AN: This is not me saying it's going to be this simple on the show. I think it's going to be super messy, because it ought to be, and they said they're continuing right from where they left off, so they'll have to deal with it. I just don't know how to write that, so instead I'm doing this and pretending that it could happen. It totally couldn't, and I know, so you don't need to tell me that in reviews. ;) Just, I'm pretty sure Luke's beard came with superpowers and now he can do anything. Anything.

There is a knock at the door and Sam freezes, his spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth, wondering if whoever is out there will just go away if he sits still for long enough. He isn't necessarily enjoying the self-imposed solitude he's living in these days but that doesn't mean he wants it interrupted.

"Swarek, open the door," Luke Callaghan shouts, pounding on the door again for good measure.

Sam replaces the spoon in the bowl and rubs a hand through his hair, feeling exhausted. He goes to the bedroom and pulls on yesterday's t-shirt. He eyes his jeans for a second but then decides that the sweats he slept in and is still wearing will have to do.

When he finally opens the door Luke is leaning against the door frame, his cellphone in his hand.

"Can I come in?" he asks rhetorically, already moving.

Sam steps aside and waves his arm in silent, irrelevant, assent. It's not hard to guess why his fellow detective is here, and he is torn between appreciation that Luke is not making him come to the station to do it, and annoyance that he wasn't given any warning.

But then again, neither are the suspects they question every day, and why should he be treated differently?

Mostly he's just amazed it took this long. He's already been given the date for his disciplinary.

"I hear you requested a transfer," Luke says without preamble.

Sam frowns. He had assumed this would be about Marlo and Ford. "I asked what my options might be," he says, not sure why he feels the need to talk it down. He did ask to leave.

"So you're not sure?"

Sam shrugs. "Why? Does that matter?" He doesn't really see how his career choices are in any way relevant to Callaghan.

Luke looks him squarely in the eye. "They asked if I wanted you on my team."

Oh. Sam pulls a face. "I guess I'll be staying at 15, then."

"That depends why you want to leave."

"I just think it's time to move on."

Luke nods. "So this is nothing to do with Andy or Marlo?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam objects, even if that isn't an unreasonable question, really.

"Come on, Sammy," Luke says, sounding exasperated.

"Marlo and I are done. Once the investigation is over, she's leaving town."

"And Andy?"

Sam shakes his head, not sure what to say. "What about her?"

"You trying to get away from her?"

"No," Sam says after a pause that goes on for too long, and it's clear that Luke knows he's lying.

"You guys are such a fucking mess," Luke spits out. "I can't even imagine what would've happened if I had married her."

Sam is immediately riled up at what Luke is implying. "I guess we'll never know," he says coldly.

Luke raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I know, Swarek," he says. "You tried it on once, you won't get me to believe you wouldn't have tried again."

Sam smiles humorlessly, his eyes closed, and shakes his head. Part of him wants to just tell the truth, that she was the one who came to him, that if the power hadn't come back on when it did something more would've definitely happened and all their lives could've been oh so different. "I'm not sure I understand why you'd even consider offering me a spot on your team if that's what you think of me."

"Because you're a good cop. Not so much lately, maybe, but you used to be. Maybe if you get away from all that you will be again. I just need to know you aren't just running away."

"The way Andy did when you picked her for Dakota, you mean?"

At least Luke has the decency to look just slightly guilty. "Your relationship is nothing to do with me, as long as it doesn't get in the way. I didn't pick her so she could get away from you."

Sam throws him a skeptical look.

"Okay, if we didn't have a history, I wouldn't have picked her. There were other people who looked better on paper. But I knew her, I knew she could do a good job. Just like I know you can do a good job even if, right now, you look pretty shitty on paper. You do get that right?"

Sam just looks at him.

"You fucked up, Sam. Big time. This isn't just going to go away," he threatens. "Marlo already quit, and who the hell knows what they're going to do about you. And Andy."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam asks, genuinely confused, but also more than a little bit angry. "You want me to beg you to give me a job? Be grateful?"

"You know what, you should be grateful. Grateful you didn't flush both your careers down the toilet the way you let Marlo do with hers."

Sam takes a menacing step forward, not even realizing that he's doing it. "I did not let Marlo do anything. I had no idea she was even sick until McNally told me. After Ford was attacked," he adds, slightly calmer.

"Yeah, I know," Luke says, unfazed. "Andy told me. She also told me she changed Marlo's log."

Sam closes his eyes, preparing himself for whatever accusations will come next.

"I spoke to Frank, that doesn't go any further," Luke says instead. "As far as the internal investigation is concerned, the only thing that got covered up was Cruz' mental health situation. You're both getting a slap on the wrist, a few months' suspension and it'll go on your record."

Sam's eyes open and he stares at Luke, speechless, marveling at how neatly he is apparently tying this up in a little bow. This is less than what they got for Conduct Unbecoming two years ago. He doesn't understand why, though.

"Look, I knew something was up with you guys when we were investigating Ford's attack," Luke explains. "I didn't ask. I should've done. I guess I just didn't want to know."

"Uh," Sam says, amazed at the amount of guilt that's going around over something that no one could have ever predicted.

Luke smiles slightly, not particularly warmly. "We could've all done some things differently and changed how this played out. That's all I'm saying." He moves towards the door. "I have a spot opening up in a month or two, I'll hold it for you if you want. But I need you to be sure, so take your time, figure out what you really want, and then let me know."

Sam follows him and holds the door open for him. He wants to open his mouth and tell him that he is sure, he does want the job, but he doesn't say it. For one thing, Luke wouldn't believe him, but it's also that he can't. He's figured out what he wants, but he still needs to figure out how to actually want it.

He nods goodbye to Luke and watches him make his way down the stairs and across the street to where his car is parked before stepping inside and closing the door. Back in the kitchen he picks up his bowl of what was once cereal and milk but which is now reduced to a gooey mess and rinses it out in the sink.

He's not entirely sure he's interested in working with Callaghan, but the man is right, after all of this his options are probably going to be pretty limited. And, really, the only reason they've ever not gotten along is Andy. Before she came to 15 he was just another detective. Unlike Jerry he had transferred in rather than working there as an officer first, and that made him an outsider. He wasn't part of the group, but he wasn't someone Sam didn't get on with. He did a good job and that was really all that mattered back then.

Perhaps it will be that way again with McNally out of the picture. On the other hand, Sam thinks to himself, sighing, there's absolutely no doubt in his mind that he and Andy would be in a much worse situation right now if Luke hadn't been looking out for her. And if he is bending rules and hiding stuff from IA for her now, almost two years after their relationship ended, what kind of chance does Sam himself have of moving on?

He's back in Dr. Dwyer's office, and he isn't really sure how or why. He never leaves there without feeling that he's wasting his time – and hers – but still he keeps returning every week. Maybe it's because he doesn't actually see any other people besides the cashier at the supermarket. He is still on a strict two-minute casual conversation phone call routine with Oliver, and although Sarah has offered repeatedly to take time off and come up from St. Catherines he has declined the offer every time.

Dr. Dwyer smiles at him, her smile more friendly and less measured than the last three weeks. As if they're getting to know each other. She glances briefly at the clock on the wall and then indicates the sofa for him to sit down. "Very punctual," she says.

Punctuality is easy when you spend half an hour parked across the street from the barn, watching your (former) colleagues coming and going, working and living. He doesn't tell her that, though.

He pauses in front of the couch and then, on a whim, decides to lie down instead of sitting. Might as well go all in with the psycho babble cliché. He sees her watching him and flashes a half-teasing smile.

She taps her pen against her desk a couple of times and then she gets up, picking up a notepad and a box of tissues on her way to the armchair. She deposits the tissues on the table by Sam's head and then sits down, crossing her legs and holding up her pen ready to take notes on anything he says.

Her smile is almost as challenging as his and he grins. Touche.

"So how do you feel?" she asks.

He looks at her and then up at the ceiling. "Tired." He can hear the sound of pen against paper and wonders how him being tired is worth writing down.

"Changed your mind about getting something to help with that?"

"No," he answers emphatically.

"Nightmares?" she asks.

He blows out a gust of air. The nightmares are still there but there's a variation to them now, as if his brain is bored with the repeats. It began a few days ago, when, right after Andy had been shot, and Sam stood there looking on helplessly as the blood pooled around her, Nick appeared, shouting at Sam that he should've let him take the bullet instead.

It's not much of an improvement, waking up thinking that, yeah, actually he would've done if that had been the choice. As if he is somehow allowed to play God and decide who lives and who dies.

"No," he lies. He can feel Dr. Dwyer's eyes boring into the side of his head. Clearly he's not convincing. "Not more than what's normal," he amends.

"What's normal, do you think?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"I don't know," he says, regretting his choice of words. This is why silence is always the better option. "When you almost die, isn't it normal to dream about it sometimes?"

"It's not not normal," she replies.

He turns his head so she can see him rolling his eyes.

"There's no right answer here, Sam. Everyone's experience is different."

"That's something you say to people whose experience is abnormal," he tells her flatly. Not that he thinks his reaction is particularly strange or outside whatever norm there is for cops getting shot when they're trying to run away from their ex-girlfriends and their new-found happiness.

"It's something I say to everybody who looks like they need to hear it."

"I don't think I'm weird," Sam insists.

"Okay," she agrees. "So, any nightmares?"

Sam's eyes narrow and he glares at the ceiling in frustration. "Some. I'm dealing with it."

"Good," she says, scribbling away. "How?"

He still sleeps with his phone in the living room, hiding it in a different place every night before he goes to bed. Just in case he'll suddenly begin sleepwalking. He has changed his speed-dial so McNally is no longer third – something he should have done ages ago so he pretends it's not related. But still, just in case. "I count stuff." It's true, he does. He counts the seconds from when the gunshot rings out until the light in Andy's eyes goes out and he wakes up and he is drenched in sweat, although not so much that he doesn't notice the tears on his cheeks.

Seventeen.

"A very good trick," Dr. Dwyer says. "And how is it working for you?"

"You're very pushy today," he tells her, not answering her question.

"You look like you can handle it today," she says, her voice not unkind.

He wants to tell her that she's wrong, he can't handle it at all. "You know that expression, 'If you love somebody, set them free'?" he asks instead.

She nods, waiting for him to continue.

"You believe in that?"

"I believe you should give people the freedom to live their own life and make their own choices," she replies, her words carefully measured, and he shakes his head dismissively.

"That's not what I mean," he says, pausing as he tries to find the right words to explain without explaining too much. "I mean, should you let people go because they'll be better off without you?"

"You think people will be better off without you?" she asks, a slight edge to her voice and he can see the suicide bells going off in her head. Somewhere deep down in a place he normally ignores he feels a sick sort of satisfaction at the thought that now she's worried she pushed him too far. Even if she really didn't push him that much at all.

"I'm not going to kill myself," he says flatly.

"Good," she tells him, nodding, and he thinks she believes him. "So is this why you requested a transfer?"

He sighs. "Yes."

"That's not letting anyone go, though, that's you running away. There's a difference," she points out.

"Maybe sometimes you have to walk away in order to let go," he says, turning his head to look at her.

She frowns. "I'm still not sure I understand why you need to let people go."

He doesn't answer her. It's not as if he doesn't know that from where she's sitting all he needs is to talk about it and then he'll turn into someone well adjusted and normal and he won't feel a need to push people away because letting them in is too hard, it hurts too much when they leave.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks instead, his hand rubbing his chin. He's not entirely sure it's a good idea, but he needs to know.

"Of course," she agrees readily.

"Is McNally-do you see her?"

Dr. Dwyer's brow furrows and she shakes her head slowly. "You know I can't talk about that, Sam."

"Of course," he agrees. "I'm not asking you to tell me what you talk about. I just-"

"You just want to make sure she's okay," Dr. Dwyer finishes for him when he doesn't continue.

He looks her in the eye, not wanting to admit out loud that she's right, but still imploring her to give him an answer.

"I'm going to say something now, Sam. It's probably not what you want to hear, but I'll say it anyway, because I think you need to," Dr. Dwyer says, clicking her pen against her notepad. She catches him watching her do it and stops with a self-deprecating smile.

He raises his eyebrows for her to continue.

"No man is an island," she says and he laughs at the unexpected flash of humor. "No," she goes on when he is quiet again. "I understand your impulse to pull away, and it is natural to feel that way, but you can't. Now, I'm not here to give you relationship advice, but perhaps you need to think beyond your fight or flight instincts here. Maybe you need to seriously consider peaceful coexistence."

He frowns. "I tried that. It didn't turn out too well."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I'm here," he says, waving a hand around her office.

"You're here because you were shot, Sam," Dr. Dwyer points out.

He grimaces, feeling no need to tell her that on some level those things are all connected. Then again, maybe she already knows judging by the shrewd look on her face.

"I was offered a spot on a task force," he says, changing the subject. "Once my suspension is over and I'm cleared for duty, I mean."

"I know," she tells him. "Do you want to talk about your hearing?"

He shrugs. He doesn't not want to talk about it, he just doesn't care. Everything went as Luke had predicted - as Luke had arranged, probably, however he managed that. "It went fine."

She nods. "So you want to talk about this new job? Is it something you want?"

"It's not something I don't want," he allowed.

"And staying here at 15 is something you don't want?"

"You don't think I should leave?" he asks instead of answering her.

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"I'd still like to know."

She looks at him for a long moment, clearly making up her mind. "I think if you're going to leave, you should make sure you're doing it for the right reason."

He nods. "And what's the right reason, then?"

"I really couldn't say," she replies. "That's what you need to figure out."

"And here I was thinking it was your job to help me with that."

She smiles, nodding. "It is. But I can't do that until you admit it to yourself."

He stares at her.

She stands up. "And on that note, I think our time is up."

She is by the door, her hand reaching for the handle, before he shakes his head and follows her. "See you next week, doc."

"Absolutely," she agrees as she holds the door open for him.

TBC