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SESSION 1

"Mr. McCoy? Dr. Schock will see you now."

Standing, McCoy gathered up his magazine and moved unwillingly toward the door marked 'Christine Schock.' Nudging it open, he saw a small office containing a desk, an overstuffed chair and a small sofa. A potted plant stood in the corner and lamplight warmed the space.

"Mr. McCoy?" A petite black woman--she barely came up to his shoulder--stood and offered her hand. When he didn't take it, she changed it to a gesture encompassing the office. "Please, have a seat wherever you're comfortable."

McCoy lowered himself stiffly onto the edge of the chair and watched as Schock jotted a note.

"All right, Mr. McCoy," she began pleasantly, "tell me about yourself."

He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "My father was a violent alcoholic," he began tersely. "He used to beat my mother--and me, too, sometimes. He died in 1986 of lung cancer. But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm here because my boss thinks the fact that my stalker tried to kill me has had an effect on me. He won't let me go back to work until I 'talk to someone.'"

"You seem upset about that."

"I'm insulted. I'm perfectly capable of regulating myself." He leaned back in the chair and regarded her with open hostility, daring her to make the next move. Unperturbed, she responded,

"Of course ... we'll just have a conversation, then."

He wasn't buying it. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Tell me about yourself. Not the bad things ... just tell me about yourself. These charts are pretty sterile."

He remained defiantly silent.

"Okay, you tell me what you want to talk about, then."

"I don't."

"I don't think that was given as an option."

A muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Don't get mad at me. I'm not the one who said you had to come here."

"I hate shrinks."

"Why?"

He glared at her. "No. It's not that easy."

She took a breath and slowly exhaled. "As I understand what you have told me, you don't get to go back to work until you've talked it over with someone. So talk to me. Why do you hate shrinks?"

For a moment, she though he was still going to refuse to answer. Then, he looked away. "A shrink kept my stalker out of jail," he said softly. "If I'd been able to convict her of murder seven years ago, she wouldn't have been able to shoot me last October."

"What was the problem?"

"Seven years ago? The little darling was ten." McCoy looked coldly furious. "We told the judge that she was a serial killer we'd simply caught early ... we were right. This girl was damaged goods then and--well, she killed herself in jail, so she's not a threat to anyone now, I suppose. But Liz--ah, the shrink--didn't want to 'throw in the towel' on a child."

"You know this psychiatrist?"

"Psychologist. And yes, I do. She's ... done some work for the DA's office." He shook his head angrily. "At the time, she was working as a victim's advocate. This girl was never a victim . She was a predator."

Schock asked hesitantly, "Who had she killed?"

"A seven-year-old boy named Aaron Polansky. She bought him a pretzel to lure him out of his apartment and beat his skull in with a rock." He rubbed one hand across his face. "This is one that comes back to me when I can't sleep."

She made another note. "And how have you been sleeping recently?"

It seemed once again that he wouldn't answer. Then, he grimaced. "I haven't."

"What else do you think about when you can't sleep?"

"Other cases ... various general failures ... you know, the kinds of things normal people think about when they can't sleep."

"You don't think about having been shot?"

"I try not to," he replied coolly.

"Do you think maybe you should?"

"Nothing good comes from brooding about how I almost died."

Schock took a moment to make a notation and regroup. "I see youre from Chicago. Bulls fan?"

He looked at her oddly. "Why do you want to know that?"

"We're just having a conversation."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to establish rapport. I don't want to establish rapport. The only reason I'm here is because my boss said I have to be."

"All right, we'll stick to business, then. Tell me about this stalker."

"She killed herself. End of story."

"Then start at the beginning of the story."

He glared at the carpet for a moment, then began unwillingly, "She started out just by calling me...."

SESSION 2

"Your shoulder still bothers you?" Schock asked.

"I was shot in the back three times," McCoy responded sarcastically. "The surgeon had to put three pins in my left shoulder blade to hold it together. What do you think?"

"You're a basketball player, aren't you?"

Something flitted across his face before the sarcasm came back, far more heavily. "Not at the moment."

"Do you want to tell me how you feel about that?"

"No."

She turned regarded him candidly for a moment. "Are we going to go through this every time you come here?"

"Go through what?" he asked resentfully.

This ... battle ... to get you to open up."

"Look, I know what I think, I know how I feel, I understand how the two are related, I'm pretty good at discerning other people's motives, and I'll work through it on my own."

"Yes," she responded sardonically. "You've done such a fine job of that to date that your boss ordered you to get help. Talk to me, Mr. McCoy. Tell me how much you hate my guts, if nothing else."

That surprised a faint smile out of him. "I thought we covered that last time, actually." He hesitated. "And call me Jack."

She suppressed a smile and nodded. "All right, Jack, are you ready to let me in on the secret of how youre feeling?"

"Pretty spectacularly lousy, actually."

She waited. After a moment, he exhaled and said,

"All right. You asked me about basketball. This--was the day before Arthur sent me home...."

-------------

"You told the police he was here." McCoy thrust his hands into his coat pockets and glared at their witness. "Now you say he wasn't. Which is it, Mr. McIntyre?"

The bespeckled man before them shrugged irritably. "I don't know ... maybe it was the day before. I don't remember."

"You 'don't remember?'" McCoy repeated. "What do you mean, you don't remember? Would your memory come back if I charged you with hindering prosecution? That's a felony, sir. You'll lose your license."

McIntyre exhaled hard. "Okay, it was the day before. He wasn't here."

McCoys expression set. "Did he ask you to lie for him?" he pressed.

McIntyre chewed his lip. "No," he replied. "Look, I've known Charlie Pepler since junior high. I didn't want to jam the guy up."

"You didn't have to," Rubirosa chimed in. "He did that on his own."

"We'll be calling you to the grand jury," McCoy added. "And if you lie to them, you will be charged."

As they walked away, Rubirosa eyed McIntyre. "I still don't understand why anyone would stick up for a murderer," she commented disgustedly.

"Denial," McCoy replied distractedly. His attention had been captured by several teens inside the fence, playing basketball. "Guilt by association." He watched the teens forlornly for a few minutes.

"Jack? Are you all right?"

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the fence. "Fine," he mumbled. "Connie ... my shoulder hurts ... do you think you can go back to the office and get started without me?"

"Yeah," she replied softly. "No problem. Go home ... take care of yourself." She touched his good arm and turned away.

-------------

"What did you do then?" Schock asked.

"Went back to my apartment, took a hot shower, and crawled into bed," McCoy replied sadly. "I've played competitive basketball since seventh grade. Now I can't even make a shot if I stand directly under the basket."

"How do you feel about that?"

He gave her a disgusted look. "I'm not happy about it."

She smiled faintly. "You're still not going to talk about your feelings?"

"No."

"I'm sure your game will come back, with time ... and with practice," she ventured. He shook his head.

"No, it won't. Not like it was." He looked down. "I can't even walk fast without worrying my lung will collapse again."

"That happened a couple of months ago, right?"

He nodded, faintly embarrassed. "In the courtroom, of all places."

-------------

"The official cause of death is organ failure," Rodgers said. Seated on the witness stand, she was in her going-to-court navy suit.

"And what caused the organ failure?" McCoy asked.

"Massive quantities of lead in his system."

"Do you know--where--" McCoy stopped. There was a sudden, sharp pain in the right side of his chest. He tried to take a breath, but he felt as though a pillow had been pressed over his face. Panicked, he looked to Rodgers.

"Jack?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"Counsel approach," Judge Bradley ordered. McCoy, Rubirosa and Galliano obeyed, McCoy leaning against the bench for support. Bradley asked, "What's the problem, Mr. McCoy?"

"I can't breathe," McCoy responded, a hand pressed against his chest.

"Bailiff, take the jury out," Bradley snapped as McCoys knees buckled. He slid down until he was sitting on the step before the bench, still leaning hard against it.

"Hang on, Jack," Rubirosa said, gently rubbing his shoulder, and Rodgers was suddenly beside him.

"Breathe," the medical examiner ordered, pressing her hands around his chest. He tried to inhale, and she shook her head and released him. "Try to relax. Then breathe."

"Liz, I feel like I'm drowning," he panted. "You relax."

He closed his eyes, so he didn't see the grim look that passed between Rodgers and Rubirosa. He felt when Rodgers hands resumed their places: one on his chest, the other on his back.

"I'll call Arthur," Rubirosa said, and he heard her footsteps recede.

"Your lung may have collapsed," Rodgers said after several moments. "Do you feel any pain?"

He hesitated, then nodded, indicating his right side.

"Paramedics are on their way," someone reported from outside the immediate circle.

"Is there a blanket somewhere?" Rodgers asked over her shoulder.

"I'll go find one," someone else said.

McCoy lost track of things for a few minutes. The next thing he knew, Rodgers was shaking his shoulder.

"Jack? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," he responded weakly.

"The paramedics are here ... do you think you can stand? Just long enough to get on the gurney."

He blinked a few times and tried to take a breath ... which reminded him why he was sitting there in the first place. "I'll try." And, gathering himself, he managed to force himself to his feet.

"Easy does it," Rodgers murmured, steadying him. "Just a couple of steps ... good...." Someone else took his other arm and they eased him down until he was lying on the gurney. He closed his eyes again as a blanket was draped over him.

"Are you all right?" a woman he didn't know asked. "Warm enough?"

"Fine," he replied tiredly.

"What happened?" a man asked.

"His lung may have collapsed," Rodgers replied. "He was shot through that lung about four months ago."

"Oh." Something heavy was settled against his legs and footsteps approached his head. "Mr. McCoy? Can you lift your head for me? I've got oxygen for you. It'll help you feel better." He felt a mask being pressed over his nose and mouth and obediently lifted his head. The elastic was eased into place and he settled back. A moment later, the gurney--with him on it--was hoisted and they began moving.

-------------

"You were in the hospital for a week, right?"

McCoy nodded slowly. He was absently rubbing the scar from the chest tube. "It took several days for the rupture to heal," he replied. "And the doctors had to make sure all the air had been evacuated from the pleural space."

"I don't suppose youre going to tell me how you felt about that?" Schock asked.

"No."

SESSION 4

"Tell me about your love life."

Schock sensed his drawing back. "What do you want to know?" he asked warily.

"Well, I don't need details, if that's what you're worried about," she retorted. "Just ... how this has affected it. You told me you broke it off with Cynthia while you were being stalked."

"I'm ... not currently seeing anyone, if that's what you mean."

"And how long has that been going on?"

He sighed and leaned forward, weaving his fingers into his hair. "It's been a while since I've been on a date," he admitted. "I suppose the last one was after my lung collapsed...."

-------------

"Liz? Could I treat you to dinner tonight?" McCoy clenched his hands in his pockets. Rodgers glanced back at him, surprised.

"What brought that on?"

"You saved my life. I'd like to thank you properly."

She considered that for several long seconds. "Sure, why not?"

He smiled. "Great. I'll pick you up around five-thirty. We can see a show afterwards." He started to leave and hesitated. "Do you have a preference as to the place we go?"

"How about Italian?"

He smiled again. "Italian's good. I'll see you around five-thirty."

************

When he arrived at her door promptly at five-thirty, she met him there. He was in his best, charcoal-gray suit. Eyeing her chocolate-brown sleeveless satin dress, he nodded. "You look very nice," he commented.

"Well, thank you." She was well aware that this was more than a simple expression of gratitude, and she was rather enjoying watching him act like a teenager on a first date. "Just let me get my coat."

Properly attired, they descended to street level and into the cab he had waiting. "Bella Flora," he ordered, and she raised her eyebrows appreciatively.

"Going all-out?" she asked as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"Why not?"

They had a very nice meal, during which she was flattered by the attention he paid her. Afterwards, they went to the Ambassador Theater--he'd managed to wrangle tickets to Chicago. As they left the theater, laughing, he put his arm around her, and as it was cold, she leaned gratefully into the embrace.

"Was it just me, or did the leading lady look a lot like ... ah, Tracey Kibre?" Rodgers asked mischievously, and he laughed. A few steps later, he stopped.

"Liz," he said. She turned to face him. There was a peculiar intensity in his expression.

"What?"

"Thank you." He leaned in and kissed her quickly, uncertainly. Startled, she searched his face.

"Moving a little fast, arent we?" she asked sardonically.

-------------

"So, she cut you off?" Schock asked.

"She did that time." He looked thoughtful. "I--we dated a few more times. She finally wore down ... we both knew it wasn't a healthy relationship."

-------------

Stepping out of the theater into a brisk wind, McCoy winced and wrapped his coat tightly around himself. He tried breathing deeply, but that didn't really help.

"You okay?" Rodgers asked sympathetically.

"I will be once we get out of the wind," he lied.

"Well, come on," she said, tugging on his arm, "we'll get a cab. Put that away."

He slipped the prescription vial back into his pocket. "Liz--"

"You're not taking a narcotic in public on an empty stomach. How long have you been on that, anyway?"

"The hospital put me back on it after my lung collapsed."

She glared at him. "You're hooked."

-------------

"Were you?" Schock interrupted. "Addicted?"

He grimaced. "Apparently," he admitted. "Getting off of it was ... not pleasant."

-------------

Rodgers closed McCoy's office door with enough force to set the blinds swinging. She looked thoroughly irate. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What are you talking about?" McCoy snapped back. He shuffled the files on his desk to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

"I get in to the office this morning and my assistant hands me a message from your assistant to...." She looked at the message in her hand. "Quote, 'get your boyfriend under control.' I suppose that's you. What the hell is your problem?"

He slammed the file down, wincing as his knuckles hit the desk and sent a shock up through his shoulder. "I'm in pain," he shot back. "What do you think? You're the one who took away my painkillers."

"I took your painkillers because you were abusing them," she responded defensively, stiffly lowering herself onto the couch. "I also told you to go see your doctor."

"She's busy." He leaned on the desk, making a point of looking for a pen. When he glanced at her, she was watching him with a troubled expression. "What now?"

"Your hands are shaking."

"Because I'm in pain."

"No, I don't think so." She examined his face critically. "You're sweaty, your'e shaking, and you're irritable. Dammit, Jack, you should be in the hospital."

"No. I am not going back into the hospital."

"Well, you definitely shouldn't be here," she retorted. They glared at each other for a moment before she relented. "Come on. I'll take you home."

-------------

"You went?"

"Eventually. We argued for another five minutes before Arthur stormed into my office and kicked me out." He looked embarrassed. "I hate to think how bad I could have been if I hadn't been dating a doctor."

-------------

"All right, McCoy, let's get you into bed," Rodgers said resignedly, steering him into his apartment.

"There's something we've been avoiding," he remarked suggestively.

"I'm not planning to get in it with you."

"Damn." He flinched as a particularly strong spasm went through his chest. Spotting his expression, she began pushing him toward his bedroom. He tried to help in taking off his suit, but wasnt terribly successful. By the time Rodgers got him stripped down to his underwear and into bed, he was shaking so badly that she was afraid to leave.

"Dammit, Jack," she muttered and picked up the phone. "Hey, Borak, I'm not going to be back for a while ... yeah, he's detoxing and I don't want to leave him yet."

"I'm not detoxing," McCoy protested sulkily.

"No, you're just shaky and sweaty and irritable--and nauseous--by coincidence."

If he could have answered without vomiting, he would have. As it was, he clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. A moment later, he heard the curtains being pulled closed and a weight settled on the bed near his feet.

"All right, Mr. I'm-not-hooked," she said grimly, "I'm not leaving until I'm convinced that you're not going to have a heart attack or a seizure. And if you lose consciousness, you're going to the hospital."

"Fine," he gritted.

-------------

"And how long did the symptoms last?"

"I was lucky," McCoy admitted. "They were only bad for the one day. Liz stayed with me overnight...."

-------------

Exhausted, McCoy curled up under the covers and let his eyes drift closed. The nausea and shaking had finally subsided, leaving him drained.

"Better?" Rodgers asked quietly.

He managed a nod.

"You think you can keep down some orange juice?"

"I don't have any orange juice."

"You do now."

"Thought you weren't leaving."

"The bodega's just around the corner. It didn't take that long. Do you want any or not?"

With effort, he turned onto his back. She was sitting in the chair next to the bed, a glass of orange juice at her elbow. He found himself unexpectedly touched at the gesture. "I ... ah ... thank you."

She smiled faintly. "Here, I'll help you sit up."

He needed the help. He felt so lethargic that he could barely push back the blanket. Eventually, he was sitting upright against the headboard. Rodgers sat beside him, one arm supporting him, the other holding the glass to his lips.

When the juice was gone, he laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. "You smell nice," he murmured languidly.

"Thank you," she replied sardonically.

He moved slightly and kissed her quickly on the cheek. She stiffened slightly.

"Stop it, Jack."

He did, but he snuggled against her instead. His breathing steadied and deepened almost immediately. She shook her head slightly and resigned herself to being his pillow for the time being.

By the time he was stirring again, shed come to a decision. "Jack?"

"Hmm?" He was still half-asleep.

"Jack, wake up."

After a moment, he withdrew his arms and propped himself up on his elbow. "What?"

"This was a mistake."

He stiffened. "What are you talking about?"

"This." She gestured, indicating the bed, the room, and maybe the universe at large. "I should never have agreed to this."

"To what? I didn't ask you to come here."

She sat up, dropping one leg to the floor. "No, but--" She cut herself off with a gesture of frustration. "I shouldn't have gotten involved with you. I know better."

He looked away, wounded. "Meaning what, exactly?"

She reached out and stroked his hair. "Meaning you're hurt and you're vulnerable. I should have known where it could lead."

"So this is all your doing? I seem to recall being an enthusiastic participant."

She regarded him compassionately. "Yes, but you can't convince me that you're back to normal. I've known you too long."

"You're treating me like I'm too young to know any better," he observed bitterly.

"I don't mean to." She sighed and rested one hand on the back of his neck. "Look, you've nearly died twice in the last year. It's screwing with your emotions and with your reason. You know it is." She stopped to gather her thoughts.

"You think I'm a head case?" he asked, his voice gaining a hard edge, and she shook her head wryly.

"You're too analytical to become a head case. I do think you need to take some time and sort through what you're feeling. Until you do ... I can't be this for you, and I can't do this to you. I think I should go home."

He turned away, defeated.

"Jack...."

"No, you're right." Dejected, he closed his eyes, trying to hide his hurt. "You can't build a meaningful relationship on hero-worship. I'll ... you're right."

"Jack ... I care about you. Don't forget that."

He offered a crooked smile. "I won't."

She gave him a last kiss before leaving.

-------------

"And that was it, then?" Schock asked.

"Yes," McCoy replied. "I told you, we both knew it wasn't a healthy relationship."

The restaurant was small and out of the way, which was why McCoy liked it. He'd discovered it almost by accident some twenty years earlier, and it had managed to stay in business since. When he bothered to think about it, McCoy had to wonder how--it was rare that there were more than two other customers when he came in.

Today, however, he wasn't thinking about it. He was looking forward to good food and the laid back atmosphere that allowed for long conversations. He waved a greeting to Linus at the bar as he was shown to his regular table near the back. "Another gentleman will be joining me," he told the hostess.

"I'll bring him back when he gets here," she promised. "Would you like a menu?"

"I don't need one, but Adam might." And he sat back to wait. Less than five minutes had passed before the hostess escorted Adam Schiff back to the table.

"I'll give you a few minutes to look over the menu, then I'll be back to take your order," the hostess stated, and vanished. Schiff looked questioningly at McCoy.

"Lil and her husband own the place. He's the cook and she ... does everything else.

"Ah." Schiff began perusing the menu. "I'm surprised youre not at the office," he commented tersely.

"Arthur kicked me out for a while," McCoy explained. "He decided I wasn't dealing well with the fact that I nearly died."

Schiff snorted. "I imagine he was right." He glanced over the menu. "And how are you dealing recently?"

"Better," McCoy responded. "I've been in therapy."

Schiff looked stunned.

"Arthur threatened to require a note from my doctor before he'd let me come back."

"Is that what it takes." Coming to a decision, Schiff folded the menu and looked candidly across the table. "Have you thought about retiring?"

SESSION 7

"What's wrong?"

McCoy eyed the psychiatrist. "Connie called me this morning," he replied. "One of my cases has just been remanded for a new trial."

"And you want to prosecute," Schock extended.

"I'm not the one who screwed up. The appellate court determined that Judge Pongracic committed reversible error." At her look, he had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. "Yes, I want to prosecute. I convicted him the first time; I can convict him again."

"And how do you feel about Jenny Brandt not getting convicted?" she asked carefully.

"She's dead," he replied flatly.

"And how--"

"I'm not discussing this."

Schock wasn't really surprised. She made a note and changed the subject. "I'd like to talk a little more about the day you were shot," she said. "Is that okay with you?"

"That depends on what you want to know."

"Why were you leaving the office in the middle of the afternoon?"

He snorted. "Bob Gervitz."

"Who?"

"Bob Gervitz. He's an assistant US Attorney. We ... well, we hate each other."

-------------

McCoy reached for the phone on his desk, which was buzzing for an internal call. "Yeah?" he barked, and listened. Replacing the receiver, he said, "Arthur wants to see us."

Rubirosa glanced at the door leading to Branch's office. "Did he say why?"

"No." Standing, he pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on. Rubirosa preceded him across the hall.

As soon as he stepped into Branch's office, McCoy stopped dead. His eyes darkened. "No," he snapped.

"Jack--" Branch started, exasperated, but that was as far as he got.

"No," McCoy repeated, more forcefully. He spun on his heel and left. Reaching his own office, he pulled his coat off the rack hard enough to send the hanger spinning to the floor and bolted--he didn't care if Branch fired him; he just wanted out. Fuming, he headed directly for the stairwell.

He made it to the street without being aware of it and turned uptown, away from the courthouse. Someone behind him yelled, but he didn't register it.

Until a searing pain exploded in his shoulder, making him stumble. Two more left him lying face-down on the sidewalk, unable to breathe.

He wished he could pass out.

*************

When Branch stepped into the office a moment after McCoy had left, it was still. Puzzled, he looked around, then looked down the hall. "Where'd he go?"

"He took out of here like a bat out of hell," the secretary replied grimly. "He looked pretty angry about something."

"Hm." Branch returned to his office and looked apologetically at his visitor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gervitz," he said, "I underestimated the strength of Jack's feelings toward you."

"Meaning, he hates my guts?" Gervitz smiled coldly. "I knew that. Luckily, I don't have to deal with him. You do."

"And you have to deal with me," Branch responded. "And if I don't like you, either, that leaves you up a creek."

"Meaning what?" Gervitz asked, his expression faltering.

"Meaning, I'm beginning to think you're an arrogant S. O. B. and if your boss really wants this office to make this deal, he's gonna have to--" He was interrupted by the buzzing of the phone. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment. "All right; any idea what's going on? ... Keep me informed." He hung up and faced Gervitz. "It seems you're gonna be stuck here for a while," he said blandly. "Someone's shooting a gun outside, and the building's been locked down."

Gervitz didn't immediately respond. "So you're not going to back off?" he asked stiffly after a long pause.

"Afraid not," Branch affirmed. Rubirosa stifled a snicker. Branch glanced at her, his eyes glimmering. "And I believe you have work to do ... especially since your partner seems to have bailed on you."

Rubirosa nodded and slipped out. Branch returned his attention to Gervitz. "As for you, you're welcome to wait in the conference room."

Gervitz scowled, but took the hint. Branch went back to work, not unduly worried about the lockdown.

He was interrupted again when the door opened with enough force to bounce off the wall. "What?"

It was the secretary. "It's Jack."

"It's Jack what?" he asked blankly. She looked like she was going to cry.

"Jack's been shot."

There was a beat in which neither moved. Then Branch was up and moving far more quickly than he had in a great many years.

-------------

"Why don't you like Bob Gervitz?" Schock asked. McCoy smiled faintly.

"Eight years ago," he answered slowly, "I was building a murder case against a mobster--Sean Russo--and I made a deal with a couple of nightclub--strip club--owners for their testimony. Their deal involved Witness Protection ... these guys really didn't know what they were getting into when they started dealing with Russo. Gervitz poached the case, made a deal with Russo and sent my witnesses to prison with no protection. Six months into their sentences, they were both murdered. It was a mob hit."

"And you blame Gervitz?"

"I do. He was trying to get back at me for an earlier case, and deliberately trapped two innocent people in the middle. That's second-degree murder. And now, the sonofabitch comes back and expects me to act like nothing happened."

"It was eight years ago," Schock pointed out.

"He should have gone to jail." He exhaled hard. "I wanted to prosecute, but Adam wouldnt let me."

SESSION 8

McCoy lay on his back, trying to ignore the soreness developing throughout his body. The gurney wasn't helping--ER gurneys were definitely not designed with patient comfort in mind.

Hell, nothing in an ER was designed for patient comfort. But they didn't have to make the gurneys so damn small.

"This just isn't your year," a familiar voice commented, and he glanced toward the foot of the gurney.

"Apparently not," he responded. "I didn't realize psychiatrists made house calls."

"We don't," Schock replied. "We do make hospital calls, though. Are you all right?"

He shrugged slightly. "Contusions. A couple of cracked ribs. I'll be fine."

"What happened?"

"A couple of kids in an SUV jumped a red light and broadsided my taxi."

"Oh." She scrutinized his expression. "Concussion?"

He nodded.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

He nodded again. "That's why they brought me in."

"Of course. How do you feel?"

He shrugged again. "Ask me next week."

"Fair enough ... did they give you any painkillers?"

"Tylenol."

"Nothing prescription?"

"I asked them not to."

She blinked. "Any particular reason?"

"I don't want to go through withdrawal again."

"You're feeling a little ... vulnerable today?

His cocked an eyebrow tiredly. "I'm lying on a gurney in a hospital," he pointed out. "I would think that self-evident." He winced.

"What?" Schock asked, concerned. She stepped closer.

"Nothing ... I hit the driver's seat in the accident, that's all."

"Hit where?"

He indicated his ribs.

"What kinds of tests did they do?"

"X-rays and a CT scan. They can't give me an MRI because the magnets would rip the pins out of my shoulder." He blinked a couple of times. "This stinks."

"Care to expand on that?"

He shook his head slightly. "I actually feel like I'm going to cry. I hate that. It gives me a headache."

"I think you're entitled," she observed dryly.

"I've been 'entitled' to a lot of things throughout my life," he responded, equally dryly. "Oddly enough, very few of them actually appear."

She sat deliberately in the chair next to the gurney. "Such as?"

He sighed sadly. "Such as...."

-------------

"Hey, look. It's the Brain."

Twelve-year-old Jack McCoy tugged at his school blazer and kept his eyes determinedly on the sidewalk, pretending he couldn't hear what was being said. He'd just started ninth grade at St. Ignatius six weeks earlier, and the comments had been following him ever since. He didn't understand it; he'd been in this class for four years, and no one had cared. Suddenly, his age--and the fact that he was shorter than the other boys in his class--was the only thing that seemed to matter.

He was abruptly forced to stop when someone stepped in front of him. "Excuse me," he said firmly, refusing to look up.

"Excuse me," the person in front of him mimicked.

Jack tried to walk around, but the person grabbed his shoulders roughly.

"Let's see you think your way out of this," someone behind him said, and he recognized the voice.

"Let me go, Frank," he said, still refusing to look up.

"I don't think so. Come on, boyos."

-------------

"What did they do?" Schock asked gently after several moments silence.

"Beat me up," McCoy replied matter-of-factly. His expression was distant, as though he was thinking about something else. "That wasn't the last time, either. Frank Chesney was nineteen and still a high school junior--his old man wouldn't let him drop out. He hated me."

"And what did your father do?"

"Hm? Oh. I didn't tell him. When he did finally find out ... Frank and his brother had an 'accident' the next day, and I was enrolled in boxing classes."

"You box?"

He managed a tired smile. "I used to. I was pretty good, too. It was the only sport I could participate in at the time. I was too small."

"You were young," she countered.

"Same difference." His eyes drifted closed for a few seconds.

"I thought they didn't give you any painkillers."

"Just--"

"--Tylenol," she finished with him. "I heard you the first time." She gathered up her purse and stood. "I think we'll get farther if we wait until next time. If you want to talk before then, you've got my number."

He nodded. "Thanks."

"Heya, stranger! Haven't seen you around much." Someone dropped a kiss on his cheek before he could turn.

"Shelley," he responded warmly, and returned the kiss. Shelley Kates took the next barstool.

"How the hell are ya?"

His expression fell.

"Not so good?"

He shook his head. She looked sharply around the bar.

"There's an empty booth back there. How about I buy you a drink and you tell me about it?" Taking his arm, she gave it a tug, silencing his half-voiced objection. Wearily, half-amused, he followed her.

"So," she began once they were settled, "What's up?"

He searched her expression. Seeing only honest concern, he sighed. "I've been having a tough time," he admitted. "It started over a year ago, when Leland Barnes tried to kill me." The dam burst and he began to talk more freely than he had in a long time. Shelley simply listened without comment, at one point scooting around the table to sit next to him. By the time he was finished, he'd dropped his head dangerously close to the table and she was resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment's silence, trying to pull his dignity back together, "this isn't your problem."

"So, that means I can't care about you?" she fired back. He tensed.

"Shelley--"

"Jack, shut up." She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him tightly against her. "You're trying to do everything by yourself again. Of course you're overwhelmed."

After a moment, he unbent enough to rest his head on her shoulder. "Thanks, Shelley," he murmured. I am not going to cry.

"And I think you've had enough to drink." She took his Scotch and moved it out of reach. "I'll take you home."

His arms came up and he clung to her, finally unable to stop the tears from rolling down his face. She noted, almost detachedly, that he was almost completely silent as he cried. In equal silence, she stroked his hair and waited.

EPILOGUE: THREE MONTHS LATER

Dressed casually in a polo shirt and khakis, Branch wandered out of the elevator onto the tenth floor. He nodded greeting to the startled guard and continued down the hallway, stopping in front of the secretary's desk. Instead of turning into his office, he turned left and opened the door there. "Thought you might pull something like this."

Inside the spacious office was McCoy, methodically packing his personal effects into a file box. Looking up only briefly, he nodded greeting. "Arthur."

Branch ambled in and lowered himself onto the couch. "Sure you wont reconsider?"

McCoy smiled briefly. "I'm sure."

"And I can't talk you into...?"

"No."

"Some folks around here might want to say goodbye."

"I've said my goodbyes." Picking up his model sailboat, he turned it over in his hands for a moment before settling it carefully into the box. "I don't want a party, I don't need a gold watch, and I absolutely will not stand for a bunch of baby ADAs gawking at me like I'm an exhibit at the zoo."

Branch crossed his legs and picked at his socks. "So, what's next?"

"Fishing," McCoy replied promptly. "Lots and lots of fishing."

Branch chuckled appreciatively. "And when that gets boring?"

McCoy set the top on the box and regarded Branch candidly, his hands still resting on the box. "I'm not sure," he said. "I thought I'd play it by ear."

Branch looked down for a moment before he could meet McCoy's eyes. "I wish you the best of luck, my friend," he said, standing and extending his hand. McCoy clasped it warmly, then looked around the office to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Several emotions flitted across his face before a deep sadness settled there.

"I guess this is it, then," he said.

Branch removed a flat leather case from his pocket. "I know you just said you don't want this, but I certainly don't have any use for it. I mean, we had it engraved and everything." He offered it to McCoy, who took it, opened it curiously and laughed.

"A gold watch."

"Thirty-seven years of service, Jack. I couldn't let you walk out of here empty-handed."

McCoy's smile turned brittle and vanished. He looked down. "Thank you," he said, his voice suspiciously rough.

"You, ah ... need any help?"

"No, I've got it." McCoy pulled the top off the box and lovingly placed the watch next to the boat. Covering the box again, he looked around the office one last time. His eyes were suspiciously bright as he picked up the box and looked again at Branch. "Goodbye, Arthur."

Branch looked sadly back. "Goodbye, Jack."

And carrying only that one box, Jack McCoy walked for the last time down the hallway on the tenth floor of One Hogan Place.