They had told him he couldn't—shouldn't—see her body, that it was unrecognizable, that they'd only made a positive identification based on the flight manifesto and the wedding ring.
He'd insisted. He'd been on the job long enough to know: no body, no crime. No body, no death.
When he left the morgue, he puked.
He had planned to go back to his dad's—there were the boys to comfort, and the funeral to plan, and five million details to take care of—but instead he drove to the tall building that housed Alex Dawson's office on the second floor.
He pounded on the door.
Doc opened it. "I'm in the middle…Detective Reagan…Danny!…what's wrong?"
"She's dead, Doc. Linda's dead."
He swayed—he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, or slept, or drank water.
Doc pulled a chair over, pushed him into it, pressed a bottle of water into his hand.
He heard voices; the other patient left; and then the door closed and it was just him and Doc and he was f-g going to die.
He was chugging the water like he'd been wandering in the desert for 40 days.
A warm, familiar hand on his back. The bottle plucked out of his hand. "Whoah, slow down, Danny. Slow your breathing down. You're going to choke."
He spluttered and coughed and Doc's trashcan was in front of him and he threw up all the water.
The calm voice that had talked him through panic attacks for 5 f-g years was saying the same words, but they were just words and words didn't matter, nothing mattered, because Linda was dead and why the F wasn't he?
"I can't…"
More words.
He was breathing again.
Doc's hand on his back. "Can you tell me what happened, Danny?"
"Yesterday…last night…my schedule had changed and so Linda worked a shift. And there was a patient who had to be airlifted, and Linda was on the chopper, and it went down, and…I just came from identifying her body. What…what's left of it."
He choked.
"I am so sorry, Danny."
He nodded dully.
He had spent the night, sleepless, in his dad's living room.
He hadn't wanted to tell the boys that night, but he couldn't keep this from them.
They'd held on to him in a way they hadn't in years, and Jack had cried himself to sleep on the couch, and Sean had stumbled onto the porch. Someone—Jamie? Erin?—had gotten both boys to go upstairs eventually.
Because he was too f-g useless to be there for his sons.
"You're not useless, Danny, you were in shock. You'll be there for them when they need you."
"I should be there with them, not…not sitting here talking about my f-g feelings."
"You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of them. You know what they say on airplanes? Put your own oxygen mask on before you put on your child's?"
He nodded, closed his eyes. "I can't cry, Doc. What the hell is wrong with me?"
"You're in shock, Danny. It's normal."
Shock.
He knew about shock. He had seen it in victims' family members. Hell, he'd probably felt it before.
His phone rang, and he jumped.
It was his dad.
"Sorry, Doc. Hey, Dad."
"Danny, where are you? We'd thought you'd be back by now."
He cursed. Couldn't worry the family. "Sorry, Dad. I…I'm…I stopped by Doc's office after going to, to…the…the…morgue. Kicked his other patient out. Should've called you. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, we just wanted to know you were safe. Call me when you leave, okay?"
"Sure." He knew his dad was worried that he was in shock, that he'd do something stupid.
He hung up. "I can't…what the hell am I supposed to do now, Doc?"
"Go home, be with your boys, your family. Plan the funeral."
"Doc, how the hell can I plan her funeral when I can't even…?"
"One minute at a time, Danny, one minute at a time."
He shook his head. "Doc, I can't!"
"Okay, okay, we won't worry about that right now. Tell me about this morning. Why did you go alone to the morgue?"
"I…I don't…"
Because he didn't want anyone to see if he reacted badly—if he fainted or puked or punched something. He hadn't fainted, which he supposed was a good thing. He'd puked—even though he hadn't eaten anything since Sunday dinner.
Family dinner. She had…it had been the first one she'd missed in years. She'd picked up the shift because he'd had a schedule change—so it was his fault.
He couldn't tell Doc that. Doc would argue with him, and he couldn't hear that right now.
"I didn't want anyone to see if I…did anything stupid."
"Did you?"
"I puked. Even though I hadn't eaten anything since family dinner yesterday."
"That's a normal reaction to trauma, Danny; there's nothing stupid about it."
Yeah, right.
"Doc!" he said desperately.
The warm hand on his back again, rubbing soothing circles until he could breathe and he wasn't choking and maybe he could actually drive home…no, not home, because their home had been gone now for almost a month…maybe he could drive back to his dad's without dying.
He stood up. "I…I should get back to the boys."
Doc stood up, nodded. "Text me when you're back at your dad's, would you?"
He nodded and left.