After their elaborate and expensive dinner, Steve had driven straight home, part of him wondering if Janaea would await him once again, deciding to spend the night at his apartment while sharing stories of their past.

Much to his dismay, there was no indication of any recent visitors as he climbed the assortment of stairs, the continuous rain leaving a wet glaze on the old wood as he conquered the steps to his home.

Part of him wanted to call Joe to check in on things, the other part was afraid that rattling his friend's cage this late at night would only do more harm than good.

As such, he decided to wait until the next morning and made a point to refill the tea kettle. With a quiet sigh, he set it on the stove, hoping that a late night cup of tea would do what two hours of soothing conversation with Mike had failed to accomplish.

At well after midnight, the city had fallen quiet, much of the usual noise surrounding his apartment now drowned out by the ever-present wind and the dribble of rain that had been enveloping the city since sundown.

Outside his kitchen window, he could hear the water running off the eaves at a steady rate, the darkness over the eastern sky signaling that there was more to come.

With his mind clouded with worries about Joe Joplin and his beautiful family, Steve stepped into the shower for a few minutes, relishing the temporary peace it offered.

And while those tight four walls could do little to take way the gruesome nature of his occupation, they at least offered a reprieve from the stressors of everyday life, giving his mind and body a rest until it was time to face those demons again.

When he felt reasonably relaxed, Steve stepped out of the shower, his thoughts drifting back to the now-empty homicide bullpen as he grabbed a towel to dry himself off, completely on auto pilot when it came to the primitive task.

He'd spent plenty of nights in that large office, leaning over files as thick as books, knowing that the safety and well-being of the citizens of this town rested in his hands- and his capability to tie seemingly random facts together to create a pattern.

Part of him was still intimidated by that responsibility, hashing out the countless what if's whenever they came too late, when their list of victims grew by one, or when the perpetrator himself decided to end his life instead of facing the consequences of his actions.

The human drama of some of those gruesome cases had eaten away at him over the years, challenging the very reasons he'd settled on this difficult occupation.

In his intuitive ways, Mike always knew when a situation had gotten under his skin, inviting him to a warm pizza for dinner, or offering that gentle squeeze on his shoulder that Steve secretly longed for on those days.

And today was one of those days.

There was no concrete evidence that Joe Joplin's situation would turn into a blood bath, nothing that suggested that Warren Thompson had sent out a killer to go after the peace activist, not even enough circumstantial evidence for a warrant - nothing but his bad gut feeling that grew worse with each passing day.

At this point, Steve knew it was only a matter of time before an actual murder case would fall into their laps, effectively dragging him away from the case. And he was terrified of what might happen during their absence.

As if the universe had read his thoughts, he could hear the phone ring in the living room. Somehow, during his brooding, he'd managed to get dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, even hung up his suit coat and pants in neat order.

Figuring that the call meant he would be slipping back into his work wardrobe shortly, he made his way down the long hallway, remembering to turn off the stove when the tea kettle was squealing at him.

He reached the phone by the third ring, mentally preparing for Mike's voice on the other line, telling him there'd be a murder and he would pick him up shortly.

"Hello?"

There was crackling in the line, as though the storm outside was causing a bad connection. When nothing was said, Steve cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Hello?"

Again, he was greeted by nothing but silence.

"Hello?"

Finally, after an unbearably long few seconds, he could hear the line disconnect; the steady humming leaving him in a state of heightened anxiety.

Feeling his heart rate speed up, Steve glanced over at his entrance way, as if expecting an intruder on the other side of the door.

With his hand shaking slightly, he put down the receiver and stood perfectly still for a moment, trying to take in any noises that didn't belong. The wind was still there, so was the rain. Beyond it, he could only pick up on the noise of blood rushing in his ears.

Reaching for the service revolver hidden in his silverware drawer, Steve carefully approached the door, feeling the draft from the cold night outside seep through the cracks.

When his bare feet touched the linoleum, he leaned forward, carefully unlocking the dead bolt before wrapping his free hand around the door knob.

Sensing somebody out there rather than seeing him, Steve yanked the door wide open, his .38 in hand with the safety off, feet shoulder-width apart.

The glare from the kitchen light behind him made it hard to see into the darkness at first and Steve risked another step closer, his big toe resting on the metal door jamb, the spray from the rain coming off the eves reaching his forearms.

With trained precision, he checked to the left and right, then stepped outside to look at the stairs, only to find them devoid of any potential intruder.

A new wave of adrenaline rushed through his body, fueled by the meaning of the phone call he'd just received; and with it the chance that Joe Joplin was no longer the only one on Thompson's radar.