A/N: This chapter brought to you by insomnia, and entirely too much of the author's personal experience in the forms of the quack therapist Danny saw, and the email from his former sister-in-law.
He would never admit it—well, maybe, one of these days he might—but he's actually grateful to Gormley for sending him to Doc for anger management all those years ago.
Because he'd had an experience with a quack "psychologist," back between his first and second tours. He'd gone because his mother had begged him to. The shrink—there was legit no other word for him—was highly recommended by people at their church.
It was a waste of an hour of Danny's life, and the $75 or $100 or whatever-the-hell the man charged for the "initial consult." His solution to Danny's insomnia and flashbacks and guilt had been to tell him that he needed to pray more, read some highly-spiritual book written by some 14th- or 15th- or 17th- century "mystic," and control his anger.
He'd been too damn exhausted to throw something at the head-shrinker, just nodded, let the drivel go in one ear and out the other, and stormed out of there before the session was up.
He shakes his head, gets out of his car, and goes inside, makes himself a cup of half-coffee, half-cocoa—he needs a caffeine drip if he's gonna make it through the day—and sits down with a sigh of relief.
"What's going on, Danny? You seem relieved to be here."
He tells Doc about the shrink from years ago, and Doc chuckles for a second, then grows serious. "You know I'm not really a religious guy, Danny, but that is a very dangerous trend—it's called spiritualizing psychological problems. That'd be like me telling you, 'You're grieving Linda, so you need to pray more.'"
"You know I'd probably deck you if you told me that."
"I wouldn't blame you," Doc smiles. "Do you still talk to…what-was-his-name…Padre…?"
"Donovan?" he yawns. "Yeah, once a month or so. He's good." He yawns again. "Sorry about this; couldn't sleep last night. Well, I fell asleep okay, but then I was wide awake for no apparent reason between 2 and 4…or was it 2 and 5?...I don't even know, and it's getting f-g annoying."
"How often has this been happening?"
He makes himself sit up straight, stifles a yawn. "Once, twice a week maybe."
"What are you thinking about during that time?"
He shrugs. "Got this f-g email from Wendy."
Doc frowns. "Remind me…who Wendy is."
"Linda's ditzy older sister," he says, and hands his phone to Doc.
There was really no point to the email, just a subtle jab trying to get under his skin. Damn thing had worked, too. News about Sophie, and the part that really got him—"Of course I'm thinking about you today." Not a word about Linda.
"She sent you this today, on the anniversary?"
He nods, scrubs his face. He's exhausted.
"Does she know what today is?" Doc asks, voice rising. He doesn't get angry much, but he sounds like he's ready to yell.
"Damned if I know. She sure didn't mention Linda."
He yawns.
"Danny, why did you ask for an 8 a.m. appointment? You usually come in the evenings."
He shakes his head. "I'm off today, and I thought maybe seeing you first-thing, would put me in a good head-space to spend the day with my boys. We're gonna grab breakfast, visit her grave, hang out."
"You need to sleep, Danny."
He nods, suddenly very unsure if he can make it home without crashing the car…crashing the car…his car crash…his third (and last) suicide attempt…
He shudders.
"What were you thinking about just now?" Doc asks.
He doesn't want to answer him, but Doc's eyes are boring into him, and he can't fall asleep with that gaze. "I…if I try to drive home, I think I'll crash the car, and…I'm not suicidal, but…you know how I tried to kill myself."
Doc stands up, goes behind his desk, and comes out with a blanket. He tosses it to Danny, who catches it just before it falls on the ground. "Get some sleep. I'll see my next few patients in the other room."
He turns the white noise machine on, turns the light off, and leaves, locking the door.
Danny watches the clock for twenty minutes before he finally falls asleep.