Hi,
A few of you were kind enough to read and review the first story I wrote so I'm back with another. It hasn't been beta read and I should forewarn you that, although I'm not in the habit of doing this (honest!), it does contain the death of a major character. Lastly I don't work within the health profession so if any of the medical content is incorrect I apologise now. If anyone out there is still willing to read it I hope you enjoy it anyway
Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Diagnosis Murder. I just enjoy borrowing Steve, Mark, Jesse and Amanda every now and again.
A Lonely Kind of Crazy
It had happened so suddenly, so violently. One second enjoying life, oblivious to fate's cruel twist. The next trapped amidst twisted metal and shattered glass. An early morning call, yet another emergency, the rapid response of a seasoned doctor cultivated over many years. Showered, and shaved in mere minutes, breakfast snatched on the go, the prelude to the all too familiar, all too predictable drive up PCH. But this time familiarity became devastation. One split second, one miscalculation by an inebriated driver still recovering from and trying to recall parts of the night before and everything changed. Mark had been hit head on, hadn't stood a chance. Both cars crumpled on impact. It had taken 3 hours to cut him free, had been lucky to survive and was even luckier to be fighting on. But fight he did.
Steve had raced to the hospital as soon as word reached him. Passing the aftermath of the collision his eyes locked on the mangled mess he instantly recognised as the wreckage of his fathers beloved car. Deep down he had known then it couldn't be good news. But even that hadn't prepared him for walking into that room. He'd seen the wires, tubes and drips hundreds of times before, knew what each one was for. But never had they invoked such a feeling of dread. He'd seen Mark use every piece of machinery on dozens of patients over the years, had even experienced most of them himself. But never had they been so frightening or made him feel so inadequate. Unable to contemplate the alternative he'd simply taken a seat next to the bed, placed his hand gently and carefully over his father's and started to speak. Words seemed to be an almost palpable link between Steve and an ailing Mark. Once he started he found it hard to stop. All the things he'd never said, needed to say poured out. All the things he hoped with all his heart would bring his father back to him.
He watched transfixed the rise and fall, praying each breath would not be the last. Every moment was precious, every second sacred, like grains of sand falling through the hour glass far too quickly. The stillness and silence in such sharp contrast to the vitality and energy so typical of the man he kept vigil over. Steve had known fear before. Become acquainted with it on an almost daily basis, a side effect of the profession he had chosen and cherished for so many years. But never had he known it like this, caught in an iron grip, paralysed. The fear of looking away and missing the final few moments of a life so well-lived against the prospect of those final moments coming at all, which he feared most he never knew.
The timid tone of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator the only sounds to be heard. Tirelessly, thanklessly they worked, melting into the background, the fragile difference between life and death. As a young man still with much growing up to do, Steve had once believed an almost tangible vein of warmth, support, and kindness had run through this place. Now feeling real loneliness for the first time in his life he wondered what had happened to it.
So much of his life had been spent within these walls. Years of memories flitted through his mind. People he laughed with, cried with, all the times he had found comfort, all the times he had offered it, spiralling thoughts merged together. He'd always felt so safe here, so happy. That feeling he knew was gone forever. This dark, oppressive, solitary room his abiding memory of this hospital now.
He'd seen various doctors and nurses come and go; each bringing with them little titbits of information on Mark's condition; blood pressure readings, kidney function tests, body temperature checks; even the smallest sign of improvement cause for hope. But none telling him what he really wanted to hear needed to hear…that his father would live. Steve now knew the extent and severity of his father's injuries. Broken Ribs and right leg, dislocated shoulder, concussion from quite a serious knock to the head, ruptured spleen and more cuts and bruises than could be counted. The spleen had had been successfully operated on and removed, his cuts and bruises tended to. The dislocation had been reset and his arm now rested in a sling. His leg had suffered horrific crush injuries and in the early days panic had set in when amputation had been mentioned as a possibility. But luck had been on their side. Surgery had successfully repaired the damage and it now rested comfortably for the time being. The most serious of the long catalogue of injuries was the blow to the head, the resultant swelling to the brain rendering Mark unconscious and fighting for life.
He didn't think about the worst happening. Not at first; just couldn't do it. But as the hours turned in to days Steve's mind had wandered. Desperately he had tried to stop it but emotionally drained and bone weary he just didn't have the fight. Images started to flood his mind of a life without Mark. Images of an empty house; desolate, its lifeblood gone; a chessboard untouched; fishing rods unused; his roller skates gathering dust in the corner. Images of Mark's office unusually neat; his belongings in cardboard boxes on his desk, a photograph on top of the two of them, arms round each other's shoulders, beautiful smiles, a poignant reminder of happier times; Images of the Doctor's lounge; Jesse and Amanda hunched over at a table, silently staring at their coffee cups, the coffee stone cold and stewed but still they clutch them like their lives would end without them, seeking just the tiniest bit of comfort. Images of his father's funeral, masses of faceless people in black milling around, whispered pleasantries about what an amazing person Mark was, stood at his father's grave Jesse and Amanda beside him, tears of grief on all three faces, Steve throws a handful of soft dirt on to the coffin, the gleaming brass plaque on the top obscured. Image after Image invaded him, each more disturbing than the last. The tears he had kept at bay for so long finally began to fall. Weeping turned in to sobbing and all the pain he had kept bottled up since the accident found its release. Eventually defeated and defenceless he fell asleep.
He's always known his father's reach was vast. That the people he had touched numbered in the hundreds perhaps more. Yet even Steve couldn't help but be surprised at the number of well-wishers that had made themselves known. The nurses that poked their heads round the door just to say a quick hello, the doctors that stopped him in the hospital corridors to offer best wishes, his own colleagues within the police force that left messages on his answer machine. Flowers and other gifts had been redistributed amongst other patients so many had been sent. The sheer volume of good wishes had been overwhelming at first but eventually he'd fallen into a steady rhythm of pre-rehearsed answers. His only concern getting back to his father as quickly as possible. Both to be with him when his condition changed whichever way the fickle hand of fate pointed. But also because despite the kind words and sympathy the deeply held rage that simmered just below the surface threatened to explode any moment and he was scared it would take an innocent person with it.
He had felt it ever since he had answered the phone back at the station. He'd been waiting on a call from Ballistics about a weapon he had sent in for testing, had started flirting with the attractive young woman he had expected to be on the other end. Stopped dead when he realised it was Jesse and his father was in trouble. It had begun to creep over him then but it had taken a ferocious hold the first time he saw Mark lying there. Waiting never had been Steve's strong suit and never in his life had he felt as helpless as he did now. With the stakes so high his vulnerability only served to feed his anger and the rage bubbled on. His hatred was directed at the man responsible for Mark's current situation. But so scared was he that he would lash out at someone undeserving of his temper, someone who only desired to help him, that he kept contact beyond Jesse and Amanda as brief as he could.
Steve felt his grasp on his emotions becoming precarious. Jesse and Amanda provided the rock his sanity clung too, desperately fighting to stay above water. Frightened that should he lose the battle he'd never be able to find his way back and rationality and stability would escape him for the rest of his life. He saw Jesse and Amanda pushing back their pain to support him, support Mark. Despite his head telling him he should return the favour, his heart was consumed by his father. So he devoured any piece of comfort they could offer on their regular visits and left Amanda and Jesse to console each other. Amanda and Jesse cared for Mark Sloan deeply. But even they could not fully understand or share Steve's pain. So he maintained his vigil alone, just his own tortured imagination for company.
Steve had survived several brushes with the hereafter and sitting in that dark, lonely room he gradually began to realise what his father must have gone through each time. The pain, loneliness and heartache he must have suffered. The hours he had sat beside Steve's bed wondering if his son would come through this latest ordeal. He'd always been grateful for his father's support, knew there were times he would never have survived without it. But he had never fully realised until now what it must have cost Mark emotionally and Steve admired afresh the strength of character and depth of love his father had demonstrated not once but repeatedly and unfailingly. The roles reversed he wasn't convinced he had the strength physically or emotionally to deal with it. But revitalised Steve made a vow to himself. He would follow his father's example and provide every scrap of comfort and support he was able to.
He lost track of the time, didn't know what day it was much less the hour. But he knew that with every second that passed without change the chances of a full recovery faded a little. Never once did he let it show in his one sided conversations with Mark. But deep down the truth gnawed at Steve and he had to admit to himself the possibility that his father may never recover. He spoke passionately and vehemently against it when it was suggested that maybe it would be kinder to stop treatment and let nature take its course; that maybe Mark's injuries were too severe and his body too weak to overcome insurmountable odds. But when the door had closed and Steve was alone he felt his resolve crumble and that now familiar feeling of foreboding crept over him.
Scared he would fall apart irreparably if he once again allowed himself the luxury of crying Steve fought hard against the tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat. He tenderly took Mark's hand in his and held it. The physical contact with his father provided the strength he needed to compose himself. He sat silently, his eyes closed, reminiscing about times gone by. He thought back through his childhood, remembering the laughter, the tears, the love. He smiled inwardly as he allowed himself to drift through cherished memories; playing on the beach with carol; his father chastising a cheeky young boy whilst trying his best not to laugh, his mother imparting words of wisdom he wouldn't really understand fully until he was older but was grateful beyond measure for now. For a few moments he was back there with his family, with all his family and he felt lighter than he had in days. He was brought out of his reverie by a faint tickling sensation on the hand that held Mark's. Coming out of his daydream it took him a few seconds to work out what had happened. But when he did his heart lifted and the world seemed just a little brighter. Mark had moved his hand; just the tiniest flicker, but definitely movement. Steve held his breath willing his father to do it again. He had to know, had to know it was real, had to know he hadn't just imagined it caught up in the moment back with his family. There it was again, the faintest tickle on the palm of his hand. It was real. His father was waking up; his father was coming back to him. Steve knew the road in front of Mark was long and arduous but he had taken the first step. Now nothing seemed impossible.
Steve summoned help and within minutes several doctors and nurses rushed into the room, busying themselves with checks, talking between themselves in short, clipped bursts of a language known only to those in white coats. The veteran cop's excitement grew fed by the sense of urgency building around him. His optimism and happiness tempered his normally keen instinct and highly trained observational skills. He missed the slowing tempo of the Heart Monitor, the practiced ease of the medical staff performing their crucial tasks, the sound of the ventilator gently fading. He celebrated his father connecting once again with the living without realising Mark was slowly slipping away.
The doctors fought hard for the man that had stood side by side with them in many previous battles. They used every weapon available to them and every skill they possessed. They found within themselves grit and determination even they hadn't known was there. They pushed beyond all existing boundaries, going way beyond all textbook guidelines for this situation. But despite all efforts Mark did not respond and time was growing short.
Still unable to face the truth it was only the use of a defibrillator on his father that shocked Steve back into reality. Far from witnessing Mark coming round he was seeing his final moments. The feverish activity around the bed slowed to a stop and the whole room fell silent. A doctor turned to Steve and started to speak. But he heard nothing. He already knew. Had known the moment his father's chest fell still. He was gone, taken in the most senseless way, a part of his son along with him.
The next few months remained a blur to Steve, nothing made sense anymore, everything seemed fuzzy, out of focus. Jesse and Amanda solely responsible for making the grieving cop get out of bed every day; eat the tiny amount he managed and making sure he never got to see the bottom of the whisky bottle. He was about two thirds down when it happened, when Amanda finally broke through the haze. She told him that as much as he missed Mark, as much as they all did, a part of him lived on. She told him that his father lived in every memory Mark had ever given Steve, every lesson he had ever taught him. That the best part of Mark was sitting right next to her on the sofa and that he still had a life to live. She told him that she knew it wouldn't be easy, that they'd have to take it a day at a time; but that she and Jesse would be there every step of the way. For weeks now Steve had tried to imagine the future. But all he had seen was a long, straight dark road. He was walking down the middle of it alone, the scenery was dull and sparse and there was no one else around. No matter how long he walked the road remained the same. After Amanda had finally got through to him he imagined that road again. Only this time there were three of them and in front of them was a tiny light in the distance, a hint of the life that awaited him, and he knew that he, Jesse and Amanda would find it together.