He buries his head under the pillow as the shrill noise of the alarm causes his head to feel as if it might explode.
"Make it stop!" he huskily yells as he gets the first bitter aftertaste of the previous nights debauchery.
He can vaguely hear Meredith grumbling next to him as he feels the bed shift under her light weight as she shuts off the alarm.
Then, time blurs. He is in an out of consciousness as he hears the shower running and her clothes being thrown around as she gets dressed, only sure of the order from common sense. He can hear the voices from downstairs float up through their open bedroom door just before he becomes aware of the delicious aroma of coffee wafting towards his nostrils. He dares to open one eyelid and sees a cup of coffee sitting on the table next to the bed. He sighs as he forces his other eye open, testing out the stability of the room before slowly rolling over.
As he once again opens his eyes, which he didn't even realize had fallen closed again, he notices two tiny white pills sitting on top of a note next to his coffee. He can't help but smile at the hangover treatment Meredith has provided, forgetting momentarily the reason he so desperately needed the anesthetic.
He picks up the coffee and takes a sip. The luke warm temperature lets him know that his reaction to the aroma of the coffee was delayed, like his other reactions this morning. He sighs as he reaches for the two pills and quickly swallows them, the pounding in his head demanding the drugs. He then allows another small smile to play at his lips as he picks up the note from Meredith.
Der,
Had to go to work. Called and told them you were ill and wouldn't be in until noon.
-Mer
She has never left him a note before and he can't help but smile at her thoughtfulness. However, the smile soon fades as a certain absence screams out at him. She didn't say I love you. She didn't say it and now his heart seems to be swimming in the remnants of the scotch that he didn't throw up last night.
He haphazardly places the half-empty cup on the table before falling back on the pillows. A swooshing sound now resounds in his head along with the pounding from the hangover. A swooshing that sounds eerily similar to a quiet voice whispering. Whispers that he can't understand, but he instinctively knows are the same words he has been hearing nonstop. He wasn't enough. He couldn't save her. She doesn't love him. She doesn't trust him. He isn't enough.
A shrill noise pierces the ear. His cell phone. His cell phone is ringing and it is playing her tone. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He can't ignore her call. He shouldn't ignore her call. But he does. He ignores her call. He lets the shrill noise continue to pierce the otherwise silent room and add to the sounds already reverberating in his brain. He ignores her call because he doesn't want the whispers to become louder. He doesn't want the whispers to become louder because he knows that it is her voice whispering to him. It is her voice whispering her thoughts and he can't handle the abstract whispers to turn into concrete words.
He finds himself breathing a sigh of relief as his phone silences. He had been holding his breath. He hadn't been able to breathe. He hadn't been able to breathe and now finds himself panting to recapture the control of his breathing, a feeling that is similar to how he felt after performing CPR on her dead, cold, blue body for the better half of an hour. A feat which in and of itself is inhuman. Most people tire after two minutes, but he had refused to be relieved. He had to save her. He had to help her.
And he had failed.
He had failed.
She had died and he had failed.
His exhausted body cannot muster the strength to withhold the tears that now begin to fall from the overflowing pools that have collected in his eyes. The pressure on his nose does nothing for him. He hurts. The throbbing and pounding and swooshing are no longer contained within the confines of his skull as the pain travels throughout his entire body. He even believes that the hairs on his arms and legs hurt. He hurts. He hurts like hell. He finds that his pain medicine has completely abandoned him and he desperately needs more.
Propelled by this intense agony, he stumbled out of bed. He doesn't really see where he is going as he dresses hurriedly. He isn't sure of the time, but he has a destination. He has a destination and he needed to be there five minutes ago.
His phone rings again. The staccato high pitched notes indicating the hospital, more specifically, the Chief. But he still ignores it. He doesn't need reason. He doesn't need to be antagonized. He needs to be numb again. He needs scotch. He isn't thinking about his career or his life. He is only thinking about his pain and that growing voice that he needs to silence.
He drives without driving, parking across the street from the hospital where several people are very worried about him. He doesn't notice that a certain blue jeep is no longer there as she has gone home to check on him, worry getting the best of her. All that he notices is the dull green sign that normally glows in the night over a door that leads to the prescription for his pain.
He doesn't think about the hour. He doesn't even know the hour. He walks through the door, receiving a shocked look from Joe, but not noticing anything but the amber liquid behind the bar.
"Hey Doc, you're here early," Joe says slowly as Derek plops clumsily down onto a bar stool.
"The usual," he mumbles as his head falls forward in his hands.
"Isn't it a bit early for scotch?" Joe asks with raised eyebrow, worry beginning to make its way into his eyes. "Besides, shouldn't you be at work?"
Derek doesn't seem to hear his questions as he holds out his hand for his drink. Joe continues to watch him carefully as he fixes the drink, which Derek down in one long gulp.
"Another," he mutters before the amber liquid has made its way down to his stomach, his esophagus still burning slightly from it.
Joe doesn't speak as he pours Derek another drink, which is downed just as quickly as the first. Instead of verbalizing his desire for more, Derek simply pushes his glass towards him. Joe fills the glass one more time before setting the bottle down next to Derek and walking over to the phone. Derek abandons his glass and begins to drink straight from the bottle, the pain starting to lessen as the bottle empties. He doesn't see that Joe is on the phone and he doesn't hear the worried words he tells the person on the other end. All that he knows is that the hair on his arms and legs no longer hurts and the whispering voice has been replaced by Pink Floyd performing "Comfortably Numb" as the familiar tingling sensation begins to take hold of him as his vision blurs.
By the time the bell over the door rings once again, the bottle is empty and Derek's forehead is resting plush against the cool bar. He can hear the blood flow through his ears, but he can't hear the whispering. He can feel the tingling, but he can't feel the pain.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" a voice yells at him.
He doesn't jump at the intrusion, but unsteadily lifts his head to stare into the angry eyes of his best friend. "Sit down. Have a drink," he says with a lop sided smile.
"It's one in the afternoon, Derek. You are supposed to be at work. Grey is freaking out because she went to check on you and you are gone. The Chief is fuming because you are supposed to be performing a craniotomy right now. Are you trying to ruin your career and push everyone you know away from you?" Mark hisses at him as he sits down on the barstool next to him.
Derek narrows his eyes at him. "What do you know about anything!" he hisses as he lifts the empty bottle to his lips, hoping that more scotch will miraculously appear in the bottle.
Mark reaches over and wrenches the bottle out of his hand. "This isn't you, Shep!"
Derek glares at Mark as he reaches out and tries to push him, only disrupting his equilibrium and almost falling off of the bar stool. "Fuck you! Leave me the hell alone!" he slurs.
"What happened to you, man?" Mark asks worriedly as he helps Derek back onto the barstool.
"I caught my best friend fucking my wife. I wasn't enough for her and I wasn't enough for Meredith," he mutters as he reaches behind the bar and grabs a beer from the cooler.
"What do you mean you weren't enough for Meredith?" Mark asks as he takes the beer away from Derek.
"She gave up. In the water. I wasn't enough," he says as he reclaims his beer.
Mark's eyes soften as he looks at his best friend falling to pieces in front of him. He watches as Derek gulps the beer, turning only when he hears the sound of the bell above the door ringing again. His eyes widen as he notices Meredith followed by the Chief walking into the bar.
"Derek!" Meredith says in a relieved voice that is tinged with worry and anger.
"Shepherd! What the hell are you doing?!" the Chief shouts at the same time.
Derek glances at the two before allowing his head to fall back down onto the bar. He would deal with them later, for now, he was going to enjoy being comfortably numb. Later he would deal with the ramifications of swimming in scotch, but now, now he is just going to enjoy the dip.