IT MUST'VE BEEN A DREAM
By
Krokkie
Disclaimer: I do not own these two memorable characters, Hardcastle and McCormick. This story was written for entertainment purposes only, and not for profit. This is just a piece of fluff that had been floating around inside that tumble-dryer masquerading as my brain. Many thanks to Owlcroft for being my beta on this one again!
This story takes place a few days after Hardcastle was shot in the courthouse by Weed Randall, as was the case in the episode called 'The Birthday Present'.
1
The judge was sitting at the bench, ready to pass judgment during a trial. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, wearing the black judicial robe. He ran a hand through his wavy, gray hair. His stern face reflected a very imposing, strong character.
"I hereby declare the defendant guilty of attempted murder, breaking and entering as well as grand theft auto," he said with authority in his voice and a steely glint in his eyes. "So, Mr. Callum, I will be sentencing you …" the voice became fuzzy, and the image of the judge faded to black.
00000
Milt Hardcastle had taken a bullet in the heart during that disastrous Weed Randall trial, and had survived – barely. Weed Randall hadn't been so lucky; his heart exploded like a cherry-bomb. After regaining consciousness – another miracle – Milt had suffered a setback; the gunshot wound had become infected. His system, already weakened by the severe trauma, was engaged in a fierce battle against death once again. A life-threatening fever wracked his body, and his vital signs were becoming unstable. The fever was terribly high, teetering at 105 degrees, unrelenting and slowly burning the flesh from his body. He was unconscious, totally unaware of his surroundings. The machines near his bed beeped frantically, showing stats that had everybody very worried indeed. That included the curly-haired young man, sitting at his bedside, looking almost as bad as he did.
2
Mark McCormick's second visit to St. Mary's hospital hadn't been a happy one at all. Dr. Marsh, the surgeon who had just about saved Hardcastle's life on the operating table, had given him the bad news, just as things started to take a turn for the better.
"Mr. McCormick, I'm afraid that Mr. Hardcastle is suffering a severe setback. He's not doing well at all right now," Marsh said with a solemn face.
"What? How is this possible? He was looking so well yesterday!" Mark returned, turning as white as a sheet.
"Well, with the critical nature of his injury, things could just about go in any direction at this stage. He was far from out of the woods yesterday, anyway."
"What's wrong?" Mark choked out.
"He's battling with a serious infection that set in last night. He has a very high fever right now."
"Is he … is he gonna make it?" McCormick asked, running a shaky hand through his curls.
"Only time will tell. We're doing everything we possibly can, Mr. McCormick. He's on heavy-duty antibiotics right now; but I'm not going to lie to you. His chances of surviving all of this are slim. His white blood cell count is dangerously low, just like his blood-pressure. Plus, his age is against him in this battle. Technically speaking, he shouldn't even have survived the gunshot wound – not even mentioning the surgery afterwards," Marsh explained, noticing McCormick's pallor and shaking hands.
"But doc, that's the thing – he did, against the odds. He's strong, he's -"
"I know. But he might not be strong enough to survive this new complication. These are the facts. But it is possible that he might surprise us again this time, we'll never know," Marsh said, shrugging his shoulders.
"May I go in and see him?" McCormick asked, wringing his hands together.
After a brief pause, Dr. Marsh nodded. "Just for a few minutes."
3
McCormick was sitting at Hardcastle's bedside, his face pale, his eyes moist. He put out a trembling hand and let it rest upon Hardcastle's white hair. His other hand was resting on Hardcastle's right hand. An IV was inserted into the left hand, that looked swollen and bruised. Hardcastle's face had a sickly gray pallor, save for two hectic red spots over his cheekbones. His lips had a terribly unhealthy-looking bluish hue. He looked ready fall into that machine with the whirring teeth, called death. The heat from the fever was baking off him in waves. He wore an oxygen mask, and he tore ragged breaths from the air in it.
"You were doing so well yesterday, Judge … you almost sounded like your old self. You … you're too mean to die from one bullet, remember? What's a fever in comparison? You can beat this; you're as solid as a rock, you know. Rocks don't just crumble like that. Hardcase Hardcastle does not quit the ballgame! I won't let you! Don't let Weed Randall win, ya hear?"
McCormick had fought hard against the tears that had threatened to spill over during his last visit. This time it was a losing battle. They spilled from his eyes, and ran down his cheeks in glistening streams. His hand tightened onto Hardcastle's too warm hand.
"Please, Judge, don't give up," McCormick said with a wavering, choked-up voice. "The world still needs you, man. I need you! Dig deep, Hardcastle, fight this and live! If you see a bright light or something, turn away from it. Don't go where I can't follow! You still have so much to do and tuh-to l-live for," McCormick stammered, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Oh, crap, if he sees me bawling my eyes out, he'll never let me forget what a baby I am," McCormick muttered to himself. Then he lifted his head upwards. "Please God, just one more miracle – just a little one. He's all I have, without him, I'm nothing…"
A nurse had just entered the room, and saw McCormick at Hardcastle's bedside, his face wet with tears.
"Mr. McCormick, I'm sorry, but it's time to go," she said with sympathy in her voice.
McCormick gave Hardcastle's hand one more squeeze. "Get outta the woods Judge, there are bogies with teeth in there that could kill ya," he said with a trembling voice. He left the room, afraid that he might find the bed empty if he returned the next day.
4
Three days later, death had lost its grip on Milt Hardcastle. True to his nickname, he was indeed a hard case; a nut impossible to crack. His fever had spiked dangerously high before it finally broke. The antibiotics had beaten the infection back into the bushes.
McCormick was sitting at Hardcastle's bedside again. The TV was on, and they were watching a show called 'Judge Johnson', one of those dumb judicial programmes where petty real-life trials were aired on national TV.
"What the heck is wrong with that clown? What's he thinking? Judge Johnson would be dumber than the village idiot on dope if he grants him a thousand dollars for a busted radio!" McCormick sneered at the TV.
There was a distant look in Milt's eyes as he recalled the strange vision of another judge he had during the crisis moment of his battle against the fever. This crystal clear vision had been on his mind during the past two days. It was fascinating as well as utterly impossible – but he couldn't stop thinking about it.
"Hey, Judge, you okay?" Mark asked with alarm when he saw that faraway look in Hardcastle's eyes.
"Huh?" Hardcastle finally answered, looking at McCormick. He still looked like death warmed over, but even that was a hell of an improvement from three days ago.
"What's wrong? You look … I dunno … not all there," McCormick said, sounding scared.
"I'm okay. No need to panic. I was just thinking about something, that's all," Milt answered, still sounding a little dopey from the meds he'd been given.
"What would that be?"
"You."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm in a heap of trouble, I know. I killed a man, remember?" Mark said, sounding disgusted.
"Naw, that's not what I'd been thinking about at all. You know just as well as I do, that there wasn't really much else you could do, anyway. I told you that before. You made a split-second decision, and you saved another man's life. It's just that you don't look well at all. You look exhausted and ready to keel over. I'm worried about you."
"But I'm responsible f-"
"McCormick, just listen to me," Hardcastle said, his voice still sounding a little weak and cracked. "I know that you feel terrible about Weed, but you really should stop beating yourself up about it. You're not a murderer; you were caught in the middle of an impossible situation. That's the way the cookie crumbled, kid."
"I never meant for any of it to go that far," McCormick said with regret in his voice.
"Of course you didn't. You just tried to protect Sandy. When I get out of here, this mess will be sorted out. Quit worrying. We'll be fine, you'll see," Milt said, sounding optimistic, but terribly tired at the same time.
"I sure hope so, Judge. My nerves are shot anyway. I thought you were gonna die on me, here. Never, ever scare me like that again! I'll kick your butt," McCormick said, some of the tension leaving his voice.
"Not if I kick yours first! Listen, get outta here, stop worrying and get some sleep. You look like a raccoon," Milt said, referring to the dark circles under McCormick's eyes.
"I'm just glad that you're alive, Judge," McCormick said, smiling. Hardcastle was still too close to those woods for comfort, but he was inching his way back to health.
5
After McCormick had left the hospital, Hardcastle was still thinking about the vision he had during his feverish delirium.
"Nah, it can't be. It must've been a dream. People would land on Mars, and negotiate for mineral rights with little green men first before that happens," he muttered to himself. He took the remote and switched the TV off.
The man in his dream - the judge at the bench - had been pushing sixty. But the steely blue eyes, and the voice, albeit older, dryer and rougher were unmistakable. It was McCormick.
THE END