The second he's off the elevator in the lobby, he alternates between calling her phone and thumbing through the myriad of photos in his own phone, looking for one of Olivia. While it rings, he flips through dozens of photos of Eli, a few of Maureen and her fiancé, and more of Eli, before finally finding one of him and Olivia from four years ago – the last they took together – dating back to his early days as a smartphone owner. After the fifth ring, the Voicemail Lady intercedes, informs him that the mailbox is full, and unceremoniously disconnects the call. He impatiently re-hits send, and while it's ringing shows the picture to every person he passes, guests and hotel staff alike. The lobby is enormous, with numerous wings and nooks filled with conference rooms, restrooms, an ATM, the bellhop, the restaurant and the reception area. All are packed with people, including, apparently, the attendants of two different medical conferences, who are loitering in clusters in the seating area in the center of the lobby. She doesn't answer the phone.

The third time he hits her voicemail, and just as he's about to start panicking, the sixth person he accosts, an overweight brunette in her fifties sporting a tight-fitting pink halter top and a terrible sunburn, pauses at the sight of the photo. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I just saw her in the gift shop."

Elliot spins around, spots the gift shop on the northern flank towards the back of the lobby, adjacent to the business center. "Thank you!" he calls.

When he shows the photo to the Sikh shopkeeper, the man nods, his English heavily accented. "Yes, she was just here."

"What did she buy?" He belatedly reminds himself to soften his tone; the man is a helpful bystander, not a suspect. "Please," he adds.

"She did not buy anything. She asked if I had Tylenol, but I showed her what I have, and she said it was the wrong kind."

"Wrong kind?" Elliot furrows his brow. "What kind did she want?"

The shopkeeper turns to his shelf, pulls off a packet of Tylenol. "This is what I sell. But she wanted capsules."

"Capsules?" Elliot takes the small cardboard box from the man, squints, examines it.

The man points at the box. "These are tablets. She said she could only take capsules."

All at once Elliot understands. "So she didn't buy this?"

The man shakes his head. "I told her to try the Duane Reade on 42nd and 8th."

"Thank you!" Elliot calls, already sprinting out the door. Dammit, he thinks. Dammit. Dammit.

Back in the main lobby, Elliot hurries across the waxed floor, his shoes squeaking as he jogs. It occurs to him, then, to wonder if he's overreacting. The attack was almost two weeks ago, and, notwithstanding the brief spell of lightheadedness (it was almost a hundred degrees outside, he reminds himself), she's been ambulatory and functional. And she is, ultimately, a competent, independent adult. She knows how to walk a block and buy Tylenol at a drugstore.

And yet …. And yet. He has a gut instinct – a detective's hunch, perhaps – that something truly is wrong. She's been uncharacteristically taciturn all day. And she hasn't been feeling well. She can deny it all she wants, but he knows he hasn't imagined that.

Halfway across the main lobby, as he passes the seating area in the center of the room, he tries her phone again and almost wipes out on a puddle of water filled with broken glass.

"Whoa!" he exclaims, jumping around it at the last possible second. Eyes on the set of revolving doors to the outside, he resumes his sprint.

A few feet from the doors, he stops dead in his tracks. A cell phone is ringing behind him, seemingly in sync with the call he's making. Walking back towards the seating area, he follows the sound, which leads him straight back to the puddle with the broken glass. And now he notices what he didn't a moment ago: a small group is clustered around one of the couches directly next to it.

He hits 'end' on the call, and the ringing stops too. As he arrives at the broken glass, he sees that it's Olivia on the couch, hunched over, her hands holding her head. Her brand new iPhone is tossed on the glass coffee table in front of her, its screen informing her of 14 missed calls (of which four are his.) Three women and four men hover around her. One of the men, a skinny balding dude with glassy blue eyes, is wearing a name badge: DANIEL FRONT DESK CLERK. He is talking into his walkie-talkie.

Elliot pushes his way in front of the crowd, crouches in front of her. "Liv? Are you okay?"

A lady with platinum blonde hair, a glittery gold iPhone and a Wicked Playbill pipes up from behind him, "Do you know her?"

"Yes." He takes Olivia's hand, which is limp and ice cold. He glances behind him, his eyes sweeping over the small group. "What's going on here?"

"She says she's a police officer," a fifty-something woman in a Texas Rangers ballcap and too-tight white jeans pipes up, with derision and obvious doubt.

Olivia, meanwhile, is in her own world. Bent over, her head deep in her palms, her elbows digging into her thighs, she is apparently oblivious to the looky-loos buzzing around talking about her. She is moaning softly, he thinks, but it's hard to tell over the din of the lobby.

"Sir?" Daniel FRONT DESK CLERK asks Elliot. "Do you know this woman?"

"Yes. She is a guest here." He glares at the woman with the Rangers ballcap. "And she's a police officer."

Come on, Liv, speak up.

"Well, she has no room key or ID," Daniel says.

The implicit accusation that she does not belong here is less troubling than the fact that Olivia still hasn't said a word to defend herself.

Elliot narrows his eyes at Daniel. "Since when do you harass guests of yours for ID, who're sitting in the lobby minding their own business?"

"Sir, she passed out on the floor, right over there." Daniel points to a spot just beyond the puddle.

His heart sinks. Jesus, Liv.

"Did she hit her head?" He checks himself, re-addresses the question. "Liv, did you hit your head?"

"No," a third bystander answers, the husband of the Wicked playbill lady. "I saw it. She landed on a knee first, then kind of rolled sideways."

Still holding her hand, he squeezes himself onto the couch next to her. "What happened?"

The question is directed at Olivia, but it's Daniel, the Front Desk Clerk, who answers it.

"A guest tried to help her to the couch," Daniel explains. "But she got belligerent. And when another person got her a glass of water from the bar, she smashed it out of his hands." Daniel gestures at the puddle of broken glass.

"I said I was storry. Sorry." Olivia mumbles into her hands, barely audibly. "I forgot my key in the room, but my ID is right there." She points at the coffee table, where she's left her wallet in plain sight, available for anyone to snatch. Elliot grabs it.

" – and so I was just about to call Security – " Daniel continues.

He's dismayed that this is all she's offered to defend herself. It's completely unlike her.

Still holding her hand, he puts up his other one to Daniel. "Please, don't call anyone." He pulls out his own room key. "Here's our key. We're in room 4018." He rummages through her wallet, which still has a tag on it, and finds that the only thing other than $80 of cash, a bank card and a single credit card, is a photocopy of her ID badge from the stationhouse. He guesses that her real ID – and her badge, and her driver's license, and any secondary credit cards, and her wallet itself – are all either stuck in her apartment, in an evidence locker, or stolen by Lewis. He hands the piece of paper to Daniel, hesitating to say her name out loud.

He tucks his chin, trying to get her attention. "Liv? Talk to me."

"Olivia Benson, Detective, 16th Precinct." Unfortunately, Daniel decides to read out loud.

Somewhere at the back of the crowd, a woman nudges her husband. "See, Michael, I told you it was that detective from the news!"

Elliot grimaces.

"Get them away." The words are slightly garbled. She is talking into her lap.

"What?"

"Elliot, please get these people away from me."

He nudges her from the side. "Let's just go upstairs, okay?"

He has to help her walk back across the lobby and into the elevator. She is intensely dizzy – this is all she's willing to share – but he suspects that she's also in a lot of pain. He's got half a mind to raid one of the medical conferences for a doctor who might agree to come upstairs to check her.

Inside the elevator, which they thankfully have to themselves, she slinks to the floor, sitting with her legs in a V, cradling her head.

When the elevator dings at their floor, he keeps a foot blocking the threshold and tries to foist her up. "Come on," he prods.

Back in the room, she sits on the side of the bed facing the window, folded over in tears.

He takes a seat next to her, puts an arm around her, but doesn't say anything.

"That was mortifying," she chokes. "And I wish the fucking room would stop spinning so I could think straight."

"I'm sorry," he offers.

"And it wasn't what it looked like."

"I know."

"I suddenly felt dizzy and got a little lightheaded and just … knelt down for a second."

"Okay."

"And I didn't get belligerent. Some guy grabbed both of my arms without warning and I was startled."

"I know."

"And I guess I might've … elbowed him."

He chuckles. "I figured."

"But I didn't smash the water. Some other dude stuck a glass in my face without asking, and …"

"I know."

"I just … couldn't … think."

"I know."

"It's not what it looked like," she repeats miserably.

He pulls her into him from the side. "Do you have a headache, Liv?"

She turns to him, wincing. "How … how did you know?"

"I talked to the gift shop guy." When the answer doesn't make an impression, he adds, "Capsules? I was a detective, you know."

She smiles, falls sideways directly onto the pillow. "I've never had a headache like this, Elliot. I can't think. And this goddamn tsizziness. Dizziness."

It strikes him, then: she was hit in the head repeatedly over four days. There was a documented brain injury. Just because her other injuries have received more attention doesn't mean this one was any less serious. The heat and the hunger might only be exacerbating factors, not the primary causes.

"Liv, did the doctor yesterday say anything about your concussion?"

"Just that I should … " She trails off.

"What?"

"What?"

He shakes her arm. "Just that you should what?"

"Take it … easy."

"Well, have you been getting headaches?"

Eyes closed and head crumpled into the pillow, she musters a reply. "Mmm… they were really bad the first few days. But ..."

"But?" Again, he shakes her arm. "But what?"

"But … this is the worst in a while."

"I think someone should look at you."

"Elliot, no. Please, I'm fine. Come on, you've had concussions too. That's what they do. They give you headaches."

"Liv, the last time I had a concussion, I spent three days in the hospital and almost went blind. These things are serious."

"That was different. Your head was smashed through a car window. Anyway, my vision is fine."

He sighs. "I think you're missing the point."

"Elliot, it was too hot outside. I saw you. You were feeling it too."

Realizing she's not going to concede, he reaches for the bag of prescriptions from the nightstand. "Have you been able to take any of these?"

"No," she admits. "I tried the painkiller but couldn't swallow it."

"But … aren't you supposed to take the antiviral?"

She's silent.

"Liv?"

He looks at her face. She's trying hard to keep it together. It's been less than twenty-four hours since she found out she needed an antiviral.

"I'll take my chances," she says finally. "I'm not swallowing a pill right now."

"Is it … how you think the pill will make you feel, or literally the swallowing?"

"I don't know," she moans. "Maybe both?"

"But you shouldn't feel any …physical effects from that one."

"Except nausea."

He scrutinizes the label. Damn. "It's a possible side effect," he says.

"I don't care."

"Is nausea really what you're – "

"Elliot, look. He made me swallow pill after pill, several times a day. At some point one of them was Ambien, but the others … I had no idea. He'd make me wash everything down with vodka. And then he'd duct tape my mouth. The first day, I panicked and I started vomiting. It was terrifying. I thought I was going to choke to death."

"So what happened?" He's getting the chills just thinking about it.

"He had to rip the tape off. After that, I don't remember. I guess I blacked out. But when I woke up, it was dark out and I was lying on the floor, and my mouth was covered with a new piece of tape. And … I guess he'd cleaned me up … "

"I'm sorry," he offers again. "Look. I can go run to the drugstore right now and get you the Tylenol in capsules if you like."

She shakes her head miserably. "Forget it. I don't think Tylenol will do anything at this point."

"Well, I do have one idea."

"Yeah?"

He jumps from the bed and goes to the second bed, which hasn't been used other than to hold the bags from yesterday's sojourn to the hospital, the drugstore and the precinct. Finding what he's looking for, he goes back to her.

She pops open an eye, stares at the box of chocolate truffles in his hands. "Where'd you get that?"

"Hospital gift shop." He smiles. "Kathy always said chocolate made her feel better when she had a headache. Personally, I don't get it, but – "

She thrusts out her hand. "Lemme see those."

He hands her the box. "Yes, ma'am." He helps her sit up. She sways a little, but seems a bit sturdier.

She takes her time picking a chocolate – he's pretty sure they're all identical – and he watches her eat it, her facing lighting up with base pleasure.

"Is it good?"

She sighs. "It's like, the best thing I've ever had." She reaches for a second one. "You should try one."

He shakes his head, amused. "Pass. Too sweet for me."

"No such thing," she says, her words garbled as she swallows.

After finishing the second chocolate, her eyes drift closed and she lets her head fall back onto the pillow. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

He laughs. "Cheap date." He falls onto the pillow too, propping up on his side, but this time on her left side, facing her.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tell Kathy she was right. It's like a miracle cure."

He chuckles lightly.

She opens her eyes, her gaze settling on his, a little more focused, he thinks. She reaches up, feels his bicep. "Did you have a good workout?"

"Pretty good," he says neutrally.

She squeezes his muscle. "You still keep that up, I see."

He laughs it off, suddenly nervous. "Lot of time on my hands."

Her hand slides down lazily, first to his chest, then around his waist.

And then, to his shock, she leans in to kiss him.

He hesitates, leaning in as well, wanting to kiss her so badly he still can't fathom how he ever had the willpower not to do it before. He nudges his body a little closer. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she answers, her voice low. For the first time all day, she maintains eye contact.

She presses her lips to his, and he responds, sliding his hand around her waist, pulling her closer. Her lips taste like chocolate. As much as he wants to let go, lose himself in the moment, he knows that he can't let his hands roam. He's glad she wants this, but he doesn't fool himself that it means that all is now well.

And so it's a short kiss, but he'll take it. As she breaks it, she pulls him in, lays the side of her head against his chest, lets her eyes drift closed.

It's the first time he's held her facing him. Looking down at her face, he still can't believe she's here with him, like this, after all these years. Once upon a time all he could think about was how sexy she was, about how badly he wished the rules were different, that he wasn't married, that she wasn't his partner, that something would somehow make it okay to be with her that way. Nearly every man he knew told him how lucky he was to be partnered with her – many assumed he'd slept with her – but it was agony to be so close to her all the time and never once be able to act on his feelings.

But things have changed. She is still as sexy as she was the first day he met her, fifteen years ago. But it's no longer his libido guiding his feelings. He is more deeply in love with her than he's ever been with anyone in his life. He spent two years thinking about her every day, making excuse after excuse not to call her, too immersed in guilt and shame and divorce drama to face her, but still, always taking for granted that when he was finally ready to make contact, that she would be there.

Until one day he flipped on the news and found out that she almost wasn't.

Almost.

He will do anything and everything to help her face her demons. And he knows it might not ever get more physical than this. That's okay. He can't imagine being with anyone else ever again – sexually or not. That is, if she'll have him.

"My God, Liv, you're so beautiful."

She stiffens instantly. Her expression going dark, she pulls away. "Please don't say that."

"Why not?"

"You don't … just, don't say it." She abruptly sits up, propping her knees up and hugging them to her chest.

"I don't what?"

"Nothing, forget it."

He sits up too. "Please, help me understand. Why did this remark upset you?"

"Just … El, forget it. It's not you. I'm sorry."

"Do you not think it's true?"

"Please, Elliot, drop it. I'm trying really hard to not start crying again."

"Okay, I'm sorry."

She waves her hand. "No, no. Don't be sorry. You've been so wonderful. I just can't talk about it right now, okay?"

"That's fair." He inches himself towards her from behind, testing the waters. He slides his arms around her torso diagonally, one arm around her waist, the other over her shoulder. She bends her elbow to rub his lower arm. Heartened, he nuzzles his face against her shoulder blade. "How's your head?"

Grateful for the change of topic, she nods, rubbing his forearm. "It's better."

"Good."

"I, uh, think I'm going to take a bath."

He kisses her shoulder over her shirt. "Okay."

She's been in the tub for forty minutes when he hears the water start to drain, the curtain rings slide against the metal pole and her feet making purchase on the tub floor. Ear plastered to the door, he hears her step out.

He rushes back to the bed, grabs the remote, flips around. The goddamn story is still being covered breathlessly on CNN, and on MSNBC, and on the local news stations. He flips to TNT, which is airing a Tom Cruise marathon. Top Gun is just ending; Rain Man is next. Perfect. He leaves the TV on, letting his eyes drift closed. The combination of the heat, his workout and the emergency in the lobby have wiped him out too.

His eyes snap open, and he glances at the clock. Ten minutes have passed. She is still in the bathroom.

He pads up to the door, knocks lightly. "Liv?" When there's no response, he raps again. "Liv?" He shifts on his feet. "Are you okay?"

Nothing. He puts his ear against the door. She's trying to hide it, but he can hear it: she's crying.

"Can I come in?"

"No."

He waits another minute, shifting on his feet. "Can you at least tell me that you're okay?"

"Elliot, please leave me be." But the answer is undermined by a sob.

"I can't do that."

He gets silence in return. But listening closely, he hears heavy breathing.

He raps on the door again. "Liv, come on, either come out, or let me in."

"No."

He debates what to do. He lets another minute pass, deeply worried. "Liv, I'm sorry, I've got to come in and check on you."

"Please, don't." He notes what she doesn't say: I'm fine. And her voice is strangled.

"I'm sorry." He pushes on the door handle, but to his dismay, she has locked the door. Alarmed, he pounds. "Liv. Unlock the door."

She doesn't answer. All he hears is crying.

"If you don't unlock it, I'm going to break it open."

"Please go away, Elliot."

It's a testament to her state of mind that she thinks he would possibly do so. "Liv, I'm serious. I'll break it open."

"Stop it. Leave me be."

For a brief second, he considers respecting her wishes. She is an adult, this is her hotel room, and she is entitled to privacy without explaining herself.

But he is also here for a reason, he reminds himself. This is not a romantic weekend getaway. Explicitly stated or not, he is responsible for her.

And something about the timbre of her voice is off; there's an anguished, offkey quality to it that is a step beyond the meltdowns of the last several days. She is not just crying; she is in deep despair.

"Stand back from the door."

He thrusts his full body weight against the door, breaking the flimsy lock in one strike.

What he sees when he opens the door is the last thing he expected. And it horrifies him.

She is standing in front of the mirror, clad only in a bathtowel, tears streaking down her face. She hasn't bothered to towel-dry her hair and so it is sopping wet, streams of water running down her shoulders and face, merging with her tears. Some of the water escapes into her exposed cleavage, which still bears the marks of numerous semi-healed burns.

But he's not focused on any of that.

Because in her left fist, she clutches a clump of her hair at the front of her head.

And in her right hand is the razor he used to shave this morning. It's positioned along the front perimeter of the clump.

"Liv, no!"

She ignores him, starts to move the razor along her scalp. But her hand shakes as she does it, and only a small strand is shorn before she stops, pulls her wrist away, readjusts its position along her head, and goes in for a second attempt.

He seizes the opportunity and lunges at her, grabbing her by the waist from behind. Distracted, she struggles against him. "Get off me!"

"I'm sorry!" He tries to make a grab for the razor, but she is twisting around too hard, using her left hand to try to dislodge his forearm from her waist, but still holding the razor in her right, vertically above her head.

She flails around, fighting him much harder than he'd expected, trying to throw him off. "Elliot, let go of me!"

Clutching her around the waist with one hand, he tries to reach with the other for the razor, but she waves her arm around wildly, and he keeps missing.

"Let me go!"

"I'll let you go if you drop the razor."

But she won't do it. He maintains his grip on her and keeps trying for the razor, actively reminding himself that there are limits to how much force he can use on her. But even in the midst of her epic struggle to free herself, she is still, incredibly, focused on her mission: she quickly changes tacks, abandoning her quest to dislodge his hand from her waist and repurposes her left hand to grab a new fistful of hair, at which point she uses her right hand to re-plant the razor on her hairline.

That is her mistake. The second she parks her right wrist at her forehead, he snatches it up with one hand, using his other to maintain his iron grip around her waist. Once he's latched onto her wrist, he doesn't let go. He pries it away from the vicinity of her head, but not before she attempts one final, frantic swipe at her scalp. She misses, but instead slices the skin just above her cheekbone, almost taking out her left eye. He doesn't think the cut is deep, but blood instantly gushes from the slash, streaking down the left side of her face.

"Liv!" But there's no time to focus on the wound; despite his firm grasp on her wrist, which he's easily able to keep away from her head, she is still, absurdly, trying to outmuscle him, pulling her wrist towards her forehead for a third attempt, even though, on her best day, she couldn't possibly beat him in an arm wrestle.

He holds her wrist a safe distance from her head. "Let go of the razor, Liv. Come on. You don't want to do this."

But she refuses. "I should've cut it all off the first time!"

"That's the trauma talking." His lips planted near her temple, he talks directly into her ear, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. And though she keeps fighting him – her left hand has resumed trying to dislodge his hand from her waist – he is able to hold her close and steady. "Come on, honey, please drop it, let's talk about this."

"Elliot, let me go. Please."

Tears streaking down her face, he hates hearing her resort to begging. "Drop the razor, and I promise I'll let you go."

He's gravely worried. This is going on too long, and he's wary of using his muscle to restrain her. It's the rare moment in his career that he's ever had to overpower a rape victim, let alone one who trusts him so unreservedly.

On the other hand, in the span of a few hours, the situation has changed drastically: she is demonstrably unable to take care of herself, physically or mentally. And there's now the fresh gash near her eye. It doesn't look serious, but it's bleeding profusely, and the last thing she needs is another injury, particularly one that so obviously invites questions from others. "Honey, let it go. This isn't you. You don't want to do this."

But she refuses. He's never seen her like this. He can't seem to break through to her.

Still clutching her around the waist with his left hand and her wrist with his right, it seems they are at an impasse. And so he makes a decision: he lets go of her waist to free up his second hand.

But he miscalculates. He doesn't expect that she isn't expecting the sudden release, and, for a second before she regains her footing, he holds all of her weight by one wrist above her head, nearly dislocating her shoulder.

"Ahh!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry." He grits his teeth, again reminding himself that he cannot, under any circumstances, be rough with her. Still, between the element of surprise and the use of two hands, it takes him all of two seconds to pry the razor out of her hand and toss it to the floor. With that done, and before she has a chance to elbow him – he knows what she's capable of, even like this – he grabs her second wrist and pins both arms against her sides. And then, in one seamless move, he recaptures her from behind in a full-on bearhug, pulling her flush against his chest. She is now completely immobilized, both arms trapped inside his steel-like grip, crisscrossed against her stomach like a straightjacket. Walking backwards, he drags her out of the bathroom, talking into her temple. "Shhh … shhh … I love you. I'm sorry."

As soon as they're past the threshold, he kicks the bathroom door closed and he stands with her in the space between the bathroom door and the wall, both of them breathing hard. He keeps his arms around her, holding her still. Incredibly, she continues to fight him, though the effort is laughably futile.

He pulls her even tighter, enveloping her. "I'm sorry," he whispers again. "I'm sorry for having to do this to you. But I can't let you shave your head."

A full minute passes before he finally feels the fight drain from her. He doesn't need to maneuver them in front of the wall mirror to know that the left side of her face – and both of his wrists – are covered in blood. It's all over the white terrycloth bathtowel that is still the only piece of clothing she's wearing. And the smell of metal is potent.

To their left, the air conditioner blasts on high. She starts to shiver.

"Please let me go," she whimpers, still trapped inside his embrace, her wrists crossed against her stomach, useless.

He considers acquiescing. The mission's been accomplished: she no longer has access to the razor. He has no reason to continue to restrain her against her will. Indeed; he will be crossing a line if he doesn't release her soon. And if she starts to scream for help, she would likely get it: the walls are paper thin, and anyone who walked into the room at this moment would see the way he's holding her from behind, they'd see the bathtowel barely concealing her breasts, they'd see the blood streaming down her face, and, most of all, they'd see the way she's crying and pleading to be let go. Anyone who saw this would call the police immediately.

And yet, he can't let go. She is safe right here, like this, in this moment. And despite everything, she is lucid enough to know who he is. She isn't mistaking him for Lewis. She isn't screaming for help.

"Please, Elliot. Please let me go," she begs again.

She's not in physical distress. And she isn't afraid of him. He realizes, sadly, that what she's really saying is, Go back to your life. I'm not worth all this trouble.

"I can't." He presses his face into the side of her neck, his lips directly at her ear. He pulls her back another step. "I can't let you go."