Disclaimer I own very little, especially not CSI NY.

Notes Chapter 19: THANK YOU for all previous reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please continue reviewing - I love to know what you think - welcome at any time, for any chapter, and always replied to if logged.

Thanks… to iluvcsi4ever for discussion of poisons (authorial purposes only!) and for dedicating another one-shot to me in 'The One With…' : to Juliette and fat kat for your reviews; and to Shining Zephyr for being my 200th, 300th and 400th reviewer. Sorry this is late, and that my own reviewing and replying has been delayed.

Lost Letters: Chapter 19

5th August

…I'm playing nurse today to Joe who's currently lying and groaning on the sofa, complaining the heat's too much for him and makes him sick. He's not the only one affected, but he doesn't listen if I tell him that. And Joshua's been here, raiding the fridge. I think he's been brawling again; his ear looks even more ragged than usual, so I ended up treating him with antiseptic and a can of tuna. Two males vying for my attention this afternoon, some might consider me lucky…

………………………………...

"Danny! Danny, baby, please, please…"

No one heard, no one listened, no one reacted. Her son was surrounded by strangers and she could not reach him. Someone held her, their arms around her as she struggled to reach him. She could not reach him…

………………………………...

"You still got your young man, girl?"

It had been a week since Lindsay had last seen Mrs Adams; a week in which the world had almost fallen off its axis for herself and the team. Though it was not hard to remember the afternoon spent in the company of Detective Markham and the doughty old lady who had now single-handedly caught the young man who had robbed her, and threatened her life. He was currently in Markham's custody, whilst Lindsay had spared an hour to process the scene, promising to catch up with the detective when she finished.

Mrs Adams was a lady of questions, which Lindsay found herself answering again; more questions than she had been able to ask herself, but no less pertinent. At least her bandaged arm was hidden beneath a light jacket; she did not feel up to explanations about that.

The final question had come as she was leaving. Lindsay stopped at the door, desperate to escape before she answered more than she wanted to, "I've still got him…"

Don't ask me any more…

Her barriers were tissue paper to the old lady, "But? I know faces, girl, and hearts. They show themselves when you get to my age. Something's wrong inside yours. What's happened to him?"

Her heart was torn and exposed, "He - he was in an… an accident, a week ago. He was hit by a car…"

"And you're spending every hour spare, and every hour you can't spare at his side, huh? I see how it goes, girl."

The hand, gnarled and bark-burled, that Mrs Adams placed on Lindsay's arm, was strong; years of life flowing through it.

Lindsay could only nod, overwhelmed by the tears tugging at her lips.

The steadying grip tightened, "He's got my best wishes, girl. Tell him that. However you tell him. Things get hard to say to him, don't they?"

A transparent heart to shrewd, amber eyes. What could she say? Lindsay looked at her, half in fear, half in a sudden rush to let go her reserve, bare her terrified self, and blurt out that yes, when she sat there at Danny's side, alone, as he was just… just lying there; there was nothing to say to fill the empty air and the dead silence, and the words… the words were too loud and too quiet because he took no notice of them… he just lay there, saying nothing, nothing…

"Sometimes…" She whispered.

"Then write them down, girl, write the words down. Fasten them onto paper and ink, keep them safe for him that way. For both of you." The old lady gestured at the boxes piled around them, "It's what I've done all my life. Words are my life, and it's all held here. All of me, all in here somewhere, given away. Reckon there's more of me there than's left in this old body of mine."

She let go of Lindsay to stroke the cat who was smarming round her legs. Her hands disappeared amongst his fur, matching colours, "You ever write letters, girl?"

Lindsay shook her head, but she remembered what had probably been the last letter she wrote; to a distant great aunt who had sent her a crocheted bed-jacket for her thirteenth birthday.

Her mother had been insistent, beating down her teenage disgust, standing over her whilst she threw down a couple of insincere sentences onto a tatty piece of paper, resenting the cents the stamp had cost, and the journey to buy it.

Great Aunt Doll had died shortly after that, and the bed-jacket had disappeared unworn into the farthest corner of her closet. Thank-you letters became thank-you phone calls, and relatives sent checks. And when her friends and her carefree life were lost irrevocably, some things became unimportant.

"I don't really get the chance to."

"Then take the chance, girl, it's never too late…"

………………………………...

The figure on the bed jolted and was still again. Everything was still. Everyone. Still no change or movement in the line showing on the monitor. Danny's mother, unceremoniously pushed into the corner of the room, could not move. Danny's mother; she was no other self at the moment. Only half aware that Danny's father was the one whose arms were round her. They could only watch their son's fight, pray for the defeat of the enemy waiting in all the other corners. Life's eternal opponent. Waiting in the darkness. Close, too close…

………………………………...

Lindsay nodded, and lifted her eyes, "I will… thank you."

The moment passed, she became Detective Monroe again, "Are you going to be all right here alone, Mrs Adams? Is there anyone you can call?"

The old lady picked up her cat, who opened his mouth in a warble of protest, "Joshua and me'll be okay, girl. We got each other to take care of. And I got some good neighbours. Leastways, I did have…"

Something in her voice made Lindsay ask, "Something wrong with a neighbour? You've had some trouble."

Mrs Adams's lips pursed, "No, nothing like maybe you're thinking. Truth is… truth is, I'm worried about Rita. Haven't seen sight or sound of her since a week past now, and neither's Joshua. It's not like her not to call in. She only lives above me, but I've heard no footsteps from her. Girl's got friends and a boyfriend, but she's never been away this long from her apartment. She would have told me, asked me to water her window-boxes, keep an eye on things for her."

"Have you reported her missing? If it's been a week and you're concerned…"

"I'm reporting it now." She pressed the cat closer to her chest, and his golden eye blinked at Lindsay, "What do I need to do to make it official?"

Lindsay made a hasty decision, "I can take down details, Mrs Adams, as much as you know."

"Good. Thank you girl, it'll put my mind at rest."

The cat finally wriggled free and plopped onto the floor, then dashed through Lindsay's legs and out of the door. Mrs Adams sighed, "Joshua's taken it real hard, he loves his Rita-girl…" She delved into the pocket of her apron, "Got a picture of her somewhere, which oughtta help you I'm thinking…"

"Certainly." Lindsay held out her hand in expectation, but the old lady pulled out the pipe she recognised from their last visit, and drew her instead back into the kitchen, "Got it pinned up on the refrigerator. Boyfriend took it of her and Joshua, gave me a copy. Here." She unstuck a snap-shot of a dark-haired girl cuddling Joshua and handed it to Lindsay, "Wouldn't mind having it back if you can do that. Don't have many photos, never owned a camera myself, kept the memories in my words."

"I'll take a copy, Mrs Adams." Lindsay reassured her, "I'll take care of everything you've trusted me with."

The old lady faced her, and Lindsay felt diaphanous again, "I can see that you will, girl. And I can see you'll be taking heed of what I've said to you. Keep a hold on that young man of yours"

………………………………...

The same sound. An unwavering line. Still fighting though, fighting back, his mother knew he would. He had to.

"Charging. Clear!"

Faces that were all eyes and mouths, shouting nonsense words now; she didn't care what they meant. Another charge of life through her son. Still fighting…

………………………………...

Heat radiated from the stainless steel sky turning sidewalks to the Sahara underfoot. Shivering-hot air, tasting of dust and metal clung round Lindsay as she walked away from the old lady's apartment, re-building the present from the components of the past. She retraced the steps of a week ago, imagining she saw the same faces on the streets, the same turn of leaves on the plane trees, the same flotsam and jetsam on the ground…

Something hidden to most eyes, caught beneath a newspaper dispenser, snagged her gaze. Something that had been yellow, possibly, under all the dust. Something that had writing nearly obscured beneath the muck and obscurity of the streets. Instinct directing her, Lindsay picked up the envelope and froze as she saw the name and address written in the left hand corner.

………………………………...

"Again! Increase to four hundred…"

Still fighting, still fighting. Danny's parents put their life into him. One man, one life on the brink, one immeasurable line still drawn. Not to be crossed. Not now, not today…

………………………………...

As expected, Lindsay found the ME in the morgue, poring over files and wearing a frown of concentration. She had come down as much for the case, and what she had found, as to see Sid himself; not being able to remember the last time she had spoken to him simply as a fellow human being.

He looked up and closed the files with a smile as she approached, "Lindsay, how are you?"

It stopped the automatic response. He hadn't asked her. In the last week, nearly every greeting to her had come with a suffix attached, or was the greeting itself, rendering her almost invisible, 'How's Danny?'. Not that she minded. Not at all; she wanted people to ask and to know, and she wanted to be able to give them a different answer than she always did, but…

But there was a small part of her that she was trying to keep locked away that resented losing herself in someone else and to someone else. She hated herself for it. Her. Me. Lindsay.

Lindsay and Danny. She loved him, and the greater part of her enjoyed the duality. But she was an individual as well as a couple.

"Lindsay?"

"Sorry… I'm good, Sid, thanks. Thanks for asking." Her hands were toying with a pen, and the words were out before she could stop them, "Aren't you going to ask me about Danny?"

Sid blinked at her, "I wanted to know how you were. And I'm going to call in on Danny later today; Stella too." He continued in a gentle voice, "Have you been to see her yet? I know she'd appreciate a visit."

The pen trembled in Lindsay's fingers, "I - I haven't, no. After what happened, about - about the car when I… I guess everyone knows, huh?"

"No, no, they don't. I know only because Sheldon was with me when you called. There's nothing more to know anyhow. You called it in."

"But it should have been sooner. It would have made a difference." She said desperately, trying to hold back the torrents of guilt that were too near the surface.

"It might, but it might not. I don't think those few minutes made a difference, Lindsay. Don't condemn yourself for it, no one else is. Trust me on that."

His eyes held her carefully, and she managed to gulp back some control, before thrusting towards him the evidence she held, needing to return to safe territory, "I think I may have found something new on one of our vics."

It lit his face up, "That's good to hear. What have you found?"

"Connections. Well, that's what I've made. It started with a conversation, led to a photograph, and then to a letter. I went from there."

"Where did you get to?"

"Our Jane Doe, the girl with the letters."

Sid hastily clipped back his glasses, "Give me just a moment." He pulled out the body of the girl, unwrapped her, "You said you had a photograph?"

Lindsay felt a sad smile cross her face as she looked at the images of the two still faces in front of her. She held the picture out to Sid, "And a name for our Jane Doe. This is Rita Franklin, Sid."

………………………………...

Danny! Danny! Hold on, baby, hold on, please…

He was beyond her cries. No one breathed. The room held its breath and theirs. Silence sliced through by the unbroken wail. And then it stopped. For a second of eternity, there was only silence. Danny's mother saw him, saw all his life in a stream of noise and colour, every drop she knew of it and held inside her, running away from her…

And then it returned, broken, hesitant, but there.

"We got a pulse! We've got him back…"

Only her husband's arms around her stopped them both from collapsing. She held onto him. The fight was over; for now; for another day. Danny held on.

………………………………...

Stella pulled herself free of the sleep that had wrapped round her again like a whirlpool. She was so tired, drowning in tiredness, so easy to slip back in… No. No. Even though she felt as if there were treacherously soft, white waves inside her head and surrounding her, lulling her into unconsciousness… she fought her way to the surface again.

Held to the view of the sky: metallic; buildings like cut-outs pasted onto it in sharp relief.

Her thoughts cleared, and she noticed the empty paper cup on the table at her side. A vague memory surfaced from hours before of the varying shapes and colours of the pills she had swallowed. So many of them, so wearying.

Returning her mind to the room, she saw Mac was awake, a half-drunk cup of coffee in his hand. Seeing him, she managed a smile. His face was the one she had seen most since waking, but the one that had changed most; it was fatigued and wan, robbed of colour. Her own, she imagined, probably looked something the same.

His features wore the concerned look she had also come to know in the last few days since she had found herself still alive; to her surprise, and, as was not difficult to read in Mac's face, to everyone's surprise. It was something she was trying to banish from the nightmares that lingered and clung to her beyond sleep.

He asked her the expected question, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm…" Stella gathered her voice, still unpleasantly surprised at how much of an exertion that was; but it was improving. She was making it improve. "I'm all right, Mac. Really…"

He raised his eyebrows, and she raised her hands in resignation, "Okay, fine, you know what? It hurts like a bitch. But I can live with that… I'm okay."

"But you…"

You nearly weren't

She knew that.

"But I am. Stop the thought right there, Mac, because I'm trying to do so."

There was suddenly anger in his eyes, misdirected at her, she knew, "Do you know how close you came, Stella? How close we came to losing…"

She knew that too.

Her eyes matched his, "Going by where I am and how I felt when I woke up, and… and going by the fact you've hardly left my side since I woke up… then yeah, I got a pretty good idea." A moment's pause as they challenged each other's gaze. Mac looked away first, and Stella continued, her expression becoming accusing, "I've been here a week… how long have you been here? The same?" He didn't need to tell her, "You didn't have to do that, Mac. I don't need a babysitter…"

What she saw in his eyes as he looked at her again, needled her conscience, but she had to continue, "I'm sorry… I don't mean to be… be ungrateful, but you shouldn't have to be stuck here too, when you've got…"

"I chose to stay, and I'd make that choice again, Stella."

Her eyes blurred and she crushed her fingers together as she continued, "I know you're probably pulling in all kinds of favours to be here. I don't imagine all our cases have miraculously dried up…"

"Our priority is the safety of both you and Danny. Especially following events the day before yesterday…"

"Which you still haven't fully told me about…" She pushed her hand through her hair, feeling it needing a brush and wash, "I know you think you're… you're trying to do me a favour by hiding things from me, but it's not helping. I need to know. I… I need to talk about what's happened." Stella paused, leaning back and biting her lips, drawing colour back into them, "I need to be doing something… something useful. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is being here, Mac, feeling like I can't do anything?"

A spasm in her side made her catch her breath for a moment, and Mac's features tightened in concern, "I don't want you to push yourself. Give yourself more time…"

Ignoring the ache, she glared and sat up, "I've lost too much time already."

He stared into his coffee, then back at her and said quietly, "All right. But we take it steady."

"I'll set the pace."

A wry smile returned to his face, "Wouldn't dream of anything else, Stella."

They were interrupted by another young member of staff entering hesitantly, glancing at Mac first.

Stella took the cup of pills she was handed. So many… She looked more carefully. Too many? The girl was watching her, and the air in the room seemed too close. Mac was alert, also watching.

She hesitated, and decided to question, "Are you sure these are the right…?"

It happened in seconds: the girl spun sideways, striking Mac in the neck; and suddenly he was sprawled on the floor, coffee spilling in a shining black pool. And then the girl was lunging at her, pressing her hand over her nose and mouth before she could cry out, shoving her back hard into the smothering pillows.

Stella struggled, but her hands were seized, held down, the IV line torn out painfully. Nails dug into her skin as she fought back.

She was sinking and suffocating into nothingness… Still fighting though; resisting the pull of surrender, she wrenched one hand free, flung it out to the side.

Mac… no one to help, no one else to help him, have to do this alone, alone…

Her hand struck something solid; the glass vase with the flowers. Glass. Heavy. Not failing this time, her fingers closed round it. And she swung it with almost the last of her strength, hearing a crack, a cry and a smash; feeling sharp and soft fragments of water falling around her. Something heavy and yielding collapsed on top of her as the hand slid away from her face.

Mists and blurs of pain tried to submerge her… but Stella fought to keep hold of her self as the help that she had succeeded without poured into the room.

Please review; I struggled a bit with this chapter, so any thoughts on it, good or bad, or any suggestions, are very welcome. Thank you, Lily x