Mark Sloan was getting frustrated now. He had been standing at the entrance of his front door for fifteen minutes fiddling with his keys trying to figure out which one would fit into the lock. He had just finished a long shift at the hospital, and was ready for a good night's sleep. At this rate, he would be back on call by the time he got in. Finally he found the right key, fit it into the hole, and let himself into his beach house.

As he set down his things, Mark noticed a note from his son on the counter. He picked it up and started to read. Steve had decided to stay a little later at BBQ Bob's because he had decided to clean up from the party he had catered. Mark sighed. He snickered to himself, trying to remember a time Steve hadn't made Jesse do all of the dishes. He shrugged it off being so tired, and continued towards his bedroom where he was determined not to have any more distractions between here, and bed.

Mark went into the bathroom, quickly washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He had a headache, so he took a few aspirin before changing into his pajamas and climbing into bed. He settled down under the covers, finally relieving himself of the stress he had endured that day.

A few hours later, Mark rose to the disturbing sound of his son Steve screaming for help. Mark tried, but he couldn't move. He tried to yell to his son that he was coming, but he had no voice. Steve's screams got louder and more desperate. Soon they turned into sobs. Steve was begging for someone to stop something. Someone was in his house, causing physical pain to his son, and there was nothing he could do about it. He tried once again to move off of his bed, but he couldn't. His was commanding his legs to move, but they would not obey. What was happening to him? Soon, Steve's screams and sobs that had been torturing him for what seemed like an eternity came to a dead halt. The house filled with an eerie silence. This was almost as unbearable as hearing Steve in so much pain.

Mark finally was able to get his legs to move. He ran to Steve's room as fast as his legs could carry him. When he got there, what he saw was so startling, that he had to brace himself on the doorframe.

Steve was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He had several fresh bruises spread throughout his chest, back, and abdominal muscles. On the top of his forehead, there was a large gash. The blood must have originally come from there, but wasn't coming out as heavily. There still were a few drops descending downward through his brown hair. Mark mustered up the strength to walk over to his son. The one thing he now noticed that he hadn't before was that there was a fresh tear slowly making it's way down Steve's cheek. Mark reached out to brush it off, but was too late and it dripped down to join the crimson stain on the floor. Realizing what had just happened and trying to take it all in, was too much. Mark collapsed in sobs on the body of what used to be his son. What had just a few hours before been Mark's strong, intelligent courageous son, companion and friend, was now just an innocent, helpless body whose life had been taken for no reason.

(Hospital)

Amanda came cheerfully into the doctor's lounge carrying three hot mugs of fresh coffee. Her face quickly turned to concern when she found Mark, still in his pajamas, crying, along with Jesse who was trying to comfort him while tears were streaming down his face as well. Jesse stood up for a moment and told Amanda a brief version of what happened the night before.

"Oh Go…" she uttered before erupting into sobs. She almost fell, but Jesse caught her just in time. She clung to him like she was about to fall off of a large cliff. The three of them tried to support each other as well as could be expected, but nothing could take away this sharp, intense pain that had just been inflicted upon them. None of them could believe or accept the fact that their foursome was down to three.

*****

(Beach House)

Mark was on the phone attempting to set up a funeral for Steve. Everything was just a blur. He wasn't even concentrating on anything besides the fact that he was not able to help his son. Steve had been crying out for him, yet he was unable to respond. For all he knew, Steve's last thoughts were that his father had deserted him in his time of need. Mark's mind drifted off with the guilt and responsibility he felt for his son's murder. Why would somebody want to hurt Steve? What had Steve ever done to anyone to deserve this? Who had taken Steve's life from him? Why did they have to make his last few minutes of life so painful?

"Sir, Sir? Are you still there? Hello?" came from the phone when Mark had come to his senses.

"Oh, I'm sorry" Mark apologized for not being all there. Mark attempted to force his pain aside long enough to plan Steve's funeral.

He finished his business with the funeral home. Then, he went to join Amanda and Jesse who were in the process of preparing lunch. Mark had gotten hungry although he felt he had no strength to eat.

Amanda opened the drawer where the silverware was kept. She grabbed a handful. She went to go set the patio table, and then bring back the extra to use for serving. Jesse was making a simple salad. Mark went over to get glasses for drinks. Soon they heard a small thump and some soft crying from the patio. Mark went out to see what was wrong. Amanda had collapsed in one of the deck chairs. Mark was about to ask her what was wrong. Just then, he glanced up at the table. Amanda, out of habit had set four places at the table.

*****

(Steve's Funeral)

Mark had no idea how he had survived the last two days. He hadn't felt so helpless since Kathryn died. Life without Steve was unbearable. Steve and Mark had a father-son relationship that was very sacred. Now, it had been terminated for reasons that Mark could not even begin to imagine. That was the one question that had been eating away at him for the last forty-eight hours. He hadn't eaten barely anything. He hadn't slept.

After Mark gave a brief, but touching eulogy, he returned to his seat. The rest of the family, including Carol said a few words. There was nobody in the room that didn't have a tissue handy. Mark hoped that Steve could see how much he had touched the lives of his friends, family, and colleagues. That was the only peace Mark got out of the whole incident. Steve's pain was over and he was hopefully up in heaven with his mother. Yet, Mark could not help but wish that Steve was still here with him. He didn't mean to hate his son for leaving him, but Mark could not help silently asking his son why he had given up so easily. "If you had just held on just a little longer, I would have saved you! How come you didn't fight? I always thought you were strong! How could you do this to me?" Mark hated himself for having these thoughts. He could not help it. His agony was so excruciating that he was just coming up with excuses to blame it on somebody else.

The funeral ended, and everybody started home. Mark lay in bed that night. He was staying at Amanda's because his house was closed off for investigation. Mark thought to himself, realizing this is the first homicide that he had been a part of that Steve hadn't had a hand in. He couldn't sleep, or at least it took him a good three to four hours to drift off. Mark started to yearn for Steve to come barging in and calling "Dad, I'm home!!!" so loud he'd often wondered why the people in the next county over hadn't come over complaining. He ached to see, Steve, hear him, anything. He remembered all of the times that Steve had come close to death. He hated himself for even feeling pain then. He never imagined that he would outlive his son. This was all so unfair. He finally dozed off with the thought that he was going to find whoever did this to Steve, and when he found them, he would return to them what they had brought upon his son.

Mark first got a suspicion that he was being followed the next morning. He was on his way to the police station to collect Steve's belongings and to find out what the latest news was in the investigation of his murder. He never had been so out of touch with the progress of the LAPD's cases. There had been very little evidence that there ever was a murder except for the one obvious clue, Steve. Mark kept seeing the reflection of a dark brown, old station wagon in his rear-view mirror. It had been following him all the way to the hospital. No matter what turn he took, it followed him. At a stoplight, he peered out of his window to try and catch a glimpse of the driver. When he looked back, the car disappeared. When he turned back to face the front again, he saw the car again in his mirror out of the corner of his eye. This time, a pair of dark brown eyes, were staring straight at him. There was no expression on the driver's face. He seemed to hardly even be there. He never blinked, just glared at Mark.

Mark told himself he was hallucinating. He thought better of himself when same feeble sensation he had experienced the night Steve died, took over his body once again. The light switched to green. Mark could not move. He felt like he was under water. The radio seemed as if it was a million miles away. He got flashbacks of Steve's cries for help. Something was haunting Mark, and he had no idea what. As quickly as it had come, the flashbacks took a sudden halt. The car started spinning. Mark could not see anything. He only heard a voice. The voice kept telling him that Seeing is believing, Seeing is believing… over and over. The voice was deep and breathy, almost transparent.

The car stopped spinning and Mark came to his senses. He pushed the gas pedal as hard as he could. He sped off and didn't see the strange man or his car for the next few days.

Life went on as well as could be expected all things considered. Mark did his best to keep track of any progress on Steve's mysterious murder. The Police Department hadn't gotten a single bit of evidence. There were no fingerprints, weapons, hair, or fabric particles left at the scene. It was almost as if the killer had appeared and disappeared out of nowhere. The only thing they had found was that Steve had been struck with a large blunt instrument. The killer had broken his collarbone, and three ribs before giving him one final fatal blow to his forehead.

Mark's shift ended, and he decided to spend the afternoon reading on the beach. It had been almost a week since the incident in the car on the way to the hospital. Mark settled down in a comfortable spot with his book. He read contently for a good forty-five minutes before he was interrupted. It was undeniable. The same voice that he had heard in his car had again entered his mind. He looked up to see the same fierce eyes fixed upon him. This time, the man had in his hand, a large, blood stained hammer. Mark's rage built up inside him like a volcano ready to erupt. He leapt up, prepared to seize the hammer right out of the man's hand. His aim was straight on, but by the time he reached out for the weapon, the man was gone.

Mark was ready to go inside and call the police. He knew that they would never believe his story. He would have to solve this one on his own.

*****

Mark was sure that he had seen that face before. He sat on his couch concentrating on where he knew that face. Suddenly a small book on the coffee table caught his eye. "Kathryn's Diary…That's IT!!!" Mark thought with rage. Mark scooped up his car keys and his jacket and set out for the LAPD.

*****

Mark barged into the room where the file cabinet of all the arrest records, were kept. He scanned through the names…"Dorian, Dotting, Doveland, Downing. Ah hah, Michael Downing." Mark said aloud with satisfaction.

Mark opened up the file to find the picture of the man who Steve had arrested for the multiple beatings of Kathryn Sloan, his wife. He at that moment remembered that Michael Downing had committed suicide in prison a few months ago. Then that made his a gho…. No, it couldn't be, there's no such thing. Mark kept trying to convince himself that he was crazy all the way out of the LAPD. He could not piece together how this happened. He couldn't have been hallucinating all that had happened, could he? After all, he really had not been able to move a muscle that fateful night when Steve was killed. But wait, how could Michael Downing kill him if he were dead? It had to have been him though because he saw the hammer in his hand. But then again, it may not have been the same hammer. Wait a sec, it couldn't have been the same hammer because he was just making this all up, right?

Mark was so busy arguing with himself that he didn't hear the sound of the truck behind him backing up. He had stopped to think, not realizing the truck was moving closer and closer.

"Beep, Beep, Beep" Soon everything went black. The next thing Mark knew, there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him. Mark opened his eyes to find Steve peering down at him. "Dad, I heard your alarm going off, and you didn't stop it , so I came up to see what was wrong. Dad, you're soaked, and your pulse is racing!"

"Bbbbut, you're dea…, w..here, w..hen did you?" Mark stuttered.

"What are you talking about?" Steve asked.

"Oh never mind, it must have been a bad dream." Mark replied, still shaken.

Mark stood up and gave Steve a huge bear hug. "I love you, Steve," he said.

"I love you too Dad." Steve answered; confused at the fact that Mark was acting like if he would never see him again after this moment.

Just then, Mark glanced out the window just in time to see Michael Downing, whatever he was, give one last ferocious glare before vanishing like smoke from a magic act.