This one was hard. Which is probably why I've been putting it off. I'm still not sure I really captured what I wanted to convey here, but please let me know if I came close.

All the usual disclaimers apply.

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"...and Heaven have mercy on us all - Presbyterians and Pagans alike - for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending."
―Herman Melville,Moby Dick

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Sam's turning the watch over and over in his hands.

There's a roaring in his ears, and his skull feels kind of detached as he stares with unfocused eyes at the silver trinket. Because he just can't process the contradiction.

The watch is ticking, steady and strong. And the man who gave it to him is dead.

Sam kind of knew even as he watched the EMTs load Jerry into the bus. Something in his gut told him that even though they'd worked feverishly on him and gotten his heart started again, it wasn't going to last. That all those happy plans – tux fittings, and glossy brochures of tropical destinations, boutonnieres and bachelor parties – weren't going to happen now.

Maybe it was his gut, and maybe it the size of the lake of blood left on the hardwood floor after they picked Jerry up and left.

But he'd followed the bus to the hospital, sirens and lights cutting a swath through the downtown traffic. Hoping his gut was wrong, telling himself the EMTs have pulled more than one miracle out of their asses, desperately wanting the happy ending that one whackjob with a blade had obliterated in an instant.

Distantly, he watches Andy break the news to Traci. Registers Jerry's fiancée's face crumpling in grief.

Now he just doesn't know where he's supposed to go from this plastic waiting-room chair.

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Andy has her hands full, being there for her best friend. And that's actually a relief for Sam. Because he wants nothing more than to have nothing to do with anybody.

That first night, he went home in a daze and drank himself senseless. Seeing as Frank had already given him the next day off, he didn't see a reason not to.

There were three or four texts from Andy, but he didn't reply to any of them.

He isn't sure what time it is when he pulls himself off the floor, peels his tongue off the roof of his mouth, and drags himself into the shower. He's doing it out of habit more than anything else. It's not like he actually feels the temperature of the water or gives a rat's ass whether he's presentable or not.

A couple more texts from Andy. They're as non-invasive as Andy can manage to be, really – Traci managed to get a little sleep, hope you were able to do the same, call me when you have a minute, that sort of thing. He gets that she's trying not to be in his face, but he knows all the same that she doesn't do time and space. And that's what he so desperately needs.

How much time? Right now, feels like forever.

But there are two shifts of work to get through before. Before the funeral.

He gets paired up with Shaw for the first one, thank gawd. Both of them make a couple of feeble attempts at telling tall tales about Barber as they patrol up and down the streets and back alleys of Kensington Market. But it's too new, too raw, and in the end they both just end up silent and brooding. In a companionable sort of way.

It's not okay, but it's the best they can do.

He's back in the car with Andy for the second shift. And she's trying, she really is, but she's getting on his very last nerve. Every word out of her mouth, every concerned glance from her with the doe eyes and the creased forehead, frankly makes him want to throttle her. He pinches the bridge of his nose, counts to ten, tries to remind himself that it's not her, that just about everything is making him see red, including the amazing number of asshats there are on the street that day. That anger is part of the process.

And yeah, he's pretty fucking angry.

But the more she tries to force innocuous conversation about something, anything else, the more Sam's brain is stuck on a single channel. Jerry. Jerry being dead.

And Traci's grief.

And what if it was McNally? Could he survive?

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Dress blues. White gloves. Spit-polished shoes, getting splattered with mud as a dreary, steady rain falls at the cemetery.

Sam stands apart from the rookies. Holding it together. Face tight, teeth clenched, but holding it together.

He lets Ollie and Noelle be the hand-holders. It's never been what he's good at. Turns on his heel and marches out of there before he falls apart completely.

She doesn't need to see that. No-one does.

And even as his brain replays the promises he's made ….

"I'm there when it matters."

And "You're not getting rid of me without a fight."

Even then, he's coming to one inescapable conclusion. And it makes his throat tight.

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Does it ever stop raining anymore?

That's as close as he can come to coherent thought, as he drives away that night, leaving her in the parking lot, strings of wet hair hanging in her face, trying and failing to keep that lip from trembling.

Those soft lips.

Has it been raining ever since Jerry was killed? Seems that way.

He's not sure how he gets home. Doesn't remember parking the truck or putting the key in the door.

All he knows is he's inside, and he's got his hand wrapped around a glass of Scotch. And he notices, with sudden, laser clarity, that his hand is shaking.

And then he's on the floor, leaning up against the cabinets, and suddenly he can't get any air into his lungs at all.

And he sits in that dark kitchen and sobs and gasps like a fucking infant, until his body can't do it anymore.