AN: If anyone is still reading this, I apologize for the ridiculous delay. This is the angstiest thing I've ever written, so I think that's why it took me 4 months to write lmao. Anyway, I hope it's worth the wait for at least one of you!
(Un-beta'ed)
Emma stared numbly at the wall across from her as a sharp coldness settled suddenly over her heart.
Graham was dead.
Her mentor, her role model, her friend: gone.
Just like everyone else she'd ever been foolish enough to love.
(She ignored the voice in her head that reminded her that this was the farthest thing from the truth, ignored the warm, comforting pressure of her brother's hands cradling hers.)
"How?" she whispered numbly, leaning back in her chair.
David sighed and bit his lip. "Heart failure. They don't know the cause yet, but they suspect an overdose."
Emma furrowed her brow in confusion and dragged her eyes over to meet her brother's. "No way. Graham would never."
David sighed and briefly averted his gaze. "Maybe. Or maybe we didn't know him as well as we thought," he said, his tone soothing despite his accusation.
She shook her head and leaned toward him slightly. "Maybe you didn't, but I did. He had his flaws, sure, but that wasn't one of them."
"You and I both know that people aren't always what they appear to be," he countered, the sliver of hurt look in his usually warm blue eyes causing guilt to churn hotly in her gut.
She swallowed thickly and unconsciously squeezed his hands tighter. "David-," she began, her mouth suddenly dry as she rushed to explain.
He shook his head wordlessly and gently pulled his hands from hers and rose to his feet. "Do you not trust me?" he asked quietly before pressing his mouth into a thin line.
Emma's heart broke at his wounded tone. "Of course I trust you, more than anyone."
"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his eyes beseeching.
"I was trying to protect you," she feebly argued after a moment.
David scoffed, irritation mixing suddenly with the hurt in his eyes. "That's bullshit and you know it," he said, raking his hand through his short hair.
She averted her gaze to the clasped hands in her lap as a wave of shame rushed through her. "I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't approve," she whispered hoarsely.
David sighed and took a seat in the chair beside his sister. "You're right, I don't," he began firmly, placing his hand over her clasped ones, "But you're not a kid anymore, Em, you don't need my approval."
Her eyes flicked quickly back to his. "I know, I just…I don't want to lose you," she said, swallowing thickly as her vision began to blur slightly.
Her brother's eyes softened as he quickly moved to cradle her face in his hands. "Hey, you will never lose me. No matter what happens, I will always be here for you."
"Promise?" she asked weakly, her voice now thick with unshed tears.
A small smile briefly quirked his lips as if her question had reminded him of some fond memory from their childhood. "Promise," he confirmed softly, leaning over to place a kiss on her forehead.
She woke with a start a couple of hours later with a crick in her neck (the hazards of falling asleep in a hospital waiting room chair). Rising to her feet, she gingerly moved her head in an effort to work out the kink and sighed at the satisfying 'crack' it made. A glance at her watch told her it was just after three in the morning as she automatically moved toward Killian's room, wondering briefly where her brother and future sister-in-law had disappeared off to.
Emma gently pushed open the cracked door upon her arrival, careful to not let any of the light from the hallway into the darkness of his room. She paused a few steps in, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the change, before tip toing over to the bed in the center of the room. He was just as she'd left him, fast asleep, blanket still tucked in at his shoulders, eyes twitching as he dreamed. A wave of emotion swept over her as she watched him, her fingers suddenly itching to push the hair on his forehead away from his eyes.
So she did.
His hair was soft and thick as she lightly ran her finger tips over the strands. He stirred on her third swipe across his forehead, chasing her touch with his head and sighing contentedly when she gently cupped his cheek. Emma swallowed thickly and bit her bottom lip as it began to quiver, his near-miss at the gala playing over and over in her mind, more so after learning about Graham.
Graham.
Their time together flashed suddenly in her mind's eye, just as it had when she'd lost her mother.
Her first case, her first ride-along, her first crime scene, her first interrogation, their first win as a team (the celebratory round of drinks that followed), their first loss ("You can talk to me, you know, if you want," he'd told her)…
A sob lodged itself in her throat at the sudden realization that she'd never hear his laugh again, never see another smile, never again be on the receiving end of that look in he'd throw her when she teased him (a delicate balance of annoyance and affection).
How could he just be gone? It didn't seem real.
The sound of murmuring and the rustle of fabric reached her ears, abruptly dragging her back to the present. Her eyes fell to Killian as he shifted, his eyes opening groggily.
"Emma?" he muttered, his voice thick was sleep.
She smiled weakly in response before realizing that he probably couldn't make out her features in the darkness. "It's me," she whispered, pulling her hand away from where it'd come to rest on his neck.
He blinked sleepily up at her with unfocused eyes. "My arm hurts."
She huffed a quiet laugh and moved to leave the room. "I'll go find your nurse."
The feel of his good hand fumbling for hers made her pause. "Stay," he mumbled, clumsily lacing his fingers with hers.
Emma swallowed in an effort to wet her suddenly dry throat, her eyes glued to their clasped hands. "Okay."
She grabbed the nearest chair with her free hand, dragged it to the side of his bed, and sat herself down; he was already asleep again by the time she'd made herself comfortable.
Graham's funeral was brief and intimate.
David delivered the eulogy (they had asked Emma but she just couldn't) after a local minister had said a few words.
The morning sunlight streamed through the clouds as they lowered the oak coffin into the earth, an annoyingly ironic contrast to the storm of grief and sadness raging within her.
Yet she didn't cry.
She knew he'd stayed behind with her afterward, could practically feel the worry rolling off of him. So when he shuffled up beside her and clasped her hand with his uninjured one, she merely leaned into him, wordlessly accepting the solace he offered.
She'd have to return to work tomorrow, would have to face the fact that his empty desk would stay empty, that his worn leather jacket would never again rest on the back of his chair, that the scent of his cologne would no longer fill their patrol car and force her to roll down the windows in retaliation…
Face the fact that she would now be working cases on her own (and yet, the idea that her brother would most likely assign someone else to work with her was worse; as if anyone would ever be good enough to replace him).
Emma pushed these thoughts away as a cool breeze blew through her hair; she'd deal with those challenges when she faced them. Right now, though, she'd simply remember her friend and wish him peace.
The breath is knocked from her lungs as her back hits the concrete wall of the building. Gasping for air, Emma regained her footing, ducking just in time to miss yet another punch to the gut.
"And here I thought this was going to be a challenge," her adversary mocked, flipping her auburn hair casually over her shoulder.
Emma sneered and shrugged nonchalantly as she turned to face the other woman. "Maybe I'm just going easy on you."
"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," she laughed before making another run at her.
Emma stepped to the side as she neared, grabbing a handful of her hair and redirecting her toward the wall. She growled and twisted to the side, hitting the wall with her shoulder and attempting to knee Emma in the stomach. Releasing her grip, Emma stepped back as the other woman pushed off of the building and threw a fist at her face.
Emma blocked the hit with her forearms and pushed her opponent to the side, effectively destabilizing her, before throwing a punch of her own. The sickening crack of her nose breaking echoed throughout the alley as she stumbled away, howling in pain.
"You're gonna pay for that, bitch," she threatened thickly, blood dripping down her chin, her chest heaving.
"Oh, I'm sorry, didn't you say you wanted this to be challenging?" Emma mocked, a smirk on her lips.
The other woman glared and pulled something from the pocket of her jeans before rushing at her once again; it wasn't until she was a few feet away that Emma saw that she was now armed with a knife. The small blade sliced through the air inches from her right ear as she grabbed the woman's wrist and used all her strength to push it away.
Emma followed as she staggered back a few steps, lobbing a kick at the woman's arm in an attempt to dislodge the knife. Her grip only tightened around the weapon, her knuckles turning white from the strain as she took another swipe at Emma.
She hissed in unexpected pain as the blade sliced through the barrier of her jacket and nicked her arm. The other woman's bloody smirk sent a flash of annoyance through Emma as she quickly shook off the attack and threw a kick to her opponent's chest.
She hit the wall again with a grunt, scrambling to regain her balance as Emma charged and grabbed her arm, knocking it against the side of the building until the knife was released.
"Give it up, Jacqueline," Emma ordered, using her body weight to pin the other woman to the wall.
The phone in Emma's pocket buzzed suddenly, distracting her and giving Jacqueline the window she needed to twist one of her arms free and elbow Emma in the side.
"Name's Jack," she panted as Emma stumbled away.
Emma rolled her eyes and righted herself. She was prepared this time when 'Jack' took another run at her; a quick punch to the jaw, a swipe at the legs, and she was pinning Jack to the ground and pulling her cuffs from her belt.
She was handing the master thief off to Red fifteen minutes later, nodding wordlessly in thanks as she turned away and started back toward the van. Her phone buzzed again as she maneuvered the vehicle into its usual space and threw the tarp over it. Emma sighed and pulled the device from her pocket, clucking her tongue when she looked at the screen.
4 unread text messages.
2 missed calls.
1 new voicemail.
After clicking the button for her voicemail, she placed the device to her ear and prepared herself for what was probably an admonishing message from her older brother; it'd been a week since he discovered her secret and he wasn't any closer to accepting her choice of extracurricular activities. Her heart stuttered slightly in her chest when another voice met her ears.
"I'm assuming since you've not answered any of my texts that you are otherwise engaged," said Killian, his tone weary, "Mary Margaret said you'd gone out on your own. You should've called me, Swan, you know I'd gladly be the Alfred to your Batman." Emma's lips quirked at the reference as she slipped the bag holding her gear over her shoulder. "Anyway, let me know when you're done, just so I know things went alright."
Emma bit her lip and pulled the phone away from her ear, her finger hovering over the keypad as she considered whether or not to delete the message. She simply ended the call after a moment, telling herself she'd worry about it later, as she made her way to the street that lead to the clock tower.
Opening her messages revealed two from Killian, one from her brother, and another from a private number. Furrowing her brow, she tapped the message to open it; the shadow swallowed the hunter, it said. She studied the words for a moment, attempting to find the meaning behind them. Her brother's face popped up on her screen then, indicating he was calling her. Sighing, she swiped the button to accept the call and unlocked the back door to the clock tower.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on, David, just let me see the report."
"I said no, Emma. The M.E. doesn't have time to argue with you. And frankly, neither do I."
She huffed and rose to her feet as her brother moved to exit his office. "Who says I'm going to argue with the M.E.?"
David rolled his eyes and raised a brow at her. "You're kidding, right?"
Emma sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears. "I need this, David. Please."
He studied her for a moment as she stared imploringly into his eyes. "Fine," he sighed, throwing up his hands in resignation, "On one condition: after this, you stop. You let it go and you move on. Deal?"
"Deal," she agreed, smiling as he unlocked his filing cabinet, pulled out a folder with Graham's name on it, and handed it to her.
"I want that back first thing tomorrow," he said as Emma turned to exit the office.
"You got it, boss," she retorted softly, clutching the folder to her chest.
Her eyes were glued to the floor as she made her way back to her desk, still unable to bring herself to look in even the general direction of her partner's desk. She slipped the folder into her bag upon her return before glancing at her watch. She had a meeting in an hour with the person conducting her detective exam, one she needed to be alert for.
"Afternoon, Nolan."
Emma jumped at the unexpected voice and turned to face its source. "Locksley, hey. What's up?"
The detective offered her a sympathetic smile and slightly lifted the box in his arms. "The Captain and I were gathering up Humbert's things and erm, well we thought maybe you might like to have them."
His words hit her like a punch to the chest, knocking her off balance in every sense of the word. "Oh, okay. Thanks," she said, willing herself to at least appear nonchalant as she stuffed her hands in her back pockets.
Locksley nodded wordlessly and placed the box on the corner of her desk. Emma responded to his wave of goodbye with a strained smile and a nod before flicking her eyes down to it; she could see his signature leather jacket poking out from beneath a pair of his work boots, the corner of a picture frame, that stupid worn out t-shirt with the police academy logo he sometimes wore when he went for a mid-day jog…
Emma tore her eyes away when she felt the panic begin to rise in her throat. A glance at her watch reminded her of that meeting she had soon and redirected her attention to what she'd been doing before Lockley had emotionally ambushed her.
Spinning on her heel, she left the detective bullpen and made her way toward the computer forensics department.
"Got a few minutes?" Emma asked, leaning against the side of Killian's desk.
He halted his typing (which was infinitely slower these days with the cast on his wrist) and met her eyes. "I suppose. Everything alright?"
Emma shrugged and averted her gaze to the floor. "As alright as it can be, I guess."
"Whatever you say, love," he said softly, a knowing look undoubtedly in his eyes, "So, what do you need?"
"Coffee," she said, dragging her gaze back to his now that it was safe, "Wanna join me?"
Raising a surprised brow, he smiled softly and nodded. "I'd be delighted. Lead the way."
A few minutes later saw them out by the loading dock with two mugs of steaming, fresh brew. Emma moaned quietly in delight as the hot liquid flowed down her throat and awakened her senses.
"So, how are things in IT?" she asked with faux innocence.
Killian chuckled and took a sip from his mug. "Just fine, thanks. Though I'm not much help at the moment with this blasted thing on my arm."
Emma bit her lip and leaned her hip against the railing in front of them. "Sorry about that."
"What are you sorry for, Swan? You're not the wanker that broke my wrist."
"I know, I just," she began, pausing to take a pull from her mug, "I should've stopped him before he got anywhere near you. And I didn't."
Her words were met with silence; she knew he was studying her, reading her, knew that if anyone could really see, it was him.
"It wasn't your fault, Emma," he said finally, his voice low but firm.
"If I had just been around, been more open with him, maybe—"
"Don't do this, lass, you'll drive yourself mad," he pleaded, stepping closer to her, "Graham was a grown man in complete control of his actions. He made a choice and suffered the consequence for it, just as we all do. This time, in this instance, the price was sadly just too high. What happened to him was not your fault."
Emma stepped back and shot him a glare. "What if it wasn't his choice, Killian? What if it was someone else's?"
"What are you saying? That you think he was murdered?" he asked, taken aback.
Emma nodded stuffed her free hand into the pocket of her slacks. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying."
"Emma, I know he was your friend and that you want to believe the best in him, but—"
"You're right," she interrupted, anger flashing through her, "He was my friend. That means I know him better than you do and I am telling you that there is no way in hell he was doing drugs."
Killian sighed and balanced his mug on the railing. "Alright. So how do you intend to find out the truth, then?"
"I convinced David to give me the autopsy report. I'll find the answers I need there," she explained, anger rushing out of her as quickly as it had rushed in.
Killian nodded, swirling the liquid in his mug around. "Well, if you need another set of eyes, you know where to find me."
She nodded curtly and drained the rest of her mug. "I should get going," she said after a moment of silence. Holding his gaze, she whispered, "Thanks, Killian."
"Any time, love," he responded, his eyes burning into her back as she turned and made her way back inside.
Emma placed her elbows on her desktop and leaned forward, green eyes flicking back and forth over the page as she read the medical examiner's detailed description of her partner's postmortem appearance. There was a churning in her belly that worsened as she read, her brain conjuring images based on the words that Emma did not wish to see. Swallowing thickly, she forced her eyes farther down the page, scanning every paragraph for the information she was searching for.
Cause of Death: heart failure due to mixed drug intoxication [*]
She furrowed her brow at the symbol and skimmed to the bottom of the page.
[*] see toxicology report for further info.
Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was after seven in the evening and most, if not all, of the detectives had left for the day. She rubbed her temples in an attempt to stave off the migraine threatening to overtake her and took in the empty room around her. She halted as her gaze fell on the closed door to David's office; the one that most likely housed that toxicology report she now needed to see.
Rising from her chair, she bit her lip and chanced a casual glance around her before making her way to the door. She slipped through and closed it quietly behind her, deciding to leave the lights off in case anyone happened to walk by. After a moment of allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness around her, Emma made her way to the filing cabinet, sighing in relief when she found it too was unlocked (someone should really talk to David about making such sensitive documents so readily available). She eased the drawer open, cringing every time it squeaked, and riffled through it until she found the folder she was looking for.
Emma exited the office a few minutes later and coolly returned to her desk, file in hand. The report was short, only a single sheet of paper, and merely listed the different substances Graham had been tested for, what method was used, and the outcome of each test. She scanned the list and found most were negative, save for two.
Cocaine/metabolites: POSITIVE
Her initial reaction was anger; it was hot, burning in her chest like an out of control bonfire.
It was quickly extinguished when she her eyes fell on the next item on the list.
Other/unidentifiable: POSITIVE
"'Other?' What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she muttered, her brow furrowed in confusion.
There were numbers and units of measure listed beside each positive item but it might as well have been in another language because Emma had little knowledge on how to decipher them. What she did know was that if this 'Other' was positive, there was a possibility that whatever it was could've been the actual cause of death.
Emma rose from her desk once more, quickly gathered her things (purposefully ignoring the box with her partner's belongings), and stalked out the side door of the precinct; Killian had offered her another set of eyes and she was damn well going to take him up on it.
This can probably wait until morning, she thought as she climbed the steps to the apartment building before her and pressing the buzzer for Killian's apartment before she could talk herself out of it.
"Hello?" came his confused lilt a moment or two later, clearly not expecting any visitors.
"Hey, it's me. Can you buzz me up?" she asked, releasing the intercom button and pulling her coat tighter around her against the wind.
There was a pause before the speaker crackled to life once more. "Emma? What are you doing here?"
Emma sighed and wet her lips. "I need your opinion on something. Can I explain inside? It's freezing out here," she explained, shifting on her feet in an effort to remain somewhat warm.
"Of course, sorry. Come on up," he said, the telltale click of the door being unlocked following his apology.
She sighed in relief as she shut the door behind her, effectively blocking out the biting wind.
She was knocking on his door five minutes and several flights of stairs later.
"Is everything alright?" Killian asked immediately, his brow creased in concern as he ushered her inside.
"Not sure yet," she said cryptically, holding a folder out to him as he turned toward her, "Here."
"And this is?" he asked, concern quickly morphing into confusion.
"It's Graham's autopsy report," she said quietly, ignoring the heaviness of her heart at the words.
Understanding flooded his gaze as he pressed his lips together in a firm line and wordlessly accepted the folder. She followed as he made his way to the kitchen, paced impatiently as he carefully read the words before him, twisted her hands anxiously as silence permeated his apartment.
Nine minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he was leaning back in his chosen chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Huh," he hummed, gazing at the pieces of paper contemplatively.
"Care to elaborate?" Emma asked, halting her march a few feet from the table.
He opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it, choosing instead to bit his lip and inhale deeply. "It's just a tad…peculiar," he said finally, running a hand over his chin.
"It's the 'Other' thing, right?" she asked hopefully, pulling a chair out for herself and joining him at the table.
He nodded briefly, hand still cradling his chin. "How could they rule it a drug overdose without knowing what all of the substances are? I mean, what if he was slipped something, for example, and the cocaine was only used to mask it?"
"Something like what?" she asked, trying to come up with a substance that the SBPD wouldn't know about.
Killian shrugged and wet his lips. "I don't know, some undocumented street drug, perhaps? Or some kind of…"
Emma flicked her gaze back to him when he trailed off, anxiety churning in her gut. "Some kind of what, Killian?"
She watched as he swallowed thickly, a mixture of comprehension and fear in his eyes. "Poison," he answered, rising suddenly from his chair, "I'll be right back, wait here."
Any response she might've given was cut off by him quickly exiting the room. Emma's leg bounced in nervousness as she waited, her gaze flicking back and forth between the clock hanging from the wall and the doorway to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with a folder of his own and handed it to her.
"Half way down the page," he instructed with a clenched jaw.
"I don't—"
"Just read it, Emma. Please."
She nodded and opened the worn folder; in it was a report almost identical to the one they'd just been studying. Emma's heart skipped a beat when her gaze fell upon the name at the top.
WYGHT, MILAH
Her eyes skimmed the report as they made their way to the place Killian had asked her to read, similar phrases jumping out at her and raising goosebumps.
When she reached the cause of death, she realized why he'd shared this piece of himself with her; the circumstances of Graham's and Milah's respective deaths were strikingly similar. Both of them had unidentifiable substances in their systems and both died of heart failure that had been linked to drugs, the latter something that tarnished any legacy they had hoped to leave behind.
Killian rarely discussed his time with Milah, but Emma knew enough; she knew how important she had been to him, how much he'd loved her, that he believed she'd been murdered because of something she'd done to Gold…
Emma met his gaze, her mind racing to absorb this new information. "You don't think…"
"That Gold is reason your partner is dead? I'm afraid I do, lass," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest, "And possibly at the hand of whoever he sent to kill Milah."
Emma shook her head, struggling to process this new development. "Why would Gold kill Graham? I'm pretty sure they never even crossed paths."
"We may have confirmed your suspicion regarding the manner of his death, but what makes you so sure he wasn't somehow involved with Gold's dealings?" Killian asked, leaning against the countertop.
"You had better not be suggesting what I think you are," she warned, her voice low.
Killian inhaled deeply, steeling himself. "Look, I'm not trying to say that Graham was a bad person, all I'm saying is that sometimes good people get caught up in bad things. Maybe whatever was between them was a one-time thing but Gold was somehow threatened by what he knew, or maybe they didn't do dealings at all, maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, Gold doesn't just have people killed for no reason. Something happened, we just don't know what yet."
Emma rose from her chair and began to pace the length of the kitchen. "How can we even be sure this has anything to do with Gold? Graham was a good detective, he put tons of people away; maybe one of them wanted revenge. Or maybe it was one of the dozens of actual dirty cops at the SBPD trying to make their job easier. Or—"
"Or maybe it was the bloody Wicked Witch of the West," he interjected heatedly, pushing off of the counter and stepping toward her, "We can go on like this all night, if you like. Or we can just accept that Gold is most likely involved, as he is with most things in this city, and continue to work toward bringing him to justice."
Emma paused mid-stride, throwing him a glare as agitation welled within her. "Is that all you think about? 'Gold did this,' 'Gold did that'…Not everything is his fault, Killian."
He studied her in silence for a moment, arms still crossed, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he took another step forward and invaded her personal space. "You asked for my opinion, Emma, this is it. If you came here solely because you thought I'd agree with everything you said, you were sorely mistaken," he said, his voice low and rough with barely repressed emotion.
Her eyes flashed in anger at the accusation, her lips contorting into the beginnings of a snarl. "Whatever I came here for, it certainly wasn't this. Goodbye, Killian."
Turning on her heel, she quickly snatched up Graham's file, stalked to the door, and wrenched it open. Ignoring the guilt already beginning to pool in her gut, she slammed the door behind her and threw herself back out into the cold, windy night.
It's two a.m. and she couldn't sleep.
She's tried everything she could think of, even resorting to that old standby of counting sheep, but it was no use.
Sighing, she turned to look at the clock again, the green glow of the numbers telling her a minute had passed from the last time she'd looked at it.
She just needed to get her brain to stop for a second, just a second. Thinking perhaps some warm milk (mixed with cocoa powder, of course) might relax her, she flung the covers off and padded out of her bedroom. Emma shivered slightly and pulled her hands into the warmth of her flannel sleeves as she entered the kitchen, the tiles cool on her bare feet. She flipped on the light, squinting as it assaulted her eyes, and set about making her cocoa.
She seated herself on the couch after, warm mug in her hand as she flicked on the television and settled back into the cushions to indulge in some old sitcom. Despite her wish, her brain stubbornly continued to replay the events of the last few days, adding her row with Killian to the repertoire. Setting the now empty mug on the end table to her left, Emma sighed deeply and allowed herself to sink further into the couch, her hand cradling her chin, her legs curled beneath her.
Her eyelids were beginning to droop, the sounds from the television becoming muted. An odd noise filtered in then over the sitcom, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Her eyes sprang open when she realized it was getting louder only to be met with almost complete darkness.
Apprehension coiled in her gut; when had she turned the television off, she wondered, and why was it suddenly so cold? Still seated on the couch, she curled further into herself just as the dragging suddenly stopped. She froze, her ears perked for even the slightest sound.
There was deafening silence for what seemed like eons, her eyes straining themselves to somehow see through the darkness surrounding her. When the sound of labored breathing began only a few feet away, her own backed up in her lungs.
Just as she considered making a run for it (to where, exactly, she wasn't sure), the television flickered to life again, bathing her in its simulated light. Had it been this bright when she'd been watching it earlier? Perhaps she'd just been in the dark for too long.
She jolted as the dragging sound began once more, the blinding light somehow causing her to momentarily forget about the thing breathing heavily somewhere in her vicinity. Her eyes widened in horror when they fell upon its source, a scream burning in her lungs and lodging itself in her throat.
"Graham," she whispered hoarsely, heart thudding in her chest.
There her dearly departed partner stood, his skin sallow and bruised, his eyes staring blankly at some point behind her. Heavy-looking chains were attached to his wrists and ankles, dragging familiarly across the carpet as he took another step toward her. He stopped less than a foot from her couch, abruptly meeting her gaze.
"Help me," he croaked, voice laced with an urgency his appearance belied.
Her response died on lips when the television flickered, the brief lack of light transforming him from someone she recognized into a bloody, mutilated version of himself; cuts ranging from deep to shallow, long to short covered most of his exposed skin; his face was slightly swollen and sported several oozing gashes, as though he'd just received the worst beating of his life.
"This is your fault," he whispered harshly, his lifeless eyes suddenly burning was anger and betrayal as he advanced on her.
"I'm sorry," she cried, tears burning in her eyes as his hands closed around her throat.
Emma gasped awake, untangling herself from her bedsheets as she struggled to calm her breathing. She sat up and hung her legs over the side of the bed, cradling her head in her hands after wiping the sweat from her brow (and the tears from her cheeks). Standing on shaky legs and made her way to the bathroom. She kept the lights off when she entered and turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face and neck.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the stillness of the room, biting back the sob that threatened to wrench itself from her throat.
Should've called in sick today, she thought, pouring her third cup of coffee.
It was midday and she had yet to do anything productive. For the most part, she'd spent her time avoiding her work, her desk (because that box of Graham's things is still there and she just can't right now), her brother, and most of all, Killian Jones.
On some level, she knew he was probably right, that Gold most likely was involved somehow. A part of her felt guilty for the way she'd snapped at him, especially after he'd shown her his research on Milah's death (something he'd rarely talked about in the three years she'd known him), but her gut told her something more was going on, something she knew she needed to figure out.
The wind whipped gently through her hair, which she'd been too exhausted to do anything other than brush that morning, the sun warming her face. Emma closed her eyes and turned her face toward it, allowing herself, for one small moment, to pretend that everything was fine, that everything was the same as it always had been.
But when had things ever been fine? She thought abruptly, her eyes slowly working themselves open.
It was true, when had they been? Certainly not when her mother had been brutally stabbed and left for dead, not when she'd joined the force to try and keep it from happening to someone else, not when she'd failed to take Gold down due to the law enforcement system he'd single-handedly corrupted. Not when Milah had been poisoned for trying to make him pay (literally), nor when Greg Mendell had been stabbed in his own home just because he'd dared to dream of a better life.
Things in Storybrooke hadn't been fine for a long time, and they wouldn't be again until Gold was taken out of the equation. Emma sighed wearily at the thought, knowing stopping him would take most, if not all, of the fight left within her. But she'd do it; for her mother, for Milah, for Greg Mendell, for Graham…
For all of Storybrooke.
"Thought I might find you up here."
Starting at the unexpected interruption, she turned toward the familiar voice of her best friend. "Hey."
Mary Margaret smiled sweetly and pulled her coat tighter around her as she made her way to stand beside her. "It's freezing up here, Emma, I don't know how you stand it."
"I don't know, it's…freeing," she shrugged, taking a sip from her mug and looking out over the city. For the first time in a long time she felt something akin to peace.
Making a mental note to escape to the roof of the precinct more often, she turned back toward the brunette. "Did Killian send you up here?" she asked, biting her lip somewhat sheepishly.
"Not at all," Mary Margaret claimed, shaking her head and shoving her hands into her coat pockets, "I just wanted to see how you were. You know, with everything that's been…going on."
Emma nodded and swirled her now lukewarm coffee around in its mug. "I'm as good as can be expected, I guess."
"You know I'm here for you, right? If you wanted to talk about Graham or…anything?" she entreated, placing a hand on her arm.
"Yeah, I know. Thanks," Emma mumbled, swallowing thickly, "So, on a scale of one to ten, just how annoying has my brother been about the vigilante thing?"
Mary Margaret huffed a laugh and smoothed a hand over her short hair. "He was insufferable initially, gave me the cold shoulder for a week, until he started muttering under his breath and blowing every little thing out of proportion. One heated argument and a few serious conversations later and I think he's actually starting to be somewhat okay with it. He definitely still doesn't approve, which is why I've been abstaining, but I think he at least understands how important this is to us."
Emma chewed on her bottom lip. "I'm sorry I put you in this position, Mary Margaret. This isn't your fight and I never should've dragged you into it."
"Emma, anything I've done has been by my own choice. You've never forced me to do anything I didn't want to do," she said earnestly, trying to catch Emma's eyes. "As for this not being my fight, you couldn't be more wrong. Storybrooke is just as much my home as it is yours; someone has to protect it. And I'm more than happy to help you do just that."
Not for the first time, Emma realized how lucky she was to have Mary Margaret in her life. Finally meeting her gaze, she smiled and nodded, not trusting her voice. The other woman smiled back and pulled her into a tight hug.
"About Killian," she began as she pulled away from Emma, "I don't know the specifics, but whatever they are, you two should really talk about it."
Emma shrugged and moved to go back downstairs. "Talking about it is what started this whole thing."
Mary Margaret followed, sighing in relief when the warmth of the building enveloped her, "Maybe, but I'm willing to bet one, if not both, of you let your emotions get the better of you. Seriously, Emma, talk to him. It worked for me and David."
Emma shot her a look as she descended the stairs, "You and David are a couple, Mary Margaret. Killian and I are...not."
An unreadable expression flitted across her face at Emma's words. "Still, talking it out always helps."
She shrugged evasively and turned her attention to the stairs beneath her feet.
"You're not speaking, Emma, it certainly can't hurt the situation," Mary Margaret countered, sighing in mild exasperation.
She was right, of course, how much worse could it get? Besides, avoiding him had turned out to be far more work than she had the energy for at the moment anyway (and maybe she also kind of missed him. Maybe). She'll talk to him, just not today. Today she was just too tired.
"See you later, and please think about what I said," Mary Margaret implored, squeezing her hand lightly.
"Sure," Emma said, waving at the other woman, "I'll see you."
She returned to her desk, still dutifully ignoring the box sitting on the corner. There were a few case files sitting in the center; some new, some ongoing, some that she'd been waiting for lab results on. Placing her elbows on her desk, she cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes for a moment, the sounds of the hustle and bustle around her filtering in and out.
"Emma."
Her tired green eyes shoot open and lift to meet his worried blue ones, protest dying on her lips.
"Go home," David ordered softly, looking for all the world like he'd love nothing more than to cradle her in his arms and shield her from all the terrible things in this world.
"You sure, Cap?" she asked halfheartedly, rising to her feet once more.
He nodded, his lips twitching at the nickname. "You're no good to me like this. Go home and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Emma nodded, throwing him a look that she hoped looked grateful, and packed up her things. Less than twenty minutes later, she was unlocking her front door, depositing her things on the couch, and crashing in a heap onto her bed.
"Ready to go, Nolan?" Detective Locksley asked, patrol car keys in hand.
"'Course," she nodded, slowly rising from her chair.
Anxiety licked at her insides; she'd been shadowing Robin for the last few days at her brother's insistence ("You need to get back out in the field, Emma. Especially if you want to pass your exam in March."), but this was her first crime scene since Graham.
A feeling of wrongness settled over her when they arrived at their destination. It worsened as they approached the telltale yellow tape; none of this was right. Locksley was a nice guy and an even better detective, and while she was sure he'd be a great partner for someone somewhere, he just wasn't the right one for her. They got along, sure, and she trusted him enough to at least work with him, but there was something missing, something she'd only ever felt when she was in the field with Graham.
She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, reminded herself that this victim was someone who could no longer speak for themselves, that they needed her help now. With a pang of sadness, she realized that Graham was the one who used to remind them both of this; whenever things had gotten rough or they'd hit a dead end, he'd remind her who they were fighting for, he'd help her regain perspective.
Perspective was something she needed now more than ever.
She'd been staring at it for the last hour.
The box with his things.
It'd been sitting there for a week, quickly becoming a familiar fixture on the corner of her desk. Emma knew she was avoiding it, the thought that looking at its contents would somehow make Graham's death more real having crossed her mind (which was ridiculous as she'd attended his funeral, had watched as they'd lowered his casket into the ground and covered it with earth). The idea that his entire career, that his life could fit into one medium-sized box just didn't make sense, didn't seem fair.
She sighed and finally ended her staring contest with the object, scrubbing a hand tiredly over her face. Rising from her chair, she slid her bag over her shoulder and moved to stand at the edge of her desk, fingering the corner of the box. Before she could change her mind, she hauled it into her arms and made her way out to her car.
Pushing through her front door an hour and ten blocks of rush hour traffic later, she gingerly deposited the box on her coffee table and sank down onto the couch before it. Her hands shook as she reached for the item on top, his signature leather jacket. Tears pooled in her eyes when her fingers connected with the smooth fabric, spilled silently down her cheeks when she lifted the object from the box and clutched it to her chest.
It still smells like him, she thought, burying her nose and greedily inhaling the familiar scent.
His work boots were next; solid and heavy, durable he'd called them, yet still pliable, giving; just as Graham had been. She fingered the suede laces and bit her lip as more tears slipped down her cheeks.
There were a few other little things; his police academy t-shirt, a half-empty bottle of aftershave, a small potted plant, the silly little 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' pin he'd worn every St. Patrick's Day she'd known him, a notebook full of scribblings she couldn't bring herself to read just yet, and a framed picture of Graham and a man Emma had never met.
Upon closer inspection, she noticed how similar they looked; same gentle blue eyes, same dark, wavy hair, same crooked smile…
Unease churned in her gut; this man in the photograph was clearly related to him, looked like he could be his brother even, and never, not once, had Graham mentioned him…or any other family members, for that matter. Maybe David and Killian were right, maybe she hadn't known her partner as well as she'd thought. If he'd hidden something like this from her, what else hadn't he told her? She shuddered at the thought and quickly pushed it away. She gently returned each object to the box, wiped any leftover tears from her cheeks, and rose from her place on the couch.
She began a secret investigation on Graham after that, each new piece of information adding insult to injury.
Mary Margaret was worried about her, she could tell. That meant David was too.
She wasn't sure about Killian, hadn't spoken to him since she started looking into this. Every now and then she'd come across something and find herself wondering what he'd make of it, wondering what angle he'd see that she hadn't.
She's woman enough to admit she missed him in the quietness of her own mind, but had yet to find the courage to tell him this herself.
She'll get there. Eventually.
Anyway, it's a two-way street; he knew where to find her if he was looking to reconcile.
The fact that he hadn't even tried made her already broken heart tear just a little bit more at the seams.
By the end of the week, she knew more about Graham's past than she had about his present. She'd been right, the man in the photo was his brother. Younger brother, to be exact. Grady Humbert had been reported missing a few cities over in July of 2008; a few months, Emma discovered, before Graham had moved to Storybrooke.
The notebook he'd kept in his desk had turned out to be notes on his own findings; theories of what had happened to Grady, half-finished timelines of the days before he'd disappeared, connections he had made both in and outside of law enforcement that he was using to gather information. Everyone had a code name though, of course, Graham wasn't stupid after all.
She noticed that he mentioned someone he referred to as "The Queen" quite often; whoever she was, it seemed like she was his primary source of intel. Emma wondered whether or not this "Queen" had been helping Graham willingly; if she hadn't, it was possible she could've found out he was using her and had him killed because of it.
That could be said about any of the people in this notebook, though, she reminded herself, sitting back heavily in her desk chair.
It was true, any one of these people, powerful or not, could've discovered Graham was using them for information; it all depended on who had the most to lose. Her gut told her "The Queen" was her best bet; her code name alone suggested that she was someone in a powerful position, as did the amount and quality of the information Graham had gleaned from her.
Emma considered her options; while there were plenty of powerful women in Storybrooke, very few of them would have access to the information "The Queen" seemed to. Her first thought was Gold's wife Belle (her husband was the most powerful man in the city, after all). But then she remembered the gala she'd attended at his house, how he'd credited her with leading him from his "darkness." It was clear to her that Gold wished for his wife to believe he'd reformed, meaning she probably wouldn't approve of his business practices; it was unlikely that she had anything to do with this.
She briefly considered the con artist who called herself "Ella" (and was called "The Devil" by every one of her marks), but dismissed her quickly; her targets tended to be the older and exceedingly wealthy and Graham had been neither of those things. Besides, this "Queen" probably had lackeys to do her bidding and Ella was said to be a lone wolf.
The way Emma saw it, her two most likely options were: Effie Drake, known arms dealer or Cora Mills, the owner of Mills and Co. Both of these women had connections Graham could've taken advantage of; who knows what kinds of things he might've found out. Maybe he hadn't been killed for using the connections of others, maybe he'd been killed for stumbling across information no one was ever meant to see…
Her two prime suspects named, she decided to put her personal investigation aside for a while and focus on what she was actually supposed to be doing at the moment: police work.
The computer forensics department was a flurry of activity when she stepped through the door. She swallowed the lump in her throat as her eyes immediately searched for that familiar mess of dark hair and those blue eyes that always seemed to see right through her.
"Afternoon, Detective," Elsa greeted, her voice quiet yet firm, a knowing smile on her lips.
"Elsa, hey," Emma started, abruptly turning her head in the other blonde's direction, "I, uh, was just dropping by to check on the status of those reports for the Abner case."
Elsa nodded clasped her hands in front of her. "Right, of course you were," she said, her tone suggesting she suspected otherwise. "Well, as you can see we're a bit backed up at the moment so all of the time tables have been pushed back. We can probably get them to you by Monday though if that's alright?"
Emma nodded and waved a hand. "Of course, I understand," she said with a forced smile, her eyes quickly scanning the room again. "I guess I'll check back Monday then."
"He's not here," she offered suddenly, pushing her long braid over her shoulder.
"Who?" Emma asked with faux innocence, crossing her arms over her chest.
Elsa raised her eyebrows at her question, that same knowing smile on her lips. "Please. You've been coming in here every day for the last three years and the one week I don't see you just happens to be the week Jones decides to start wandering around looking like his entire world just fell apart."
At a loss, she averted her gaze to the floor and shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "Is he…okay?" she asked softly, a mixture of guilt and worry bubbling in her gut.
"He looks like he's been having trouble sleeping," Elsa said, a frown pulling at her lips, "I tried to get him to talk, but he wasn't having it. I sent him home about an hour ago to get some rest."
Emma sighed heavily. "Maybe I'll try and call him later. Just to make sure he's alright."
"I think he'd like that," she replied, her small smile reforming on her lips. "I should get back to all this. Have a good day, Emma."
"You too," Emma muttered, her mind far away as she turned and exited the room.
She pulled her bug into an open space in front of the five-story apartment building and killed the engine, her eyes drifting to the box sitting on her passenger seat. The pang that resounded in her chest at the sight of Graham's things had become something of a familiar companion these last few days.
Emma took a steadying breath and exited the car, before quickly making her way around to retrieve the box. Graham's building was old, somewhere in the neighborhood of 'historic,' truth be told; a variation of beige and dark brown bricks formed the outside walls. She'd only been here once, and even then it had only been to pick her partner up, but she'd always thought the place looked homey despite the slightly decrepit state of the exterior.
She ascended the stairs and fought the urge to look over her shoulder; ever since she'd started looking into Graham's extracurricular activities, she'd been careful not to draw too much attention to herself (especially since said activities were probably the reason her partner was dead). Coming to his apartment was a risky move; what if someone was watching it? What if they saw her and assumed she was his accomplice? What if they looked into her life and started targeting the people she loved in order to get her to tell them everything Graham had on them?
It was possible she was being paranoid but, as the saying goes, better to be safe than sorry.
It's the reason she'd decided to bring the box of his things along. Initially, she'd been planning on keeping them; once the month was up, Graham's landlord would most likely sell or donate his things and rent the place out to someone else. But when she hit a dead end looking into Graham's case, she realized that he likely had most of his intel stashed somewhere inside his place. Perhaps it was a long shot, but she thought that maybe if someone was watching, the box of his things might throw them off.
Turning the knob on the door to the lobby, Emma sighed in relief when it opened without issue. Ignoring the elevator, she climbed the four flights of stairs that lead to her dearly departed friend's third floor apartment. Shifting the box to her hip, she used her now free hand to open the door to the blessedly empty hall. The soft clunk of her boots on the faux hardwood bounced off the walls as she made her way toward the door marked 308 and placed the box down in front of it.
A few casual glances over her shoulder told her no one was watching as she rose to her tip toes and brushed her fingers across the top of the doorway. Her fingers closed around the dusty spare key a moment later as she lowered herself back down to her usual height. Checking once more that no one was watching, she inserted the key into lock and turned it.
Emma bent to retrieve the box and pushed the door open, kicking it closed with her foot upon entering. There was a smallish table next to the door that she deposited the box on. Pulling her police issued Glock from beneath her jacket, she did a quick sweep of the two-bedroom, the tension easing from her shoulders upon completion.
She stowed her piece back beneath her jacket as she made her way to the master bedroom, her eyes scanning the room for a likely hiding place. She started by looking in his dresser, beneath his bed, and behind any pictures hanging on the walls. Finding nothing, she moved on to the master bathroom and checked the linen closet, beneath the sink, and, much to her chagrin, in the toilet tank.
Emma sighed, her search of his bedroom giving her nothing more than a personal glimpse into her former partner's life. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she made her way to the second bedroom next. Opening the door revealed an office similar to the one she and Killian had searched at Gold's estate; it was smaller, of course, and there were only two bookshelves, but the desk in the center was clearly one of the most expensive things in the entire apartment and Emma wondered briefly how Graham could've afforded such a thing on a cop's salary. There was a worn, leather chair behind the desk and a series of filing cabinets lining the wall to her left.
She quickly made her way to the desk, praying it didn't have a lock on every drawer as the last one she'd encountered had. After pushing away the chair, though, she realized it didn't matter; there, beneath the desk, was a safe.
Bingo, she thought, crouching down to examine it. It was roughly a foot and a half tall with an electronic keypad as its only means of entry. Emma mentally cursed; her forte was picking key locks and, occasionally one that required a combination. The latter was usually the manual type, though, and she'd rarely had success cracking what Graham had. She briefly considered her options: she could try a few combinations and see if any of them worked before locking her out, she could open the keypad and attempt to somehow hotwire the thing into thinking she'd entered the correct combination, or she could bust out Graham's tools and drill her way in.
Figuring the first option was the least messy (and the least time consuming), Emma sat cross-legged before the contraption and wracked her brain. When asked for numbered combinations, most people tended to use dates that meant something to them; a birthdate, a wedding anniversary, the day they graduated from high school or college…
As a detective, though, Graham's thought process would've (should've) been different; surely he knew what 'most people' would do. As a rule, detectives had to think outside of the box, had to think like 'most people' wouldn't. So if he hadn't used a significate date, perhaps he had used something else. Perhaps something that referenced a location special to him? The zip code of the city he and his brother had lived in before he disappeared, perhaps?
After days of combing Graham's files, she knew almost every scrap of information in it and recalled the five digit number quickly. The telltale beeping that indicated an incorrect code told her that her guess was a wrong one. Sighing, she thought about what she knew and tried to think like he would. She reasoned that it was possible that he had decided to use a date significant to him, that he hadn't been in 'detective mode' when deciding on his combination. Emma considered the date he was most likely to use; not his brother's birthday (that was too easy), certainly not his own birthday (because even 'most people' weren't that idiotic)…maybe the day his brother went missing? That was what all of this had been about for him, after all. Knowing her guesses were limited, she paused a moment and considered the most logical format before keying it in.
Incorrect.
At most, she had two more guesses left before she was locked out for what was most likely several hours. Knowing she couldn't risk coming back a second time, she carefully considered her next (and possibly final) guess.
She wondered what she would use were she in this position; what where the things that meant something to her? Her family and friends were probably the highest on the list, but what could she apply from them? Dates were obviously out and everyone she knew was in the same city so no locations…what about a name?
Emma pulled out her cellphone and looked at the keypad, mentally creating a list of people that she knew meant something to Graham. He and his brother had been orphaned at a relatively young age so she didn't need to consider a parent's name. As far as she knew, they hadn't had any pets growing up so that was out as well. She could think of at least three people she knew for a fact he'd been close two, one of which was her, but she doubted he'd use the name of a friend he hadn't even trusted enough to share his quest with.
That left one logical choice and, honestly, she felt kind of stupid for not thinking of him first: his brother Grady.
Emma typed in the name on her cellphone using the keypad.
"4-7-2-3-9," she whispered to herself, her voice cutting through the silence in the room like a hot knife through butter.
Slowly she input the number, hesitating over the 'Enter' button for a moment. The double beep and satisfying click of the safe unlocking sent a rush of delight through her. Pulling open the door, she began sifting through the array of items she was presented with: Graham's passport, a 9mm and some extra ammo, an envelope with a wad of cash, and a couple of thick folders.
Bypassing the other items, Emma pulled the folders from the safe and rose from the floor. She placed the first one on the desktop and quickly flipped through it; the first few papers were handwritten notes that Emma ignored in favor of the photographs of a woman beneath them. The woman looked familiar, but for some reason Emma was having trouble placing her; she was medium height as far as she could tell, well-dressed and most likely on the wealthier side of things, dark hair that fell just below her shoulders, brown eyes, and had a stern look about her.
She flipped through the photos looking for something, anything that indicated who she was. She stopped on a photo of the woman walking along side another, older woman that Emma most definitely recognized: Cora Mills. This revelation lead her to the realization that the younger woman was her daughter Regina, the current president and CEO of Mills and Co. Rumor had it that she was pretty tight with Gold, too, which was probably the reason he trusted her facility to guard whatever it was he was keeping there.
So that was it, then; Graham had somehow gotten into Regina Mills' inner circle and had used her connections to try and find information on his brother's disappearance. When she'd found out, she had sicked one of the assassin's Gold kept on retainer on him and eliminated a threat to both of them.
Anger bubbled in her gut; anger at Regina, anger at Gold, anger at the faceless person sent to kill Graham, but mostly, anger at Graham himself. He'd known better than most her feelings on Gold, knew about her mother and how she'd connected him to her death. How could he not have trusted her with this? Why hadn't he asked for her help? Why had he lied to her all these years? If he'd just told her what he'd been doing, if he'd just let her help…
Her hands clenched into fists, the urge to throw them down on the desktop, on all of Graham's work overwhelmed her. Instead, she settled for pushing it, as well as several other things, off onto the floor in a fit of rage. She bit back the frustrated scream that threatened to rip from her throat as she stormed out of the room and back toward the front door.
Graham was an idiot for doing this alone, she thought, her nails digging into her palms, No wonder he's dead.
The thought stopped her in her tracks; wasn't that exactly what she was doing right now? Investigating Graham's death on her own, and why? Killian had been more than happy to help her, and what had she done instead? Lashed out, pushed him away. Hell, she'd pushed Mary Margaret away too by not bothering to tell her about all of this. She wasn't any better than Graham, she was the same, if not worse, and if she kept this up, she might end up in the exact same place he did.
Emma pulled a hand through her hair, the anger leeching out of her, replacing itself with despair. This was all too much, she couldn't handle this, not alone. She needed her team, her support, her partners; her family.
Fighting back a strong urge to cry, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and scrolled through her contacts. She tried Mary Margaret first, and got her voicemail. She left her a message asking her to call, said she'd made the mistake of going to Graham's apartment alone, said she was sorry if she's been distant these last few days, that she could really use a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen if she was willing. She tried David next, knew that if anyone would understand the loss she was feeling it was him. When he didn't answer, she let the tears fall, frustration and fear and everything crashing over her like a tidal wave. She felt the panic begin to rise in her throat, felt a pressure in her chest that made it hard to breath.
Turning around, she made her way to the kitchen, turned on the water, and splashed cold water on her face. Her fingers were white as she clutched the counter, trying to focus on steadying her breathing and not the overwhelming panic currently rushing through her. As she calmed a bit, she let her eyes roam the space, looking for anything that could divert her attention, if only for a moment.
Her gaze fell on a bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge and Emma decided that that was exactly what she needed.
Thirty minutes and half a bottle of whiskey later, Emma was much calmer (and decidedly much drunker) than she had been. She'd moved from the kitchen to his couch about twenty minutes ago in favor of cushier seating and heckling the television.
She sunk back into the cushions as she took another swig of whiskey, the liquid burning down her throat and pooling in her belly, spreading warmth through her entire body. She hummed at the feeling, positioning the bottle in between her crisscrossed legs and cradling her chin in her hand. Her eyes began to droop, her vision blurring even more as she slowly slipped into what was hopefully a dreamless sleep.
The sound of borderline frantic knocking startled her awake about an hour later. Emma groaned and rolled her neck, the angle at which she'd been resting her head causing an uncomfortable crick to form. Stifling a particularly massive yawn, she scratched her scalp through her tangled mane and moaned at the pain in her head as she shuffled slowly toward the door.
Forgoing the peephole, she wrenched the door open and opened her mouth to lob a disgruntled "What?" at the jackass currently disturbing her peace, only to snap it shut when she realized who it was.
"You weren't answering your phone," he explained, his blue eyes brimming with a mixture of unease and mild relief. "And when you weren't answering the door and I thought…"
Emma crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "What are you doing here?" she mumbled blearily, wincing when her head throbbed a little more harshly.
Killian ran his uninjured hand through his hair for what looked like the hundredth time. "Mary Margaret said you sounded very distraught on the message you left her and asked me to check on you as she and David are out of town for the weekend."
"Oh," she said, biting her lip. She'd forgotten about their weekend getaway, she'd have to call them tomorrow and apologize for worrying them.
"Well, you appear to be in one piece, I suppose I'll leave you to it then," he said, tension radiating off of him as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, "G'night, Swan."
Fighting the urge to grab him and keep him where he was, she took a step through the doorway as he turned to leave. "Killian, wait."
Her heart raced beneath her breast when he halted, still facing away from her. "I—I'm sorry," she croaked, biting her lip and averting her gaze to the floor.
Silence hung between them like a heavy curtain as she awaited his response, her gut twisting with every passing minute. Finally, he turned, a pained look on his face as he swallowed thickly.
"I'm sorry, too," he responded hoarsely, the guilt swirling in his eyes causing her chest to ache. "I was…overly emotional and I deeply regret the manner in which I spoke to you."
"The emotions were running high on both sides that night, Killian," she assured him, waving him off, "Besides, you were right."
"Right about what?" he asked, browed furrowed in confusion.
"Gold," she replied, swallowing back the wave of nausea she suddenly felt.
His face fell as he averted his gaze to the floor. "I wish I hadn't I been."
Emma nodded (and then promptly winced). "I know."
Killian studied her for a moment and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Is that why you're here?"
"Yeah," she said, her voice wavering just slightly, "I, uh, came across a few things in Graham's desk and figured the rest of it would be here. Unfortunately I was right."
He nodded and bit his lip, his eyes flitting all over her face. "Want me to drive you home?"
"No. Not yet. I—I'm not ready to let—," she paused and fingered the suede band on her wrist, biting back the words threatening to slip off of her tongue, words she wasn't ready to say. "Why don't you come inside," she continued instead, throwing him a slightly watery smile.
"As you wish," he said, returning her smile with a look in his eyes that said he knew, that he understood, that she didn't have to explain.
They sat in silence on the couch for a long time, some movie she couldn't remember the name of playing in the background. Half way through, he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a large glass of water and some crackers. He said nothing as he placed them on the end table next to her and then reclaimed his seat beside her. By the time it was over, she'd eaten half a sleeve of crackers and inhaled three glasses of water.
He followed her into the kitchen as she put the crackers back into the cabinet and placed her glass in the sink. And just like that, Graham's death was suddenly that much more real. It didn't matter what she did with his things, whether or not she cleaned up her dishes, if she drank half of his whiskey; Graham was gone and he wasn't coming back.
She slapped a hand over her mouth as a whimper escaped her, as her eyes blurred with more tears. God, it'd only been a week and she was already so tired of crying, of being sad. As a rule, Emma was not an emotional person, especially in front of others. But when she felt Killian embrace her, heard him mutter soothing words into her hair as she balled his t-shirt in her fist and rested her forehead against his neck, she let herself give in. He stroked her back as she cried, felt her knees weaken as every feeling she'd been holding back came spilling out. She didn't know how long it lasted, just that they'd ended up huddled together on the kitchen floor at some point; Killian slowly rocking her back and forth, tears drying on her face as she struggled to calm her breathing.
"Sorry about your shirt," she muttered thickly, scrubbing her face with her hand.
She smiled at his surprised huffed laugh. "You can ruin my shirts anytime you like, love."
They made to leave not too long after, Emma telling everything she'd discovered since they'd last spoken. She made sure to take the files from his office and close his safe (you know, just in case). As they made their way to the door, Emma spied the box with his things in it and stopped in front of it. There were no more tears to cry, not tonight anyway, but the ache that settled over her heart was still there. Picking up his leather jacket, she stroked the buttery soft material, briefly considering keeping it, until her eyes fell on the coat rack by the door.
Killian's eyes followed her as she walked over, gingerly hung the garment on the hook, and, with one last lingering look, nodded and turned away.
"Let's go," she said, her voice hoarse.
He nodded, pulled the door open, and gestured for her to lead the way.
.
Walking through the main doors the following Monday, Emma found that she felt lighter than she had in a while. Delving into Graham's affairs had given her more of an understanding of her partner, one that, in turn, had given her a sense of closure she hadn't really realized she'd needed. She fingered the band on her wrist again and allowed herself a small smile; he was a part of this now, a part of her. Her drive to take down Gold was at its peak and soon, very soon, they'd have everything they'd need to achieve that goal.
She allowed her smile to widen when she met the eyes of her friend and partner at her usual spot at the front desk.
"Hey, how'd the trip go?" she asked, leaning her hip against the side of the desk.
Mary Margaret smiled and gestured for her to sit. "It was great, very relaxing. I take it everything ended up being okay here?" she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
Emma nodded and averted her gaze sheepishly. "Yeah, everything's fine. Thanks."
The other woman smiled warmly and clasped Emma's hand in hers. "That's great," she grinned, peering over Emma's shoulder, "Speak of the devil."
Her brow furrowed in confusion as she turned to look behind her. An odd feeling churned in her gut when her eyes fell on Killian; he had a folder in his hands and was quickly making his way over to them.
"Good morning, Killian," Mary Margaret chirped as he neared, smiling amiably.
"Morning, Ladies," he answered, his smile strained as he bent slightly over Mary Margaret's desk, "We have a problem," he whispered, eyes flicking between the two of them.
"What kind of a problem?" Emma asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.
"Tamara," he said simply, biting his lip and shaking his head, "She's off the grid, disappeared completely."
"What? But I thought we made a deal with her?" Mary Margaret asked, confusion marring her delicate features.
"You don't think Gold got to her, do you?" Emma asked, a sinking feeling settling in her gut.
Killian sighed, an uneasy look on his face. "I wish I knew."
A combination of anger and anxiety rushed through her; on the one hand, she was upset that their only witness seemed to have made a run for it, but on the other, she was worried that she actually hadn't had the chance to run at all.
"Is there any way we can try and find out where she went? Some kind of trail maybe?" Emma asked, jiggling her leg nervously.
"I've done all I can, I'm afraid," Killian said, shaking his head, "If there's a trail, it's not one I've been able to pick up on."
"Shit," she muttered, rubbing her temple, "What do we do now?"
"We keep looking. We keep fighting," Mary Margaret interjected, her gaze earnest, "We don't give up."
Emma nodded and sent her a forced smile.
David called for their pre-shift meeting, halting their discussion. Emma and Killian shared a look as they moved to join the crowd in the bullpen, a look that said they both knew that regardless of how hard they fought, it didn't change the fact that, with their only witness in the wind, they were basically back to square one.
Addt'l AN: A few name notes, in case anyone was wondering why I chose the ones I did (you probably aren't but Imma tell y'all anyway~).
1. Wyght (the last name I gave Milah) was chosen because it means "strong."
2. Effie Drake is Maleficent lol; Effie was my way of shortening her name and the last name Drake means "dragon."
3. I chose the name Grady for Graham's brother because I like alliterative names (and also because the usage is Irish).
Okay, that's all. Thanks for reading! And please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter, if you have a moment.