A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting the last chapter but I was suddenly busy with UNI and then the weather decided to be wonderful and sunny and it was too tempting to lie outside in the sun doing nothing. =)

EPILOGUE; AFTERMATH.

…

The palm of her hand itched. She tried to ignore it like she had done in the last week, the pink new skin prickling; the crust had finally fallen off on both sides of her hand. A neurologist had checked her through when she had finally arrived at the hospital nine days ago; Amy had been more intent on finding out where her team members were than having her wound checked. It was only when she realized the majority was still in surgery, only when she needed a little space from Flynn pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in the waiting room that she had sought out a doctor.

A MR-scan showed soft tissue damage and some minor nerve irritation. It tingled every now and then but she had full use of her fingers and her bones were unharmed. Sanchez was worse off, the nail had hit a nerve and he was having problems with sensibility in half of his hand. The doctors said the nerves would eventually be back to normal but that she should expect some residual effects. The tingling and the itching, why that would disappear the moment the wounds disappeared on both sides of her hand. It still itched though; reminding her of what had happened.

She was well on the outside, physical there was barely a bruise. Still, she had felt it yesterday. A week of riding on a high wave of adrenaline and she suddenly fell into the down surge. Energy was sapped from her, restlessness sank its teeth into her and she succumbed to exhaustion. She felt emotionally unstable and yet she felt far more put together than the rest of her team; it was the same that had happened to her every time she had come home from patrol or when she had returned to the states after her deployment.

Amy rolled her window down, her car slowly turning into Sanchez's street. She was picking him up for the funeral. Technically he was not allowed to drive yet with his shoulder but he had still insisted he could drive himself to the church. It had taken the whole of yesterday to convince him otherwise; not that Amy had minded. She understood him only too well. It was however, important that his shoulder got rest; that and she needed company even if it would be silent company.

She watched him get out of his front door just as she pulled up to his house, his suit sleek and black. His jacket hung on his shoulders, his arm in a sling underneath. He came down the steps, a hard expression on his face that bordered on repressed sadness when she watched him up close. He got in beside her, a small greeting.

She drove into traffic, the way to the church clear in her head.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes, his face a grimace, a mix between pain and grief. He looked better though, his skin tone healthier than the many days she had visited him in the hospital. His hair washed and combed; the scent of aftershave and not blood and sweat.

"How's your shoulder?" she asked him, overtaking a car, her eyes on the road.

"Hmm," he grunted.

Sanchez never spoke much when he was like this; he had been like this yesterday as well. Amy's father had been the same, not one to use words unnecessarily. Like her father Sanchez would rather just keep quiet. She gave him a nod and then continued driving in silence. She did not mind the silence after all.

After a small beat of silence, traffic heavy, she felt him pat her knee. The touch was subtle and brief but there. She turned her head and found his eyes on her before he once again dwelled into silence and staring ahead into traffic.

They were all slightly broken. The whole ordeal had lefts its traces; invisible and visible – on skin and beneath. Not that she had any doubt that they would heal; mend till everything felt relatively whole again. It would take time though; it always did.

Her hand itched, Sanchez was silent and she thought about that one time Buzz had invited her out for beer along with Sanchez; that one time when they had gone beyond tipsy and had danced till four in the morning. She had made the two boys breakfast the day after, which had turned to a late lunch instead. Full with hangovers and silly teasing about the night before. Now, it was long gone and yet it had been a wonderful night. She needed to remember those times; she needed to bring other memories forth to take over the ones of horror that were still vivid.

Her eyes itched now.

She loved them all dearly; a fact that had both surprised her and yet hadn't. Combat created strings of intimacy, friendship when you fought side by side. This was no different. No, they were her family, just without the DNA.

There was something almost tranquil about lying in a bed, covered by a sheet. Tranquility however, left the moment he became fully aware of his body. God, it creaked and groaned with pain. Muscles stretching and tingling, complaining.

Julio knew he was in the hospital before he opened his eyes. The same groggy feeling resided beneath his eyelids that had permeated his perception back at the mansion. Drugs – anesthesia, he thought. He's body felt heavy in a way he was not used to, pushed into the mattress by fatigue.

He opened his eyes and to his surprise he woke up to a smiling Sykes looking at him, her eyes brown and warm. She looked happy to see him, the smile sad yet vibrant. He smiled back, his mouth moving of its own accord. God, he was glad to see her alive and well. Everything had been a mess the last time he had been conscious.

"You want some water?" she asked when he tried to sit up but ended up coughing instead, lying back down.

Sanchez nodded and she went and poured water into a glass. She helped him sit upright, putting pillows behind his back. Everything strained around his wound, pulled at the sutures in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth at the pain, wondering whether the strange feeling in his skin would ever recede.

"You alright?"

Her voice was gentle and yet he detected her slight worry. He nodded in answer and then took the proffered water glass. He downed the whole glass, asking for another fill. God, he was thirsty, lips dry and his throat felt parched.

Sanchez looked around the room, three beds beside his own. One bed was empty, one was occupied by someone sleeping and the last, next to his own, was empty as well but looked slept in, the sheets haphazardly at the foot of the bed.

Amy came back with the glass filled again; she saw the way he looked. "Provenza's out in the hallway trying to walk with his crutches. He walks like a duck."

"Crutches?" his voice was raspy, his mouth dry. He needed to know everything; he had been unconscious for far too long. He knew practically nothing about what had happened. It was almost overwhelming, he thought, to wake up suddenly and then find that everything had been resolved in some fashion without his knowledge. What had happened? How had he ended up in a hospital when the last thing he remembered was being shot and dragged to a bush?

Amy sat down in the chair again, scooting it close to his bedside, "Provenza got shot in his leg. He was lucky the bullet missed anything important. The doctors sewed him up in the ER. But he grows restless and walks about quite a bit, with his crutches."

"Oh. But he's alright?"

She nodded, her hands tinkering with the edge of his bed linen.

Sanchez wondered how bad it was; why she suddenly avoided his eyes.

"You saved me," he said to her and she looked up, her eyes wide again.

"Always," she paused to smile, "gotta keep you out of trouble."

He chuckled, and then coughed.

"And how is everyone?"

Her smile faded.

…

Mike twisted on the church bench, trying to find a place to sit comfortably, an angle that did not disagree with his body. The bench was too hard, the air too humid – his leg itched and throbbed, complaining about pain killers slowly weaning off.

Mike had trouble with sitting still after his surgery, had trouble with moving as well. It was a big contradiction, his body tired and hurting whether he was moving or lying down. There was a component of restlessness to the pain, the feeling overcoming him and his muscles seemed to protest against the notion of remaining motionless for long. He had been discharged from the hospital yesterday; the doctors had wanted his blood panels to stabilize before they sent him home. Surgery had taken an inordinate long time, his doctors had told him, explaining the complications of loss of blood. Hypovolemic shock, he thought, the words still seeming foreign to him. Mike had awoken from surgery to find he was the last to wake up, Provenza already walking around even if it resembled limping. Whereas Provenza's wound had been more superficial, Mike's had been in a more crucial place, more profound and accompanied with an extensive blood loss.

Provenza sat in the row in front of Mike and his family, Sykes and Sanchez with him. There was a tense feeling to the church, sadness in the warmth of air. Mike had been fortunate in some ways and yet in others he was not so sure. His muscles were a mess. Mike knew it would months of physical therapy before his body would be back to normal. No, he was lucky he told himself; all he had acquired was some minor sensibility loss and muscle atrophy. It was nothing, really. No, he was more disturbed by what went on inside his head instead. Maybe it was the loss of blood that had wrecked with his brain, maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of the whole ordeal or maybe it was the terror they had all been under but he felt so tired. So tired, sleep was all he did.

Kevin gave him a worried look but he gave a brief smile to allay his son's fears. He was fine. Well as fine as someone could be with a long road of recovery ahead, with the nightly terrors that still came and wrecked with his nights, with attending the funeral of a dear colleague – a friend. The therapist said it was normal, the doctors said the same. Sanchez had even told him in confidence that he had nightmares as well; it did not really calm Mike down.

His wife pulled his hand to her, squeezing.

He tried to breathe slowly, a thing the therapist had told him would help.

The sun shone outside and it was a hot day. His skin was flushed he thought, his eyes raw on the brink of letting water slip. The muscles of his jaw seemed tense. It could have been Mike himself that lay in the coffin; it had been so close. It was still strangely vague and as if it had happened in a dream; yet it felt like it had happened a mere hour ago. Mike still remembered the feeling of letting go, the feeling of fading out in the sun on the ground outside the mansion. Maybe that was the reason he felt disconnected; he had been on the brink of death and the feeling still lingered inside.

Death had never been this vivid, he thought. It had never been this complicated and filled with such ambiguity.

There was a certain atmosphere about a hospital that differed very much all dependent on whether you were a patient or simply visiting. Provenza found the ward a flurry of motion, a ruckus of voices and people hurrying back and forth. Nurses coming and going, in between a doctor or two – beepers and residents calling amidst everything. Provenza was stuck in a ward with four beds, only three occupied. It felt slightly chaotic to him; on the point of stressful.

Sanchez lay to his left, sleeping for now.

Pain was something he could not comprehend yet, dormant and yet to make its appearance. Sykes had been in the room an hour ago, sitting in a chair besides the two beds Provenza and Sanchez lay in, her eyes flickering between the two but lingering on Sanchez.

She had smiled too widely when Provenza had wakened, instantly on her feet and giving him a glass of water.

It was strange to be lying in a hospital bed. His leg was torn up, muscles had been repaired and the skin sewn close with sutures. The wound on his temple had only required three sutures and he was doped up with a mixture of antibiotics and analgesia. The doctors insisting that he needed rest; so Provenza had made sure they put him in a room with one of his colleagues. That way he could keep an eye on one of them.

Sykes came back now, Rusty in tow.

"Hey kid," Provenza croaked to the boy.

"Hey," Rusty greeted back, his voice low and shaky. The kid sat down in another chair close to Provenza's bed, his hands around a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

The kid seemed tired, Provenza thought.

"Sharon awake?" Provenza asked.

Rusty nodded, "Yeah for a short while. She's keeps falling asleep though, waking up and then dosing off."

"It's the surgery," Sykes said, a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Rather normal behavior. Plus she's got a concussion, the doctors said to expect her to be a bit woozy the first times she wakes up. She'll be fine."

Rusty looked up at her and gave a slow nod. That would be the thing that bothered the kid. The fact that Sharon was not herself, drugged up and vulnerable. They had all been close to death; it was bound to cause fear to arise. The kid was just short of panic; that was clear. It was a retreating panic though, Provenza acknowledged, the first time he had laid eyes on the boy Flynn had been trying to calm him down. That had been when Sharon had still been in surgery, hours ago.

Sykes sat down in her chair again, her eyes on Sanchez before she looked at Provenza and Rusty.

Sykes had kept him apprised of everything and everyone. The girl was efficient and pulled information out of the doctors so they knew who was in surgery and what had happened to them. Provenza felt proud of her; she was taking care of them all, even managing to smile. There was something tough yet gentle about her, the balance of the two very opposite components in concord.

Feldman had come into the room an hour earlier, just as Sykes had left. They had managed to identify the man. The name had seemed weakly familiar to Provenza; he had almost felt anger at himself for not remembering more about the name and the case that linked him to the bastard. Feldman had told him Provenza had investigated the death of a waitress and had arrested a man thirty years ago.

Apparently Provenza had arrested the bastard's father a long time ago. The mother had been a junkie, Feldman had told him, overdosed shortly after the arrest. The father had died in prison, a brutal attack. The boy had been tossed between foster homes and juvenile detention centers as he grew up. The bastard had recently gone through a divorce and lost the custody of his children. The trigger, Feldman had told him.

It was strange but knowing all this did not feel like Provenza had thought it would.

He still felt weirdly guilty; not about the bastard. No, guilty that everything that had happened to his friends was ultimately because of him.

Rusty looked into space, Provenza watched the kid, feeling sorrow even more vividly. Buzz had liked the kid. He tried to keep his own tears at bay. They might all be safe now but it was still a mess.

…

His world was aflame in a headache. His muscles tense with sorrow and anger, a mix he understood but did not welcome. There was nothing to do about that but clench his jaw. It was exhaustion, mentally and physically; sheer fatigue that would render him completely comatose when everything was over and he could just sleep. Not that he was sure sleep would be a thing to prefer; sleep would only pave the way for nightmares to take over. The reason he had only slept fitfully since being rescued, the hospital not helping him with calming down.

Andy had been too anxious to sleep, too afraid that something disastrous would happen if he closed his eyes completely. He had dosed in a chair in a hospital room but it had not been a deep sleep. Superficial sleep at best.

The church felt stuffy, the heat from outside even worse inside. It felt like an oven, sweltering and the air so stationary he felt he could hardly breathe. His tie felt too tight, his back drenched through with sweat making his shirt and jacket cling to his skin.

Andy was fidgeting on the bench, his hands clasped together one moment, the next he grasped the wood of the bench beneath him. He felt restless. Maybe it was the fact that Sharon sat next to him and yet it felt as if she was miles away. Rusty sat next to her, his hand around hers; the two of them close in their grief. The kid had been frantic when Andy had called him from the hospital; a uniform had driven Rusty to the hospital and Andy remembered the anger and then fear that had gripped the kid. None of them had known a thing; Sharon had still been in surgery. It had been a small reprieve; Andy had been able to concentrate on Rusty and calming the kid down. There had been no room for being frantic himself. He had felt strangely cold, strangely removed from his feelings.

He fidgeted again in his seat. Everything still felt so absurd. As if he was still trapped somewhere in a nightmare; unable to escape.

The preacher said something, the words not really registering. Instead he thought about Buzz.

He twitched in his seat again, crossed one ankle over the other.

Sharon turned slightly in her seat, most likely sensing his unease.

It happened briefly and subtly then; Andy turned his head and tried to catch her eyes but she still looked ahead, her face pale yet impassive. Still, her fingers travelled along the back of his hand and then grasped, holding his hand briefly before she returned her hand to her lap.

She could probably feel the nervous, angry energy that he exuded.

The touch, it calmed him down somewhat.

It amazed him and yet it was no surprise.

It was a uniqueness she beheld, the ability to soothe him. One of the many reasons that the thought of losing her still brought forth a bad taste in his mouth.

He sneaked his hand into hers, joining the hand in her lap. She blinked but otherwise she stayed still. Whereas he twitched she sat perfectly still. The warmth of her hand was reassuring and she did not let go. No one would see them and Rusty would not mind.

He needed some form of touch.

Sharon woke up, the mattress beneath her soft, a blanket thrown across her warm. The pounding in her head was dull, an ache that was small but persistent. It was better than the splitting pounding she vaguely remembered. Her abdomen felt strangely painful, as if something had torn her skin apart, her insides in disapproval.

For a brief moment she panicked, her body heavy and almost lethargic, her eyes still not able to put the room into focus. For a brief second she had no idea where she was; for a brief horrifying moment she thought she heard a whisper of someone saying 'little captain'.

She blinked and the hospital room came into her vision, relief flooding her. Her room was silent. It calmed her down.

She remembered Rusty suddenly, remembered having been awake before now a doctor telling her something, Rusty hanging onto her hand. She could not remember the specifics of it however. She had a notion there was something she was missing, something evading her grasp. The room was dark now she noted, even if the curtains were drawn. It was night outside, streetlights painting the darkness with a certain orange hue.

She turned her head, the dull ache behind her eyes shifting.

Andy was slumped on the chair next to her bed, his head drooping down onto his chest, his long legs stretched out and an arm resting on the edge of her mattress.

She noticed the lights outside the window into a hospital ward, bright and artificial, casting shadows into the darkness of her hospital room.

He looked gaunt, his skin tone pale and greyish. He looked tense, she thought, stressed and exhausted. There was something vulnerable about him that settled under her ribcage, attached itself to her heart. She wanted to reach out and caress his cheek, hold his hand. Tell him everything was fine now. Only, she had no clue. Her memory was hazy and she had no idea whether everything was fine now.

When she sat up the muscles of her abdomen protested angrily, sutures tingling. The world spun but in a less frightening perspective than back at the mansion; why she hardly felt faint. Maybe just a bit disoriented. There was a drip in her hand, the tube following the motion of her hand when she moved it to her stomach. Trying to calm down the pain.

"Hey," a voice surprised her, and she turned to find her lieutenant awake. His eyes dark and focused on her.

"Hey," she replied, not recognizing her own voice. It sounded raw, barely a whisper.

"Hey," he repeated, this time a small smile at the corner of his lips. It turned his whole face from gaunt to practically healthy. She could still see the tired lines around his mouth, around his eyes but that small smile it warmed.

She winced when she moved, trying to turn towards him.

"You don't need to move," he scooted his chair closer, a hand along her underarm. "I'll get a doctor," he quickly said, about to stand.

"No, I'm alright," she blinked and inhaled deeply, "Just stay here a bit."

"Okay."

His hand went further down, across her wrist till he grasped her hand. He still looked tense, she thought, the emotion poignant in his eyes.

"Andy, I don't remember much. I remember the doctor told me something, but I can't remember what exactly."

"You're going to be fine," he told her, his fingers now in between her own, "You are out of surgery and they expect full recovery. You have a concussion so that might bother you for a while."

He paused, then "They had to remove your spleen though. You lost a lot of blood so they are keeping you here for some time, till they've replaced everything you've lost. You're hooked up to plenty," he nodded in the direction of the drugs and fluids that flowed into her veins.

"Morphine, antibiotics, you name it. It's a regular party."

His voice was rough but she smiled at the undertone of warmth.

"Spleen?" she questioned, trying to remember back to biology.

"Nothing to worry about. You'll be more predisposed to some bacterial infections but hey," he squeezed her hand again, "That's nothing to worry about now."

She sighed, nodded and looked to the ceiling.

"What happened after I was shot? How are everyone? I haven't a clue about anything."

He sighed, the hand not holding hers running through his hair.

"Mike's still in surgery last I checked. Sanchez is just out of surgery, stable, in a bed next to Provenza, who's going to be fine as well. Sykes is fine too," he told her.

She nodded, trying to keep up. "The boy? I found Damien. Is he alright?"

He nodded, "The kid's in ICU, his parents are with him. The drugs have been in his system a long time, suppressed his respiratory center. But the doctors are positive about his situation, Sykes told me."

She nodded, not sure how to feel, relieved yet strangely edgy.

Sharon caught Andy's eyes then; noting the apprehension in the depths. She tried to think, there was something she was missing. Something she could not put her finger on.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked her.

"Buzz? Did we find Buzz?"

He sighed, "Buzz's dead, Sharon. He was dead from the beginning. I'm sorry."

She looked down, her eyes on the white of her hospital gown, the sheet that half covered her. She did not understand. It did not sound right inside her head. It could not be possible.

She looked up again, her eyes already wet, "I don't understand."

"I don't either," he whispered back, sitting stock still, his hand with a slight tremor around hers, squeezing tight.

Sweet, wonderful Buzz she thought. Always there to help, always there to rely on. A civilian – not even an officer; it was wrong. He should have not been pulled into the whole mess. She wondered if Rusty knew; they had after all become friendly, playing chess when Rusty was waiting for her to finish paperwork at the office.

Andy squeezed her hand again, his thumb going over her knuckles.

"I thought you were dead. For a moment you looked dead when they carried you out of the house," he whispered, his voice rough, and she wondered if he was broken inside, if that was the reason he sat motionless like a statue, eyes far away, his mouth a firm line and yet such a fragile look to him.

She pulled at his hand, trying to bring him into a hug and he moved along with the motion. It was difficult and awkward, the tube to the drip in the way, pain flaring at the movement and yet he somehow managed to bring his arms around her, halfway onto her bed, his head next to hers. She could feel the tip of his lips against her neck, the small gust of air as he breathed.

She turned her head, pain momentarily too much inside her head but then she relaxed, her mouth to his cheek. Lips hit skin and it was not really a kiss, more a long imprint to settle herself, to soothe him. Her heart was beating rapidly, his touch warm and tingly.

In the end she felt him pull her closer, tucking her head further into his, his hands warm on her back, on her neck. She thought she cried but she was not sure; maybe he was the one crying. They remained still for a long time, breathing and taking comfort from the warmth of the embrace, the darkness of the room not confining but comforting.

…

THE END

A big heartfelt thank you to all you amazing readers and all the wonderful feedback. I hope you've enjoyed this despite the horror and grueling aspects. / Iso