Summary: This is in response to Challenge #15 on Jen & Suzie's page. A high-speed chase, a terrible accident, and no seatbelts.
Rating: PG for a swear word or two..
Author's notes: Lots of thanks to Wendy for being my beta! What a gal g>. And remember: I live for feedback :-D
This Too Shall Pass
by Trekkieb
trekkieb_99@yahoo.com
"Have a nice weekend, everybody, and don't forget: next Tuesday is the final exam," Blair Sandburg reminded his class, gathering up his notes. The lecture hall was filled with the sounds of papers rustling and backpacks zipping as students emptied the room through its two exits.
Sandburg neatly placed all his papers into his leather book bag and slung it over his shoulder. The sound of a throat being cleared caused him to grin. He knew who it was without even looking.
"Hey, Chief. You ready to go?" Jim Ellison, detective with the CPD, asked. He wore his brown leather coat over a patterned sweater, blue jeans, and a pair of comfortable hiking shoes.
"You better believe it. I just gotta head to my office and grab my coat." They walked down the crowded corridor of Hargrove Hall, dodging students everywhere.. "TGIF, man! Thank God it's Friday." It had been one tough week, full of impossible students, finicky department heads, and a full caseload of police work. "Four great days of fabulous snow and gorgeous women. What could be more relaxing? You never did tell me how you got Monday off, though."
They reached Sandburg's office, and Blair took out his key and unlocked the door. He grabbed his black leather jacket from the back of a chair, and they walked out of the building. The day was cool with a slight breeze.
Jim resumed their conversation as they approached his blue and white Ford truck. "I traded with Dills. He wanted next Friday off for his daughter's birthday."
Blair nodded. "That's right. She's gonna be nine, right?" He pulled open the door and hopped into the passenger seat as Jim started the engine.
"Yeah," Jim replied. He steered the truck into the heavy rush hour traffic. After a minute, he spoke again. "I threw all of our stuff in the back, so we're all ready to go. Is there anything you have to do before we leave?"
It was a rare occasion when both Blair and Jim had the weekend free, so they took the opportunity to make it a mini-vacation. They were headed for four days of skiing in the Cascade Mountains. The weather was perfect, there was snow on the peaks, and they both had high hopes that this would be their first vacation where disaster didn't strike.
Sandburg racked his brain for anything he might have forgotten to do, but he came up empty. He grinned at Jim. "Nope. I took care of everything."
The police radio suddenly crackled to life. "All units. Keep look out for 1992 blue Toyota Camry. License plate BGL 297. Last seen heading north on Osborn. Two Caucasian males, mid-twenties. Suspects considered armed and dangerous. Repeat, suspects considered armed and dangerous."
Just then, the blue Toyota flew past them. Jim sighed and placed the police light on the dash and turned on the siren. "Sorry, Chief. Looks like the slopes will have to wait. Radio dispatch." He maneuvered around a few cars, trying to catch the fleeing vehicle.
Sandburg snatched up the radio and depressed the transmit button. "Dispatch, this is Ellison and Sandburg. We are in pursuit of Toyota Camry, heading east on McCormick. Sandburg out."
He peered out the front windshield, but he saw no sign of the blue car. "Jim," he said, "do you see it?"
Ellison extended his Sentinel vision as far as he could. He finally spotted the car half a mile ahead of them just in time to see it take a sharp left. "Yeah. I see 'em. Hang on, Chief." With that, he abruptly swerved around the mini-van in front of them and put the pedal to the metal.
Sandburg yelped in surprise and grabbed onto the dash with both hands as Jim passed yet another car.
After a few minutes of aggressive, and in a few instances heart-stopping, driving, Jim managed to get about twenty yards directly behind the fleeing vehicle.
Using his enhanced vision, Detective Ellison could see the two perpetrators inside the car. He could see the man in the passenger seat had at least one gun. And at that moment, the jerk decided to use it. Aiming his weapon at Ellison's truck, he opened fire.
"Get down!" Jim yelled. Blair ducked down in his seat, but the shot pinged harmlessly off the truck's hood.
They were entering the industrial district now, full of warehouses and factories. There was less traffic here, having left it behind in the commercial district. Ahead of them, a long semi-truck with the Pepsi logo emblazoned on its side was pulling out of a warehouse's loading bay. It pulled into the road and stretched across all three lanes; it stopped there.
The fleeing suspects, seeing their escape cut off, slammed on the brakes and swerved sharply so that they were parallel with the big rig. The passenger continued to fire his weapon at the Ford, the driver now joining in as well. The trucker scrambled out of the semi's cab and ran for safety; the criminals ignored him.
Jim hit the brakes hard enough to leave rubber streaks on the asphalt, but was still doing near forty when a bullet punctured the right front tire. The truck went airborne, tipping over onto its right side, and its occupants went tumbling against the passenger side door. When it struck the ground again, it skidded around so it was across the lane. But it didn't stop there. The truck kept moving in a full barrel roll before ending back up on the passenger side. Sparks flew as metal screamed against asphalt. The occupants of the Toyota Camry had no time to escape before the truck plowed into them, crushing the little car between the old Ford and the huge semi.
Captains Simon Banks and Joel Taggart rushed through the sliding glass doors of Cascade General's emergency room. Hurriedly, they made their way to the information desk where a brown-haired nurse was working. Simon took out his badge and slapped it on the counter. "I'm Captain Banks of the Cascade PD. You have two of my men here. James Ellison and Blair Sandburg. Can you tell me if they're all right?"
The nurse looked up their names in the computer. "I'm sorry," she said. They just went up to surgery. You'll have to wait and talk to the doctor." She gave them a sympathetic look and suggested they wait in the OR waiting room on the third floor. Taking her advice, the two police officers took the nearest elevator.
They tried to get more information from the desk nurse on that floor, but they learned nothing new.
"Simon." Banks spun around at the familiar voice. It was Henri Brown, another of his detectives. He held two Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. His normally cheerful countenance was grim and tired-looking.
Banks and Taggart followed him to an alcove that was a small waiting area. Detective Rafe was in one of the orange plastic chairs.
"Have you heard anything?" Taggart asked immediately.
"No," Brown answered. He handed one coffee to Rafe, who looked like he really needed it. "But we were at the scene. It looked bad, Captain."
How did this happen? Simon wondered. They were on their way to the mountains. He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until Rafe filled him in.
"They were after a couple of drug dealers. Narcotics and Vice were in the middle of a sting when these guys tore out of there. Someone must have tipped them off. Anyway, Jim and Blair reported spotting them and pursuing.
"About fifteen minutes later, we got a call from a truck driver saying a truck and a car had plowed right into his rig. When we got there it was a mess. The drug dealers' car was smashed between Jim's truck and the semi." Rafe stopped his tale to take a sip of his coffee.
Brown picked up where Rafe left off. "The ambulance got there the same time as us. It took a long time to actually get Blair and Jim out of the truck. As soon as the area was secured we came here."
Two hours later, Simon was wishing for the tenth time that he could smoke one of his cigars. He knew he could always go outside and have one, but he wanted to be there in case the doctor came with news about Jim and Sandburg.
Banks looked around the small waiting room. Every seat was taken. Joel was stretched out in the chair next to him, flipping through a six-month-old magazine. Brown and Rafe were on the opposite wall, talking quietly. Over the past couple hours, people from the station had trickled in. Even Rhonda, his secretary, had come. She sat two chairs down from Joel, her eyes red from crying. Simon wasn't surprised at the number of people who had appeared. He knew there were a lot of people who cared for the uptight cop and the longhaired observer.
Simon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Earlier, he'd tried looking at a magazine, but a fluorescent light on the fritz just gave him a migraine. With a sigh, he replaced his glasses. You two better make it, he thought, or I'll never forgive you.
At that moment, a man wearing a doctor's blue scrubs approached the group. He was of average height and build, and his gray hair and lined face gave him a kindly look. He pulled the matching blue cap from his head and stopped a few feet away, obviously wondering whom to address.
Banks and Taggart stood up, as did several others. The doctor's attention focused on the captains. "I'm Captain Banks. This is Captain Taggart," Simon informed the man.
The doctor shook their hands as he introduced himself. "Hello. I'm Dr. Porter. I performed Detective Ellison's surgery." He held up his hand as Taggart started to speak. "Perhaps we should sit down."
Once they were seated, Simon asked the question that was on all of their minds. "How are they?"
"As you know," Porter began, "Det. Ellison had to undergo emergency surgery. He sustained three broken ribs, multiple lacerations, and a concussion. Also, there was some internal bleeding. The surgery went great, though. We've managed to stop the bleeding and set the broken bones, and he is now in stable condition. He's in recovery now, but he'll be moved to a room in about an hour. With a little time and a lot of rest, I expect the detective to make a full recovery." He smiled as audible sighs of relief rippled through the waiting area.
After only a second though, Rafe interrupted the relieved silence from his seat. "What about Sandburg?" he asked. At that, everybody focused his or her attention on the doctor again.
Porter sighed, and his shoulders dropped fractionally. "Mr. Sandburg is still in surgery at the moment. I'm not part of his surgical team, but I do know that his condition is much more serious than Det. Ellison's is. If you would like, I can go see what's happening?" Banks agreed immediately. "Okay. You can see Ellison when he is out of recovery. I'll tell a nurse to let you know when."
Banks and several others thanked the doctor for taking the time to let them know what was going on, and he left on his quest for information.
Darkness.
That was the first thing that registered to his groggy mind. Why's it dark? Oh. Gotta open my eyes. Gradually, other things began creeping into his awareness. A nearby beeping, the cacophonous sound of many voices, the smell of disinfectant, sweat, and blood. He was confused. Okay, you're Jim Ellison. You live at 852 Prospect Ave. So, where are you now? He heard someone page a Dr. Cox. Ahh, a hospital. He tried to assess how he felt. Sore. There wasn't a part of his body that didn't ache. Okay, now for the sixty-five thousand-dollar question: What the hell happened?
Trying to open his eyes, he found that they wouldn't budge. It felt like they were anchored down with sandbags. His head pounded, the throbbing pain beating in time with the sound of rushing blood in his ears. And it was hard to breathe; something heavy--a Mac truck? Or maybe an elephant--was sitting on his chest. And there was something in his nose. He lifted his arm. Tried to anyway. Forget it, he told himself. Let it stay there. I'm too damned tired.
He was drifting off when he heard a man's voice. What was he saying? Jim couldn't quite force his mind to concentrate on the sound. Something about another room? What was wrong with the room he was in now? The movement of his bed was lost on him; he was already asleep.
He woke up again some time later; he had no idea how much later. He struggled his way up through the thick, fuzzy cotton that filled his head, making coherent thought difficult. His head still hurt, though not as bad as before, and he still didn't remember the reason for being in the hospital in the first place.
There were voices speaking. He couldn't yet make out what they were saying, but they were familiar and comforting. Yet, at the same time something was missing. Where was the other voice? The one that was even more familiar? The one that was forever ingrained in his memory? Somehow, he was saddened by its absence.
This time, his eyelids did work. He cracked them open and blinked away the blurriness. Who had dimmed the lights? He looked around the room. Two men were at the foot of his bed. The corners of his mouth twitched as he recognized Simon Banks and Joel Taggart. That's right, he thought muzzily, Simon knows about my senses. He must have turned the lights down.
Simon glanced at Jim, and his jaw dropped open when he saw he was awake. "Jim," he said. Simon and Joel moved to the side of Jim's bed.
He stared at them. After a moment they started to look concerned. Oh, that's right I'm supposed to. answer back. "Hey, Simon. Hey, Joel." He spoke carefully, the words drawn out. "How's it goin'?"
Joel's face broke into a smile. "Better, now that you're awake," he said.
"How do you feel, Jim?" asked Simon.
Jim brought up his arm. It wasn't as hard as the last time; he managed to bring it up and rub his eyes. "Not too good," he admitted, "but I think I'll live. Wha--what am I doing in the hospital, Simon? What happened?"
Banks and Taggart glanced at each other. "You don't remember?" Joel asked.
"Nah. It's all kind of fuzzy."
Simon put a hand on the bed rail and watched Jim closely. "You were in pursuit of a couple of drug dealers, remember? Your truck crashed into them."
"Oh," Jim replied. "Was anyone else hurt?"
"The two drug dealers were killed," Joel informed him. He paused, then continued. "Sandburg was in the truck with you." Jim's eyes widened as he went on. "He just got out of surgery a little while ago."
"Is he all right?" Jim asked, suddenly terrified. "How is he?"
Simon swallowed. Damn, he hated this. He knew Jim would blame himself for the whole thing. But it couldn't be helped--he had to know. "For a while there we didn't think he'd make it," Simon said. "He's in a coma."
"Oh, God," was all Jim said. He remembered now. How he couldn't control the truck when the tire was shot. The shout of surprise from Sandburg when the vehicle flipped over. The explosion of stars as his head connected with the window. And after the truck had come to a stop, before he'd succumbed to the beckoning darkness, his friend, lying still among the shattered glass and dented steel, crimson blood streaming down his face.
Jim shuddered at the memory. He prayed that Sandburg would be all right. How could he go on if Blair didn't make it? Blair was the one who kept him grounded with his senses. Blair was the one who put up with all his crap. Blair was the one who could always get him to crack a smile, even in the direst circumstances. He was more than just Jim's best friend. He was his brother--he and Jim were closer than Jim and Stephen had ever been.
His head was starting to throb again. And now that he thought about it, so was everything else. Jim thought about asking Simon or Joel to get a nurse, but before he had a chance to, one appeared as if by magic. She administered something to his IV, saying it would help him rest. Before the pull of drug-induced sleep could claim him, he held out his hand to Simon.
The police captain took his friend's hand. "Yeah, Jim?" he asked.
"Would you stay with him, Simon? Don't let him wake up alone." Finally unable to stay awake a minute longer, Jim let his eyes slide shut as he drifted back into a healing rest.
Simon glanced at Taggart, then back to the injured man. "Don't worry, Jim. I promise."
The two captains quietly slipped out of the room and stood in the hallway for a moment. Joel tried to stifle a yawn but was unsuccessful; Simon noticed. "Why don't you go on home, Joel? It's been a long day," he suggested.
Joel hesitated. He wanted to stay. There was really nothing he could do, but what if something happened to Sandburg?"
Simon guessed what he was thinking. He placed a friendly hand on the big man's shoulder. "Don't worry," he reassured him, "Sandburg's a tough kid. He'll make it. And I'll call you if here's any change, okay?"
Taggart smiled, reassured. "Thanks Simon. I could use a couple hours sleep. I'll check back later." Simon clapped him on the back, and Joel headed for the bank of elevators down the hall.
Simon watched him go. He knew Taggart was worried about Jim and Sandburg. Hell, he was worried, too. He checked on Jim one more time, but the detective was still out cold. He then headed down to the second floor where the ICU was. Time to make good on his promise and watch over Sandburg.
When he reached Intensive Care, he asked the desk nurse which unit Sandburg was in. The young woman led him to one of the glassed-in units, then left him. Simon quietly slid open the glass door. He sank tiredly into the only chair, an uncomfortable plastic torture device an awful shade of pea green.
He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that it had only been seven hours since the accident. God. Was it only this afternoon Jim and I were eating lunch at Bernie's and talking about the Jags? It seemed like an eternity.
He checked his watch. A quarter 'til midnight. The nurses would probably kick him out in ten minutes or so. Scooting his chair closer to the bed, Simon peered at the comatose anthropologist. He'd spoken to Dr. Starke, Blair's doctor, but this was the first time he'd seen Sandburg since he'd come into the station that morning.
The kid didn't look good. He was deathly pale and still. A heart monitor beeped out a constant rhythm, slow and steady, and a ventilator breathed air into his lungs. Three different bags steadily dripped medicines and antibiotics into a single IV line inserted in the back of his hand. His right forearm was encased in a light fiberglass cast to immobilize his broken wrist.
An ugly bruise, purple and black, peeked out from under the white bandages that swathed his head, and spread across the right side of his face. The kid had a skull fracture, and had had to have emergency brain surgery to stop some intracranial bleeding and reduce swelling. Cuts and bruises covered the rest of his face and the parts of his arms that were visible. And even though Simon couldn't see them, he knew heavy bandages covered Sandburg's stomach and tubes stretched below the thin hospital gown and blankets to drain the wound.
According to Rafe, Sandburg was unconscious when he and Brown arrived on the scene. And he hadn't woken once since coming to the hospital. The neurologist and the other doctors didn't know when--or if--he'd wake up. He was still in critical condition, and according to them, only time would tell.
Simon chuckled at a stray thought. Sandburg's going to have a fit when he finds out they cut his hair. It was true. They'd had to shave off his long brown hair before the surgery. Simon knew how attached the young man was to his hair. He smiled at the pun. Attached. Stretching his neck until he could hear it pop, Simon took a breath and started filling Sandburg in on all the horrible things he would do to him if he didn't wake up real soon.
"First, I'll take some of those baby pictures you didn't know Naomi gave me. Then, I'll blow 'em up, and post them around the station...."
Four hours later, Simon was just returning from the cafeteria, where he'd gotten a quick meal of a grilled cheese sandwich and bad coffee. He longed for one of the specialized South American blends back at his office.
The nurses had been reasonable so far. After Simon's asking politely didn't work when they'd first come to throw him out, he'd tried another tactic. He said that if Ellison found out Simon wasn't with Blair, he'd undoubtedly find a way to come down here himself. The nurses knew only too well what Detective Ellison was capable of. They had no trouble believing the injured police officer would come down here himself and give them hell. And since they couldn't allow that, they reluctantly agreed to let Simon stay. However, they had all but kicked him out during the latest rounds, making him promise not to come back for fifteen minutes.
Banks came back to Sandburg's unit to find a nurse standing next to Dr. Starke, the neurologist, writing on a notepad. The doctor was looking at Sandburg's chart and giving the nurse some orders. She nodded and left the room. Starke noticed Simon standing there and joined him outside the sliding glass door. A knot started to form in Simon's stomach. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Starke closed the binder in her hands. She was a tanned woman of about forty, with short black hair. She adjusted the glasses on her nose before she answered. "There is some additional swelling of the brain. We're going to take another CT scan to see how severe it is," she said. "If the swelling gets too high, we'll have to relieve the pressure."
"You mean more surgery?"
"If it's necessary, yes. Although I'm reluctant to put Mr. Sandburg on the table in his current condition. We'll wait as long as we can and see what happens before we do that."
Simon stepped aside as two green-clad orderlies came to take Sandburg for his CT. He turned back to Starke. "Will he be all right?"
The doctor hesitated a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Mr. Sandburg is still critical, Captain Banks. His injuries were severe. If the swelling goes down and he stays stable, I'm hopeful he'll recover." Starke straightened the stethoscope that hung around her neck and looked Simon straight in the eyes--no mean feat considering she was ten inches shorter than he was--but her gaze was compassionate. "I won't kid you, though; it could go either way. If you're a religious man, Captain, I certainly think a few prayers won't hurt." A pause. "Does Mr. Sandburg have any family?"
Simon nodded slowly. "Just his mother. I've tried to reach her, but no luck so far."
"Well, I'll let you know what happens and if surgery turns out to be necessary." Starke followed the two orderlies and the gurney down the corridor. Simon stood there absorbing everything she'd said. He didn't think things could be much worse.
"Look, I feel better. I just want to see him." Jim Ellison was cranky. For the last ten minutes he'd been trying to convince Nurse Ryans here to let him go see Sandburg. But he'd found out the hard way that she could be just as stubborn as he could, something Jim found quite annoying.
"I told you, Mr. Ellison, you're not allowed up yet. You need to rest," Ryans said as she checked his IV.
"But it's been two days! I feel fine." Actually, he didn't. He felt like crap. But if he let on how much he still hurt, she'd never let him up. And he had to see Sandburg, see for himself that he was alive.
A knock on the half-open door saved the nurse from stating the obvious--that he was nowhere near 'fine'. The new arrival was Henri Brown, and he'd brought a gift. He set the big stuffed bear next to Jim and grinned. "I know you're allergic to flowers," he explained, "so I got you this. The minute I saw it, I thought of you." His grin widened into a smile.
Jim picked up the bear and studied it. It was light brown and very soft. It wore a miniature kevlar vest with a golden badge embroidered on the right side. A matching baseball cap with the word police emblazoned in gold completed the ensemble. Jim couldn't help but grin, too. "Thanks, H.," he said.
Nurse Ryans stepped closer. She peered first at the bear, then at Jim, then back to the bear. "I see the resemblance," she said at last. A twinkle in her eye belied the serious look on her face.
"Ha ha," Jim muttered sarcastically.
Henri smiled. It was good to see Jim back to his old self. He strolled over to the nightstand and looked aimlessly at the collection of get-well cards gathered there. "So, how they treatin' you here, Ellison?" he asked
Jim set the bear to one side. "So-so. Except," here he threw a pointed glance at the nurse, who looked back innocently, "they won't let me out of this bed so I can check on Sandburg. I don't know. Maybe you can try."
Brown nodded sympathetically. Motioning to Nurse Ryans, he moved across the room. Bemused, she followed. Brown spoke in a quiet voice, not knowing Jim could hear every word. "Look, isn't there something you can do? I mean, Jim's not gonna give up until he sees for himself Hairboy--I mean Blair--is all right. He and the kid are real close, you know? Two years ago, Jim was a mean s.o.b. Since Sandburg partnered with him he's, well he can still be a jerk sometimes, but he's a lot better. If you'd just let him see him for a few minutes, I know he'll be able to rest easier. And it'll be a whole lot easier on you, too."
"Well," Ryans began. She looked at Ellison's pleading expression, then back to Brown's hopeful face. She sighed in defeat. "I'll see what the doctor says, but no promises!" she stated firmly.
The smile that lit up Jim's face softened her demeanor. "Thank you, Mrs. Ryans," he said.
"Darma." He looked puzzled. "That's my name. Darma," she clarified. As she passed Brown on the way out, he grinned and started to say something. She stopped him with a look. "Don't say a word," she threatened. Brown put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and stepped out of her way.
"Thanks, Henri," Jim said. Although he was a little miffed about being called a jerk he was willing to let it go since Brown had actually gotten some results.
Jim decided to be ready if the doc gave the OK. Using the remote to raise the head of the bed, he pushed the blanket aside. His attempts to swing his legs over the edge of the bed sent a sharp stab through his ribs and abdomen. Wincing, he sank back down against the pillow. He looked at Brown, who was watching him with interest. "You gonna stand there all day or give me a hand?" he asked.
H raised an eyebrow. "Sure thing, Jim." He covered the few steps to Jim's bed in a couple of strides. Jim took hold of his shoulder as Brown carefully slid his legs over the edge. His bare feet dangled several inches off the cold linoleum floor, and he shifted his grasp from Brown's shoulder to the edge of the mattress.
Brown bent down on hands and knees and scrounged around under the bed. He reappeared, holding a pair of slippers up victoriously. Getting to his feet, he smiled. "Need help with these?"
"No, I don't need help. Gimme those." Ellison snatched the footwear from his friend's grasp. Bending over as much as his sore muscles would allow, he tried to put one of them on his left foot. No such luck. And he couldn't bring his bruised and battered legs up within reach, either. Jim sighed noisily and dropped his chin to his chest. Without a word, Brown took the slippers from Ellison's hold. Stooping, he slid them onto the detective's feet. "Thanks," Jim mumbled.
"No problem, man."
Just then Nurse Ryans reentered the room, pushing a wheelchair ahead of her. A look of surprise washed across her face at the sight of Jim sitting up quickly followed by one of consternation. She marched right up to him, hands on hips. "What are you doing up?" she demanded. But before he could answer, she let out a frustrated sigh. "Never mind. Dr. Porter said you could go see your friend for a little while. Okay, here we go." Darma maneuvered the wheelchair in front of the bed and set the brakes. She and Brown helped Jim into the chair and she pushed him down the corridor, Brown trailing behind.
When the trio reached the ICU ward, Brown said he had to get back to the station. Jim nodded in understanding and thanked him for coming. When he was gone, Jim turned his attention to the figure just beyond the glass window. He indicated that he was ready and Nurse Ryans pushed him into the room, beside Blair's bed. She patted Jim's shoulder and left him alone.
He cleared his throat. "Hey, Chief," he said. "You know, everyone's just waiting for you to wake up. Including me. Almost everybody's been by to see you." He paused, a small part of him expecting the man lying before him to wake up that second. "Come on, Sandburg," he cajoled, leaning forward, "It's no fun sitting here having a one-sided conversation like this. So, just wake up now, okay? Then you can regale me with another of your anthropological lectures. And I promise I'll stay awake this time." He chuckled at the memory that popped up. The last time, about a week ago, Blair had been informing him of a tribe in Tunisia and its nomadic tendencies, when Jim had dozed off where he was sitting. A pillow to the back of his head had jolted him back to awareness and an annoyed, and slightly amused, roommate. "I'll even let you do a test or something with my senses."
But despite Jim's words, Sandburg remained still. Simon had filled Jim in the other day: Blair hadn't needed more surgery after all. The swelling had gone down on its own. The doctors were pleased and seemed to think he would make it. That it was now just a matter of time before Blair woke up. That didn't help Jim much. Could be hours, days, or even weeks. Jim hated seeing his friend like this and wished he could see some sign that Blair would open his eyes any minute and be all right.
Jim sighed as his wish went unanswered. He carefully took hold of Blair's left hand, mindful of the IV, and was surprised at how cold it was. He rubbed the hand with his fingers to warm it up and sat in silence for a few minutes. When he heard the sound of Nurse Ryans coming, he said in a loud whisper, "Looks like I gotta go, Blair, but I'll come back soon. I think they're going to let me out of here in a couple days, too. So, you just concentrate on waking up and getting better, then we'll both be free." He squeezed the limp hand in his grasp as Darma showed up. He looked back once as she wheeled him back to his room.
The next morning, Monday, Jim got a surprise. He was just finishing up his breakfast of oatmeal and juice when the door to his room opened. Looking up, he saw Simon enter. "Hey, Captain," Jim began, then stopped when he saw the wide smile on his superior's countenance. He pushed aside his food tray. "What? What's going on?"
Simon didn't say anything; he just shook his head and stepped out of the way as several people pushed a gurney into the room. Jim recognized Dr. Starke, Blair's doctor.
"You've got a new roommate," Starke said. She watched as a couple of nurses set Sandburg up in the room's other bed. Then she turned back to Jim, who was staring in surprise. "Mr. Sandburg's doing much better today. As you can see, we've taken him off the ventilator, he's breathing well enough on his own." It was true, Jim could see. Now, there was only a thin oxygen tube clipped to Sandburg's nose. "And," Starke continued, pleased, "he's shown signs of coming out of the coma, although he hasn't regained consciousness yet. Your captain suggested the two of you share a room."
Jim looked at Simon, who waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Jim inclined his head in thanks.
The nurses finished hooking Sandburg up to various monitors, then left. The doctor wrote something in the chart she held and then tucked it under one arm. She turned to Jim, one hand in the pocket of her white lab coat. "And how are you feeling, Mr. Ellison?"
"I feel much better than yesterday. So, Doc, when do I get out of here? Not that I'm in any hurry," Jim joked.
She chuckled. "No, of course not. Nobody ever is. Anyway, you'll probably be out of here in a day or two. Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I've got some other patients to see. I will come down to check on Blair sometime later today." Another smile and she left.
Simon moved to stand in-between the two beds. He pulled a cigar from the inside pocket of his expensive coat, unwrapped it, then stuck it, unlit, between his teeth. "Good news, Sandburg moving out of the ICU."
"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Great news." He slowly got out of bed and pulled on his robe. He shuffled around to stand next to Banks. "Hey, Simon, thanks for, you know, everything."
Simon took the cigar from his mouth and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, don't worry about it." He glanced at his watch. "I should get back to work. I've got a million things to do. Stay out of trouble, all right?"
"Sure thing, Cap. What could happen here?"
Simon shook his head sadly. "When it comes to you? Anything's possible."
It was Wednesday morning, and Jim was being released. A duffel bag rested in the center of the empty bed. Bright sunlight streamed through the single window, the Venetian blinds casting strips of gold and shadow throughout the room, as Jim gathered his stuff into the bag. Dr. Porter had already given him strict instructions: No driving, no work, no exercise, and lots of rest. In other words, no fun whatsoever for several weeks. That was okay, though; Jim wasn't quite up to having any fun, yet. Porter had also given him prescriptions for antibiotics and Codeine for his broken ribs.
Tossing his walkman into the duffel, he zipped the bag closed and straightened up. His ribs screamed in protest against the movement, and he tightened his lips against the pain. He'd turned the pain dial down a little, but maybe he'd keep that prescription for Codeine after all.
The release papers had been signed and Rafe was supposed to be there in ten minutes to give Jim a ride home. Jim was grateful to his friends for helping him through the past several days. They'd shown how much they cared by dropping by to sit with him and Blair and by bringing him a few things from the loft to keep him occupied. Rhonda had even gone over there and cleaned out of the fridge the spoiled food that had accumulated since the accident. And Simon Banks had had Jim's Ford towed to a garage, and the repairs begun.
The next thing Jim did was turn to Sandburg's bed. The kid still hadn't woken up, yet. Jim pulled a chair closer and sat down. He folded his arms on top of the metal bed rail and rested his chin upon them. Closing his eyes, he spoke quietly; somehow, he knew that Sandburg could hear him, even in his unconscious state. "I'll come back tonight to see you, okay, Blair? Or, if you decide to wake up, I can be here in twenty minutes tops.
"The doctors released me, and I'm a free man. I'm not one hundred percent, yet, but I'm getting there. Rafe will be here any minute. He's going to drive me home, since I'm not allowed to drive for a couple weeks. Oh, yeah, Simon finally got hold of Naomi. She's gonna come, but it might take a little while to get down here from wherever she is." Jim paused, then added, "Too bad she's coming under these circumstances, but I'm looking forward to seeing her again. She's just, so, I don't know, vibrant. Not to mention really...attractive."
"Hey, shut up. That's my mom you're talkin' about."
Jim's eyes snapped open at the sound of the raspy voice, and he raised his head. At first he thought he imagined it because Sandburg's eyes were still closed. After a moment, however, they opened, revealing a pair of bloodshot baby blues. They regarded Jim with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. The smile Jim gave threatened to split his face.
"Blair! You're awake!" he exclaimed as he grabbed Sandburg's good hand. "How ya feel, buddy?"
Blair swallowed to get a little moisture in the desert that was his mouth. "Crappy," he finally managed to rasp out.
"Hey, Jim, you ready to go?" Detective Rafe stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Sandburg was conscious. "All right!" he laughed, and ran to get the doctor.
"You thirsty?" Jim asked.
Sandburg considered the obvious response--which would be duh--but instead merely nodded. Jim filled a plastic cup with water and helped Blair drink from it. He set the cup back on the nightstand.
Blair studied Ellison for a minute before he voiced his opinion, sans his usually eloquent vocabulary. "You look crappy, too, Jim."
Jim laughed and was about to make a snappy comeback, when Maureen Starke appeared, Rafe a step behind. She stepped up to Sandburg's bed and took a penlight from her pocket.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Sandburg. It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Maureen Starke, your neurologist." She shined the light in first one eye, then the other; she made a faint noise of approval. "Do you know your name? Please follow my finger with your eyes, without moving your head. Do you remember what happened to you?"
When she was finished with her test, Blair answered. "My name is Blair Sandburg. Jim and I were in the truck... There was an accident, right?"
"That's right, Chief," Jim said. He still stood next to Blair's bed, his hands in his jean pockets. "You've been in a coma for almost five days."
"Wow," Blair said softly. "Really? So that would make today..." he trailed off.
"The tenth of December," Rafe filled in, stepping forward.
Sandburg smiled faintly. "Hey, Rafe, I didn't see you over there."
"It's good to see you awake, Blair," Rafe said with a happy smile. "We've been worried about you."
"Okay," Starke said as she turned to Ellison and Rafe. "If you two would wait outside, I have some more tests to run. I'll come and get you when we're through."
The two men nodded and, with a "See ya later" and a "We'll be right outside," left the room.
After his tests, Blair had slept the rest of the day away. Now it was early Thursday morning, a few minutes before dawn. Blair had woken up only ten minutes ago, not sleepy anymore. No doubt, in a little while the doctors and nurses would come to poke and prod some more, but at least for now he had some peace.
He turned to the window.
Daybreak.
The colossal golden orb was slowly breaking over the east horizon, inching its way higher and higher to its rightful place in the sky. Its brilliant light spread ever-outward, cascading over the cityscape until it looked like the whole world was made of spun gold and the hospital room was bathed in a warm orange glow. Blair closed his eyes and let the caressing light wash over his face. It felt heavenly. It made him feel safe, secure. And in that moment, he was reassured that everything would be all right. He would heal. Jim would heal. They would put this horrible experience behind them and go on with their lives, living, laughing, loving.
What was that saying? This too shall pass.
"There's someone here to see you," Ellison announced.
"You mean besides you?" Sandburg asked innocently.
"Yes, besides me, wiseguy," chuckled Jim. He moved toward the closed door. Blair watched with interest as Jim opened it and motioned to someone outside the room. In stepped Naomi Sandburg, Blair's mother. She was dressed in an attractive, flowing, light blue dress; her short auburn hair was loose around her face.
"Blair, sweetie!" she exclaimed, rushing forward with arms open wide.
"Hi, Mom," her son replied, pleased, as she embraced him. "It's good to see you."
She put both hands on either side of his face as she scrutinized him. "You look pale--How do you feel?"
"I'm doing good. Except..." Sandburg trailed off, staring forlornly at his hands.
Naomi shot a concerned look at Jim, who just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. She turned back to Sandburg. "What is it?" she asked.
With an agitated movement, he gestured to his head. "They shaved it! All of it!" When he saw Naomi's lips twitch with laughter, he said in annoyance, "It's not funny!"
But Naomi couldn't help it any longer. She burst into laughter. Smiling, Jim kindly informed her that Sandburg hadn't shut up about his hair since he woke from his coma. Seeing her son's expression, Naomi attempted to school her features to the picture of sobriety--with only a modicum of success. "Oh, honey," she said, and patted his leg, "I don't care about your hair. I'm just so happy you're alive!"
"Yeah, Chief. Relax. I told you it'll grow back."
Sandburg did relax, and he smiled at Jim. "You're right. Growing hair isn't a problem for me like some people. It'll grow back before I know it." His smile widened when he saw the sharp glare sent his way. Blair knew Jim was as touchy about his hair--or lack thereof--as he was of his own. Quickly changing the subject, Blair turned to Naomi. "Mom, do you already have someplace to stay?"
She shook her head no. "I came here straight from the airport."
"Great! You can stay at the loft." He grinned at the pained look that crossed Ellison's face. It wasn't that Jim disliked Naomi. He did. A little too much for Sandburg's taste. It was just that the last time she'd visited, she had essentially taken over the place, from filling it with the scent of burning sage to rearranging the furniture. Not to mention that whole fiasco with the car thieves. "You don't mind, right, Jim?" Blair added.
Jim scowled at him, but when Naomi turned to look at him, he wiped the look from his face. "If it's all right with you?" she asked.
"No problem, Naomi," Jim said smoothly. "You know you're welcome anytime."
She jumped up from her position beside Blair and planted a kiss on Jim's cheek as she said, "Thank you, Jim. You are just as sweet as ever."
"I try," Jim confirmed modestly. Sandburg shot him a dirty look, but it did nothing to chase the grin from Ellison's lips.
Clearing his throat conspicuously, Sandburg decided to interrupt. "So, Mom, what have you been up to? I wanna hear all about it."
She smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling. Then she pulled up a chair. "You'll never guess who I ran into at the retreat."
"Who?" Blair asked as he got comfortable and settled in to hear what Naomi had been up to since he'd last seen her.
"Cloe Kellerman. You remember her, don't you, Blair? We met her five years ago in Santa Fe. Well, anyway, she's engaged now. She and her charming fiancé were at the retreat. You know, I always thought the two of you would make a really cute couple...."
Blair watched as Jim headed for the door. The detective mouthed 'See you later." Blair nodded, and his friend slipped out of the room. He then turned back to his mother and let her spirited chatter wash over him.
"You ready to go, Sandburg? I haven't got all day, you know," Banks announced as he strode into room 219.
"I'm getting there. Keep your shirt on," the aforementioned Sandburg replied. "Damn buttons," Simon heard him mutter. He was attempting to fasten the buttons of his favorite black and white plaid shirt, but it was obvious to the captain that he was not having much luck. Simon knew from experience that it was no easy task to button a shirt one-handed. Having suffered a broken arm when he was a rookie taught him that much.
Even after all that time, it was still a little disconcerting to see the kid without his prided curls. Simon had heard from Ellison about Blair's reaction to his missing hair: he'd come close to crying. So Simon had--despite enormous temptation--refrained from any comments or jokes about the new look. But damn, sometimes it was hard. He hoped Sandburg appreciated it.
After another minute, Simon let loose an exasperated sigh and went and finished the job for Sandburg. "I was doing it," he stated indignantly.
"Sure you were, Blair."
At that moment, a redheaded young man of about twenty-five entered, pushing a wheelchair ahead of him. He wore the green uniform of a hospital orderly. "Hey, Blair, my man," he said as he walked up to the grad student. "You ready to blow this joint?"
"You got that right, Tony. Home sweet home is where I'm headed, and it's about time, too."
"That's good," Tony replied. "All right, then, let's just get you into the chair and on your way." The orderly expertly helped Sandburg into the chair, careful of the man's injuries. Once that was done, he took hold of the handles and pushed the newly released patient out the door.
"Oh, wait," Simon interrupted. "I almost forgot." Out of his overcoat pocket he pulled something fuzzy. He tossed it to Sandburg, who caught it against his chest with his good arm. "Jim thought you might want this, since it's cold out," he explained with a grin when he saw Blair's eyes widen in surprised recognition. With obvious delight, Sandburg held up The Hat.
"Hey, great, Simon! Thanks, man," said Sandburg. He enthusiastically placed the hat on his head and adjusted the earflaps. He grinned. "How do I look?" he asked, looking at Tony and Simon expectantly.
Tony hesitated a moment, then decided on a diplomatically vague answer. "It looks...interesting."
Simon just shook his head. "Yeah. Interesting like you've got a dead animal sitting on your head. Only you, Sandburg, would think that hat looks good."
Blair held up his left forefinger in mock warning and said, "Don't diss the hat, man. I've had this since I was twenty." --It looks it too, Simon thought to himself-- "Besides, the chicks love it." Protectively, Sandburg placed his hand over the hat and kept it there. Banks laughed good-naturedly as they made their way through the hospital corridors.
Blair was relieved when Simon pulled his car into a parking space outside 852 Prospect Ave. He was looking forward to being home at last. A good dinner--not the toxic sludge the hospital called food--maybe a little TV. Please, God, he prayed. No more 'Friends.' It was bad enough the television in his room had been stuck on one channel, but to make it worse there'd been a twenty-four hour marathon of the sitcom about New Yorkers.
He was drawn out of his reverie when Banks cut the engine and got out. Blair unfastened his seatbelt as the captain walked around the front of the car. Just before Simon opened the passenger side door, Sandburg put on his best pathetic look and slumped in his seat. Placing his left arm dramatically over his eyes, he said, "Carry me, Simon."
Just as Blair knew he would, Simon growled in annoyance. "Sandburg! Out. Now."
"Okay, okay," Blair acquiesced. He placed a hand on Simon's shoulder for balance and levered himself from the car.
Simon slammed the door shut, and the two of them slowly made their way to the building. "Carry me," Banks said, mimicking Blair. "Yeah right." But he was smiling. Come to think of it, Blair realized, he's had a funny smile on his face ever since we left the hospital parking lot. Strange.
A few minutes later, they stepped out of the elevator and onto the third floor. Finally, Sandburg couldn't take it anymore. "What?!" he blurted out. "What do you keep smiling for?" To his greater annoyance, Simon just kept right on grinning that infuriating grin.
When they reached apartment 307 at the end of the hall, they stopped. Captain Banks reached for the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand, and he pushed the door open.
Flipping the lights on, Sandburg was greeted to a chorus of "Surprise!" The loft was full of people, each and every one with a smile on his or her face. Jim, Naomi, Brown, Rafe, Joel, Rhonda, Rick from Rainier, Sydney from the Anthropology Department, Molly from down the hall, and at least a dozen more. All friends. It only took a second to recognize them all.
Simon, still standing next to Blair, turned and said, "You can close your mouth now."
Blair snapped his jaw shut and smiled as he moved into the loft. Jim and Naomi came forward to greet him.
"Welcome home, Blair," said Naomi, giving him a hug and a kiss.
"Welcome home, Chief."
After Jim handed him a glass of soda and pushed him further inside, he was met with a number of "Welcome back"s and "Good to see you"s from all his friends. For a while, Blair talked and mingled, enjoying himself. Yup. It's darn good to be back, he thought. As he did, he noticed the loft had been decorated with blue and white crepe and balloons. And on the kitchen table was an array of bowls and platters filled with chips, dips, sandwiches, and slices of fruit. But in the middle of it all, the thing that caught his eye was a large cake. His mouth watered just looking at it.
Grabbing a refill of Sprite, Blair carefully climbed upon one of the sofas. "Excuse me, everybody," he called from his perch. Everyone turned to look at him. He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say thank you to all of you. You've all played key parts in my getting well so fast. Especially, my best friend Jim" --Jim smiled at him and saluted with his glass-- "and my mother Naomi. So, thanks for the party, and thanks for everything else. Oh, one more thing--Somebody had better cut the cake because I don't think I can look at it another minute without going insane. Okay? Cheers!" He raised his glass in the air.
"Cheers!" the room echoed, as it toasted friendship, life...and cake.