Part 5: Good Deeds, Punished.

Mark and Jesse were in the kitchen when they heard the sound. For a moment both of them turned and looked at one another in confusion.

"Did that sound like a gunshot to you?" Jesse asked.

Mark didn't answer him, but moved toward the doors that led out to the deck, his concern deepening with each step. Jesse wasn't far behind. He stopped and squinted urgently through the glass. The fading light made it difficult to immediately identify the ducking and running forms. But it was enough to send a stab of justification to the fear that lurched through his heart.

He noted absently the sound of skidding tires. It was difficult to make out where exactly the sound was coming from. And it didn't matter. He hadn't found Steve in his initial perusal of the beach front.

"Do you see them, Jess?" he asked, pushing open the doors and stepping out onto the deck. Maybe the younger man had spotted them when he couldn't. He leaned across the railing, forcing himself to go more slowly.

"No." Jesse's response sounded as frustrated and frantic as he felt. "Maybe we should go down there."

Mark was already moving in the direction when the words left Jesse's lips. He'd taken one step down the stairs leading to the sand before looking back out toward the ocean when he saw two people rising from among a cluster of grassy dunes a couple dozen yards beyond his property line. He could just make out their forms.

He recalled that Steve had been wearing jeans and a gray shirt, both of which faded to near black in the half light. But Maeve had worn one of Carol's baggy pink outfits. Even against the setting sun, the color was identifiable. An audible sigh of relief rushed out of him. They were okay. But then Steve faltered, and Mark's heart faltered with him.

All thoughts of possible danger to himself fled his mind as he turned and took the remaining steps at a run. He could only think of getting out there, to Steve. Worse, he couldn't tell what happened next, as he could no longer see them once he reached the lower level as the dunes and privacy hedges blocked his view. All that he could do was run across the loose sand, worrying and hoping.

~*~

When Maeve's hand clamped against Steve's arm, the contact acted as a stabilizing factor, bringing him back to himself. They were still out in the open, and though he had somehow managed to instinctively clamp a hand over his injured side, blood still escaped through trembling fingers and dripped to the sand at his feet.

The red droplets blurred against the sand momentarily before he shook his head and regained his focus. He set his sights on the visible portion of the beach house, and with Maeve's arm wrapped about his shoulder, they set off toward their goal.

Each movement across the uneven sand was a torment, but they couldn't stop. He couldn't give in to the weakness that settled over him like a blanket, making him feel as though every step he took would be his last. But he forced his fading legs to continue to trudge through what felt like ever thickening sludge. Finally the gate which led into their back yard appeared blearily before them. The narrow opening looked impossible to navigate in his current state, half-supported by Maeve. His vision was starting to darken around the edges, and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to make it much farther. But he had to. They weren't safe, yet.

"Oh, God . . . ." Mark met them at the gate, his voice fading at the amount of blood visible on Steve's clothing. Worried over a venus bleeder, he tried to get Steve to stop so that he could examine him. But Steve pressed on, attempting to speak as he did so.

"In . . . side . . . "

The potential danger that they remained in out in the open registered vaguely in Mark's mind. Not because of fear for himself, but fear that his son might be wounded further and the instinctive knowledge that if Steve thought that there was danger, he wasn't going to allow himself to be cared for until he thought that they were reasonably safe. So he hurried to Steve's other side, and helped him along, hating the pain that each gasped breath bespoke as they continued on.

Steve began to sag more in their arms. What little strength he might have used to get across the sand to the house seemed to be fading, and Mark knew that there was no way that they could get him up the steps to the patio. He headed directly for Steve's entrance, and though he didn't see Jesse, he yelled for him to open Steve's patio door.

The younger doctor must have been thinking along the same lines because before they reached Steve's patio, the doors opened and the younger doctor was standing there. As they moved inside, Mark noticed that a couple of folded blankets had been formed into a pallet on the floor, and his doctor's bag was sitting open nearby.

"Easy, Son," Mark urged as Steve's legs seemed to give out just as they reached the prepared padding. He'd known that was coming, having been unsure of how Steve had managed to stay upright and helping for so long considering the blood loss and the stamina necessary to approach the house from the shore. Jesse stepped forward to help take his weight, easing him very carefully to the blanketed area, where Steve simply collapsed, exhausted.

Mark felt the same way. Seeing his son hurt stole every ounce of energy he had. But he forced his mind to function, and looked across at his colleague. "Ambulance?" he asked.

"On its way. Police, too," Jesse responded, shooting him a glance as he went to work on cutting through the material of Steve's shirt. "How ya holding up, big guy?" Jesse asked, his eyes roving over Steve's pale, drawn features.

"How . . . you think?" Steve managed to gasp out. He then reached a bloody hand weakly toward Mark.

Without hesitation, Mark covered the hand Steve had touched him with and focused intently on what he was trying to tell him.

"Maeve. . . in danger."

"Okay, Son," he replied to his rapidly fading offspring. He'd almost forgotten Maeve's presence, she'd been so quiet. He glanced back to where she sat huddled a small distance away. If the shots had been meant for her, she might have been hit, too. "Are you hurt anywhere?" he asked her, gently.

She shook her head wordlessly, her gaze never leaving the movements of Jesse's hands as he skillfully separated the material covering Steve's abdomen and got his first look at the wound. There was little response in her eyes. He had the feeling that she had seen one thing too many that day. She might not even know if she was hurt. He needed to see to her needs, check her over for himself, but he also needed to know how serious Steve's injuries were.

"Jess?" He turned back to the other doctor.

"It looks like the bullet plowed a pretty deep laceration, Mark." Jesse spoke without looking up as he applied a large bandage over the wound. "It's going to need to be irrigated, and he's lost a good bit of blood. He's going to have a nice new set of sutures to add to his collection." Mark knew the details that Jesse was leaving out such as shock due to trauma and blood loss, and the possibility of infection. But he knew also that Steve's chances were pretty good.

He released a breath and squeezed Steve's hand. "You're going to be fine," he reassured him. But the reassurance was just as much for himself as for Steve. Patting his son's hand once more, he left him to Jesse's care while he went to assist Maeve.

~*~

Steve opened his eyes and blinked slowly up at the ceiling, knowing immediately that he was in the hospital. His brain felt muzzy, like it was floating around in cotton, but the events of the evening were there, playing back in a rapid stream of sound and visual images: the struggle to save Maeve from the sniper at the beach, his father running toward him, Jesse looking down at him, someone talking about volume expanders and antibiotics.

He turned his head and took in the room, happy to find that he was only connected to a single IV, half full of clear liquid. That couldn't be too bad considering his stays often included being attached to some kind of monitoring machine or other. But whatever was mixed in with the fluid being delivered intravenously into his system packed a wallop. He'd managed to surface for less than a minute and already his lids were beginning to droop again. His body was free, floating in the clouds with his brain. . .

A loud smack as the room door was pushed forcibly open jerked him back to wakefulness. It seemed that only a moment had passed. There was really no time to consider it further as Detective Fred Mancini entered the room on the heels of the noise. He looked less than thrilled as his eyes settled on the room's only other occupant.

"I see you're awake. Good." He walked up to the side of the bed. "Maybe you can tell me why Maeve Michaels is staying at your house?"

Steve blinked sleepily back at the other detective and noted the coldness of his return gaze. His initial instinct was to tell Fred that it was none of his business. But some logical portion of his sluggish brain reminded him that he had no such luxury, especially after what had happened that evening.

"She's a friend," he said quietly. "We didn't think she should be alone. Her dad is her only family, and he's out of town and won't be back until Sunday."

"Just a regular Good Samaritan aren't you, Sloan?" Fred shot back. "How good a friend was she? You two looked mighty cozy this morning."

"What are you getting at?" Steve demanded, feeling his temper beginning to rise. Sparring with the other detective was also having the added effect of bringing him further into wakefulness. But their bickering wasn't going to help solve the case. There was a killer on the loose, and unless they found him, Steve had a very bad feeling that someone else was going to end up dead. That someone, he feared, would be Maeve.

"But I hear some people like it better when they're married. Makes it more fun, more exciting." Fred continued on as if Steve hadn't spoken.

"I'm not one of those people," Steve ground out angrily. The action pulled at the stitches in his side, causing them to sting a little.

Fred's eyes widened in disbelief. "Not what I heard."

Steve refused to the give that line of discussion another moment of his time. There were other, more important, issues at hand. "Look, Fred. Whatever you've got against me, put it aside. There's a woman in danger, here. You need to assign someone to Ms. Michaels. Whoever was shooting at the beach was probably gunning for her."

"I've got a different theory," Fred objected to his reasoning. "I think there is a possibility that she could have had an accomplice. ME's report says that time of death for both victims was at about eight o' clock this morning." He stared at Steve as if waiting.

Steve shook his head. "And?"

"And where were you this morning at eight o' clock?"

"You think I'm a suspect?" Steve gaped in amazement. "You're kidding me."

"I'm just investigating all of the possibilities, Sloan. A woman like that -- male friends would do a lot for her. So, your whereabouts at eight? Unless I need to go to the captain about your hindering an investigation."

"I was at home in bed, sleeping."

"Alone?" Fred taunted.

"Yes. Alone." Steve resented the other man's accusation, and made sure that it was clear in his tone.

"Anyone corroborate that?"

"My father."

"Oh, yeah. Your dad." Fred made it sound as if Mark was hardly a credible alibi. "No vested interest there. I guess that's one of the perks of living with daddy. Okay. Now tell me about your . . . uh . . . friendship with Ms. Michaels, and don't leave anything out."

"You know where I was, and you know we were friends!" Steve's entire body tensed in his anger, further aggravating the wound that was attempting to heal. As far as he was concerned, his and Maeve's relationship had nothing to do with Mancini's investigation. He was convinced that the man was just digging for information because he could. Steve knew that anything he shared about himself and Maeve would be all over the precinct by morning. It was dirty, and he refused to play along.

"Oh, so did you meet before or after your little accident in the parking lot at Mickey's grocery? You filed the report yourself, just about a month ago. Said it was all your fault, seems you backed into her?"

Steve closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down as he realized how this was all starting to look. "In case you haven't noticed, Fred, I was shot today. A sniper was firing from somewhere on the beach front. Ms. Michaels was standing very near me."

"Yeah, you were grazed. Pretty lucky don't you think? Either the shooter was a bad shot, or a really good one."

A flood of indignation coursed through him, and he wanted nothing better than to lunge out of the bed and demonstrate physically how little he appreciated the inferences that were being made. He was saved from having to check the reaction by the opening of the room door.

Mark appeared, his expression immediately altering when he noted Fred's presence. He seemed to sense the tension as well as he looked between the two of them. The frown morphed to concern when his eyes settled again on Steve, before returning to Mancini. Though he had yet to say a word, Steve knew that his father had accurately accessed the situation.

"What's going on?" Mark asked.

"I'm conducting a murder investigation," Fred replied. "And if you'll give us a moment, Dr. Sloan . . . ."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we need to get these details while they're still fresh."

"I know of that necessity," Mark assured him. "But Steve is under the influence of some fairly strong medications. As a physician, I'm recommending that you hold your remaining questions until a later date."

Fred looked as if he might argue, but then closed his notebook, and headed out of the room without another word.

Mark watched him go, then approached the bedside. "What was that all about?"

Steve shook his head, feeling himself relaxing even as Fred left the room. "I think I've just become a suspect in the murder of Adam Michaels."

"Steve, no." Mark looked increasingly worried. "Based on what? Amanda said that the murders happened this morning. You were home with me."

"I know, Dad, but I don't think that matters."

"Can't we do something? Talk to the captain?"

"It's his investigation, and a case can be made that he's just following the evidence."

"What evi . . . . " Mark's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh. Well, he won't find anything because there's nothing there to find. It's just an unfortunate set of coincidences."

Steve smiled, warmed by his dad's confidence in him. So many people that he knew had strained relationships with their fathers. But he could talk to his dad about anything, at anytime. He knew he could count on him under any circumstances.

The smile dimmed as he remembered the day's earlier disagreement. "Dad . . . . about my attitude when we left the precinct . . . ."

"Steve, there's no need." Mark rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. A sheepish expression crossed his face. "Besides, I did sort of spring her on you. And if there is anyone who should be apologizing, it's me."

"You did surprise me," Steve admitted. "But I understand why you did it, and I agree." He stifled a yawn before he could continue, "Speaking of which, how is Maeve? I'm surprised Fred didn't go after her, too. With the releasing of tension, his body was headed back toward that cottony feeling. He fought it, and blinked several times in an attempt to maintain focus on his father.

"Oh, he did try." Mark's eyes twinkled with mischief. "But your dear old dad has a few tricks up his sleeve, yet."

Steve chuckled slightly, finding the effort to remain awake becoming more and more difficult. "You're hiding her somewhere in the hospital, aren't you?" His voice sounded slightly slurred to his own ears.

Mark's return smile was hazy, and seemed to be coming from a far distance. "She needed to get some rest, and I made sure that it's happening. And speaking of rest, you need to get some, too. That is, if you're planning on going home tomorrow."

Steve knew a reply formed in his mind, but the only sound that he was aware of that escaped him was a sigh. After that, everything faded away to peaceful nothingness.