I thought it was a one-shot, but apparently not. Dark fic, rated for the implied violence.
I hold no copyrights for the Characters or properties of Law & Order: Criminal Intent or the situations described in the following.

I'm going to live. That's the bad news.

They think I can't hear them, but I can. I'm surrounded by beeping and whooshing machines, but I can still hear their murmured conversations. Their fascination with my case. I can't help but be aware. I'm in pain, a pain that no medication can reach. A deep, internal bruising, kind of pain. My every breath a torture of life. They still don't know who I am and for that reason, I'm safe.

I knew they would come for me. It was only a matter of time after all. Still when I heard that quiet, soft knock on the door, I almost pissed myself. I crept closer to the door, though I knew in my heart who was on the other side, I couldn't resist taking a peek. Sure enough, it was a chest, just a broad chest covered in a double-breasted Armani suit. I ran. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I ran like a scared little girl. Right to my bedroom and out the window for the fire escape.

On the fire escape is where I met my worse fear. Alexandra Eames was waiting for me, leaning casually against the railing. She waited until I was half in and half out of the window before she spoke.

"Going somewhere McGee?" she asked me, her tone all nonchalant as she dropped the window down on me, almost cutting me in half.

I gasped out a scream and started to cry. Scared out of my wits and looking into the frigid eyes of death.

She pulled the window off me and pushed me inside, my body crumpling to the floor. The pain from the impact effectively pinning me to the floor long enough for her to climb over me, her heel coming within centimeters of unmanning me, as she let her partner into my hidey hole.

Goren moved silently, belying his bulk and suddenly he was there, pulling my crumpled body off of the floor, holding me up off of the floor, my feet dangling uselessly as I gasped like a goldfish trying to draw breath into my lungs, trying to breath through busted ribs.

"All police officers have their DNA on file, to cross check on crime scenes," Goren stated softly. The very quietness of his voice, chilling my blood and I whimpered. I knew the scrapings from under his mother's fingernails had come back from the lab. I knew I was dead.

They say I will live. That's the bad news.

Goren trembled with rage and control, my body shaking from the force of his fighting for control. His nostrils flared and I could see my death in his eyes before he stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment and then just let go of me. Dropped me on the floor. And turned away from me, heading out of the room. I whined in relief, until I remembered ... her.

Eames sauntered over to me, a kind of dark amusement glittering in her eyes as she stepped on my chest and leaned down to look at me.

"You're a cop, so you know the good cop/bad cop routine. But, you see ... Bobby ... he's the good cop," she pointed out. "You hurt him. Now, he's going to screw you over by letting you find out what his mother feels like, but me ... that's not enough. You hurt him and I don't like that. I don't like that at all."

That's the last thing I heard for a long time, unless you count the sound of bones breaking.

They say I'm going to live and that's the bad news.

The considered opinion is that I was worked over by a professional mob enforcer. One who knew how to inflict pain and make sure that you got to experience every second of it. Or maybe it was my own paranoid schizophrenia that did it. Is it possible for someone to do this to themselves? They will have to study me for a long time. I'll be institutionalized for years they say. Fascinating case.

They say I'm going to live and that's the bad news.

There is no good news.