Hey guys. Sorry it's been a while, life's just been a little full on of late – and while I haven't been feeling great at all, I've finally gotten around to writing this chapter. I genuinely hope you enjoy it because it's taken me a lot to finish this. Speaking of which, thanks to Lily for convincing me to finish this; it means a lot that people want me to see this one through.

Chapter Nine

After hours of tossing and turning which never seemed to end, it was around 8.30 when her body gave up on the idea of sleep and forced her into an upright position. After being thrown from one nightmare into the other, she welcomed the minimalistic décor of her office in the lab, telephones ringing and heels clicking against the floor. Pressing the ball of her palm into her eyes, she was met with the sights she was trying unsuccessfully to erase from her mind.

Blood dripping from the wound in her wrist, the wound which threw her into 6 weeks of the most turmoil she had ever known. A PCR Test which would determine whether or not she could dream again, and unlike in reality where she had gotten the result she needed – she found her whole world grind to a halt in that very moment. Then, blood in her bath tub, the smell of a freshly fired gun in her apartment, days after she shot him. The way her hands shook any time she had to discharge her weapon became more vivid than the previous feelings. She could deal with fear, it was what she thrived on. But when that fear was stopping her from doing her job… that was a different story.

Truthfully, that felt completely unlike her. She felt weak.

And feeling weak was not something she was accustomed to. She was a police officer, first, but just as importantly, she was the Assistant Supervisor of the New York Crime Lab and a Detective. Those were, at least to her, jobs filled with honour and responsibility – there was no room for fear or weakness, not like this anyway.

Padding over to the window, she looked out onto the street and watched the city breathing below her. Yellow cabs, hot-dog vendors and commuters, pushing through the veins of the only city she had ever gotten to know. She often wondered if her job allowed her the opportunity to acknowledge the existence of her fellow New Yorkers. How many civilians could she honestly say she knew? She had no family (now that Mindy had fled), no friends with the exception of James (outside work) – she didn't even know her neighbours. She slept restlessly on her office couch, eating the bare-minimum and living merely for the job. She hated to say this, but what on earth was she doing with her life?

"Hey, Stella?"

Not before releasing a quick sigh, she spun around to face the source of the disruption, only to find her features softening. Don stood, jacket draped over his arm, a slight smirk gracing his Celtic features.

"What's up, Don?" she asked flatly. He took a few further steps into her office, smile barely faltering.

"I'd have thought you'd be more enthusiastic, Stel," he mocked hurt. "I was going to treat you to breakfast."

Sighing once more, she looked down at the ground. In the name of being comfortable while working the longest shift of her career, she had haphazardly thrown one of Mac's old Marine hoodies (which she had borrowed from him a long time ago) over yesterday's blouse tucked into a pair of jeans. Paired with a pair of low heels, she was dressed far from professionally. But with everything else going on, she could hardly be expected to maintain a particularly pleasant appearance.

She had so much work to do. There was Jennifer's laptop, and paperwork stacked piles high on her desk. She had to meet with Sinclair (at a time convenient to her) and meet with Mac to discuss their findings. There wasn't time for breakfast. But there was another part of her which couldn't be bothered with working all day, only to find nothing – to let Jennifer down once more. What harm could slipping out for an hour do?

Finally forcing a smile through the fatigue growing once more in her body, she nodded, "I'll have to tell Mac that we're heading out," she thought aloud, only to see a hand raised, as though to stop her. Throwing her jacket on over the hoodie, she looked curiously as the younger detective.

"I've already spoken to him this morning, and he's gotten almost as much sleep as you have."

-/-

Taking a sip from her dark, expensive coffee, she leaned back in her chair with her mug warm between her hands. For it being so early on a Wednesday morning, she was surprised upon an analysis that the café was near empty. With much less exotic drinks than the students scattered around the café, she and Don opted for an Americano and an overpriced sandwich (which they were told wouldn't take long). She knew Don asked her out for more reasons than just a social outing, but she wasn't bothered enough to start the conversation.

She had to admit that the past few days were the worst she had experienced in a long time. From the death of Jennifer to the constant tension with Mac, she had gone through so many emotions which were both extremely draining and incredibly confusing. She was shocked, angry, fed up but totally exhausted. Moments had passed when thoughts had left her terrified at their intensity and how easily she had let her mind believe them. No questions asked. No attempt to challenge them for what they were. She accepted them as fact.

And of course, there was the progress, or lack thereof, on Jennifer's case.

Jennifer's laptop had wielded little results, although she couldn't say she managed to stick at the task too long before she lay down with the intention of taking a quick nap. She had only managed to find some essays and a half-finished PowerPoint in her documents. There was nothing particularly unusual on her laptop, and so she decided that if she didn't find anything significant on her search history – she would return the laptop to Veronica at the earliest opportunity. Danny had been working through the security footage from her apartment building and her phone records. She could only hope he'd had more luck than she'd had.

"Sorry, Stel. But I've gotta ask," he began, having not yet touched his coffee. "What's made you switch from a $500 Ralph Lauren blazer to one of Mac's 20-year old marine sweaters?"

Allowing the blush to fade from her cheeks, she shifted in her seat a little (whether this was at her friend's close observation, or the fact she knew that the sweater belonged to Mac; she wasn't entirely sure).

"One night, when I was staying at the hotel after… Frankie, Mac brought me a care package," she replied, smiling briefly at the memory, "Some ice cream, a bottle of beer, some things for the bath – the sweater. He thought it might comfort me, I guess I was never really over how afraid I felt to give it back."

If Don was shocked at what she had said, he didn't show it. Instead, he smiled at her and finally took a sip of his coffee.

"It sounds like Mac was a big help to you after Frankie," he said, in a way that reminded her rather eerily of the department psychologist. "What's changed?"

"What do you mean? Mac and I are fine."

"Well, whatever's going on with you… Does Mac know?"

Looking into her mug, Don understood her answer, "You know, just because he has Peyton doesn't mean that he doesn't want to help you. We're all here for you; me, James – hell, Mac would do anything for you. You do know that right?"

She felt the scoff escape her before she knew what she was doing, but forced a gulp of coffee back anyway. Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she listened to the sound of her breathing and that of mugs clattering on tables, soft chattering of the staff and Don shifting in his chair. Part of her hadn't imagined that this might have been an awkward conversation for Don, too. They weren't particularly close, despite his concern for her after Frankie, and so this conversation perhaps sat just as well with him as it was currently sitting with her.

"I don't think Mac's angry with you, Stel," he offered softly. Moving forward in his chair, he spoke sincerely, "I think he's frustrated because he wants to help you, but it feels like he's almost hitting a brick wall and that's-"

"Chicken Mayo?" a young woman announced, oblivious to the fact that she was interrupting Don's intervention. He signaled that the sandwich was for him and smiling at Stella, she placed the tomato and brie in front of her.

"Enjoy, guys," she smiled before walking off to resume her duties. Stella nodded, but making no effort to begin eating, she continued to look for the warmth offered by her mug. She was so exhausted, she could feel it in her limbs. Working in this field long enough, she knew she should inform Mac that she was becoming too tired to do her job. But she couldn't tell him that; he needed her on this case to take some of the pressure off of Mac. She couldn't let him down.

It was on West 86th when Don spoke again, and feeling anger build up inside her, she stopped dead in the street. After taking a moment to suppress the frustration towards the younger detective, she listened to what he was saying.

"What you said back there, about Mac having Peyton now… Does that bother you?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she raised an eyebrow, "Of course not! He's my best friend, and if he's happy – well, I am too."

"You don't look happy," he finally observed. Suddenly she was glad to have worn the sweater again today, because finding herself discussing something she had been working hard to conceal for months was making her more nervous than she'd care to admit.

"Don, I'm fine," she snapped, looking him dead in the eye. Unable to maintain his glare much longer, his eyes scanned the street – likely looking for something to distract himself with, only for his glare to catch on something.

"What is it?" she asked, following his gaze to a young man, pressing a gun into another's stomach. Making a move towards them, she felt Don's hand grab her arm holding her in place.

"Stella, I don't have my gun-"

"You put the call in and I'll try and get him talking," she spoke quietly. Taking a deep breath, she removed her gun from her holster and edged carefully towards the two men. Muscles contracting against the fear of pointing her gun at another human being, she attempted to steady her breathing. She didn't need to freeze in a situation like this with little to no back up.

"NYPD! Put the gun down, now!"

With barely a glance at Stella, the young man took off down the street in an attempt to evade capture. Despite the heaviness in her limbs and Don's panicked yells after her, she wasted no time in chasing after him. Pushing civilians out of his path, he used the nearest mailbox as cover and before she could find her own, she heard a bullet wiz past her ear.

"Everybody, out of the way! Now!"

Discharging her own weapon, she hit the mailbox before kneeling behind a parked cab. Another bullet hit the newspaper machine beside the cab as Stella's hands gripped her gun, forcing a breath to escape from her throat.

In that moment, she stood up from her post and lowered her gun. Trying to gauge the boy's intentions, she came to the decision that she would rather be shot than shoot someone again. It fought against everything she had ever been taught at the police academy, but the possibility that she might kill someone again was pulling violently against her morals.

A loud bang filled the streets, followed by screaming from all over. Checking her own gun, she knew she hadn't fired, and with a quick glance over her own body, she concluded that she hadn't been shot. The kid had since vacated his post, so she staggered onto the pavement, hands shaking almost violently but safe in the knowledge that she wasn't going to be shot. Hearing a groan from the ground, she followed the sound and let out her own scream.

Pulling on her radio, she knelt down at his side, tears filling her eyes. Blood pouring from a wound in his arm, she pressed down on it.

"Don, can you hear me?" she asked, frenzied. Hand stroking his cheek, she finally pressed down hard on her radio and bit back her tears.

"Please… I need a bus on Broadway and West 95th. Officer down. I repeat, Officer down!"

-/-

"Stella?" spoke the voice she had longed to hear in days. Catalysing her tears once more, she looked up in a mixture of relief and disbelief.

"Oh, Mac," she cried, forcing her way into his embrace. This was all her fault – if Don didn't make it, if he died; she was to blame. If he didn't make it, she was responsible for killing someone she cared a lot about. She had no idea how she was going to carry that burden for a second time.

She felt his resolve crumble in accordance with her tears. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he allowed his chin to rest on top of her curls. In that moment, she felt safe again. Sobs releasing from her body violently, she listened to his words of reassurance in her ear.

"It's all my fault, Mac! If I hadn't gone after that boy-"

"He might have shot someone else, Stella," he reminded her. "Don is going to be okay. He's tough."

Pulling back, she let him wipe her tears, before guiding her over to the nearest chair. Resting her head on his shoulder, she felt a sigh release from his chest. She couldn't help but wonder if they looked as perfect together as she felt in his embrace. She couldn't think about that right now, could she? Mac was in a relationship, and he was happy. That was what mattered.

Angell appeared, and sat next to Stella, offering a weak smile in response, "Don's doing good, he should be out of surgery soon. They got the bullet out of his shoulder for us; they thought we might need it for the investigation."

"We'll get it before we leave," Mac decided, while Stella offered nothing.

"Oh my God," Angell announced, watching Stella. "Your arm, Stella! It's bleeding."

Sighing, she was forced up from Mac's shoulder while he examined her wound. After a few minutes, he shouted a doctor over. By chance, the same doctor she had refused medical treatment from only an hour ago appeared in the waiting area, rolling his eyes at Stella's stubbornness.

"Detective Bonasera refused medical treatment when she was brought in with Detective Flack. She insisted that we made sure he was okay first," he said, a hint of amusement evident in his voice.

"Stella, that could get infected if you don't get that seen to, soon," Angell informed her, as though she had no knowledge of medical treatment.

"Listen to your colleagues, Detective Bonasera."

"Look," she snapped, "I'm fine!"

He raised his eyebrows, "Detective, I didn't study for 10 years and accumulate more debt than your home is worth to be told how to do my job by an NYPD Crime Scene Investigator."

And finally agreeing to be seen to, Stella sat on a hospital bed with Mac at her side. She hadn't spoken to him since she was taken to the hospital room, but she was quietly grateful for his company as a distraction from her guilt. A sling on one arm, and a cup of water in the other, the pair waited to be given clearance to head home.

"What did you mean earlier when you said "it was your fault"?"

She sighed; so much for a distraction.

"I made the decision to chase after the perp, knowing that Don was unarmed. It should have been me."

"I'm glad it wasn't," he admitted, looking into her eyes – watching her carefully.

"Mac-"

A nurse pushed her way into the room, interrupting their discussion, "Detective Bonasera? We have a prescription for you, and after you collect that, you're free to go. But please make sure you wear your sling for a few days and change the dressing as indicated on your release papers."

"Okay, thank you," Mac said, but was then interrupted once more.

"I'm sorry, Detective. There's some people here to speak to Detective Bonasera – Brigham Sinclair and Stan Gerard?"

"Show them in," he nodded.

She didn't even get to make her case to Internal Affairs, she was getting fired. Perhaps that was the least of what she deserved. She put her colleague at risk, and treated the oath she took as some silly, tokenistic speech that the brass make on a day-to-day basis. She fired her gun in a way she promised never to again. Perhaps she didn't deserve to be a police officer, anymore.

"Stella?"

Chief Sinclair and Gerard stood by the door, and catching a glance in Mac's direction, he asked her if she'd like him to stay.

"I think it's best if we speak to Stella alone first," Gerard replied, to which Sinclair nodded wearily. She felt her heart racing against her chest as the door clicked shut behind Mac.

"Okay, I don't think you need you need a lecture on what you did wrong, Bonasera," Sinclair sighed. "But we would like to suggest you take the rest of the day off to think this one over."

Taking a moment to understand their words, she finally asked, "Is that all?"

"Well, we'd like you to go for a psych evaluation in the morning," Stan begun, "Just to make sure you're okay to start back work again."

"Stan, why don't you tell Detective Bonasera about the Highsmith investigation."

She looked to Sinclair, who looked back to her, apologetically.

"Tell me what?" she demanded, glancing between the two men.

"If you pass the psych evaluation, you're going to be the new lead on the investigation," Stan replied smugly.

And it was at that point, she knew that there was no going back for she and Mac.

Thanks for reading. I really hope this was worth the wait :)