A/N: I apologize profusely for my extended absence! It's election season here in the U.S., which, for me at least, means exhausting work weeks. Bear with me!

A/N2: In my crazy busyness, I've had some time to deliberate. The result: I'm not happy with the way I'd written the ending to 'Idiot's Guide.' I'm therefore extending it a bit longer than I anticipated. Hope you enjoy the slight change in direction! Read and respond, as always!

Chapter 14

Eric had planned to talk it out rationally, thinking about what he would say as they packed up their picnic. He wanted to do everything in his power to make things right, to somehow explain the depth of what he was feeling.

Like Eric, Calleigh was running through her mind what they should do: contemplate the pros and cons, list the problems they might face in a relationship and how they would handle them. They needed to talk about what they both wanted out of their futures, rank their priorities, discuss the similarities and differences. And what about all their other issues? Past relationships, Eric's shooting, why they slept together, why they never talked about sleeping together, what they wanted then and why they didn't chase it. All the damn miscommunication.

But the talk—the all-important talk, the conversation that would change everything for them, the moment that would make or break their future—never came.

It started with the voices, just as Eric finished the last of his turkey sandwich. Over Calleigh's shoulder, he spotted a young family standing by another picnic table. The burly husband was none too happy, and he was letting his wife know it.

The man's angry tirade wasn't enough to extinguish the happiness that had settled over Eric in the last half-hour, though. Sitting with Calleigh, saying very little and enjoying the slight brackish breeze, he felt an unmistakable calm that had eluded him since the days he first started at CSI.

He turned back to his lunch and gracefully devoured the last of his wheat crust with a satisfied 'mmm.' Cal watched him with a twinkle in her eye and a small smirk playing on her face.

"What?" Eric asked somewhat self-consciously.

The bemused expression on her partner's face only made Calleigh smile wider. He has no idea how cute he is, she laughed to herself. Knowing Eric would throw a fit if she actually called him 'cute' to his face, she settled for a little white lie. "You'd think that turkey sandwich just made your day," she joked.

Her comment evoked a cheeky Delko grin and a quick waggle of his eyebrows. "You know, I think it just might have. Best turkey sandwich I've made in a long time."

"Creature comfort?"

"Exac—"

Whatever he was going to say was lost to a tremendous outburst from a dozen yards away. Almost as one, Eric and Calleigh's heads whipped around at the sound of the commotion.

The man whom Eric had previously observed with disinterest now stood ominously close to his cowering wife. Behind them, a small child sat in a high-chair and wailed in fright. Even from a distance, the CSIs could see that the argument was rapidly devolving into a violent confrontation.

"Should we say something?" Calleigh breathed.

Eric wasn't sure. The wife obviously feared her irate husband, if her body language was any indication. Before Eric had time to decide what to do, the man's raised hand balled into a tight fist and came crashing down.

'Shit.' Eric was out of his seat like lightening. He registered Calleigh reaching for something in her bag and thrusting it into the back waistband of her jeans: her Ladysmith. He felt the hard metal of his own weapon pressing against the small of his back, too, and he was suddenly grateful for the lessons time had taught. He never went anywhere without his gun.

Snatching his identification from his pocket on auto-pilot, he held it aloft and loudly announced, "Miami Dade P.D.!"

Calleigh did the same and added in an even voice, "Sir, you need to take a step back." Looking to the woman, who now had tears streaming down her face, she asked, "Ma'am, are you okay?"

The woman instinctively backed away from her husband and toward her baby. "I—I d-don't know."

The man had a crazed look in his eye that set Eric on edge. He advanced cautiously, ready to reach for his weapon at any moment. "Sir, please step back."

"I didn't do nothin'!" he yelled, refusing to budge an inch. "And that bitch started it, anyway."

Eric slipped his ID back into his pocket and lifted his left hand, palm out, in a calming gesture. He kept his right hand positioned surreptitiously behind him all the while, hovering over his hidden firearm.

"Sir, if you'll step back, we can talk about this. Just relax, okay?"

"I'm not talkin' about nothin'!" the man shouted. He jabbed a forceful finger in Eric's direction. "This is between me and her, so just piss off!"

Eric's voice hardened and a fire lit in his eyes. He was a force to be reckoned with, and this jackass was about to take him seriously.

"Don't make this worse, alright? You've already assaulted your wife in plain view of two police officers. I have no problem throwing your ass in jail for resisting arrest, too."

A small crowd had begun to gather around the scene, and in the back of her head Calleigh willed them to back away. Domestic disputes were some of the most volatile and unpredictable situations police officers faced; she saw the aftermath almost every other day as a CSI. These people had no idea what kind of danger they were placing themselves in at the moment.

Later, Calleigh would look back on that crowd with a sick feeling in her stomach, wishing more than anything that she could have been wrong. But she wasn't wrong. Without warning, the irate husband let out a guttural, reverberating roar and pulled a gun from somewhere. 'Somewhere,' because it happened so fast Calleigh couldn't see where it came from.

Several things occurred at once. The first shot rang out just as the mother dove for her baby; she crumpled in midair and fell to the ground, limp. Six more shots instantly echoed.

The first came from Eric and caught the husband squarely in the chest. Incredibly, he remained on his feet, and his arm continued in one sweeping motion as Eric squeezed the trigger a second time. His second shot hit less than an inch from his first. He heard the three rounds Calleigh fired, but he never saw them impact.

It was all over in a single second.

Three feet to Eric's right, Calleigh froze in shock. She'd struck the gunman fatally: two shots to the chest so close to Eric's that a bloody, gaping hole now marred his sternum, and one calculated shot between the eyes. He never stood a chance.

She'd fired too late, though. Because three feet away her best friend laid sprawled flat on his back, grasping his throat and choking for air. A crimson tide flowed through his fingers, and Calleigh realized with a paralyzing sense of horror that Eric was drowning in his own blood.

She lunged for him, her mind screaming. NO! Eric, God no, Eric!

"CALL 911! NOW!" she bellowed at the crowd behind her. People had scattered in panic and hit the ground for cover when the bullets started flying, but now a few of them had recovered enough to jump into action. Several cell phones were already in hand. "OFFICER DOWN!"

Please, please no. Please be okay!

Out of the corner of her eye Calleigh saw another couple of bystanders rush to the aid of the fallen wife, and she turned every last bit of her attention to her wounded partner.

"Eric!" she called desperately, cradling him as much as she dared. He fixed his watery eyes on hers, a cough bubbling from his throat, blood sputtering through the hole there and streaming out of his mouth. Eric seemed to be begging her for help, and as Cal peered into the brown depths of his eyes, her heart shattered into a million pieces. This is a dream...just a dream.

Someone miraculously appeared at her side holding several small towels—gym towels, her spinning brain surmised, from the nearby basketball courts. She accepted them numbly, removing her blood-drenched hands from Eric's and replacing the pressure with the towels. At least, she tried.

"Eric, move your hands! I've got you, okay? Just move your hands," Calleigh coaxed, working hard to keep the terror from her voice.

Eric could only gurgle in response, but he allowed Calleigh to press the towels to the bullet hole that had ripped through his throat.

Calleigh saw a strong hand slip another towel underneath Eric's neck. "It's a through and through," a steady voice said. She chanced a quick glance up to the man beside her.

"I'm a paramedic," he explained succinctly. "We need to stabilize his head and clear his airway. Carlisle! Get your ass over here!"

A rush of immeasurable gratitude swept through Calleigh and she immediately returned her focus to Eric. Of all the men to be playing basketball today, it's a fire and rescue squad.

Her nimble hands kept the pressure on Eric's wound, the white fabric now drenched red. Next to her, another paramedic kneeled to the ground with some kind of bag. Calleigh soon understood what it was when—Carlisle, it must be—began extracting bandages and gauze and syringes and on and on, handing them off to his comrade.

"Here," Carlisle said to Calleigh, indicating that he would take over for her. She reluctantly released her hold on the towels, only succeeding because the EMT issued new orders. "Hold him still!"

The CSI in her obeyed without question and she moved her body lower, pinning Eric down as best she could. She hadn't realized how much his legs were kicking; bile rose in her throat as she realized he was thrashing not out of fear, but in an all-consuming struggle for air.

Calleigh covered one of Eric's legs with her own and effectively restricted his wild movements. Her right hand reached across his hips, and she held on with all the strength that she possessed. Her left hand rested on his forehead and gently urged him to remain still. After a few seconds, she felt him stop fighting. Calleigh couldn't know it (because Eric couldn't tell her), but it wasn't her touch that calmed him so much as the soothing words she'd been uttering in an incessant, unconscious stream of encouragement.

Eric had never felt pain like this, or fear. The last time he was shot, less than a year ago, he'd been knocked unconscious almost immediately. The next moment he could recall was a week later, and by that time he was under the effects of some pretty serious drugs.

His thoughts were garbled with his pain. One minute he could fully apprehend his surroundings, but then his vision would fade into a series of slow-motion pictures: Calleigh sitting across from him at a picnic table, a turkey sandwich in his hands (why a turkey sandwich?), a crying woman, angry shouts then shouts for help and shouted orders and shouts of his name. He saw a gun in his face, but it blurred. Then… Calleigh?

Now all Eric saw was a beautiful face leaning down over him, inches from his own. He knew that face. Her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear her. He would give anything to hear her, and he tried to tell her that, but he wasn't sure if the words came out right. Again and again, he tried to speak to her, but nothing. Cal-leigh…what's go-ing…on? I…can't…

Lying on the ground, barely aware of what was actually happening around him and to him, Eric tried to tell his best friend that he couldn't breathe. The pain was unbearable. The edges of his vision had started to turn black when Calleigh's voice broke through to him again.

A fuzzy sort of realization dawned on Eric that Calleigh wasn't yelling anymore. She was whispering—just for him. "Eric, listen to me. You're okay. I'm here, and the paramedics, and you're going to be just fine. Listen to my voice, Eric."

He felt something hot and wet drip onto his skin and trickle down his cheek. Don't cry, Cal. Don't cry.

"You're not going anywhere," she whispered and gave a strained, watery chuckle, "because we've got business to settle. You have to fight, Eric. Fight for me, okay?"

A small hand slipped into his and squeezed it tightly. In the distance he heard someone say, "Forget intubation. We've got to trach."

A second later Eric felt a fiery pain at the base of his throat which he knew had nothing to do with the bullet that had hit him. His hand convulsed involuntary around Calleigh's, and she gripped his fingers all the tighter.

Above him, Calleigh watched on helplessly. She was practically lying on top of him now, and all she could do was whisper words of encouragement. Where is the damn ambulance? He was losing too much blood, too much air, and she was growing frantic. Please let this work, she begged silently. The tracheotomy tube jutted harshly out of Eric's windpipe. Carlisle and the first paramedic (Compton, she'd learned) worked blindingly fast, with sure hands.

Soon, to Calleigh's unending relief, she saw Eric's chest rise tentatively. Another pump from the bag attached to the trach tube, and his chest rose even more.

Eric felt the first rush of air into his lungs, then the second, then a third. The sensation was strange—air flowing to his lungs but not through his nose and mouth—but it restored some blessed clarity to his mind.

He settled his eyes on Calleigh, filled with determination. Another series of images flashed before him as he looked at her, but not the pell-mell visions from before. Instead he witnessed Tim Speedle's slide show, clear, as if he'd memorized every last photograph. And maybe he had. Picture after picture flooded his memory, of Tim and Calleigh, of happier days, of all the things he wasn't ready to give up yet.

I'm not ready. I'm not ready, Speed.

An eerie peace spread through him, and Eric attempted one last time to convey an unspoken message to Calleigh. He felt her body on top of his, her hand gripping his, her fingers caressing his forehead…

God, I love you.

…and all went black.