There wasn't anything heroic in his aftermath. The adrenaline of the assault coursed through his veins, hiding the physiological repercussions. She could feel it though, his pulse waning beneath her tender touch. 'Harry, stay with me' she wasn't entirely sure if it were a beg or a command. Probably somewhere in between she figured, unbuttoning the bloodied shirt; revealing crimson etches arising like a weeping sonnet from a gash on his loin. She choked back bile for an broken adonis who would always survive worse than her; protect her with his life.
Help would arrive shortly, she prayed hard; ripping the shreds of his shirt with rosary faith. She felt a tremor engulf her very being, bracing his weight to bandage a broken body, quietly commentating on her every move. Despite the mortal agony and doubtful conscious he broke a small smile. 'Thanks,' a finger pressed to his lips, followed in short by a scold for not conserving his energy. Cupping the situation between exposed palms she looked him in the eye, willing stars to align.
Sirens heralded hope, in whiny trills like a pained cat. 'Stay...' she tried to prevent him speaking, knowing his energy was dissipating. They both understood what was facing them; mortality's test of strength, would the coil spring towards heaven or hell, or as she hoped break into tiny fragments of a life ungrateful.
'I'm not going anywhere Harry Cunningham' she felt her own tears fall, muddied in day old make up. She took his pulse again, doing her utmost to keep him still. 'You stay with me,' she was pleading now, definitely praying to any God that existed, surely she was owed that cosmic bolt of glory.
'love you' he spluttered the words with his last mite, head slumping on chest. She carefully slid him to the ground, holding his neck back, clasping her fingers tightly round his nose, inflating her own lungs to breaking point. Pausing to muster energy she kissed him in a way she never wanted to. Expelling the air with loving intent she lent over his broken chest, cracked ribs dammed she began counting, one first look, two near death experiences, three poisonous bodies, four almost kisses, five years of unsung love, six one night stands on his part, seven month comas, eight passionate dates, nine one night stands on her part, ten months of sharing a bed, eleven blacklisted detectives, twelve spontaneous gifts, thirteen weeks of therapy for one shooting, fourteen parking tickets, fifteen compressions to one breath.
As she leant to his face again she caught a tear escape his eye, it wasn't fresh. It was laced with fiery fear. Her throat burned from the dry exchange of air, choking on sobs of desperation. Cajoled to stop by the arriving help she shook her head, barking orders at the unassuming paramedics.
Auto pilot mode overcame and with years of skills burned into the burrows of sub conscious she ripped at equipment, stealing the stethoscope. It had been years since she'd required such a tool but what she heard almost made her throw up. The audible crackle and rubbing noises confirmed what she was dreading; lung damage. Steadying his head as the rest of his body, floppy with unconscious self preservation, was shifted onto a stretcher she let her thumb graze the tears away. Asking for a needle she took initiative to go against the grain, palpating the anatomical point between shaking fingers. With all the strength she could muster she pierced his chest at the exact point. A tiny hiss escaped, air returning in and out of his lungs. One eyelash at a time she saw him return to her, a grateful smile crossing his lips.
She didn't wait for an invitation to ride in with them, abandoning her own vehicle for a later date. His palm was sweaty with hypovolemia, cradled in hers; the icy fear helping to sooth a growing fever.
She had one ear focussing on the whirr of sirens above their heads, the other listening to the audible heart trace, as long as the tones came in staccato beats; neither crescendoing or reaching monotone she was okay. The other readouts left little comfort, blood pressure was sitting close to his boots and oxygen saturations would fail him if it were an exam. Occasionally the grip on her hand would strength, dissipating with a muscle spasm into feeble weakness.
'Don't be scared' she whispered, barely audible above the oxygen sustaining his life. She fell to the way side as they disembarked, jogging behind the gaggle of doctors. She wondered in that moment if this was the same stomach churning adrenaline driven feeling he'd had all those years ago. Feeling a hand press her out of the resus room she keened for a glimpse of him being alive still. Slumping into the chair immediately across the hall she waited, somewhere in the midst of carnage she'd texted Leo, figuring he'd get it sooner than a phone call.
After a lifetime of concern adds several lines to her face a doctor emerges, muttering something about intensive care and possible flail chest. Internally the barriers disintegrate, the rubble chafing her insides with a chalky mortar on mortar feeling. She doesn't think anymore tears can fall, she needs to man up but can't. In times like these she'd run to his arms, waiting for the fear to pass.
'Nikki' Leo doesn't need to ask if she's ok, she's not. He listens carefully as she regurgitates the status update on Harry, her Harry, at a barely audible whisper. He rubs his forehead out of angst as the doors clatter together. In some morbidly proud manner Harry is presented to them,barely visible beneath a multitude of neatly arranged equipment. A painful looking tube leaks blood from his chest, a cloth bandage hiding the bruises. He watches Nikki lean over the thicket of hair, tenderly leave a kiss between the heroic grit.
They (Leo and Nikki that is) watch machines whirr out of synch with the night drawing a blanket around them. It's thought they'll be able to wake him up with the morning light, but results weren't conclusive. Each draw of blood made Nikki squeeze Harry's hand tighter, stare more intently at the screen. There isn't any prediction made; the looking glass is too fogged with raw emotion to pre-dispose her to the forthcoming heartache. That he'll turn into a monster, toting narcotic pain relief with vengeance, that in the quiet moments of her day he'll snidely remark that she's not looking as hot as she used to. There's no one telling her of the no-holds-barred hell she'll have when he leave the hospital next week, that the mood swings and depression will almost rip her soul away. Between shattered glass he'll come to realize his addiction, eventually. Amidst choking sobs he'll cry for his father and for her and for the fact he didn't die that night. Not one word is mentioned about the bear like hug; the one that brings her chaotic life to a standstill and makes everything ok will return. That he'll abide her rules to get him clean, that one year after they horrific attack they'll be on the beach in South Africa outwardly declaring their love for one another.
Nobody does.