Hello! Here I am with the final installment of this little miniseries. I hope that it's been worth the wait, at least somewhat, and that you've enjoyed having so many updates back to back. I don't know when the next one is coming, but I hope to not leave you waiting months again!

A/N: nothing to warn for other than a nosy Nick, an angry Elliot, and Jimmy Mac's farewell. quotes once again from mercy of the fallen by dar williams.

Thank you so much for your kind feedback! It is always, always appreciated. :)

{there's the wind and the rain and the mercy of the fallen
who say they have no claim to know what's right}

"Hey! Liv! Is-"

Nick jumps up from his chair as soon as he sees you enter the squadroom. Amanda tugs on his sleeve, trying to pull him back down. "I told you, she's sick. Leave her alone."

"But I just wanted to know if-"

"I'm fine, Nick, I promise," you say, trying to look as sincere as you can. "I need to talk to Amanda, and then I'm going to go back home to rest so I'll be all better tomorrow."

He accepts this, albeit a bit skeptically, and Amanda follows you back to your office. Before you can even ask her to shut the door, she closes it behind her and starts talking. "Li...Sergeant. I just want to tell you, before you say anything, that I'm...I need to apologize for last night. You were totally right, I should've minded my own business. I just saw the situation and- maybe I jumped to conclusions when I didn't need to get involved. I thought that-"

"Rollins. It's o- that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"You didn't?"

"Well. Not exactly. Although, what you saw...whatever you thought it was, it's not that."

She nods vigorously, like there's going to be a test on this information later and so she's deep in concentration. "Right, of course. I understand."

You're not sure how she understands when you yourself aren't entirely sure what 'that' was, other than something that you wish could be erased from the memories of everyone involved. "But that being said, I'm not angry that you intervened."

"I just want to tell you, my intentions were good. It wasn't like I was looking for a chance to do something so...I know I screwed up by getting into debt with that club, and everything that came after it. I wasn't trying to do you a favor so that you'd forgive me."

You won't tell her this, but that thought had occurred to you this morning- that maybe she saw your misfortune as a chance to stage a dramatic 'rescue' that would make her a hero in your eyes. But that was before you realized... "You could've gotten me fired."

"What?"

"Barba said that you talked him out of letting the chief know what happened. If he or IAB found out- I don't know what they would've done. They probably would've appreciated having an excuse to get rid of me," you point out. "So you could have...but you didn't."

She tilts her head and shrugs. "Why would I?"

"Well, things aren't always..." You stop yourself in mid-sentence, aware that she might be offended by you implying that she'd capitalize on your misfortune for her own personal gain. If your situations were reversed, you might have stooped to that level, but maybe it's time to stop assuming that everyone's as shitty as you are. "I...I don't know."

"Listen, Sergeant. The way I look at it- no one got hurt. Right?"

"Right, right," you answer quickly, waving your hand dismissively.

"Okay. So maybe you made...maybe it wasn't the best move ever, but shit happens. You're a good cop, and a good person, and you don't deserve to have your career and your life ruined by some son of a bitch who thinks he-"

"Amanda?" you ask. She's frozen, mouth open and eyes wide.

"I'm alright. I'm...y'know, I should probably let you get home or. Do whatever it is you need to do. I just wanted to tell you that- I'm not going to breathe a single word about last night to anyone. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened."

"I appreciate-"

"Unless. I mean. If you ever want to talk. About anything..." She frowns and looks down at her lap like she's afraid she might have said too much.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me," you tell her. You want to say more, want to say thank you for saving my ass when I really needed it, but you can't quite get the words to come out. You hope she understands. "I know this took up your whole night, so...if you want to take the rest of the afternoon off, you have my permission."

"I might head out after I finish my fives. But, um. Sergeant?" Amanda asks, looking a bit sheepish.

"Yeah?"

"Just so you know, when I told Nick you weren't feeling well- I said it was 'woman stuff' because I thought it'd keep him from asking questions. But he said it's, ah, not your time of the month. That he knows because he lived with you and...anyway, now he thinks you have an irregular cycle and it must be because you're going through menopause. So if he says anything to you...that's all him. He did not get that information from me."

"Thanks for telling me," you say as the two of you exchange looks of commiseration. "And for...your discretion. Just. Everything."

She gives you a smile, slight but warm. "Always. Take care of yourself."

{there's the weak and the strong
and the many stars that guide us
we have some of them inside us}

Solely out of curiosity, you do some Googling when you get home.

There's a rehab center in Chelsea that deals specifically with female alcoholics with PTSD. You've given their brochure to victims before, and you've crossed paths with some of the staff members at a conference or two. They're supposed to be good at what they do. For the fees they charge, you suppose that they damn well better be.

In theory, the department would pay for it. They're technically on the hook for your 'incident-related' medical expenses for the rest of your natural life, maybe even beyond that if your ghost starts acting up because of unresolved trauma. But getting them to pay for it would involve disclosing more personal info than you're comfortable with, and you've just learned firsthand what sort of trouble you can get into when other people know too much.

You still have the money your mom left you, of course. It's sitting untouched in the same bank account that it's been in for 14 years. And in retrospect, the guilt that comes with a dead woman's disapproval would have been a minor insult when compared to the blow to your pride that you've just suffered.

Your mother went to rehab once when you were about eight years old. At the time, she told you she was going to a conference and so you'd be staying with your grandparents. You thought it was strange because she had never taken anything longer than a day trip without you (which is why you were probably the only third grader in the country with multiple MLA conventions under your belt). But you accepted that 'this conference doesn't allow kids' and spent ten miserable days with Grandma and Grandpa, refusing to leave the kitchen until bedtime because you wanted to be right next to the phone when she called.

Mom came home and went right back to drinking, and it wasn't until you were college aged that she told you the real reason for her disappearance. Up until then, the closest you ever came to discussing it was when she would get angry and threaten that she'd 'have to go away to the hospital' because you were a 'rude, ungrateful child' who was too much for her to handle. (She stopped making this threat when you got older, knowing that you'd probably be grateful to get away from her).

Then one day when you were home from college, apropos of nothing, she started to tell you about her very brief stint in rehab. It was an 'utter waste of time.' She wasn't interested in meditation or hypnosis, she 'didn't want to tell strange junkies' about her life during group therapy, and she wasn't about to let 'a bunch of doctors and counselors tell me I have a problem when they don't even know me'. When they tried to prescribe her something to help her sleep at night, she was offended at the implication that she was 'mentally sick', so she packed her bags and never looked back. She didn't regret it, either. 'I can solve my problems all on my own, and I don't need anyone telling me I can't.'

The irony, of course, is that she couldn't. It wasn't that she didn't try. There were probably close to a dozen instances that you could recall when she went without drinking for a fair amount of time- meaning, long enough for you to notice it. She never announced that she was quitting and you never said anything directly about it to her. It was one of those things that was too fragile to withstand the scrutiny of conversation. But you tried to give her all the subtle encouragement and positive reinforcement that you knew how to give, and then one day she'd come home and you could tell that she'd been drinking even before you could smell it on her breath.

At the time, it made you furious. She fucked up again, just like always, so why did she even bother trying? She obviously didn't care if she succeeded or not because if she did care, she'd stop wasting time on these failed attempts.

But now, with the benefit of time and perspective, you see it differently. Yes, it was rough on you as a child to never know what to expect from day to day or even hour to hour. It's probably the reason why you still can't seem to enjoy anything fully, why you can't let your guard down completely because you're always waiting on the inevitable disappointment. But now you also recognize the courage it must have taken her to keep making an effort at something she'd never been successful in doing. Even if she thought she'd ultimately fail, and even if that turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy, she still managed to find the motivation to try.

And if she could do it, could hold on to some little bit of faith in herself, then you can too.

You tap the X in the upper right corner of the screen to bid farewell to Betty Ford. Rehab wasn't for your mom, and it's not for you either. Like mother, like daughter. But you can still learn from her mistakes and recognize that you can't do it alone.

You call your therapist and ask for the next open appointment slot. Then you gather up all the bottles- large and small, full and nearly empty- and dump the contents down the sink. You even take them all out to the recycling bin so you won't have them around as a reminder of what you're missing. Finally, you reach for your phone again and compose a message that you've been putting off sending for too long.

[hey El. sorry I've been AWOL, things have been a little crazy. but I'd like to catch up- are you busy tomorrow?]

He agreed to meet you for lunch the next day at a little diner a few blocks away from the precinct. It was typically crowded and bustling- an ideal atmosphere to keep things from getting too heavy. You show up 15 minutes early and stake your claim on a corner booth, shredding a napkin into tinier and tinier pieces, and your breath catches in your throat every time you see the front door swing open.

With every stranger that walks in, you become that much more convinced that he's not going to come after all. But at exactly one on the dot you see the top of his head coming through the doorway, and you stand up in such a hurry that you almost collide with the table. "Hey."

"Hey." You try to smile, but there are tears pricking at your eyes that have nothing to do with the bruise that must be forming on your hip after bumping into the corner point of the tabletop.

"You alright, Liv?"

"Yeah, I'm fine...can I just...?" You cautiously reach one arm out and he nods, giving you permission to step into his embrace. It's a bit one-sided for a few seconds, you holding on to him while he stands with his arms stiffly at his side, but then you can feel him relax as he exhales and pulls you in closer. You close your eyes and your chin bumps his shoulder, and for a moment it's easy to imagine that all the bullshit between you has vanished.

It hasn't, though, so you reluctantly pull away before you can start making him feel uncomfortable. "I...thank you. I needed that, sorry."

"Hey, stop that. Anytime. I'm serious, okay?"

"Okay," you mouth with a little nod, taking a seat on the bench behind you. He slides into the booth as a waitress comes over and asks if you know what you want. "Just coffee's fine, thanks."

"Actually, can you give us a few minutes?" Elliot asks. The waitress sighs and walks away.

"How do you not know what you want? You get the same thing every time we go here."

"I know what I want, but I'm wondering about you. When was the last time you had an actual meal?"

"I'm not hungry," you say, dodging the question.

"It's been a while, I can tell...Liv, what's going on?"

"Nothing. It's...it's over now. I don't want to talk about it. Please."

"I'll make you a deal," he says. "You eat something, and I won't ask any more questions."

"El, I told you, I don't want anything."

"Fine, then I'll order something and you can eat off my plate." He sees you rolling your eyes and laughs. "You always liked doing that anyway."

"Alright, whatever," you huff.

He keeps his promise and doesn't try to talk you into ordering anything when the waitress comes back, although he does ask for an extra side of fries along with his usual. Once she leaves, he rests his hand on the middle of the tabletop like a peace offering. "I really am glad you texted. I missed you."

"Yeah?" you ask shyly. "I. I missed you too. I swear I wasn't trying to...when I said I cancelled my therapist appointment, I wasn't lying. Things were busy and I, uh. Got off track. But I'm trying to turn it around."

He moves his hand again so that his fingers are covering yours. "You will. But if you need he-"

"I know. For right now...I just need a distraction. Like when you used to call me while Brian was working nights."

"Got it, of course." He leans back in his seat and smiles. "Did you know that they can suspend coaches in little league basketball?"

"They can?"

"If you throw a clipboard at the opposing team's coach, they do. I'm banned for the next two weeks."

"Elliot!"

"This son of a bitch was telling his players to clothesline our team! What kind of grown man wants six year olds knocking each other down? I said to the ref, if you're not gonna do anything..."

For the first time in weeks, you feel normal again.

And with this final note, I close out the saga of my time with Sergeant Benson and the rest of the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. As I do, I'd like to take a moment to clarify my point of view as to what truly happened during my final week at SVU-

Having just fielded a call from my attorney, in which he strongly encouraged me NOT to put any of it into writing, I will refrain from doing so. But I *would* like to say that I bear no ill will toward Sergeant Benson. On the contrary. I will let her and her ragtag band of crime fighters think that they can scare me into silence by threatening to expose my phony college degrees and my gay sex tapes and my past foray into money laundering. I hope it gives them a sense of accomplishment. However, my decision to pull this particular feature had nothing to do with them. Nor did it have anything to do with my editor saying that 'under no circumstances' will he allow the article to be published.

My change of heart came about through something that Benson herself said to me in our final conversation. We were discussing her personal fears for the future- being stuck in a job she didn't want, in a relationship she didn't know how to free herself from, or trapped inside her own mind as a prisoner of the past. At one point, she finally put down her glass and looked directly at me. "I just want to be okay," she said as I handed her a mostly empty bottle. "That's all I want."

"I just want to be okay." It was in that moment I realized how, despite a past that seems like something out of a Lifetime movie, Sergeant Benson is truly no different than you or me. We're all fellow travelers on this odyssey that we call life, doing our utmost to find a place in this world that will offer us some respite before we continue marching on toward whatever lies ahead of us. As a little band called Journey once noted, "some will win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues." We in the media spend an exorbitant amount of time creating winners and losers for public consumption. We celebrated when Sergeant Benson was rescued after her ordeal, and yet we were so quick to make the victim into a villain when it served our purpose of attracting an audience. We crucify an ordinary woman based on nothing more than speculation and innuendo, and then we demand a feel-good follow up piece to reassure ourselves that she's 'okay' before we move onto our next target. I refuse to be a part of placating our readership in this manner, but I also will not subject her to more public scrutiny and let her personal trauma be used to sell newspaper subscriptions. Jimmy Mac is a man of principle!

Thus Sergeant Benson's story will remain untold, at least for now. And if in 2017, you happen to come across a novel about the abduction of an NYC animal control officer named Bolivia Swenson...well, my attorney would like to remind you that any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.

-Jimmy Mac, signing off.