Fusco had always felt an overwhelming dislike towards emergency rooms. If the reason one ended up there wasn't already bad enough, in a city like New York one usually faced hours spent in a waiting area crowded with people who were inarguably not having a good day. Moods were volatile and there was crying, painful moaning, coughing, screaming, blood and all sorts of bodily fluids. Add to that the adrenaline-fueled trauma cases that were rushed through the place in a flurry of running and frantically yelling people and Lionel couldn't help but perceive the place as hectic, unfriendly and bordering on chaotic. And the coffee was even worse than the swill they offered at the precinct.
It definitely lacked that caring and nurturing atmosphere the posters on the hospital walls were advertising. Fusco had once spent hours with his kid Lee in pain from a broken arm - courtesy of Billy Hacks and his lack of control with a hockey stick - sitting on one of the uncomfortable lime green plastic chairs and waiting for a nurse to at least look sympathetically their way.
However he was pretty sure that Reese's case had fallen into the category of "high-adrenaline-touch-and-go-with-a-lot-of-frantic-yelling", which thankfully excluded a search of the crowded waiting room from the start.
Making a bee-line for the registration desk he flashed his badge and asked for a status on John Warren - recently admitted gunshot victim.
The nurse behind the counter scrutinized his badge thoroughly before turning her attention to the computer terminal in front of her. "What was the name again?"
"John Warren," repeated Fusco as he stuffed his badge back into his coat.
The nurse - Janice, her name tag read - swiftly entered the name into the system and then squinted at the screen in front of her. "Ah, got him," Janice said, then continued to silently read. After what seemed like hours of no forthcoming information Lionel came pretty close to reaching over the counter and turning the screen around so he could read for himself.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, causing the detective's heart beat to come to an abrupt stop, "but he's still in surgery."
Jesus Christ! Fusco thought and expelled a breath in relief as his heart continued its efforts of pumping blood through his veins with renewed vigor. He clutched the edge of the countertop with all his might, trying to keep up the air of a detached cop looking for his witness. "So he's going to make it?"
"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. You'll have to wait for the surgeon for an update on Mr. Warren's condition, however I don't know how long the surgery will last. You can either come back later or wait at the surgical ward."
Fusco didn't have to think about it. "I'll wait." He turned around to head for the waiting room as nurse Janice had suggested, only to realize that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. He executed an about-face but before he could even open his mouth Janice waved a hand to his right. "Third floor to the left."
Thanking her he followed her directions towards the elevators, and managed to hop into a cab just as the doors were about to close. There were four more people sharing the cab with him, but a deathly silence dominated the short trip to the third floor as was the custom for elevator rides.
Lionel was the only one who stepped off at the surgical ward. He turned to his left and walked down the corridor - his shoes making a soft squeaking sound as he walked across the worn linoleum.
He came upon more rows of the uncomfortable lime green plastic chairs on each side of the hallway, and picked one on the left closest to the closed double doors that had the lettering Operation Rooms - Staff Only stenciled onto them.
Grimacing he sank down on the hard plastic. He knew this could take all night but he swore to himself that as long as John Reese was going to keep fighting for his life beyond that closed set of doors he would make sure that no one was going to tamper with his odds.
.
.
His knees were perpetually and alternately bouncing up and down, yet Fusco wasn't sure if his unrest was due to nervousness or because of the unhealthy amount of coffee - let's just call it that - he had forced down his esophagus over the last couple of hours. It was probably a combination of both.
It felt like it had been days since he sat down and started his vigil but he refused to check his watch again. The last time he did Reese had already been in surgery for over five hours, and Lionel was still not done arguing with himself whether that was a good sign or not.
And now - although he felt so high strung that he thought his body might start humming at any minute - his eyelids were seriously feeling the effect of gravity, reminding him that it had been an exceptionally long and freakishly exhausting day.
Fusco dismissed the thought of getting another cup of coffee from the vending machine around the corner almost immediately. One more cup and he was sure the atrocious tasting, brownish liquid that doggedly sloshed around his belly would reach critical mass and probably burn a hole through his stomach's lining.
What the hell was taking so long?
Just as he finished the question in his head the double doors swished open to reveal a tall, thin man dressed in green scrubs, and wearing a surgical cap. He had pulled off his face mask, though it still was tied around his neck. Fusco got to his feet.
"Family of John Warren?"
The detective straightened to his full height in order to exude nothing put police professionalism and pulled out his badge to present it to the man in front of him. "Detective Lionel Fusco, NYPD. I'm the lead in the investigation into Mr. Warren's robbery and subsequent shooting. Unfortunately we haven't been able to get in touch with his next of kin yet. Can you tell me how he is?"
The surgeon studied Lionel's badge closely and Fusco briefly wondered if the hospital had had problems with fake policemen surreptitiously obtaining information before as the man's actions closely mirrored the nurse's from earlier that evening. In the end he realized that he really did not care at all about that - and it was definitely not the reason why he was now holding his breath as he waited for his question to be answered. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
Satisfied with his scrutiny of the badge the surgeon pulled off his surgical cap and briefly rubbed through his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. "He's hanging in there." Oh, thank God. "But he's still in a very critical condition. The bullet caused extensive damage and we really had a hard time not losing him on the operating table."
"Well, when do you think I can talk to him? He's pretty much our only witness." As callous as his question sounded Fusco knew it was the right thing to ask in order to keep up the pretense of merely being the cop who got stuck with the case. And judging by the surgeon's incredulous look Lionel had pulled off his act fabulously.
"If - and that is a very big one - Mr. Warren pulls through the next two days he might be fit for questioning in two to three weeks. But detective, I wouldn't count too much on that testimony if I were you."
Lionel swallowed. Hearing the doctor's opinion about John's chances of survival unembellished by carefully practiced bedside-manners was like a punch to the gut and he had to fight hard not to grab the guy by his scrubs, push him up against the wall and get into his face. The doctor didn't know that he was talking about one of Fusco's - ah, what the hell - friends.
"Well, he's still a material witness. I will have to make sure that he's safe for the moment."
"I assure you he is."
"Yeah, well, I have to see that with my own eyes. Regulations, you know?" Fusco was lying through his teeth, and for a second it looked like the surgeon wasn't buying it. Lionel held his breath. Again.
Sighing the doctor eventually relented. "Fine. He's currently being moved to the ICU. I'll have a nurse come and get you as soon as he's settled. Doing his best not to look too pleased about this Fusco thanked the man and returned to his lime green plastic chair for the next stage of waiting.
.
.
The wait didn't take that long this time. Approximately half an hour after Lionel had spoken to Reese's surgeon a nurse came and led him down the halls towards the Intensive Care Unit. She stopped in front of an opaque glass sliding door and with one hand on the handle she turned to look at him with a stern expression. "Two minutes."
The detective nodded, dutifully stating that he wouldn't need that long and pressed himself past her as soon as she started to pull back on the handle.
Fusco had not known what to expect as he entered the dimly lit room but was immediately struck by a feeling of eerie wrongness. It was almost difficult to make out the form of the usually larger-than-life John Reese on the hospital bed with all the beeping monitors and tubes surrounding him. His chest was thickly covered in gauze and rising rhythmically to the clicking and hissing of the ventilator that was forcing air into his lungs through a tube down his throat. John's face was pale - too pale - and slack in unconsciousness. Fusco had never before seen Reese's face without his customary scowl or glare and somehow this really brought it home to him that Wonderboy might not make it this time.
He hovered at the foot end of the bed, and if he had had a hat or anything else in his hands he probably would have been apprehensively wringing it to pieces. Somehow Fusco felt the need to supply Reese with - or to at least remind him of - an incentive to keep on fighting for his life. Looking over his shoulder to make sure they were not being observed, he made his way towards the head end of the bed - careful not to disturb any of the medical apparatuses.
With the irrational thought that John would probably hear him better if he got closer to his face, Lionel bent forward and - not caring that he sounded like a bloody movie cliché - said calmly, "Wonderboy, it's me Fusco. I know you don't really care about any of my opinions but I need you to listen to me now. Finch is out there and he's counting on you. So don't you dare give up!"
Straightening up, Lionel took one last look at John Reese's unnaturally still face and left before the nurse had the pleasure of kicking him out.
Outside the ICU he finally looked at his watch and decided that he could risk waking his Captain at five in the morning to request a round the clock protective detail for John Warren.
With any luck he'd even manage to get some sleep before he had to start his next shift at the precinct. He had the distinct feeling, however, that his sleep would be anything but restful.