* I had to write this, after watching Point Blank last night! I have hope for Mozzie! READ AND REVIEW!

Neal watched, standing there on the sidewalk, beside a bloody bench, as Mozzie was being loaded into an ambulance. The lights flashed, winking hazily at Neal but he ignored it. He tried to swallow, but the pain of the giant lump in his throat did not allow him to. First Kate, now this? Of all people he had left in the world, not Mozzie. No, not Mozzie.

He'd been at the spot immediately after hearing what had happened. Passer-bys saw Mozzie sitting there on a bench, sipping his coffee nervously, when a bullet exploded into his chest, and he fell on his side, bleeding. Julian Larson. He was responsible. And Neal would make him pay.

He didn't know, whether Mozzie would live, or die. Please, please, please, he prayed, don't let Mozzie die.

He had thought, only hours ago that he was so very close, to finding Kate's killer, and avenging her once and for all. But he knew, as he pointed the gun in Fowler's face, that something wasn't right. This didn't feel as good as it should have. It hadn't been Fowler. So close he'd been. Yet now, so far away...

Over the course of the past few days, he'd learned a great deal about Kate's death, things Peter had dug up for him, and things he'd discovered himself, and it'd been hard on him.

Peter had asked him nervously, "Neal? Are you okay?"

He had responded that he was fine, but inside his heart had shattered, and he was on the verge of mental breakdown.

But here he stood, on the sidewalk, staring after the ambulance as it sped away. Not fast enough. It had to get to the hospital, now. Neal watched it, faster! He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand clapped on his shoulder. Apparently the person to whom this hand belonged noticed, because a strong arm flung out to keep Neal from falling.

"Neal! Are you alright?"

He paused, regaining his balance a little unsteadily. It was Peter that had arrived. Neal knew he could tell anything to Peter, but he couldn't find it in himself to lie to him. Of course he wasn't alright. His girlfriend's killer was even farther than they'd thought, and the killer had now just shot his best friend!

Finally Neal found speech. He croaked, "Mozzie..."

"I know, bud. I know..." Peter said gently, grasping Neal's arm to keep him from falling again.

Neal had gone paper white, and his balance was becoming increasingly unstable.

Mozzie. Shot. Possibly dying. Because of him. It was his fault Mozzie was dying.

Had Neal gotten to Mozzie sooner, had he gotten to Julian faster, had he not been so concerned with that stupid music box jingle... Mozzie would be back in his apartment, probably sampling all of his wines and beating him over and over again in chess.

But Mozzie was on a stretcher on his way to the hospital with a possibly fatal bullet wound.

Neal was unaware of the fact that Peter had forced him to sit down on the bench. The bench that Mozzie had been shot on. Neal felt something warm and sticky on his fingers.

He drew his index and middle fingers up to eye level and discovered they were coated in blood. Mozzie's blood.

"NEAL!"

Neal didn't realize that he had slid off the bench, fainting.

But even unconscious, all he could think was: Would Mozzie be okay?