Author's Note: I think I've filled in the last gap in this story, so we can begin. This is set in first season after the tsunami episode because that's when I first had the idea, though I had a hard time pulling it together.
Chapter 1 - After
Danny Williams knew the scent of his partner.
Oh, ha ha, he thought without mirth. If he said that aloud, he could imagine Kono Kalakaua's mildly lascivious smirk. But Chin Ho Kelly would nod understanding.
When you spent hours in a car in overheated Honolulu, you got to know your partner's scent. At least you did if you were a detective. That's all he meant.
Danny knew the smell of Steve McGarrett fresh in the morning, still carrying a hint of saltwater from his morning swim that his scentless soap couldn't eradicate. He knew the smell of Steve's honest sweat from a foot chase through the blistering streets and the stale sweat of too many hours on stakeout in the back of a closed van. Danny knew the variations, too, from the permutations of his partner's daily activities: motor oil and gun oil, charcoal smoke, beer and grilled fish and teriyaki burgers with, god help him, extra pineapple.
Not to mention antiseptic, antibiotics and blood.
He'd seen his partner bleeding more than once and smelled that sickening, coppery tang.
Danny glanced down at the floor beside him — not a distant look because he was sitting on it. The detective shivered and tried to pull his shattered, shambling thoughts together.
No, he tried to reassure himself, he knew Steve's scent.
Even though he was sick and dizzy and confused, he held to that belief. Just because he'd been drugged, didn't mean he was crazy.
If it walks like a McGarrett and talks like a McGarrett, then it's a McGarrett, right? But if it doesn't smell like a McGarrett?
Danny shivered and hunched backwards into the corner, wincing at every stab of pain, whimpering at the agony in his leg. He looked again at the gun in his hand, at the familiar face of the man on the floor, at the top of the man's head, blown away by a bullet from the gun in his hand.
No! It had looked like a McGarrett and talked like a McGarrett, but it wasn't. It wasn't Danny's partner, Danny's friend, Danny's brother. It wasn't! Drugged or not, injured or not, Danny knew it wasn't Steve.
But what if he was wrong?
Alone on the floor in a corner of a boarded up shack — alone except for a corpse with a familiar face — Danny Williams moaned and turned his face to the wall.
What if he was wrong?
To Be Continued