Author's disclaimer: They belong to Alliance

Author's notes: I don't know where this came from. I was a bit grouchy all week, so perhaps I dredged it up from the darkside.

I'm sorry to inflict it, but I had to get it out of my system.

Let me know about it at alison-c@ukonline.co.uk - please be gentle, I feel a bit fragile about this!

The letter which starts this was lifted almost verbatim from 'Black Notice' by Patricia Cornwell.

                     "Give me again all that was there
                       Give me the sun that shone.
                       Give me the eyes, give me the smile
                       Give me the lad that's gone!"

'Ray,

I am sitting one the porch, staring out at Lake Michigan, while you sleep in the cabin behind me. I need you to listen to me.

You are reading this because I am dead. When I decided to write it, I asked Lieutenant Welsh to deliver it to you in early December, almost a year after my death. I know how hard Christmas has always been for you and now it must be unbearable. Loving you was when my life began. Now that is has ended your gift to me is to go on.

It's time to let me comfort you. Hold my hand in your mind and remember the many times we talked about death, never accepting that any disease or accident or act of violence has the power of absolute annihilation, because our bodies are just the suits we wear. And we are so much more than that.

Ray, I want you to believe that I am somehow aware of you as you read this, somewhere looking after you, and that everything's going to be all right.'

Ray Kowalski carefully folded the letter, fingers trembling. He put it in the drawer of the nightstand. Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.

Lieutenant Welsh, who had brought him the note, hovered, embarrassed, uncertain what to do.

"Detective Ray," he finally said gruffly. "You need to get some help. It's been a year -," He put a hand awkwardly on the bony shoulder. Since Benton Fraser had died, Kowalski had aged ten years. Where he had been skinny, he was now emaciated, caring nothing for food. Where he had been energetic, always up, now he shuffled with an old man's gait, head bowed and shoulders hunched, as if warding off a blow. Even his hair, his pride and joy, was lifeless and thinning.

"I know, I know," said Ray, rubbing his hands over his face. Diefenbaker put his head on Ray's knee, concerned. Ray put his face briefly on the wolf's head before straightening up.

"Ray I don't know what he told you in that letter," said Welsh, "But if I ever knew anything about Constable Fraser, he told you that life has to go on. He's right Ray. You can't go on like this."

Ray's hands were in the wolf's ruff, pulling the thick fur. He never let Dief out of his sight now, as if without him there would be no link left with Fraser.

Fraser, whom he had loved. Loved still, and who had been taken away from him a year ago in a stupid hit and run. For months afterwards, every time Ray saw a flash of red he looked up searching it out, and every time his heart broke a little more.

"Ray!" Welsh spoke a little more sharply, and Ray lifted his eyes.

"Please, let me get you some help," said Welsh. "At least talk to someone."

"What do I say to them?" asked Ray, voice low and toneless. "It's not even as if he was my official partner. I appreciate it, Lieutenant, but I don't think so." With an effort he stood up. "Thanks for bringing this round. I'll be in tomorrow, okay?"

"Are you sure?" asked Welsh. Ray nodded.

As soon as he had closed the door behind Welsh, Ray made his way back to the bedroom. Opening a drawer he pulled out a battered sweater, far too big for him, and pulled it on. He buried his face in the neck and inhaled. Fraser's scent was still there, surrounding him. Climbing onto the bed, he wrapped himself around one the pillows and slept.

"You know Ray, this place is a mess." Fraser sounded as shiny as ever, and appeared to be sitting on the end of the bed. Ray smiled, not opening his eyes, not wanting to lose this.

"Don't care," he said. "No reason to keep it tidy now there's nobody here to nag me."

The bed moved as Fraser stood up and came to stand over Ray.

"I'll always be here," he said softly. "I'll never leave you. But I want you to live Ray. You're too good a man to fade away."

Ray felt the faintest brush of lips on his forehead and his cheek. He strained up into the touch but it was gone.

"Please talk to someone Ray," whispered Fraser. "Make a life for yourself. Oh, and by the way, you're too thin."

Diefenbaker barked sharply and Ray jumped, opening his eyes. Nobody there. There was never anybody there. Ray closed his eyes again, trying to get his dream back, but it was gone.

But Fraser had always been able to make Ray do anything, which was why he got up the next morning, showered, and went into work. He smiled weakly at Frannie, herself quieter and more thoughtful since Fraser's death, and went into Welsh's office.

"'Kay," he said. "I'll do it. I'll see someone, whoever you want."

Welsh nodded, relieved. He was fond of Kowalski, and he didn't want to lose him.

"I'll let you know who and when," he said.

Ray returned to his desk. He was more or less deskbound now, but after a career spent loathing paperwork, he now found a certain solace in it. He didn't have to think or talk.

Some thirty minutes later, Welsh appeared by his desk and handed him a piece of paper. He had an appointment for that afternoon.

The psychiatrist, William ("call me Bill") Lennon, studied the man in front of him. He had read the notes. His partner had been killed and this man had fallen apart. Whether the two of them had been more than partners had never been established.

Whatever the relationship, Constable Fraser's death had destroyed this man. Lennon knew a potential suicide when he saw one. Only he suspected that Kowalski was being clever about this. He wasn't going to do anything overt, like eat his gun. No, this man was simply shutting down. Pulling down the blinds and giving up.

Well, if there was one thing Dr Lennon relished, it was a challenge.

"So Detective, tell me about Ben," he said.

The man opposite raised his head and sneered.

"I don't know who Ben is," he said. "Do you mean Fraser? I never called him Ben. That wasn't what we were." He heard a ghost voice in his ear and swallowed what he had been about to say.

"Me an' Fraser well I dunno. He was the best friend I ever had. Polite, charming, you name it. And it's not fair that he died. Not fair." Ray shut up, not wanting to say anything else. If he started talking, he wouldn't be able to stop, and he would end up saying things he regretted.

"Well, I don't think anyone has ever said death was fair," said Lennon.

Ray stared at him. "Really? Well I can see how you managed to get this job."

Ray stood up and leaned over into Lennon's personal space.

"I loved him. He's dead and I'm not, it's my problem. I'll deal."

He turned on his heel and walked out.

A week later Diefenbaker died, and it brought Ray to his knees.

The wolf had stayed as long as he could, trying to care for his packmate, but he was lost and bewildered by the loss of the alpha male, and one evening he settled to sleep in his usual position, head cushioned on Ray's thigh, and didn't wake up again.

Ray felt like he had forgotten how to function he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't see. His last link had gone.

Of all people, it was Francesca Vecchio who broke through the ice around his heart.

She had taken to calling at Ray's two or three times a week to check up on him and cook him dinner. Although she had been blinded by Fraser, she liked Ray; he was a good man, and it broke her heart to see him floundering like this with no one to reach out to.

They were both in the small kitchen area, not really speaking, when Frannie saw a piece of battered paper on the counter.

"What's this?" she asked curiously, picking it up. It had obviously been read a lot since it fell open almost as soon as the touched it. She just had time to register Fraser's handwriting before Ray reached over and snatched it out of her hand.

"It's nothing!" he said angrily. "Leave it alone and mind your own business."

"That's from Fraser!" exclaimed Frannie. "Ray, you have to stop this stop torturing yourself."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Ray, slipping the note behind a photograph he kept on the counter.

"Ray, I loved him too!" Frannie felt tears start in her eyes. "I waited every day just to see him, and when he went, my heart broke."

"You have no idea what it's like!" Ray shot back. "None." He picked up the photograph and showed it to her. "Do you remember this? You took this."

She remembered. It had been in this apartment, at Christmas. Fraser was sitting on the floor, resting against the wall, looking down and smiling. Ray was sitting between his legs, twisted round to look up at Fraser. They both looked so beautiful and happy. Fraser had two days left to live.

"Yes I remember it!" She threw it face down on the counter. "Do you know how jealous I was of you because you had what I could only dream of? Even if you only had it for a little while, it was still more than most of us get in a lifetime." She put her hands over her face and began to cry.

"Frannie," Ray whispered. "Frannie, don't cry."

"I loved him too," she sobbed. "I loved him too. Just because you were the one he chose doesn't mean that nobody else cared."

Ray gingerly put his arms around her.

"And I love you," she continued, holding him tightly. "I can't lose you too. Not you too."

"I'm sorry," he said, stunned. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise..."

Frannie squeezed Ray hard, then pulled away, wiping her face with her hands.

"Well now you do," she said briskly. Then she smiled softly. "Now come and eat."

That night Ray sat on his bed holding the photograph he had shown Frannie. His thumb stroked Fraser's face constantly.

"I love you, I love you," he mumbled. "I will love you for ever."

Then very gently he placed the photograph, face down, in the drawer of his nightstand.

So once again Ray obeyed Fraser, and made a life for himself.

Outwardly things began to improve. Ray had always been a good cop and his instincts had never deserted him. He was assigned a new partner and as time went on he was able to put distance between the cases he had worked with Fraser and the cases he worked with Tony, the new guy.

He went to Florida to visit Stella and Ray Vecchio and become godfather to their new child. Fraser's death had hit Vecchio badly too, and the two men formed a fragile friendship.

And when Francesca Vecchio married a doctor from Long Island, she would have nobody but Ray Kowalski give her away.

But sometimes Ray would look across the squad room and see Lieutenant Welsh watching him, a knowing expression on that grizzled old face, and Ray would smile slightly. He was only marking time.

He even had a short lived relationship with a woman named Erin, who made him laugh. In the end they both realised she could never replace what he had lost and, with regret, they parted.

It was almost two years down the line, three years after Fraser's death, before Ray looked at the photograph again.

He lay on the bed once more, wearing Fraser's old sweater, drinking in that beloved face.

"Jesus Fraser, you were beautiful," he said. "I forget sometimes y'know. I'm scared that sometimes I'll forget what you looked like," he smiled. Fraser was close tonight, listening.

"What were you doing with me?" He shifted over on his side, still holding the photo, still smiling.

"Gotta go and arrest bad guys tomorrow," he said. "Been watching 'em for months. Nasty people. I just hope they're not off their heads on something. It's not like it was, y'know. They don't appreciate people being polite to them."

He closed his eyes, not seeing the telltale flash of red in the corner of the room.

Ray stood looking down at his own body sprawled on the concrete. His eyes were wide open, an expression of stunned surprise slowly fading. The bullet had missed the vest and had ripped into his throat.

Not sure what to do, Ray looked around as he heard his name being called.

"Fraser!" The Mountie was as warm and solid as he had ever been, and Ray fitted into his arms as well as ever.

"I've been waiting for you Ray," said Fraser, cupping Ray's face in one strong palm.

"You told me to make a life, and I did," answered Ray. "Three years, Frase. It's a long time to be alone."

"Oh you were never alone," came the reply.

A noise by their feet made Ray look down.

Lieutenant Welsh, older and stiffer, knelt slowly by Ray's body, covering up the ruined face with his own jacket.

"You tried Ray," he murmured. "You tried." He looked up, directly at the place where Ray and Fraser were standing, and for a moment he looked less tired and worn down. Then he shook his head and pressed his hand over his eyes.

"So what now?" asked Ray, turning away from the tableau in front of him.

"As soon as we've located Dief death hasn't improved him in any way we'll be on our way," answered Fraser.

"On our way where?" Ray linked his fingers through Fraser's.

"Oh, anywhere you like Ray. Anywhere you like."

THE END