Title:       To Let Go
Author:       Agent Kate
Rating:       NC-17
Keywords:       Doggett/Reyes
Spoilers:       Empedocles
Distribution:       Yes, but tell me first please.
Disclaimer:       You may have their bodies, but I will touch their souls.
Summary:       While investigating the case of Luke's death, Monica's 
relationship with John takes another step.
Author's notes:       This is my first real "published" fanfic, and I hope 
you enjoy it  ;)    


To Let Go


I was alone in the office, as usual.  It was two in the morning, and
the only sounds were the ticking of the clock and me, shuffling the
papers on my desk.  I sighed, and read again the profile.  "Luke John
Doggett . . ."  Blond hair, blue eyes, a beautiful little boy.  Too
many times I had cried over this very picture, the utter hopelessness
it conveyed.  I had all but given up, but the only thing that kept me
going was John.

He was stoic, a rock.  I had never seen his face crumple in tears,
never heard him sobbing.  Barbara was a basketcase, screaming and
crying, upset to no end over her son.  I admired John, wondered where
he was keeping all of his emotions.  If I were him, I would explode.

John was always quiet, thoughtful.  After a while, I fell in love with
our little rituals.  He would bring me coffee, fresh and hot from the
little cafe down the street.  Sometimes he would sit with me, never
talking, just listening.  More often than not, we would both just sit
there and say nothing.  No sounds but the clock and the sipping of
coffee.

I began to notice little things about him, like how his hair was brown
with the slightest touch of gray.  His eyes were a clear, pale ice
blue, his eyelashes long for a man's.  I longed to kiss them, to touch
his face, to have him do the same to me.  I had fallen in love with
John Doggett.

And at 2 a.m. that lonely Friday night, my relationship with him was
about to change.

I heard the door open, and saw John walk in.  He was carrying two cups
of coffee.  He wore jeans and a plain gray tee shirt, old sneakers.  
I could see his tattoo where his shirt sleeve crept up.  I wanted to
trace that tattoo with my finger, feel his strong, sinewy arms around
me.  I shook off the thought and smiled as he set the coffee down.  
"Hi."  He said softly.  He caught a glimpse of the photo on my desk
and looked down, at the floor.  When he looked back up at me, after a
few moments, he had tears in his eyes.  John, big tough John Doggett,
was crying.

I stood up, embraced him.  His arms hung limply at his side as I
wrapped mine around his neck.  His breathing hitched, he let out a
shuddering sigh and pressed his face against my shoulder.  By now, I
was crying.  I could feel tears brimming in my eyes.  Before I knew
it, I felt his lips on my neck.  His mouth trailed kisses up my neck,
along my jawline, before coming to rest on my mouth.  I had never been
kissed like that before, soft and tender, but urgent and wanting at
the same time.  He cautiously pushed his tongue into my mouth,
exploring it.  The only sound I could her now was the blood rushing to
my head.  I felt dizzy, and realized that what we were doing was
wrong. . . .

I pulled away, wnwrapping my arms from his neck.  He retaliated by
placing his hands on my hips and trying to pull me closer.  "No,
John."  I said softly.  I looked into his eyes, full of tears, saw the
wanting in his face.  He looked sad, almost defeated.  He leaned into
me again.  "No."  I whispered, barely audible.  But I couldn't bring
myself to pull away again.  To let go.

His hands pushed off my jacket, set it on the chair behind me.  The
chill of the room, and the excitement of what he was doing - and the
fact that we could get caught - made me shiver.  He ran his hands down
my arms, brushed his fingers across mine.  I looked again into his
eyes, that same pleading face.  And I couldn't say no.

He pulled at the hem of my shirt, I raised my arms and he lifted it up
over my head.  I did the same with his tee-shirt, and we stood there
together; me clad in my black lace bra; and him. in full bare-chested
glory.  I shivered again.  He smiled, just a slight upward tugging of
his lips, and I did the same.  He embraced me, those strong arms
around my body.  His fingers trailed lightly up my spine, over my
skin.  They found the clasp of my bra, quickly and expertly undoing
it.  He leaned back, pushed the straps off my shoulders, watched as
the garment fell away.  I gasped as his thumb traced the curve of my
breast, then lightly ran over my nipple.  My breathing quickened as he
bent down to kiss where his thumb had just been.  I arched my back,
pushing into his mouth.  His tongue darted out, tracing circles around
the stiff nipple.  He moved to my other breast, doing the same.

I ran my hands through his hair as his mouth moved lower, kissing down
my abdomen.  He started unbuttoning my jeans, pulling them down on my
hips.  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties, pulling
them down as well.  He kept kissing lower and lower, and I was
breathing faster and faster. . .

Suddenly, I heard a clicking noise, like a door being shut.  But
there's never anyone here at this hour, I thought.  A shadow moved in
the hallway, and I panicked.  Somebody was there.

John slowly stood up as I fumbled to button my jeans.  He just stood
there watching me as I quickly put on my bra, shirt and jacket.  I
handed him his tee-shirt, and he just held it in his hand.  Then he
looked at me.  I had never seen such a look on his face before.  Like
his heart had been ripped in half.  He glanced down at my desk, the
picture of Luke.  I felt a tear run down my cheek.

The shadow in the hall became a person, recognizable as Agent Walker
from Behavioral Science.  He opened the door, saw John and I, and
closed the door again.  I looked back at John.  "I'm sorry." I
whispered, kissing him softly.

I gathered up the files and papers, grabbed my car keys and headed
towards the door.  I looked back and saw him; just standing there,
shirtless and crushed.  He pushed the coffee off the desk, narrowly
missing the garbage can on the floor.  I would never forget the sound
it made - a dull, wet thud.  A sound of despair.


- X - x - X -


My bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled from the nap I had taken the day
before.  I lay down, still wearing my jeans and shirt.  I began
sobbing.  What had I done?  What did John think he was doing?  What
did I think he was doing?  I wiped at the tears running down my face
and stared up at the ceiling, counting the holes in the acoustic
tiles.  I don't know how long I just lay there, counting and crying
and thinking.  Somehow I managed to fall asleep, my head aching and my
heart broken.

A knocking on my door woke me up.  I got up, rubbed my face, smoothed
my hair.  I opened the door and saw John standing in the hallway.  
"John . . .  what are you doing here?"  I asked.  He looked around my
apartment, studying the pictures on the walls, the collections and
furniture.  Then he looked at me.

"I just felt like coming over."  He said quietly.  His hand reached
for mine.
 He traced the lines with his thumb, then turned it over and kissed my
knuckles.  I thought about pulling away, saying no.  But again, I
couldn't .  . .

I reached up, cupped his hand in my face.  I smiled, and shook my
head.  "Thank you."  I said.  I kissed him gently, our mouths together
for what seemed like an eternity.  His hands pulled again at my shirt,
lifting it up and over my head.  We were faster and more urgent this
time, hands and clothing flying, ending up on my living room floor.

I led him into the bedroom, and we lay down naked on the bed.  I
finally had the chance to study him without any clothing, and I was
impressed.  I could feel his eyes on me, and I ached for his touch.  
He started slowly, feather-light touches on my hip, and he moved up to
my breasts.  He kissed them as he had done before, tongue circling my
sensitive nipples.  His hand stroked the insides of my thighs, and I
bucked my hips slightly.

His hand moved up, lightly covering the dark curly hair.  Then he
pushed one finger into me, and I gasped.  He looked me in the eye, a
slight smile on his face.  His finger moved in and out.  My mind was
spinning, and I was breathing impossibly fast.  I closed my eyes,
arched my back.  I came, crying out a little gasped "John!"

He slowly moved his hand back up to my hip, kissed my eyelids.  
"Monica."  He said softly.  I could feel his breath warm on my face.  
My lips found his, and I kissed him hard, our tongues pushing against
each other.  He broke the kiss, and moved his mouth down to my neck.  
I ran my hands along his stomach muscles, then found his penis.  He
groaned against my neck as I wrapped my hand around him, my finger
gently stroking the head.

He entered me slowly, and soon he was making smooth, familiar motions
with his hips.  I wrapped my legs around him, making him push into me
deeper.  Soon I was coming again, and he came too, moaning my name.  
He collapsed into the bed, breathing slow, tired breaths.  I ran my
hands through his hair as he rested his head against my shoulder.  We
were both hot and sweaty, the bedsheets tangled up around our feet.  
"I love you, John."  I said into his hair.  "I love you so much."  I
never wanted to let go of him, and I wished this moment would never
end.