Chapter Text
Exhausted, Danny dropped onto his bed. Every muscle ached and everything within screamed for sleep and let the world outside be as far away as possible.
Of all cases he had worked on during his time as a policeman and a member of Five-0 this was the worst one. Kidnapping was a difficult thing for everyone involved, above all if there was no certainty whether the victim was still alive. The additional time pressure alone could push investigators to their limits. But if above all there were children involved - a fourteen year old girl with black hair who inevitably reminded him of Grace - it got personal for Danny, and he wouldn’t let go until they found the victim. If they were quick enough and lucky, they found the victims alive and unharmed. They were able to bring them to safety and deliver the much-needed good news to the family. They put the kidnapper behind bars. They could pat themselves on the back and toast with a beer to having made the world a slightly safer place.
Not today.
Today, everything went bad.
They had come too late.
The girl was dead, strangled with a wire. Blood and other body fluids all over. The most hideous sight one could imagine, especially for a father.
Not trace of the kidnapper. He had strangled the girl and then fled - based on Noelani's assessment of the time of death, they had missed him by perhaps two hours.
Together with the forensic team, they had turned the house upside down searching for clues. Meanwhile, the body had been taken to the medical examiner's office, so it was no longer there when Danny returned to the scene after the search. Nevertheless, the image of the poor girl was so vividly burned into his mind that it was as if he could still see her right in front of him.
Danny had stood frozen in the doorway of the small, dingy room, his fingers gripping the doorframe tightly, surveying the scene. Then something happened that he hadn't experienced in a very long time - even though he'd seen many such places in his life and had developed a kind of macabre desensitization: he felt nauseous. Just like that; he could already feel his stomach churning. He had to get out of there, immediately.
Without really knowing what he was doing, he ran and eventually found himself at the small set of stairs below the back door.
Gasping and gagging, he gripped the banister, but nothing came up. When had he last eaten? Presumably, there was nothing left to bring up, but that didn't really reassure him.
He stood there for a while, taking deep breaths, trying in vain to clear the images from his mind. A fourteen-year-old girl, brutally abused and strangled to death, the daughter of a wealthy, widowed businessman who was an acquaintance of Stan's, which was why Mr. King had contacted Stan directly. Why in God's name were people so deranged, taking out their greed and their urges on innocent children?
“Danny? Danny, you here?”
Apparently, Steve was searching for him, but Danny felt unable to answer his calling. He continued to stand beside the steps, clutching the railing and staring blankly out into the reasonably well-kept garden.
“Hey, there you are. You ok?”
His partner's strong, gloved hand lowered onto his shoulder, banishing the images of the murdered girl from his mind for the time being - Danny knew from experience that they would return. He turned his head halfway to his friend, who was still standing beside him in full combat gear.
“I’m ok,” he mumbled and tried once again to take a deep breath.
His body, however, proved him wrong and tensed up, making it hard for him to breathe. Danny frantically tugged at his shirt collar and the neckline of his Kevlar vest, but it was no use.
“Hey, stay calm, buddy. That was a really tough nut to crack in there, I know,” Steve said, sounding both concerned and caring, and reached for Danny's face, looking deep into his eyes. “Come on, look at me. Ok, and now again: are you ok?”
Danny grumbled unwillingly and pushed Steve's hand away.
“Just give me a minute. I’ll be there soon.”
With his forehead slightly frowned, the SEAL looked at him and then nodded.
“The others shall proceed to HQ now. In the meantime, you and I will see Mr. King.”
The detective merely nodded absently and turned back towards the garden.
It had taken Danny five minutes to even breathe normally again. Another three to find the drive to climb up the three stairs and enter the house again.
Usually, he’d function like on autopilot in such situations: His body simply carried out the stalled processes mechanically, blocking out everything else so that Danny could continue.
Not today.
Today, the autopilot was offline.
During the car ride, Steve had looked at him confused several times, because he had been so silent. But Danny wasn't really present. Just like in a movie, he registered Steve stopping the car in front of Mr. King's house, them being let in, and finding the father already in the entryway, so desperately hoping for good news. But their faces alone told him that good news was not to be expected.
Only the desperate voice of the father, who had fallen to his knees and was calling his daughter's name, reached Danny's ears.
Something had died inside Danny at that moment. He hated it. In moments like these he hated his job so much. Steve clearly struggled to deliver a very gentle account of the events to Mr. King, and Danny was incredibly relieved that he took over. He'd had to deliver such news far too often, and every time he hated it and suffered alongside the bereaved. But today was particularly bad. So bad, in fact, that he was barely able to offer Mr. King his condolences.
He found himself back in the Camaro, stunned, and registered the engine starting. The city slid past him, images merging and blurring into light and shadow. Details flashed by: the blood-soaked hair, the torn dress, the cable around her neck, her bloodshot eyes still wide open in shock.
With a sigh, Danny rubbed his forehead. These images would be his mental companions for quite some time, and he could only hope they wouldn't haunt him for too long or too badly. A nudge to his left arm distracted him.
“What did you say?” he asked Steve.
“If you want a drink. There's nothing we can do today anyway.”
“A - uh, no, Steve. I… I just want to go home now.”
“Ok. Just asking.” The SEAL glanced at him from the side. “You really ok?”
“I’m just done. We’ve been searching for the poor girl for two days and it was all for nothing.”
“We’ll go on searching tomorrow. We’ll get this bastard, promise.”
But Danny was no longer listening, but staring absently out the window again.
The autopilot came online again when Steve stopped in front of his house and exited the car.
“I can drive you home, babe. You really look done.”
“No, I can do that. It’s not a far drive,” answered Danny, got out and entered again on the driver’s side. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
“Hm.” Steve made a thoughtful noise, but the cop had been too busy to readjust the mirror and to buckle up. “Hey, uh, you can also stay here.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, it’s only a few yards.”
“But you’ll call anytime, if you feel bad, got me?”
“Yes, yes. So, then, good night.”
He shortly raised his hand for a greeting, then he drove off.
There wasn’t the slightest memory of the drive home. He must have showered, too, since his hair was still damp when he finally dropped onto his bed.
Here he lay.
10.13 pm. Wide awake. The blood-stained sheets. The unnaturally angled arm.
11.48 pm. The chapped lips. Brown eyes.
00.27 am. Blood spatter on the nightstand. The lamp there was still burning, bathing the children’s room (children’s room?) in a deceptively warm and cozy light.
01.57 am. The light stains on the bedsheet between her legs. Grace’s bag on the floor in front of the bed.
Danny sat bolt upright. His heart was racing, cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his chest rose and fell frantically with his ragged breaths.
What the hell..? Not only that he memorized every single detail of the crime scene - his deranged, completely overstimulated brain tricked him into thinking Grace was the dead girl. Danny swung his legs out of bed and sat for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut to avoid feeling dizzy. Then he slowly stood up and went into the bathroom. He opened the mirrored cabinet and looked for the yellow container.
For emergencies. Emergencies only. He had learned to live with bad memories his job brought with it. But sometimes there was no other way. Sometimes he had to trick his mind and force it to be still.
He opened the container and shook two pills into his palm. Looked at them briefly and put one back. He had to be fit for work tomorrow; there was still a pedophilic, money-grubbing lunatic on this island who needed to be apprehended. Without hesitation, he swallowed the remaining pill and washed it down with a few handfuls of water. Then he went back to bed, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. He hated it. Today he hated his job with all his heart; he couldn't express it any other way.