It was a rapidly-unfolding, high-stakes scenario and we didn't have the luxury of knowing all possible details or outcomes. In the end, Supervisory Special Agent Simmons had to make a judgement call…

Judgement Call.

How many times had Jack Garret said those words, made that excuse for himself for his team? Of course, it wasn't simply an excuse, a 'get out of jail free' card, as if saying the magic words could undo or make better the often-harsh consequences of the wrong choice in the field, in the moment; rather, it was the simple truth of any decision made in a developing situation in the real world, away from the safety nets of the classroom or simulated scenario. Any and every decision was a judgment call, and most turned out well, hardly warranting notice. However, when they didn't go right, they often went wrong in horrible, life-changing ways.

Even to the outside observer, the signals the IRT read in that moment when the UNSUB declared that he would end his sister's murderers were plain. One didn't need training or a degree in psychology to know that reasoning was no longer an option as the knife twitched towards the too-vulnerable unborn child while the young woman sobbed.

Simmons saw it, and didn't even need to glance around the room to know he was the only one close enough to do anything. Talking was no longer an option, physical intervention was now necessary.

Matt didn't hesitate—Jack would always remember that. He wouldn't have: he never did. Someone's life was in danger, and he was in position to act, so he would. It didn't matter if it put his own safety at risk, if he knew it would save his team, the hostage, or bystanders. It was that protective instinct that had guided him to his first career in the military, and had driven him to success in his second, at the FBI. It was what made him a good agent; it was what made him a good man.

It was the reason they were gathered in ICU waiting room, hoping against hope for good news.

As he sat in the hard plastic chair, staring at the linoleum floor, Jack kept turning over that too-brief struggle in the living room, unable to turn off his mental instant replay as a part of him searched for anything he could've done to prevent this outcome.

Of course, there wasn't. He'd never had an angle to fire on Curtis Miller that wouldn't have put Lydia in danger—none of them had. And as the two men had struggled on the floor, wrestling for control of the knife, there was nothing he could've done that wouldn't have risked injuring or killing Matthew. And it'd been so quick: a desperate man versus a highly-trained man, both charged with adrenaline. None of the observers had been able to see the knife in those few terrible seconds, even in that moment when both men had stiffened, Jack couldn't tell at first who had stabbed whom.

Then Curtis had struggled out from under the other man, while Simmons still fought to hold on to the grey-haired man's wrist, either to prevent him from escaping, or, more likely, to keep him from hurting someone else. The blade was buried up to its hilt in the younger man's abdomen, and his first thought had been the safety of everyone else in the room.

Jack closed his eyes against the memory—not that it would do any good. It'd been so like Matt, that moment, that instinct.

He'd been too stunned to fire as Curtis wrenched his hand free, tossing Simmons onto his back, but the brigadier general had not been. Almost before the UNSUB had landed next to his agent on the floor, Jack was kneeling by Matt's side, trying to assess his condition.

He was alive and conscious—but both only barely. Garret didn't dare touch the knife, afraid of doing more damage, but the ever-expanding bloodstain on the carpet seemed to taunt him in that, as if to say the damage had been done…

Jack stood and began pacing in the waiting room, trying to shut down the images. Matt had lost his tenuous grip on consciousness shortly after, and Jack thought he'd heard the doctors saying something about flat-lining at least once in the ambulance. He didn't know much, and what he did know wasn't good.

As the older man paced, he glanced at the other people in the room, trying to focus on them, give his too-active mind something to do.

Mae, who'd been sitting just to one side of him, still seemed to be in a state of shock. He knew his two youngest agents were good friends, and that this waiting was perhaps even harder on their medical examiner. She hadn't been there, hadn't seen it, and so was forced to picture the inflicted wound based on the countless bodies she'd seen cross her table—meaning the young woman was probably doing everything in her power not to picture Simmons there, dead.

Clara was seated next to the other woman, one arm over her shoulders, holding her close. Garret knew she was trying to give Mae some shred of comfort that she herself didn't feel. The two older agents locked eyes for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing between them. For the sake of Mae here, and Monty back home, anxiously awaiting news, they had to try to hold themselves together.

Jack paused at the thought of Monty, suddenly wondering if the young man had told Kristy yet. Matt'd been in surgery for a few hours now, and while he wouldn't want his family worried, the plain truth was they didn't know if he was going to pull through. Did Kristy know? Had Monty found himself having to give the worse family notification of his career? Who would tell the kids, if the worst happened?

…if the worst happened.

That was the possibility that haunted Jack; that kept him torturing himself with the memories of that fight, or of kneeling beside Matt, feeling totally helpless as the younger man fought desperately for every breath, hands stained red and jaw clenched in pain. If the worst happened—if Simmons died here, so far from home and family—Jack would be able to find no one to blame but himself.

If only he'd spotted the seemingly obvious clues that Constable Miller's death had been a set-up—a conclusion that now seemed the only possibility, since it was the truth—then they could've found Curtis all the sooner and Matt wouldn't be in this damn hospital!

Or if only he'd somehow been able to tell Curtis quickly that the men who killed his sister could, in fact, be tried for their crime, then maybe—just maybe—he'd have let Lydia and her child go, and the fight never would've happened.

The fourth and final figure in the room approached him then, as if sensing his self-remonstration. Lieutenant Doshi held his gaze levelly, muttering quietly so as not to disturb the two women some feet away: "It was not your fault, Jack—you know that." When he didn't respond, she pressed on, "You did the best you could with the information you had. Those of us tasked with unraveling crimes of the past rarely are gifted with knowledge of the future."

Jack still didn't answer her. He knew Ananda was trying to be helpful, in her own way, and she did have a point, but while he always did his best to respect her beliefs as much as possible, under the circumstances it was hard to hold his temper, especially as she changed the subject.

"His spirit is strong—not yet ready to leave. He is fighting to hold on to life, even now. He has much to fight for?"

Jack clenched his jaw, but final managed to mutter back, "A wife and four kids, to start with."

"Ah, a father," Doshi mused. "Then his desire to remain here makes sense. And also, his willingness to fight to save another's child."

It was taking more and more of his rapidly depleted willpower to not snap at the woman standing beside him for talking about Simmons as if her were one of the ghosts she thought she could hear. "Matt's always been a protector."

"Understandable, then, that he would choose this line of work. And all the more reason for you not to hold yourself accountable. It was his choice—one I think, he would make again?"

He would, Jack knew, if he survived this. If he made it through, not even this close call would stop Simmons from trying to save others, even if it meant putting himself at risk. After all, if the near-misses and close scrapes of the past didn't stop him, why would this?

It would stop him if it killed him, the treacherous part of his mind whispered, once again dredging up the too-recent memories, overlaying them with imagined scenes of doctor's solemn faces, a too-still body, a too-quiet plane ride home, and deeper grief awaiting on familiar soil. Four children who'd never really understand the hero their father was, only that one time he went away, and never came back home…

Stop it! He screamed mentally at that part of his mind, glancing again to see if someone was bound their way with news and, when it was clear no one was, letting his gaze rest once again on the woman standing beside him—the only one at ease in the waiting room.

Her head was titled to the side slightly—listening—her face relaxed and free of any tension or worry. He still didn't know if he believed what Ananda perceived was anything more than her imagination, but she had caught criminals no one else, even himself, could. Out of desperation for news that no one else was giving him at the moment, he asked quietly, "Hear anything?"

Ananda turned her attention to him, one eyebrow slightly raised. But perhaps she knew the helplessness he was feeling, for she made no mention of his prior skepticism as she said simply: "No words, as you or I would speak, but an overwhelming sense of determination. This is not a fight he means to lose, and a spirit this strong very often gets its wish."

Apparently satisfied that Matt would not die, Lieutenant Doshi said no more, only standing, relaxed, as the four continued to wait. Jack drifted back to his seat by Clara and Mae, wishing he could be so certain.

It was more than an hour afterwards when a doctor finally emerged with news that the surgery had gone well, that though it had been touch-and-go for a while, Simmons was now expected to make a full recovery. An hour after that, they were finally allowed to see him, two at a time, though it wasn't until the next morning that Matt finally awoke.

Doshi did not accompany the rest of the team into the room, but Mae brought in a laptop so that Monty could Skype in. They kept the banter light and light-hearted, all well at ease now that they knew the worst part was over. None mentioned the case or the fight, beyond the initial assurance that Curtis was dead and everyone else was fine.

When Matt seemed to be getting tired, they said their goodbyes and began to drift out, assuring him they'd come back once he'd rested some. Jack was the last to leave, and was at the door way when Simmons' call of, "Hey, Jack," stopped him. The younger man's voice was still a little hoarse, but considering that terrible moment in the living room when he could barely breathe—let alone talk—Garrett thought he sounded pretty good.

"Yeah?" he asked, stepping back into the room.

Matt held his gaze levelly, regarding him with a profiler's knowing eyes. "It wasn't your fault—you know that right? It was my choice."

Jack said nothing—could say nothing—merely nodded as he made his way out the door, the simple truth of Simmons' final words on the matter ringing in his ears.

I made a judgement call.

So, yeah. I am now finally caught up on Criminal Minds and both of its spin-offs, and have been wanting to add to the budding collection of 'Beyond Borders' fanfiction, only to be foiled by lack of an idea. Then I saw episode 10, and I don't think I was the only one who saw that moment and wondered if the fight had gone the other way. Let's be honest—the show writers wanted to scare us in that moment. Then, everything was okay and the episode rolled on to its conclusion. But I couldn't help wondering what the rest of the episode would've been if they really had injured Matt, (especially since Matt is my favorite character so far) and the affect that might have on the other characters given what we know of them so far, and this came out of that.
As always, if you saw something you liked, or something you think I can fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know.

With that, let my summer break officially begin!