Part 4
Mark jumped down onto Community General's helipad and quickly stepped back as the med techs got Steve's gurney down to the tarmac and moving toward the ER. The events that had taken place since he'd heard the gunshots ring out from Steve's apartment had taken their toll. His legs were weak and shaky, and he felt inadequate even to the task of carrying Steve's IV bag as they ran toward the entrance doors. But he persevered because he knew that the fight for Steve's life was far from over.
The horror of the return image flooded his mind as they ran along. His first view as he'd approached Steve's room had been of Miles sitting on the floor just inside the door. Steve's gun lay a few feet away as he stared uncomprehending toward the bed.
Seeing the gun so near Miles almost stole Mark's breath away. He rushed into the room, ignoring the deeply disturbed man, looking only for his son. His heart stumbled, and tears of fear and panic flooded his eyes. His firstborn was crumpled on the floor, a growing crimson stain in his upper chest and most fearful of all, the right side of his face and hair was saturated with more of the life-sustaining fluid. On some level, he also noticed the splintered wood of the headboard where at least one stray bullet had impacted, but he would have been hard pressed to recall it in those initial moments when he went to his knees at Steve's side, desperate and praying that he would find a pulse.
It was there, but erratic; Steve was already going into shock, and his breathing was troubling. Somehow, he managed to call for a life-flight and coherently communicate his address while struggling to patch the chest injury which he suspected involved the lung, and stop the heavily bleeding head injury.
He only looked at Miles once more, and that was when he opened the patio doors that led in to Steve's bedroom from the beach side of the property. Miles was then taken into custody by the LAPD, and transported separately for medical and psychiatric evaluation.
Mark didn't have a spare ounce of energy to deal with Miles. He could only focus on the man on the gurney whose life lay in the balance.
The ER doors yawned open ahead and Jesse and his team rushed out to meet them. The transfer from the paramedics to the ER staff was done quickly and efficiently, and Mark was thankful that Jesse seemed to know on some level that he needed to take over in Steve's care. He immediately began issuing orders as they continued to roll on toward the designated suite.
As they entered the room Mark felt dazed and helpless. His medical knowledge seemed to be of little use aside from affirming the severity of Steve's injuries. He felt as someone removed Steve's upraised IV bag from his hand, and noticed peripherally as it was placed on the stand near the bed. He was then gently moved backward as the trauma team went to work.
Blood was taken, oxygen sats were checked, X-rays were shot; he vaguely heard as Jesse made some comment about the chest tube that he'd rigged in Steve's room, before he announced to the room at large that they were ready to move him to OR. Mark managed to find the strength to follow.
"Mark, no," Jesse paused to stop him. "He's in good hands. We'll take care of him."
"But, Jesse. I need to be there. I need to know –." The words seemed to pour from him, his desperation obvious to his own ears.
"Mark, you know as well as I do why you can't be in there. Now I've got to go and take care of Steve. I'll let you know . . . ." Jesse glanced beyond him, and paused. Mark was too worried and anxious to follow the gaze, but he felt the warm hand that settled on his upper arm.
"He'll let us both know." Amanda's voice sounded at his side, completing the sentence Jesse had started. Mark turned and looked down at her. Vaguely he noticed that Jesse took the opportunity to leave the suite, following the rest of the team. Something in Amanda's expression held him.
"All we can do is wait," she said, and his mind immediately latched upon the old and still painful memory of that other time. And oddly it gave him hope. Steve had beaten those injuries; he would beat these. He had to.
The court room fell into silence; even the usual paper shuffling, throat clearing and general fidgeting seemed to fade away as Steve turned away from the podium and took the first steps that would lead him back to his seat. Mark felt his throat tighten for just a moment as he watched, his arms aching to assist him. But he knew that Steve wouldn't want that. He simply continued the careful measured steps that brought him to Mark's side.
As he sank into the chair, Mark briefly caught his eye, his emotions caught someplace between proud and mystified. It was barely two weeks since he had been so gravely injured, and only a few days since his release from Community General, yet he had found the strength to stand before the court to speak at Miles Casey's sentencing hearing.
For Mark, the memory of those days was so close – too close, and the reminders remained. Though the section of hair that had been shaved was growing back, the area was still visible beneath the longer strands of hair which fell over it. He only had to close his eyes to see the return of the white bandaging that had covered the area of Steve's head where the bullet had creased him, causing a major concussion. He heart would never allow him to forget the waiting during the hours of surgery to repair the nicked lung and the shoulder wound where the other bullet had struck him. Almost worse had been Steve's struggle with the chest tube and the infection that seemed to settle in almost immediately. But true to his strength of character, Steve was rapidly overcoming the physical damage stemming from the ordeal.
Mark knew that Steve had not recalled anything that had taken place after they'd left for Ryan's funeral service. Due to the trauma, he probably never would, but he had heard what had happened in very vivid detail during the course of the brief investigation.
Despite lingering weakness, fatigue and pain, he had surprised them all by not only insisting on being there for the hearing, but delivering a statement that seemed almost sympathetic, and hinted at emotions that he normally kept firmly under lock and key. The point that stuck most in Mark's mind was Steve's mention of while not completely comprehending the grief Casey had experienced as he had no children of his own; he had an inkling of the sheer hopelessness that was felt when such a young, vibrant life was extinguished. It, oddly enough, made Mark think of Steve as a father, imagining him with a brood of teenaged boys and perhaps even a girl. It also made him wonder about his own feelings toward the man who had tried to kill his son.
The judge's voice sounded in the courtroom, drawing Mark from his mental wanderings. It was his turn to speak. He felt Steve rest a hand briefly on his arm, as if to encourage him when he moved to his feet and headed for the vacated podium. As he approached the polished wood surface facing the presiding judge, the irony of the situation resonated in his mind. Miles had tried to kill Steve; Steve had pulled the trigger of the gun that had killed his son.
But that changed nothing. Mark had to say what was on his mind. Suddenly the words were burning to get out. "Your honor," he began, "I am sure you're familiar with the oaths that are taken by different professions, including yours. A doctor takes an oath, too, and one of the tenants of that oath is to 'do no harm'. Miles Casey broke that oath in the worse possible way. He attempted to violently take the life of another human being.
"Shortly before he went to my son's room and took his police weapon from a drawer, he told me very pointedly that unless I had experienced the death of a child, I could not understand his grief." Mark paused, recalling how those words had rang through his head during the long hours of waiting, unsure whether Steve would survive the aftermath of his injuries. They seemed burrowed deep in his soul and some days he wondered if their echo would ever release him.
"My son is a police officer," he continued after a moment. "He puts himself in harm's way every day in an attempt to save the lives of others. That's an oath he took. He fulfills it with courage and honor. It makes me both proud and fearful because I know that there is the possibility that someday he might not come home.
"Lieutenant Steve Sloan, my son, nearly died from the injuries that Miles Casey inflicted. He almost got his wish that I experience his grief first hand. Yet, I would never think to wish such an experience on any parent, regardless of my own sorrow. What this man did was unconscionable. There can be no excuse for what he tried to do, no mitigation for the harm that he caused." He allowed a moment for the words to sink in, and then added quietly, "Thank you for allowing me to speak." Having let the words out, Mark turned and made his way back to sit beside Steve. Oddly, he felt lighter, as if he'd left a burden up there on the wooden stand.
After he sat, the judge called for a twenty minute recess, and Mark turned toward Steve, curious of his reaction. The smile that he was favored with warmed the corners of his heart.
"Buy you a cup of coffee?" Steve asked, gesturing toward the back of the courtroom where some of the patrons were filing out.
"Are you sure your doctor will approve of your having caffeine?" Mark couldn't resist teasing, though it skirted around the subject he really wanted to discuss.
"Who's going to tell him?" Steve shot back, playing along.
"Do you really have to ask?" Mark grinned at him. "You know we doctors are all in cahoots."
Steve sobered a little. "I wouldn't say that."
Mark remembered Miles' profession and sobered as well. It was time to get back to the question at hand. "Mind if I ask you something?"
"Why did I say what I did up there?" Steve asked.
"Yes." Mark didn't pretend that Steve hadn't hit the nail squarely on the head. "You really shouldn't feel guilty about what happened in that warehouse. It was an accident. And even if it wasn't, it was self-defense."
"I know that, Dad," Steve told him. "Knowing that Ryan was a marksman actually puts the whole thing in a different light. He even aimed squarely for the center of the vest, not my head or arms or legs. I think he was trying to incapacitate me so that he would have a chance to get away. He forgot to take into account that my finger was on the trigger."
Mark frowned, doubly confused. Steve had never told him his conclusions regarding the shooting, and now that he had, he had even less of an idea of why he would speak at Casey's hearing in the manner that he had. "So why did you . . . ?"
Steve interrupted. "Remember when Eddie Gault threatened to hurt you, and when that bomber got out of jail that'd vowed to get you back, or when you'd gotten infected with . . . ."
Mark held up a hand in defense. "Okay, I get it; I've made a few enemies and gotten into a little trouble."
"Yeah, just a little," Steve teased, "I'm surprised I'm not the one with gray hair." The humor faded as he continued. "The point is, there was a second, when you were threatened or when one of them got too close that I felt like I was just crazy enough maybe to step across that line. I know I could. The thing that stops me isn't that I wear a badge, or because I believe so strongly in the legal system, but because that would be no way to honor your memory."
Mark felt speechless. "I'm . . . . I' sorry, Steve. I never meant to put you in such a situation. I wouldn't want –."
"It's okay." Steve smiled. "I don't want you to stop being who you are, I only want for you to be careful."
Mark nodded in emphatic agreement. "I promise. And that goes both ways, you know. I'm very proud of you, and I sorta like having you around."
Steve laughed, and looked around the nearly empty courtroom. "How about that coffee – decaf variety."
"How about: I happen to know of a great juice bar not far from here."
"I guess that's doctor's orders."
"And fathers."
"Well in that case, how could I possibly refuse?"
End ----
A/N: In case any one is still wondering what that line was in "You Bet Your Life": I'll admit the episode is only a vague memory, but the line was something along the lines of unless Mark experienced the death of his own child, he couldn't understand this other guy's grief. The gist of the line obviously stuck with me. This story is the result. Hope you enjoyed it.