Author's Note: I'm a little late to jump on this bandwagon, I guess. I sort of forgot how much I loved Scrubs until like a little over a week ago when I started watching it from the first season on Netflix. I just wanted to do something to pass the time, and I had so many fond memories of watching the show on TV so many years ago. I didn't know that it was going to ruin my life. But then again I'm not very surprised. Anyway, I'm at the beginning of season seven now in my binge viewing. The show is nearing its end and I've been coming up with more ideas for stories than I can handle. I was in the process of writing something light and comical but this one was eating at me so here it is. I'll hopefully have something less gruesome up soon, whenever it's done.
This takes place during season four, after J.D. finds out that his dad died. (Rest in peace, John Ritter.) Also, I always found it weird that J.D. said there was ice cream in the fridge. Like, if you kept your ice cream in the fridge, wouldn't it melt? Ice cream belongs in the freezer! Although, maybe he was so frazzled (I mean, he did just find out that his dad was dead and everything) that he wasn't exactly thinking straight. Unless people actually do that. Do people do that? And here I've spent too much time pondering over two seconds of dialogue. Goodbye.
Warning: Dark themes? (Minor) character death(s)? I don't normally kill people but it had to be done. I'm sorry.
Disclaimer: Scrubs is not mine. Not yet anyway. Ask me again once I have a million dollars.
When Dan came bearing the news of their father's death, J.D. felt for a moment that the world had ended. Okay, so maybe the sun hadn't exploded. And maybe there had been no fireballs raining down from the heavens, nor devilish beasts rising from the underworld, nor cities being drowned in tsunamis. And maybe no buildings had come tumbling down, inch by inch, like in a game of Jenga. Still, somehow, he could feel the bricks hitting him, one by one. It felt impossible to breathe under the surface of their weight. It took him a few moments to realize that it was not, in fact, a building that had crushed him, but the heaviness of his brother's words.
"Dad died."
He was numb, shocked, unsure. No, surely this was some sort of mistake, he thought. A misunderstanding. He couldn't have heard those words correctly.
Those words didn't make sense.
But J.D. didn't need words to know that something was wrong. He knew right away, the moment he saw Dan there at the door, cake in tow. J.D. liked cake, always had, but he knew better than to assume his brother was making a sudden pastry delivery just for the fun of it. It had never been that way in their family. They had cake at their birthday parties, and they had cake at weddings. They also had cake when their loved ones died. Once, when he was five, a cherished family friend had perished in an accident. J.D. had been much too young then to fully understand what was happening. After they buried her, J.D. was served a slice of chocolate. J.D. had been happy for the cake, which seemed about the only good thing to happen to him in weeks - considering all the grown ups around him were a mess - but after a while he grew to realize that it wasn't always something to look forward to having. The cake tradition had been started to cheer up upset and confused children. To soothe grieving parents. After recognizing that with the pleasures of cake came the horrors of death, J.D. grew apprehensive about seeing them. At least in the presence of another Dorian.
Hell, he hadn't seen his brother in years. He hadn't even called.
And the cake in his hands was cold.
"There's ice cream in the fridge," he'd said, shutting the door of the apartment behind him. While doing so, he shut the door on the world for a moment. The world he felt, in his heart, was ending. Even with no signs of biblical rapture, J.D. knew that the world would not be the same again. It was as though time had stood still. As if the planet had stopped spinning. Life itself seemed to be on pause.
It hadn't been fair.
J.D. loved his father, even if he hadn't been an ideal figure in his and Dan's life. He left them when they were children. Dropped in only when it was convenient for him - which admittedly was, more often than not, when it was less than convenient for J.D.. He knew that his father mooched off of him and he resented him for it. Resented him, always, for not being there when he really needed a man in his life. It was probably why he was so messed up. Why he constantly craved the attention he never got growing up without a dad, and with a mom too busy with boyfriends she changed more often than her underwear. Why he was always trying to gain Dr. Cox's guidance and approval.
It wasn't fair to be angry with his father now, J.D. thought, considering he was dead and all. Considering that had all happened ages ago. Maybe there were regrets on both sides. Maybe his father hadn't been such a bad man after all. J.D. would never know for certain. He'd never speak to his father again. Before it had been a conscious decision, but now that he had no say in it, J.D. felt confused and angry and helpless. He wanted to be forgiving and understanding. Part of him was. After all, it wasn't his father's fault that he'd died. But when the man had skipped out on him so many times in his life it was hard to really see how he could forgive him for a millionth time. Especially like this.
They'd been nothing before. Their relationship had been nothing. Now they'd always be nothing.
Not only was his father dead, but so was the hope for their relationship.
Abandoned, again, by the father he had tried so desperately to move on from. He'd been hurt for the last time.
J.D. loved his father, even if he hadn't been an ideal figure in his and Dan's life. There were far too many things he hated about the man, but there was no denying there were things that he loved about him too. Despite how much he tried to tell himself, everyday, that it was better they were apart, that he was better off estranged from the majority of his dysfunctional family, J.D. felt the loss of his father like the loss of a limb. Part of him had been ripped away that day that Dan had shown up on his door step, cake in tow. For long after he felt the aches and the pains of something, of someone, that had once been there but no longer was.
He'd treated a patient, once, who lost their leg in a motorcycle accident. They'd complained of phantom pains.
Sam Dorian had too become a phantom pain, just like Gregory Hawthorne's leg.
Luckily, J.D. had managed to find good people to surround himself with after high school. He'd met Turk during college, the man he'd shared an apartment with for years. The man who'd shared memories with him. The man who'd watched his back every single day because he knew he needed it. And now he had Carla, and Elliot and - to some extent - Dr. Cox. Once news broke out at the hospital of the passing of his father, J.D. was met with kindness and understanding he wasn't always accustomed to getting. Hell, even the janitor had been nice to him for a while! And that man had tried to harass him every single day since he first stepped into that hospital as a frightened intern.
But despite everyone's patience and efforts to aid him in this trying time, J.D. felt as though it wasn't enough. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate what everyone had been doing for him, because he did, truly. He had been so thankful to know that there were people in his life who would go through so much trouble to make sure he was properly cared for. But they didn't understand. Some of them had gone through losses before - most of them, actually. But his experience was his own and no matter how many times people were there to tell him "it's okay" and "you'll be fine" and "this will pass", at the end of the day it still felt as though he would melt into a puddle on the floor and never be fine again. They couldn't understand. How could they possibly understand? They weren't him, and they weren't going through what he was going through. They hadn't known his father the way that he had. And he hadn't known his father the way he'd wanted to.
Despite being surrounded by people, J.D. had never felt more alone in his life.
It didn't help that Dan, the only person who truly knew what it was like losing Sam Dorian as a father, had never been the world's greatest older brother. As much as he appreciated Dan's presence, J.D. knew that the only reason his brother chose to stay was because he needed to be cheered up - not to look out for J.D.. Dan had spent a ridiculous amount of time bathing in a tub of beer, drinking away his sorrows. Sometimes he cried, most of the time he slept.
J.D. wanted to be there for his brother too, yet at the same time having Dan waste away in his apartment only fueled his anger with the world.
He felt he had no one to turn to. Nobody who could really understand. Turk and Carla watched him carefully, making sure he got enough sleep and three square meals a day. He liked that because he knew that he was awful at taking care of himself when he was upset. Elliot had tried to be there for him, which had been kind of her, but they'd been so awkward because of their history together. She'd struggled enough to give him her condolences. Having a heart to heart with her about how empty he felt was obviously out of the question. As much as she wanted to be there for him, J.D. didn't feel like letting her. Even Rowdy was better at giving his sentiments than she was.
And Dr. Cox had not come through for him the way that he'd hoped he would. At least not as soon as he'd imagined.
That had been disappointing.
J.D. had yearned for his mentor's comfort more than he ever had before in his life. And instead he'd been teased. Instead he'd been punched.
Eventually, Dr. Cox and Dan seemed to get their acts together. When J.D. came home one day to find that Dan had vanished from the tub, he'd thought for a second that his brother had dissolved into that puddle he sometimes felt like becoming himself. That maybe he'd just fallen asleep under the waterline (though, by now, it could hardly be considered water) and someone had already come to retrieve his lifeless body. Maybe Dan really had drowned in his own sorrows after all.
Or maybe, like their father, he'd left. No matter how much he needed someone, J.D. couldn't trust Dan to be there for him.
He couldn't trust Dan to be there at all.
The thought made him angry, but J.D. wasn't surprised. So maybe he was being selfish. Maybe he'd wanted more than Dan could really give him. He didn't know. But if Dan had come just to wallow around in his troubles and his beer and (very likely) his urine, and hadn't bothered to try to connect with him, maybe it was best that he left. It didn't make a difference whether his big brother was around or not. Dan hadn't been there for him emotionally. Dan had just been there, in the bathroom, for much longer than really seemed appropriate.
But to J.D.'s shock, Dan had come home that night, alongside Dr. Cox. They'd forced him to throw on a sports jersey. Forced him to take a beer. Forced him to talk, for once, about what it had really been like to lose a father he had seemingly lost so many years ago. At first he'd been confused. At first he'd been too surprised at the company and support that he'd had trouble even opening his mouth to say a single word. But after a while, after some coaxing, he'd managed to poor out the feelings he'd been holding inside of him like a six foot piñata. He missed his dad. He loved his dad. And even though he hadn't always been there to be a good father for him, J.D. was certain his father had always been a good man. Dan and him told story after story and Dr. Cox gave them genuine reactions. Genuine laughter. Genuine sympathy. Genuine understanding.
J.D. knew from that point on that things were going to be okay.
He knew from that point on that he was never going to be alone again.
But when he came a few days later to summon his brother downstairs to the waiting car, J.D. could swear he finally saw those fireballs burning.
He'd called Dan. Dan had agreed to meet up with the gang that night for a couple of beers at the bar. Even Dr. Cox was going. It was something that Carla had pulled together for one last celebration of the life of Sam Dorian. And considering how Dan was due to leave the next morning, J.D. had looked forward to spending a good hour or two in the company of people he loved. People who were still there for him. People who wanted to show their support for him and his brother at least one more time.
But Dan hadn't shown. Antsy and frustrated, J.D. tried to reach him on his cell phone. There was no answer.
Stressed with the thought that his brother could be avoiding him now of all times, J.D. asked to be given a ride back to the apartment. If Dan had forgotten about their plans, he'd be a little upset, but he'd understand. After all, maybe he'd fallen asleep. Unless he'd gotten back into the bath. Or, worse, maybe he'd up and left him behind without saying goodbye. Dan had seemed anxious to depart after that night with Dr. Cox, and J.D. wasn't sure how he'd react if he found out that Dan had really left a day early. He'd really looked forward to getting together with everyone at the bar that night. He'd really wanted that. He'd really needed that.
Fully intent on running upstairs and forcing Dan to follow him back to the car, J.D. pushed his way into the apartment.
The moment he took a step inside he noticed the cake on the tabletop. Suddenly it felt like he couldn't breathe. Suddenly it felt like he couldn't think. It took a few moments for his legs to thaw but, when they did, he took a hesitant step towards the cake. The door was left wide open. He read the message in the icing a few times over, for some reason finding it difficult to make out the meaning of those blurry letters. It wasn't until the fourth time around that he realized it wasn't the icing that was blurry, it was his eyes.
He was crying.
"Dan?" he called out, dread filling his stomach. "Dan? Are you here?"
His answer was met by deafening silence.
I'm sorry, Johnny, the cake said. I'm sorry.
Realization dawned on him and suddenly he was rushing to the bathroom. He wasn't sure why it was his first instinct to look there. Somehow he just knew that he had to. Somehow he just knew that it was what he was supposed to do.
When he forced his way in he wasn't surprised to see Dan there, waiting for him, but he was surprised to see him on the floor - blood pooled around his body, a razor blade resting in his palm. J.D. instantly fell to his knees beside his brother, scream erupting from his chest, bile threatening to escape his esophagus. Before he even knew what he was doing, he grabbed Dan and shook him hard. Dan didn't wake. No matter how loudly he begged him to open his eyes, to show him that he was okay, J.D. was met with the same deafening silence he'd been greeted with the moment he'd first called for his brother out in the living room.
"No, no, no..." he muttered. "No, no, no. Come on. Dan! Come on! Don't do this to me!"
He begged. He pleaded. He demanded.
He felt his brother's neck. There was no pulse. His skin was cold. He'd lost so much blood. How long had he been down here?
How could he have done this?
Thinking it to be his only option, despite what he already knew in the back of his mind, J.D. began CPR. He refused to accept that losing Dan was a possibility. He refused to believe he could lose somebody else this soon. At all. So maybe he'd lost a lot of blood, and maybe nobody had been here to help right away, but there was still hope. There was always hope. J.D. was a doctor and he'd seen people come back from worse. He could fix this. He would have to. There was no other option. He was going to save Dan and he was going to save himself. He wasn't going to give up without trying. He wasn't going to let Dan slip away like he'd let his father slip away. He didn't want to have that hanging over his head for the rest of his life.
But with every compression on Dan's chest came another sob from his own. Dan never stirred. J.D. never stopped.
Suddenly, he felt hands. He didn't know how long he'd been there, hovering over his brother's unresponsive body, but suddenly someone or something was pulling him away. Panicked and furious, J.D. screamed and reached for Dan. For any part of him to hold onto. Helplessly he was tugged away, fighting back as much as he could. After a moment he heard voices overlapping. Some were soft and soothing. Others were loud and frantic.
He heard someone say his name. And then he saw Dr. Cox.
"For God's sake, get him out of here!"
"No, wait! Please!"
Knowing that if they did, he'd never see Dan again, J.D. felt a surge of energy course through him. He broke free from the hold on him and reached for his brother. In his fumble to grab hold of his brother's hand, J.D. felt the cold of a razor blade touch his palm. His fingers moved to close around it, but suddenly his hand was pried open, and more hands were forcing him out of the room.
"Somebody call 911," he heard. "And get him away from the bathroom."
It was only for a few more moments that J.D. managed to put up a fight before he crumbled to the ground in defeat and exhaustion. With his back against the wall, bloodied hands in his hair, he felt the heat of the fire. Finally the sky was burning. Finally the stars were crashing down. He could already tell without looking that the world was coming to the end he'd predicted only some time ago.
With a feeling of resolve, J.D. waited for the city to be buried beneath the water.
Waited for the beasts to rise from the depths of hell to take them home.
Waited for the bricks to crush them all like Jenga blocks. Like Dan's first words when he'd found him on the doorstep, cake in tow. Like Dan's last apology.
I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm sorry.