A/N- I seem to have a thing for late night phone calls, don't I? I'm writing this about three-quarters asleep, so I hope everything still makes since. Killer bike ride today. I'm going to be sorry tomorrow haha, but no pain, no gain right? For bike riders and Raydors alike. (ha) Thanks, as always for the reviews and for sticking by me. This one gets a little violent- no, don't go thinking what I know you're thinking- but it's not too bad.

"You said, between your smiles and regrets, "Don't say it's over."

-Fallout Boy, Calm Before the Storm

Somewhere, a faint ringing drew Sharon out of her dream. It seemed far away, and she half-wondered what it was. The realization hit her suddenly, and she jerked awake. The phone. The phone was ringing at some God-awful hour of the night.

She lunged out of bed and ran down the hall as quietly as she could, praying that the noise wouldn't wake Ricky or Cat. She had forgotten how often babies woke up in the night, and Cat was no exception. Jack always seemed to leave early and return late, and he wasn't really interested in getting up to lull Cat back to sleep when she woke up.

She snatched the phone off the hook. "Hello?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Are you, uh," it was an unfamiliar man's voice. He sounded slightly hesitant. "I'm the Crowbar downtown, and I've got this guy here, Jack-"

"Oh my God," Sharon growled. All the pieces fell into place. Jack was at some bar and needed a ride home. She had heard enough stories of a similar sort from other officers and the people sitting in that backseat of her patrol car. "Oh my God. He needs a ride home, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," the guy mumbled. He sounded embarrassed now. "I took his keys a while back, and he told me your number. I'm real sorry, lady."

"It's not your fault," she said automatically. What the hell was Jack thinking? She felt a white-hot fury spark deep in her chest, while the rest of her felt numb. He had said he wasn't going to get into his old patterns again. And she had believed him, even when he started coming back after she and Ricky eaten dinner, even after he had twice left home before she awoke last week. "I'll come by as soon as I can. What's the address?" She wrote it down in a haze and hung the phone up again as she stared at the slip of paper she had written on. "Oh my God," she whispered again. So much for not waking Cat, she thought with dark humor.

The bartender looked up sharply as his door opened. It was past closing, but more than a few people had wandered in. He had the door open for the lady he'd called. The man himself, Jack, had fallen asleep at the corner table. The bartender begrudged him that.

A woman edged around the door, holding it open with her shoulder. She was pretty, but her good looks were almost negated by the exhaustion that was obvious on her face. The bartender could see why. She held the hand of a crying little boy and was cradling a screaming infant with the other arm.

Her eyes lit on the man, her husband, probably, almost immediately. She whispered something to the boy, who let go of her hand and stood in the middle of the floor, tears dripping down his cheeks as she moved forward.

"I'm so sorry," she said over the baby's howls. She jiggled her arm slightly, trying to quiet Cat. "Did he pay, or do I owe you-?"

"Don't worry about it." She had enough on her hands, and the remainder of the bill wasn't much.

"I-"

"Lady, it's okay. Do you need any help getting him out?"

She turned, trying to soothe her child as she sized Jack up. "No, I think I'll be alright." Sharon had done this before, often enough. She hated it, hated the fact that she knew what she was doing.

She held Cat close, and the girl's sobs softened to more temperate whimpers. "Jack." She kicked his foot slightly. "Jack, wake up.""

"Huh?" He woke with a start.

"We're going home."

"What?"

She pulled on his arm with her free hand, yanking him upward. He stumbled to his feet under his own power, and she sighed relieved. All she'd have to do was drag him in the right direction, rather like she did with Ricky. She pulled him towards the door, Ricky falling into step, and the bartender followed to lock the door behind her.

She paused just past the doorway, Ricky ahead of her, Jack beside her, and Cat in one arm. "I'm sorry, again."

"It's not a problem." He looked at her and her family. It was a damn shame, he decided. Any woman with kids that little shouldn't have to get up and drive her husband home in the middle of the night. And she seemed like a decent sort of person. He thought for a second and then reached out to tap her shoulder as she walked away. She turned her head to look at him. "Lady, please tell your husband he's a- 'scuse me- a jackass for not taking better care of such a fine family."

She blushed hotly, but nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He nodded, too, and retreated back into his business.

Sharon drove home in silence. Ricky and Cat had thankfully both fallen asleep. The streets were quiet, so she was home in less time than usual. She parked in the driveway, and turned to glance at Jack. "Stay here." She did look for a response, but turned away and quietly got out of the car. With some luck, she could get Ricky and Cat back to bed without either of them waking. She picked Ricky up in both arms and shifted him so she could balance him on her hip with one arm pressing him tight to her side. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake. She walked around the car and unlocked Cat's baby seat and scooped the baby up in her free arm. She bumped the door shut with her elbow and kicked Jack's door slightly.

He looked up at her.

"Can you let me into the house? Your keys are in my back pocket."

He got out of the car, and as always, she was surprised by his stability. He reached into her pocket to get his key ring, and his hand lingered on her ass.

She shot him a dark look. "Don't you dare. Go open that door, Jack."

He grinned and walked up the steps to the front door, opened it, and bowed as she passed.

"Make sure you close it." She toed her shoes off and carried both children down the hall. Her arms were starting to burn, but she wasn't going to let Jack anywhere near them. He had finally crossed the line. It was a line she hadn't consciously realized she had drawn, but it was there nonetheless.

She put Ricky to bed, first. She untied his shoes with one hand and pulled them off. He was still wearing his pajamas, having never changed when they went to fetch Jack back. She laid him on the bed and pulled the covers up with her free hand. She then closed his door and took Cat to her room. It was a small room that had previously been Jack's office. He had moved his desk and files out to the living room corner and they'd painted the room like Ricky's, but with different colors, three walls cream and one deep raspberry.

Cat fussed slightly when Sharon put her in the crib. She settled after a few minutes, and Sharon found she had been holding her breath in anticipation of a reaction. She crept out backwards and closed the door slowly.

There was a light on in the kitchen. She walked out and found Jack sitting at the island with two cups of tea. She sat in the chair next to him. "Care to explain yourself?"

He pushed one of the mugs towards her. "I was being responsible. Not drinking and driving and all of that, Shar."

"I wouldn't call pulling your children out of bed at three in the morning 'being responsible.'" She almost felt bad for him when she heard her own voice. She sounded frosty and distant. He deserves it, a small voice told her. She sat up straight and looked down at her hands.

"What did you want me to do?"

Her mouth dropped, and she turned to him. "Are you serious? You could have taken a cab! You could have caught a ride with a friend! I'm sure someone was DD. Hell, Jack, you could have come home after work and not done this, again!" This time the words were so heated they nearly burned her mouth. It was almost hard to think straight. The fire that had been burning in her the whole way home was burning her alive. "You could have come home.."

He reached out and wiped a tear off her cheek. She hadn't realized she was crying. Her hands accepted the mug he pushed into her hands. She picked it up after a moment, defenses caving, and sipped it.

She promptly spat it out. Tea sprayed across her hands and the table and a couple of papers Jack had left out.

"What the hell is this?" The words slipped out. She wasn't one for foul language, but there was something in the tea. It was a sharp and sweet mixture, and she couldn't pinpoint it, beyond the fact that it was alcohol.

"Sorry, wrong cup. This one must be yours." Jack reached out to switch the mugs, but Sharon yanked her hands away, still holding the tea.

"What is this? I thought you said you were seeing someone and getting this under control."

"It's a process." He didn't look up.

She stood and carried the tea to the sink, pouring it down the drain. She set the cup down gently, still mindful of the fact that her children were sleeping, or attempting to do so. She turned to face Jack. "Where are you keeping it?"

He pointed to the cupboard over the fridge without a word. She snorted slightly. The cabinet was the one place in the kitchen she couldn't reach. She grabbed the chair she'd been sitting on and set it before the fridge.

There were two bottles of what looked like hard liquor in the cabinet. She couldn't tell what they were in the darkness of the cupboard, but she didn't care. She grabbed them both and unscrewed the caps, pouring them down the drain together.

"I will help you, if you let me, Jack. You just have to trust me, and let me trust you."

"You don't understand."

She dropped the bottles in the trash. Screw recycling. "I don't understand you," she said, turning to face him. "But I understand the other side of this. Do you know how many people are killed due to drunk driving? How many people we pick up for DUIs and DWUIs? It's just as dangerous to others as it is to you, if not more so."

"You don't understand how it is for me, Sharon." Jack stood and walked out, into the living room.

She followed him. "Then help me understand, Jack. I can't go on like this forever. I'm not going to pick you up from bars in the middle of the night. I'm not going to wake Ricky and Cat up for that. They don't need to experience that."

"Cat won't remember any of this."

"Ricky will. I don't want his first memories of his father to be about us picking you up from bars."

"Come on, Sharon. Loosen up a little bit. This doesn't happen all the time."

"It's pretty damn close," she hissed.

He's- 'scuze me- a jackass.

You're too good for him.

An unsettling silence had fallen in the room, and though they were standing close together, they could have been miles apart.

"Look, Jack, maybe we need to try something else," she said finally. A strange, cool calm had descended, leaving her mind clear.

He came up behind her, resting his hand on her shoulders. "Like what?" He sounded suspicious.

"I don't know. Rehab or something. Counseling." She realized the truth of the words as she spoke them.

"Sharon. Come on. You don't really mean that." His grip tightened slightly.

"I think I do."

He turned her around to face him, and she looked up. "You don't." He was pleading now.

"Jack, let go of me." His fingers were biting into her arms. "Let go!" She squirmed away and shoved him back. She could feel where he had been holding on, even after he let go.

He turned away. "It's not a problem, Shar. You're just over-reacting."

"I'm over-reacting?" Her voice was still soft, but went so high it cracked. "Jack!"

He spun around to face her, arms thrown wide.

Looking back, she should have seen it coming, but she didn't at the time. She was too close, and as Jack swung back around, the back of his hand caught her chin. She stumbled back, pressing her fingers to the stinging mark.

"Oh my God." Jack stood frozen. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry, Sharon. I'm so sorry."

She pulled her fingers away and looked at them. They were bloody; her lip must have split.

"I'm fine," she siad finally.

Jack's face had paled, and he looked more alert than he had all night. "No, no. You're bleeding."

"It's fine." She held two fingers to the cut and looked up. "Go to bed, Jack. It's too late for this." She swept past him and made her way to the bathroom. She flipped the light on, locked the door, and looked in the mirror.

She looked like all the battered women she'd seen on call-outs with Meri: tired, with tangled hair and blood smeared across her chin.

This is different, she told herself. But it's too close to the real thing.

She turned the hot tap on, held her hand under the water until it was warm, and soaked a washcloth. She dabbed it over her face, hissing when it touched the cut. She rinsed it out and washed the rest of her face, scrubbing the mascara shadows out of the creases under her eyes.

When she was done, she leaned in close and examined the cut. It slit her lower lip neatly in half, and extended slightly onto her skin. It was probably from Jack's wedding ring, she realized wryly. It was still oozing blood, but she just dabbed antibiotic ointment onto it and left it alone.

It was quiet when she reemerged into the hall, and the lights were off.

"Jack?" she called quietly. "Jack, can we talk?"

There was a light on in the living room, so she walked in. Jack wasn't there, and everything was as neat and orderly as she had left it. The pillows sat in the corners of the sofa, and the window shades were drawn. She turned to leave, when an envelope on the corner table caught her eye. It was propped up against the lamp, and her name was written on it in block letters.

She frowned and picked it up. It was sealed, and she slit the back open with her nail.

SHARON-

I can't stay with you anymore. I've been coming to realize this, and tonight only confirmed it. I can't keep pulling you out to rescue me. You've given far more to me than I've ever given to you, and I'm afraid I'm leaving you with unfair burdens.

I'll do my best to help you, but I'm not coming back, at least for a while. I need to set some things in order and I'm hoping a change of scenery will help. I know a guy in Vegas who can give me a job, and I'll call you when I get everything settled. Don't worry about me.

Here's a last quote for you. It's Romeo and Juliet. "What's gone and what's past help should be past grief."

I'm gone, hopefully not past help, but you need to get past any grief for me. Although I would understand if you don't give a damn either way.

Love,

Jack

Sharon stared at the letter. Jack had left. She ran to the door and threw it open. Jack's car was still in the drive. She shut it again, and tore through the house, looking into each room for her husband. He wasn't there. She made her way back to the living room and dropped onto the sofa, reading the letter again.

He was gone, to God only knew where, leaving no forwarding address or a phone number. Her shock slowly gave way, once again, to anger. He had left her with two small children and half the income she was used to. She knew he couldn't pay her much; Vegas wasn't cheap, instant job or no. And he'd quoted Romeo and Juliet at her, of all things.

In a sudden rush of fury, she ripped the letter in half, and in half again. She threw the pieces down and grabbed a pillow, clutching it tightly to her chest. What was she supposed to do now?

The answer came after a few minutes. The FID job. The job she didn't want. The job with good hours that payed better.

She dropped the pillow and stood, walking to the bedroom. It was dark, and it seemed overlarge. She pulled one of the drawers of her dresser open and fished a packet of Virginia Slims out from behind her bras and socks. She read the box with a snort of amusement.

You've come a long way, baby.

She drew one out and took it out to the kitchen. She'd never really smoked, just a few times: when she'd realized she wouldn't go to grad school, when her brother had broken his leg in a skiing accident and she couldn't fly out to see him.

She didn't have a lighter, so she got the matches out of a cabinet, struck one, and lit her cigarette from it. She took it outside so it wouldn't stink up the house, and sat on the concrete front steps, gazing up at the stars as she took a drag.

She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, and, for once, she let them come. They rolled down her face in silence, mixing with the trailing smoke.

They dried after a while, but she kept sitting there, watching the stars gradually start to fade. The first blushing tinges of dawn were creeping along the horizon when she stood, bones crackling. The cigarette had long since burned out, but she picked the stub up in one hand.

"'To weep is to make less the depth of grief,'" she quoted softly. She spun on one heel and stepped back inside, shutting the door crisply. Cat would wake soon, and Ricky shortly after. The latter had school, and she was taking Cat downtown to examine the LAPD daycare. She supposed she could tell Bancroft she'd take the job, as well. She'd put it off for long enough. She had hoped not to take it, to simply return to active duty with Meri. She'd never mentioned it to anyone, because she'd never considered taking it.

She pushed the thoughts away and turned on the radio. Morning Edition would be coming on soon. She would manage without Jack, and, more likely than not, he'd show up again before long. She reached for the oatmeal canister, then changed her mind and picked up Cream of the West. It wasn't like she didn't have time. She might as well make the best of the calm before the storm.

A/N- My secret is out. I don't believe Jack ever hit Sharon on purpose, at least. She was really upset during the whole Ally Moore thing, and that made me wonder, but the way she let him back in convinced me otherwise. I don't think she'd let him anywhere near if he'd purposely done it. There was some catalyst to him leaving, though. I always wondered why she got so pissed at the note he left her, too. I suppose it could have been her just getting over him, but it could have been something else. Let me know? Spring break starts Sunday evening, so I'll write more soon!

Ah- for those of you not from the Wyoming-Montana area, Cream of the West is the most fabulous hot cereal ever. Imagine multigrain oatmeal that comes in boxes painted with sunrises and cowboys. It's great with jam.