I think it befits the plot line to show how each one handles the loss of a fellow officer, so this and the next chapter will feature Bosco, Faith, and O'Shea.

"Return to Innocence" is copyrighted to Enigma.

The news came to him as he raced into the hospital, having chased the ambulance all the way from the sidewalk where it happened. Malloy was gone. He had not taken the news well at all and not even Lieutenant Swersky by himself was able to control the wildly fighting O'Shea as he tried to follow his friend's body into the depths of the hospital. In the end, it had taken four officers and one or two nurses to finally wrestle him to the floor and hold him there. As he had been forced inexorably down, he had caught a glimpse of a pair of officers standing off to the side, one covered heavily with drying blood and the other without a drop on him. That one brief sight told him the entire story. One of those officers had been there for his partner when he hadn't, and the other had merely watched. So much for the brotherhood!

It was a long ten minutes of being crushed by the weight of six bodies before he finally admitted defeat. There was nothing he could do for Malloy. He had failed his best friend miserably. One by one, the pressure on his body eased as his captors got back to their feet. He was left alone on the floor with only his anguish for company. Without a word to anyone – not even to the female officer with crimson-stained uniform – he had staggered upright and fled for the security of the nearest room, which happened to be a bathroom. That fact did not register as he heaved the door shut and stabbed blindly for the button that was the door lock. He wanted and needed no one to see him like this.

Why hadn't he been there! O'Shea balled his hands tightly into fists, holding them up in front of his face. He watched his knuckles turn white and welcomed the ache that came from squeezing so hard. Pain was good, it took his mind off the magnitude of his failure. Fail he had, in the worst way possible. He had let down his best friend and partner, who was now dead. The Irishman howled and swung at the nearest solid object. Glass shattered around his pummelling fists, the shards slicing open his knuckles with their keen edges. The pinpricks were barely felt. He didn't care about how badly he might hurt himself. What were a few flesh wounds when in the same building there was a man with two bullet holes in him that had ended his life?

At last he reeled away from the remains of the mirror and the dents he had pounded into the thin metal behind were the glass had been. He leant against the wall, his chest heaving from exertion and the effort of fighting back his tears. He could feel his strength waning. It was just as well he had shut himself off from human contact. The only way to deal with this was to be alone.

Love – Devotion

Feeling – Emotion

Love – Devotion

Feeling – Emotion…

O'Shea stared down at his hands, at the cuts that glared angry red. The wounds throbbed terribly, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him that he was still living and breathing despite the surreal daze that had fallen over him when he first arrived at the hospital. His best friend was gone for ever and he had not been there to watch his back, like he had promised so many years ago. This is so bloody wrong. He remembered slamming the door of the hospital bathroom and making sure it was locked so he would be left alone. Nobody could make this any easier. He should have been there, on that street corner. He should have been there to protect his partner. But he hadn't been there. The thought made him sick to his very bones. His stomach heaved and he dropped to his knees before the toilet and vomited, the tears streaming down his face. He hadn't eaten much at all that day, and yet his stomach was finding something deep within itself to expel. When the waves of nausea had finally subsided, O'Shea slid onto the cool tile floor, his muscles too weak yet to allow him to sit up. Malloy was dead and he hadn't been with him when it had gone down. One of those bullets should have been for him too. God bloody dammit, there should be two bodies lying side by side in the viewing room instead of just the one!

He managed to pull himself up into a sitting position and tucked himself into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself. Why had he stayed behind to write out reports while Malloy had gone out alone to McCray's? The first rule they had agreed on years ago was never to separate when they were on shift. Stupid, stupid bloody fool he was! O'Shea stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could see through it all the way up to heaven, where God must be laughing and savouring yet another victory. He cursed aloud, his language as coarse as it had been when he was a rookie. May the devil take me this day, for God mocks me. His stomach clenched and he felt dizzy again. This time he didn't bother trying to lurch the few feet to the toilet and emptied his stomach onto the floor. The fact that he felt slight relief afterwards was revolting. There should be no relief for him.

…Don't be afraid to be weak

Don't be too proud to be strong

Just look into your heart, my friend

That will be the return to yourself

The return to innocence…

"O'Shea?" Lieutenant Swersky. What the hell did he want?

"Bugger off, ya Yankee bastard, and leave a lad to his peace." O'Shea spat at the door, not caring one bit about his choice of words. He was best left alone, there was nothing anyone else could do for him.

"O'Shea, open the door."

The grieving officer yanked his baton from his belt and heaved it at the door, letting the loud thud of wood striking wood serve as his reply. He was in no mood to bandy words with anyone. He wanted no trite comments of sympathy from people who had barely known Malloy. Not like he'd known him. Bloody hell, they'd gone through the Academy together and been partners for nearly twelve years. After the accident, they'd still been like brothers, even though Malloy was given a rookie to break in. O'Shea ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, fiercely smearing away the tears. It had taken a year and a half for him to be cleared for duty after his fall. A year and a half for a broken back and a couple cracked ribs. He'd felt ready to come back within six months, but the doctor in all his wisdom had said no. There was no going back to work until the whole therapy programme had been completed. His feelings about that remained the same, even after nearly fifteen years of being back in uniform. That doctor's report was complete bollocks. But he'd obeyed it anyway. An order, after all, was an order.

He looked down at his hat, at the clear plastic sleeve that protected the picture of his family. It was an old picture. Becky was still in it, her arms stretched wide to fit around the three children in front of her. Dammit, where was she when he needed more strength than what he had left? Piss and bloody crackers, everything I love is being stolen away from me. First Rebecca, now Malloy. O'Shea stacked his fists on his knee and planted his forehead firmly on the top of the pile, rocking himself back and forth. What was the use in carrying on when there was almost nothing left to live for?

…If you want, then start to laugh

If you must, then start to cry

Be yourself, don't hide

Just believe in destiny…

A bitter smile tainted his features. There were two wee children who were probably waiting for their father to come home so they could show him what they'd done that day. Bless their little innocent hearts, too soon to be made far less innocent. It would be nearly the same for his kids, except they would be getting their father back. Malloy's children would not. In a way, O'Shea thought, neither were his own. A big piece of him had died with Malloy, easily as big a piece as he lost when Becky had died. He stretched across the floor to retrieve his hat. He had to leave soon, before it got too late. There were people waiting for him, and there were people he needed to talk to.

Who was the female officer he'd seen in the waiting room, the one with the bloody uniform and the shattered expression? Her face was familiar. Oh yeah, Yokas. O'Shea felt a twinge of shame at not knowing her first name. He needed to talk to her, to thank her for doing for Malloy what he hadn't been able to. For being there to comfort him even as he died. If he was suffering because of Malloy's death, what would Yokas be feeling? She had been right there, watching it happen. It didn't get much worse than that.

Silence fell over the crowd in the waiting room when the bathroom door clicked open. All eyes turned toward the dishevelled cop who emerged from the room, his hands torn and his face ghost-white. O'Shea looked no one in the eye as he surveyed the sea of faces for one in particular. She wasn't there. He couldn't blame her. Who in their right mind would want to stay too long with so many people around?

"Andy! Dear God, you're okay!"

O'Shea felt a ripple of fresh liquid working its way toward his eyes as Malloy's wife flung her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for him, Tara."

…Don't care what people say

Just follow your own way

Don't give up and use the chance

To return to innocence…

His truck sat forlornly on the other side of the double chain link fence, its faded red paint standing out amongst the pristine white of the RMPs parked in rows. O'Shea shook his head and started up the steps into the station house. The sooner he climbed into that battered front seat, the sooner he could escape to the last place of comfort he had left. No one inside spoke to him, neither before nor after he had changed out of his uniform. Fine with me, lads. You didn't know him anyway. He left the subdued bustle of the station house behind him. He'd have to return to that world soon enough. Thankfully not tonight.

O'Shea winced at the creak of the hinges as he pulled open the door of the truck. He needed to get that oiled. The engine coughed and whined when he turned the key, trying bravely to catch but failing. The poor truck was dead. Just like too many other things. He pounded the steering wheel with his open palms in frustration. Why couldn't anything go right! It was at least thirteen blocks to his tiny apartment. Walking all that way this late at night was lunacy, but how else was he to get home? He yanked the keys out of the ignition and shoved them into his pocket. Maybe it would help clear his head. It wouldn't do for his kids to see him like this.

The night air felt good on his warm face. He paused for a moment on the curb before crossing the street in front of the precinct, his eyes turned skyward. There were so many stars twinkling against the black velvet sky. Malloy was up there now, somewhere amidst that heavy sprinkling of heavenly light.

"At least it's a better place." O'Shea whispered. "I'll miss you, me old mate."

…That's not the beginning of the end

That's the return to yourself

The return to innocence…

His boots scraped up the stairs to his apartment, scattering dirt and dust everywhere as he slowly moved from one step to the next. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. The same way he'd had to do when his wife had died. He remembered right where he was when the news came, remembered what he had been doing. Everyone around him turned with him, as though with one mind and body, to look to the west. Thick black smoke billowing to the clear blue sky drew the eyes of thousands of people who stopped to watch the horror unfold before them. Then, like so many others, he had run to the scene as fast as his legs could carry him. The fire department was just arriving when he paused on the sidewalk before the doors for a few breathless seconds to regain his wind. Somewhere up in that living hell was Becky, terrified and confused. The sharp tang of burning paper and choking swirls of smoke flitted across his senses, real only in his memory. He had cast aside all thoughts of his own safety when he sprinted into that building, intent on finding her and bringing her out alive and safe. In that he had failed when the order to evacuate was issued and three firefighters had been forced to drag him bodily to safety. Those same three struggled to keep him back when the building tumbled in on itself, and his last feeble hope died within him. The award he had received for 'extreme courage and devotion to duty' meant nothing to him. Those people he had helped to get out had not been his top priority. No, his main concern was purely selfish. If there was an award for that, he certainly deserved it.

He would go there tonight, to seek what comfort he could from the cold grey stone that marked the place where only her memory lay buried. He would go as soon as he hugged his kids and made sure they were okay. They were always there, even through the weeks and months after losing their mother. Lord, they took after her far more than they did after him.

The door to his too-small apartment creaked open when he nudged it with his toe. Peals of laughter echoed down the short hallway leading to the bedrooms. O'Shea pushed the door closed with his back, suddenly too weary to remain on his feet. He sank to the floor, drew his knees to his chest, and rested his forehead on his forearms. Only here, in the security of his apartment, would he allow himself to grieve openly.

"Daddy!" Three pairs of feet thundered toward him. "Look what we made today!"

"Where's Uncle Luke? We made him something too!"

O'Shea couldn't stop the torrent of warm, salty liquid from streaming down his face. He never liked letting his kids see him like this, but losing Malloy was too much to bear. Small hands reached out to touch his face and shoulders as the two youngest sought to comfort their father. It was all too much. He drew them as close to him as he could and held on tight, grateful to still have something to love.

"Don't be sad, Daddy." Heather's fingers stroked his hair and she pressed her small, round face against his cheek. Dear God, little things brought such great relief. O'Shea squeezed his eyes shut and savoured each moment as long as he could.

"Is Uncle Luke okay?" Little Sarah asked, cradling her head against her father's shoulder. O'Shea caught his breath at the question and trembled. How could he tell the truth? How could he tell this little girl that the man she and her siblings called "Uncle" was gone for ever? How, when he could barely tell himself that?

"He's gone to see your Mum." He replied, his voice thick with emotion.

There was a sharp intake of breath from his oldest and he knew that Jamie understood. Heather and Sarah wrapped their arms around their father as tight as they could and he held onto them for dear life. His saving graces. O'Shea kissed the two faces resting against him and rocked gently from side to side, grateful that not everything had been taken away from him.

"I love you Daddy."

O'Shea's eyes watered up again. "I love you too, little one."

…That's the return to innocence…