This one has the longest quote of inspiration yet, and actually, the quote came before the word in this case because it fitted so perfectly what I wanted to say. On which note, if you've never seen The West Wing, check it out because its awesome!

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Hole

"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'" - Leo McGarry, The West Wing

There's no worse feeling in the world for an alcoholic than meeting another. If they're sober, and you're not, you feel like a failure, if you're both drunk, its like looking into a particular vicious mirror, and if you're sober and they're not, well, it comes down to one of two things. Either you're jealous that they're pissed; jealous that they're experiencing that buzz, or else they're just a nasty reminder of the way you used to be; the way you could be again, if you just picked up that bottle.

Taking that into account, you have to wonder how the hell AA works. I wonder that often. Every time I meet a drunk and I don't take a drink. On days like today.

I think this one particularly got to me because she came into my home. Not my apartment, but my squad room - I call it home because I spend more hours there than I do anywhere else. Drunks don't usually get that far when they come to the precinct. Usually their access stops at the cells, in the drunk tank, but this one was someone special.

Someone special, to someone special.

Her arrival reached my attention the same way it did my detectives who worked in the bullpens beyond the door of my office, as she announced herself, not by name but by swaying in the squad room doorway, and slurring our her opening gambit.

"You sneaky little bitch."

I looked up, and recognised her instantly, but even if I hadn't the pieces would have fallen in to place seconds later when she stumbled towards the 'sneaky little bitch' she'd come to visit.

Detective Olivia Benson. My golden girl. Her daughter.

Olivia's eyes immediately darted in my direction, as she looked at me apologetically and then got to her feet, going over to her mother's side. She spoke quietly to her, wanting their conversation to be discreet for obvious reasons, but unfortunately for her, her mother had different ideas.

"You go to my doctor. You tell him I need help. How dare you? What exactly does it have to do with you? You're just an interfering little slut."

That did it, and I got to my feet myself. I wasn't going to stand for one of my detectives being abused in her own squad room, even if it was her mother doing the abusing. That said, I needn't have bothered, because quite predictably someone else got in there first.

Elliot.

He stepped in between Olivia and her mother, holding his hands up in an apparent attempt at looking non confrontational but he didn't really pull it off. "Mrs Benson, I'm going to have to ask you to step back."

"And I'm going to have to ask you what the hell it has to do with you?" Olivia's mother slurred back, "Have you fucked her yet? Is that why you think this is your business?"

By that point, I was at Olivia's side myself, and saw her face flush red at her mother's words. I also saw the way Elliot's entire body had tensed and knew I had to diffuse the situation rapidly. I stepped around Olivia, and around Elliot until I was facing Olivia's mother and staring into a mirror at a reflection I'd long since tried to forget.

"Ms Benson, I'm Captain Donald Cragen, we met in Central Park, remember?" I threw in the niceties in part to jog her memory and reintroduce myself, in part to remind her of my authority and in part just to try and calm her down, "Why don't you and Olivia take this into my office. You can have some privacy there."

She glared at me hostilely, my attempts to soothe her obviously having failed, "Why would I need privacy, the little bitch has obviously already told you all that I'm a drunk." I didn't need to be Einstein to guess how Elliot was responding to her words, so pushed my bulk backwards, wanting him to know that I was handling it and that he should back right off. Then I instinctively glanced at Fin, who was sat at his desk but with his fists clenched and told him something similar with my eyes. With my team in check, I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me.

"Come on," I said, gently, not wanting to rile her further, "Olivia has to work here. You don't want to embarrass her like this."

"Don't I?" Sparks as good as flew from her eyes, "She doesn't think twice about embarrassing me. She doesn't think twice about violating my medical rights and speaking to my doctor about me. Why should care a less whether I'm embarrassing her or not? Maybe I'm enjoying it."

I looked at her, wondering how best to handle her. I was a drunk myself, I ought to know what would go down well and what wouldn't. But before I could reach a solution and try it for size, a voice spoke from behind me.

"Mom… please…"

I don't know what was worse for me. Hearing Olivia, my gutsiest detective sounding so broken and vulnerable, or the knowledge that my own wife had had to speak to me that way so many times, and yet for so long, I'd done nothing, just let her go on suffering. Just as I suspected Olivia's mother was going to do to her. It was heart breaking to me, on so many levels.

But not to Ms Benson. Like the me of so many years before, she couldn't have cared a less.

"Mom… please… what?"

"You need help." Olivia's words, again whimpered and pitiful were followed up by a sob that ripped through the room, and yet still there was no let up.

"I need help? I'm not the one crying like a baby. I'm not fluttering my eye lashes at a married man in the hope of getting laid. I'm not on a personal crusade to rid the world of rapists because I can't stand who my father is. So who really needs help Olivia? Me or you?"

I swung round at that point, anticipating that Elliot would be about to explode and thinking that a shove backwards wouldn't be enough of a barricade second time around, but to my surprise he'd backed off, and was too busy comforting Olivia to give her mother the slap I expected him to think she deserved. I watched as he wrapped her in his arms, and she crumpled against him, looking more like a distraught child than the rough and tough detective I knew so well.

"She's pathetic." The words cut through the squad room, and through Olivia's sobs like a knife and at that point I was convinced that Elliot would finally retaliate but he was busy, and so it was left to Fin. But even he didn't use physical retaliation, instead just looking over at Ms Benson disparagingly.

"Lady, she's your kid, you did that to her, and you're calling HER pathetic? She's just trying to help you, and if you don't see that, then you really do have a problem."

She looked from Fin to Olivia and Elliot, a distant expression on her face, "She doesn't care about me. She just wants his sympathy."

Fin snorted, "Yeah, right, you just keep telling yourself that." He glanced at me, "Can I throw the drunken bitch out on her ass?"

I was tempted to say yes, more than ready to have the ghost of Christmas past out of my face where it had become a very unwelcome visitor, but ultimately the decision wasn't mine to make. I turned to Olivia whose tears had subsided although she was still leaning into Elliot, looking like her legs might disappear from under her at a moments notice or less. "Olivia, its up to you."

Unsteadily she walked towards me, then past me, until she reached her mother's side, then she grabbed her by her shoulders and held her tightly, forcing her to look into her eyes, "Mom… please… I don't want to lose you, please go into rehab."

"No."

There was a beat and then Olivia let out a wail comparable only to the kind I've heard from the relatives of murder victims on the notification of their deaths, before tumbling to the floor as I'd anticipated she might less than a minute before. Elliot, Fin and I, we all reached for her, and by the time she was settled back in Elliot's arms, and I looked around the room again, the mother was gone.

Of course that wasn't the end of the story. It was never gonna be. Not with a woman like Serena Benson involved. I knew how people like her, people like that, people like me, worked. Therefore I was non too surprised when Olivia came into my office a couple of hours ago, still looking pale and shaken, but with a weak yet hopeful smile on her face.

"She called?" I said gently, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Olivia nodded, "She's sobered up. She says she's sorry. She want to get help."

I looked into her eyes, trying to judge how she was feeling, trying to work out if she knew what I did, and she must have read my mind, because seconds later, she confirmed it for me.

"I know she doesn't really mean it. I know its just because she's feeling sorry for herself because of what happened today. But I have to try don't I? If she's willing to get help, I have to support her."

Her words almost came as a relief because I knew she was right. I knew she was right because I'd been there too. It was always easy enough to ask for help when you'd pissed people off, because what better way to placate them and get yourself outta the dog house. But that didn't mean you meant it. That didn't mean it would last.

And I wanted her to be prepared for that.

All the same, as I told her with a smile, "You've got to try."

She nodded, and then turned to go. She'd just reached the door when I called her back. She turned and looked at me questioningly.

"Um…" I cleared my throat uncertainly, "Olivia, I've never been in your shoes. But you know I know about this. I've been where your mother is, I know what it does to a person and how it makes them behave. So if you want to talk… just… you know, say so."

Again, she nodded, and smiled but I could see the tears pricking her eyes, and the lump in her throat that she had to swallow before she could respond, "Thanks Captain, that means a lot but," she added, staring down at the floor, "my mom isn't like you. She's been sick my whole life. I don't think she can get better."

"We're more alike than you think." I told her, "I could quite easily drink every day, every night."

She shrugged, "Yeah, but you don't Sir, and that's the difference."