Author's note- OK a much more timely update- I think my muse is back-yay! Hope you agree, let me know- J

Part 4- Steve and Mark 4

Steve pushed himself groggily to a sitting position and swept his hair back from his face. His head slumped against the back of the sofa, he didn't feel that he had the energy to hold it up without support, blinking to clear his fuzzy vision he looked around recognising Jesse's apartment as his memories slid into place. He recognised the fuzzy sensation that lingered from a drug induced sleep, knew that was probably why his limbs felt so heavy. He glanced around again, trying to figure out how long he'd been sleeping. It had been early afternoon when Jesse had brought him here, and yet the sun shone brightly through the drapes over the doors to the balcony. Something about that didn't seem right, he'd been exhausted before he got here, and Jesse had clearly given him something to 'help' him sleep, he'd have to talk to him about that, not that he didn't understand the reasoning behind his friend's actions, he just. . . He interrupted his own thoughts managing to push himself forward, his back losing contact with the seat. The light outside bothering him, he knew that he must have slept for a reasonable length of time, so the only way it could be this light was if. . . he looked around for the clock to confirm his suspicions – 9. . .9 in the morning, he had slept clean through from the previous afternoon! The thought alarmed him slightly, although he was fairly sure that there was no rational reason why it should, he had needed the sleep, and it wasn't as if there was anywhere he needed to be.

A stab of bitterness accompanied that thought and he had to swallow it down. There were too many negative emotions swirling just under the surface for him to follow that path, and he needed to keep them in check if he was going to function That much had been clear the previous day, and now that he had managed to get some rest, albeit aided, that didn't seem like such an impossible task. He could at least think rationally, and he knew that there were things he could do, things he needed to do.

He absently rubbed at the back of his hand before awareness of the action dawned, he looked down, recognising the injection site for what it was. He had obviously had more than a little help in his extended slumber. He rubbed his hand again and scanned the room, where was Jesse?

As if on cue the door rattled slightly and Jesse pushed it open, removing his keys as he went. He caught sight of Steve watching him and smiled. "Hey you're awake, I just went and got us some fresh croissants." He held up the bag to indicate his purchase. "I put coffee on before I went out. You want some?"

Steve watched as he moved into the kitchen area, it could have been any normal morning, except they were more likely to be having breakfast together at the Beach House or at Bob's than at Jesse's apartment, but the easy smile, the movement in preparation were all comfortably familiar. Despite that, Steve was painfully aware that circumstances were far from normal, Jesse, however, seemed determined to pretend that they were and Steve decided not to disappoint him. His friend had really come through for him so far, and if he could save him some worry by making things appear as normal as possible then he would.

"Sure," he said, doing his best to return the smile. He pushed himself forward and looked down at his rumpled clothing. He tugged on his shirt with a little distaste "But I think I'll get myself cleaned up first if that's OK."

Jesse nodded, "Yeah, there are some clean towels in the bathroom and I pulled out a shirt that I think will fit you, it's on my bed." He weighed up Steve's dishevelled appearance and looked slightly apologetic. "I'm afraid you'll have to stick with the pants you're wearing unless you want shorts"

Steve smiled at the comment. "No, that's OK, thanks, I'll make these do until I can pick up some more."

Jesse watched carefully as Steve pushed himself to his feet and moved towards the bathroom. When Steve looked over, he pretended to be busy, emptying the croissants from the bag, he knew that he wasn't fooling Steve, but he kept up the pretence of normal activity anyway, what else was there to do?

When the bathroom door closed, Jesse dropped the items he had been holding and rested his hands on the counter, allowing his features to drop from the false neutral to the concern he really wanted to show. Steve seemed better, calmer, more aware, but only time would tell how he was really coping. Jesse allowed the heavy sigh, took another deep breath for good measure and carried on setting the table for breakfast.

The meal was a study in avoidance, Jesse continued to watch Steve, assessing his physical and mental state, and Steve continued to pretend that he didn't notice. The conversation made by sticking to the ordinary, the mundane, Steve had been so busy they hadn't seen each other in a while, and so there was plenty of hospital and station gossip to discuss, neither of them mentioned the events of the last thirty six hours until the meal was over.

Steve stood, picking up the dishes to take to the sink. "When I've done these I'm going to head to the Beach House, pick up some things. I know you said I can stay here but I can book into a motel or. . ."

Jesse joined him at the sink. "Steve," he interrupted, perhaps a little more harshly than he wanted. He was getting tired of dancing around the issues but didn't know how to express his feelings, he knew that neither of them did, which was, he guessed, part of the reason for the avoidance in the first place.

Steve turned to look at him, the eye contact conveying what neither man could express in words.

"You're staying here," Jesse stated simply, "until this is sorted out."

Steve held Jesse's gaze for a beat then nodded gratefully. He turned his attention back to the dishes, the emotional vulnerability sinking back behind the familiarity of the task. They worked in silence for a while, Steve washed, Jesse dried.

"You going to the hospital?" Steve asked.

"I'm not on 'til 12, I can drive you to your place first." Jesse offered.

"No, I'll take a cab, like I said I've got some things I want to do, and," he paused to look at his friend again, "I'd appreciate it if you went in early, looked in on my dad, made sure he was all right for me." The unspoken 'because I can't,' hung between them for a moment.

Jesse nodded. "I can do that." He held Steve's gaze briefly before looking away. "You sure you'll be OK?" He said, trying and failing to make the enquiry sound casual as he picked up a cup and turned to put it in the cupboard.

Steve would have sighed, but he knew from the way Jesse was reacting that he must have given his friend quite a scare, the concern was evident. "I'll be fine," he said reassuringly, "I was just a little tired yesterday and now that I've had plenty of rest, thanks to somebody giving me a little help." He rubbed the back of his hand again to let Jesse know that he hadn't gotten away with anything. "I'll be fine," he repeated.

Jesse nodded again. He wasn't entirely convinced, but then Steve hadn't exhibited any of the signs of stress that he'd shown the previous day, so he had no reason not to take him at his word. "I'll get ready for work then," he stated, heading for the shower. By the time he emerged ten minutes later Steve had already left.

-

Mark was feeling a lot better, his headache had dulled to a minor throbbing which didn't hurt at all as long as he kept his head still, and there was a double benefit in limiting his motion, in that any movement tended to pull on the still sore scalp wound, causing a different kind of pain as it tugged on the stitches.

He had been awake intermittently since the nurses had woken him at six, and it was getting on towards 11 now. He was beginning to get bored from the forced inactivity. He had spent some time trying to remember what had happened to him, but there was still a complete blank between reading in bed and waking in the hospital. When his continued attempts had proved fruitless, he had switched to idly wondering if he would have any visitors any time soon. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Steve yet but he wasn't unduly alarmed since he had spent a large proportion of the previous day and evening asleep, and he knew that if Steve had been there when he was sleeping then he wouldn't have awakened him. He could just imagine his son's frustration, sitting next to the bed waiting for him to wake up, and he had slept obliviously through the entire visit. He allowed a small smile at the thought.

Still, he hoped that Steve would be able to get off work at some point so that he could drop in on him. He didn't really want to wait until evening visiting hours to see him. At least Jesse would be in soon, that might break up some of the monotony.

When the door did open, he was surprised that he didn't recognise either of his visitors, from the way they were dressed they certainly weren't hospital staff.

"Dr. Sloan?" the man asked respectfully.

"Yes that's me."

The man moved into the room opening out his wallet. "I'm Detective Johnson, this is my colleague Jennifer Adams, I wondered if we might have a word."

Mark shifted against the raised head of the bed, straightening himself a little. "About the burglary?" Mark asked, not missing the significant looks that the two exchanged. He was a little confused by the reaction. "About the man who attacked me?" he tried.

Detective Johnson pulled up an extra seat next to the one that was already at Mark's bedside and they both sat. "What do you remember?" he asked.

Mark sighed. "Nothing I'm afraid, the events leading up to the attack are a complete blank."

"Then how do you know it was a burglary, that a man attacked you?"

"Amanda. . . Dr. Amanda Bentley, she's a colleague of mine and a friend, gave me some brief details, yesterday. She told me I was attacked by a burglar and that you were investigating, but I'd really like to know more about it, have you found anything else out?"

The pair exchanged significant looks again. "Dr. Bentley told you that we think a burglar attacked you?"

Marks' eyes narrowed at the question, he was becoming increasingly disquieted by the attitude of the detective and of the young woman, whom he'd introduced as a colleague, but he hadn't given her a rank or title of any sort. "Yes," he answered guardedly.

"And you really don't remember what happened?"

"No," he paused for a moment, "Retrograde amnesia is quite common with the sort of head trauma I've suffered."

"And you would know that of course, Dr Sloan." There was a little too much emphasis on the word doctor.

The young woman leaned forward on the chair. "Look it's OK, there's no need to lie." She placed her hand on the back of his in a gesture that was obviously meant to be reassuring but only came across as patronising. "If you really do remember but you're too afraid to tell us the truth, we can protect you. This sort of thing is more common than you think. . ." At Mark's confused stare she trailed off.

Mark's disquiet had long grown past unease and was bordering on fear, something was very wrong here. He pulled his hand back from under hers, the gesture that was clearly meant to be of comfort somehow adding to his foreboding. "Look what is all this about? I've told you I don't remember anything and I don't." He looked between the two, his confusion growing. "What reason would I have to lie?"

Detective Johnson drew in a breath. "We don't believe a burglar attacked you. In fact, we don't believe that there ever was a burglar in your home." He met and held Mark's gaze, watching for a reaction as he made his next statement. "We've arrested your son Lt Steve Sloan for the attack, he seemed to have been drinking heavily and we believe you got into some sort of argument with him. There was evidence that he had been in a fight and there was no evidence of anyone else having entered the house. It would really help our case if you could corroborate our findings. . ." It was the detectives turn to trail off as he watched Mark's shocked expression, the colour draining from his face.

Mark's mind was reeling, at first he couldn't get past the idea that Steve had been arrested, couldn't comprehend why, he knew that Detective Johnson was still speaking, but it was like his hearing was on a time delay, the thoughts processing at half speed as his body reacted to an all encompassing sense of dread that dropped on him like a bucket of ice water. They had arrested Steve for attacking him? They thought Steve did this? A whole skew of emotions accompanied the thought.

He looked between his visitors again, only vaguely aware of his increased breath rate and the accompanying increase in the level of pain in his head. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest his son's innocence, to point out the ludicrousness of the assumption, but no words came out. He tried again but the sheer strength of the emotions brought about a frustrating lack of verbal coordination, his speech centres too overloaded to make any sense of the numerous responses that he wanted to simultaneously make.

The patronising young woman was speaking again, misinterpreting Mark's reaction. "It's all right Dr. Sloan, we appreciate that it is difficult to admit when this sort of thing is happening in your own family, but you don't have to put up with it any more. We're here to help you. We can protect you."

It was the second time she had used that phrasing, 'this sort of thing' and the blandness of the phrase linked to such a serious accusation was the trigger, suddenly the myriad of emotion focussed into one, anger. The young woman, whom he now realised must be from adult protective services, becoming the focus of that anger. He did not need protecting from his own son. 'This sort of thing' may happen elsewhere but it hadn't happened to him, and these people were going to know it.

"This Sort of Thing," Mark blustered, "This. . . sort. . .of . . .thing," on the repeat each word was enunciated separately, with venom. "You are talking about my own son attacking me, and you can't even make the accusation directly. You hide behind bland phrasing and avoidance of the issues. For what? To protect me? You think my own son attacked me, and you want to protect me from the words?" Although Mark was asking questions, it was clear they were all rhetorical, not that there would have been time for an answer in amongst the verbal torrent. He took a deep breath, looking between the two and taking some satisfaction from the fact that they now both looked as shocked as he had been moments earlier. The breath helped to calm him, allowed his tone to even out, from an anger fuelled rant, to something much calmer. "My son did not attack me," he stated with a barely contained venom that would have shocked anyone that knew him. "And if you knew anything about us, about our relationship, you would know that." He met and held the young woman's gaze.

"Dr Sloan. . ." she tried to interrupt, clearly flustered by his response.

He ignored her. "But you have clearly not taken the time to find out. You mistake white hair for senility, injury induced weakness for frailty. You come here accusing my son of. . ." he finally broke off as some of the other emotions broke through.

"Dr. Sloan," Detective Johnson took the opportunity to speak. "I know this may be difficult for you to accept but you've already admitted that you don't remember anything, how do you know. . .?"

Mark's eyes now locked with the detective, the intensity of his gaze enough to interrupt the question before it was completed. There was silence for a moment. "I know," he stated with total conviction.

"But the evidence. . ." Detective Johnson tried again.

That was all that was needed to ignite the anger again. "I don't. . ." This time Mark broke off because of the intense pain that lanced down the side of his head, he took a sharp breath as his hand moved automatically to the side of his face.

It was at that moment Jesse walked in. Taking in the scene at a glance, his immediate concern was for Mark, and the deep lines of pain and stress etched on his features. "What the. . .?" He uttered the half formed question as he rushed to his friend's side. "Get out," he addressed the two strangers who had clearly been upsetting Mark.

"I'm Detective Johnson and this is. . ."

"I don't care who you are, you are causing my patient distress, and as his doctor I'm telling you to leave this room, so get out." Jesse's tone held authority. as did the gaze he levelled at them. "Get out now!" the repeat was almost a shout.

With a slight nod the detective turned and ushered his still shocked colleague from the room.

"Mark?" Jesse said, gently pushing Mark's tense form back on to the pillows, studying his friend carefully.

Mark still held one hand to the side of his face, his eyes were squeezed shut as he concentrated on attempting to steady his breathing, but despite the renewed pain, there were answers he needed. As his anger dissipated, concern replaced it, adrenaline fuelling a heightened response. He opened his eyes. "Jesse they said they arrested Steve, that they think he attacked me. Why would they think that? I have to. . ."

"Mark," Jesse said firmly. "I need you to calm down. Steve's all right."

"But they arrested him," Mark said, the distress building as he put the information that he knew together. "That explains why I haven't seen him. I have to go to him." He began to push himself forward off the bed.

"Mark," Jesse said sharply, getting his attention. "Steve's fine, I just finished having breakfast with him. Now I need you to calm down."

Mark looked into Jesse's eyes searching them for sincerity, truth, "He's OK?" He finally asked as he allowed his mind to process the statement.

Jesse nodded, "He's fine."

Mark dropped back onto the pillows, giving in to the weakness that he had been fighting. As he relaxed, his breathing began to even out, but the pain did not seem to want to lessen. Still he couldn't let that be a consideration, despite Jesse's assurances, his concern for Steve and for what had happened was paramount.

Jesse frowned as he checked Mark's vitals, the stress was the last thing his system needed. He felt guilty for the way Mark had found out about Steve's situation, part of him regretting not telling Mark the truth himself the previous day, at least he could have handled it more sensitively. At least he, like Mark, knew that Steve was innocent.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mark's voice was quiet now, there was a slight tremor in the question.

"Because you're in no fit state to be reacting like this," he said, garnering a small smile from his friend. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect. . . I left instructions for no visitors apart from Amanda and myself, I guess they slipped under the radar. I was waiting for your strength to improve, before explaining things."

Mark nodded. "Well, now that I do know, I think you'd better tell me everything."

Jesse studied his friend for a moment, he was visibly calming by the minute, with a sigh he dropped into one of the visitors chairs and began his explanation.

-

Steve closed the file and let out a long slow breath. He had called in a lot of favours to get a look at the document. After all, it was an open case and he was the subject. Getting to look at the evidence against him could be a big advantage if he were guilty, and, if he were guilty, jeopardising the case by letting him see the file like this, could end someone's career. Fortunately, there were still people around who believed he was innocent, although that number would probably dwindle if they too read the file. Steve had to admit that, if he didn't know the truth, then he would probably arrest himself based on the evidence.

The crime scene photographs showed the results of his drunken stumble through the house, but the coats and scattered flowers in the hallway, the fallen books and overturned chair in the living room and the arc of coffee that spread over the kitchen, all looked more like the result of a fight or violent argument. Then there was the bruising on his knuckles. He looked at the photograph again, would he believe that he had hit it on a desk, if some suspect told him that? He doubted it. It looked like the bruising you gained from hitting somebody; hard. He winced at the memory of the reddening mark on his father's cheek.

As for the credibility of his own version of events, firstly they had found no bullet to corroborate the fact that the intruder had fired on him, and the check had been thorough. They had run him through his story often enough for him to know that they had the angles right, and yet they had found nothing. Captain Newman had even sent the CSU back out to double check, and they had still come up empty.

Secondly, the locked doors to the deck were a big mystery to Steve, and a damning piece of evidence against him. He knew that he had seen them open, knew that that was the way the intruder had probably entered, and was definitely the route through which he had escaped, but they were found locked with no signs of forced entry. There didn't seem to be a logical way to explain the discrepancy.

Finally, there were the follow up interviews of their neighbours on the beach. No one else had been broken into that evening. In fact, if Steve's story was to be believed then the intruder bypassed at least a dozen houses in both directions whose occupants were sleeping, and chose the only house with lights on to enter.

Steve rested his elbow on the table and used it to support his head as he massaged his forehead. He wasn't sure what he had hoped to find, maybe something to support his version of events, any place to start looking in an attempt to find who had done this, but there was nothing. Not only did he not even have a place to begin, his only hope of not losing his career, and possibly his liberty. seemed to rest on his father remembering what happened, and what would that do to him if he couldn't?

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .