Author's Comments: Sorry I've been so mean to Olivia, but I had to do that to her to get her to the psych ward. Where the real torment can begin, lol.

And I'm not lying—this is an E/O story, at some point. But I like an actual story, I'm not a slash-fic kind of gal.

I want to give you guys reassurances, but no. No spoilers.

Too Close

Chapter Eight

Part 1.

"Where's Benson?" said Cragan, just as Elliot was getting off the elevator.

"Captain, I have to talk to you, it's about Olivia," he said. He could keep her status from the rest of the unit, but Cragan would find out even if Elliot didn't break it to him.

"In my office," said Cragan.

After he shut the door, Elliot said, "Captain, Olivia attempted suicide yesterday. Downed a bunch of painkillers with alcohol."

Cragan just stared at him, his jaw slack. Finally, the captain said softly, "I—I talked to her yesterday morning." He ran a hand over his chin, saying, "Is she okay?"

"Yeah," said Elliot. "I called over there this morning, and she's going to be fine. I was going to go see her, but they're sending her away to Kings County."

Cragan sighed and shook his head. "That place has had a lot of complaints." He narrowed his eyes and said, "I'm going to see if Huang will go over there and monitor her progress, just to be safe."

Elliot nodded, relieved that one more person would be there to support her. Cragan inhaled deeply and said, "Elliot, do you know what brought this on?"

Elliot's skin crawled as he shrugged before lying, saying, "Probably stress from her assault."

Cragan's eyebrows lowered in concern. "I thought she was doing so much better," he said. "Guess you can never tell."

"I guess not," said Elliot, kicking himself for being too cowardly to confess.

Part 2.

Olivia rode in an ambulance to Kings County, and then got a wheelchair ride into the building. She barely had the energy to check the place out, but she noticed barren walls painted a depressing mono-shade of Russian green. The common area was quieter than she expected, but as soon as they turned the corner into a hallway of cookie-cutter rooms, a woman's voice shrieked. The nurse pushed Olivia's wheelchair into the room from where the sound had come and said, "This is it. You'll be rooming with Shelly here."

Looking up at a thin woman with short hair staring straight up at the ceiling, Olivia said, "Hi, Shelly."

The woman, who was probably no more than twenty-five years old, stopped her shrieking for a few seconds, and then started up again. "Don't worry, she's just hungry," said the nurse. "She'll stop after lunch."

Olivia sighed and got up, heading toward an empty bed. "When do I get to wear regular clothes?" she said to the nurse, who was already heading out the door.

"Once you've shown that you're not a danger to yourself," said the nurse. "Probably by tonight, one of your loved ones can bring you some. No strings though. You get one phone call a day, and one hour of visitation, but not until you've seen the psychiatrist."

"Well, when is that?" said Olivia.

"When he works you into his schedule," said the nurse, disappearing into the hallway now, leaving Olivia alone with her noisy roommate.

Left with zero energy after withdrawal from the toxic substances in her system, Olivia buried herself in the blankets on her bed, and then brought a pillow over her head, hoping to shut out Shelly's voice. The girl stopped, only to have a seat on her own bed, chanting repeatedly, "Kill bitches kill bitches kill bitches . . ."

Olivia pulled herself weakly out of bed and staggered out into the common area, hoping to at least escape the noise. She was rewarded with the silence of two shuffling drugged-out patients, and she found her way to an overstuffed chair and slumped into it, exhausted.

"Olivia," said a familiar voice, awakening her from a deep slumber. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she noted that several hours had passed since she fell asleep in the chair. George Huang stood over her, waiting for her to rub her eyes and sit up before taking a seat in the chair next to her. "How are you doing?" he asked in his most sympathetic voice.

"I'm—I'm fine," she said, unable to find the words for how she really felt.

He gave her a moment to get used to the idea of him being there, and then said, "The captain sent me to check up on you."

Her chest tightened into a ball. "The captain knows?"

"Yeah, but it's alright," he said. "He's worried about you more than anything else."

"George," she said, "I'm actually glad you came. Nobody's come to talk to me yet, and it's six already. I can't even have visitors until I see the psychiatrist."

George pursed his lips and said, "I was afraid of that. This place is notorious for patient neglect."

"Yeah," she said, "I've heard that."

George stood and said, "I'll go see what I can find out. And I'll come back and visit you tomorrow morning to make sure you get the care you need."

"Thanks, George," she said, settling back into her chair.

Part 3.

Olivia tried to eat in the dining room. Tried, and failed, because she counted about a half-dozen roaches scurrying on the tables when she sat down. But the final appetite killer was the pounding that her roommate Shelly gave to the tabletop. The first time the woman's fist made noisy contact with the tabletop, Olivia jumped, and then she steeled herself as it happened four more times.

As soon as the orange mush meant to be dinner was delivered to her, Olivia pushed it away and stood, saying to the nurse, "Can I take a shower now?"

"Usually, not until seven-thirty, but I'll get your hygiene and you can go early since it's your first night."

Olivia had been given meds at dinnertime, and they began to make her feel heavy as she headed toward the bathroom. She knocked on the bathroom door, and a male voice said, "Go away." She started to leave, but halted in her tracks when she heard a female voice crying inside the bathroom.

She pounded on the door and said, "Is there someone else in there? Are you okay?"

"Go away—it's occupied!" said the man.

Olivia turned the handle, and it opened. Nudging the door in, she saw a woman leaning over the sink and a man in a security guard uniform bending over her. "Get out of here!" he screamed.

"Hey," she shouted back. "Get off her! Are you okay?" she said to the woman, who had her pajama bottoms down around her ankles and terrified eyes.

Olivia stepped toward the guard, who began to zip up his pants as he turned toward her. "You need to leave, Missy. I'm warning you."

"My name's not Missy," she said, coming up fast behind him and wrenching his arm behind his back.

"Hey," he said, writhing while he tried to grab her with his other hand. "Let go of me. Staff!"

It only took a few seconds for another security guard to arrive, followed by a nurse and another staff member in scrubs. "I'm a police officer," she said before the second guard could reach her. "This man was raping her."

The second guard started to reach for her free arm, and she yanked it away from him, clenching her hand even tighter around the first guard's wrist. "You're the new patient, aren't you?" said the second guard, holding up his hands in stop signs. "Olivia, is it? I'm Roberto. You need to let him go so we can talk about this."

Calmed by his reasonable demeanor, Olivia said, "Okay, Roberto, this man raped that woman. I saw it with my own eyes—I'm a detective with Manhattan SVU."

His hand moved toward his taser. "Okay, Olivia, and right now you're also a patient. So let's choose our actions very wisely now. Let go of Moses here, and we can talk."

She gently removed her hands from the guard's wrist, and he turned around and said, "She's making things up."

Olivia's teeth ground together, but before she had a chance to protest, Roberto moved in on her and teamed up with Moses to wrestle her arms in front of her and restrain her while the nurse closed in and injected her. Before she had time to think, she was in a dreary, drugged-out fog, only vaguely aware of what was going on around her.

In moments of clarity, she could tell she was slumping in a wheelchair, and then everything went blank once more. When she semi-awakened, she was in an elevator, fighting to lift her head to see a button lit up with the letter "B". And the next thing she knew, she was being lifted onto a table. Struggle as she may to stay awake, most of the time she remained unconscious. But in those rare moments when she stirred into a hazy awareness, she caught glimpses of her surroundings—damp cinder-block walls, concrete floors, one tiny window toward the corner of the room.

She passed out for a long time now, and then awoke and tried to raise her arms only to find herself bound to the table with nylon restraints. The table, rigid and uncomfortable, pressed hard against her weary head. Although she couldn't see anyone, she heard voices behind her head say, "Dr. Romanov."

"Roberto, you did fine," said a male voice that sounded Russian to Olivia. "Keep her down here until I say she's ready. And nobody touches her, you understand? . . . Good. There can't be any marks on her, or they'll be all over us like flies on a horse's ass."

"Doctor," she rasped. His face—with a clean-shaven goatee and glasses—appeared over her for just a second, and then he was gone.