A/N: I know I keep saying I'm going to try and post on my stories more regularly, but... To let you all know exactly why I haven't been posting, here's what's been happening. Since August, we've moved 1600km for my work, had all of the stress and nonsense of moving, settling into a new town and a new job etc, and then to top it off, I found out at the end of October that I'm pregnant. We found out quite late- as I write this, I'm just over 6 months pregnant- so as you can imagine, we've kinda had to scramble to get everything together for the baby, and I've had a lot on my mind other than fanfic.

Before the baby is born I'm going to attempt to get all of my current stories finished without starting any new ones. Or at least not any multi-chapter new ones lol. So here we go, another chapter of Choices. After 36 chapters, I'm almost done...

Massive thanks goes to Trina109 for beta-ing this for me. Miss you Trina!

He sat staring at the notice for a long time, his mind racing. He knew that this was coming, knew he couldn't stay on desk duty forever. But he also didn't think it would come so quickly on the heels of Steve's revelation that improvement in his mobility had pretty much ceased. There was something in that; he'd think about it later. The other thought that occupied him was the firearms test. He knew the physical was important, but either his shoulder would be flexible enough or it wouldn't; he'd already done all he could to change that.

The firearms test was something. He hadn't held a gun for months; he didn't own a firearm other than that issued to him by NCIS, and it had been collected by NCIS when he was injured- standard procedure. He knew that he could have gone to any number of firing ranges to practise, but his physiotherapist had advised against it; the recoil from even a small calibre pistol could have caused further damage to his shoulder while it was healing. So he hadn't gone, and now he had no real way to know whether or not he could still shoot. Shooting had always been his weak point; he'd turned out to be a good shot, but he'd had to work at it.

The noise of the elevator arriving jerked him out of his thoughts; quickly, he stuffed the notice into his desk drawer. He didn't really want to talk to the rest of the team about this, not yet. He forced himself to respond to Ziva's greeting as cheerfully as he was able, and joined in the discussion of the current case.

...

Later that evening, after work, he flicked through the local telephone directory on his phone, looking for a shooting range that was open late at night. He wanted one that was a little off the beaten track, unlikely to be frequented by anyone he knew, in case this went badly. He'd called down to Ducky in a quiet moment, scheduling his physical for the following day. Against his better judgement, he'd also phoned to the psych department and scheduled his psychological assessment.

Finding what he was looking for, he picked up his things and left the apartment.

...

Reaching the firing range in nearby Rockville, he signed in, showing the necessary ID and choosing a 9mm pistol that was similar to the SIG he carried at work. Not surprisingly, they didn't have the same model pistol that NCIS issued to its agents.

He took the gun down to the furthest stall, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible. He loaded the weapon carefully, trying to get the feel of the unfamiliar gun. When he was ready, he faced down the range and raised the gun.

And couldn't raise it high enough.

His shoulder prevented him from raising the weapon any higher than belly height on the vaguely human shaped target. He knew he had to be able to make a shot at a minimum of chest height.

He tried again, and failed. Still too low. Forcing his shoulder as high as he could, he almost-almost-got it to the necessary height, but his arm trembled so much he knew he'd barely be able to pull the trigger, let alone take aim.

He tried again and again, every shot going too low, until finally his arm and hand hurt so much from the strain that he was unable to continue. Then he stood there, anger and betrayal rising in him. Why? Why had they let him hope when there was no way that he'd be able to rejoin the team? Why hadn't Steve let him know that his shoulder was as good as it was going to get? Particularly as he must have known for weeks, to be able to let NCIS know?

Finally the range attendant signalled to him, letting him know that they were about ready to close. Returning his rented weapon, he left and drove slowly home.

He only had one option left to him now.

He would have to leave NCIS.