Hello! First of all, I haven't written for Holby City in AGES and have never written Fletch, and, second of all, I haven't written in years, so be kind.
Day Seven
Soft sounds bled from the solemn space of intensive care. Inside, the deep, slow beeps of monitors met the spluttered wheeze of respirators in an ugly, but living, mess. Nurses floated from bed to bed, correcting charts with a sharp click of drying pens and scratchy cursive. Centred under the heat of white lights, were two pale doctors.
Jac Naylor and Oliver Valentine were lucky to be alive.
The door swung open, tottering on its hinges. At first disgruntled by interruptions outside visiting hours, it had become quite accustomed to the motion over the past week.
Throwing around a courteous nod, Adrian Fletcher settled into the seat next to his friend's still form, filling the warm depression in the cheap material. He stared at her in the few quiet moments they had alone, something she'd have killed him for, Fletch mused, if this had been any other day. Wan and twitching, her face was blank, devoid of all the character he had come to admire. Tresses of glorious red hair curled by her shoulders like twisted rivulets of spilled blood.
It had been a week since the shooting. The hospital was slowly recovering, clutching at the fading flicker of normality. AAU was swamped not with patients but with richly coloured flowers. Keller had unremembered their disgraced surgeon, specs of his blood still upon their floor. And Darwin – Darwin was now run by strangers, a blackhole of painful absence.
It had been a week since she had opened her eyes.
Somewhere in Fletch's reflections, his calloused hand had woven around hers. It was cold and svelte and soft. He had seen what she could do with her willowy fingers. They seemed so different now, slack and powerless, sinking back into the mattress when he forced himself to let go.
His time was up. Darwin needed him, and he was going to make damn sure her ward survived until she needed it.
Day Eight
The door spat its greeting as he passed through. Stuck with the same routine, Fletch bowed his head at a passing nurse before slumping into his chair by Jac's bedside. Today, he had brought along lunch, something painfully fatty and greasy from Pulses.
He watched as her brow furrowed in sleep. "I know. I know. Heart attack on a plate, right? Doesn't half taste good, though." Somehow this was different to talking to himself.
Sauce dribbled from his lips, colouring her sheets a sticky orange. Clearing his throat, Fletch wiped the offending mark with his sleeve.
"Sorry," he muttered, lest she realised what he had done.
He chewed on his baguette, eyes following the rise and fall of her chest, however artificial.
"You know, it's been so long since you've scared the living daylights out of me that I'm practically hypotensive. Can't seem to find a way to get the blood pumping to the old brain like that did." He joked lightly over the food stifling his volume. "Doesn't take much to get on your bad side too. I forget to knock and you're off on one about privacy and respect quicker than you can stop a bleed."
His strained smile grew sober, straighter, as he eyed the twists of tubes and the length of lines that overtook her slackened limbs and empty face. Suddenly, he was struck by an idea.
"Tell you what? Let's make a deal," he ventured hopefully. "If you wake up right now, I promise never to do that again. The only thing you'll ever be hearing from me is a light tapping."
He let her absorb this information, some part of him half-assured she'd spring up if only to laugh. Time seemed to crawl on feet of lead.
And Jac did not move.
Maybe she enjoyed sparring with him more than she could say.
Day Nine
Fletch kicked the door softly with his shoe, dusting off the light splatter of snow. Cuddling a steaming coffee, he soon relaxed into his seat, and took to observing his friend once again.
"Bit chilly, isn't it?" He commented, heart deflated when her cheeks were not stained with rose. "Been freezing my butt off helping Donna with the decorations. Thought we could all use a bit of Christmas spirit. Keep morale up, you know."
The machine exhaled. "Don't worry. I banned all red and green from your office. Made sure to bin the electric Santa and everything. I know you don't go in for all that stuff."
He had left her workplace sanctuary relatively undisturbed, beset with weak hope. One day, the locum had discovered a small fleet of paper aeroplanes in a draw, inscribed with her neat script and folded crisply into place. Fletch ensured they remained untouched, never daring to read her internal dialogue.
"Got myself a cup of joe too. Have to say – it really does warm the cockles. Actually helped me come up with a second proposal for you." He leaned in towards her, almost conspiratorially. "If you wake up right now, I'll bring you your morning coffee for a month."
No response.
"You drive a hard bargain." He contemplated her for a moment. "Okay then, for a year. Eight a.m on the dot. A Fletch delivery service. Limited time offer. What do you say?"
The monitor blinked at him.
Fletch sighed. "Well don't get up."
Day Ten
Backing through the door, he balanced the mustard-yellow plastic box in his arms. Delicately, Fletch placed the monstrosity down upon her bed, careful to miss her lifeless legs. He fished inside, pulled out a tired photograph, and smiled at the speckled child with the endless grin and hopeful eyes.
"I got the spare key off Sacha and picked up a couple of things from your place. Apparently having familiar stuff around helps. You or me, I don't know."
His hands stilled when they met the shabby outline of a book, pages browned with age and dusty with disuse. "He said it's your favourite. Has been since you were a kid." He turned it over, having abandoned the other few possessions that couldn't hold his interest. "The Outsiders," he murmured, wiping a nail down the broken spine.
"Was never much into reading meself, but I've seen the film, the one with Tom Cruise?" Fletch allowed time for her silent reply. "Yeah, I doubt it's the same."
He collapsed into the chair, and prised open the volume, skimming through the sallow pages. "Anyhow, thought I'd read you a little before my break ends. Try to get those cogs whirring again."
Fletch ran a stocky thumb over the inked name on the inside cover, skulking over the fanciful curls of her penmanship. His eyebrows shot up. "You've got some hell of a library fine."
Throwing Jac a look, he wiggled a finger at her. "You must have nicked it, hey? Bet that's a story worth telling."
The monitors chuckled throatily at him, as if revelling in some private victory. He exhaled sadly. "You know what I think? I think you have too much bottled up inside. I think it's killing you. So, if you ever want to chew off a friendly ear, or to drown your sorrows, then I'm here for you. A problem shared and all that."
Again, and like always, Jac gave no indication that she had heard him.
Guilt and pain and sorrow scratched at his eyes, tears snagging in the corners. They burned as he stared at her. He wanted to yell himself hoarse. Tell her to stop being so goddam stubborn. Instead, he fell back on his oaths.
"If you wake up right now, I promise that I'll make more of an effort in getting to know you. Kid's books. Chicken salad. Blondie. Everything."
If he didn't know better, he could have sworn he saw her smile.