"I…I'm drowning, Doc."
"I'm on my way, Danny. Where are you?"
His mouth was too dry to answer, and Doc asked, "Are you at the precinct?"
He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he choked.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes. Call Linda."
He didn't call Linda; he just sat there, staring at his desk and seeing nothing but John Russell's face.
Footsteps, then Doc sat down next to him and set down a cup of hot cocoa.
He looked up at Dawson, feeling as if he were trying to move underneath a crushing wave. "You said not to wait 'till I was drowning. It's too late," he whispered, and put his head back in his hand.
"It's not too late, Danny. I'll help you. But before we talk…did you call Linda, let her know you're okay, that you'll be home late?"
He shook his head. "I can't. What time is it?"
"A little after nine. You really should call her, Danny."
He shook his head numbly. "I can't…"
"Do you want me to call her?"
He nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
Alex Dawson took the phone, rose, and stepped out of earshot of the traumatized detective—but still close enough that he could see him. He scrolled past Linda's name, to another one of Danny's contacts.
"'Ello?"
"Sergeant Gormley, this is Dr. Alex Dawson."
"Aww, hell, Doc, is Danny alright?"
"No. Does he have any sick days accrued, and can he take one of them tomorrow?"
"That bad, huh?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, I'll take him off tomorrow. He's supposed to be off Tuesday through Saturday for the family camping trip, anyway."
"Thanks, Sergeant. Good night."
He hung up, pressed speed-dial 1.
Linda answered on the second ring. "Hey, Danny."
"Linda, this is Dr. Dawson. Danny's fine. Physically, he's fine."
"But not emotionally, which is why you're calling me. Did the soldier…?"
"Danny tried to talk Corporal Russell down, but the Corporal committed suicide right in front of Danny."
He heard a stifled sob. "O no…how is he?"
"He's grieving, and he's in shock. I ran into Detective Baez, who told me she had to drive them back here. I think we'll be here for a while, and I already talked to Sergeant Gormley: he'll give Danny the day off tomorrow."
"Good. Help him, Doc, please. He's been simmering since this case started; he snapped at Jack the other day; he's not sleeping, he's not eating…he needs to work through this before he breaks."
"I'll do my best, Linda; it's a good sign that he reached out, recognized he needed help."
"Can I talk to him?"
Doc was back. "Linda wants to say good night. She's worried."
Danny took the phone. "Hey," he sighed.
"I love you, Danny Reagan." Linda's words were hollow against the tidal wave of anger and shame and grief.
"Love you…more," he whispered, cursing as his voice cracked.
"Love you most." She paused. "I'm proud of you, Danny…I'm proud of you for calling Dr. Dawson, for being willing to talk to him. Let him help you, Danny. I love you," she said again.
"Love you most." He hung up, threw his phone down on his desk, and glanced over at Doc.
He swallowed hard, mouthed the words silently, took a sip of cocoa.
"I couldn't save him, Doc," he whispered.
"It's not your fault."
He bolted upright at that, slamming his fist down on the desk. "I let a fellow soldier fall to his death! I stood there, and I did nothing! How the hell is that not my fault?" He slumped down, leaned his head on his hand again. "I should've…waited for backup, called ESU, something, dammit!"
"And if you had waited, he might have taken Tommy with him when he jumped."
Doc paused for a minute. "I ran into Detective Baez on my way in. She says you talked with John, you stayed up there talking with him. Sounds to me like you did a lot."
"Not enough."
"Danny, he…Danny, he had already made up his mind. John…chose to fall off that roof. He wanted to die, because he didn't see any other way out of the post-traumatic stress disorder. If you had tried to physically force him off that ledge…it's possible he would have dragged you with him—to your death. Would you have wanted to do that to Linda, to Jack, to Sean?"
He shook his head, held his breath at the thought.
"Breathe, Danny."
He flinched at the grip of a warm hand on his arm. "Breathe with me, Danny. In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five."
He let out a shaky breath, and Doc let go of his arm. "That's it, there you go. Walk me through what happened on that roof, Danny."
He shifted in his chair, scrubbed at his face with his hands, told Doc what had happened.
He would never be able to forget the words he had said on that roof. He had opened up—in a way he never had, even to Linda—and still he had failed.
He had failed, and a fellow Iraqi War vet was dead, and what business did he have being alive when he hadn't been able to save John Russell?
He beat the desk again with his fists. "Dammit, I promised him I'd help him myself. I would've listened to him, soldier to soldier…dammitall!"
A stray tear rolled down his face, and he swiped it away angrily. "He said he didn't know why he survived. I told him it was so he could get back to his family. He said no, he got it 'cause he was quick. I tried…I told him it was time to come home. He saluted me; I said, 'Don't do this.' And then he…he…he let himself fall backwards."
He was back on the rooftop, hands beating the concrete wall as he screamed "Dammit!" at the top of his lungs and then sank to the roof, his head in his hands.
He flinched at the touch of a hand on his arm, and realized he was pounding his desk with his fists. "Dammit!"
"I'm sorry you had to see that. It wasn't your fault, Danny," Dr. Dawson said gently.
"How the hell was it not my fault, Doc?" The tears he'd held back earlier were slipping down his face now, but he didn't stop them. "I couldn't save him..."
"I know. I'm sorry, Danny." The doc let go of his arm, and he shivered. "What did you do then?"
"I…I…screamed his name and then…I ran to the wall and…looked down…and saw him…on the ground. And then I…sorta crumpled onto the rooftop. I…don't know…how long I sat there…before Baez came. We…got a uniform to bring Mrs. Russell to the scene so she could get Tommy, made the notification to her; then Baez drove us back here, and we filled out all the paperwork, and now here I am."
"You normally drive, Danny. Why did your partner feel she needed to drive back?"
"Why do you think, Doc? Because I couldn't! I was shaking, I couldn't see straight…all I could see in my head, over and over, was John falling off that roof."
"You were in shock, which is a perfectly normal reaction to seeing someone end his own life right in front of you."
He took a swallow of his cocoa. It was cold, and he frowned. How long had they been sitting here?
He let out a shaky breath. "Jack gave a family history presentation in school on Friday. Kid thinks I make a difference in someone's life every single day." He cleared his throat. "I don't, Doc. I couldn't save John Russell."
"But you saved Tommy. You saved the life of a scared little boy. And you saved Mrs. Russell from having to bury both her husband and her son."
"But I couldn't save a fellow soldier. Again."
"Which leads us back to your guilt over your brother Joe and over your time in Fallujah."
"I can't talk about that, Doc."
"The Army failed John Russell…didn't get him the help he needed. Just like the Marines failed you. How many years has it been, Danny? Six, seven?"
"Nine. And I can't talk about it."
"You can't, or you won't?" The words hung in the air, and he picked up the Styrofoam cup to hide his shaking hands. "Have you ever talked about it, Danny?"
While he was being so damn honest, might as well keep it up. "Just enough to get through the mandatory evals."
"Linda said you haven't been sleeping, you haven't been eating…you've been so on edge, you snapped at Jack. Just say the word, Danny, and I'll help you."
He set the cup down, leaned his head in his hands, and looked at the picture of his family on his desk. It blurred in front of him, and he remembered Jack's face on Friday…the fear that he had seen in his older son's eyes…the fear that he had put there.
He took a shaky breath, let it out. "I…can't live like this anymore, Doc. I need help."
"Good job, Danny. That's the first step. You've had a long couple of days, so we'll stop here. I'm free tomorrow at 3. Does that work for you?"
"Long as a case doesn't come up, yeah."
The doc sighed. "About that, Danny. A case won't come up. I called Sergeant Gormley, told him you needed the day off."
"Doc…you can't…"
"Already did, Danny. Come on, I'll drive you home."
"I'm not gonna drive off a cliff, if that's what you're worried about, Doc. I can drive myself home."
He stood up, grabbed his things, and left.
He drove on auto-pilot, parked, sent a text to Doc: "I'm home."
Linda was waiting for him inside, and he held her close, vaguely aware that he was shaking.
He shook his head when she asked him what was wrong, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would never be able to keep his head above the waves.
Damn Doc and his f-g accurate drowning analogy.