Hello! Here's chapter 7, I hope you like it :). Thank-you to everyone who has been reading so far, and thank-you so much for the reviews!
Also, I just wanted to say to those of you who have been complimenting the way write, I can't tell you how happy that makes me to hear. I love writing, but I don't have much confidence in it, so I hardly ever show people what I write. This has done wonders for my self-esteem!
Harry and Danny sat in the living room of Tom's house. Tom had managed to coax Dougie upstairs to the spare bedroom, taking advantage of his medicated calm and pain-free ankle to get him into a real bed for the first time in a while, thinking it may help him relax when he woke up. He had passed out almost as soon as his head had fallen onto the puffed-up, blue-trimmed pillows. In a way, Tom was relieved that Dougie was at least getting some sleep, even if it was medicated sleep. Tom filled up a pint glass with water from the kitchen and placed it on the whitewashed wooden bedside cabinet, along with the upstairs landline phone, and a little note telling Dougie which buttons to press to work the intercom to the living room (he never could remember how it worked), so that he wouldn't have to shout for them if he woke up, and pulled the covers up to Dougie's chest. Giovanna stayed up on the top floor anyway, in the study two doors down from the spare room, in case Dougie needed anything, doing work and giving the boys some time alone to discus the problem to hand.
Tom rejoined Harry and Danny in the living room, Danny handing him a mug of tea as Tom sat down next to him on the sofa. Harry was sitting just opposite them, still tapping his legs against the floor and his hands against his knees in quick repetitions. Tom wondered for a moment if this nervous habit was common amongst drummers, or whether it was specific to Harry, while gingerly sipping on his slightly-too-hot-to-drink tea, trying to avoid the conversation he knew they were about to have.
"So, the doctor recommended a shrink?" Danny asked, deciding the conversation probably needed to commence in order for it to, at some point, be finished.
Tom nodded, "Yeah, well, a therapist, not a psychiatrist or anything. Just someone for him to talk to while, y'know," Tom fidgeted with his hands as he spoke, trying his hardest to keep his voice sounding strong.
"While he won't talk to us," Harry concluded, his tapping temporarily ceasing as he spoke.
"Yeah. He said they have a mental health unit there, but Dougie would hate that, we'd have to drag him kicking and screaming through the doors, and I don't think that tends to end too well in psych units!" Tom said, trying to make light of the situation for the sake of his friends.
"Then what do we do?" Danny asked. He wished he could be more useful, he felt like he was just saying the things too stupid or too obvious for anyone else to point out, but he said them anyway, because sounding like an idiot was better than the alternative of silence.
"We find him a therapist, one who works from home, or something. We have a look online. Or there are those big clinics, I guess, but I don't think Dougs would like that much either," Tom replied, slightly amazed at how much he seemed to know of what to do in situations through intuition and common sense, "I'll go get my laptop and we can make some calls," He finished, placing his mug on the table and standing up to retrieve his laptop from where he seemed to remember leaving it in the kitchen.
A few moments later, Tom returned, shiny white Macbook tucked under one arm, and the landline phone gripped in the other hand. He unravelled the laptop charger and plugged it into the nearest socket, before taking his seat back on the sofa and starting Google-ing, Danny leaning in to get a look at the screen. Harry stood up from his chair and made his way round to the sofa, perching on the arm of it the other side of Tom, so that he too could see the screen.
"What on Earth do I even type?" Tom asked, regretting it instantly, for the first time since That Night openly expressing that he was not quite as together as he was trying to be, "Sorry," He added, softly.
"Ey, that's alright, mate, you don't always have to know what to do, y'know," Danny said, realising what Tom was apologising for.
"Yeah, it's okay, none of us have ever had to think about this before," Harry added, placing a hand on the top of Tom's back, near his shoulder blades.
Tom smiled up at his friends, glad that they were understanding of his slip-up, but vowing to himself to be more careful in the future. As much as they would never admit it to his face, Tom knew that Danny and Harry were relying on him to know what to do. It had always been that way, like back when they'd all lived together, back when they were still kids, and no-one knew how to fix the washing machine when it broke, and the first time they'd did an interview for TV, and when Dougie's lizard died, and when Danny broke his leg, and when some newspaper printed some stupid made-up story about Harry, and when things weren't going well with the record label. Even now he'd still get phone calls from Danny asking him which setting he needed to put the oven on and things like that. Everything that happened to his friends was his responsibility. He didn't mind, he knew what he was getting into from the start, being the oldest in the band, having been working in music and living away from home for the longest, he'd looked after everyone, made sure things got done and that everyone was okay. He'd carried on, even after they'd all grown up. But for everything to be okay if they weren't, Tom needed to know what to do to fix them. This time, though, it wasn't so easy. How do you fix a person? Was Dougie even broken? Could you even fix something that wasn't broken? Tom couldn't stop thinking, as the semantics flew round in his mind. He forced himself not to think about it, to focus on making Dougie better, and focus at the task in hand, finding him a therapist.
They typed search after search into Google, gradually learning the language used in the therapist descriptions, learning what letters they should have after there name in order to be official, leaning the different kinds of therapists. Psychotherapists, and cognitive behavial therapists, and art therapists, and long term solutions and short term fixes. The sifted through, trying to find the one that looked like it could help Dougie, trying to find something that they understood. They made a few phone calls, but nothing seemed right. They all either worked in hospitals, or sounded wrong or patronising, or they were sorry but they didn't think they would be appropriate for this situation.
"How 'bout this one," Tom said, his eyes glancing at yet another list of therapists in the North London area, " 'Julia Rosenberg, UKCP accredited psychotherapist, based at home practice in Belsize Park, specialises in treating depression and anxiety disorders in young adults, and post trauma treatment.'" He read, "She seems to have pretty good reviews, and," He copied and pasted her name into a new tab into Google, "Yeah, she seems legitimate, here's her website, she's on a few others too, seems to be quite highly regarded."
"Sounds good, do you want to speak to her?" Harry asked. Tom was the best at that, he thought, he would know what to say, where as Harry knew he'd end up missing out something vital.
Tom sighed, "Sure, pass the phone?"
Danny handed him the phone from down the side of the couch, and Tom stared at the screen before he punched in the number. He stood up, placing the laptop back down onto the place he had been sitting, and walked over to the other side of the room as the phone rang, pacing back and forth past the coffee table, like he always did when he was on the phone.
"Uh, yes, hello, is that Julia Rosenberg?" Danny and Harry heard Tom ask, suddenly stopping in his tracks as the phone was answered.
"Yes it is, how can I help?" A mildly high pitched but soothing voice, with an ever so slight hint of a Mancunian accent, came through the phone into Tom's ears.
"Oh, hi, I, um, my name is Tom Fletcher, I found you on the London Therapy Directory website, I'm actually calling on behalf of a friend of mine, uh, Dougie. He's been having a bit of a hard time lately, and a doctor recommended he try therapy." Tom said, finding his composure about half way through. They must have phoned at least a dozen different practises today, and still Tom could not get used to what he was saying, the words refused to fit right in his mouth.
"Could you tell me a little about the nature of your friend's problems, please, Tom?" She asked.
Tom sighed, "Yeah, um, he had a kinda difficult break-up last month, and he hasn't been dealing with it particularly well, he won't talk to anyone about it though, really. And then, a few days ago, he got attacked, and it's sort of, I don't know, set him off a bit. He's distant, and he says he keeps zoning out, he punched a mirror yesterday when he zoned out. I, um, I don't really know what else to say," Tom said. He wondered if he should play down Dougie's problems, but thought seeing as it was the point of the therapist to work on them, that was probably one place that it wasn't necessary.
"Okay, and what age is your friend, if you don't mind me asking," Julie Rosenberg continued. She sounded nice, Tom thought, sort of motherly, but not overly.
"He's twenty-three." Tom replied.
"Alright then, Tom, I can book an appointment for a preliminary consultation for your friend, if you want? So we can see if we'd be able to work together. My rates are £60 per fifty minute session, plus a £30 preliminary consultation charge. How is tomorrow at 5:30pm?"
Well then, Tom thought, that was that. It looked like it would be Julie Rosenberg, "Um, yeah, that's fine. We'll see you tomorrow then. Thank-you," Tom said, still slightly bemused. The phone line went dead, and Tom turned to Danny and Harry, sitting on the sofa.
"That went well them, eh?" Danny said, pleased that they seemed to have made some progress.
"Yeah, she sounded nice, I think, I hope, Doug'll like her. It's just a consultation so far, mind. And Doug hasn't even agreed. Tomorrow at 5:30 though." Tom relayed the information as his friends nodded.
At that moment, Giovanna walked in, looking slightly frazzled. Her face seemed to calm down immediately when she saw Tom standing there.
"Hey, sweetie. What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing, Doug's awake, he's asking after you. He tried to call on the intercom but the phone was engaged, so I said I'd come get you for him." She explained.
Tom took off for the stairs, the others close behind. Right, so he was going to have to tell Dougie about the therapist he had organised. Well, maybe not now, not if the Valium hadn't worn off, it had only been about four or five hours, how long was it meant to last? But what if it had? And what if Dougie didn't take the idea of help well? Not that Dougie would really have a choice in the matter. This time, his friends knew what was best for him, and he was just going to have to trust them.
They reached the spare room, Tom cracked the door open, the others deciding to wait for a little while, so as not to overcrowd a possibly still-confused Dougie. He peaked his head through the gap, to see Dougie propped up in the double bed against the white pillows with a blue trim, a pale blue and white pinstriped duvet covering his knees, his arms resting over the top of it. Tom glanced to Dougie's bandage, checking to make sure he hadn't bled through the stitches. Dougie heard Tom enter the room and perked his head up.
"Tom," He croaked, his voice bleary from his medicated sleep.
"Hey, Dougs," Tom said, in the gentle tone he had now become accustomed to using, "You alright?"
Dougie nodded, "Yeah. I'm sorry Tom, I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what came over me. Please don't be mad at me, I'll pay to get you a new mirror, and –"
"Hey, hey, chill," Tom cut him off, perching on the edge of the bed and putting his hand onto Dougie's shoulder, "Chill out, dude. I don't care about the mirror. I care about you. I'm not angry at you. Well, I was a little angry, but not at you, only at how worried you made us all. Just, don't do anything like that again, okay?"
Dougie's lips twisted up into a half-smile, "Yeah, probably not the cleverest thing I've ever done." He joked, relaxing a little now he knew Tom wasn't angry with him.
Tom smiled, before inhaling deeply, "Look, mate, the doctor at A&E, he said it might be a good idea for you to speak to someone, like, a councillor or something. And we agree. We've had a look around, and made you a consultation appointment tomorrow afternoon. If you won't talk to us you need to talk to someone, and maybe it'll be easier for you to talk to someone who isn't us anyway, I don't know. Her name's Julie, it's just a consultation, if you don't like her we can find someone else. Just, you're going, okay?" Tom tried to sound firm, ignoring the fact that his voice was beginning to falter. God, he hated seeing Dougie like this. He hated that this was even something that had to think about, let alone actually deal with.
"I'm not crazy, Tom," Came Dougie's reply, his voice so small, so scared, so uncertain.
"No, no I know that, dude," Tom said, his voice so certain in contrast with Dougie's that it shocked even himself a little, "You just need a bit of help right now. You won't be like this forever. It'll get better, Dougs, it always gets better eventually."
Thanks for reading, and please review, as I keep saying, it means so much to me to have people telling me what they think of the story!
Chapter 8 should be up soon. I've been writing loads lately because I'm procrastinating doing work for uni, but I have a project due in a few days (eeek), so I really should focus on that!
