "Honestly that sounds better than The DaVinci Code." She beams and I can't help but smile.

"So, what brings you here?"

I shrug. "I just needed to get out of my apartment and this sounded interesting." Sophie nods and I open my water. I take a long drink and stare at the giant screen. I feel tired all of a sudden. Being around people when I've been completely alone for so long is exhausting. I was never the most outgoing person, but since I've been in Washington, I've actually had an active social life. Most of that has been thanks to Harm and my job, but there was also Mic and Harriet. I liked having a social life. I liked going out on the weekends and having dinners out. I liked the easy conversation and the laughter. I liked feeling normal. It was what I had always wanted when I was a young woman. I wanted friends, and pretty clothes, and handsome men and for a while I had it, and felt like I was living in a dream world. Even though most of the women I worked with weren't close friends, it was more than I had ever had. And then one day it was all gone. I had gone without friendship and companionship for so long, most of my life really, and when everyone first turned their backs on me, I thought I could easily slip back into a solitary existence, but it wasn't that easy. I had learned to love people. And now I found myself missing people. And now being around people is terrifying because I don't know if I'll ever let myself love someone ever again.

I realize too late that Sophie is saying something and I swallow and look at her. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. My mind was somewhere else."

She looks at me for a long moment, and I wish I knew what she thought of me. She knew, or at least assumed that I met Holly in therapy. How fucked up did she think that I was?

"I asked if you'd spoken to Holly since Thursday."

I shake my head. "No." I decide I don't care if she knows I'm in therapy. I don't know her, and I don't need to pretend to be anyone I'm not for her. "We spoke briefly after therapy that night. But she took off after a few minutes and I haven't heard from her since." Sophie looked disappointed, and I felt guilty about that, which in turn made me feel ridiculous. "I know you were glad she wanted to confide in me, but I doubt I can be much good to her."

"Why? Because you're in therapy too?" Sophie shrugged. "That doesn't make you the outcast that you think it does. A lot of people are in therapy. Hell, I'm in therapy. Recognizing that you need help and getting it is a good thing in my opinion."

I'm surprised at her admission, and I'm envious at how free she is with that information. I think about how I do feel a tiny bit better than I did before the Admiral ordered me to see a therapist. I'm not happy by any means, but I no longer think of just ending it all and it's easier to get out of bed in the mornings. That's something, right?

At that moment the lights begin to dim and a woman in an ill-fitting suit steps onto the stage and introduces the speaker. I hear the click of Sophie's tape recorder and the scratching of pen against paper, and I try to lose myself in the images that have started moving across the giant screen.

"Would you like to get dinner? I'm starving." I look at Sophie and wonder again if this is Dr. Peyton's doing. Part of me really wants to go. But I'm spent and I shake my head.

"I'm exhausted. I think I just need to get home."

Sophie looks disappointed, but nods. "Okay. I guess I'll see you around then." She gives me a small wave and heads to the parking lot. I watch her for a minute and head to my own car, trying to tune out the sounds of people talking and laughing as they head home. The sounds make me feel even more alone. I finally reach my car and slide in. I reach for my cellphone and I see that I have a voice mail and I'm instantly filled with dread. The encounter with Webb last night is still fresh, and I don't have it in me to deal with that again. I think about not checking the message, but that tiny voice in my head – Harm's voice – won't let me ignore it.

After I listen, I sit there in the parking lot with my phone in my lap. It was a Webb, but not the one I had been fearing. It was his mother and I play the message again so I can make note of the specifics.

"Hello Sarah. This is Porter Webb – Clayton's mother. He's at Memorial Hospital and he desperately needs to see you. Please, Sarah. I'm not a woman who begs, but I will if that will make a difference."

I hang up the phone and stare at it for a minute. I don't want to see him. I don't want to be near him. But… his mother is calling and that makes me think it's serious. And I can't help myself. Thinking of Webb needing my help has me back in that shack in Paraguay listening to his screams, and before I know it, my car is heading toward the hospital.

When I arrive, I realize Mrs. Webb never actually told me what was wrong, and I have no idea where to go. I stop in admitting and ask for help. They direct me to the fifth floor, and I thank them. The elevator ride is quiet and feels like it takes forever. I don't want forever right now. I want to get this over with and go home and go to bed. I step off the elevator and I know which room is Webb's before I even reach it. A well-dressed elderly woman is sitting in a chair outside one room, and I know it's her. I approach and she stands when she recognizes me.

"Thank you for coming."

"What's wrong with him?"

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and it's the most human gesture I've ever seen her make. "One of his neighbors found him passed out in the hallway of his building last night." She licks her lips again. "They couldn't wake him, so they called an ambulance and he was brought here. His blood alcohol level was dangerously high. I stopped at his apartment to get him a few things that he needed and…" She trailed off and put her fingers to her lips. "So many empty alcohol bottles and the smell of the place. It was just vile."

I blush, and look at my hands. She's right of course. The smell was vile. I grew up with that smell. I had never realized how bad it was until I was older and away from that life. I remember the shame I felt when my college dorm mate once came back completely trashed, and I realized that my life had always smelled as bad as she currently did.

"When I got back, I talked to him about it. And he agreed to enter a thirty-day substance abuse program. But he won't go until he has a chance to talk to you."

I nod and stand. "I'll go see him." She stands as well, and looks as if she's going to follow me. "I need to see him alone." She looks like she wants to argue, but finally nods and sits back down. I take a deep breath and open the door to his room. He's in the hospital bed, in navy satin pajamas, and he's looking toward the ceiling. I close the door behind me and he lifts his head. I nearly gasp, taken aback by his appearance. He looks like he used to – freshly shaved, a neat haircut, and I imagine getting his appearance under control was the first thing on Porter Webb's to do list. I move into the room and take a seat in one of the chairs. We stare at each other for a minute and I shrug. "I'm here. Talk."

He takes a deep breath and nods. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for dragging you into this whole mess in the first place. I'm sorry for," he blushes, "the other week and for all of my advances leading up to that. And I am so sorry about last night."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, while I try to figure out what to say. What does a person say in a moment like this? I can't offer comfort and tell him that everything is okay, because it's not okay. I can't tell him that I forgive him, because I don't. I think of the rip in my shirt and think of what could have happened last night. Finally, I nod. "Thank you."

He raises an eyebrow. "Thank you?"

I shrug. "I don't know what else to say. So, if nothing else, thank you for your apology."

"Will you accept it? Can you forgive me?"

I've never seen this side of him before. He looks lost and small. His confidence is gone. He's not the man I've known and fought with and liked for eight years. And he's also not the man I've pitied, and felt indebted to, and hated for the past few months. "I accept it, but I can't forgive you." He nods and I take a deep breath. "Not yet, anyway. I want you to heal. Go do this program and get your life together. And I need to get my life together. Maybe someday, though."

He offers me a small smile, and I stand. "I need to go."

He nods. "Thank you for coming."

"I don't think your mother would have had it any other way." I pat his leg under the blanket. "It's going to be hard." He looks confused for a moment. "Getting sober," I continue. "But you have a champion in her, like I had in my uncle Matt. You can do it if you really want to."

"I really want to." I nod and pull my hand away and walk out of the hospital room.

"You don't try to play matchmaker with your patients, do you?" Dr. Peyton looks surprised and leans back in her chair. She doesn't answer immediately, and I wonder if she's more surprised by the question or that I'm speaking without being prompted.

She smiles and crosses her legs. "I must say that if it weren't a breach of confidentiality, I would absolutely play matchmaker with certain patients. Why do you ask?"

I shrug, not sure if I should talk about Holly. Holly is her patient, but this is all confusing for me. I decide to talk, figuring that she would stop me if I say anything inappropriate. "Holly in group. She reached out to me after my first session. And I have to admit at first I thought that maybe she was planted there by you to get me to open up." Dr. Peyton shifts in her seat, and I shake my head. "I know that's not the case. She and I went for coffee last week before group and I got to know her situation a little better."

"Sarah, I can't talk about Holly."

I shake my head. "Oh, I know. But we went to this coffee shop and the woman who owns it is a friend of hers. Anyway. I ran into the friend the other night at a Smithsonian lecture, and she sat with me and invited me to dinner afterward. She mentioned that she was also in therapy and I wondered about the matchmaking thing."

She smiles at me and I lean back against the sofa pillows. "How was dinner?"

I wince, and her smile fades. "I didn't go."

"Why not?"

"I was so tired." I study my hands for a moment and then look up at her again. "Just going to the lecture took more out of me than I expected."

Her face softens and she nods. "Was this your first time going out?"

I nod. "Yeah. Since before everything happened. I had thought going to a lecture would be easy. But parking was a nightmare and the auditorium was crowded. It was more stressful than I expected." She beams at me, and I fidget on the couch. "What?"

"I'm proud of you, Sarah. A crowded parking lot, a crowded auditorium. You could have left. But instead you sucked it up and stayed. I know it feels like a small thing, but it is progress."

Her words please me, and I give her a small smile and a nod. "I actually do feel like I'm making progress. I feel better than I did when I first started seeing you."

"I'm really glad." She reaches for her water and takes a sip. "So. What would you like to talk about today?" I shrug and she glances at her notepad. "Okay. Let's talk about what you brought up in group on Thursday – a new job."

I take a deep breath and my gaze moves to my hands again. Only this time instead of studying my cuticles, I stare at my ring. "He was willing to let me die there." My voice comes out as a whisper and I barely recognize it.

"Your boss?" I nod. "Have you spoken to him about this?"

"No." I think of AJ Chegwidden and the man he once was. The man who let me go to Russia after Harm, and who even came after us himself. The man who delivered AJ Roberts in his office, and agreed to give me away at my wedding. "No. He's changed too. I don't know how to talk to him anymore."

"What would you do? If you leave the military. Have you thought anymore about what the new job would be?"

"I've thought about it a little since Thursday night. Like I said, I would like to continue practicing law. I just don't know what kind of law. I learned a long time ago that I'm not cut out for corporate law. I keep thinking about family law, but I don't know if anyone would want a lawyer with my background."

I turn on the lights in my apartment and set my purse on the counter. I've almost always lived alone, so my apartment has almost always been quiet when I come home. But since Paraguay the quiet is oppressive and creepy, and I feel the need to bathe the whole place in as much light as I can. As usual there is so much on my mind after a session, and my head is spinning with thoughts of the admiral, of Webb, of Harm. I pick up the phone to call him – Harm, and I wonder if he's listened to any of my messages. Or does he hear my voice and immediately hit delete? I try not to think about that. I try to tell myself that he does listen to them. We were friends for such a long time. Much longer than we've been estranged. And I know he's angry and hurt, but surely some part of him has to still care about me.

And then I feel something I haven't felt in a really long time. I feel angry. I'm furious at him for not telling me about Singer. I'm furious about the way we both acted in Paraguay. I'm still angry at myself and I probably always will be, but I'm starting to feel anger towards him. Why couldn't he just tell me he resigned his commission for me? Why did he take the affection I showed Webb and turn it into more than what it was? Why are we incapable of having an adult conversation about how we feel instead of just relying on innuendo and sarcasm? I think back to the moment we had in bed, before Gunny and Webb returned. Why couldn't he just tell me that he was willing to do anything to find me? Instead we had the most inane conversation about his fake marriage to Catherine Gale.

I dial his number and wait for the machine to pick up. I finally hear the new recording and fight the urge to cry. I refuse to cry over this again. I hear the beep I've been waiting for, and I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I try again, but nothing. Finally, I clear my throat. "Hey, it's me. For the first time I don't really have anything to say to you, and I don't know what that means. But I hope you're safe. And I hope you're happy. Take care of yourself, Harm."

End Part 7