A/N: The incidences referred to by Jesse in this scene are from the episodes "Malibu Fire", "Murder in the Family", and "Detective Patient", respectively.

Chapter 6

"Reflexes a little slow, but not bad. Considering." Jesse picked up his ubiquitous flashlight and shone it in first one eye, then the other. "Eyes not all there yet. Better, though. Try and follow my finger."

Steve gripped the edge of the mattress in each hand and tried to follow Jesse's finger, struggling to appear patient. "Hm." Jesse dropped his finger and wrote something down. "Any dizziness? How's the nausea? Says here you managed okay with both breakfast and lunch."

"If you can call them that."

"Now, now - if those went all right you can try a little chicken for dinner. And maybe some fruit. Stay away from citrus though for a couple more days - anything acidic. You didn't answer about the dizziness."

"If I move too fast, sometimes."

"Not moving fast should be a priority. How'd the walk go?"

"Let's just say I won't be trying any jogging any time soon." The truth was that a modest stroll down the hospital corridor had left Steve shocked at his skewed sense of balance. He listed badly to one side and had a surprising amount of difficulty maintaining a straight line. By the time he was back in his room, he had been more than happy to crawl back into bed, drained and heavy-headed. "How long will that last?"

"Probably not long. You're already a lot better. You want to keep the physical activity light for at least a week, then we'll take another look. By light I mean no running, no surfing - you can try a gentle beach stroll in a couple of days."

"Are you saying I can go home?"

"As long as Mark can be there for the next couple of days to ride herd on you, yeah."

"I don't need anybody to baby sit me. What is it you think I'm going to do? I can hardly walk upright."

"Hm. Let's see." Jesse perched on the arm of the visitor's chair. "I seem to remember a time when you had a concussion, smoke inhalation and second degree burns on your hands, but none of that stopped you from trying to drive to PCH in the middle of a fire."

"That was because my Dad was in danger. That doesn't count."

"And," Jesse continued unperturbedly, "I also remember a time when you had three broken ribs but you actually pulled the IV out of your arm and got up and got dressed and went out looking for some bad guys."

Steve sighed. "Because Carol was in danger. That doesn't count either - what else was I supposed to do?"

"And," Jesse continued, "I remember a time you ripped out your nasal canula, ripped off your blood pressure cuff AND removed your IV to throw yourself on top of a murderer. Didn't do your damaged spleen any good, as I recall." He held up his hands as Steve opened his mouth to protest. "I know. You did that to save me and, believe me, I'm not saying that I don't appreciate it. But I could go on. So what I am saying is that you're a good cop, Steve. And a good son and brother and friend. But you're a lousy patient. You seem to think that you can just sort of shove your body's needs aside until it's more convenient, and someday you're gonna do yourself some real harm that way. So I am gonna send you home, but I've got a nice, long list of instructions for you. Starting with 'no rescues'."

"Well, luckily, nobody needs my rescuing."

"Yeah, you say that now. I mean it. No adventures. No derring-do. A little sedate progress between the bed and the sofa - maybe a nice relaxing doze on the deck - lots of naps, regular but bland meals. I'll be by tonight to check on you."

Steve snorted. "To eat dinner, you mean."

Jesse beamed his biggest smile. "If that's an invitation, I accept. I'll even bring the beer."

Steve grinned a little. "Now you're just being cruel. You know I can't drink yet."

"I'll find something nice and non-alcoholic for you."

Steve groaned. "I can hardly wait."

Jesse pushed to his feet and gave Steve's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "I'll send a nurse in to help you dress."

"I don't suppose Mike is on duty?"

"I can check, but uh - " Jesse paused with his hand on the door. "Some of the female nurses are going to be mighty disappointed." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Steve looked around for something to throw, but Jesse was too quick for him. He watched the door swing shut and eased himself back on the bed to wait for a nurse - with any luck, a male one. He picked up the TV remote to help pass the time and flicked rapidly through the channels. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…boy, would he ever be glad to get back to his Pay Per View. He picked up the tape recorder instead and pressed "play".

His father had patiently recorded a lot of Amanda's autopsy notes for him after the game last night. He must have drifted off about halfway through himself, but he had found the tape recorder all cued up and a brief recorded greeting from his father when he woke up this morning. He smiled as he listened. His Dad. One in a million. Though it was kind of funny to hear the autopsy report in his voice and his statement in Amanda's voice.

He yawned. Nope, none of that - no more sleeping. He was bored, that was the problem. Once he was home and had something to do he'd stop falling asleep all the time. He turned the tape recorder up a little louder. His father's pleasantly bright voice, warm even on the little tape, sounded incongruous reciting the gruesome details of the autopsy. He closed his eyes tight to listen.

He should have just told his father he didn't think Madge Fuller was the killer. What was he thinking? Maybe Dad could have helped him to work out whatever was bothering him - helped him come to some conclusion on the case.

On the other hand, his dad had already come to a conclusion on the case - one that had resulted in a full confession. So no doubt he'd just start making noises about Steve's head injury and how it might be affecting his judgment. Or worse, he'd think what everybody else seemed to be thinking and worry that Steve just plain didn't want him working on his cases any more - that he was in the way. Which, to be honest, he was sometimes, but...well, it wouldn't be quite the same without him underfoot, with his offbeat and uncanny way of looking at things.

Worse still, he might think he had compromised his son's considerable pride. Which he hadn't. Had he? Somewhere deep, deep down inside, did he secretly wish his father would just back off and let him do his job? He grimaced. Sometimes, maybe. Certainly every time he found his father in danger he deeply wished he'd just take himself back to the safety of the hospital. And the other times…?

He sighed and reached up to rub at his forehead. Damn. He really wasn't sure. And this was making his head ache. Maybe he should just take everybody's advice and drop the whole thing. Spend the next few days lounging on the sofa, watching sports and drinking a cold…he grinned to himself. Well, if his dad had his way, a cold apple juice.

The grin faded into a frown. But whenever he thought of Madge Fuller in prison, some kind of alarm bell went off in his head - much too loud to ignore. He cupped a hand over his eyes and tried hard to think back to that day, to what had happened. He remembered breakfast. Then what? He sort of remembered leaving for the station, not clearly, but he did that by rote anyway, he might not be able to remember that clearly on any given day. He must have gotten coffee, talked to Cheryl. About the case, probably. Could he remember anything specific at all - the shirt he had been wearing, snatches of chit chat, their plan of action for questioning Mrs. Fuller? He clenched his eyes even tighter shut and concentrated until his temples throbbed. Nothing. Not even a wisp of a memory.

"Lt. Sloan?" The light touch on his shoulder broke his concentration and actually made him jump. "Dr. Travis said you needed some help dressing?"

He blinked his eyes open. Oh, great, Jesse - did you have to send the youngest nurse on the floor? I bet I've got shoes older than this kid! He tried to smile. "Hi. Um - just need help getting this top off over my head. I think I can manage the rest myself."

He levered himself carefully into sitting position, taking it slow like Jesse had instructed, careful not to lean forward. If he were to overbalance himself this time it didn't look as though this twig of a girl would be able to stop his downward drop to the floor. The room bounced once or twice, but then settled. Better. He really must be improving.

"All right. Are you able to put your arms up?"

Steve tentatively raised his arms, swallowing a covert smile. He couldn't decide whether he felt more like a toddler or one of his own perps. The nurse's efficient, clinical attention relaxed him some, and she slipped the sleeveless top over his head without dislodging the bandage or causing any undue pain. "Thanks," his smile was his genuine one this time. "I'm still having some balance problems - don't think I could have managed on my own."

"Well, there's no need for you to," she answered brightly, reaching for the shirt sitting neatly folded on a nearby chair, on top of the stack of clothes his father had brought him. She shook the shirt out and unbuttoned the buttons.

"I can do that myself," Steve protested. "It's just the over the head that I couldn't…"

"Don't be silly," she was already maneuvering one sleeve over his left arm and arranging the fabric so that he could easily slip his right into the other sleeve. "That's what I'm here for."

"I can get the buttons - really." Steve tried to take over buttoning the shirt, but she was determinedly and expertly fastening them as though she didn't hear him.

"Now, we can't have your father thinking that we didn't take proper care of you, can we?"

"I - don't think he could ever get that impression," Steve murmured, a little dazzled by the speed with which she had managed the task.

"Oh, do you watch this too? I just love it!"

"What's that?" Steve glanced up from his study of his miraculously buttoned buttons, followed her eyes to the television set. Had he left that on? This concussion sure was making him forgetful. He tried to focus on the pictures on the set. 'Perhaps I will remember in time…' Oh, God. Not this again. "Oh. No, I - "

The little nurse seemed to lose some of her brisk efficiency and become more natural and girlish. "It's so sad, isn't it? I mean, he loves her so much, and she can't remember any of it."

"Yeah, that's got to be inconvenient all right," Steve agreed dryly.

"Their whole life together - like it never happened."

"Imagine." Steve tried not to sound sarcastic.

The nurse stared raptly at the set. "I think she'll remember in time though, don't you? I mean, they've tried everything to help her."

"I sure hope so." Steve was trying to catch a glimpse of the hallway, wondering what could be keeping his dad, but that suddenly pulled him up short. "Like what?"

"Hm?" The nurse dragged her eyes from the set as though she'd almost forgotten him, smiled, her expression a little embarrassed.

"Like what? You said they'd tried…"

"Oh!" She brightened eagerly. "Well, like hypnosis. They've had some luck with that, but not much."

Hypnosis, huh? Probably he couldn't focus well enough for that right now…

"And taking her to places that might jog her memory - that part was so romantic. He took her to the place where they first made love and he cried…"

Steve stared thoughtfully at her. Now that was an idea. Maybe if he could go back to the Fullers…maybe his Dad would take him. Or Cheryl. He made a face, just imagining their reaction to that request. Okay, not today, of course, but maybe tomorrow? He couldn't believe he was thinking of borrowing solutions from a soap opera, but on the other hand, Jesse HAD said that television doctors got their information from real sources…and nothing else seemed to be helping.

A noise from the corridor made the nurse jump and she looked around guiltily. "I'm sorry - I should be helping you dress." She picked up his jeans from the chair and shook them out. "Do you want help pulling off your sweat pants?"

Steve stared at her. "No," he said definitively. "Thank you."

"I think I'd better. You shouldn't be bending over."

Steve bared his teeth in a smile. "I don't need any help with that. Really. Thanks for everything."

The nurse hovered dubiously. "But Lt. Sloan, if you're checking out…"

Steve instinctively inched back as she moved toward him. "I've - decided to wear my sweat pants home." His smile grew more fixed and determined. "Much more comfortable. Thanks anyway."

"That's all right, Kayley. I'll take care of anything he needs."

Steve barely suppressed a gasp of relief at the sound of his father's voice.

Nurse Kayley looked flustered. "Oh! Dr. Sloan! I was just - I was trying - "

"To help me change. You did a great job. Thanks." Steve gave her a reassuring smile and she smiled back tentatively, relieved.

Mark's eyes held a subdued twinkle as he entered, pushing an empty wheelchair. "You can get back to work, Kayley. I can handle things here."

"Of course." The efficient nurse demeanor returned. "I hope you're feeling better, Lt. Sloan."

Steve nodded politely as she bustled her way out the door. He gave his father a speaking look.

Mark chuckled. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long. What was that all about?"

"Nothing. I'm just not prepared to have some eighteen year old pull my pants on and off for me."

"Oh. Well. She is a professional, son. And Kayley is an LPN - she has to be at least twenty."

"Oh, that makes it much better. Can we get out of here while I still have a few shreds of dignity intact?"

"Certainly." Mark steered the wheel chair next to the bed and glanced at the jeans laid out on the chair. "Uh - would you like some help with those?"

"No. I think I will stay in my sweats."

"It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before. I did change your diapers."

"Don't push, Dad. Um…"

Mark was tucking the tape recorder into Steve's overnight bag and checking for any other personal items. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Steve colored. "You, um - haven't seen my shoes anywhere around here, have you?"

"I put them right over here. I have socks for you, too, and a jacket. It's chilly out there today."

Steve watched him unroll a pair of socks and bend down to tug them up and over first one long, lean foot, then the other. "I can't believe I can't put on my own socks."

Mark smiled faintly. "You're mother used to say the same thing in about her eighth month of carrying you." Steve's expression softened, and Mark fitted a shoe neatly over each of his feet. "Now, jacket - " Mark lifted the jacket from the back of the chair with a flourish and held it out for him.

"Dad, I really think I can put on a jacket without help." Mark obediently let go of the jacket and watched without comment as he carefully shrugged his way into it. "Am I all checked out?"

"All set. I have the car pulled up right out front. Just board your chariot and we can go."

Steve nodded cautiously, carefully climbing onto his feet and standing for a minute to get his balance. He grabbed the far arm of the wheelchair and sat down with a graceless bump that sent a spike of pain up his spine and into his aching head, but he was smiling anyway. A little bit of independence. Not much, but it was a beginning. He almost started an automatic protest about the wheelchair, but stopped in time. To be honest, he'd never make it the length of the corridor, into the elevator and out of the exit, all without falling on his face. In fact, he was kind of regretting that the wheelchair didn't have a headrest.

Almost as if his father had read his mind, he felt a strong hand pat his shoulder. "Ready? Home?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Home."

*

"Steve. Steve, wake up, son." Morning? Already? "Steve. We're home. Let's go inside. You can sleep in there."

He turned his head toward the voice. The air felt fresh and soft against his face. "'Kay."

There was a pause, then the gentle, insistent shaking at his shoulder continued, a little more forcefully. "Steve."

He took a deep breath and tried to open his eyes. Mm. Nice.

He must have said it aloud, because the voice that went with the shaking asked, "What's that?"

"Ocean." He breathed deeply again. "Smells nice. Sounds nice, too."

Another pause. "You know, you can hear it even better from inside. Why don't you stand up and we'll go in there?"

He wasn't standing up? Guess not. No, he did still seem to be sitting. "'Kay." He felt hands fussing with his seatbelt, turning his legs so that the soles of his loafers slapped against the pavement. An arm snaked around his back, a shoulder nudged its way under his arm.

"You know, son, you're well past the size where I can carry you in by myself. You really need to help me here."

"Sorry." He tried to push his way to his feet, felt a hasty hand on his head, cushioning and guiding.

"Careful, careful - you, uh, really don't need to knock that on the car. That's better. All right?"

"Yeah." He managed to unglue his eyelids, blinking about. He was really standing up now, realized he was leaning very heavily on his father and tried to shift to take more of his own weight, swayed.

"Easy." A hand on his chest steadied him. "Just a short walk now. Think you can make it?"

"Yeah." He took another deep breath of the ocean air. It cleared his head a little. "I fell asleep again, huh? What has Jesse got me on?"

The arm around his back gently nudged him into forward motion. "Since the last twenty-four hours, nothing stronger than acetaminophen, I'm afraid."

He let the term sift through his brain, mindlessly lifting his foot to accommodate a stair in response to his father's cues. "Tylenol???"

"Well, prescription strength, but essentially, yes. We like to keep medication to a minimum with a head injury like yours." He was jarred as the stairs unexpectedly ended and his foot landed hard. He let out a soft hiss of pain before he could stop himself, felt himself positioned carefully with a solid surface at his back. "We'll have you inside and in bed in just a minute."

"'Sokay. 'M waking up now…can't wait to feel m' own bed again, though."

There was a brief silence under the sound of the door opening, an arm, gentle but firm, ushered him forward. "You know, I've always considered the guest room bed to have the most comfortable mattress in the house?"

Even in his wavering haze he recognized that overly genial tone in his father's voice. He half-opened his eyes to try to study the guileless face, groaning in disappointment. "Not even my own bed?" he queried plaintively.

"Now, son - step up here - you wouldn't want your old man running up and down those stairs every time you needed something, would you?"

Steve braced himself against the wall with one hand, a smile creasing his cheeks in spite of himself. "Gotta hand it to you. You're good. Guest room then. I'm okay now. I can manage. Just sleep so…hard…"

"Uh-huh. You're doing great. Give me a second - okay, why don't you have a seat right here?"

"Maybe…just for a second…" He felt the gentle give of a mattress underneath him, one with crisp, fresh sheets that didn't smell of antiseptic. Without thinking, he slid forward and buried his face in the pillow.

"Steve? Wouldn't you be more comfortable on your back?" Wasn't he on his back? Listen to that ocean…"Steve…?" He sensed the shoes being yanked from his feet, felt the cozy weight of a comforter around his shoulders. It was so quiet. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a minute - just to think about the case. It took him a bit to realize that his eyes weren't open anyway. He felt someone pat him lightly in the middle of his back, then someone lifted his hand - it must have been dangling off the bed - and tucked it under the covers, too.

"Thanks," he muttered into the pillow. "I'm gonna get up in just a minute…"

"That's right…" his father's voice sounded both soothing and amused.

"I am," he insisted muzzily. "I just need to…I just…" His dad must have cracked the window, because the sound of the ocean grew more pronounced and a fresh sea breeze wafted in. He sighed deeply. Better than a lullaby. "I'm…" He turned his head a little on the pillow. "…glad I'm…home…"

The steady roar of the ocean was rocking him gently now, but he thought a hand rested on the back of his neck for a moment and someone breathed, barely audibly, "Me too, son. Me too."