The lights are on as he pulls smoothly up outside the house, the only ones on the street, and they cast a shallow glow across the front yard, shaking the darkness. It's the dead hour, creeping slowly towards a grey dawn but deep within the night still. Damp hangs in the air when he gets out and he shivers as he walks up the path. It might be years since he's been truly warm.
The door opens before he can lift a hand, and the cat scuttles sharply through the gap, stopping in alarm at the sight of him and blinking its bright yellow eyes once before vanishing into the gloom without a sound. When he looks back at the door, Mrs Johnston is pulling it closed behind her, well wrapped up against the wet air but still looking frail to him as he holds out his arm. When she takes it, her hand faint against him, he sees the fabric fraying on her sleeves, the worn material, and it clings to his heart.
No words are shared, no greetings breaking the night and their movements feel muffled as he helps her to the car and shuts the door gently behind her. Getting in and starting it up, he risks just one glance over before he pulls away but she doesn't look back, seemingly captivated by her empty house. He wonders what she sees, now.
It's a quick, easy drive, sliding through silent streets only broken occasionally by a person, or another vehicle. Signs of life grow as they get closer and in the shadows movements shift, a group of people huddled together, the pinpoint flare of cigarettes showing, and for a minute other drives grab him, to places he doesn't want to go, with her beside him. Gliding and untouched in the dark, safe in the confines of the car and lost in their own minds. When he looks at her again, staring straight ahead, he almost feels the urge to speak, but it dissipates quickly. He has nothing to say.
The lights are glaringly bright as they drive towards them, homing in like moths to the flame, and it fits perfectly. He will feel pain, but he can't stop, drawn by something uncontrollable and with her by his side. Now he can see her clearly when he looks, and the blue of the light makes her skin look grey and dead next to him, sending shivers up his spine. He's never been one for premonitions, but goosebumps flood his skin. He parks, cuts the engine, but neither move to escape. They can both stay safe in here, a bubble against the world. If she gives him one look, one single sign telling him to leave then he will drive away and hide from it all, but she won't. She is braver that he.
He watches her hand as she finally reaches for the door, and it captivates him. There is no tremor, no weakness shown despite the paper-thin skin that every vein shows through. He's amazed at her strength, and when he goes round to help her back out of the car, he is struck by the truth. It is always women who keep him whole, who hold him together.
This time, he doesn't offer an arm as they walk forward, and she doesn't ask for one, doesn't appear to need one. In fact, as they near the light that is brighter than daylight, she stretches taller with confidence, and falters only once as they walk in and that smell hits them both. Elliot holds out a hand in response, not touching but hovering next to her elbow, but she still doesn't need him.
Approaching the desk, she is firm in her questioning and he stands back and to one side, away from the conversation occurring. This is not his place, he has no role here, and if someone asked him about his presence he would have no answers. The fact is, he is here, and that is all.
In the elevator an exhausted student doctor joins them, bringing with her the scent of antiseptic and that faint, almost sweet touch of illness that seems to lurk despite all attempts to destroy it. Her eyes close as she leans against the side and Elliot feels the echo of her tiredness. He knows exactly what it is to have no end in sight, to keep moving despite all the needs of your body, and the way your eyelids slide down at any given moment.
She jerks awake when the elevator stops, it's their floor, and she gets out with them. walking off as though her legs are made of lead. Even Mrs Johnston has more energy, more lift to her step, as she walks towards a man at the desk without a single hesitation. When she gives her name, and Daniel's, explaining that she was called, the man flicks a look at Elliot curiously but asks nothing. Elliot gives nothing back. "I'll get a doctor to come and speak with you first," he says in monotone, and gestures to some chairs that they sit in, ready to wait.
Elliot lets his mind go blank as he sits, tracing patterns across the floor in swirling shapes that make no sense, sometimes reminding himself to breathe. The noises around him are too familiar and yet not familiar enough, he hasn't heard them for so long and so they immediately draw memories he doesn't want from deep within. Fighting them, he only succeeds in lessening the impact, so she is a see-through ghost walking towards him with a coffee as they wait, a distant presence next to him rather than fully formed. She is real, beautiful, nagging at his emotions and drawing desperation from him. Bidding her goodbye is a relief as a doctor's voice breaks through, and he looks up.
The doctor, a young man that seems not old enough for this, is standing in front of Mrs Johnston, introducing himself before sitting down in the chair next to her, and immediately Elliot's heart skips a random beat. He recognises the pose the man takes, and once the initial flash has gone, a calm foreknowledge takes over. There is something in his body, in the way his voice washes quiet and firm across them, and it's exactly the way bad news comes. That careful balance of compassion and professionalism, that once learnt is never forgotten, that he and Olivia could do in their sleep but never get used to. It is hard to make himself listen to the words, but he makes the effort.
"Mr Hartman was admitted yesterday afternoon, presenting with severe vomiting and abdominal pains. He was also confused and agitated. Following tests, we were able to diagnose him with acetaminophen poisoning, following an overdose." The doctor stops, waiting for a reaction, but Mrs Johnston is still except for a slight nod to her head. Elliot wonders if it is sinking in yet, but the doctor continues. "Unfortunately, the length of time before treatment has meant that your grandson has suffered significant damage to his liver, and is now in acute liver failure."
"Length of time?" Elliot asks, and the doctor seems relieved that one of them is reacting, that they are not able to simply absorb the information he is giving.
"Yes, of three or four days we believe. The tylenol seems to have been taken as long ago as that, but Mr Hartman won't tell us when, or how many he took." He turns back to Mrs Johnston, who remains silent and still as they speak around her. "We called you because, despite starting treatment, Mr Hartman's condition has deteriorated. His periods of lucidity are lessening, and the damage caused to his liver is putting a strain on his body and causing other organs to fail. His kidneys are giving out, his heart is weakening, and there are neurological indications of hepatic encephalopathy, which is swelling of the brain."
Elliot's head spins with the words, trying to decipher his way through the maze of medical information. He can't imagine what she is feeling, what her lack of reaction means, but after a minute her voice breaks through the cloud that has settled around them. "He tried to kill himself?" And the question is drenched in sorrow, no hysterical pain but a drowning wave of defeat.
The doctor doesn't answer immediately, but leans further forward and more towards her, as if closing the small distance will make her understand. "The prognosis is not good at all, I'm afraid," but if he expects some outpouring of grief, he is left wanting. He seems to size her up before continuing, "he's also been resisting treatment, and has been violent and increasing agitated. He's had to be restrained."
She nods at his words, hardly reacting either to the bad news, or to the fact her grandson is tied to a bed, and as she looks the doctor in the face for the first time, Elliot sees her back straighten and the back of her neck rise and stiffen in preparation for what will come next.
"I understand." As clear as a bell, a chime across a winter sky, she answers. Elliot spins, churning against the unfolding events, but has enough coherent thought remaining to marvel at the resolve that comes across her, at the transformation happening. She is an old lady no longer, all frailty gone for the minute. In her place is a woman with the strength of the world, with a heart that beats and feels despite the pain, who has said goodbye to those she loves and knows the end to this story. The doctor stands.
"He's been asking for you. And for Mr Stabler," he adds, glancing Elliot's way for the first time, "but he may not be coherent for long, or very often." Elliot thinks he may not be coherent either, that the words don't make sense, because he cannot be hearing the doctor right. Hartman cannot have asked for him.
"I understand Doctor. Thank you." She says, the man stands and walks away after telling them he will fetch a nurse, and Elliot sits with shock draining through him still. He has come because she called, because she asked for his help, not because Hartman asked. The possibility hadn't even crossed his mind that his presence was wanted by that man, that he might be here for him and not her. He tightens with anger, almost stands and walks away, out of the hospital and out of this fucking mess forever, but then he looks at her sitting proud and silent, and he cannot leave her to do this on her own, despite her lie to him. He just can't.
She says nothing about getting him here under false pretences, and they wait in the humming quiet, as a clock nearby ticks away time of a life. Both lose themselves in thoughts, and an ache of guilt begins to weigh on Elliot's chest as his words replay in his head. The things he had spat at Hartman, the venom in each statement. He had known his actions would destroy the chance for answers even as he had done it, but he hadn't expected the end to come like this. For hope to truly die.
When the nurse strides towards them, slowing as she approaches and finally stops to say she will take one of them to him, Elliot expects Mrs Johnston to stand, but she doesn't. Instead, she looks at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time. "Perhaps you should go first," she says slowly. "I could use a little more time."
His body reacts before his mind does, taking over automatically to follow the woman in scrubs, and his thoughts can't catch up to the idea that he should be ready for this, that he is going to confront him again, but before anything can settle and fix in his head, there is a door being held open for him and he nods without thinking to the cop that is standing just inside, who then steps out, leaving them alone. In the brief second as the door brushes closed, he would give anything to be able to walk away and not look back, but he can't now.
The room is faded, colours lost in the lack of light, and there is a halo around Hartman who is propped up in bed, tubes leading to his arms that are covered in scrapes and scratches and dressings covering some areas. There is dark, dried blood still beneath his fingers, and red-raw sores on his wrists. Bathed as such, he doesn't look angelic, innocent in the circle, but instead it brings out the shadows of his face, the new creases of skin, the pain and resignation and defeat. Dying does nothing for him, Elliot thinks, but can't speak.
"It's you," Hartman says, a trace of wonder threaded in his voice, and Elliot is tempted to bite harshly back, but doesn't. He cannot bring himself to goad a dying man, but he can't figure out what he is supposed to do instead, in this strange scene that could never be scripted, never believed in any story told. "Is she here?" Hartman continues, and Elliot finds himself drawn forward a couple of paces before nodding.
"Yes, she came."
He leans back against white pillows, closing his eyes, and a cacophony of emotions quickly flit across the man's face before he opens them. Some Elliot recognises, and some he doesn't, and he has plenty of time to work them out as Hartman's eyes open but drift away into blankness. Elliot shuffles his feet, uncomfortable in the emptiness, but he soon returns to the room with a blink, his eyes settling on him again.
They stare at each other now, accompanied by the steady beat of a heart, and in that look there is a hunt for something, anything, in each other's eyes. Each want something from the other, and neither will get it.
"You think I'm a coward," Hartman finally says, and Elliot pauses at the words, wondering if that is truly what he feels. Is he supposed to argue, or simply agree? To indulge the man or fighting him, but no illumination comes.
"I think you're weak. And that the world will be a better place without you," and it's a truth that leaves no bitterness against his tongue, spoken as a simple fact that isn't met with either pain or anger from Hartman, who simply nods.
"I agree." His simple acceptance, his feeble agreement is almost enough, and if Elliot was to get angry, now would be the time. For some reason, the feebleness of the man infuriates him, his eager approach to death playing against those people he has seen, who have fought so hard to the end. But something in him tells him it will be a waste of time, a waste of emotion, and he has no stomach for touching death-bed scenes with this man. Hartman grants him a reprieve and drifts off, mumbling words and thrashing his head in agitation, fighting harsh against his restraints. "Make it stop...just make it end...please make it over..." Elliot hears, but any semblance of words vanish soon, lost in the ramblings of a failing mind. Finally, after endless minutes, he turns to go, but as he reaches the door he is stopped in his tracks.
"It... it may not matter any more..." Hartman says quietly, and Elliot stays still, waiting without turning around and letting the voice collide with his back and wash over him. "It was true though. I never meant to hurt anyone. Please...it's true." His words are slurred, sounding drunk and sleepy, and it's the same as Elliot has heard so many times before, remorse with no meaning to it. A faint urge to put his hand through the wall comes, at the pointlessness of it all, but he has no energy for it now. Hartman hasn't given him what he wants, what he is after, and he knew he wouldn't. He hadn't even bothered to ask. A whisper follows him, "I'm sorry," it might be, but he closes the door behind him, cutting the tail from the breeze of the words. Hartman has won, and defeat stings, creeping through the numbness.
His feet sound loud as he walks back to the chairs, and he feels like he's walking to his execution. She raises her head at his approach, and stands just as he goes to slump in the chair next to her. He realises, as she looks down at him, that she barely has to lower her gaze to reach his eyes, so different are their heights. Still, he feels weak next to her, her relentless strength, the compassion that she offers him in a simple look. He should be offering her the support, she who is about to lose her only relative, but he has nothing, and she must see it as she turns away.
Once she has gone, he can't settle to anything, any thought that comes his way. He wants to pace the sparkling corridors, dispel the nervous energy that has gathered within him, but it doesn't seem right to be so impatient for an end. Pacing is too reminiscent of men in old movies, frantically waiting while their wives give birth, associated with life and not death. With birth, there will only be a finite amount of time, hours or maybe a day, but dying offers no such timeline. Days, weeks, a whole lifetime will pass, though he doesn't think it will take so long with Hartman. He wants to die.
Trying to flick through magazines is pointless, his eyes settle on words but he might as well have never learnt to read, unintelligible, foreign symbols blurring across the pages. He drinks one cup of weak, lifeless coffee but it's not the liquid that makes him fidget. He was never any good at waiting. If he tries to close his eyes the memories swamp him, and he drowns, until he can breathe no longer and digs his nails into his skin to find some sense of stability in the churning day. In the end, he lists under his breath every regulation and law he knows, every statistic that has ever touched his brain. It is enough, but only barely, and he doesn't have the energy to care about the looks he gets as he speaks under his breath.
Running footsteps jerk him from the spell he has woven around himself, and adrenaline begins to rush, though he is impotent in this place and time. Doors slam, break the tenuous silence as nurses and a couple of doctors dash past him and into the room down the hall, where Hartman and his grandmother have seen hours together. It is a long, long time before there is any further movement, but the door opens slowly now, filtering out medical staff who strip gloves from their hands and don't look back as they leave.
Finally, with excruciating steps, Mrs Johnston comes out, leaning against the door-frame with a shaking hand before taking a deep breath and straightening as she sees him, sitting and waiting. Each footstep is firm, tortuous in its deliberate placement, but when she gets close enough she stops, and says "It's over," like she's charting the simple end to a movie, a book, instead of a life. He looks into her eyes, into a face that carries lines of a million days and there is a tired sorrow within, but no tears, though there might be the hint of them beginning to form.
"I'm sorry," he says, and she shakes her head.
"I'm not." He doesn't know whether to believe her, to trust in the steely, cold resolve that she tries so hard to keep, but he keeps her pretence for them both and won't dispute it. He nods, like he understands, and she holds a hand out to him.
"That you for all your help, Detective Stabler." Her voice is formal, and it strikes him that this is a goodbye he doesn't want to have now, though he will be given no reason to visit her again, or continue to drag her into her past and sorrow. He stands, takes her hand, and shakes the grip that is still firm beneath his palm. He doesn't know what else to say, how to express everything that swirls within him at the loss of Hartman, the loss of truth. The loss of everything.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, but she lets go and walks away without another word.
His knees give out from under him now and he falls heavily back into the chair as he wonders what he is supposed to do now. Holding his head in his hands, there feels too much inside it, and it is exhausting. Home calls, resounds in echoes through him, calling of a life that needs to start again but he doesn't know how to walk towards it. Instead, he watches her, as she takes her steps onwards.
She reaches the doors at the end of the corridor and pushes one open, and he waits for it to brush closed behind him, but she has paused, and her head drops towards the ground. A nurse walks through the doors towards him, then another, then three more people who look at her with faint curiosity and concern that doesn't spread towards enquiring about her. Slowly, she turns, controlled by a force beyond her, and there is hesitancy to her steps for the first time he has seen.
When their eyes connect, he stands and begins to walk towards her, without knowing how or why. His strides are long, and he meets her quickly and stands, trying to read her. Only now does he see a trace of tears hovering delicately on her eyelashes, but they aren't enough to fall, and disappear when she blinks, and shakes her head. Once, twice, three times she goes to walk away again but comes back to him, and now there is something different in her eyes, pain and tears no longer. Resignation, perhaps, the knowing of how things have to be.
She takes a crumpled, open envelope from the depths of her coat and both look down at the handwriting scrawled across it, and who it is addressed to. "Gran," it reads, the spidery writing reminding him of her veins, patterned beneath her skin.
"I thought...maybe it would be better...or...but I can't...," she is unsure for the first time, her hand shaking, and for a brief moment he thinks she might collapse. Certainly she seems to make no sense, but then she pushes the envelope towards him, "...but better for who?" He can't decipher her meaning, but as she lets go of the paper and he grips automatically, she repeats his own words back to him and turns away for good. "I'm sorry."
He waits until the doors have whispered closed behind him, and goes back to his seat, easing the paper from the envelope slowly. There are two sheets, covered in scrawls that require more concentration than he thinks he has, but he forces his eyes to focus with all he has left. As he sits reading, the hospital, the smells and the sounds, all vanish from around him and sickness grows until it overwhelms him and he has to sink forward to avoid vomiting across the perfect, stainless floor, his head in his hands.
Choices, time-lines, lives flash through his head, never ending in their fury. One minute he wants to smash all the glass around him, watch as his hands break through and come out covered in blood. He wants to find Hartman's body, to annihilate it, to see it burn in flames of rage. He wants to tear the paper into a million pieces, to forget it all and go home to his family. Live his life. He wants, briefly, to kill the old woman for giving him this, and then he wants to kill her for nearly not doing so.
He can't tell how many hours pass before a decision forms, and he can trust his legs and his voice to do as they must. Numbness follows him to the elevator, and when he enters there is an elderly couple there, smiles bright and fresh across their faces, as if they have been granted something special here today. They look at him, smiles open and ready to share joy, but there must be something of his pain across his face that makes them drop their gazes in helplessness at the pain and grief staining him.
When he steps outside, there is the dim light of late afternoon, and he cannot comprehend that a day has passed already, that this day is nearly over. The sky is clear, a faint blue hinted at, and it twists above him as he stares. Taking his cell phone out, he dials.
