She clutched his shirt in her hands and she still couldn't meet his eyes. She could feel the blood through the material, soaking her palms and fingers, staining everything a disturbingly striking red. His breath was slow and labored and every few seconds he would give a strangled choke that was thick and wet. "You're gonna be okay." She whispered, barely audible. "You're gonna be okay." It became a lullaby that drifted away on the night's breeze.

It had all happened so fast. They were both running in an instant, pounding away the concrete as they turned corners and whipped around buildings. He was small and springy and ten years younger then either of them but they were on his tail. He had raped three women in the last week and they weren't about to let him get away. Not again. He was ahead of her by a few inches, then a few feet, and eventually he was out of sight. She had burst through the warehouse just as the gunshot rang off the metal walls, resounding with a sickening reality that she just couldn't shake. He was gone and Elliot was on the floor, motionless.

She was shaking now, tears threatening to cascade down her cheeks but she kept them at bay, keeping the firm pressure against his chest. The bullet hadn't passed through, there was no exit wound. Just blood and regret pooling around the two of them. She had radioed for a bus ten minutes ago. Ten minutes of blood. Ten minutes of shock. Ten minutes too long. She couldn't understand what was taking so long and she couldn't understand why she was kneeling next to him either. She still couldn't meet his eyes. In any other case, in any other scenario, she would of been fine to hold his gaze and tell him everything was okay. To reassure and reassess and comfort without words. But she was too unsure of herself. Too frightened. Too deep.

Suddenly hands were clutching her shoulders, pulling away, and she couldn't help but let go of his shirt. She let go and she still couldn't meet his eyes. There were voices now, surrounding them and drowning out the thoughts. There were lights and sirens and footsteps that seemed to appear out of thin air. They hadn't been there before. They should of been there earlier. Cragen was holding her, trying to shake her out of her daze but she just wasn't feeling it. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

"Elliot!" She had screamed and ran to his side, already spotting the growing red from his chest. She didn't care about the suspect, they could grab him later. She called for a bus, immediately, throwing the radio to the ground as she put pressure on his wound. "Stay with me Elliot! Keep your eyes open!" She demanded, reaching a hand around to check his back. The bullet never exited. He was loosing too much blood.

" ... " He whispered.

It had happened exactly thirteen minutes ago and the paramedics still didn't have him strapped down to a table. She wanted to scream at them but she couldn't find her voice. They were talking to one another, glancing at him like he was some form of alien. Like he shouldn't of been there. He shouldn't of, really, he didn't belong on the floor. He belonged behind a desk, or in front of a perp, or beside a victim. Anywhere but the floor. Cragen finally stood to block her gaze, lifting her chin up with his hand. "He's dead, Olivia."

They finally had him on a table, as they draped a blanket over him. It covered him from toe to neck but left his head in plain view. He was tall, too tall for the average blanket. He had always complained about that when he had to sleep in the beds at the squad house. It was either by chance or accident, that they wheeled him directly in front of her as they made their way to the bus. It seemed so slow, as he passed by her one last time. She still couldn't meet his eyes.

"I love you." He had whispered.