William Lewis TW also this is a pretty emotional chapter... you have been warned!

Two files rested in his hands. Two files. Two brushes with Satan incarnate. He wasn't sure he was ready for this. He might never be ready for this. The office echoed an eerie silence. Everyone had long since gone home, leaving him here alone. With these two files.

He flipped open the first file, and set aside the preliminary report. He wanted her victim statement. He could care less what others observed. He wanted to know what she experienced.

Before he found her victim statement he found the photos . The first one in the stack showed her old apartment, completely tossed. His stomach lurched. He couldn't do this. He had to do this.

He set the stack of crime scene photos aside. He knew he wasn't ready to see those. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

Eventually he found her victim statement and sat it on top of the stack of papers. He readied himself, but he had a feeling he would never be ready for this. He heaved a sigh. If she lived it he could surely read it.

The first page detailed the first two days in her apartment. Two damn days. That's when the guilt started. Not surface level guilt. Not the simple guilt. It was the soul crushing kind. The life altering kind. The kind that leaves you changed.

He didn't want to blame her partner, or her team, but damn. Two days. She was off the grid for two days and no one thought to check in. He would have checked in. That was something felt sure of. If he hadn't recklessly abandoned her, he would have checked on her well before two days passed. The guilt ate away at his soul.

He made it through her description of the apartment ambush, and he already felt sick and overwhelmed. He knew what was coming. His eyes watered. The burns. His fingers had brushed across the raised scars that littered her body. He had kissed many of them, and he knew the feeling on his lips and tongue. He knew what was coming.

But it did not make him any more prepared. Nothing could prepare him for this.

Duct tape. Drugs. Alcohol. He gulped back the bile that burned his throat. He knew he was crying, and he didn't even try to stop.

He wasn't ready. Not at all, but he powered through her descriptions of her assault. Elliot slammed his fist against his desk. He needed to hit something, and any surface in this office would likely break his hand. He couldn't breathe. His hand went to his chest. Was this what a panic attack felt like? He wanted to curl up in a dark hole and die.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and forced back the tears while taking long slow breaths. He couldn't read anymore because tears blurred his vision. He hated this .

He imagined this was what hell was like. Not just the concept, but the real actual place. Somehow it was this beautiful, empathic person who suffered for his mistakes . Her pain, because of his absence, was the definition of hell. Pure and unadulterated.

Once his vision cleared he continued, but the first picture of the cigarette burns on her breasts made him so physically I'll that he emptied the contents of his stomach into the wastebasket next to his desk. He had seen the scars. He had touched them, but seeing them, fresh, raw and bleeding was too much.

He thanked God he was alone because he couldn't control the full sobs wracking his body. He was sure. He must be in hell.

-000-

He felt like he was hours into the files, but probably was only only two or three at most. At this point he just kept dry heaving. His throat burned and his stomach felt like it took a beating. He needed a break. He needed to sleep, but he knew when he closed his eyes all he would see was her blood spatter dotting the walls, and beautiful her hair adhered to a discarded piece of duct tape. The images of various metal objects, his branding implements would forever be burned into his brain.

He fully understood why she couldn't talk about it. This was worse than he could have ever imagined. Four days with that monster. And she survived. He shuddered to think about what could have happened. She could have died. And he wouldn't have known. That thought devastated him.

After an eternity he was near the end of the file. She spent four days in hell, and she saved herself . He felt a sick satisfaction at his injuries. There was a tiny amount of justice in that. He read through her 'rescue' and preliminary medical report. Then there was the rape kit. He closed his eyes. He couldn't even imagine. The wave of guilt slammed him with another assault. He should have been there holding her hand. How many rape kits had they seen on the job? How many rapes? How much violence? That made this worse because he understood exactly what all of this meant and how bad all of this was.

He couldn't look. But he knew he had to. He hoped to God someone was with her. Anyone. He desperately wished that someone would have been him. He let a long breath after reading the word inconclusive.

He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not.

He made it through the first file, but couldn't believe a second file existed. How the f-ck did he get her twice? He wasn't sure he could handle any more. He was starting to feel numb . His back protested and his eyes blurred but he kept going. He didn't want to return to this later. He needed this done. He had to finish.

The second file left him less guilty and more angry. He escaped. He psychologically tortured her. He baited her with a child . How many systems failed her and allowed him back into her life?

He thought he was okay. He thought he had made it through the worst of it all. He thought wrong.

Attempted rape. Russian roulette. His stomach heaved again. He thought the nausea had passed but just the thought of a gun pressed to her head by her own hand destroyed him . He was so close to losing her. Too damn close.

He cried so much he had to be dehydrated by now.

He was getting to the end of the file, finally. The monster shot himself . Right in front of her. It was as if he wanted to continually torment her, even in death. Elliot shuddered.

His distaste for IAB increased ten fold after he realized even after being revictimized they dragged her through a grand jury. What the actual f-ck?

He finished the files, and he felt changed. Destroyed. Angry. Guilty. And unworthy. There was no way he deserved her. God, how could she look at him? How could she love him?

He laid his head on the desk. It felt heavy and his eyes felt painfully dry now. He knew what she wanted him to know. But now, he wondered how to move on from this? How could he return to his life as it was?

Her words echoed in his mind, Promise me…Don't run. Don't blame yourself. Don't leave me alone with this.

He promised. He could never leave her alone with it. He could never leave her again. After everything, all the pain, all horror, she still loved him. And he wanted to be worthy of that love.

-000-

She took a breath and tried to steady her shaking hands. She was overreacting. But knowing she was overreacting didn't help. Her body couldn't chill the hell out. No amount of relaxation techniques or breathing exercises could keep her heart from accelerating or her stomach from turning. Where was he, and why the hell wouldn't he pick up his phone?

The last thing he said, well, texted, was I love you . She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe whatever he saw hadn't changed everything. But how could it not?

She tried to not let her mind go there. She was really trying, but she worried. The files were too much. He felt too guilty. He thought she was too damaged. As much as she knew those thoughts to be false, she couldn't seem to ignore the fear and anxiety they provoked. He loved her . He wouldn't leave her. He promised. He wouldn't run from this, from her, would he?

There was once a time, when their relationship was filled with blind loyalty and trust. He was her partner and best friend. He was everything. But now? She would never be that sure of him, never again, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

She hoped he just needed time to process, but why wouldn't he at least respond? He had to know what this would do to her. She threw her phone across her desk. Whatever. She should have known he would waltz in and out of her life whenever he wanted, and she would just keep stupidly coming back.

She shook it off and started to work. She didn't have time for this. She didn't have time for him . For once, he could wait on her. She wouldn't reach out again.

-000-

His head pounded. He tried to raise his hand to his head but he realized he couldn't move. He tugged at his wrists, and immediately realized his wrists were taped together. He lifted his legs and realized his ankles were duct taped as well. Where the hell was he? The only thing within his visual range was the cement wall that was three inches in front of his face.

He tried to roll over but the sharp pain in his abdomen prevented him from moving. He relaxed his muscles in an attempt to reduce the pain but it was deep and radiating.

His brain felt muddled and foggy, and he couldn't remember where he was or how he got here.