Chapter 14
"Damn it, Steve!" Unspoken worry dripped from Jesse's frustrated shout. He directed his most effective glare at the obdurate detective, but it bounced right off his friend's impervious hide. The young doctor mentally rifled through his arsenal of tools to manipulate Steve, He'd started with reason and quickly progressed to intimidation and threats, retreated to sympathy and bribes before bringing out the big guns of coercion coupled with a blinding flash of medical verbosity. All that was left to him now was the highest calibre weapon he possessed - guilt.
"I'm only asking you to lie down in that bed, not leave the room altogether. If Mark wakes up to find you collapsed on the floor, that isn't going to do him any good, is it?"
Steve just sat there in the wheelchair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. Jesse could see the tremors pass through his body, the accumulating tension lodging in his jaw as he ground out, "And I'm not trying to run a marathon, I'm just sitting here quietly. I'm fine."
Jesse drew in a deep breath to deliver the litany of reasons why Steve was not fine, and it was an extensive list, but the futility of such a diatribe struck him as he saw a determination in his friend's eyes that would light a candle at ten paces and he released the breath in a long huff. He glanced across at Amanda who had remained mostly quiet throughout this one-sided debate. Now, she shrugged, though whether it was in resignation or indifference to the topic he couldn't tell.
Steve had turned back to his father, exhaustion curling off him like smoke and desolation reeking from every line of his body. This dejected posture deflated the last of Jesse's righteous indignation and he wished the news he'd recently given his friend could have been unadulteratedly positive.
Upon arrival at the hospital, Jesse had been torn between his two patients but Mark's prolonged unconsciousness would have won out over Steve's more evident but ambulatory injuries even if the latter hadn't made it clear where the young doctor's priorities needed to be.
After establishing that there was no obvious physical trauma responsible for Mark's condition, Jesse analysed his blood-work for the drugs that Steve had informed him were used and, following a hunch, he tested for tubarine, the same substance that had been used on Serena Trenton. The screening came back positive and he quickly administered Endrophonium as an antidote as well as saline and glucose to counteract the dehydration and malnutrition that were also clearly evident.
The repeated administration of the neuromuscular blocking agent over several days had left Mark in a coma and although his condition was improving, it was a real possibility that brain damage had been caused by the cocktail of drugs. The concept of that sharp mind in any way impaired was horrific for all of them but, for now, all they could do was wait.
Jesse was really tired of being the bearer of bad news. He could feel a little bit of his former anger crawling back, though now without a target, as he remembered Steve's reaction to the warning that the father he knew might still be lost to them forever, how the desperate hope had turned to raw, living pain in his eyes and the gaunt, stark lines of his face tightened even more as he shook his head in denial.
Jesse placed a hand on Steve's good shoulder, hoping the gesture of support would say what he seemed incapable of putting into words. He could feel the tension and barely suppressed tremors under his fingers and it struck him once more that resilient did not equal indestructible.
On the journey to the hospital, Steve had given Jesse enough information to help Mark and to call Captain Newman to tell him to send a unit to the Devlin's house, but since arriving at the hospital the detective had been more than usually taciturn which Jesse had put down to pure weariness and being emotionally drained, so he was surprised when his friend actually volunteered a comment.
"He's going to be fine." They were brave words, but doubt gave his voice an odd quiver - like the little jumps and jiggles on the seismometer before a big explosion. Jesse and Amanda exchanged a glance; they had tried to argue him out of his optimism before and been proved wrong and they had no intention of doing so again, but they couldn't ignore his comment either. Steve seemed cast in stone as he sat there, all sharp planes and immovable body, but they knew him well enough to see the way his shoulders bowed with the strain of presenting a strong front to the world.
Finally it was Amanda who spoke, tentatively as she wasn't sure how best to approach the issue. "He's alive and getting the best care possible, thanks to you."
"Thanks to me!" Steve's emotions rose in a tidal wave for which he was totally unprepared. It was as if saying the words had broken some internal dam and now all the fear, helplessness and pain washed through him. "It's my fault he's lying there. I got him involved in the case to begin with and he was in Jack Devlin's hands for almost three days before I finally found him. He..." His mouth snapped shut suddenly as if he only just realised that he'd spoken aloud and he lowered his gaze to avoid the dismay in Amanda's face as she quickly jumped in with reassurance.
"Steve, you can't blame yourself for this. If it wasn't for you he'd almost certainly be dead. You believed he was still alive when the rest of us had given up hope."
"And found him as soon as humanly possible," added Jesse coming out from behind Steve to stand at the foot of the bed so he could better observe his friend. "It was finding a needle in a haystack."
The only response to their encouraging words was a slight twitch that could be interpreted as a shrug. Steve seemed to have retreated back into uncommunicative repression. However, a few minutes later, he spoke again in a more conversational tone of voice, though the effort of projecting that calm bled through in the monotone he used.
"Dad's good at finding needles in a haystack. Given the proper motivation, he could reach into a haystack while blindfolded and ram the hidden needle right through his thumb."
The two doctors appreciated his struggle to restore normality and Amanda reciprocated by regaling Steve with a story of his father's recent medical legerdemain while Jesse quickly examined Mark again.
"This is looking good," he stated approvingly as he examined the EEG. "See here," he pointed to the readout. "Before, these were slow-wave and minimal amplitude, but they've almost strengthened to normal."
"Which means?" Steve prompted impatiently.
"Well, at the very least, it means that he's coming out of the coma." Jesse opted for a matter-of-fact tone.
As if in response to this auspicious pronouncement, Steve felt a twitch in the fingers he clasped between his own. "He's moving!" he exclaimed, the warmth of hope spreading slowly through his system.
He ignored Jesse's muttered warnings of the length of time drugs took to metabolise and leaned forward. "Dad? Please wake up. You're safe now so just open your eyes." He continued exhortations and encouragement as his father's movements grew in vigor and frequency until finally Mark's eyes opened blearily.
"Steve." It was more a matter of lip-reading than hearing the word on his lips, but the recognition was clear and a delighted smile stretched across Steve's haggard features, lessening the shadows of pain in his eyes.
"Hey, Dad. How're you feeling?"
There was a puzzled crease in Mark's forehead as he wet his lips and tried again, his voice gaining more strength. "Stroke?"
It took Steve a second to decipher the meaning of this utterance and Jesse beat him to a response as he came round the bed to stand beside Steve's chair. "No, you haven't had a stroke, Mark. You'll be fine."
He turned slightly to Steve. "Give us a minute?" It was phrased as a gentle request but Steve recognised the doctor persona and though he longed to reassure himself as to his father's condition, he understood the need for a medical appraisal. He wanted to afford Mark some privacy and Jesse some room to work, so he pushed his wheelchair back slightly with a nod.
Steve knew enough about medicine from all-too frequent personal experience to know that Jesse was putting his father through a basic neurological exam. He practically had the questions memorised and he watched with some anxiety that quickly waned as Mark obediently tracked a pencil moving across his vision, played what Steve thought of as finger tag, and successfully jumped through a series of other sensory, motor and verbal hoops, so he was ready for the diagnosis when Jesse turned to him with an exuberant smile. "Almost everything checks out well. There's mild paresthesias, that's a tingling sensation, in his extremities, but that should quickly dissipate. Everything else is fine except for some retrograde amnesia which isn't at all uncommon in traumatic situations."
Inexpressible relief suffusing his whole being, Steve gripped his friend's arm. "Thanks, Jess."
The young doctor patted his shoulder. "I need to spread the good news to the staff. We'll leave you alone for twenty minutes or so, but then you both need some rest."
Amanda bent over and pressed a gentle kiss on Mark's forehead. "Welcome home, Mark."
As the two doctors departed, the room was quiet as father and son drank their fill of each other. Now that Mark was propped up on his pillows and colour had returned to his cheeks, Steve was able to start the process of dispelling the nightmare of the seeming lifeless body he carried so long. Evidence of his father's ordeal was still apparent, but a characteristic twinkle was in his eye even if a frown of concern was presently cutting deep grooves in his forehead.
Mark tried to remember the reason for the bone-deep exhaustion evident in the hollowness of Steve's eyes. How could he have forgotten an event that left him in a hospital bed and his son looking so drawn and battered? Steve's skin was pale and mottled with bruises, and evidence of bandages was visible under the scrubs he was wearing.
"I've seen healthier looking corpses," Mark observed at last, although there was concern evident behind the humour.
"Yet strangely enough, I don't remember ever feeling better," Steve responded. It wasn't a lie, the aches and pains were negligible compared to the vast contentment saturating his system. Mark seemed to understand the sentiment underlying that implausible statement and didn't challenge its veracity. However, his brows again furrowed in concentration as he failed to fill the void in his memory with anything meaningful.
He tapped his head ruefully with a forefinger. "I seem to be missing some marbles. You have to tell me what happened before my curiosity eats me alive."
Steve almost smiled as his Dad looked at him eagerly like a child awaiting a bedtime story, but a sudden and appalling thought wiped away all inclination to laugh. "What is the last thing you remember?" He tried to keep the question casual and not allow the anxiety he felt to bleed through. What if Mark's mind had conveniently wiped out all events up to and including Carol's death? It seemed logical that he would subconsciously want to obliterate that terrible memory, yet he didn't have the strength to absorb that news now. Nobody should have to live through that twice.
Mark gave the question due consideration, carefully working chronologically forward but arriving at the same dead end. "Monday night," he answered at last. Steve squelched the momentary swell of relief as he realised that his father's most recent Monday night might not correspond with his.
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate on that?"
From Mark's startled reaction, it was clear that it hadn't occurred to him that his memory loss might cover more than a few hours or days, but he obediently recounted his schedule. "Amanda gave us the results of Serena Trenton's autopsy and we discussed how we'd proceed on the case. We were all going to go out for a meal but you got called away. I arrived home late in the evening and went downstairs in the hopes that you were awake, but you were fast asleep on the sofa. The last thing I remember was going to bed." He paused, trying again to summon recollections that refused to materialise. "I went to sleep in my own bed and woke up here."
Mark didn't miss the fractional slump of relief in his son and could guess at its cause. "So, how much time have I missed?"
"Today is..." Steve stopped, unable to figure out exactly what day it now was. "Only a few days," he amended vaguely.
"So, what happened?" Mark prompted expectantly.
Steve regarded his father, unable to restrain himself from teasing. "I thought you weren't supposed to tell amnesiacs anything, that they have to regain memories by themselves."
Mark sat straight up in bed although unused muscles creaked alarmingly. "You're kidding me. You wouldn't torture me like that!" His expression managed to combine indignation and plaintiveness.
Steve wasn't usually given to self-analysis, but he discovered to his surprise that beneath the typical spirit of banter that existed between them, deep inside, there was a small kernel of anger directed at Mark. During the last couple of days he'd felt as if he'd been functioning at the epicenter of an eight point nine earthquake. The grief that had ripped through him upon waking up in the hospital to the news that his father was dead had embedded razor sharp shards of anguish deep in his soul and the cascading events since had left little time to work through the haunting emotions; and it could all have been avoided if Mark hadn't exhibited his usual finely-honed sense of self-preservation and walked invitingly into the lion's den.
That thought was immediately followed by a surge of guilt that he himself had been acting in such a way that Mark had apparently not felt able to confide in him. Unconsciously, he rubbed his temples in an attempt to erase the persistent ache that had taken up residence there, pain radiating down the back of his head and into his neck. He was aware that any rationality he still possessed was muddied irretrievably by physical and mental exhaustion.
"Steve?" His confused mental meanderings were interrupted by a soft voice that steadied him. Even before he looked up, he could imagine the expression in his father's eyes, the bright flecks of concern in a warm blue field of understanding support. Yet when he met Mark's gaze, he was struck again by the evidence of his father's recent ordeal, the evident weakness and pallor and any anger he was harbouring abruptly evaporated. His father didn't need new problems dumped on him now.
"You solved the case," he stated bluntly, directing a slightly crooked smile at his father who looked puzzled.
"And this was a bad thing?" Mark asked slowly, feeling his way cautiously along what was clearly a touchy issue.
Steve contemplated his answer, wanting honesty between them without burdening his father with too much information. "Solving the case was a good thing, nearly getting yourself killed in the process was a bad thing." His voice sounded tight and strained despite his best efforts to keep it steady, but Mark heard all the words, including the ones he hadn't said aloud, and they went some way to explaining the residual stress that was evident in the wan cheeks and the worry lines etched into his son's face.
"I don't remember that, but I'm sorry." The quiet and sincere apology that tacitly acknowledged the impact of such an event dissipated the last of Steve's vexation. He stretched his shoulders back as far as they would go, trying to ease some of the tension from them.
"There's plenty of blame to go around. Does the name Jack Devlin ring a bell?"
Mark was about to shake his head in denial when a frisson of alarm, more a sensation than a memory, feathered along his nerve endings, trailing goose-bumps in its wake.
"Dad?" Steve was alarmed by Mark's increased pallor and prolonged silence, and rested his hand on the motionless arm.
Mark dredged up a smile. "Part of me seems to remember," he joked weakly.
"Maybe we should leave this until you're feeling stronger," Steve suggested. "You've been drugged for a long time."
Mark again experienced a disconnected sensation, as if he were slightly out of step with the rest of the universe, a memory teasing him, floating tauntingly just outside his grasp. Each time he tried to sink deeper into the feeling, it receded, just tickling at the recesses of his mind.
"I was drugged," he stated experimentally, hoping the repetition would bring another jolt of remembrance. He ignored Steve's recommendation of rest, pursuing that wisp of recall intently. Almost unconsciously, he found himself staring down at the needle-marks in his arm, the small, red circles livid and alien against the pale skin of the inner elbow. Suddenly he could feel ghostly hands restraining him, enduring fear and helplessness as cruel fingers dug into his flesh and a shadowy figure approached with a shiny needle, a drop of liquid trembling on the point.
The wall holding back the past collapsed like a shattering dam, the pressure of memories bursting forth inundating his mind with vivid images, the events of the last few days replaying themselves in random order.
The rigidity of the muscles under his hand alerted Steve to a change in Mark's condition. He reached towards a call button in alarm. "That's it, I'm calling Jesse." Mark intercepted his hand.
"I'm fine. I remember it all now. They drugged me." This time it was said with grim assertion. "I thought they were going to..." A glance at his son's expression decided him against finishing the sentence. "My guess is it was the same drug combination they used on Serena. Tubarine, or tubocurarine chloride is a neuromuscular blocking agent and used alone it would take only a slight overdose to cause respiratory failure..." He broke off again, realising that he was trying to distance them both from the experience by burying it under the weight of medical terminology, but they were too aware of his near escape from sharing Serena's fate.
"I am sorry, Steve. I didn't think there would be any danger," Mark explained ruefully. "I just wanted to talk to Devlin to get some confirmation, at least in my own mind, of the family's involvement in the murder. It worked too. Not only did the old man more or less confess that his sons were responsible, but I also found a mangosteen that..."
"A what?" Steve interrupted blankly. He hadn't even thought about the particulars of the case since waking up in hospital three days ago and in his befogged mind this seemed like a gratuitous reference to exotic fruit.
"Anyway," Mark continued hastily, seeing that his son wasn't interested in detective reasoning, "I was having a nice chat with Devlin senior, when his private nurse called in reinforcements."
"Devlin junior, junior and junior," Steve supplied wryly.
"I see you've met them. Larry, Curly and Mo weren't too happy to see me there and decided to...extend a prolonged invitation to stay."
Steve rubbed his head again as he contemplated that easy statement. "Dad, I'm just too tired to figure out a diplomatic way of asking this, but why the hell didn't they just kill you -- not that I'm not thrilled you're still alive, of course."
"Believe me, the question of my continued survival crossed my mind more than once," Mark admitted. "I certainly owe my life to old man Devlin. He wasn't involved in Serena's murder, you know. He had his suspicions about the boys, but until I arrived he was happy to turn a blind eye and hope he was wrong. However, confronted by their obvious culpability, he couldn't stomach another murder especially one under his own roof. He was in no physical condition to stop them, but he tried and the excitement and exertion caused him to collapse which had the benefit of finally grabbing their attention. He made them swear, in a kind of reverse deathbed vow, not to kill me. To be honest, though, I think the only reason the oldest son agreed was because he wasn't sure if they could actually murder me with impunity."
He grinned impudently at his son. "I made it quite clear that if they messed with me, they could expect the wrath of the police force to descend en masse on their doorstep."
Steve tried to match his smile, knowing that the last thing Mark needed at that moment was to realise how close he'd come to getting his son killed. However, he obviously failed to adequately camouflage his unease from the virtually telepathic eyes of his father, and Mark's good humour faltered. "What's the matter?"
Only the fact that he was already thinking of the hole in his father's argument allowed Steve to come up with a fast and satisfactory response. "Jack Devlin had successfully figured out a way to deflect the attentions of the cops and dispose of you in the process."
Mark didn't look too surprised. "He's a clever and utterly ruthless man."
"Was," Steve informed him succinctly.
"You know as much as I hate to admit it, I'm really not sorry. Your doing?"
Steve thought back to how he'd instinctively tried to save Devlin in the end and shook his head slowly. "Though not for lack of trying, to be honest. It's a long story, Dad."
"Then you better get at least the short version in before Jesse comes back," Mark warned him, shifting slightly on the pillows for greater comfort. He flexed his fingers then rubbed one hand with the other to try to diminish the pins and needles sensation that plagued his extremities.
"Let me," Steve offered. Mark looked surprised but relaxed as his son's strong fingers massaged the numbness away.
Steve was glad of the distraction, an excuse not to look at his father as he recounted events that he'd rather expunge from his memory. Mark could read him too easily and his feelings were still too raw to be displayed to anyone.
"Well, the first thing you should know is that you'll probably be getting some strange looks for a while because everyone thinks you're dead." Steve struggled to keep his voice light, though he was suddenly glad of the warm hand between his that refuted that conclusion.
"Again?" Mark matched his tone, but there was an underlying sympathy in it that nearly proved to be Steve's undoing. The morass of emotions from the past few days welled up again without warning, leaving his throat too tight to utter a word. He concentrated on the kneading motions of his hands until the constriction eased enough for him to speak.
"The welcome home parties are getting tiresome," he agreed, remembering the shindig thrown by the staff after they'd faked his father's death following a car bomb. Back then, he'd at least been one of the conspirators and apart from a few terrible seconds, had always known that Mark was safe.
"So, bearing in mind that I'm right here, how did I die?"
Steve launched into an extremely expurgated version of the events. His voice wavered slightly as he described his father's putative death, then it firmed, and he went on evenly. He didn't realise it, but the very economical way he described what had transpired was in its own way more revealing than if he'd embellished his story with graphic details and emotive comments.
By the time he'd finished, Steve felt like an old, torn rag that had been wrung out completely and discarded unceremoniously on the floor. His hands had stilled and, slightly self-consciously, he withdrew them back to his own lap.
Mark watched him closely, noting the way Steve's jaw twitched with suppressed emotion. Steve's narration had filled in some important gaps, but 'I got you out of there, Jack Devlin came after us and got caught in a landslide,' was minimalistic to the point of starvation and didn't explain why his son looked like he'd bought stock in a bandage company.
"You missed out the bit where you tussled with the wildcat," he pointed out mildly.
"Huh? Oh!" Steve's hand crept up to his neck where his encounter with the barbed wire had left more by way of scratches than puncture wounds so had been deemed harmless enough to be left unbandaged. "It wasn't a cat."
"No?" Mark feigned surprise.
"I had a run in with a barbed wire fence," Steve elaborated sheepishly.
"Run in!" Jesse chose that moment to return. "Sounds like you did more than that. Did you have a bath in the stuff? It's a good thing your tetanus is up to date. I've seen more holes in a pin cushion."
Jesse was too intent on perusing his friend's chart to notice the quelling glance Steve sent in his direction and continued blithely. "And what on earth made you think that a man with a bullet hole in his shoulder could..."
"What?" Mark's exclamation vied in volume with Steve's, "Jesse!" and the glare the latter sent his friend could have withered a plastic flower.
Jesse, however, seemed unaffected. "You mean, you didn't tell Mark you'd been shot?" he asked with eyes round with innocence.
"Let me look at that." Mark neatly plucked Steve's file from Jesse's fingers.
"Hey, what happened to doctor/patient confidentiality?" Steve protested.
"I am your doctor," Mark reminded him kindly.
Steve could foresee disaster but there was nothing he could do to prevent it without making Mark even more suspicious. He watched his father's frown take root and proliferate and his only hope was that the sheer quantity of minor injuries would divert Mark.
"Jess, you're right. I should be in bed." It was a weak attempt at distraction, but the young doctor seemed to have picked up on his tension for he forbore to tease his friend.
"When were you shot?" Mark asked suddenly. He answered his own question by flipping back a few pages. "But that was before...why would they...?"
Steve could almost see the tumblers falling into place in his father's mind, unlocking the mystery the inconsistencies had created. The last pin fell into place with a nearly audible click, draining the last remnants of colour from Mark's face. He stared at his son with horrified eyes in which Steve could read a complex, arid tapestry of bleak comprehension and culpability.
"It's my fault."
"No, Dad," Steve tried to forestall the self-recriminations, but Mark was too immersed in his own emotions.
"What was I thinking? I told them you were in charge of the investigation and that you knew where I was and that you'd be coming after me. I might as well have painted a large target on your back. I could have got you killed."
Jesse finally clued in to what Steve had been trying to tell him earlier and grimaced in apology, but Steve could only deal with one guilt trip at a time.
"No!" Steve interjected, more forcefully this time, successfully cutting his father off and hurrying to speak into the gap. "You did exactly the right thing. You kept yourself alive by whatever means possible."
"Even at your expense." Mark spoke with uncharacteristic bitterness.
"You had no way of knowing that would be the result," Steve argued. "Taking potshots at cops isn't exactly a sane reaction."
"You know, he said something at the time, about distracting you. I thought he was talking about me -- my disappearance."
"It doesn't matter, Dad." Blue eyes captured and held kindred blue eyes with an emphatic urgency. "You used the protection you had available to you and I would bet it provided the doubt that ensured your survival. If he'd thought he could get away with it, Devlin would have knocked you off as soon as his father was out of sight. That would have hurt me far worse than any bullet could do." He shook his head unconsciously and swallowed to hold onto his control as he remembered the agony of the past few days. "I've had some experience with believing you dead and, believe me, I don't want to go through it for real."
The painful sincerity was convincing, but Mark's sense of guilt insisted on one last stab before it stopped fighting and surrendered. "If I hadn't gone there without backup, none of this would have happened."
Jesse had stayed quiet long enough and with a snort he irrepressibly reentered the conversation. "Like father, like son," he muttered quite loudly enough for his friends to hear.
"He means," Steve explained, his mouth twitching, "that I did exactly the same thing."
"Oh, not exactly," Jesse elaborated. "You stole my car."
"Borrowed, Jess, borrowed. I was sure you would have lent it to me if I asked."
"Sure I would...but there would have been certain conditions imposed on that borrowing. Like my accompanying you. And that reminds me, borrowing implies the return of said property. You seem to have lost my car."
"Not lost exactly. I can tell you precisely where it is. Of course, Devlin said it didn't work any more." At Jesse's indignant sputter, he hastily added, "But I'm sure that's just temporary."
Mark's smile broadened as the exchange continued, and he allowed himself to relax into the familiarity of the bantering. Steve was alive and, for now, that was all the mattered. However, one more question occurred to him.
"I can understand you not wanting to take Jesse here into a potentially volatile situation but why didn't you take police back up?"
Jesse feigned concern. "Steve, I think I should reexamine your head wound. It appears to have caused amnesia. There are so many things you seem to have forgotten."
"Haven't you got any other patients to torment?" Steve asked pointedly.
"Actually no. I'm off duty and since I don't have a car, I don't have any way to get home."
Seeing Mark was looking at him worriedly, Steve relented. "It's nothing too terrible. The Devlins had taken out a restraining order after my first visit so technically I shouldn't have been there."
Jesse cleared his throat meaningfully so Steve continued reluctantly. "And officially I'm also suspended since the Captain thought...well, anyway, he suspended me."
Mark didn't look reassured. "How much trouble are you in?"
Events of the last twelve hours had been too meteoric and overwhelming for Steve to consider their legal implications, so there was a pause before he responded. It was within the realms of possibility that he'd face charges of manslaughter or even murder as Jack Devlin had predicted, but it was extremely unlikely so he decided to only mention the best-case scenario.
"There'll probably be some kind of official reprimand," he stated honestly. "I did go against orders. However, since not only was I proved right that the Devlin brothers were behind Serena's murder, but also, more importantly, I found you kidnapped by them, taking the issue any further would only make them look like fools." His voice lowered slightly. "Either way, it doesn't matter. It was worth it."
As he sat there sharing a smile of understanding with his father, Steve was filled again by a sense of contentment. His career seemed truly inconsequential compared to what he'd gained. If he hadn't defied Newman's orders, Mark would be dead and nothing would have seemed worthwhile any longer. He'd been willing to sacrifice his badge for Mark before for less reason, and if that proved the cost now, it was a price worth paying.
The room shifted giddily behind Mark's head and Steve must have swayed with it for suddenly Jesse was steering the wheelchair towards his own bed. "That's enough for this evening. Actually it's enough for about the last three evenings."
He helped Steve climb awkwardly under the covers, the detective trying to avoid putting weight on his bandaged feet. The soft cleanliness of the mattress felt heavenly beneath his weary, battered body and he sank down gratefully. "S'good. May not leave for a week," he muttered almost unintelligibly.
Jesse snorted. "I'll remind you of that in forty-eight hours when you're griping and whining and insisting you're well enough to be discharged."
The gibe was lost on its recipient and Jesse's face softened as he gazed down at his sleeping friend. "About time too," he mumbled fondly.
"He's going to be fine," he reassured Mark as he walked back over. "It'll be a while before he's really on his feet again, and he's going to need some physical therapy on his shoulder, but he'll heal in time."
"Jesse, what...?" Mark began, but the young doctor cut him off with an upraised hand.
"I know you have a million questions, and I promise I will answer them the best I can, but not tonight. You need your rest too."
He helped Mark settle more comfortably against the pillows, knowing he was right in his assessment when the older man didn't contest his appraisal.
"It's good to have you back, Mark." The words didn't adequately express the depth of relief and joy he felt, but anything more would risk exposing nerves that were still too raw.
"Had you worried, huh?" Mark smiled sleepily.
"Or something," Jesse agreed carefully.
With a last look at his two sleeping friends, Jesse took off to search for Dr. Chavez, mentally rehearsing his explanation as to why his fellow doctor's beloved BMW was not only filthy on the outside, but also its upholstery was smeared with mud.
Given his state of complete physical and mental exhaustion, Steve had expected to slip quickly into an unconscious state and stay there for some time. He had been right as to the former, but wasn't as lucky concerning the latter. Once the painkillers had worn off, he'd jolted awake with the unnerving sensation that there was something important he'd forgotten. Unable to pin down the cause, he'd attributed it to the after-effects of the adrenaline coursing through his system and, after checking that Mark was sleeping peacefully, had drifted off again. Yet the pattern was repeated throughout the night as the slightest sound nearby jerked him to alarmed wakefulness.
The room was dark and the hospital seemed quiet, except for the ubiquitous background humming, when Steve awoke at the entrance of a male nurse. He drowsily watched the man's progress across the room towards Mark, stirring only when the nurse prepared an injection for the IV.
"Is he alright?" he asked in concern, his voice hoarse with the disuse of sleep. The words caused the orderly to start violently, almost losing his grip on the syringe before recovering himself and turning slightly so his face was in the shadows.
"Yeah, he'll be fine. Don't worry."
Steve's skin felt suddenly cold as if all the blood in his body had gone into hiding. Disparate pieces of information surged together -- a sound, a number, an innocent fact related by his father -- to complete the puzzle that had been eluding him all night.
"Get away from him," he shouted, flinging back the covers. His abused muscles had stiffened in the night and he stumbled rather than leapt out of bed. The pain of his full weight on his lacerated feet startled a cry from him which he transformed into a loud yell of fury, aimed at both alerting the staff and alarming his opponent.
The intruder froze for a crucial second, unsure as to whether to use the needle as he'd originally intended or to defend himself with it against the assault being launched in his direction by the large, enraged man. He backed away from Steve and, in a flash of inspiration, thrust Mark's IV stand hard in the detective's direction.
Steve instinctively moved to catch the pole, not wanting the IV to be yanked out of his father's hand and as he tangled with the tubes and wires, the assailant stepped back in with a wild jab which he only just managed to block with his right arm, the jarring impact translating into numbing pain in his shoulder. His peripheral vision showed him Mark awake and starting to move out of bed, and fear spiraled through his gut as the intruder feinted in that direction.
In his haste to protect his father, Steve left his injured side vulnerable and this time the needle found a billet in his bicep, injecting him with the majority of the contents of the syringe before breaking off while still lodged in his arm as he spun around to deliver an uppercut that, whilst lacking his usual force, still contained enough power to send the man skittering across the floor like a deformed bowling ball.
The nurse made no attempt to rise, wiping a smear of blood from his chin as he lay on the floor regarding Steve with an odd mixture of apprehension and satisfaction.
Steve heard his father cry out his name in alarm, but he didn't move immediately. There was a strange sensation of heaviness in his arm, a tingling in the fingers that seemed to seep upwards, leaving an inert lump behind instead a functional limb. He tried to take a step forward but his legs suddenly crumbled beneath him, their strength dissolving like wet paper and he wasn't even able to break his fall, merely collapsing into a disorganised heap. His muscles might be flagrantly disobedient to his commands but he could feel the pain of his head smacking into the floor.
How could he have forgotten the fourth man in the house that night, the one who'd summoned the brothers to the bed of their dying father, and who'd joined them in their armed hunt later? Mark had even mentioned Devlin's male nurse just a few minutes earlier, but he'd been focused so entirely on the Devlin clan, he had discounted any threat external to the family.
He was aware of Mark again calling his name, now with a desperate urgency, an alarm blaring and a growing cacophony of voices but he couldn't turn his head to satisfy his curiosity. He couldn't even protect his father from the man who'd come to murder him and the bitter frustration of that outweighed any potential fear until the progressive paralysis reached his diaphragm and the simple act of breathing became challenging then impossible.
He was going to suffocate in the middle of a hospital and he couldn't even call out for help.