A/N: Just a wee one this time, squeezed in before the start of another long week. I want to thank those who've put the story on alert and those who've commented anon - I see you, and I appreciate you!
The Cat Came Back
Chapter Seven
Johnny was flying. Not in an airplane, he was simply flying in the open skies, totally unencumbered. When he was a little boy, he used to tie a towel around his neck and tear around the yard, arms spread wide. He was always certain if he ran fast enough, had enough momentum, he could soar like an eagle. He never had achieved it, of course, but it had never mattered. The feeling was there, all he had to do was close his eyes. This, wherever he was, felt like that, only the feeling was more intense than even the imagination of a child could produce. The wind rushed against his face, made it slightly difficult to inhale. It was cool and steady pressure and he found himself gasping. But he wasn't worried. He was exhilarated.
Somewhere behind him he began to hear a strange sound, detracting from the enjoyment of clouds and air against his face. Rhythmic, a thump and a whoosh, over and over. And another noise, recognizable but not quite something he could name. He focused on those sounds, and after a while figured the most logical thing they sounded like was a flock of geese. Honking and flapping their wings in a natural beat. Because he'd somehow managed to lift off the ground and was in the air, so it made sense. Total sense. Johnny tried to take a deep breath, wanting to release a cry into the clouds, and that was when he realized he couldn't. He couldn't shout or breathe. He wasn't in control.
There was something jammed in his mouth, down his throat, choking him. The geese, not geese, couldn't be geese, whatever was behind him raised in pitch, beeped and then fairly screeched. If he'd been flying a moment ago, now Johnny was in a tailspin. Falling, falling and soon he was going to hit and it hurt, hurt already. .
"Now is not the time to wake up, Gage," a voice said, loud and jarring. "Sharon, get over here."
The freedom of flight was replaced by a strong, downward force upon his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere, every inch of his body was pinned in place. Panicked, Johnny tried to move and couldn't any easier than he could breathe. He was overcome with nausea, a pit of dread in his stomach. His heart felt like it was skipping, missing more beats than hitting. It hurt like hell.
"His heart rate's all ov –"
Everything went black, gray, black, gray.
He thought he was on his bunk, at the station. He could hear the traffic hum off the 405, with startlingly regular honks of horns from disgruntled drivers. People on the road seemed to be getting angrier and angrier. Johnny was exhausted, trying to rest, but sleep eluded him. All that noise. The mattress beneath him was hard, uncomfortable. He tried to shift and couldn't. Strange. He tried to raise his arm to drape it over his eyes. He couldn't move at all. He opened his eyes, expected to see the station dorm but all he saw was bright, blurry light. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He drifted, not asleep and not awake even though his mind was screaming to move.
"BP's holding for now. I'd really like to get an X-ray of his chest, but I don't know if we've got the time. Joe, if he goes out on us again, trying to keep him alive might be what kills him."
Johnny knew the words should make sense. He understood them, but it was as if he were missing their actual meaning. He had no context. He felt like he was floating, except he was lying on something hard. Not floating. Head was, not body. He felt strange. Disconnected. The traffic noises had increased. He'd gone from the station to standing right on the freeway. But he wasn't standing. Lying. What? He was so confused. Too tired to sort it out, too tired to even open his eyes and figure out if he really was lying just off the highway. Maybe he'd left the TV on, loud. Maybe Chet had. He wanted to understand.
"Going in blind on a delicate surgery could also kill him, Kel. One wrong move, and that thing is in his heart. Don't you want to see how close it already is, how much of a margin for error there is?"
Brackett and Early. It clicked suddenly. He recognized who was speaking, their voices quiet but not hushed. Right above him, like they were the ones floating. Johnny's brain started kicking in more, the words coming together in proper order. He didn't know what they were doing on the 405 with him, but whatever patient the doctors were talking about sounded like he was in rough shape. Poor guy was damned if they did and damned if they didn't, the way it seemed to Johnny.
"I know you're right, but I have a feeling I'm not going to like what a picture shows us," Brackett said. He sighed. "Who am I kidding? I don't like it already. I'm worried we're going to lose him."
"You're not alone in that."
"They should be almost done with your patient. Are you anticipating much damage there? From what I saw, it looked like Ro –"
Johnny grew tired of the conversation, or maybe he simply grew tired. He was always tired. Sleep pulled him away in pieces, hearing first as the roar of cars passing changed to something more like ocean waves. Beach. Hot sun on his face. Hot sand beneath, itching against his calves. Hot, hot heat all around him. He liked the warmth, though. Except in a blink, it became too much and he wanted to cool down. He was exhausted and couldn't muster the energy to do anything about his discomfort. He'd have to lie there, sweltering. Maybe he'd melt. He shivered. If he were dreaming, he should be able to have some control.
Someone's hands tugged at his shirt as if they'd heard his wishes. Sandy? No, his dreams didn't even give him that much. Couldn't be her, though. The hands were rough, but careful. Businesslike. He wasn't wearing a shirt on the beach. Towel being pulled back. Heavy weight draped across his hips, groin, legs. What? He tried to look up, see who was touching him, couldn't. Like before, he remembered. P…paralyzed? Oh jeez. A whistle, long, loud and sharp. A ship? No. Johnny realized he couldn't be on the beach because he was at work. No, that wasn't right either. He was confused again, still. Always. Why wouldn't his brain work right?
"You know, they warned us, but I still didn't expect it." A deep voice, unfamiliar. "The other one was rambling about a crazy girl thinking this guy was a vampire."
Vampire?
"Damn. It's not every day you see someone with a chair leg rammed into his chest."
Chair leg?
"We should hurry. This guy looks like he could croak any minute and I would rather not be here when it happens."
In his mind's eye, Johnny watched someone run at him, blood streaking the arms. Punches and kicks and the air knocked from his lungs. Oh no, oh. Him. They meant him. Everyone he'd heard, it was about him. He was the poor guy who was damned either way. He was the one Brackett thought was about to kick the bucket. He remembered. The thing poking out of him. Big old hunk of wood. The last thing he recalled clearly was Roy. Roy's face, covered in blood. His heart began to pound faster. Pain radiated from the center of his chest outward, it stole his breath. He longed for the peace of unconsciousness. Of death, even.
"Oh, shoot, he's awake. He's … go get Doctor Brac –"
He was floating again. Liquid and smooth. On a raft, down a river, maybe. Johnny opened his eyes a crack, surprised he could. He saw only white and bright and hazy. No, no, a face above. He knew it though he couldn't make out any features clearly. Knew the worried frown was there, imagined the shock of hair unruly and sticking up in tufts on the side. Not imagining. Big white patch covering half of the face. Bandage. Roy, Roy. Rolling waves thundered and crashed against the raft, not raft, gurney. Hospital. Dying. He choked against the invasive tube in his throat, maybe the only thing keeping him alive. Warm strength embraced his left hand, held on. Johnny tried to squeeze back and couldn't, couldn't move or breathe or talk, ask Roy if he was okay. Roy didn't look okay. He couldn't see, but he knew anyway. Lights flashing overhead as he rolled. Light, dark, light.
Roy's mouth was moving, talking. Johnny squinted, gave up right away. He couldn't see much of anything but white now, or hear anything except a metallic scrape. Wheels on tile. The squeak of well-used equipment bearing his weight. Dying. Roy? Roy. The squeak got louder, more insistent. Voices, shouting. Screaming. A cat? Something about a cat. The whole world jerked to the side. Horrific, terrifying pain. He tried to gasp, eyes opened reflexively and he saw another face, angry. Arms, legs. Everywhere. Shouts and curses. And then someone speaking to him instead of about, the words sharp and clear as a bell. Roy.
"Don't, don't. Get her back. Johnny, hold on."
Johnny wanted to very much, but he couldn't.
"John."
