To Sharon's right, the coffee maker hisses and gurgles. To her left, the kettle rumbles and sets to whistling. She reaches toward the latter, extinguishing the burner before the sound reaches beyond the kitchen. She pours the boiling water over a bag of Throat Coat, counting on the tea to live up to its name.

Between the burning in her throat and feeling as if she's moving through wet concrete, Sharon had to force herself out of bed shortly after the alarm sounded on the other side of the room. She knew Andy would only go obsessive if he got out of the shower to find her in the rare state of having fallen back asleep. Instead, propped up against the counter, she mentally schedules a mid-afternoon nap. Out on the balcony, perhaps.

After a tense Sunday during which the condo felt entirely too small, she's ready to get back into what passes as normalcy these days. She's ready for a distraction from the memory of their disastrous dinner party, even as she admits she could've handled it differently. As the old saying goes, she's ready to let a little distance push her heart toward fondness.

Sharon softens as footsteps sound down the hall. Maybe she doesn't need that last one. From behind, Andy nuzzles his nose against her neck. His arms wind around her waist. "So, can I come out of the doghouse yet?" Against her better sense, she snorts, knowing he'll take the sound as a victory. Within a blink, his smile stretches along her skin. "So that's a yes?"

Taking a step out of his embrace, she turns to face him, her expression smoothed into glass. "Who says you're doghoused, anyway?"

"C'mon, Sharon, I might be a moron, but I know when you're angry."

She lifts a shoulder as she trails the tea bag through her mug. "I'm still unamused," she admits.

"Unamused, downgraded from what?"

"Livid."

Andy's mouth curls into a not bad frown. He shrugs. "I'll take it."

Judging her tea cool enough, Sharon risks a sip. The liquid hits the back of her throat like a rake on concrete. But, almost as quickly, the herbs take effect, smoothing over the inflammation. She takes another drink — less painful — before saying, "In fact, I'm considering that I may owe you an apology."

His eyes widen, and she catches an unmistakable glimmer of mischief. "Oh?"

"Considering," she emphasizes with a smirk.

"And, uh," he tugs her back into his arms, a move that leaves her abandoning her mug to the counter. "What kind of apology might this involve?"

"Mm, the type that'll have to wait until you have more than 20 minutes before leaving for work."

"I'd happily be late."

"No, no," she says lightly, ducking away from him. "We can't have that."

He heaves a sigh, but moves toward the fridge. "I'm gonna have an english muffin with peanut butter. You want one?"

Sharon's stomach twists at the suggestion. But her earlier wish echoes through her. Normalcy. "Sure, that sounds good."

With an olive branch extended, their breakfast conversation doesn't so much as touch on the weekend's events. In fact, it leaves Sharon very much looking forward to the amends she promised. It's all very normal, indeed. Andy gets so deep into lauding the Dodgers' new ace pitcher that he doesn't notice the near-intact muffin on her plate.

She gives up on the food shortly after he leaves, sandwiching the halves together into a ziploc and into the fridge. She pours another mug of tea in lieu of breakfast, bobbing its bag through the water. As it steeps, a chime from her phone brings a message from Amy.

Any response from Lt Masuki?

Sharon settles onto the couch and finds a home for her mug on the end table. She refreshes her email for good measure before responding. No, nothing.

She taps her phone on the couch arm, staring out onto the hills as she considers her options. Waiting is high on the list, though it brings no guarantee that Angela will ever respond. Meanwhile, Sharon can't shake the idea of Amy working for a captain who doesn't respect her, let alone one who might force her out of Major Crimes — or worse.

With that in mind, she sends another text. I'm thinking we might need to explore another angle.

A reply pops onto the screen. Open to suggestions.

From her purse, Sharon pulls the notebook she's used to piece together Williams' seamy history. Flipping back through the pages, she revisits the conversation they'd had with Bree Birkhoff and Raquel Stewart. Much of it is without identifiable detail, sketches of a division where the Captain's conduct was an open secret. The exception is Raquel's memory of an officer bodily removing her from Williams' vicinity.

A sergeant from Harbor's admin office. Female. Tall, with green eyes and her hair french braided.

It's a scant description, but it's also a lead on another witness to Williams' behavior. Maybe this sergeant, who'd seemingly been insistent on protecting Raquel, would be willing to lay down some specifics. It's a long shot, but maybe she knows the logic behind the retracted allegations.

Sharon passes her idea to Amy. I think I'll take a trip down to Harbor Division. I want to find Raquel's mystery sergeant.

From behind the couch, Rusty says, "Hey, Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Uh, I'm heading out."

"Oh!" Sharon checks her watch as she makes her way to him. "It's that time already?" She grimaces against the roughness in her voice.

"Yep." He frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes. I'm fine." She lifts her mug with a grin. "Nothing a little tea won't fix."

He shoots her a skeptical look, but says, "Okay," as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder.

"You have your phone charger and your folio?"

"Yep."

"And you packed two suits, right? Because I know the email said business casual for tonight, but—"

"Mom," Rusty laughs. "I've got it under control. I made a list and everything."

"So maybe I'm rubbing off on you, after all." She pulls him into a hug with her free hand. "Just remember, Berkeley would be lucky to have you as a law student."

He rolls his eyes as she releases him. "Yeah, I'm sure they see it that way."

"Well, they should." It isn't as if Cal would've invited him up for a scholarship interview unless they thought highly of his application. But rather than turning up the pressure by reminding him of this, Sharon fixes him with a smile. "You'll do great, I know. And I also know you'll take time to get a sense of the campus while you're there…"

"Yeah, yeah, and I'll get into the city to see Ricky, too."

"Good."

Rusty heads for the door. "I'll let you know when I get there. Probably around five-ish?"

"Okay." She squeezes his shoulder, waiting until he makes eye contact before saying, "Drive safely."

"I will." He grins. "I promise."

The condo feels emptier than normal once he's gone. It's a long-term kind of void, colored by the knowledge that he'll soon be leaving for good. Her bonus fledgling, departing the nest. It's a bittersweet truth, and today it makes the perfect excuse for a field trip.

Sharon takes a mug of Throat Coat to go. The drive to San Pedro gives her a chance to consider her approach, what she hopes to gain. If the mystery sergeant emerges, she'll need to explain her presence without scaring her off. Of course, without a name or an official reason to seek the officer out, she might not have luck getting past the front desk. That goes double if anyone recognizes her from her IA days.

She pauses for a deep breath in the Harbor guest parking area. The sun beats onto the asphalt, warming the day into what passes for sizzling in mid-spring. Sharon clears her throat and heads inside on an even stride. In a familiar motion, she pulls her retired badge from her purse as she approaches the desk, offering its leather wallet and matching ID card to the sergeant on duty.

His eyes flit between the card and her face. His mouth drops open for a split-second before he asks, "Uh, what can I do for you, Commander?"

With a grin, Sharon replaces her badge and sticks a toe into her cover story. "I'm working on a project tracing the history of women in the LAPD. I met a female sergeant when I was down here several years ago, who told me a story I'd love to follow-up on now. But I didn't get her name at the time. Would you be able to help me find out who she is?"

The sergeant's stare fixes on a point far above her head, a well-practiced eye roll substitute. "Well, I've only been here in Harbor for five years."

Pulling back the particulars of Williams' path and Raquel's story, Sharon throws her best guess onto the table. "Oh, this would've been within the last four or five years."

"Okay," he says, his tone as flat as farmland.

"She's tall, has green eyes. Worked in the office here. The few times I saw her, she had her hair tied back in a french braid."

The sergeant's eyes narrow. He could be considering this description, yes. He could also be weighing her story and deeming her full of shit. For all Sharon knows, he could be Neil Williams' very best friend. In the silence, she curses the midday sun, streaming through the lobby's upper windows and onto her face. It heats her with more brutality than anxiety or embarrassment ever could.

Finally, the sergeant says, "Doesn't ring a bell." He looks down to his desk, shuffling papers, and Sharon figures he's about to direct her toward the door.

Instead, he adds, "But you could come talk to our historian guy."

She lifts a brow. "You have a historian?"

"Yeah," he nods toward her. "He's retired too. Does it on a volunteer basis. He worked here for… well, just about forever."

"Oh." Sharon spares only a split-second toward the shallowness of her cover before saying, "I'd love to meet with him."

"He isn't here today. I usually see him on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons."

She flips open her notebook, jotting the days on the next free page. "And what's his name?"

The sergeant pauses, watching her write the historian's schedule. But, once he's made whatever assessment he's going to make, he answers, "Sammy Holgate."

"Holgate. Perfect." Sharon lodges her pen back into the notebook's binding. Bent over to reload her purse, a bead of sweat rolls from her temple into the middle of her forehead. She brushes it away. But when she glances back to the sergeant, her vision seems to drag like the moisture across her skin. She reaches out to grip the counter.

The sergeant lurches forward in his seat. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she waves him off with a smile. Her attempt at a deep, calming breath sticks in her throat, resulting in a cough that counters her point. Still, she lifts a shoulder. "Just getting used to the heat again."

"Yeah." His voice is laced with skepticism as he settles back into his spot. "It's only gonna get worse."

"Of course." Sharon flashes him a tight smile as she taps the surface under her hand. "Thank you for all your help, Sergeant."

He offers a nod as she turns toward the door. Through the concentration needed to keep her straightline steps, she hears him call, "Stay safe, Commander."

The ovenlike waft of air that meets her upon opening the door to her car is enough to spin her stomach. She sinks onto the driver's seat just long enough to turn the engine to life, get air flowing through the vents. With that settled, she pulls herself back to standing, her arm bracing against the door, in the unfamiliar circumstance of having to decide how she'll get back home. A glance toward the street finds it shimmering in her vision.

Still. Rusty's well on his way up north. Andy is at work and shouldn't risk Williams' ire by stepping out to get her. God knows how much a Lyft back to Los Feliz would be. And all of those non-options would leave her car marooned in San Pedro, anyway.

With the vents exhaling cold air, Sharon slips back into her seat. As she cools, a plan slides together. Her purse holds a bag of almonds, which she digs out with trembling fingers. The nuts become sawdust in her dry mouth but they steady her head enough for a drive to the Jamba Juice down the street.

It isn't the most glamorous locale for smoothies in LA, but the strip mall storefront produces a half-frozen, sweet source of calories and protein. Perfect for someone who's on the verge of passing out, she supposes. Sitting in the parking lot with her A/C blasting, she alternates sips of the drink with the arduous task of crunching through a second bag of nuts. The back of her blouse goes damp with sweat. She keeps the restaurant's bathrooms in sight until she's satisfied her stomach won't revolt.

By then, she judges herself stable enough to get back onto the freeway. But even as she logs each sign of normalcy — an effort to condone her decision to push onward — she braces for the grip of nausea in her gut, the floating disengagement of vertigo. They've become too-common companions over the past couple days, prone to showing up whenever.

North of downtown, exhaustion squeezes at her eyes. Her fingers go shaky again. The air filling the car goes from pleasantly cool to frigid. Even as her focus sags, hard logic sends fear snaking into her chest. Even with the cruise control parked on 65, a SUV hurtles past her window. I could die out here.

She doesn't. A few minutes of white-knuckled right-lane driving and a red light spent drawing deep breaths bring her to the garage at home. Through the garage, into the lobby, and onto the elevator. Her vision seems to swing with every step. Pushing the front door open feels like a gold medal victory.

Purse on the hook by the door. Shoes toed off in the closet. Slacks off, leggings on. Sharon rolls into bed with no shortage of relief, bunching the comforter around her as a shield against the cold and the light.

Just a nap, she thinks. It'll help. It's just exhaustion, paired with a little sore throat.

She rouses at Andy asking, "Early night?"

The room is dark, save for faint lamplight floating through the cracked-open doorway. Sharon blinks, scrambling for her bearings. "Yeah." She turns toward his alarm clock. It reads 8:42.

"So, our new case is turning out to be a circus," he says. The closet door clicks open. "I'm just grabbing some clothes, then I'm going back in."

"M'kay." After processing his words, she adds, "Mmm, be safe."

"Kinda hard to be unsafe when I barely get a chance to leave my desk."

Sharon burrows back into her pillow. "'S good for me."

A faint laugh carries to her. "Yeah, it's good for you, not having to worry." Following a string of rustling and zipping, Andy emerges from the closet. He leans onto the bed, just long enough to press his lips to her cheek.

In a flash, she's struck by the urge to latch onto his wrist, hold him in place, demand he stay. It's childish, of course. But, having woken to find her throat still fiery and her temples throbbing, part of her believes having him curl up behind her in bed is the only cure. It's just about the only thing that sounds good right now.

Instead, resigned to the unyielding tide of a murder investigation, she whispers, "I love you."

"Love you too." He straightens, lifts his bag. "I'll call you when I get a sense of our timeline."

"Okay."

Once he goes, Sharon sinks into a restless sleep. In and out of consciousness she seesaws, through to the pale sunlight of morning, alternating between kicking off the covers and bunching them around her with shivering arms. Her day forms around chasing whatever comfort she can gain, most of which occurs with her eyes closed.

She returns a few texts from Rusty, and, each time, considers calling Andy. The idea falls away, again and again, under the glare of rationality. What would she say? She's tired? She's sick? It isn't as if any of it is an emergency, or even urgent enough to pull him away from work.

After nodding off on the couch for the umpteeth time, she trudges to bed. The sheer effort of the trip is paired with an ache that pokes at her ribs with every step. Her coughs thicken, leading to glob-filled tissues layering her nightstand. Still, she's able to rest. And rest pushes her discomfort away.

So rest she does. Right up until a weight landing at her side pairs with a grip on her shoulder, jolting her awake.

"Sharon!"

"Hmmwhat?" From the depths of sleep, she pries her eyes open. The room is once again drenched in sunlight. She rolls over, pulling her gaze to rest on Andy, who's settled onto the side of the bed.

He squeezes his eyes closed on a sharp sigh. A few long breaths pass over his lips before he says, "I've been calling you."

"What?!" She half-rolls onto her forearm, sending a sharp shock of pain through her chest as she reaches for her phone. It's missing from its usual spot on the nightstand. "I don't…" Squinting at the tissue-laden stretch of polished walnut, she strains to remember where it might be.

"You didn't hear it ringing?"

"Um, no." She brushes her hair back from her face, keeping her hand raised against the harsh light streaming through the curtains. "Not sure where it is." Under the shade cast by her palm, she catches his heavy brow. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"I've been calling for hours. Rusty's been texting you."

"I was sleeping."

Silence falls between them. Sharon re-arranges the blankets, pulling them close to her ribs to keep the chill out. Andy turns his wrist over, checking his watch. From there, his eyes flit over her face, her sweater-wrapped chest, the comforter gathered around her form. His frown deepens before he gets up and walks out of the room.

"Andy…" Despite her intention toward clear volume, her voice comes out in an obstructed rumble. An effort to clear her throat results in a series of coughs that reach to the very bottom of her lungs, clawing all the way down.

He doesn't answer, doesn't even slow in his leaving. When he comes back, it's with her digital thermometer in hand. "Let's check your temp."

"What? No," she winces up at him, annoyed she has to explain her obvious condition. "I'm cold."

"Just...humor me," he grits, holding the device to her lips.

Sharon fixes him with a firm, assessing look as she leans back into her pillows. He doesn't budge, leaving her rolling her eyes as she drops her mouth open. She's forced to hold back a rant about irrationality and hypochondria-by-proxy, what with the metal probe stuck under her tongue.

Instead, she crosses her arms, bracing to gloat when the thermometer beeps before her lips.

Oh yes, she's prepared to deliver a speech, but the opportunity doesn't present itself. Andy's reaction to the number is a heavily creased brow and a rush of breath.

"Jesus, Sharon." He tosses the thermometer onto her nightstand and sets into a rush of motion. His first stop is her dresser, where he speaks, hunched over her t-shirt drawer. "We gotta get you to the hospital."

She grimaces against this idea and rolls away from him, seeking a return to her warm, dark cocoon. He's overreacting, as usual. All she needs is rest, a break from her concerns. A recharge. Is that too much to ask?

No, it isn't, she reassures herself. Sharon sinks easily back into the haze of sleep, its welcoming tendrils pulling her away from the constant chill rolling over her, the thickness in her throat, the rustling and scraping of Andy moving around the room. In seconds she's drifting back into unconscious, where she's happy to stay.

Happy to stay...until the blankets tucked under her hips and legs disappear from around her with one swift pull. She twists onto her back, fixing the full power of her displeasure at her husband, who very bravely settles onto the now-coverless edge of the bed.

"What are you doing?" The question exits as a satisfying growl.

"Babe, c'mon. Please." His fingers set to work on the buttons of her sweater, a motion that leaves her gripping at his hand.

"Andy, stop. I'm cold."

His eyes fix on his task as he shakes his head, pulling away from her fingers and skipping to the next button down. "No, you're burning up." At this, his voice shakes. "You've got a hundred and five degree fever. So we need to get to an ER."

Well.

When he says it like that…

"Okay," she mumbles.

"Let's get you changed into something cooler," he says, all business as he pushes the sweater off her shoulders and peels its sleeves from her arms.

The air against her slickened skin is icy, leaving a trail of goosebumps pricking where it touches. Sharon hauls herself to sitting, in an effort to make the process easier, quicker, less like wriggling a newborn out of a onesie. But the motion leaves her hunched and coughing, grasping for a kleenex with one hand as the other steadies her balance against Andy's shoulder.

He sighs and brushes hair from her dampened face, waiting for her to swipe the tissue away from her mouth. "How long have you been in here?"

She stares at the duvet as she considers his question. She'd spoken to Amy on Monday, drove down to Harbor. Rusty called from Berkeley. Andy came home only briefly that night. From there, it's been a muddled succession of naps, a few cups of tea, short stacks of saltines, and one searing, wonderful, exhausting shower.

"What day is it?" she asks.

Andy's jaw works for a moment before he answers, "Thursday," with a dark look.

"Oh." She recovers with a lift of her shoulder, but she can't keep her eyes from flitting away from him when she adds, "It can't have been more than a day, then."

"You should've called."

Sharon would answer something like, 'I was fine,' maybe with an added reassurance of some sort, but another round of coughing steals her words. This time, his hand curls along her side, his thumb brushing her achy ribs. The contact is more of a comfort than she'd like to admit, one that leaves her silently agreeing that she should've let him know.

It just hadn't seemed that bad. She'd been happy sleeping it off.

Happy. And feverish, as it turns out.

As she lowers another tissue from her mouth, she catches him wincing. "I'm okay," she rasps.

The tight line of his mouth says he isn't convinced. "If you wanna put these on," he hands her a Stanford t-shirt and a pair of yoga capris as he stands. "I'm gonna get you a couple cool washcloths and call Rusty."

"Don't—"

Andy, again, doesn't pause in his path out of the room, tossing a response over his shoulder as he goes. "He's gonna be back here soon. I don't want him worrying when he shows up and finds us gone."

The last thing Rusty needs to be concerned with is her health, but Sharon doesn't waste any of her shortened breaths trying to argue. Instead, she shucks off the rest of her sweat-dampened clothes, trades them for looser, dry replacements, and tries not to catalogue the way her body protests against even the smallest movements. By the time she sinks back onto the mattress, she's winded and her head throbs. She eyes her pillow with no shortage of longing.

"Okay." Andy returns to the bedroom with two washcloths draped over a wrist and a glass of water in his other hand. "Here," he offers the water and, hidden in his palm, two brown tablets. "Ibuprofen should help bring your fever down."

Once she's swallowed the pills, he turns to the other half of his delivery. "Let's get these on your neck," he settles one washcloth along her nape, "and forehead." She closes her eyes as he lies the second at her hairline. Despite her earlier chills, the cool cloths feel wonderful on her skin.

"I went ahead and called Cedars. We're going straight there." His voice, taut like a rubber band at its breaking point, moves around the room, following a path of drawers sliding, zippers opening, clothes swishing into a bag. "They said between the ibuprofen, washcloths, and A/C in the car, you should be fine for the drive over."

She pries an eye open to watch him dropping a pile of his own t-shirts into an overnight bag. The thought of Andy packing for another of her trips to the hospital — preparing to sleep on hard sofas and subsist on watery coffee and cafeteria sandwiches for God knows how long — leaves tears collecting on her lashes. This isn't what their marriage was supposed to look like.

Turning forward, Sharon busies herself with brushing the moisture from her eyes as he recounts how he secured a two-pronged promise from Rusty: that he'd stop and get dinner on the way home and that he'll wait until tomorrow morning to visit. A drawer slaps shut with particular finality. She blames her fever-scrambled mind for not gathering herself more fully before Andy moves to stand before her.

The duffel falls from his hand to the floor with a faint smack. She presses her eyes closed against the sight of his gray slacks, obscured through a shimmering layer of saltwater.

"What's wrong?"

"I—" Rivulets track down Sharon's cheeks as she shakes her head against the thoughts occupying her mind. I can't do this. I can't keep asking you to do this.

"Babe, hey," He crouches, his voice dropping to her level as his palms draw warm planes up her thighs. "It's gonna be okay."

Unable to form words as she pulls jolting breaths through her nose, she swings her head from side to side again, with more force this time.

"Yeah, yeah it will." Andy's hands wrap to the small of her back, his fingers gently kneading into her muscles. His lips press to her cheek and brush over her skin when he murmurs, "I promise. Just a trip to the hospital and you'll be good as new."

How can he promise? He has no idea — neither of them do — as to when this heart charade of hers is going to end. Her body may decide someday, out of nowhere, that what little remains of her immune system should attack it like a plague. Will she be any more ready to depart then — with her treatment options exhausted — than she was three months ago?

"C'mon." Oblivious to her inner defeatist rant, Andy guides her off the bed. "Let's go check in with Alonzo, see what he has to say." His hand remains a warm weight on her back as he balances the bag on his shoulder, presses a kiss to her hair. "I'm sure it's nothing."

A/N: This marks the final chapter of Resilient!

To anyone who might be worried, I promise I'll never abandon my central reason for starting this story. This bump in the road marks a natural break point, for reasons that will become clear as the next installment starts.

6/2019 update: Thanks to some lovely comments from a reader of this series (hi Amy!) I wanted to post an addendum here to say that yes, there is a sequel to Resilient. It's called "Relentless," and after some consideration I've decided I won't be posting it to FFN, only Archive of our Own. I apologize, I know that's kind of annoying. If interested, the links are posted on my Tumblr, under username notunbrokenwrites.