One of these things is not like the other.

It's perverse, the way he can't stop it from looping in his head. Weeks and weeks of staring at girls with long hair and sad, desperate smiles. Staring at their head shots until they all blurred into one, one little lost girl he saw when he closed his eyes or waited in traffic or took a shower.

One girl he saw in his head if he stopped moving for too long.

And then, when he was less ragged, or they'd had a breakthrough, or the universe stopped beating him up for five minutes, the gestalt girl would supernova back into seventeen girls again, their faces all perfectly distinct, vital stats lined up in neat columns in his memory: Name, D.O.B., Identifying Marks...

And then there were eighteen.

One of these things just isn't the same.

A dark, neat buzz cut instead of long, disheveled hair. A fuck-you sneer, no pleading little smile. Body language that looked for the fight, didn't shrink from it. Eyes that saw right through your bullshit.

A reflection of himself.

Except she had neither the body mass nor the years to back up the 'tude. She was tough, but it was a brittle toughness, an exterior facade that cracked if you pushed...

He'd pushed her. Hard. She'd weighed nothing, nothing; he was a tall, angry man, and only Bullet's own rage had kept her feet under her. She'd stumbled, righted herself, screamed in his face. And she'd run. And that was the last time he saw her.

Standing in his bathroom, remembering this, he puts his fist through the medicine cabinet mirror.

Shards of mirror burst outward and fall, like the faces of eighteen dead girls. It hurts, but not nearly enough.

He'd been so mad at her, an anger that would not have been possible if he hadn't seen the reflection of himself in her, if he hadn't been so absolutely sure that Bullet was the outlier: that she'd be the one who got off the streets, the one who held the world at bay long enough to get her shit together. He'd needed to believe she was different, and so when she'd lied to him-he didn't even know why she had, just that it probably had to do with some little piece of ass, and had endangered Linden-it broke him down in a way he never saw coming.

Linden. In danger. In fear for her life. For hours and hours. Forever. It had felt like forever.

And when Linden turned out to be alive, and still Linden, still remote and untouchable, he couldn't even feel the relief he needed to feel, because everything was still completely and truly fucked.

So there was nothing but the anger. White-hot, incandescent, all those words you thought of that didn't really convey jack shit. And Bullet was the vessel for his rage. He poured it out into her, snarling, shoved her, wanting her to run, to never have existed (but also wanting her to fight back, and being secretly disappointed when she did run).

You put my partner in danger. I couldn't get to her fast enough. All I could do was listen. Listen to her voice, faint and flat, through the radio. Listen to her trying, harder than anyone he ever knew, to save herself.

I couldn't save her. She had to save herself.

And that was it, the real and true source of his anger. Live or die, Linden had only had herself. In the end, he just couldn't get to her in time. Linden had been alone, all alone. Talking, talking, talking to the man with the gun, hoping someone would hear her, but knowing she might be talking to dead air, and knowing that in that moment, in that car with the man and his gun, she was ultimately alone. Like always.

Like Bullet. Alone with her killer. Alone because Holder wouldn't answer the phone. Talking, talking, talking to his voicemail. To no one. To dead air.

Holder takes a deep, ragged breath, stares at the blood on his knuckles. It's nothing. It barely registers after the beating he gave Reddick.

"I called you, dammit!" Reddick had yelled, while Holder hit him and hit him.

Reddick had called him. It was right there in his call history. Next to all of Bullet's calls and messages. Holder had ignored all of it. He was mad at Bullet, and Reddick never had anything useful to say, and talking to either one felt too much like betraying Linden all over again, so he'd edited both of them out of his personal movie.

Another breath. Picturing the faces of Reddick's family. Terrified of the big crazy man who had invaded their home. Female voices, screaming, pleading...

He wants the crystal. Wants it more than he ever has. If he only had it, he could leave all the messiness, all the feelings behind; he could ride the pure white beam of energy, he could think so clearly, he could solve this shit so fast...neat and tidy and clean.

His back to the wall, he slides heavily to the floor. He looks at his phone. Looks at the contact list. Wavers.

One number, a guy who knows a guy. Should have deleted that name a long time ago. Hasn't.

Another number. His NA sponsor.

He's already lost everything. Bullet, Caroline, his self-respect, probably his career. What does it matter? It's the expected beat in the story: relapse.

Except...except, he hasn't lost Linden. Not yet, not quite. Linden will understand everything he is going through right now. Linden doesn't even need to hear the words. She already knows everything. She knows why he's running on pure rage, even if Mills is in custody. She'll know soon, if she doesn't already, why he beat Reddick.

She knows why he tried to kiss her. Just like he knows why she stopped him.

But Linden, if he goes back to the meth, won't ever look at him the same way again. She'll never trust him again. She'll think twice about everything he says. She'll think twice about being alone with him.

She'll look at him with pity. And if Linden ever looks at him with pity, her eyes so remote, everything inside her strung up tight and no way ever for him to get in again, that'll be the end, he will have really lost everything.

He dials a number. A man answers.

In a ragged, uneven voice, Holder says, "You gotta find me a meeting. And I need a ride." He doesn't know what time it is, not sure if it's even night or day. "Right now."

But he doesn't go to a meeting, not then. His sponsor picks him up, just drives him around. Refuses money for gas. Lets Holder smoke in his car.

"I take you to a meeting right now," his sponsor says, "you gonna scare the other junkies."

Holder looks down. He forgot to clean the blood from his knuckles.

"Yeah," says his sponsor. He wrinkles his nose. "And in, like, a more general sense, I want you to think seriously about taking a shower, bro."

Holder finally laughs, a hoarse and foreign sound.

And they drive around some more, his sponsor doing the whole routine. Forgiveness. The forgiveness of others, the forgiving of oneself. Work the program. Let go and let God. A whole lot of things that, at times like this, mostly sound like bullshit to Holder, except that if he doesn't have them, he has nothing at all. Isn't that the whole idea of religion, of salvation, of forgiveness? Believe in the invisible, because in the end it's all you got?

His sponsor's voice is soothing. The words blur together, like a television show you're only half-watching. Not important, but better than silence.

The sun comes up over the water, burning away the clouds, just for a little while.

Eight hours later, he's had sleep, after a fashion; he's had food, he's had a shower. He's swept up the broken mirror pieces. He's at the station, waiting to find out if he's on paid leave, unpaid leave, or just plain suspended.

But no one really looks twice at him, no one except Linden. In a fraction of a second she takes in everything-the bandage on his hand, the clean clothes, the resignation in his body language. Her eyes flicker. He knows she's thinking of everything at once, even the almost-kiss. He approaches her.

"Where's Reddick?" he asks. It stands for a lot of other questions, like Am I suspended? and Are we okay, you and me?

Linden's voice is a low murmur. "He says you owe him. He says get your shit together and do your job."

Holder stares at the ground. "His wife, his kid..."

"They know he's a cop."

Holder shakes his head. That's not enough and they both know it. But nothing is ever enough. He keeps staring at the ground until Linden reaches out, almost touches him. She plucks at his sleeve, thumb and forefinger pulling him a millimeter closer before she lets go. No words, just catches his eye.

Time for the next thing, her look says. Pay attention.

"Mills?" he asks.

"He's denying doing the murders."

"How's he explain..." But he can't finish the sentence. Bullet's body is not a thing he can say. Bullet wasn't supposed to be a body. Bullet was supposed to grow up and be a person. Out of all the kids crawling the streets, Bullet was the one he hadn't worried about.

"He says someone planted her body in his trunk."

Holder shakes his head. Nothing about this case has ever made sense. This doesn't. All they can do is keep working the evidence.

"You make the call on Seward?" he asks, meaning did she try to get a stay of execution.

"No," she says. "He's got twelve hours." She looks bleak. Seward doesn't really matter to Holder, except that he matters to Linden. But there is nothing to say, nothing to do.

He inches closer to her, sliding sideways down the table they both lean against. "Last night," he begins.

She doesn't want to talk about that, looks away. "Forget it," she says.

"Caroline's gone," he says. Caroline isn't why Linden wants to forget it, but it's still true, still information to be shared.

She nods impassively. But all of a sudden, she does want to talk about it. "The night I showed up at your place..."

Holder shakes his head. "I forgot she'd be there. I forgot what day it was."

"I didn't mean to screw things up for you," she says, taking on way more responsibility than she is due.

"Things were already screwed." And he cracks a smile at her, and she gives him a little fake smile in return, which flickers into a real one, just for an instant.

Everything is always screwed, when you're us.

Finally he says, "What's next?"

"It'll be weeks before they're done processing the taxi and the storage unit." She frowns slightly, considering her words. "But there's something weird going on with one of Seward's prison guards. Becker."

She tells him a story: a dead lover, a young son behind bars, a wife who is hysterical, a prison guard who, according the grapevine, wasn't home a lot. His wife reacted the way a lot of police wives and husbands did: finding something else. A hobby, a dog, a string of lovers. But it didn't stop her calling, coming by, looking for him. It was an embarrassment for the whole department. The rumors got to the convicts, who needled Becker about it. It was all logged.

"The kid say why he shot Romeo?" Holder asks.

"The Beckers got him a lawyer," Linden says. "But I get the sense he was protecting Mom's honor."

"Doesn't want people to think his Mama's a whore?" Holder muses. "He learn that at home? Being Daddy while Daddy ain't there?"

It happens at once, on the next breath: they both grow still, silent. Not daring to look at each other. Don't say it out loud. Pretend you don't notice, or it might disappear. Their minds running down the same path: Bullet saying she knew who did it. Bullet being terrified of the information, too scared to say it in a voicemail message. Why be afraid of even leaving a message? A voicemail message for a cop?

Unless you think other cops are in on it.

Their eyes meet.

"I'll drive," says Holder.

They can't go to Becker's house, not now, but they can get to one of the other guards, an exhausted, hollow-eyed man named Henderson.

"We're just trying to help his son," Holder lies smoothly.

Henderson is still nervous, but Henderson has almost no guile.

"Becker and his wife, I don't know what their deal is," he says. "Becker lies to her, says he's pulling double shifts. We don't pull double shifts here. So he disappears. She sleeps around. I don't know which part came first. I don't know the kid, really. Real quiet."

Linden must have spotted something underneath Henderson's words that Holder missed, because she asks "She ever try to sleep with you?"

Henderson sets his jaw. "I stayed out of it."

"But she tried."

He pauses, nods.

"Trying to bang your hubby's co-workers," mutters Holder. "That sends a message."

Henderson looks offended, and Holder knows he's gone too far. "Look, man, we don't judge. We're just trying to figure out what happened, maybe help this family out."

Linden picks it up smoothly: "You have any idea where Becker goes during his time-outs?"

Henderson sighs, defeated. "I heard him mention a cabin once."

They won't be able to get a warrant, not fast enough, not on a random hunch like this; and so, like so many other times, they operate off the grid. Linden drives. They both smoke. Off into the dank woods, ten, fifteen miles out of town.

Holder's seen a lot of grim scenes. A lot of things he works hard not to assign real emotions to, just files them away as data, points of reference, tries not to internalize them as involving real human beings. But he can't help but feel a weird disappointment as he sees the tidy little cabin, a grill outside, fishing gear on the porch next to a cooler. It doesn't look like anything really bad could happen here.

"Car," says Linden, extending her right index finger from the steering wheel to point around to the right side of the cabin.

"Becker," nods Holder. He looks at Linden, whose face still shows the marks of Mills. "Maybe I'd better-"

She shuts that down with one look.

He doesn't ask her if she's armed. They both are. Always.

He recites mantras in his head, the ones he keeps for these times, the kicking-in-doors times, the takedowns, the times when adrenaline can be your friend or your worst enemy.

But this is probably going to be nothing. The guy's a cop, or practically a cop. Po-lice. Cop with marriage troubles. Oldest story in the book.

"So we have a chat," Holder says out loud, unnecessarily.

They get out of the car. Becker's seen them coming, he's coming down the dirt driveway as they walk up to the cabin. There's no threat in his posture. Just concern.

They identify themselves, show their badges. Becker wants to know, is everything okay, has something else happened with his family?

Just checking on him, Holder assures him. Just want to ask a few questions. Off the record. Can we come in?

Holder and Linden wait, smooth expressions, languid posture. Just a courtesy drive-by. We're just interested in what happened.

So can we come in?

Becker pauses just a second too long, nods assent. He turns to walk back to the cabin.

Behind Becker's back, Linden shoots Holder a glance. All he can do is nod. Nod and touch his Glock in its holster, just being sure it's there. It's something you learn fast not to do, don't give it away, don't show fear, don't develop the tic of making sure your piece is really there. But right now, with Linden's face still swollen-or at least enough so that you can tell if you really look at her every day-and the adrenaline hitting him like crystal, he has to check.

The cabin is as neat inside as outside, like something out of a vacation brochure. Holder tries to take in as much detail as he can without being obvious, but there's nothing there, nothing weird, nothing to grab onto.

"I just made coffee," says Becker.

"Coffee would be good," says Linden, smiling her great big ol' fake smile. She sits at his little kitchen table, and Holder knows it's a calculated move, a show of trust. Giving up a portion of her mobility, of reaction time, being aware that this man has only lasted in his career guarding convicted killers by reading body language very, very carefully.

Holder remains standing.

"You know," says Becker, handing them each a cup, "I really can't talk about the shooting."

Holder nods, pretends Becker didn't really mean it. "Is there anything you can tell us that would help your son? Maybe the vic was trying to hurt your wife?"

Becker's face shows no reaction. "We've been over it all with the lawyers."

"You and your wife doing okay, though? She know where you are?" Holder looks around the cabin pointedly. "Is this where you were the night of the shooting?"

Becker begins to show the first signs of anger in the set of his jaw and his shoulders. "Look, no offense, and I appreciate your concern," he says dubiously. "But unless you two are with internal or you're assigned to the case, which I already know you're not, we're done here."

Linden takes over, shows one palm, a truce. "That's fine. If I could use your bathroom first, we'll leave. We didn't mean to disturb you."

It's the oldest trick in the book, and Holder's sure Becker is going to refuse, but he gestures down the hall. "First door on your right."

"Thanks," says Linden, again with the fake smile, and she moves down the hall.

"Women," says Holder casually, "Ten miles on the road and it's time for a pit stop."

"Uh-huh," says Becker, unmoved.

Holder walks to the back of the little dining nook, looks out a back window. The cabin sits in a clearing that extends back fifteen, maybe twenty yards, ends abruptly at the treeline of the woods. Holder sees a homemade wooden shed, maybe storage for a mower. Slatted wood door. Heavy padlock.

Holder's aware of Becker behind him, aware he's turned his back on him, but he's trying to buy Linden time to look around in the back of the cabin.

"This is a real nice place," Holder says. "Real peaceful." He turns back to look at Becker, who is standing with his arms crossed, like he couldn't be any more bored with their act. "There some place to fish around here? I saw the rods out front."

Becker murmurs something, but a movement has caught the corner of Holder's eye, something outside, back out the window. Movement at the shed door, the shiny, oversized padlock. He turns full on to look, frowning, thinking he'd imagined it.

No. There it is again. The shed door shudders, just a bit, making the padlock jump. Like someone's hitting the door from inside the shed.

And before Holder can turn back around, make a joke, pretend he didn't see it, it's too late.

He feels the gun at his back.

"Turn the fuck around," hisses Becker.

"Okay, okay," says Holder as he turns slowly, hands up, calm as he can manage. "We'll go, like we said. Let's just calm this down, yo."

When he turns, he sees that Becker's dropped the act, Becker's eyes are wide and crazed, and he's holding a Walther semi-auto on him.

"Call your partner," instructs Becker. And he thumbs back the hammer on the Walther.

Holder doesn't want to, but she's going to come out anyway. Better she hear his voice first. Then, a desperate idea:

"Yo, Sarah!"

A moment, then her voice answers in return, a little too brightly: "Be right there!"

But when she comes out, Holder sees it doesn't really matter whether he cued her or not. She's on guard but her hands are empty, and Becker still has the Walther trained on him.

Linden freezes.

"Your weapon, detective," says Becker.

One palm upraised, Linden reaches for her holstered Glock with the other. Slowly, slowly. Holder tries to communicate to her with his eyes-run, dammit, run, while he's got the gun on me-but she's not looking at him, she's looking at Becker. She takes the Glock out, holds it with the tips of her fingers like it's a dead rat, begins speaking softly.

"You don't have to do this, Becker," she says. Just like she's talking to Pastor Mike all over again. "We can help you and your son."

"Shut up and put the fucking gun on the floor," growls Becker.

But Becker's trying to cover both of them with one gun, and as Linden is slowly crouching to lay the Glock down, one hand still raised, Becker gestures for Holder to move closer to Linden. "You," he says to Linden, "Kick the gun over here."

Linden does.

"Get over there!" Becker yells at Holder, who still hasn't closed the space between himself and Linden.

But instead, Holder lunges for Becker's gun; grabs Becker's wrists, shoves upwards hard, tries to get a knee in.

A shot is fired. Becker has twisted away from him. Holder's hands are empty. Becker still has the gun.

Two more shots; Holder makes a grab for his own Glock, expecting to feel a bullet hit him, not sure he isn't hit already; but instead Becker is twisting away from him again, falling to the ground.

Becker's the one who's been hit.

Holder snaps his gaze in Linden's direction; she's still crouched down, but she's got a tiny Ruger held tightly at arm's length.

He stares at her, bewildered, breathing hard. "Where the hell you get that," he exhales.

"Boot holster," she says.

"Nice," he says, still a little dazed, ears ringing.

"Holder," she says without taking her eyes off Becker "Get his gun. Get mine. And call it in."

He does all of those things.

Linden says, while Holder moves to her and Becker lies bleeding on the floor, "There are a lot of knives in the back bedroom. More knives than anyone needs for hunting. And someone's been washing off blood in the bathtub, left a spot on the tile."

Holder takes a deep breath, realizes he's clammy with sweat.

He says, "Someone's locked in the shed."

They handcuff Becker, who is bleeding and groaning, there on the floor. They can't wait for backup, for an ambulance, they have to get to the shed.

Linden stands a few paces back, Glock at the ready, while Holder approaches the shed. The shaking of the shed door has stopped for now. The keys to the padlock weren't on Becker's person.

"Who's in there?" yells Holder. "Seattle PD, you're safe."

"Oh my God, please help me," cries a faint, weak voice. "Please help me. Please let me out. Please don't leave me here. Please!" A girl's voice.

"We're not leaving you here, sweetheart," calls Holder. "I promise. What's your name?"

"Kallie..."

Holder's eyes meet Linden's.

"Move away from the door, Kallie," calls Linden.

And Holder kicks the shed's door in.

It's hours before they're cleared to leave. Kallie, who was in wrist and ankle cuffs, and had been slamming her body against the shed door since she heard another vehicle come up the drive, is bundled away in an ambulance. Becker, too, unconscious but stable.

Leaning against the car, Linden says, "That was a good idea back there, by the way. 'Sarah'."

Holder smiles wanly. "I needed your attention."

"It gave me time to take the safety off the Ruger."

He starts to make a joke about the little gun. Where you get that little thing, Linden? That pea shooter regulation?" It was so small, like a toy in her hands, but if it weren't for the little toy gun they might both be dead. If it wasn't so small, it wouldn't have been invisible under the cuff of her jeans. So he doesn't make the joke.

Instead he says: "You think this'll be enough to call the dogs off Seward? I mean, Linden, I gotta admit, I still don't see how this fits. Big coincidence Seward ends up with his wife's real killer for a prison guard?"

"I think they'll give me a few days," she says. "Especially since Becker is in charge of Seward's execution. And besides, we've seen weirder things."

He knows what she's thinking: Rosie Larsen.

"And maybe," she says, "a few days will be enough."

He's doubtful. There are so many bodies, so many puzzle-pieces. He wants to believe it's Mills who did the teen girls, but Seward's wife has never really fit into it that neatly; except that Linden thinks Mills had her rings. But why's Becker got a missing girl locked in a shed? Why the knives?

Why Bullet?

Holder remembers that she's really gone, and realizes she'll never know Kallie made it out alive. Realizes that Kallie's still got the news of Bullet coming; she was already in shock and they didn't want to tell her then.

He tries to shake it all off, but it's too much.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Maybe it'll be enough."

"Give me a ride home?" she asks.

"They're going to move on Seward's stay of execution," Linden says. "They've made the call." She moves to place the phone on the counter, but misses; it clatters on the floor.

She looks down at it but doesn't pick it up. She reaches out towards the counter to steady herself, but misses again, and suddenly Holder sees that she's about to fall.

As a rule, they don't touch each other. Unless one of them is dying, or nearly so. They don't talk about it, they just don't do it. And they both know it's because if they ever did touch, they might not be able to stop, and there's no good ending to that story, or not one that either one of them can picture.

But now, as he watches her knees start to go out from under her, Holder is on his feet, catching her, an arm around her back, under her shoulders, a hand cupping her forearm. Halting her fall. "Whoa, whoa," he says. "Easy. When's the last time you ate something?"

Linden sags against him. She gives up all the weight of her body to his arms.

But she's light, so light, under the deceptive bulk of her clothes, and he carries her back to the sofa, leans back with her, holding her in his arms like a child. She takes a gasping breath, and another, her fingers clinging to the front of his shirt, twisting it. And then she sobs.

She sobs quietly, but her whole body shakes with it. Her face is wet against his neck.

An arm behind her shoulders, another under her knees, he gathers her up tighter against him. She's balled up in his lap, her own arms crossed in front of her chest, one of her fists clenched tightly, the fingers of her other hand still clutching at his shirt.

He says nothing. Doesn't even murmur at her. Just breathes and holds her while she sobs. He doesn't know all the reasons she's crying. He doesn't need to. But he knows some of them.

And now, for just a moment, she lets go of all of it. Lets herself fall.

Holder realizes he's shaking, ever so slightly. It's become too much, too powerful, all at once. This is the reason they've never crossed this line: it's too much, just too much to handle, too much truth, too much rawness, too much exposure. Too real. It scares him, and his heart starts to hammer, his breath comes faster, all the while he's trying to calm it back down, to just be there for her, a neutral, safe presence.

But he feels her tense up. She comes back to herself, slams her walls down. Just like that, she's up and off him, off the couch, out of reach, across the room, and he's holding empty air. Nothing left but a lingering warmth in his arms where she'd been a moment ago, and her tears cooling on his neck.

Her back to him, steadying herself against the hall doorframe, she wipes her face with a sweater sleeve, and she calls over her shoulder to him: "I need to take a shower."

"You want me to leave?" Holder asks.

She pauses, still not looking. "Whatever you want," she says. She starts to move down the hallway, away from him.

"Sarah," Holder says.

She stops, turns around to look at him.

"I'm not leaving," he says.

She smiles at him in a sad, Sarah Linden sort of way, and turns back to the hallway. In a moment, he hears the shower running.

She's in there a long time. It gives him time to think of a lot of things to do, a lot of things to say. A lot of different ways to come at it, what's between them, whether they should take it or leave it.

She finally comes out, tank and sweats, towelled-dry hair hanging loose. She sits next to him. Close but not touching.

So he nudges her knee with his.

She shakes her head slowly, not looking him.

"It's a bad idea," she says. "You know it is."

He watches her silently, until she finally glances up and sidelong at him. Her face looks softer, some of its habitual tension gone, the line between her brows eased.

He doesn't want to scare her, so he moves slowly, just a hand on her shoulder at first, sliding his palm down her back, pulling her over, testing for resistance.

She does resist, just for a second, then relaxes and allows herself to be pulled.

He leans over, touches his forehead to hers. "Bad idea? You sure?"

"Yes," she says, but she doesn't move away, and so he pulls her over the rest of the way, leans back against the sofa, holds her again, her head against his chest.

This time, she just relaxes against him.

This time, she stays.

It's enough for now.

END

A/N: I don't really think it was Becker. Okay, I have no idea who it is. Maybe it's Becker. But I needed to jump off 3x9 and picked someone. I suspect the real answer will be too complicated for the scope of a one-shot fanfic. :)