Luka signed his last chart with a flourish and sighed a little. So much for 'another half an hour,' he thought. He should have just handed off to Carter and gotten out on schedule. Just as he had been about to leave, a two car MVA had rolled in; 3 majors, 3 minors. He'd stayed to help. Not that it had made much difference, really. His patient, a 7 year old boy, had crashed in minutes, and the rest of the hour had been spent trying to get him back.

8:20. It didn't really matter if he was leaving late, of course. It wasn't like he had anywhere pressing to be this evening. He was just ... tired. He'd go home, have some supper, maybe play computer games for a while, then go to bed. Alone. Another little sigh. Alone wasn't great, but it beat sleeping with strangers ... his only other option these past few months.

The walk from the el to his apartment seemed very long. Not that it wasn't a pleasant night; clear, full moon, a little chilly, but that was expected in March. But he was tired. It had been a lousy day all around. He'd lost three patients, two of them kids. Ever since Dr. Finch had left last year, there hadn't been a pediatrician in the ER. The other docs tended to assume that because he loved kids, he should take most of the pediatric cases that rolled in. And usually he did enjoy working with kids. Ear infections, broken arms, rashes were all fine. But not trauma. Pediatric trauma still hit just a little too close to home for him -- especially when they died.

A quiet evening at home. He was looking forward to it.

Inside the apartment he shed his coat and tossed it on the couch, then headed for the kitchen. Should he cook or send out for something?

The door buzzer startled him. Damn. The intercom was broken. He'd been meaning to talk to the landlord about getting it fixed, but it wasn't as if he had dozens of visitors every day. He'd have to trudge downstairs again to see who was there. Or, he could just buzz him in. It was probably a mistake anyway, someone ringing the wrong doorbell. He didn't have many visitors, and he wasn't expecting anyone.

Luka hit the button that would unlock the street door. Hopefully whoever it was would hear the click and just come in. If not, he'd have to go downstairs. He opened his own front door and stepped out into the hall. He heard the street door open; heard footsteps on the stairs. A man, youngish, maybe 25. Looking about as tired as Luka felt. Or maybe nervous and strained. It was hard to tell in the dim light, and Luka was too tired to care very much anyway. He stood a bit hunched over, with his hands in his pockets. The man looked dimly familiar, but Luka couldn't quite place him.

"Dr. Kovac?" The voice too was vaguely familiar.

"Yes. Can I help ..."

"Just making sure." The stranger's voice was cold now. He stepped forward, took his hands from his pockets. A flash of metal in the dimly lit hallway -- and Luka suddenly stumbled backwards, some unseen force shoving him back. The wall stopped him.

Luka just stood there for a moment, stunned, trying to figure out what had happened. His ears were ringing. He felt strange; dizzy. And his shirt was wet. Why was his shirt wet? His hand went instinctively to the spot, just at the bottom of his ribs. Something warm spilled between his fingers.

Blood. He was bleeding. Why was he bleeding? He realized slowly ... everything seemed to be happening very slowly now ... that the man was holding a gun. The blood was from a bullet hole in his side.

The stranger was just standing there, watching him. And Luka's legs suddenly refused to hold him any longer. His knees buckled and he slid slowly down the wall. He tasted salt.

The part of his brain that was still a doctor found itself automatically analyzing the situation, assessing the patient.

Not much pain. Luka was a bit surprised at how little pain there was.

The bullet had hit the lower left side of his chest. Probably didn't hit anything too vital, but he would be bleeding into his lungs. If the man would just leave, he could get back into the apartment, call 911. If he could get help before he bled to death, before his lungs filled with blood, he should survive. But those were two very big IF's. He was bleeding badly, already starting to go into shock. Maybe that's why it didn't hurt too much, he thought. He was already in shock. And the stranger gave no indication that he intended to leave any time soon. He was still just standing there, watching him.

Why had this man just shot him? A robbery? He made no move to take Luka's wallet, or enter the apartment. He just stood there. Smiling a little now.

"What..." Luka choked a little, swallowed blood. "What do you want?"

"Just settling up a score. You ruined my life, now I'm ruining yours. In a very final and definite sort of way."

"Ruined your life?" Luka stared. Who was this man? A patient maybe? Someone he'd misdiagnosed, or been unable to help? "I don't understand."

"You and Abby. You took everything I had; my wife, my career, my future ... my life."

Brian.

The last time Luka had seen him, he was bleeding, at Luka's hands; bleeding and crying, proving clearly to everyone what a coward he really was. Brave enough to beat up women half his size, but a coward when faced with a fair opponent. Now was standing there looking a bit strained still, but quite calm. He was still a coward, of course, but courage isn't necessary when you have a loaded gun, and the willingness to use it.

And Abby ... he might try to hurt Abby too! He had to hold on ... survive long enough to warn Abby! Why wouldn't Brian leave? Luka swallowed blood again.

Brian was still talking quietly. "Life's funny sometimes, you know. Do you remember what you said to me the last time we met? You told me that if I ever touched Abby again, you would kill me. Do you remember that? Well ... I did touch Abby. Would you like to hear how I touched her? I can tell you if you want. And I can tell you how she screamed while I was touching her."

Luka shut his eyes. Wished he could shut his ears. He couldn't bear to be hearing this. He felt sick to his stomach.

"And not only that," Brian went on. "But you are the one who dies. I touch Abby and I kill you. Ironic, doncha think?"

Luka ran his tongue over his lips. "You'd better get out of here," he said. "I have neighbors . someone will have heard the shot ... called the police."

"There's no hurry."

Luka didn't want to know, didn't think he could bear to hear the answer. But he had to know, had to ask. "Is she dead?"

"Who? Abby?"

"Yeah."

A shrug. "I don't know. Couldn't say, really. That will have to be one of life's little mysteries, won't it. You'll have to die never knowing if she's alive or dead. Of course, once you get to heaven -- or hell -- if she's there, you'll have your answer, right?"

He was lying. He had to be. Abby would never have opened the door for him, let him into her apartment. She was much too cautious these days. Brian was just trying to hurt him by making him believe it was true.

"You are a bastard ..." It wasn't much of an insult, but Luka couldn't think of anything better right now. At least not in English. He knew plenty of Croatian insults, but Brian wouldn't understand them, so there was real no point in saying them, even though it make make him feel a little better to do it. It was too hard to breathe for him to be wasting breath on stuff like that.

"Maybe. But I'm the one with the gun, so that doesn't really matter what you think of me, does it?"

The faint wail of sirens in the distance. That had to be the police. Please let it be the police ... the paramedics.

"You'd better get out of here," he said again. "Cops are coming."

"I'll be going soon. I mean .. it's not much of a life you've left me anyway."

The sirens were closer. At the edge of his vision Luka saw the reflections of flashing lights, through the open apartment door, shining in through the window.

'Ok, Kovac ...' he thought, though it was getting very hard to think. 'Just a few more minutes. Help is here. You can't die until you tell them about Abby ... you have to get help for Abby.' Just in case Brian wasn't lying. But could he do that? He was losing too much blood. It was still spilling out between his fingers. He was sitting in a pool of blood.

The hand holding the gun moved a little -- and an explosion of pain in his chest. This time, it did hurt. Horribly.

It wasn't fair, he thought dimly, as he slid helplessly towards the blackness. Why did the bullet that killed him have to hurt so much? Why would pain have to be the last thing he would ever know? And worse, he had failed Abby. If Abby died, it would be his fault.

Then, as if from very far away, he seemed to hear a third shot, but he didn't feel that one. He didn't feel anything anymore.