He doesn't even bother to knock, just slams the door open.
Doc jumps up from the couch where he'd apparently been taking a nap. "What?" he mumbles sleepily, then straightens. "Danny…Danny, what's wrong?"
"What's wrong? You seeing my dad in a professional capacity—that's what's wrong. O, he tried to say it was just a one-time deal, even said you were handing him off to a colleague, but I'm sure he fished for details—wanting to know how his widowed son is doing."
"Danny…"
"I'm done, okay? I've spent enough time listening to you go on and on about how my buddies' deaths weren't my fault, how Corporal Russell's suicide wasn't my fault, how Linda's murder wasn't my fault…I'm done! You and your Freudian techniques can kiss my $$!"
He slaps the check for his last session down on the desk, turns to leave, but before he can reach the door, Doc is standing in front of it, blocking him from leaving. "Danny…Detective Reagan…please take a seat, let's talk about this."
"I'm done talking. I've wasted too many hours of my life in this office for the past seven years; I'm done."
"I cannot let you leave like this, Danny. Please sit down."
"I'm sorry," Danny mutters, and shoves Doc out of the way. Doc struggles, trying to keep him from leaving, and then Danny overpowers the smaller man and flees.
He's halfway home before he realizes his weapon isn't on his belt. He'd definitely had it when he'd gotten to Doc's office. Only time he'd been close enough…Doc must have taken it when he was trying to keep him from storming out.
How the hell had he not noticed that?
He curses, pulls over, puts his flashers on.
He gets out of the car, sits down on the edge of the bridge.
It's been almost four years since Linda died, and the grief has been bowling him over at unexpected times. Which is weird, because a year ago…he'd been able to bury himself in work; hadn't had any unexpected crying jags or anything. This year…the anniversary is two months away, and he is struggling.
He hadn't thought about…not since…but right now…maybe it would be easier. Forget about Doc, the stuff with his partner, trying to figure out the rest of his life…just end it all. Re-join Linda in whatever version of eternity awaits him.
He knows what he's been taught; Heaven and Hell and Purgatory. He's not overly depressed or anything right now, so if he does this, he'll definitely be going to hell. No chance of a blissful heavenly reunion with Linda—because for sure, she's in heaven.
He scoots back a little further from the edge, wonders how long until some freaking Good Samaritan sees the flashing lights on his car and pulls over. He can't even make a gesture without leaving himself an escape route to safety.
Family dinners each week are great and all. His family has been there for him; Baez has been there; but the person he's called at 2 a.m., the person who's talked him down from a few metaphorical and literal cliffs/bridges/whatever, has been Doc.
Now, he's probably ruined their patient/doctor relationship…which had somehow become a widower/ widower friendship.
He shudders, then a quiet voice says, "I think you left your weapon behind, Danny."
"You're following me now?" he scoffs quietly.
"I was concerned for your safety."
"Concerned?" he scoffs. "Shouldn't you be worrying about…Lieutenant Gormley, or the Commissioner? They must need you more."
"Considering I haven't seen hide nor hair of Lieutenant Gormley, so he isn't technically my patient yet, I will leave worrying about Lieutenant Gormley to your father. As for your father, I told him I could only see him professionally under very strict boundaries. As I said before, I would not—I could not—discuss your sessions with him, or his with you."
"Yeah right," he scoffs. "I'm sure you're just dying to listen to the Commissioner vent about his hot-headed detective son who crosses the line."
"No, Danny, I'm not. If you're still of this mind in a few days, I will refuse to see your father professionally, boundaries be damned. And for the record, I am not dropping you as a patient."
"Even after…this?" he gestures at himself, Doc, his car, the bridge.
"Even after this. You know I have to ask, though: Were you planning to jump?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. Pulled over when I realized I didn't have my weapon. Was gonna sit here and clear my head."
"And if I hadn't stopped by?"
He shrugs, shivers a little. It's cold here on the bridge. "Nothing's acutely wrong right now, just…how f-g stupid is it that I couldn't face you kicking me out as a patient?"
"It's not stupid. But it is cold here. Let's go back to my office, get some cocoa, talk a bit more."
He lets Doc pull him to his feet, texts Sean to say he'll be home late, and drives to Doc's office—very aware that Doc is almost riding his bumper.