Part 17

"Right, you can put your shirt back on now Detective Starsky." Doctor Maybrouk smiled as he looked up from the small, padded examination table where Starsky had lay whilst he'd been poked and prodded, asked to lie this way and that, and generally been subjected to at least half an hour of intensive examination. "Your scars are healing nicely." He explained, as he made his way back over to the opposite side of the small room to resume his seat behind his desk where he proceeded to make a note of something down on Starsky's medical records, before glancing back up at his patient. Starsky glanced down at the scar tissue faintly outlining the deep chest wounds which had almost cost him his life. The open wounds had already started to heal, although the pink tissue surrounding them still throbbed painfully.

"You've surprised us all Detective." Doctor Maybrouk smiled. "Your lungs sound strong and clear, so we're probably alright to lower the dosage of some of your medications. It probably only means a couple less pills a day, but it's good news. You probably don't feel like it now but given time I don't see any reason why you shouldn't make a full recovery."

Starsky sighed, doing up the last few remaining buttons on his shirt before taking his jacket from where he'd thrown it over the back of the chair facing the middle aged doctor's desk, and taking a seat wearily.

"I'm just so fed up with feeling tired all the time." He explained with evident frustration – now that Hutch was out of earshot he felt as though he could finally open up about his true feelings of frustration regarding his condition without the fear of alarming his best friend. They all feared anything which might send Hutch reeling towards another downward spiral, the likes of which might prompt him to start neglecting himself again, and would almost certainly result to a weakness much worse than that of before. "It hurts to dress myself, I can barely feed myself some days, and just doing the simplest of day to day activities wears me down… I'm not used to feeling this useless…"

"Detective," Doctor Maybrouk sighed, "your body has been subjected to a terrible ordeal. It's been left weak and broken by the damage you've sustained, and it'll take time for you to regain your previous condition, but you can't go exerting yourself too soon. Pushing yourself before you're ready could be detrimental to your recovery."

Starsky sighed, closing his eyes in silent desperation and clasping his hands together in intense thought. He realised that he was simply feeling sorry for himself, but the image of Hutch, his best friend, which still remained imprinted on his mind, every time he closed his eyes; pale, exhausted and drawn by the numerous weeks he'd knowingly deprived himself of food and sleep, made him feel so helpless. He was suffering physically, but Hutch was bearing emotional scars which Starsky couldn't help but feel would take much longer to heal. He could do little to help him, except be there to offer a comforting shoulder to lean on and a few words of moral support in his current condition, and Hutch was going to need somebody there to help him through the difficult weeks ahead.

"How is your partner doing now anyway?" The ageing doctor enquired. "Hutchinson isn't it?"

"Hutch." Starsky corrected affectionately as he used his friend and partner's nickname. He faltered momentarily in order to compose an answer to this question, unsure of what to say. A hard lump began to form in the back of his throat with the thought of his partner, and he finally decided that for Hutch's sake the truth really may be the best response in this case.

"Not too good." He sighed.

Doctor Maybrouk frowned, stiffly rising from his desk and making his way over to the filing cabinet to pull out Hutch's medical records. "Is he still having nightmares?" He asked.

Starsky nodded. "Frequently…" He responded, "and he's exhausted…" He sighed as he recalled his partner's pale complexion, his dark and sunken eyes, facial features contorted in pain and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as he'd vomited into the toilet bowl earlier that morning. "He barely sleeps for more than a few hours a night, and never for more than a couple of hours at a time… I don't think he knows it but I hear him tossing and turning all night, and he still cries out in his sleep."

As he spoke the older doctor listened, and nodded in understanding, clasping his hands together in thought and bringing them up to rest against his chin. "Well, that is understandable, and to some extent is to be expected." He explained. "Your partner, Hutch, is probably suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress syndrome, and the fact that he witnessed your shooting probably doesn't help matters much either, but it may be that we can increase the dosage of his sedatives in order to help him sleep a little better. Our main concern at the moment however is that he's eating properly, otherwise he's only going to get weaker as the weeks go on and leave himself vulnerable to infection, which is the last thing he needs to have to contend with at the moment. In his current condition I'm not confident of the fact that his body would be strong enough to fight it off. He is eating isn't he? Little and often?"

"He's trying," Starsky responded heavily, heart feeling like lead inside his chest, but this sensation was born out of nothing more than a deep concern for the wellbeing of the man he regarded as dearer to his heart than his own brother.

He remembered Hutch in the hospital, pale and thin, closed and defensive, and although he recognised that certain significant improvements had been made to his partner's condition, in particular to his state of mind, since he'd returned home from this hospital, he realised that they both still had a very long way to go.

"But he can't seem to keep very much down." He concluded finally.

The doctor sighed. "It may be a good idea if you get him to come in and see me." He recommended. "It's important that he at least manages to keep some food down, otherwise he's not going to be able to go on much longer in the way he has been, but an antiemetic may settle his stomach long enough in order to get a decent meal into him."

Starsky nodded. "I'll do my best," He agreed, "but Hutch can be stubborn as old nails at times, especially if he gets an idea into his head."

"I'll add him to my list of priority patients." The doctor added. "If he calls up the department at any time I'll make sure that he bypasses the waiting list. In the meantime make sure that his food is bland but nourishing, something like sweetened porridge oats, steamed chicken, boiled fish, rice and creamed potatoes are all relatively easy on the digestive system, but should contain enough nutrients to keep him going for now."

Starsky nodded.

"I must point out though," Doctor Maybrouk explained, "that a diet lacking in the full range of vitamins and minerals required to stay healthy is not a long term fix. If you can convince him to come and see me the sooner the better I'm afraid, before he has the chance to do himself some serious long term damage."

"I'll try." Starsky assured him. "I don't know how, but for Hutch's sake Lord knows I'll try." The last few words of this however were spoken to himself, under his breath.

Starsky only hoped that he could get Hutch to see sense as he left the doctor's office that afternoon, and to do the right thing for himself for once, before it was too late. It was already becoming pretty obvious to everybody close to him that Hutch was heading for a complete mental and physical breakdown, and that he couldn't carry on the way he had been for very much longer.