Title: The Darkest Hour 

by agent myers 

Rating: NC-17, for violent and graphic adult content 

Keywords: Rape (you have been warned), DRF, DRR 

Summary: "John..." she said, and then paused. Her voice was a small and frightened whimper. 
"Someone broke in." 

Spoilers: Just basic Season 8 & 9, no real big ones 

Disclaimer: They're not mine. Duh. 

Feedback: I live for it. tred2@yahoo.com 

Archive: Just ask me. All individuals and archives that I have previously given permission to are 
welcome to it. 

Author's Notes: At the end. 

Recommended listening: "I Shall Believe" by Sheryl Crow, "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan (though it's 
been done MAAAANY times, it fits), and "Hope Has A Place" by Enya.

~~~ 

The Darkest Hour

by agent myers 

~~~

John Doggett pulled up next to the curb and put the truck in park. He turned to Monica, his 
partner and date for the night.

"Thanks for dinner, John." Monica said with a soft smile. John returned the smile.

"No problem. Maybe we'll do it again."

Monica nodded. "Sounds great."

They sat in silence for the moment, and Monica almost asked him if he had any plans for the 
weekend. But she remembered that they'd had that conversation before, and what followed hadn't been an 
enjoyable weekend...for either of them.

John had been nervous about asking Monica out, so he nonchalantly asked her to 'get some food.' 
But he'd taken her to a nice Italian place, bought a good bottle of wine, and paid for the entire 
meal. He wondered just how much longer he could keep hiding his true feelings about his partner. 
He'd already decided that he wasn't bold enough to just come out and say it. He would never find the 
words and he'd end up looking like a stuttering idiot. So, he decided to wait for the right 
moment, and just kiss her. One kiss would say it all, or at least get the ball rolling. After that, if 
she felt the same way, telling her what was on his mind wouldn't be a problem.

The possibility had occurred to him that she might reject him when he tried to kiss her, or worse 
yet, she'd allow him to kiss her, and then tell him that she 'doesn't think of him that way.' He'd 
even had nightmares about it. But his ability to judge people was pretty decent - he thought 
anyway - and he had a feeling that her affection for him matched what he felt for her.

But he didn't think that tonight would be the night to find out.

"Well..." Monica said, smiling. "Guess I better get going." She opened the truck's passenger door.

"Uh, Monica-" John began. She stopped and looked at him. "I was thinkin' about catchin' a movie 
tomorrow. But...don't really wanna go by myself." He paused and smiled. "Go with me?"

Monica beamed at him. "Sure, John. That sounds fun."

John grinned. "Great." Monica hopped out of the truck and said:

"See you tomorrow night?"

John nodded. "Yeah."

And with that, she shut the door, and walked up to her building's front door. John made sure she 
got in okay, and then drove away. His smile quickly dropped off.

"Stupid!" he yelled at no one.

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. At this rate, he'd never tell her how he felt. 
He'd never get enough balls to kiss her. And then what? She's a beautiful girl, she'll meet someone, 
John thought. And she'll rattle on and on about what a good 'friend' you are.

He sighed loudly as he merged onto the highway.

***

Monica kicked off her shoes beside her front door. She locked the door behind her, and spotted her 
gun belt hanging on the coat rack. She picked it up. She had a lock box for her weapon, and had 
used it religiously until she'd come to D.C. Now, she'd gotten into the habit of taking it to the 
bedroom with her, so it would be handy when she got dressed in the morning. Sometimes, she would 
just leave it hanging wherever she got the urge to take it off. Now where was that box?

Nevermind. She sighed and laid it down on the table and went into the bedroom. She stripped her 
clothes off and piled them up in an empty laundry basket, and slipped on a plain white t-shirt. She 
slept in the buff in the summer time, but she liked a little covering when it was chilly outside.

After answering the call of nature, Monica washed her face and thought about John. Was she wrong 
in thinking that he had feelings for her? Had she misjudged him? He was so confusing when it came 
to this love business. Actually, Monica thought, it's kind of sweet. But at the same time she just 
wished that he'd come out with it.

Maybe he doesn't want you like that, Monica thought to herself. Maybe it's just a friendship and 
nothing more, and that's why he hasn't said - or done - anything about it.

Monica sighed and decided to sleep on it. They were going out again tomorrow night, which would 
make four nights in the past two weeks. At least when she went out with him, she could pretend they 
were an item to other people, Monica thought smiling. She turned off her bathroom light and headed 
for the bedroom. She got into bed and switched off the lamp.

Her last conscious thoughts were of her partner's blue eyes.

***

Monica awoke. She didn't get up, nor did she even open her eyes. But she lay there, and tried to 
remember what exactly had awoken her. She lay still in the darkness of her bedroom.

After several minutes, she hadn't heard anything. She turned onto her back.

And that was when she began to feel uneasy. Her stomach ached, and she had a dreadful feeling 
suddenly, like the way you feel when you wake from a bad nightmare. But she hadn't been dreaming. She 
had barely been asleep. Her eyes opened slowly.

A man was standing next to her bed.

Monica gasped and struggled to get away. But the blankets restricted her, and at once the man 
leapt onto her, and pressed the barrel of a gun into her forehead. Fear seized her body, and her limbs 
suddenly felt like lead. She stared at the figure that was holding her down with wide, fearful 
eyes.

"Don't make a sound." His voice said, in a flat, merciless tone. She did as he said, if only for 
the sheer fact that there was a gun pressed against her head.

The gun, she now realized, was hers.

The man watched her for a moment that was too long. What does he want? Monica thought. She 
memorized his appearance. About 6'8", medium build. Black jeans, black long-sleeve shirt, black ski mask. 
His hair was dark brown, she thought. His hands were covered with gloves.

Suddenly, he threw the covers off Monica's body. Monica felt the terror come over her in great 
waves as she realized his intent.

He grabbed her wrists and held them above her. On instinct, she resisted, and she felt the back of 
his hand against her cheek. The gun pressed harder. Her cheek stung.

"Don't fight me, bitch, or you'll die. I promise...you'll die." His tone was full of hatred.

She froze. He held her arms above her head, and this time she did not fight him. She felt sick to 
her stomach as he ripped at her panties and pulled up her t-shirt. His gloved hands roamed over 
her body, softly at first, and then roughly. It felt like an eternity. Maybe he only planned on 
assaulting her...maybe he wouldn't go any farther.

She was not so lucky. She watched in horror as he grabbed at his own jeans. She looked away, but 
couldn't ignore the sound of his zipper, or the sound of his labored breath.

Tears streamed down her face. "Please, don't do this!" she begged. He hit her again, and this time 
she tasted blood. She whimpered.

"I said SHUT UP!"

And then he forced her legs apart, and crawled between them. She could feel his erect penis 
touching her leg. But before he went any further, he stopped, and pulled something out of his pocket. A 
condom. He ripped the package open with his teeth, and slid the condom on with one hand.

He entered her without warning, and without mercy. He felt like a knife blade ripping into her 
body. She cried out as he forced his way in, thrusting against her.

'I'm being raped.' Monica realized, and tears flooded her eyes, making her field of vision blurry 
and distorted.

After more than a minute of this, she went numb. The only sensation she could feel was his hips as 
they crashed into her. There would be bruises there, on her bottom and between her legs, and also 
on her wrists. She was terrified beyond any of her worst nightmares, and she could do nothing.

Her head fell to the side and she looked away. She wanted to leave her body, to go within her own 
mind and hide there until this was over. She tried to think about other things. Little baby 
William, John, her parents back in Mexico City...but it was useless. She was painfully aware and alert. 
She cried as he slammed into her, over and over. And suddenly, she felt nothing but rage. She 
hated this man. This man that was hurting her. She wanted to kill him. In a split second, she decided 
that she would stop this. She had to stop him.

He was unprepared for the moment when Monica ripped one of her hands free. She clawed at the gun, 
and managed to move it away from her head. She brought one leg up and forced him to withdraw from 
her. He growled at her as they struggled with the gun. He squeezed the trigger, and Monica moved 
her head out of the way just in time to feel the gun fire into the pillow.

The sound was muffled by the pillow, but still loud. Monica's left ear rang from the deafening 
sound, but it wouldn't be permanent. Her attacker jumped off of her, apparently afraid that someone 
had heard the shot. He pulled his pants up as he fled the room, taking the gun with him.

Monica heard the door shut.

He was gone.

It was over.

Her mind and her body were frozen. She lay still, just breathing, for nearly ten minutes after she 
had heard her door shut. Tears flooded her eyes and her mind reeled with the images that she knew 
would be forever embedded in her mind.

She cried softly as shock turned to panic.

'My God.' she thought. 'I've just been raped.'

Then, the possibility that he might come back struck her. Panic became terror. She slowly got up 
from the bed, and there wasn't a part of her that didn't hurt. She shook like a leaf. She sobbed in 
the darkness as she looked at her bed. There was a bullet hole in her pillow. Suddenly she was 
afraid of the dark, and she switched on her bedroom lamp.

She went cautiously into the living room. Although no one seemed to be there, she looked around as 
though someone might jump from the shadows at any moment to attack her again. She switched on the 
living room lamp, then the overhead light. Then the kitchen. Then the bathroom. She ran 
frantically to every room in her apartment, and turned on every light.

'What do I do?' she thought, as tears poured from her eyes, as her lip throbbed and her wrists 
ached. She needed help. And there was only one person she could call.

John.

She found her cell phone on the kitchen table. Her hands trembled as she dialed the numbers she 
knew by heart. But, just as she was about to press the 'send' button, she stopped. How could she let 
John see her like this? She was afraid and she was hysterical. She couldn't think straight. She 
swallowed and found her mouth very dry. Then she pressed the 'send' button. It began to ring.

"Hello?" said John's sleepy voice.

There was a pause before Monica responded.

"John...?"

Several miles away, John sat up in bed.

"Monica?"

She choked back her tears. "Yeah. It's me." she said in a tiny voice. John knew immediately that 
something was wrong.

"Are you okay, Monica? What is it?"

She shook her head, but he couldn't see it. He could only hear her choppy breath, and her crying.

"John..." she paused again. Her voice was a small and frightened whimper. "Someone broke in."

John's breath left him. "Oh, Christ, Monica...are you okay?"

She didn't say. She didn't want to tell him what that man had done to her.

"C-Could you just...come over here?"

Now it was John's turn to panic.

"Yeah, of course Monica. I'll be there as fast as I can."

Monica nodded again. "Okay...okay." And she hung up the phone, just as she burst into tears. Miles 
away, John stared at his phone. Then he threw the covers off, and began groping around for 
clothing. He left his house less than two minutes later.

***

When John pulled in front of Monica's building, the first thing he noticed was her lights. Every 
single light was on. Her third floor apartment stood like a beacon in the quiet, dark neighborhood.

He practically sprinted up the stairs, ignoring the ancient elevator altogether.

His mind reeled with questions, and he couldn't stop thinking about all the possible things that 
could have happened. He didn't want to think about those possibilities, because none of them were 
good. He concentrated on finding her apartment. He knocked on her door.

When no one answered, he knocked again. Nothing.

"Monica?"

Hearing nothing, he became frantic. He grabbed his keys out of his pocket and found the one with 
the 'M' written on it in permanent marker. He had come by the key when Monica had been in the 
hospital. He unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

"Monica?" He called again. He drew his weapon.

"Back here." said a tiny voice. He holstered his gun, and followed the voice to the hallway.

Monica sat on the floor, slumped against the wall. Her legs were curled up around her. She was 
wearing a plain white t-shirt. When she looked up at him, he saw that there were cuts on her face. 
Her nose was bloody, there was a cut above her eye, and her cheeks were red, the early stage of 
bruising. His mouth dropped open and his heart felt as if it stopped. He went and crouched next to 
her.

"God, Monica...what happened?"

She pulled her legs closer to her. New tears began to pour out of her eyes, and then she started 
to sob.

"A man broke in. I was sleeping. He had a gun." she said. "He...he raped me, John."

John's heart broke into a million pieces. He couldn't breathe for a moment. He hadn't even 
considered the possibility on his way over, because he just hadn't wanted to.

"Oh...my God." He said. He looked up at her. Her lip trembled. She bowed her head in what seemed 
like shame.

"I...I couldn't stop him..."

John shook his head. No...she wasn't going to feel responsible for this. He opened his arms up, 
and reached for her. He was surprised when she went rigid and pulled away.

Jesus. She was afraid of *him*.

He stared in disbelief. She looked up into his eyes. "I...I just can't let anyone touch me right 
now."

He wanted so badly to comfort her. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and make it all go 
away...except he knew nothing could. He ached to hold her though, and to try and make her feel safe. It 
was as much for her benefit as it was for his. Her pain was his pain.

She continued to cry, holding her hand against her mouth. She wanted to go to John, to let his 
comforting arms enfold her, to dull the ache. But if anyone touched her right now, she felt that she 
would go into hysterics. She replayed the last thirty minutes in her head. She couldn't believe 
what had happened. She was an FBI agent, for Christ's sake. She had handled plenty of men that were 
larger, more dangerous than her attacker...why couldn't she stop him from raping her?

She hugged her arms around her body to fend off the cold shivers. She felt dirty. It felt like she 
could never be clean again.

"I...have to take a shower." Monica said.

John sighed and looked at Monica sympathetically. "I know you want to, Monica. But I can't let 
you. You have to let me take you to the Police station."

She looked up at him, ready to argue, but she realized he was right. The man who did this to her 
would never be caught if she didn't file a report and begin the investigation. She nodded numbly 
and wiped some of the blood away from her nose. She felt so ashamed to have John see her this way, 
and to let anyone else see her like this would be mortifying. She slowly got up off the floor, and 
felt her bruised areas throb with pain.

"Is this what you were wearing?"

She nodded.

"Would you like to put on some jeans or something?"

She nodded again. "I'll get them for you." he said, looking towards the bedroom. He knew that's 
where the rape must have occurred. He went into the bedroom, and felt his stomach turn when he 
looked at the bed. There was an indention in the sheets where he must have held her down. There was 
blood from her nose on the pillow. And then John saw the condom wrapper and felt even sicker.

'At least she was protected.' he thought to himself, even though he had probably used the condom 
to avoid having his identity discovered rather than to protect Monica. And then something else 
caught his eye. The pillow. There was a hole in it, which could only be made by a bullet, because the 
edges of the hole were black.

Anger filled him. He wished like hell that he could have this man alone. He would hurt him as he 
had hurt Monica, and then he'd probably put a bullet in him. Lord knows that, if he was to be 
caught and sent to jail, he could be out in a matter of years. All it takes is good behavior and a 
convincing speech to the parole board.

He swallowed hard and went back to his task.

He opened her closet and found a pair of blue jeans first, but then decided to get a pair of 
loose-fitting running pants. Probably more comfortable for her, he thought. At the last minute, he 
decided to grab several outfits. He took t-shirts, sweatpants, jeans and a sweatshirt. Then he went to 
her chest of drawers. He felt a little awkward, but he grabbed pairs of underwear that she would 
probably find comfortable. He ignored the little thongs and g-strings. He took several pairs of 
socks too. He folded everything into a nice pile, and took it to the kitchen and found a paper bag to 
put it all in. He planned on taking her to his house. He found it inconceivable that she would 
want to come back to this apartment after what had happened.

Monica sat like a zombie at the kitchen table. She stared at the floor. Again, John felt that pang 
of restlessness that ached to reach out to her. But he knew that she would come to him when she 
was ready. With a forced smile, he handed her the running pants and a pair of socks. She muttered a 
small 'thank you' and took them. She slipped them on.

"Anything else you need?" he asked.

She nodded. "I need my running shoes. And, if you wouldn't mind...my bra." she said sheepishly.

He would have blushed if the situation had not been so grim. But now all he felt was a duty. He 
went off to the bedroom again and found her shoes. And then he opened her drawers until he found 
where she kept her lingerie. He was a bit startled to find that she owned lots of it, things that 
went beyond just a simple bra. When he realized his mind was going off in the wrong direction, he cut 
off those thoughts completely. He found lacy bras, more practical ones, and then a black 
sport-type Nike bra that looked as though it had been worn a lot more than the others.

"The black Nike one, Monica?"

"Yes, please."

He grabbed it up and went back out to the living room. Monica was at the table still, but she was 
crying again. Grief hit John's chest like a hammer. He knelt down beside her.

"What can I do?" He asked her. He felt his emotions starting to come through, and he knew he would 
start to cry to if he had to watch her for one more second without holding her. It broke his 
heart.

"I don't know, John." She looked down at her knees again.

"If you want to talk, I'll listen."

She nodded, but didn't say anything. She just wasn't ready.

"Here." he said softly, and handed her the bra. She slipped her arms inside her shirt and put the 
bra on with incredible ease. Then she took the shoes, and slipped her feet into them. John tied 
them for her. She smiled slightly.

"Thanks."

He shrugged.

"I'm ready."

He nodded. "Okay. We should probably take your purse along...or do you even have one?" He asked, 
looking around.

"I have one, but all my identification is in with my badge. It's over there, on the kitchen 
counter." John went over and picked it up, and slipped it into his back pocket.

"What about your gun?"

Monica swallowed hard and felt the tears come again.

"He has it," she said softly. "He used my gun."

John bit his lip and tucked her bag of clothes under her arm. He walked back over to her and held 
his hand out. "Let's go. Let's get this done with so you can get some rest."

She looked up at him, and then down at his outstretched hand. Reluctantly, she took it and stood 
up. He led her to the door, and helped her with her jacket. They left together without a word.

The drive over was completely silent. Monica stared blankly out of the window, and John fixed his 
eyes on the road ahead. He went over the night's events in his mind. Their 'date' had been 
enjoyable. He took her home. It all seemed like so long ago now. He wanted to tell her how he felt about 
her then. He wanted to show her by kissing her. But he hadn't, and she had gone to her apartment 
alone. If he had told her, then maybe they would have spent the night together. And then the rape 
would never have happened. It was all his fault. He was to blame.

Was that why she wasn't talking to him? Was that why she avoided his touch? Because she blamed 
him? Knowing Monica, though, she wouldn't blame him. But it didn't matter because he blamed himself.

They pulled into the parking lot of the police station. She didn't move when he turned off the 
car. She just kept staring out of the window. He got out of the car and went around to open her door. 
Monica felt as if she was in a fog, and any attempt to break out of it would only make her think 
about the rape.

The next few hours were unpleasant for Monica.

John spoke in quiet tones to the officers and told them what had happened. One of the officers 
asked Monica to come with him, so he could take her statement about the incident.

"Are you her husband?" the officer asked.

He hesitated. "No...but..."

The officer smiled. "You can wait for your friend over there in the waiting room, then."

He was about to argue, but didn't. They led Monica away, talking softly to her. She glanced at 
John as they led her into a room.

***