A/N: Tracy, your wish is my command! I'm sorry to say, but this truly is a comedy - not much drama to be had in it. The one I'm working on now has much drama and very few laughs, however. Okay, maybe a couple of laughs. It just seems to happen.

13. A Stitch in Time Saves Nine

Russell Coopersmith was having a very good night.

His supervisor, Jesse Travis, had left him in charge of the ER, a show of confidence that had simultaneously stunned and thrilled and terrified him, and he had risen to the occasion, if he did say so himself. Even that four-car accident, which had frozen him with momentary terror, had been resolved with minimal fuss and efficient treatment. All right, the nurses' triage system was probably responsible for a lot of that, but nonetheless, he had kept his head and kept things running.

In his mind's eye, he visualized Dr. Travis reading over his meticulously detailed report (Okay, he hadn't written it yet, but he planned to make it meticulously detailed, modestly minimizing his own accomplishments, which would no doubt still shine through like a beacon) and nodding his head in approval. Perhaps he would say something like, "Looks like I chose the right man for the job." Not just that, exactly, but something like that. And he himself would give a humble nod (Humility was very important, because he had a high regard for Dr. Travis and didn't want him to think that he had a swelled head!). And then perhaps Dr. Travis would slap him on the back, and mention his name in important circles.

It was a lovely daydream - so lovely that he almost forgot what he was stitching and nearly kept going beyond the laceration, but he remembered in time and hastily knotted and clipped the thread, smiling at his patient; a dock worker with a slit thumb. "Keep that clean and dry and use this ointment with a new dressing twice a day," he intoned, in his best Marcus Welby voice. The dock worker nodded and slid down from the table, cradling his hand.

Russell smiled in benevolent satisfaction. Another moment of healing. It was a good life, doctorhood. Rewarding.

"Doctor?"

Russell expanded his benevolent smile to include the nurse who entered with a clipboard in hand.

The nurse glanced at the dock worker, who was gathering his things to leave, and bent close to Russell's ear and whispered.

Russell's face went white.

No.

Anything but that. Anything but that in the middle of his perfect night. He stared at the nurse, as if staring could make her change what she had said.

The nurse waited patiently, then prompted, "Um…did you want me to assign him to someone else…?"

Russell gulped. Yes. He did want that. Very much so, thank you for asking. Let some other poor schmuck have the blot on his record…he gulped again, wrinkling his face in internal anguish.

But Dr. Travis had left him in charge. Dr. Travis would expect him to take care of this personally, not shove it off on some poor unsuspecting flunky. He mentally pictured explaining to Dr. Travis that he had been too busy - too occupied - to treat…no. He couldn't do it. Not to mention what Dr. Sloan himself, the CHIEF of INTERNAL MEDICINE, would have to say if he thought he had dodged treating…no. No, it was up to him.

He took a deep breath. "Which room?" His voice sounded thin and reedy.

"Examining Room 4."

He squared his shoulders. He was a doctor. It was his job to treat the sick and injured - all the sick and injured! Even - even the ones that fought back. He would not flag now!

He marched to Examining Room 4, bracing himself briefly outside the door.

You are the doctor, he told himself sternly. You are in charge. It is up to you to control the situation. Stiffening his spine, he entered the examining room.

And almost reeled back. The smell was horrific - some combination of rotting food and a syrupy sweet, smoky aroma that he couldn't quite identify.

His patient sat quietly on the examining table with his head bowed. One glance at the substances coating his clothing and it was easy to tell where the smell was coming from. Russell made a face but pressed on, taking the clipboard from the nurse and scanning it.

"Good evening!" he smiled with determined cheer. "And how are we this evening?"

The patient gave him a blank stare.

Russell winced a little at the sight of his face. One eye was swollen and turning deep purple-blue, the other was shadowed by a greenish bruise underneath. He glanced at the clipboard again.

But that didn't look to be the crux of the problem. He moved around to the patient's left side where he could see a stained rough dressing showing under the fabric of his encrusted t-shirt.

"Hm." He lifted the shirt to get a better look. The patient didn't so much as flinch. He reached for a pair of scissors.

"It's ruined, isn't it?"

The sound of another voice startled Russell, the man had been so silent to this point. Uncertain as to what they were talking about, he ventured, "Pardon?"

The patient plucked at the t-shirt clinging wetly to his front, staring down at it forlornly. "The t-shirt. It's ruined, isn't it?"

"Um, well - " Russell grimaced at the grime and stench soaked shirt, one side split with a jagged tear, and shrugged apologetically. "I - yes. I'm afraid it is."

His patient nodded with despondent resignation, as though he had expected no better.

"I'm going to have to cut it off - ?" Russell gestured with the scissors.

The broad shoulders lifted in the smallest of shrugs, then slumped sadly.

Hm. He had heard that police officers didn't make much money, but it must be bad indeed if the man was so crushed at the loss of a t-shirt. He felt a little glow of fellow-feeling. Residents didn't make much money either - so he understood what that was like.

He brandished his scissors as carefully as he could, peeling the fabric away from the quiescent torso and holding it at an arm's length to drop it in the plastic bag the nurse held poised nearby.

The patient's eyes followed the path of the t-shirt, a little frown pinching his brows together, but he didn't say anything.

Russell looked again and cleared his throat. "The uh - the nurse will get you a gown…you're going to have to remove your jeans too. They're in the way of - um - "

The patient's frown deepened, as though English was his second language and it was taking a little while to organize itself into recognizable words, but after a second he slid obediently off the table and leaned against it to unbutton his jeans.

The nurse dropped her pencil, blushed hotly, and bent to retrieve it. Russell gave her a stern, reproving look.

"Now," he smiled, addressing his patient and helping him slip into the loose gown. "Isn't that more comfortable?"

The patient just stared at him again, and after a second Russell helped him back up on the table and pulled the temporary dressing loose. He adjusted the lights and poked and prodded, now all business. It must have hurt plenty, but his patient might have been a mannequin for all the notice he gave it.

"It's more of a tear than a cut," he observed. "What caused it?" The patient stared at him again and Russell silently made a note to check for head injuries. He seemed so non responsive. "It doesn't look like a knife…?" he prompted.

The patient blinked. "Yeah. Um - I don't know. I thought maybe a pipe or a board…the cops at the scene will find it."

Russell thought that "cops at the scene" had a very dramatic sound, but out loud he just said, "It looks deep. I'll take some pictures to see the extent of the damage."

He reached for a penlight and studied his patient's eyes. "The damage to the left eye looks older than the right?"

"The left one happened this morning. The right - um - about an hour ago. Maybe less."

"And this? Which one did this go with?" He pressed gently on a blue lump just at the hairline.

The patient reached up and rubbed at it, as though trying to recall. "Somewhere in between, I guess."

Russell stepped back, appalled. A police officer's job must be very dangerous indeed, if he had taken three beatings in one day! He was horrified, and more than a little impressed. "Well, I'll take pictures of your head too, just to be safe. Now, I'm going to check your breathing, Mist - Loo - Det - " he broke off, flustered. "Um, do you prefer Mr. Sloan, or Detective…?"

The patient stared at him again, as though trying to remember who he was. "Steve," he answered after a minute.

"Steve." Russell nodded, suppressing a warm glow. He imagined for a minute off-handedly referring to the son of the Chief of Internal Medicine by first name in casual conversation with the rest of the residents. "I'm going to listen to your breathing, then we'll send you to x-ray. It's a very dirty wound, so I'm at least going to prescribe some antibiotics - I see by your record that you had a new tetanus shot just this morning, so that's very lucky, isn't it?"

Steve gave a short, barking laugh that, Russell reflected, had a decidedly sardonic edge to it. Of course, detectives were a hard boiled and sardonic breed, at least if Raymond Chandler was to be believed. He pushed down a little dart of envy as he adjusted his stethoscope. It was easy to pull off sardonic if you were a detective and the kind of man that nurses dropped their pencils over - it was much harder if you looked more like Howdy Doody than Sam Spade and wore a white lab coat.

"Take a deep breath." He had to repeat it, but after a minute his patient took a deep, sighing breath and released it. The need to repeat himself again concerned him, but the eyes had looked all right when he had examined them. Still, he'd order a CT scan. Better safe then sorry. He moved the stethoscope. "Again." He listened hard. Whoops. That sounded a little…but maybe he was just being an alarmist. He adjusted the stethoscope again. "One more time?"

Hm. Nope, that was definitely something he needed to check. He groaned inwardly. Well, maybe it would turn out to be nothing. He would look at some films and hopefully pack up Mist - Loo - Det - Steve. Pack up Steve and send him on his happy way. Then Dr. Travis would nod approvingly at the way he had treated his best friend and partner and maybe even Dr. Sloan would shake his hand and thank him for taking care of his son…possibly he would even be invited to the legendary beach house for one of the famous gatherings there…it wasn't impossible. It had happened for Dr. Travis and for Dr. Bentley before him and for a Dr. Stewart before that. But he was daydreaming again and felt himself flush as he shifted the stethoscope once more.

"Breathe?" His patient inhaled and exhaled again with a tired-sounding whoosh. "All right."

Damn. He folded up his stethoscope. "Now we're going to send you to x-ray and then I'll be by again to talk to you about whatever I see." Steve barely nodded in response and Russell patted his shoulder automatically. For all his reputation, the Lieutenant was one of the quietest patients he had ever treated. He helped him off of the table as the curtain pulled back to reveal an orderly manning a wheelchair. For the first time, his patient seemed to balk.

"I'll walk," he protested.

Russell squirmed, trying to look authoritative and in control. "We have - um - policies…"

Steve stared at him for another moment, then nodded dully. Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Russell watched as the nurse helped his patient into the chair. Something struck him as he watched the process and he reached out a hand to stop the orderly as he prepared to wheel the chair away. "Wait a minute - " he addressed the patient directly, "is there something wrong with your foot?"

TBC