Notes at the end.
The front door opened without protest. Of course it did; Gibbs never locked his own house. She had walked through it countless times, at least half a dozen unannounced, and had yet to find his inner dwelling inaccessible.
It had made sense to her within two days of being in the office with him. Why would he lock up a house of things when, clearly, everything he cared about in the world was on his team.
She felt the warmth before she saw the flame. Walking through the foyer into the living room, it struck Jack that, no matter the season, Gibbs always had a fire burning. Winter. Summer. It didn't matter. The house itself seemed to live and breathe with his coming and going, the glowing embers its beating heart.
She closed her eyes, the scent of smoke filling her up, lifting her outside herself. For a brief moment, there was nothing beyond the heartbeat of the fireplace and the heartbeat in her chest.
No fear. No memories. No pain.
It was a moment she would never forget; a moment she hoped she would never remember.
"Hey."
Startled, suddenly consumed by panic she couldn't have suppressed, even if she'd anticipated it, her firing hand instinctively dropped to the SIG-Sauer at the small of her back
"Whoa, Sloane. Easy."
His voice had the smooth quality of a seasoned agent. The voice of a confident man, even when faced with a friend with questionable sanity, likely armed and reaching, standing in his living room.
Her ears barely registered the sound of her own name before her vision left her. Wild, aubourn eyes, the color nearly swallowed by dilated pupils, searched, looked through him, saw nothing.
With involuntary precision, capable fingers laced around the grip of her sidearm, trigger finger parallel along the barrel, and she felt herself begin to unholster the gun. Sixteen ounces of aluminum alloy and stainless steel. Seven rounds in the magazine. One in the chamber. Safety off.
"Jack?"
Blood rushed through her veins, roared in her ears and deafened her, amplifying fear in the consuming silence. It felt like her nightmares, when sleep stole her vigilance. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and yet all at once. So fast and so slow, she couldn't tell if she was moving or standing still.
"Sloane?"
The gun in her hand didn't slow - didn't stop; the barrel kept rising. Vision still eluded, the shadow remaining a dark and forbidding unknown.
Masahun. He had come for her, she was sure of it. She should have killed him when she'd had the chance, a mistake that wouldn't be repeated. She jerked harder on the weapon, poised to empty it into the darkness. If she missed, he'd kill her and the nightmare would end, anyway.
Win-win.
"Lieutenant!"
She aimed. Screamed. Pulled the trigger...
It's short, but it's meant to be. Don't give up yet...