Close To Home: Part 2/2

Mark arrived in the parking lot of Earle's station and paused at the sight of a vehicle burning off to one side of the lot near a storage building. The explained the explosion he'd heard after activating the siren in Steve's car. It occurred to him to wonder, and hope, that someone had called 911.

Beyond the flickering of flames, nearer the storage building, he could make out two figures who appeared to be engaged in heated debate. Neither of them looked like his son. He quickly scanned the rest of the area and saw no one. Where was Steve?

Moving quickly in the direction of the two arguing forms, Mark put a hand up to his eyes. The heat form the fire made it difficult to see clearly. One of the men, that he could finally identify as Earle, pointed to the ground at the something between himself and the other man. Mark's eyes followed the motion and he squinted. Suddenly he could see, and he knew.

"Oh, no. Steve," he breathed. His jog became a run as he identified the crumpled form between Earle and the blonde-haired teenager.

"Dr. Sloan," Earle's voice was heavily tinged with relief. "I didn't think we should move him," he said, revealing the cause of the previous debate. The teenager stood uncertainly by, seemingly having nothing more to say.

Earle continued, "I think we're far enough away from the car. It's probably done all it's going to do anyway. The fire looks like it's dying down."

"You've called 911?" Mark asked looking up from a stooped position near where Steve lay, slumped against the storage building, his long legs stretched out against the concrete. Sandy hair hung haphazardly over his brow while his head drooped in the direction of an obviously dislocated shoulder. His left, Mark noted. His heart ached at the pain and damage that he knew could be caused by such an injury. He half-hoped that his son would remain unconscious long enough to have the reduction procedure, which would bring the shoulder back into alignment, done.

"What happened?" Mark asked, after registering Earle's positive response to his earlier question. He placed two fingers against the pulse points at Steve's left wrist, checking for circulation. The teenager's replay of the events was lost as Steve began to stir at his touch, making a weak attempt to move his head. Immediately his face creased in pain.

"Steve? Son, can you hear me?" Mark called to his offspring, hoping for some type of response that would help him further gauge his son's condition. As there was no obvious external bleeding, what remained were injuries that were more difficult to diagnose in the field.

Steve groaned deep in his throat, and struggled to open his eyes. "Dad?" The word came out more as a breathy sigh.

"Yes, son?" Mark leaned forward, hoping to get a closer look into his son's eyes. A concussion was a sure bet, but he really needed to see his pupils. But Steve squinted then squeezed his eyes shut.

"Dad. . . I. . . eggs. I . . . "

"Relax, son," Mark tried to reassure him. "It's alright. Try not to move. You have a complete anterior dislocation of your left shoulder. Can you tell me if you hurt any where else?"

Steve gasped suddenly, and Mark could see the intense spasm as the muscles in his shoulder moved beneath the thin material of his t-shirt. Steve paled, and beads of perspiration broke out on his brow. He breathing became erratic as he made small frantic motions. "Sick. . . gonna be . . . "

Mark supported him as he tilted to the side, in agony, as his body revolted against the insult that had been inflicted upon it. Waves of his own sympathetic response washed over him, and he forced his mind onto the task of being the doctor, concentrating on the medical aspect of the situation.

The new sounds of approaching sirens brought a sigh of blessed relief. The paramedics arrived, along with two patrol cars. He was sure that the fire department wouldn't be far behind. He was familiar with both the EMTs staffing the ambulance, and quickly updated them on what he knew. The possibility of a field reduction was briefly discussed and discarded. Steve's arm and neck were quickly stabilized for transport and they were on their way.

==

When Mark hurried into the ER alongside the gurney that carried his son, Dr. Jesse Travis was waiting for them at the doors. Having been notified of their pending arrival while the ambulance had been enroute, he wasn't surprised to see his friend and business partner stretched out on the moving bed. Nor was he surprised when Mark delivered the updated information on Steve's vitals and condition.

"Trauma One is set up and ready," Jesse responded, moving to one side of the gurney and helping to steer it along the corridor to the aforementioned area. He glanced gratefully toward Amanda as she placed a gentle hand on Mark's arm, holding him back as they wheeled Steve away.

"Okay. One my count. Nice and Easy. One. Two. Three." The transfer to the hospital gurney was carried out as gently as possible, but Jesse could tell that the jarring motion caused Steve a good bit of pain. "I know that hurt, buddy," he spoke soothingly, glancing up briefly as Mark eased his way into the room. "But we're going to get you all squared away real soon."

"Get an IV going with normal saline," he said. Then, focusing first on the loss of consciousness that had been reported, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.

"I'm going to check your eyes, now, Steve. I'm going to shine a light in them so I can look at your pupils." Though he knew that Steve had the procedure done several times in the past, the words helped him to maintain a professional distance if he treated him like any other patient.

"Pupils equal and reactive," he stated.

"Vitals?" he questioned the nurse, then satisfied with the results, continued, testing Steve's responses and asking several more questions, most of which served to frustrate the patient who was slightly dazed and in a lot of pain. But Jesse did not want to prescribe anything that might mask another potential problem.

"Okay, Steve," he said, finally satisfied. "The worst is almost over." Then focusing on the nurse, "I'm going to need a head CT, 1mg Versed and 2 of Morphine. Then tell Ortho we're ready for the shoulder X-ray." He rattled off several more instructions, then allowed the nurses to complete the necessary preparations as he turned toward his mentor.

Mark was leaning against the wall, looking completely exhausted. The worst of it might be over for Steve, who would soon be quite out of it. But they still had the reduction ahead of them, and the worry over possible fractures, rotator cuff problems and nerve damage. Jesse was certain that Mark would want to be on hand for all of that.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Trouble, Jesse," Mark responded, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. "Trouble happened, and he was right across the street from home."

"Then I guess it was a good thing you were there, too," he replied, trying to lift the older man's spirits. It didn't seem to be working.

"There wasn't an awful lot I could do."

"We're ready, Dr. Travis." A nurse called to him, and he turned and moved back toward the bed.

"You were there for him," Jesse told the older man. "Sometimes that's all it takes."

==

Steve opened his eyes and found himself looking into a pair of worried blue eyes. "Dad?" He took in the room at a glance, knowing immediately where he was. How he'd gotten there was something of a blur. His last clear memory was of entering the beach house in search of a forgotten case folder. At some point since he'd acquired a sling and pain in his left shoulder, an IV, and a very fuzzy head no doubt brought on by the really good drugs.

"Welcome back, son."

"How'd I end up in here this time?" he asked. "And how long do I have to stay?"

"As long as it takes," Jesse called from the doorway, entering the room alongside Amanda.

"How are you feeling?" Amanda asked, leaning in to give his right arm a slight squeeze.

"Confused," he responded. "And a little like I partied too hard last night."

"You dislocated your left shoulder," Jesse said. "But the good news is that there are no fractures, and no nerve damage. You should make a full recovery. You also have a moderate concussion, which means you get to experience Community General's hospitality, at least for the night. If there are no problems, you'll be discharged first thing in the morning. But you do get to keep the sling for the next few days."

"Great," Steve grumbled, knowing that meant he'd be limited to desk duty for a while. "Well, that's one question answered."

"Do you remember going to Earle's station?" his father asked.

Steve started to shake his head, but then the memory began to come back in snatches. The teenager, the boys in the Cadillac, the guns, the explosion. Then he remembered why he'd gone to the store in the first place: to get eggs so he could surprise his father with breakfast. He looked up at his father with a wry smile. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry about the kitchen, Dad."

His father smiled affectionately. "No problem, son. It was a lovely thought. Thank you."

Steve returned the smile, allowing his gaze to linger with his father for a moment. "What happened with Jimmy? The last thing I remember is hearing the sirens before the car exploded."

Mark frowned. "Jimmy was fine. But there were no. . . " His eyes widened in realization, then his expression sobered and he murmured. "Oh dear."

"What?" Steve looked to Jesse and Amanda then back to his father. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, I heard the gun shots and ran out to your car and started that siren. The police really weren't on their way yet."

Relief flooded his system. "I'm glad you did, Dad. We were in a very bad position, trapped behind that car with me trying to use my gun right-handed. You probably saved our lives."

"I told you that it was good thing you were there," Jesse chimed up, smugly.

Mark shot a sheepish look around the room. "The neighbors might not think so. I don't think I ever turned it off."

Steve sputtered. "Dad!"

"Surely the officers at the scene. . . . I think I've got a couple phone calls to make," Mark replied, leaving the room in a hurry.

Steve shook his head and laughed with Jesse and Amanda as they watched him go. His dad was truly one of a kind, and he wouldn't have him any other way.

The End

End Notes: Occasionally stories seem to spawn ideas of their own. This one is attempting to spawn at least one other surrounding the kind of trouble the our favorite DM characters can find in the most innocuous of places. The next story in this (loosely called) Trouble series is "At The Market". After all, the cupboards are bare and at least one of our boys is going to be very bored soon. This is probably a bad idea, but stay tuned anyway if you're so inclined.

Medical Disclaimer: Some of you may be wondering why Mark didn't fix Steve's shoulder at the scene. Steve's experiences are based upon an amalgamation of personal experiences I found on the Internet of folks who have dislocated their shoulders. Reactions ranged from mild to extreme - leaning heavily toward the extreme.

Also, I am not a medical professional. I did do a heckuva lot of research, however. And guess what? I managed to get opposing opinions. While some medical sites as well as 'wilderness' sites suggested field reductions were recommended and even simple, some medical texts suggested the opposite. In cases where the opposite was recommended, the assumption was also there that a nice hospital with happy meds was in relatively close proximity. But the underlying reasons seemed to be related to the need for pain management while performing a very difficult procedure as well as the need for diagnostic x-rays. Besides, I decided to give Steve a 'complete anterior dislocation' which somehow just sounds a whole lot worse.

If after all the research and agonizing, I still got it wrong: Sorry. My bad. Please chalk it up to creative license.