Disclaimers: None of the characters belong to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He played it over and over in his head.
They had been slowly sipping their way through two astonishingly bitter cups of diner coffee when their perp's girlfriend finally appeared. Relieved to abandon the strained pretext at idle chatter, Bobby had risen to his feet but hung back in case the boyfriend was nearby.
His cop's instincts had barely stirred as Bishop had approached the witness, badge in hand, and called out a greeting as she came to a halt a non-threatening 5 or 6 feet away. He was thinking of Eames and the pleasure it gave him to realize she was due back from her maternity leave in less than a week. Turning back to Bishop, he couldn't quite suppress the thought that Eames wouldn't have - his reverie was interrupted by an explosion in his brain; set off by the startled, trapped look in the woman's eyes as they lifted to his partner's face and the way her shoulders tensed as her hand came out of her pocket.
Nerve impulses, travel at up to 200 miles per hour. That is at about one third the speed of the average handgun bullet and a little more than one quarter the speed of the sound created by firing that handgun.
Bobby knew all that.
Which was why, even as his body had lunged forward and his mouth had opened to howl a warning, he had also known he was too late.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While sound waves and bullets obey physical laws, the passage of time is relative.
Einstein proved it.
And so, about a thousand years later
Facts were all he had to hold the rage and guilt at bay.
At 1:46PM that very day, a 45 mm hollow point bullet, fired from less than 6 feet away had made contact with his partner's body, penetrating the skin almost instantly. Punching its way through body wall muscle, it had fragmented and multiple pieces had entered Bishop's heart just below thedamn! He could picture quite clearly his Gray's Anatomy sitting on his bookshelf and the amused but proud look on his mother's face the day she had presented him with the coveted medical textbook. Those memories were vivid but the medical terms for the small but vital bits of Bishop's heart that had been torn apart by the bullet's passage, escaped him.
Eames was always telling him not to sweat the small stuff and so he granted himself absolution for forgetting what was after all just medical jargon. He had more important sins to confront anyway. Starting with the realization he had come to just minutes before, while trying to offer his condolences to Bishop's crying mother, that he couldn't remember his dead partner's first name. In his confusion, he had muttered something about being busy and fled. Bishop and her mother deserved better of him, especially sinceNo! He wasn't willing to go there. Not yet. He couldn't.
While he had always known it was a possibility, he'd never had a partner die in his presence before. He couldn't quite get his mind around either the reality or the finality of it. He had struggled to pay attention as the pretty dark haired ER intern had patiently explained to him that neither his own frenzied efforts nor those of the paramedics, could have possibly changed the outcome. Other voices had expounded in great detail upon what happens when hollow point bullet meets human flesh; how even had the shooting occurred in the operating room of a tertiary care facility with a cardiothoracic surgical team standing by, the damage was likely still too great to have been repaired. So the doctors had droned on while Bobby had carried on conversations in his own head. He had however kept his eyes fixed on the face of whichever doctor was talking and taken care to nod occasionally. Later he had repeated that exercise as Deakins had offered his own softly mumbled reassurances.
Bobby was proud of his restraint. Sure, he had started to protest when a nurse had approached to give him "something" for the shock, but he desisted after catching the look that his captain had exchanged with the woman. Apparently, despite his efforts to appear calm, he was frightening the ER personnel.
The medication made him feel very detached; as if his brain had been wrapped in cotton wool and was being rocked in the cradle of nameless arms. Perhaps they were his dead partner's arms. He had the curious sensation that all his emotions, his rage, his guilt, his pain, had been carried away on a ocean current; so far off in the distance now that he could scarcely even sense them. He realized that his condition should have really bothered him. Living with his mother's schizophrenia had left Bobby with a strong distrust of chemicals, natural or artificial, that might alter his perceptions. But somehow, right now, it just didn't seem that important.
Lynn! He remembered now that Eames had told him, just before their first meeting that Bishop's given name was Lynn. He was struck by the urge to find Bishop's mother and tell her how sorry he was and how much he'd enjoyed working with her daughter, Lynn. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair as he pushed himself to his feet and carefully scanned the room. But Margaret Bishop had left the hospital already. To take care of all those things the living must do when someone close to them has died. The second time today he had responded too slowly. Or maybe the third.
And then it was all over and he was alone, back in his own apartment with strict instructions from Deakins to get some rest. He had scarcely closed the door when his cel rang; it was Eames wanting to talk. He put her off, saying he tired and was going to sleep. Bed or chair or sofa? He still hadn't made up his mind when somebody else called to let him know that both he and the shooting had been on the 6:00 news. Damn! He should contact his mother and reassure her that he was alright. But he couldn't just yet. Couldn't call his mother and couldn't rest. Not until he had examined the uncomfortable truth that still plagued him.
In the instant when the gun fired, Bobby had felt a surge of gratitude that it was Bishop and not Eames who stood in the bullet's path. He accepted that and knew he would eventually be able to forgive himself. After all he was only human and Eames had been his partner and friend for a long time. But what he was afraid he might never forgive himself for was that his feelings must have shown on his face. What else could possibly account for that look of puzzled hurt he had seen in Bishop's dying eyes?