Beth, Courtney, and Celli. You guys are the *best*.

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Profiler belong to Sander/Moss Productions and NBC. They've been borrowed with love, but without permission, for the purposes of this fanfic. No infringement, encroachment, irritation, folding, spindling or mutilating is intended.

* * *

When they left Bailey's office, and the smug Agent Bihar, John turned toward the bullpen, but Nathan grabbed his arm and used the momentum to swing him into the nearest empty office. John kept his back turned, but Nate saw his shoulders flinch at the sound of the slamming door.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Nate's voice was pitched low, but spiked with anger.

"Tell you what?" stalled John.

He half-turned, throwing the question over his shoulder. "About your *father*. Your *parents*. Your change of *name*. You *know* there's nothing a lawyer likes less than to walk into a situation like that, where there's some potentially incriminating information his client conveniently *forgot* to tell him."

"'Incriminating'? You think I'm guilty, too?"

"Dammit, John, you know I don't. But what am I supposed to think when he brings up all this shit?"

"Think whatever you want to." His back was turned again, but Nate could see that John had folded his arms. Everything in his posture screamed defensiveness."I want to think you'd be honest with me."

"I'm not your damned client."

"No." Nate sighed. "No, I thought you were my friend. And then I find out you've got this whole other life that you've never said a word about--"

"Can you blame me? What the hell am I supposed to say? Hi, I'm John Grant. Except I'm not really John Grant because I've had my name changed on account of the fact that my father is a world-famous loan shark and all-around asshole who probably killed my mother. Is that how I'm supposed to introduce myself from now on, so nobody's *feelings* get hurt?"

Nate sighed and wished the door was open so he could slam it again. "How long have we known each other? Two, three years now? When were you going to tell me? When were you going to *trust* me?"

"My past is no one's business but my own," snapped John.

"Fine." Nathan opened the door, started to walk out.

"Wait." John ran a hand over his face. "I wasn't planning on dealing with this today. I'm sorry, Nate. If I was going to tell anyone, it would have been you." He laughed half-heartedly. "I guess I just figured the whole story would either damage my career or put my friends in danger."

"We can handle it, John. What's one little loan shark compared to Jack?"

"Yeah, well, just do me a favor and keep this to yourself."

"You're going to have to tell them."

"The hell I do."

"You don't think this is going right into Bihar's report? Or maybe he'll just go around and tell them. He'd like nothing better than to see this team come apart at the seams. You've got to tell them."

"You could do it."

"They need to hear it from *you*. And I think you need to talk about it."

For a long moment John was still, then he sighed and nodded. "Okay. Do me a favor and get everyone together in the command center. I need a couple minutes."

"Sure thing." Nate squeezed his shoulder briefly. "I understand. They'll understand."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the rest of the team waited with curious expressions on their faces as John paced in front of the screen. Finally he said, "Thanks for coming. I guess Bailey's not the only one getting his dirty laundry aired today." Bailey grimaced.

"What are you talking about?" asked Grace.

"My past. Nate advised me to steal Bihar's thunder and tell you this myself."

"Tell us what?" prodded Sam. John outlined for them the information Bihar had found in the lock box, and its significance. He spoke in a monotone, focusing on a spot on the wall over Sam's head, showing no emotion except the break in his voice when he told of his mother's death. When he finished, he glanced around the table, trying to read their faces. Bailey simply nodded--did anything surprise him?--and Nate smiled his encouragement. Sam and Grace both looked solemn. Grace rose first from her place at the table and hugged him.

"It'll be okay," she whispered. *She already sounds like a mom,* he thought.Sam embraced him as well, and moved away more quickly than he would have liked.

"Something you said gave me an idea." She waved her hands distractedly, as she always did when her mind was far away working on a problem.

As she was leaving the room, George spoke up, stopping them all in their tracks."If you decide to go after this guy--" Sam turned in time to catch the fierce expression on John's face, and a bolt of fear arced through her.

Bailey stood up and pointed at John, then at George, then Nate. "I did *not* hear that. Do you understand me? There is no room here for vigilante action. I'd suspend anyone involved."

"Right now *you're* suspended," observed John, and winced at the scowl Bailey gave him. "Sorry. Look, I'd just as soon leave the past in the past."

"How come you didn't say anything to Sam and Grace?" George whined to Bailey.

"Because we're the brains of this outfit." Grace traded a grin with Sam. "I'm sharing Sam's office until forensics is done with the lab, if anyone needs me." Sam left with her, the two women discussing something in an undertone.

Finally only John and Nathan remained in the command center. John slumped in a chair. "That sucked. But thanks for the help."

"Any time. Listen, John . . . when you decide to go after you old man--"

"You heard what Bailey said."

Nate stared him down. "When that day comes, you're not going alone. Remember that." He walked out, leaving John polishing a spot on the table with his thumb.

* * *

When Sam realized she'd been staring at the same page for the past fifteen minutes, she closed the folder and then massaged her forehead with her fingertips.

A feeling she couldn't quite explain had been nagging her for the past couple of days, ever since Portrero's murder. She ought to feel better; the case was solved, the killer caught, Bailey cleared. But every time she remembered the expression on John's face when George mentioned going after Patrick O'Doyle, fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Maybe recognizing the face of evil in your life wasn't any better than being chased by a faceless monster.

She traced the edge of the desk with her fingers. John wouldn't ask her for help. But maybe if she just did a little research on her own, then she could profile John's father, give John a little extra edge in the fight. She wouldn't even have to get involved, really, just write up a report and leave it somewhere John was sure to find it. He could never resist poking into things that technically weren't any of his business.

Once she had come to a decision, she was filled with the need for action. She spun her chair around so it was facing the computer, then initiated a file search on "Patrick O'Doyle". An amazingly *long* list of cases and other data scrolled down the screen. She opened one of the files, and noticed that the computer was executing a little more slowly than normal. She almost shrugged it off as another quirk in the system, but then it occured to her that someone else might be accessing the O'Doyle files. *John?* she wondered. *Is he already starting it?*

She instructed the computer to print out the available information, restocked the printer with paper, and put her shoes back on. She wanted to find out if someone else really was looking at the information on John's father.

There was no sign of John in the bullpen, but George was working on his laptop. As soon as he saw her, he flipped it shut. "Hi, Sam."

She didn't have to be a profiler to tell he was feeling guilty about something. Without answering, she pulled the computer away from him and opened it. Just as she'd suspected, the screen held information on Patrick O'Doyle. "George, what are you thinking? You know how angry Bailey would be. If John put you up to this--"

"He has no idea about it. But I know the way he thinks, and now that Bihar's put a bug up his butt, he's not going to forget about it."

"Isn't that John's problem?" She hated herself for being sneaky like this, but reassured herself it was for John's own good.

"You remember that holdup in the video store?"

"Uh-huh. Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. I didn't tell anyone this, but John found out what was going on. He followed me the night I confronted Dickerson. I almost shot the guy, Sam. My whole life--this job, Rich--it would have been gone. John bailed me out. I owe him. We all do."

Sam nodded. George's words evoked echoes in her own mind: the confrontation with DeRhodes, knowing at that moment that she could trust John, that he would do what needed to be done without hesitation. "I know. Actually," she confessed, "I was printing out the O'Doyle files in my office, to see if I could come up with anything."

"I found a couple of things you should look at. Have a seat." He pulled a chair from a neighboring desk over next to his.

"I don't know, George." She glanced in the direction of Bailey's office.

"Sit down." He patted the chair. "He's going to need us, Sam, whether he admits it or not."

She sighed and sat down. "What did you find?"

THE END (or is it?)

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