It was pure happenstance that had Captain Raydor riding with Chief Johnson to do an interview in Highland Park. Brenda didn't usually bring Sharon along for interviews - but the Chief was desperate to talk to this particular person before the day was out, and as there was no one else to go with her, Sharon was nominated.

Sharon knew her day was taking a turn for the worse when Brenda knocked on the door, identified herself as police, and was answered with gunfire. They crouched, stiff muscled, on either side of the door. Sharon made a quiet call for back up while Brenda rummaged in her purse for her service weapon. After hanging up, Sharon flipped the snap off her pistol and pulled it from the holster.

"Did you notice any back exits from the building?" Brenda hissed quietly.

"No balconies, and we're three stories up," Sharon answered with in a whisper. "I think its safe to assume whomever is shooting at us is still inside."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll take a header out the back window," the blonde snarked, Sharon rolled her eyes and reached out to bang low on the door.

"LAPD, drop your weapon and put your belly on the floor," she bellowed. A bullet punched into the door at about chest level, the metal and particle board straining out against the vertical. "Well, shit," Sharon swore uncharacteristically.

"Drop the gun or we will shoot you," Brenda hollered, exasperated; two more shots rang out and the window she was taking cover beneath exploded in a shower of glass. Sharon clenched her jaw and clamped down on the urge to cry out in sympathy as the smooth skin of Brenda's face and neck was peppered with powered and fragmented glass and crimson blood welled up from dozens of cuts. Brenda merely gritted her teeth and shot an appraising glance towards Sharon. Quickly she rose up to peek through the window and ducked back down again - apparently too fast for the shooter to notice, or perhaps they didn't want to waste bullets.

"One shooter, behind an overturned coffee table - shooting what sounds like a nine mil." She cracked her neck and scraped the hair back from her face with a forearm. "I'm going to open that door," she said firmly. "It isn't even dead bolted. And you Cap'n Sharpshooter, are going to cover me through this window right here."

"You sure? Patrol should be here shortly."

"I can't even hear sirens yet, and any more bullets shot out this window could mean civilian casualties." Brenda moved back so Sharon could take her position beneath the window.

Fairly certain that the door could take a couple of hits, Brenda stood in front of it and shook her arms loose. She gripped the doorknob, turning it very, very slowly, and made eye contact with Sharon. She looked surprisingly calm; face bloodied as it was, Brenda's gaze was level and she winked at Sharon - calm under fire. Sharon always suspected she would be.

"Be ready to go on one, Cap'n," Brenda said and Sharon nodded once and tried to take herself to that place where she went when she was target shooting, serene and unsullied, where the scent of cordite and burnt powder was a comfort instead of a threat.

"3, 2, 1," came the countdown, and in one movement, Sharon popped up from behind the casement and Brenda opened the door. The shooter didn't know which target to choose, and took his shots at Brenda, who was less dangerous, unable to shoot back until the door had opened more. Sharon squeezed the trigger twice. She needn't have - her first bullet hit the shooter nearly square in the temple.

Sharon stood, still aiming, expecting the Chief to move in clear the shooter's weapon.

"Chief?" She queried, not daring to move her eyes from the perp, even though she knew that he was dead; that he was probably missing a large portion of his skull. "Brenda?"

"Fuck," came the familiar, though pained voice from the vicinity of the doorway. Sharon could feel the blood rush from her face. She left her vantage point at the window. Brenda was kneeling on the floor, clutching her abdomen. A hole winked menacingly from the door, an inch or so from the knob. Apparently it wasn't as sound as they thought.

Sharon crouched next to her, pulling her phone from her pocket and blindly pressing the speed dial for dispatch before slipping out of her blazer and balling it up to press against Brenda's belly. There wasn't much blood yet, and there didn't appear to be an exit wound.

"Clear the shooter's weapon, Cap'n," Brenda ordered weakly. Sharon ignored her, guiding the smaller woman to lay back on the tiled entryway; she rucked up her skirt so she could rest the blonde head in her lap.

"Dispatch this is Captain Sharon Raydor, badge number *****, I have a 10-13 at ********. Send a bus ASAP." She hung up without waiting for acknowledgement. Brenda was tugging at her elbow, taking pressure off her wound, still insisting that Sharon clear his weapon.

"Shhhhh. Keep pressure on that." She buried a hand in the soft fabric of her blazer - her favorite blazer, purple wool Armani that she adored because it was so incongruous with her image - and pushed down firmly. "He's not going anywhere. I nearly took his head clean off."

"But it's procedure," Brenda bit out, adamant.

"I wrote the procedures. Just trust me, please. And concentrate on keeping as much of your blood in your body as possible."

Footsteps crunched on the glass outside the apartment door. Two uniformed officers peeked around the jamb, and seeing only the two women, stepped into the doorway and holstered their weapons.

"One suspect down," Sharon said simply. "Bus is on its way for the Chief." The younger patrolman took off back down the stairs, probably to guide the paramedics once they arrived. The other uni, the older one, crept around the edge of the room to take a look at the body, careful not to disturb anything. He let out a low whistle at whatever he saw on the other side of the coffee table.

"Your shot, m'am? Or the Chief's?" He asked.

"Mine. And there's another of my bullets around, but SID will have to find it." Brenda moaned. Her eyes were clenched shut and she was startlingly pale - she was going into shock.

"This hurts like a sumbitch," she groaned and Sharon chuckled, though she felt a tear slip down her cheek.

"How is it that you're shocky and bleeding and still cracking jokes, Brenda?"

"One of us has to keep perspective, 'specially since I'm bleedin' all over your favorite jacket."

"You are much more important than Armani," Sharon said, brushing a strand of hair back from bloodied white skin.

"I'll remind you of this next time I drip soy sauce on your clothes, ok?"

"You can drip all the soy sauce on me that you want, so long as you keep talking to me, Chief."

Brenda grinned wanly up at her, her lips chalk white. "I don't know that I can do that Cap'n; I'm pretty sure I'm gonna pass out any second now. Will you do me a favor though, Cap'n?"

"Anything."

"Talk to my parents, once you know what's going on with me. And don't let them call Fritz."

"Of course," Sharon promised.

"Don't leave me," whispered Brenda suddenly, eyes wild and wide. "Don't leave me." She slid into unconsciousness.

"I won't." Sharon swiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks. "For fuck's sake, where is that bus?" She shouted, startling the uniform who was standing quietly in an out of the way corner.

Sharon was intimately familiar with procedure - procedure dictated that she stay at the scene of her action until the initial interview with FID had taken place, but Sharon was realizing that sometimes reality conflicted with procedure in a serious way. First of all, she WAS FID. And because of this, an outside investigator would be assigned to this case by the Inspector General, and she wasn't waiting around at the scene for hours, staring at a pool of Brenda's blood, because her best friend was being loaded into a bus headed to Cedars for emergency surgery on a penetrating gut wound. Brenda was her only friend, and she was fairly certain that she was Brenda's only friend that wasn't also under her direct command. Decision made, she shouldered aside a paramedic and hopped into the bus.

"Send the investigator to Cedars for my interview when he's through here," she shouted to incident commander - one of her Lieutenants, waiting for now, as he was instructed to touch nothing. He nodded, and the heavy ambulance doors slammed in her face.

Sharon held Brenda's hand in the ambulance; it comforted her even if the blonde was not conscious to appreciate the contact, or shake it off. The paramedic monitored her vitals - Brenda's heartbeat was steady, now that she wasn't awake to feel the pain of the wound, and her blood pressure was fair with the pressure bandage taped heavily over the hastily disinfected site.

"I don't think the bullet penetrated very far," the paramedic, Rogers, his nametag read, said, not really out of the blue, but startling against the backdrop of the beep of the heart monitor and the wail of the siren.

"It went through the door first," Sharon acknowledged.

"I'm not a doctor, but I have been doing this a while, and there doesn't seem to be any disruption of the organs - bowel or otherwise. She has quite a bit of muscle on her abdomen, and that really slowed the projectile down, even after the door." He was right about Brenda's stomach; Sharon would be impressed by the lean planes of Brenda's torso in any other circumstance.

"She runs a lot, and does hand to hand two or three mornings a week, especially now..." Especially now that Fritz is gone, she was going to say, but didn't.

"She's strong and in excellent shape, and unless I missed my guess entirely about the bullet, she's going to be just fine. Gastric and vascular attendings are on standby - she'll be taken into the OR as soon as we get there. Recovery is going to suck, but she'll be fine." He was trying to reassure her, Sharon knew. She couldn't imagine what her face looked like at that moment - she must look devastated, not anything like her normal, collected self if this man was taking the time to comfort her. Then again, Brenda had been honored by the fire department for tracking down the man who had killed two paramedics a few years before, and subsequently preventing him from turning their memorial into a massacre. Sharon had attended the small ceremony where the fire Chief had pinned a service medal on Brenda's dress blues, slipping in the back, not in uniform to watch, proud even after the announcement of Delk as the new Chief of Police, even after having to turn Brenda's actions inside out for her OIS investigation. LAFD felt they owed Brenda a debt, and would probably always treat her with more respect than her own department.

The paramedic turned away then, to dab gently at the cuts on Brenda's face, giving Sharon a measure of privacy. She let herself cry, cradling Brenda's limp hand to her cheek and pressing her lips into it's palm.

Flynn and Gabriel had rushed into the private surgical waiting room that Sharon had commandeered about 30 minutes after they had wheeled Brenda into surgery. Andy's brow furrowed at the sight of her, hunched on a chair. She didn't know why - she had become an ubiquitous presence in the Chief's life since Pope's departure in a cloud of shame. The new Chief, and Taylor, who had been bumped to assistant, were happy to let Brenda operate with light guidance, from Taylor himself and from Sharon. The two men slumped into seats and looked expectantly at her.

"They'll send someone out as soon as they know something substantive," she said, and curled in on herself, staring at the ugly industrial carpet. Andy shot David a glance, and Daivd left the room to make a call to the rest of the team.

Sharon didn't notice Andy taking the seat next to her. She was shivering a little in the overly chilled interior of the hospital, arms bare in her sleeveless shell. She was picking absentmindedly at a crust of blood under a cuticle, not really seeing what her fingers were doing.

"Captain, are you alright?" He asked, and Sharon shook her head 'no', wringing her hands. "Can I get you anything?"

"I don't..." Sharon looked up at him, feeling utterly helpless.

"Anything at all?"

"Um, I have some clean sweats in my car at HQ. Could someone bring them? There are keys in my top right desk drawer."

"Of course. Sanchez is coming over in about an hour - can he get you something to eat, too?"

"No," Sharon said blankly. "No, I don't think I could eat anything. Not until I know that she's going to be ok." Andy gave her a sad smile, more of a grimace actually.

"I'm going to go see if I can't liberate something from the nurses station to clean your hands." Sharon looked down at her hands, and swallowed hard, like she was seeing them for the first time. She swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat.

"Oh, oh, please." She held them stiffly in front of her and turned her head, unable to look at the rust of Brenda's blood flaking on her skin.

"I'll be right back," he promised, and sped away. As soon as the door shut behind Andy, Sharon took in a strangled breath, and then her fear and despair erupted from her lungs and out her mouth in a wounded keen. She slid from her chair and crumpled to the floor, sobbing and unable to bury her face in her hands.

Gabriel eyed her through the narrow window in the door, though he didn't come in. She could see him hovering, wide eyed, at the edges of her peripheral vision, and realized she didn't care that her pain seemed unwarranted to Brenda's people, that she didn't care who saw her grieving and scared.

Flynn rushed back through the door, probably urged on by Gabriel, his hands full of individually packaged wet-wipes. Gabriel didn't enter with him, but continued his vigil outside the waiting room. Andy didn't say anything, just knelt next to her, gently took one of her hands in his and cleaned the blood from it. As he repeated the process on the other, she continued to cry, silently now, not looking at him or her stained skin. When he was through, he gathered up the mass of used wipes and dumped them in the trashcan, and then cleaned his own hands with the last of the lemon scented squares.

Sharon pushed herself back into the chair and looked up at him, she wanted to explain, but needed to talk to Brenda first. Needed to tell Brenda what she was feeling, and how empty the world felt with even the possibility of her absence.

"Thank you," she croaked instead of saying anything substantive, and then steadied herself. There were a few things she need to tell him, important things that would ease the passing of the next few hours. "Before she passed out, the Chief told me that no one is to call Fritz. I know that's a bit of a no brainer, but there you have it. And as soon as we know her condition, I'll call Clay and Willie Rae - I might need some backup to keep them from getting on a plane."

"I think we can handle that

"The Inspector General's investigator will be coming here to interview me - I expect him any second," she said, meeting Andy's eyes, hoping she could convey her seriousness despite the fact that her face had to be ravaged by tears.

"You need to let him, Andy. And he probably won't be very nice, considering that I left the scene of my action. I'll handle him, ok? I'll probably end up with a week or ten day rip for not following procedure, but it was a good shoot, so everything will be ok as long as you let me handle it." He nodded, though his expression was skeptical.

"Trust me, please. I don't mind the unpaid leave - it means I'll be able to stay here with her, and maybe help with the her recovery some, ok?"

"Crafty," he said simply, and she managed a bare smile.

"And if she needs I can always delay my interview with behavioral sciences - I want to help her with this." She could feel herself trembling with some emotion she couldn't quite name and she closed her eyes, willing her muscles to still. She felt a cloth weight settle around her shoulder and the smell of Brüt tickled her nostrils - Andy's blazer. She slid her arms into the too long sleeves and wrapped it tightly around her torso.

"Thank you," she said again.

Now Sharon was playing the waiting game. She'd had her interview - it hadn't been as hostile as she'd been expecting. Apparently riding to the hospital with an injured police officer had the assigned investigator thinking 'exception' when it came to official censure, but Sharon had practically insisted on it. The only exceptions Sharon had included in the procedure for an OIS was if the shooting officer was involved in heroic lifesaving measures, or was (of course) in need of medical attention themselves. So she was assured of at least a week of unpaid leave.

Mid-interview, a doctor had come to speak with her and Gabriel and Flynn and Sanchez. The paramedic's predictions had been correct; the Chief would be just fine, but would be hospitalized for a few days to be sure that infection would not set in. The doctor had predicted that Brenda would be in recovery in two hours, maybe less, and that another doctor would be out to speak to them then.

Leaving the investigator to wait, she had dutifully made the call to Clay and Willie Rae, who had been upset and worried, but surprisingly all right that Sharon was handling things. Willie Rae had even advised Sharon on best practices for nursing a cranky, pained Brenda Leigh, though Sharon wasn't really shocked by any of her recommendations.

After completing her statement and sending the investigator on his way (she had stressed that he should probably clear the scene or Major Crimes would start getting testy; they would want to have something for their Chief when she got out of surgery), Sharon wiped off her makeup, pulled on her sweats and curled up on the uncomfortable little love seat in the waiting room.

The boys seemed determined to give Sharon her privacy, for some reason, though she couldn't really fathom why. At least she hadn't gotten any more weird stares, though all three of the detectives had looked mildly surprised when she had returned from changing in the bathroom, hair pulled back, face washed clean of makeup, in fleece pants, Stanford hoodie and a pair of Uggs. Sharon figured the strange looks she'd gotten earlier from had been because her makeup had been streaked across her face from crying, giving her a strange kabuki mask in the rain look, and that paired with her bloodshot eyes, made for a ghoulish appearance. So comfortable physically, and practically crawling out of her skin mentally, Sharon waited.

And waited. And waited. Occasionally Andy would pop his head in and check on her, and she could see him and Gabriel pacing past through the little window in the door. Finally, two and a half hours after the doctor's initial report, the trauma surgeon came out to pow-wow with them in the waiting room. He was optimistic - expecting the Chief to be awake within an hour - but warned that with stomach wounds there was always a danger of infection, and that her hospital stay might be a little longer due to the danger. He also warned that Brenda would probably cranky as the dickens for a while, probably until the muscle began to knit back together.

"She's had abdominal surgery before - she's crankier when she doesn't get her sugar fix in the mornings," Flynn deadpanned. "Besides, it's the Captain here who's going to have to deal with any moodiness." The surgeon looked at Sharon, and seem surprised to see a mature woman peeking out from beneath the hood of the oversized sweatshirt.

"Oh, are you her spouse?" He asked curiously. No one batted an eye, but Sharon hesitated, not really knowing how to answer that. Andy jumped into the pause:

"More like the whipping boy," he joked and Sharon glared at him. "Girl. Woman," he scrambled to correct himself.

"Might want to zip it before she punches you, Andy," Gabriel murmured not quite under his breath. Sharon rolled her eyes.

"When can we see her, doctor?" Was what Sharon wanted to know.

"As soon as she's out of recovery and in a regular room, a nurse will come get you." Sharon thanked the doctor and he excused himself.

Andy and Flynn conferenced while Sharon stepped away to make a call to Brenda's parents. Willie Rae picked up the phone before the first ring had even finished.

"She's out of surgery," Sharon said in greeting, and heard Willie Rae's relieved sigh over the line.

"What'd the doctors say, dear?"

"She's going to be here for a few days, and she's going to be hurting, but she's going to be ok." Sharon's voice trembled as she said the words to Brenda's mother, and she swallowed convulsively to keep from crying agin.

"Thank goodness. I have to confess that Clay has been pricing flights out to L.A. for tomorrow or the next day - are you sure you're comfortable takin' care of Brenda Leigh? Don't you have to work?" Willie Rae was curious, but Sharon didn't know how much she should tell her. Brenda's mother was routinely horrified by the cases her daughter investigated, she probably wouldn't appreciate knowing the particulars of why Sharon had some free time on her hands.

"Taking care of Brenda is pretty second nature to me anymore, Willie Rae," Sharon confessed quietly.

"As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure. Maybe you could plan to come out for a few days in a couple weeks - when Brenda is feeling better, but not back to work yet. She'll be a captive audience."

Willie Rae chuckled at Sharon's suggestion. "I like the way you think, Sharon."

"Don't you dare tell her it was my idea!"

"I would never!" Exclaimed the older woman conspiratorially. "Have Brenda Leigh give us a call when she's feelin' up to it."

"Definitely. And thank you for trusting me to look after your daughter."

"She's lucky to have someone like you to care for her, Sharon, dear." Willie Rae said sincerely, then said her goodbyes and hung up.

When Sharon finished her conversation, Flynn and Gabriel sidled over to her.

"David is going to go get us some dinner and then head home," Andy stated.

"Andy's vote is for soup and sandwich. Do you have any preference, Captain?"

"That sounds ok." Sharon's stomach was beginning to unknot now that Brenda was safely out of surgery - she knew that if she didn't put something in her stomach, she would be feeling it in a few hours. She was already feeling the effects of the adrenaline and worry; exhaustion was creeping up on her, darkening the edges of her vision.

Sharon placed an order for chicken noodle and a grilled cheese, Andy chose vegetable barley and the same, and David left, ever dutiful, to pick up the food. Andy excused himself to go fetch the casual clothes and dopp kit he kept in the trunk of his car.

Sharon and Andy shared a quiet meal after David bid them goodnight - he'd be back at 8 am to stay or run errands or whatever. Sharon hoped that Brenda would be awake by then.

Sharon was slurping down the last of her soup when a nurse popped her head into the room to give them Brenda's room number. They threw away their trash, gathered up their bags and left the waiting room.

Sharon hesitated before entering the private room that the Chief occupied; Andy crashed into her back and propelled them both into the darkened space.

"Sorry," he whispered. He didn't stay, just dropped his small bag in a corner and left to prop up a wall in the hallway. Sharon tucked her things next to his and finally let her eyes come to rest on the woman in the bed.

Brenda wasn't a big woman, but in the hospital bed, she looked positively tiny. Aside from the cuts on her face, it appeared that she was fine, merely sleeping. Sharon was struck by how fragile life was - the delicate balance of a body that was blood and bone and flesh powered by its own electrical currents; how the slightest imbalance could lead to death, and Brenda had been hit by a projectile that was meant to maim and kill.

She took a seat in the bulky recliner next to the bed, and grasped Brenda's hand, the one free of IV and tape, in her own. Brenda had small hands with stubby fingers, a marked contrast to her own broad palms and long fingers; it was easy to engulf that capable hand in her own. She placed a kiss on Brenda's knuckles, and bent to rest her head and shoulders on the mattress. Sharon fell asleep to the muted beep of the heart monitor, pacing out the steady beats of Brenda's heart.

Sharon was dreaming of someone playing with her hair. Gentle fingers separated the strands and played over her scalp. She purred, a low noise of approval and appreciation, and opened her eyes. It wasn't a dream. Brenda was awake and watching her with dark, slightly glassy eyes. Lifting her head, Sharon blushed, but didn't pull away.

"Hey," Sharon asked in a voice roughened by sleep and tears. "How do you feel?"

"Drugged," croaked Brenda. "Uncomfortable. But strangely happy."

"Happy? How's that?"

"You're here. You have very soft hair."

"And that makes you happy?" Sharon was a little confused, but Brenda seemed more than a little loopy.

"You make me happy," Brenda confessed with a beatific smile and Sharon's heart fluttered. She smiled back and opened her mouth to make a confession of her own. Brenda interrupted her.

"No, don't say it now. Wait till I can remember it, please."

"How do you know what I want to say?"

"I can see it, in your eyes. Finally," she huffed with a cheeky grin.

"Oh, that's how it's going to be, then," Sharon sassed back.

"Maybe. If you're always tardy to the party." Brenda laughed at her own bad joke then groaned. "Oh god I shouldn't laugh." She sought out Sharon's hand and squeezed it; her face a shade paler than it had been a moment ago. Sharon's brow knit together in worry and she kissed the back of Brenda's white knuckled hand. Brenda beamed at her again, through whatever pain she was feeling.

"I love you," Sharon mouthed soundlessly, then kissed Brenda's hand again, uncurling her fingers from their grip to place her lips on Brenda's soft palm.

"Me too," said Brenda. "You cheated though," she groused. "You weren't supposed to tell me yet." Sharon smiled and laid her head back on the bed, gratified when Brenda's fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck and resumed combing through the thick mass.