He wants things to be back to normal, the way they were before that punk kid pulled out a gun and shot the love of his life.

He gets the physical recovery.

What he's struggling to comprehend—is the fear: Linda's absolute terror at him leaving the house.

And she'd gotten entirely too close that morning, when she'd said: "I was shot, Danny, okay? You can say it. I…was shot."

He doesn't want to say the words out loud. He likes the circumlocution—"after what happened." Because saying the words…Linda and shot in the same sentence…scares the crap out of him.

It's the same fear he feels when he thinks about Fallujah.

And maybe that's part of why he keeps resisting when Linda tells him Bennett wants to talk to him. He's seeing Doc; he doesn't need another shrink in his life, trying to get inside his head and blame all his issues on his childhood, trying to…ask him what he's so afraid of.

Because he doesn't have a fear problem—he has an anger problem. Doc (bless his heart) would say they're the same thing—the anger problem is because of other emotions he doesn't wanna face—but if that's the case, he doesn't wanna know it.

He hates himself for it, but it's…easier…to…be angry at Linda for being afraid, than to admit that he's the one who's terrified that he's gonna lose her.

Erin looks him in the eye and says: "How much of your angst for this case is about the case, and how much of it is about Linda, who's trembling every time you walk out the door?"

He storms off, pretty sure steam's coming out his ears, until he gets to his car, when he locks the door and bangs his fist on the steering-wheel.

He has to get this cop-killer—so Linda can relax. Because he can't…

It's been five months.

Five months of Linda begging him every single day not to go to work.

After the disastrous sessions with Bennett, he'd blown off Doc for months. But he sends him a text after work one Monday, and the reply is prompt: "The 7 p.m. hour is free for you, any time you want to show up, Danny. I'll be here."

He tells Doc everything, and after a minute of silence, the younger man says carefully: "Is Linda really the one living in fear? I mean, everything you've just told me, sounds perfectly normal for someone who was shot—especially when that person is not used to guns and bullets, unlike you."

"What are you saying to me, Doc? You're saying I'm the one who's afraid?"

"Think about it, Danny. You can't even say the words 'Linda' and 'shot' in the same sentence—to her, to me, to anyone. So you're falling back on old coping mechanisms—being angry and snapping at her—to hide the fact that you're scared senseless of losing her."

He winces. Doc may have just hit the nail on the head. "So…what do I do? How do I fix this?"

"Go home, talk to her, tell her how scared you are."

He goes home, and does exactly what Doc had said.

And Linda—more than anything Doc had said—Linda tells him how she deals with her fear every time he walks out the door: "You learn to live with it. And to be grateful…when the door opens and we get to be together again."

After a tender kiss, she's the one who holds him while he sobs out months of fear.

He's exhausted, but also strangely lighter…cleansed, maybe?...by the time his sobs slow, and he wipes his eyes. "Sorry about that. I…I'm sorry, babe."

"It's okay, Danny. Just…next time, tell me you're afraid, instead of getting snippy at me for having PTSD. Okay?"

"I…didn't know I was afraid. Or at least didn't wanna admit it. It took a session with Doc after work—that's why I called you and said I'd be home late."

"I love you."

He kisses her again, rests a hand on her side over the scar—the scar she hasn't let him see because they haven't made love since that one disastrous time he hurt her barely a week after surgery.

"Love you more, Linda," he says, even though that's usually her line.

"I love you most. Come give me a bath? I'll let you see both scars," she says, and he follows her upstairs; and when they've united again as one flesh and are dozing in bed, Danny realizes that knot in his chest that's been there since she got shot, is gone.

He's gonna be okay—as long as she's next to him.

They're both gonna be okay.

And he's gonna try to be less of a jerk and less angry and more patient. 'Cause Linda deserves nothing less.