Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.

Rating: G

Summary: Will Steve make it home for Christmas? (This is a very short story, so I have posted it in its entirety.)

Dedication: For Mouse, who has been unfailingly supportive and encouraging (and who refuses to let me retire!)

A Christmas Present

Lt. Steve Sloan walked through the busy Berne airport, approaching the gate for his flight with a distinct feeling of satisfaction. The conference on dealing with the new surge in terrorism, held for the benefit of local law enforcement officers around the world, had ended that morning, and he was glad to be heading home. His presence at the conference was primarily owed to the sudden indisposition of his chief, who had been the person scheduled to attend, and he had, at first, been pleased at the opportunity not only to attend the conference, but to have an expense-paid week in Switzerland. The downside, however, had been that the chief's return reservation had been for late Christmas Eve night, which would have meant that Steve didn't arrive back in L.A. until Christmas morning. Which would have left his father alone for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning.

Steve grinned to himself as he remembered the surprised pleasure he'd heard in his father's voice when he had called to tell him that he had managed to reschedule an earlier return. Mark had never allowed any hint of his disappointment to show when he had realized that Steve would be away for their usual Christmas Eve traditions, but Steve knew his father very well, and he knew how much Mark enjoyed Christmas and how much he liked sharing the children's Christmas party at Community General together, and spending the evening having a quiet dinner, putting out the presents, and opening that first gift together at midnight. Steve remembered the first Christmas after he had moved back into the beach house to live downstairs from his dad, when, in an unusual moment of open sentimentality, Mark had confessed how much it meant to him to have his son there to share the arrival of Christmas together. Steve had made it a point to do his damnedest to try to be home for those two days ever since, and he wasn't going to miss out on them now if he could possibly help it. Especially since he knew that this year, Jesse, who had spent Christmas with them for the past several years, had finally succumbed to a plea from his mother to return home and have Christmas there with his family. And while Amanda usually stopped by for a brief visit Christmas Eve, she always left early in order to get her boys to bed and prepare things for the arrival of Santa in the night. All of which would leave his dad alone to celebrate the arrival of Christmas, and that was something Steve was determined to prevent. So, he had made calls to airlines, talked to fellow conference attendees, and persisted doggedly until he had found someone who was connected to one of the airlines who had arranged to have him placed on a flight leaving on the 23rd -- even if it had meant renting a car to drive to Berne from Geneva.

To make things even better, in the course of wandering the streets between conference sessions, Steve had come across an early edition of a Sherlock Holmes collection, signed by Conan Doyle, that he knew would make the perfect Christmas present for Mark. So, it was a happily self-satisfied son who checked in at the gate and prepared to settle down to await the boarding call for his flight. Feeling his stomach rumble, however, Steve decided that a snack was definitely in order. Glancing at his watch, he noted that he had a few minutes before it should be time to board, so he wandered over to find himself something to eat.

As he surveyed the selection of fast foods, bars, and bakery items that the airport had to offer, he noticed a young man hovering around a group of elderly women who were chatting away while browsing through the stands in the middle of the corridor. Police instincts kicking in, he kept an eye on the young man, even as he selected a pastry and moved to the counter to pay for it. Just as he got to the counter, he saw the youth suddenly dart towards the group of women, who were momentarily obscured by a crowd of tourists obviously travelling together. A second later, the anonymous hum of airport activity was pierced by the startled and dismayed cries of the women, as the youth snatched a few of their purses and took off. His timing was excellent, as the confusion created by the milling tourists obscured to most people what had happened and who had been involved. Only Steve, alert to the possibility of trouble from that source, was able to pick out the rapidly disappearing form of the young man, and, with only a fleeting thought to the imminent departure of his plane, he dropped his pastry and took off after the thief.

**************************

Mark Sloan walked down the hall of Community General Hospital happily humming Christmas carols, occasionally breaking into snatches of full song. Tomorrow was the annual Christmas Eve Children's party that he always organized for those children unfortunate enough to be spending their holiday in the hospital, and, in between his patient rounds, he was mentally reviewing his plans for that event. Everything seemed to be falling into place nicely. The last potential blot on his planned enjoyment had been removed yesterday when Steve had called to say that he had been able to make arrangements to fly home today instead of tomorrow.

Mark had no idea how Steve had managed to obtain an earlier reservation at such last-minute notice – it was notoriously impossible to make any last-minute reservations at Christmas time – and he was deeply appreciative of the effort he knew it must have taken. He had tried not to give any indication that he was disappointed by the prospect of missing his son on this important holiday, but he knew that that hadn't mattered; Steve knew how he felt even if he didn't show it. His heart warmed with affection for the son who always showed him such consideration and concern, adding to his contentment with the season and his life.

As he walked down the hallway, Mark saw Jesse Travis emerge from the doctor's lounge, only to stop and peer back inside, his expression somber. Mark quickened his pace a bit to come up alongside his colleague and friend.

"Hey, Jesse, what's up?" he asked, peering into the room to notice that there were half a dozen doctors and nurses gathered around watching the small tv in the corner of the room.

"There was just a news bulletin that an airplane went down in the mountains in Italy," Jesse replied quietly. "It looks like there were no survivors."

Mark felt the shock of horror that such news always engendered.

"Oh my God," he said, thinking of the horror of the families who would have lost loved ones – and just at Christmas too. "Do they know what happened?"

"Not yet," Jesse replied. "They don't seem to have much information yet. Just that it was a flight from Berne to N.Y."

Mark felt a sudden chill freeze his heart.

"What was the flight number?" he asked sharply, fighting the dread that was clutching at him. Jesse looked at him curiously.

"I'm not sure; 10-something, I think. Why?"

Mark moistened suddenly dry lips, trying to calculate times, but defeated by the sudden, stubborn refusal of his brain to function.

"Steve is flying home from Berne today," he managed to utter. "And his flight stopped over in New York."

Jesse's eyes widened in alarm, even as he clutched at what seemed to be an inconsistency. "I thought the conference was in Geneva," he stammered.

"It was," Mark confirmed. "But the only flight home he could get today was from Berne; he was going to rent a car and drive there to catch the flight so…" his voice caught as he remembered why Steve had altered his itinerary, "…so he could get home for Christmas Eve." Mark's pain- and fear-filled eyes met Jesse's, and he saw the sudden comprehension and the shared alarm that flared there.

"It's not his flight," the younger doctor protested automatically. "It can't be his flight."

As they stood there staring at each other in mutual dismay, a nurse came out.

"Sally, what was the flight number of that plane that went down?" Jesse asked her immediately.

"Oh, isn't it awful?" Sally responded. "Those poor people."

"What was the flight number?" Jesse reiterated more urgently.

"1026," she replied, as she moved toward the nurse's station where she was being summoned.

"Thanks," Jesse replied. He looked back over to Mark to see that he had turned deathly white. His own heart filled with dread, he reached out to steady the older doctor.

"Mark?"

"That's Steve's flight." The words came out in a choked whisper.

"How can you be so sure?" Jesse asked, desperately trying to hold onto some hope. "Maybe you're not remembering the number right."

Mark shook his head in despair. "It's his birthday." He swallowed hard, trying to get past the lump constricting his throat. "We laughed about it; I said it would be one flight number neither one of us would have to look up." His voice broke, and he closed his eyes in pain, remembering that last shared moment of humor, overwhelmed by the grief of knowing that he would never hear that laugh in his son's voice again, never see the affection and humor that lit those clear blue eyes.

Jesse maintained a supportive grip on Mark's, reflecting on the irony of that little detail – 10/26, October 26th, the number marking his best friend's birth was also the number that marked his death. He shoved the thought aside, trying to focus on the immediate concern of helping Mark through this horror. Desperately, he searched for some scrap of hope or comfort.

"Maybe Steve wasn't on the plane," he suggested. Mark gazed back at him hopelessly, torn between skepticism and a desperate desire to deny the reality of the tragedy. Jesse had never felt so entirely at a loss. He didn't want to worsen Mark's grief by offering false hope, but he couldn't bring himself to accept Steve's death without some further proof. Struggling to pull himself together, he realized that they were starting to attract curious stares from nearby staff.

"Come on, Mark," he urged, "let's go to your office and see if we can get some definite information. There must be a hotline or something for people to call to see if…" He let sentence trail off unfinished. Taking the older doctor by the arm, he steered him down the hall towards the office. Mark allowed himself to be guided in an unresisting daze of grief.

Once inside Mark's office, Jesse used his friend's PC to search for the number of the hotline the airline had established for families of victims to call. By the time they had found the information they sought, Mark had begun to emerge from the first, mind-numbing shock of the news. When Jesse reached for the phone to place the call, Mark placed a restraining hand on the younger doctor's arm, his face lined with anguish, but showing a painful determination as well.

"No, Jesse. I'll call."

"Are you sure?" Jesse asked, wanting to spare his friend any pain that he could. The resolution he saw in Mark's face answered his question just as clearly as the nod he received. He knew that look – he had seen it when Mark had insisted on being the one to identify his daughter's body; even Steve had given in when confronted with that resolve. So Jesse stood by feeling helpless, as Mark dialed the number and waited to speak with a representative from the airline.

As they waited to be connected, Jesse pager went off, summoning him back to the ER. Torn between his duty to the patients and his reluctance to leave Mark alone at this time, he hesitated.

"Go on, Jesse," Mark told him, his voice still tight with pain, but controlled. "I'll be alright. There's nothing you can do here, and they need you in the ER. It'll probably be a while before I get any real information anyway. There are bound to be a lot of people calling right now."

Jesse stood for a moment longer, searching Mark's face, before succumbing to necessity. "Page me as soon as you know anything," he said, still hating to leave.

"I will." The sadness in the blue eyes that met his was almost unendurable. His own heart aching, he turned and left. Before heading down to the ER, however, he placed a call to Amanda.

Amanda was on her way up to Mark's office within seconds of getting Jesse's call. She had heard the news of the plane crash – as a major catastrophe, the word had quickly spread throughout the hospital – but she was appalled to hear that Steve was presumably on that flight. Fervently agreeing with Jesse that Mark shouldn't be left alone just now, she abandoned the paperwork she had been working on and rushed up to be there to offer whatever support she could. Her heart bled for her friend, knowing the devastation that Steve's death would be to him. Desperately she hoped that there had been some mistake, that, by some miracle, Steve would not have been on the plane, that Mark had mistaken the flight number, that the news broadcasts had reported the number incorrectly – praying for anything that could make this tragedy not be a reality. She drew a deep breath outside Mark's office door, resolutely composing herself to lend a strength she was far from feeling herself.

She opened the office door to find Mark still holding the phone, his eyes staring into nothingness, his face haggard. At the sound of her soft call of "Mark?", he focussed his gaze on her, and she cringed inwardly at the sight of the silent suffering that clouded those normally clear blue eyes.

"I'm still waiting for someone…" He broke off abruptly, obviously listening to something on the other end of the line.

Feeling almost like a voyeur, Amanda waited while Mark identified himself to the person on the other end of the line and asked for confirmation of his son's presence on the fatal flight. She held her breath, her own body reflecting some of the extreme tension in his posture. Her heart broke when she saw Mark's body sag inward as if he'd received a physical blow, his eyes squeezing shut, his face tightening with exquisite pain. Almost without conscious awareness of movement, she found herself crouching beside her friend as he hung up the phone, pulling him into a hug, unsure if the tears on her face were his or her own.

After a moment, Mark pulled away and opened his eyes, conscious of a shock-induced numbness that was uneasily coexisting with the intensity of grief that was battering his soul. He met the deep sympathy in Amanda's tear-filled eyes, and struggled to force his voice to work.

"They confirmed that Steve's name was on the boarding list," he managed to choke out. "He was on the plane."

"Oh, Mark," was all Amanda could say, as she tightened her arms around him again.

Chapter 2

Mark walked through the empty beach house, struggling to cope with the sudden collapse of his world. There was a surreal feeling to the whole situation; it seemed impossible that catastrophe could strike so suddenly, so devastatingly, from half a world away. Many times, he had been forced to deal with the possibility of his son's death from injuries incurred in the line of his police work; it was never easy, never exactly expected, but somehow easier to understand – it was a recognized and familiar fear. But this – this was so senseless, so unexpected, it was difficult to take in. His brain seemed to be numb, finding it difficult to think beyond the awareness of the vast void that now loomed in his life.

Amanda had tried hard to convince Mark to go home with her, but he was adamant in his refusal to do so. Besides his desire to be alone to come to terms with his grief, he knew he would not be good company for Christmas, and it wasn't fair to bring the shadow of his tragedy to mar the joy of the holiday for her two young sons. Jesse had offered to cancel his flight home the next day in order to stay with him, but Mark had insistently resisted that suggestion as well. He knew that his friends were concerned for him and that they didn't want him to spend Christmas alone, but the truth was that he preferred to be alone right now. The grief was too raw, the anguish too intense; he would not inflict that on anyone else. He just wanted to be alone with his thoughts and his memories, free to grieve in private for the loss of the son who had been his dearest joy and greatest comfort in life.

The sight of the Christmas tree, so happily decorated in anticipation of Steve's return, thrust sharp thorns of pain through his heart. There were so many memories of Christmases together, filled with love and laughter; Mark remembered the excitement of early Christmases when a very young Steve and Carol would swarm around the tree in a frenzy of joy in the early dawn light of Christmas morning. The laughing, exuberant face of the youngster gave way to the memory of the adult, whose mature features still reflected a happiness and deep, abiding affection as they had shared the calmer festivities of recent Christmas mornings alone together. With no one there to see, Mark allowed the tears to fill his eyes as he mourned the loss of the love and closeness that had characterized his relationship with his son.

Mark had suffered the deaths of his wife and his daughter, and he knew that these memories would eventually be sources of comfort, providing reflected warmth and happiness as he looked back at them. But now, with the sense of loss so sharp and new, their sweetness stung him with a greater sense of deprivation. He turned away from the suddenly unendurable sight of the tree and the cheerfully decorated room, feeling achingly old and alone.

Jesse and Amanda stopped by late in the afternoon to make one last attempt to get Mark to allow one of them to stay with him. They were distressed, but not surprised, to find that Mark could not be swayed; they remembered well how, when Carol had been murdered, Mark had shut himself away for hours at a time, rejecting even Steve's company, as he dealt with his grief in private. But this time, there would be no Steve waiting to be there whenever his dad was ready, making sure that Mark remembered to eat, providing a supportive and comforting presence. Each of them was more than willing to be there for Mark, even though they knew their presence could never provide the comfort of Steve's, but Mark continued to refuse their offers, pointing out that it made no sense for them to neglect their families and commitments to sit around and wait on him. He truly appreciated the real love and sincerity behind the offers, understanding that these two close friends were reminding him that he was not left entirely bereft of family, but for the moment there was little they could do for him. So, after allowing Amanda to fix him a light supper, which he did his best to try to eat, he thanked them again with real gratitude, and sped them on their way, amid Amanda's assurances that she would be back the next day.

Once they were gone, the feeling of emptiness descended upon the house again, and Mark went out to sit on the balcony. The chill of the December air seemed a faint reflection of the chill in his heart, as he stared out at the darkness, listening to the mournful sounds of the surf.

Hours later, Mark awoke with a start from the fitful doze into which he had drifted, to find himself lying on the chaise lounge, cold and stiff from the night air. As he lay there, groggily trying to orient himself, he heard what sounded like the front door closing. As his forced his sluggish and aching body erect, he wondered if Jesse or Amanda had returned to check on him. A quick glance at his watch dispelled that idea; neither of his friends would let themselves into his house at 1:00 in the morning. He briefly considered his options. If this were a burglar, the wisest thing to do would probably be to creep down the stairs to the beach and call the police from a neighbor's house. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to wake the neighbors the night before Christmas Eve unless he was sure there was a real problem; it seemed more logical to investigate first.

Easing the sliding door open, Mark stepped quietly into the study. As he did so, he heard footsteps headed toward him. It suddenly occurred to him that confronting an unknown and possibly armed intruder might not be the smartest thing he could do. But from the well of grief that filled his mind came the thought that he really didn't have much to lose; the thought of death had less sting right now than the thought of life without his son. Before he could act on either thought, however, he was startled into immobility as the intruder flicked the light switch that turned on the tree lights. Caught in the open by the light, his gaze fastened on the figure by the hallway entrance. His breath caught in his throat as total shock gripped him; he found himself looking into a familiar, dearly loved face, and heard the well-known voice query "Dad?" The room seemed to swim, his vision darkened, and the next thing he was aware of was the feel of two strong arms supporting him. Opening his eyes, he looked into the concerned blue depths of his son's, anxiously gazing down at him.

Chapter 3

Steve stared in alarm at his father's ghostly pale face, startled and dismayed by the brief faint. He had let himself quietly into the house, assuming from the darkness within that his father had gone to bed, not wanting to wake him. He had been unable to resist the urge to light the Christmas tree for a moment, wanting to enjoy the satisfaction of having made it home for Christmas despite missing the flight he had worked so hard to get reservations for. He had been surprised to see his father standing in front of the sliding door to the deck, but had jerked into sudden motion as he saw the color drain out of the older man's face, managing to catch him as he swayed. He had never known Mark to faint; fears of a heart attack or some serious illness gripped him, as he supported his father while awareness returned.

"Dad, what is it? Are you alright?" he asked anxiously. He felt Mark's hands clutch convulsively at his arms, an unrecognizable expression crossing his face.

"Steve?" The voice was shaky too, with an undercurrent of what Steve confusedly identified as disbelief, and he saw with astonishment that the blue eyes so intently fastened on his own were misted over.

"Yeah, it's me, Dad," he assured him. "Let's get you over to the couch," he suggested. He noticed that his father never released his grip on his son's arms, never let his eyes stray from Steve's face. Steve's concern grew, as he gently steered the older man over to the sofa.

As they moved across the room, Mark struggled to make sense of the situation. His mind seemed once again to be numbed by shock. As he reached the couch, he managed to stammer out, "How…? Your flight…?"

Feeling further confused by his father's reaction, Steve replied briefly, "I missed the original flight, but I managed to get an alternate." Brushing that aside as presumably inconsequential, he asked again, "What's wrong, Dad? Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?" He received only a mute shake of the head in response, and scrutinized his father's face for any clue to his physical condition. He was relieved to see a slight return of color, but Mark was still distressingly pale, his face showing signs of strain and stress. "Let me get you a drink of water or something," Steve suggested. His movement to withdraw was arrested by an immediate tightening of the grasp on his arm.

"No, stay. Please." Mark was afraid to let his son out of his sight; afraid that this would yet turn out to be a dream. He took a shuddering breath, trying to pull himself together, trying to prove to himself that this was real, that his son was here, alive and well.

"Your name was on the confirmed passengers list," he said, part of his mind still resisting the belief that it was possible for his son to be alive, even as he desperately craved assurance that it was so.

"I checked in at the gate," Steve explained, still not understanding why this was so important to his father, "but I got sidetracked by a purse snatching. By the time we got everything under control and all cleared up, I had missed the flight. The airport personnel were kind enough to help me find another way home." A brief smile crossed his face. "I had to change planes in London, and again in Detroit, but I made it home only about 3 hours later than I would have anyway." The smile faded as his concern for his father returned. "Now tell me what's going on, Dad."

Mark opened his mouth to ask why his son hadn't called to let him know he had survived, but, searching Steve's openly puzzled and concerned expression, he realized that his son was obviously unaware of the fate of his scheduled flight.

"You haven't heard, have you?" he asked in wonder.

"Heard what?" Steve asked.

"Flight 1026 from Berne crashed in the mountains about an hour after takeoff," Mark replied quietly.

"Oh my God," Steve breathed in shock, dropping down to sit beside his father. Horrified comprehension swept through him as he gazed into Mark's face, suddenly understanding the confusion and pain he had seen there. "You thought I was…," he left the sentence unfinished, gripping his father's arms in return, a wave of empathetic pain and love washing over him. "God, Dad, I'm so sorry," he uttered fervently. "I had no idea."

Mark closed his eyes, allowing the reality of his son's presence to flood his being with relief, savoring the reassurance of the physical contact. He listened to the sound of Steve's voice explaining how he had had to rush to make the connections between flights and had never heard a news broadcast. The words no longer mattered; all that was important was that his son was there to utter them. He opened his eyes again, allowing all his senses to drink in confirmation of the physical reality of his son's presence.

"Since I knew my luggage would have gone on the other flight, and would probably be in the unclaimed baggage area by now, I never even stopped at the airport here," Steve concluded. "I just wanted to get home as soon as possible; I figured I could get the luggage in the morning." He paused for a moment as he realized the probable fate of that luggage. "I guess I won't need to bother now," he observed wryly. Another thought suddenly struck him. "I had your Christmas present in there!" he exclaimed in dismay.

"I already have my present," Mark said softly, his voice deep with emotion, his hand moving up to grip his son's shoulder. "The best I could ever have."

Steve met his father's eyes, and the love and joy he saw there caused all other considerations to fade into insignificance. A warm smile, full of an answering love, lit his face in return, as he slid an arm behind his father's shoulders in a comforting hug.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," he replied. They sat peacefully together for a while, contentedly enjoying the soft glow of light from the tree.

The End

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Nonny