A/N: This chapter is a companion to chapter 2 of "(Not) Just a Sprain." Takes place after season 6, summer 2016

In more than ten years of practice, patients have walked out on him time and time again—usually because they're uncomfortable with the questions he's asking—but Alex has never walked out on a patient.

Until today.

He alternates between counting to 100, doing deep-breathing exercises, and counting backwards from 100 while he drives home.

In his quiet apartment, he strips off his cocoa-soaked clothes, wincing. He's got some nice first-degree burns on his upper arms and chest.

That cocoa had been scalding.

He wets a washcloth with cold water, presses it to the burns. It feels good.

"Dammit, Danny!" he says, kicking the bathroom counter. "Why won't you let me help you?"

The silence in his apartment is his only answer.

He puts antibiotic ointment and waterproof bandages on the burns, then decides against a shower and gets dressed in workout clothes. He'll go for a run later, after he processes.

He paces, gets himself a drink of water, pulls his phone out and presses speed-dial 4.

"Good morning, Alex."

"Michael. I just walked out on a patient and…he's not actively suicidal, but he has been in the past, and…I don't know what to do."

"Is this the cop you told me about? The one you talked down off a roof?"

He groans, sits down in his chair. "You told me you skipped the mind-reading class in grad school."

"I did. But in the past three years or so, there's only been one patient who's gotten consistently under your skin. What happened?"

"He got injured on the job; it stirred up his PTSD—similar injury to one he had in combat. His wife called me because he's not sleeping, and he's having almost constant flashbacks. When I asked him to tell me about the combat-related injury, he yelled that he didn't need me analyzing his every minute, threw his hot cocoa at me, and told me to get the hell out of his room."

"How did you react?"

"Cleaned up the mess, reminded him that he knows my number when he's ready to be honest with me, and left the room."

"How did that make you feel?"

Alex rolls his eyes. "Isn't there a different version of that question you ask your fellow shrinks?" he deflects. He's known Michael since his college days; he'd been his professor, and then Alex had turned to him as patient to therapist after his wife died in 2007. He shivers a little at the memory. The nine-year anniversary is coming up soon.

"Alex? Are you still there?"

He blinks. "Yeah, sorry, Michael. What did you ask me?"

"Where'd you go just now?"

"Thinking about the first session we had—well, the first one where I wasn't drunk out of my mind and could actually tell you what happened," he adds, his voice shaky.

"Did I say something that reminded you of Siobhan?"

"No; I was just…thinking about how long I'd known you. How many times you've asked that same blasted question."

"You still haven't answered the 'blasted question.'"

He sighs. "Which one?"

"How did you feel when your patient threw hot cocoa on you?"

He puts his phone on speaker, sets it down, crosses his arms. "Angry. I'm trying to help him, and he's…being a stubborn jack $$.

"What's your plan?"

He shrugs, winces when that pulls on the burned skin. "The ball's in his court; I told him that he knew my number when he's ready to be honest with me."

"When's your next patient, Alex?"

"At 1. I have back-to-back patients until 8. Normally that 8 p.m. slot is kept open if this patient wants to drop by, but obviously that won't be happening."

"Then you have time to go write a letter to your patient and put it in your box."

He feels like he's had the air knocked out of him. "Michael, he's not…I haven't…he's still alive. I don't write letters to my living patients."

"Today, you do. I expect it in my inbox by 9 p.m. I know you hand-write them, but I want to see this one. Got it?"

"Yeah," Alex mutters, and hangs up on his friend and fellow shrink.

Damn you, Danny Reagan.