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Darkest Nights	By : Bucken-Berry Category: G through L > Law & Order Views: 1451 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own SVU or it's characters and I'm not making money from this.

Chapter List
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George walked to the bedroom and searched through Elliot's desk. He retrieved a pen and paper and sat down, frowning. He knew that, with what he was about to do, he had to leave a note… but he couldn't think of anything to say.
But he had to try. He frowned as he turned the pen over in his hands. As a psychiatrist, he knew that suicide notes could add to the turmoil loved ones felt, but so could the lack of a note. He just had to do it carefully, and make sure he told Elliot and Nora it wasn't their fault.
"Well, I have time," he muttered to himself. He wrote slowly, thinking about what he wanted to say.
Elliot and Nora-
I don't really know what to say. I never thought I would do this, but… that was before, and now there just isn't any other way. I managed to hold on while I was being tortured, and for a long time after that. But I can't take it anymore. It isn't really that I want death, I just want… not to feel or think, and death is the only way that will happen.
I can't take the memories anymore, and I can't take my conflicted thoughts. I know, logically, that I don't deserve what happened, but they convinced me that I do. And it's becoming harder and harder to talk myself out of it, when I even think I should talk myself out of it. I spend most of my waking hours telling myself that I deserve it, and it's very rare that I even have a reason to tell myself I don't. And all my thoughts are conflicting like that. I'm always either thinking about self-destructive things, or talking myself out of them.
Right now, I'm trying to decide whether what I'm doing is a selfish act, or a favor to everyone who knows me… and I know that it's the former, but again, it's hard to feel that way. And it's absolutely maddening, trying to convince myself. But- well, it doesn't matter. Even if I feel like it's a favor, you'll end up thinking it's not.
Anyway, another thing that I've been struggling with is the PTSD. I've been a psychiatrist for so long, and I know that it's possible that I can recover from it… but the healing process will take too long. The flashbacks and nightmares and panic attacks are so overwhelming, and I truly can't take it anymore.
There came a point, when I was being tortured, that I lost any desire to live. I regained some of my desire in the first few days I recovered… but now it's gone again. I hurt too much and I'm too tired to work through the difficult psychotherapy sessions. I know I sound selfish and weak… but… I just can't bring myself to try anymore.
Elliot, I can't put into words how much you mean to me, and how grateful I am to you. You were there for me faithfully, from when you came to me when I was found on the side of the road, to when you were getting my statement, to the trial. I love you so much, and I'm sorry I lied to you when I said I was okay this morning. Yesterday, I told you that I wouldn't hurt myself, and it was the truth then… but late last night, I realized it just wasn't working. I don't want you to feel guilty- there wasn't anything you could have done. I love you.
Nora, I love you, and I'm sorry that you had to know what happened when I was being tortured. You've always been an amazing big sister to me, and I'm sorry that this is my way of repaying you, but believe me when I say I tried everything, and this is the only way. Please tell our parents some things for me… I'm not sure whether they'd want to hear what happened, but I think they should know. Also, please tell them that I love them, and I'm sorry we never got to rebuild our relationship. I would have liked to; we had a lot of issues, but I still love them.
I hope you two can forgive me for what I'm doing. I can't put into words how much I love you, and how sorry I am for doing this. If there was another way, I would have done it. I don't want any of you to blame yourselves; nothing, no one, could have stopped this.
Again, I'm sorry, and I love you. I can't say that enough.
-George
George paused, reading over his note. Then he glanced at the clock, startled to find that it had already been nearly an hour and a half since Elliot had left.
He spent a moment thinking carefully, making sure he hadn't left any loose ends. Once he was sure, he stood and walked to the bedside drawers, to retrieve the gun Elliot had always kept around, in case he needed to defend himself but couldn't get to his service weapon.
George felt guilty about using Elliot's gun, but he had no idea where his FBI-issue glock was. He'd left it in his office in the NYPD building, and for all he knew, the FBI could have taken it again while he'd been tortured. Maybe they'd given it to some new agent, or maybe they still had it, and were planning to give it back to him when he returned. But the latter wouldn't happen.
His badge, he remembered, had been destroyed by his attackers- or, at least, that's what they'd told him. They said that they'd burned his clothes, along with the possessions he'd been carrying- wallet, ID, and his badge. It felt like they'd destroyed a part of him by burning his ID and badge, but he hadn't worried much about it at the time, because he hadn't had a chance to.
Like everything else that bothered him about his attack, he'd only had time to let it sink in when he'd left the hospital. He'd been struggling to survive when he'd been taken, and he'd still had to fight for his life in the hospital, his body overwhelmed by infection and ready to shut down at any moment. He'd been too weak to do anything except for trying to will his heart to keep beating- even though he'd wanted to die, there'd been part of him that had wanted to live.
And once it was clear that he was going to survive, he'd still been too weak and tired to process it; he'd been so tired that he barely had any interest in anything but sleeping. He hadn't been strong enough for it to really sink in, until recently.
He was tired now, but it was a different sort of fatigue. It was mental, more than anything, and it bothered him as much, if not more, than the physical fatigue that had plagued him when he'd been recovering. That wouldn't last long, though…
George's heart hammered in anticipation. He reached into the bedside drawer, retrieving Elliot's gun and pressing it to the center of his chest, directly over his heart.
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Darkest Nights