A/N: this is set in the summer of 2016

Also, the portrayal of Doc—and I should have said this when I started writing "Drowning" over 2 years ago—is based on the amazing, amazing original character Michael Jensen in the "Pranks" series by "In the House." (It's a "House, M.D." fanfic.) Her portrayal of a psychologist in what is now a 21-story series is phenomenal. The therapeutic techniques are a mix of Google and things I've absorbed from reading that series over the past seven or so years. Doc's background—his wife's name, length of their marriage, his letter-writing—are all mine.

"It might be cathartic, Alex."

"Huh?" he whispers, stuck somewhere between honeymoon bliss and professional despair. They got married four days ago. Two days ago, he got a call that one of his patients had committed suicide.

"Writing a letter to the patient you lost. It might be cathartic."

"What about catheters?" he mumbles.

She pokes him in the ribs. "Not 'catheter,' Alex. 'Catharsis'—the purification and purgation of emotions through art."

He groans. "Why'd I marry an English teacher who uses big words like 'catharsis' and 'purgation' at 6 a.m.?"

"Because you love me, Doc."

The letter-writing had been her idea—that was the English PhD in her, always finding comfort in words.

And she'd been right—it had helped.

Every time he lost a patient, he wrote that patient a letter.

He'd come home; she'd know just by looking at him, make him a cup of hot cocoa with a generous slug of whiskey in it, and give him the nice stationery and the pen.

She'd sit there quietly while he wrote the letter, then hold him while he cried or yelled or swore or did whatever he needed to do that particular time.

During the six years of bliss they'd had together—four of those years, he'd been in private practice—he'd lost five patients.

He wishes now that he'd married her sooner instead of waiting until they finished their dissertations, wishes they'd had more time. Because the bliss had been eaten up way too quickly by the disease that ultimately killed her—the one he couldn't spell or pronounce.

In thirteen years of practice, he's lost eleven patients. Eleven letters, carefully kept for 5 years, then copied and the originals burned.

85% of his patients are cops.

100% of his patients who have killed themselves…are either NYPD or military.

He can't count the letters he's written to Siobhan…many written at night while she slept and he sat up, afraid to sleep, afraid she'd die alone…many more written since her death.

It had been during those sleepless nights next to her bedside, he'd come up with his self-description: "I'm a night owl—and an early bird"—what he tells patients when they call him panicking between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. He truly doesn't need much sleep.

The letters to Siobhan do not follow the conventions of the letters to patients. They are more than a list of five apologies. They are flowery and full of love—and of rage at the injustice of the universe that took her from him too soon.

And now Michael wants him to write a letter to his living patient.

He isn't sure what he should say…what Michael wants him to say…what Danny needs to hear. Yes, he needs to apologize for crossing one of his personal cardinal rules: no contact unless the patient initiates it—but apart from that, what does one say in a letter to a patient who threw hot cocoa on one?

He skips the fancy pen and stationery, gets a legal pad and the pen he uses at the office. This one's going to need a lot of writing and re-writing and editing.

Dear Detective Reagan.

He crosses that out.

Dear Danny,

He crosses that out.

Dear Detective Reagan,

I broke one of my cardinal rules of therapy—you tend to do that when you get close to your patients—no therapeutic contact unless the patient initiates it. This letter is breaking that rule, but… doctor's orders. My own "Doc," that is. Yes, your therapist has his own therapist.

Even though Linda asked me to come talk to you, I should have known that you weren't ready to talk…because if you were, you would have reached out.

I apologize.

Please forgive me.

I still hold to the words I had engraved on the dog-tags I gave you a year after your last suicide attempt, when I called you the strongest man I know. Because the work you put in, especially after that last attempt…that took strength.

And that strength is what's going to get you through the months of recovery for your ankle, and through whatever memories of Fallujah you still have yet to process.

I hope you can forgive me for pushing you to talk before you were ready, and I hope we can continue our doctor/patient relationship. Because I truly want to help you find peace.

Sincerely,

"Doc"

He reads it over, types it up, emails it to Michael.

His email pings with a reply less than twenty minutes later:

Good job on the letter. Now print it and mail it to Danny—or email it if you have his email, whichever you prefer.

He prints it, finds an envelope.

He unlocks his filing cabinet, finds Danny's file, gets his home address from there and addresses the envelope.

If he mails it tomorrow, Danny should have it by Thursday.