Author's note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Seven.

Steve paced the confines of the doctors' lounge for the second time that day. Again he was waiting – but this time it was for news of a different kind. He had tried to do what Kirk suggested – had tried to unwind even a fraction – but it had proved to be impossible.

There were too many uncertainties hanging over him. His dad was still gravely ill and he was not so complacent as to discount the possibility of complications following his surgery.

Then there was Jesse. He'd asked around and, though some staff recalled seeing him heading to the parking garage, nobody had seen or heard from him in hours.

There were also the words that Mark had said during his brief return to consciousness – the fact that he seemed to feel somehow responsible for the accident. That, at least, Steve could do something about. And so he held his cellphone pressed to his ear as he paced.

"Hello? Is that Doug Keller?" he said, as he was finally put through to the relevant department – to somebody who could actually give him some answers. "Yeah, Doug, it's Steve Sloan." He knew the other man, having worked with him in the past. "Oh, you heard, huh?" He shouldn't have been surprised that his colleague knew about Mark's involvement in the accident – his father was liked and respected throughout the LAPD.

Then Doug asked the inevitable question and Steve's throat closed up. He couldn't answer because he wasn't entirely sure what to say. How was he? He couldn't simply reply that he was okay. Mark was far from okay and wouldn't be okay for the rest of his life. But he was alive and that was something to be thankful for. The families of eight people were in mourning that night.

"Yeah, I'm still here." Steve rubbed at his eyes as he answered Doug's suddenly concerned enquiry. He was tired, he belatedly realised – and he had just drifted off completely, halfway through a conversation. "No, it's okay. Dad was pretty badly hurt, but he… he came through surgery." He couldn't add any more. Fresh tears threatened and he refused to let them fall. "Listen Doug, I need to know what happened." Pushing personal feelings aside, he switched into investigating mode. "What caused the accident? Have you found out yet?"

Steve subsided into silence and he concentrated on every word that Doug said to him. He had to resist the urge to hurry him, to get him to skip the details, to simply ask him whether his father was to blame. He didn't know how he'd be able to handle it if that did turn out to be the case.

But he did know, without a shadow of a doubt, that his father would never be able to live with it. Not when eight bodies were lying in the morgue.


Steve hung up his phone and closed his eyes. A sigh that he hadn't even been aware he was suppressing escaped his lips. His dad wasn't to blame. He hadn't been driving too fast and he had done everything he could to avoid the accident. It had just been impossible.

But, while he could say a quiet prayer that guilt would no longer be in danger of hampering Mark's recovery, the other things Doug had told him had left him somewhat stunned.

The weather was taking a large portion of the blame for the accident. High winds and driving rain had made for treacherous conditions. The roads had been packed with rush hour traffic and one tanker driver had lost control. He had paid for that loss of control with his life.

From the way the events had been pieced together, it seemed that Mark had been in the lane alongside the tanker at precisely the wrong moment. It had ridden up the kerb, it had tilted and a strong gust of wind – which had been bordering on gale force – had tipped it over. Mark had tried to swerve, but there had been nowhere to go. The bulk of the tanker had crushed his BMW and left him trapped. From the way Doug had spoken, it was a miracle that he hadn't been killed instantly. The family of five in the MPV behind him hadn't been so lucky. Only an eighteen month old baby – now an orphan – had survived. She had been in a baby seat but the parents and two older children hadn't bothered with a seatbelt between them.

Steve silently wondered why people would never learn. The MPV had been fitted with seatbelts, they just hadn't bothered to put them on. It shocked him that anyone would gamble with their children's lives in such a way. But they had paid the ultimate price.

There were also the idiots who just couldn't slow down – no matter how dangerous the conditions. Two more cars had been unable to stop in time when the accident occurred. They had accounted for two more of the fatalities. The final victim had been a pedestrian. A car swerving to avoid the carnage had hit her head on.

Shaking his head, Steve poured himself a coffee. It wouldn't help him to relax, but he needed the stimulant. The night was dragging on, but he was not prepared to sleep – not until Mark had awoken again and he was able to absolve him of any responsibility he might have felt for the accident.


Suddenly sensing that he was not alone, Steve glanced sharply towards the door. Kirk stood there, leaning on the frame, watching him. He felt his heart literally skip a beat.

"What? Is it my dad?" His voice was tight with barely suppressed panic. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything's fine," Kirk assured him, stepping into the room. "I came for a cup of coffee. Would you mind some company?"

"It wasn't my dad's fault," Steve said, by way of reply. He still held his phone clutched in his hand. "It wasn't his fault."

"That's good news." The doctor poured himself a coffee, questioning with his eyes whether Steve wanted a refill. When the detective gestured with his half-full mug, he replaced the pot.

"You, uh… you know what happened?" Steve's stomach still churned when he thought about those who had died. "That family?"

"I was on duty," Kirk reminded him, sadly. "The eldest child – the boy – he was still alive, barely. I couldn't save him."

Again, Steve was reminded of Jesse by the quiet pain that had filled Kirk's voice and a fresh wave of guilt flooded through him.

"God." He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How am I going to tell him?"

"It's good news, Steve." Kirk thought that he was still referring to the cause of the accident and his puzzlement was apparent in his tone. "Or as good as it can be. It wasn't his fault."

"I meant about Jesse." Steve instantly picked up on the confusion and sought to clarify it. "He's the best damned doctor you have in this hospital – not to mention him being my dad's friend." He paused, mentally reviewing what he'd just said: "No offence."

"None taken." The young doctor smile in response. "Jesse is our best doctor. I know that if I was hurt, then I'd want him taking care of me." The smile swiftly faded. "You're right, though – he mentioned Jesse to Amanda when he first woke up, but he was only conscious for a few seconds. But sooner or later, he will start wondering where he is."

"And I don't think there's anybody in this hospital who can answer that question," Steve reflected, bitterly. Sudden resolve hardened his expression and he looked down at his cellphone. "If you'll excuse me, I have a couple of calls to make."


Steve had been about to hit the speed dial button on his phone – but then the lounge door burst open and his partner Cheryl Banks rushed into the room, negating the need for him to call her.

"Steve, I got here as soon as I could." She was breathless and her horror over what had happened was evident on her face. "But that storm… It seems like the whole of LA just went crazy… You wouldn't believe how many reported homicides we've had."

"If that's your way of telling me that I'm needed back at work, then forget it," Steve snapped, misinterpreting her entirely. "I'm taking some time off."

"Steve…"

There was a warning in both her eyes and her tone – and he suddenly realised that it was not only she who had entered the lounge. Captain Newman stood by the door, with his arms folded across his chest and regarding him appraisingly. Steve didn't let that look faze him for one moment. "I mean it, Newman." His tone was still angry. "You give me some personal time, or you get my resignation."

"Contrary to popular belief, something does beat in here." The Captain tapped one finger against his chest. "I came down here to tell you to take as long as you need."

Steve took a deep, calming breath and nodded his thanks.

"How is he?" Cheryl asked. Though the news of Mark's accident had spread around the precinct like wildfire, the details had been sketchy.

"He's, um…" It should have been so easy – this was his partner he was talking to – but he couldn't force out the words. "He's sleeping now… He…"

"Steve." Kirk touched one hand to Steve's arm, seeing his struggle. "Would you like me to?"

Steve turned his face away. He was not about to cry in front of his Captain – and he nodded tightly in response to the doctor's offer. "Thanks," he managed to choke out.

Steve moved to stand by the coffee pot at the back of the room. Leaning heavily on the counter he shut out the muted voices from behind him. He couldn't understand why he couldn't speak of exactly what had happened to his father; why it was impossible to say those words aloud.

He tried to tell himself that it was psychological, that by not saying it he was denying the truth. But Steve knew denial and this was not it. Besides, he'd had no trouble in saying those words to Jesse. Maybe he didn't want to say those words again in case he ended up driving somebody else he cared about from his life.

Jesse.

He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut – praying that when he opened them again he would be at home in his bed and this would all turn out to be some horrible, twisted nightmare: that the accident had never happened; that his father was not crippled; and that he had not driven his best friend to God only knew where and with him having no hope of finding him.

But that was never going to be the case and it was with some effort that he opened his eyes when a hand settled on the small of his back.

"Steve, I'm so sorry." Cheryl's remorse was written all over her face and tears stood out in her eyes. "If there's anything I can do…"

"Yeah." Steve swallowed heavily, still not in complete control of his emotions. He felt as though he were being torn in two. He needed to find Jesse, but there was nothing on Earth that could drag him away from the hospital. "Yeah, there is. I need you to find Jesse Travis."

"Jesse Travis?" Cheryl was understandably confused. "We're in the middle of a hospital and you want me to find you a doctor?"

"Just… Just find him…" Steve didn't appreciate the mild attempt at humour. "Find him and bring him back here. Please."

"Steve…"

"I have to go. I…" He was close to losing it again and he didn't want his colleagues to witness it. "If anyone needs me, I'll be with my father."

With that, he brushed past Cheryl and – ignoring Newman completely – hurried from the room.


The TV was switched on – and it as the muted sounds of unfamiliar voices that woke Jesse the next morning. He hadn't even been aware of falling asleep. After his horrific nightmare, he had been convinced that he would never sleep again. But sheer exhaustion had eventually won out.

He had dreamed again – of that there was no doubt, because he wasn't even allowed the briefest moment of respite; never suffered any unsettling disorientation when he found himself in some motel room and not at home in his apartment. He awoke feeling the exact same devastation that had haunted him throughout the previous day.

But alongside the devastation there was a new feeling beginning to nag at him. He had felt it a little the night before, when he'd switched on the TV to try and drown out the accusatory voices that couldn't be silenced completely. And he felt it again as he sat up on the bed and glanced at his watch, absently noting that it was close to seven am. That feeling was non-professionalism.

Mark had had his first nights sleep since the accident – and Jesse hoped that it had been a restful one. With the morning, the amputation site would have to be checked, the dressings changed and there should be a thorough examination for any sign of infection.

And it was Jesse's job to do those things. He had been the surgeon to perform the procedure; he should have been involved with the aftercare. There were too many things that could still go wrong and, suddenly plagued by self doubt, Jesse was forced to wonder if everything had gone as smoothly as he wanted to believe.

His memory of the operation was tainted by the images of his nightmare and the questions began to come more quickly than he could answer them. What if a haematoma had formed? If not detected and treated quickly then further surgery would be required. What about an infection? Though he had done everything in his power to prevent such a thing, it was always a very real danger. There was also the risk of necrosis – something else that would need careful monitoring.

And, while Kirk Fitzpatrick was a more than competent doctor, he didn't have Jesse's experience. Nor did he have such a vested interest in the patient. Kirk didn't hold Mark closer to his heart than even his own father.

Jesse rubbed one hand through sweat-soaked hair and allowed his eyes to drift to the telephone on the nightstand. He could call and ask. They wouldn't have to know that it was him. He could ask if he'd spent a comfortable night; if his condition was still stable; how he'd been on his return to consciousness.

Then he closed his eyes as he was forced to dismiss the idea. No receptionist worth their salt would blithely give him that information. They would want to know who he was – and if he was a relative. And they most definitely wouldn't respond to the enquiries of someone who refused to identify themselves.

But, no matter what right he had to ask those questions, there was no way that he could tell anyone who he was. He didn't think he could bear to hear any more condemnatory words – even if they were from the mouth of an anonymous receptionist.

So a phone call was out of the question – and he still had no way of knowing how his dear friend fared.

TBC