TRIGGER WARNING: This is a very, very dark chapter—mentions of suicidal thoughts.
Danny hits rock-bottom in this chapter. It will be a long, slow road up-hill, but he'll come through it.
This chapter starts the next day, Thursday-a little over twenty-four hours since Danny's flashback, and his second day on modified duty.
He was sifting through the first box of evidence for Baez's case when his phone rang. "How's modified duty treating you?" his dad asked.
He sighed. "Fine, boring. 10 hours in, and I'm already bored stiff. I'm fine…"
"Don't," his dad interrupted sharply. "Not after I saw you yesterday. I know more than you imagine about waking up and wondering…if it would be easier to just end it all. And I want you to promise me that you'll call me, or Linda, or Jamie, or even Gormley. Promise me, Danny."
He couldn't speak.
He swallowed.
"Yeah," he whispered roughly, and hung up.
Sid Gormley had seen many things in his years on the job; but Detective Daniel Reagan not chafing at the bit while on modified, was a new sight.
Also new to him was the ashen face of said Detective as he hung up his cell-phone. "Reagan!"
Danny turned to face him, and Sid sighed. His best detective looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks; and there was an empty look in his eyes that told Sid just why the younger man had failed his fitness-for-duty eval the day before.
"My office, Reagan. Now!"
Danny rose and walked toward him woodenly. "Sarge…"
"You look like hell, Reagan. Shut the blinds, take a minute or five. I don't wanna make you go home on sick leave when you do more on modified than most of my guys do on full-duty."
Danny closed the blinds, then leaned back against the door, his heart racing.
"Wondering if it would be easier…" How had his dad known? The thought had been keeping him up at night, gnawing at him, stealing his appetite.
He took a turn from the door to the window and back, then pulled his phone out of his pocket.
His hands were shaking as he found Doc's number in his contacts.
The younger man answered on the second ring. "What's wrong, Danny?"
"My dad…just called…and asked…well, he didn't ask, but he made me promise…that if things got real bad…I'd call someone. Before I did anything stupid. And…until he said it…I didn't realize…not that it's his fault, it's not, but…I didn't realize…just how much…I've been thinking about it."
"Danny, where are you right now? Are you safe?"
"I'm at the precinct…Sarge gave me his office."
"Have a seat."
He froze, and Doc said gently, "I know you're pacing, Danny. Sit down, please."
He stumbled over to his sergeant's chair, sat down. "O…okay. I'm sitting down."
"Thank you." He heard papers shuffling, the rattle of car keys. "We've danced around this topic, and I was hoping to come to it a little more gently in tonight's session; but now I have to ask. Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"
"Dammit, Doc! Do you have to use those words? No euphemisms, no beating around the bush?"
"Not when you were trapped in a flashback and holding a loaded gun less than forty-eight hours ago. Answer the question, please."
He let out a shaky, angry sigh. "Crossed…my mind a few times after I got back from…Iraq, but never seriously."
"What about more recently, Danny? Since the case with John Russell?"
He let out a shaky breath. "I'm still having that same damn nightmare, and during the days…" He cleared his throat to hide the break in his voice. "Every damn memory from Iraq…they're eating me alive, Doc. It's getting harder and harder…I'm not sleeping because every time I close my eyes I flash back to Iraq, I'm not hungry; I've been…a lot angrier than I normally am even at my angriest. Some days…a lot of days…I wonder if…if it would be easier…to end it all, rather than…rather than keep living with… with everything."
He cleared his throat. "But I know suicide's a mortal sin. Although stuff like PTSD can lessen your guilt. And when I think about my family—Linda, and Jack, and Sean, and Dad, and Pops, and Erin, and Jamie—I could never do that to them."
"Danny, I'm going to ask you a very serious question, and I need you to think about it before you reply. Take a few minutes. Can you do that?"
"Yeah," he whispered.
Doc asked very, very gently, "Do you have a suicide plan?"
Images of John Russell flashed through his mind, and he shuddered. But he did what Doc had asked, and waited several minutes before answering. "No, I don't. It's…" He clamped his mouth shut.
"Finish that sentence, Danny."
"Even if I did have a plan, it's not like I have my gun anymore."
"Danny, that sounds to me like you do have a plan. Is Officer Baez there?"
"No, she…she's out following a lead for her case."
"Can you ask your sergeant to come to the phone?"
He nodded numbly. "Okay." He stood up, walked to the door. Gormley wasn't there, and he cursed under his breath. He knew where Doc was going with this, he knew Doc didn't want him to be alone, and that was probably a really good idea; but…. "I…I don't know where Sarge went, Doc."
He heard the beep of a car unlocking, and an engine starting. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Put me on speaker, and use your sergeant's desk-phone to call Linda. Stay on the phone with her till I get there. Will you do that for me?"
He nodded. "O…okay."
He dialed Linda's cell with shaking hands.
She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Hey, babe, it's me."
"What's wrong, Danny?"
"I…Doc asked me to call you." He took a shaky breath. "When you saw me yesterday morning…did…did you…did you think I was going to turn the gun…on myself?"
She caught her breath with a sob, and he flinched. "I…I didn't know what to think, Danny. I'm no stranger to your flashbacks and nightmares; but…I've never seen you that…lost. And holding your gun…"
"I won't lie to you, babe. The thought's crossed my mind—too often, lately."
There was a rattle of keys. "I'm coming down there, Danny. Keep talking to Doc, okay?"
"No, babe…please. Doc's on his way already. He had me call you so I could talk to you while he's driving here. If you and Doc both come, everyone will know something's up…I'd rather not… Just talk to me, babe…tell me…tell me what you're doing right now, what you're cooking for dinner."
As he listened to his wife throw in a load of laundry and talk about the spaghetti sauce she was planning to make, he counted his pulse. It was way too fast, and he cursed.
There was a knock on the door. "Reagan!" It was Gormley.
"Sarge is here, babe. I need to go."
"I love you, Danny."
"Love you…more," he whispered brokenly.
"Love you most." Her own voice broke. "I love you, Danny Reagan. And you better come home to me tonight. Promise me you'll come home safe."
The lump in his throat was choking him. "I…" His mouth was moving but he couldn't force the words out. He hadn't thought about what it would do to her and the boys if he didn't come home safe.
That was new. For years, getting home safe to her and the boys had been the first thing he thought about when he woke up, the first thing he thought about when he went out on a call, and the last thing he thought about when he got home at night.
Now, he couldn't remember when he'd last thought about it. "I promise…"
He hung up with her, and picked his cell-phone up. "Sarge is here, Doc."
"Danny, you know that everything you tell me is confidential—unless I think you're a threat to yourself or to others. And right now, it sounds to me like you're a threat to yourself. Will you let me talk to your sergeant?"
He sighed, and rose to his feet. At least Sarge wouldn't go blabbing it all over the precinct…. "Yeah, sure."
He walked over to the door, opened it. "Sarge…Doc Dawson wants to talk to you."
His boss took the phone, and Danny sank back into the chair, leaned his head on his hand.
He slipped his left hand into his pocket, pulled out the medal his mom had given him the day he graduated from the academy. St. Michael, patron saint of cops.
For the first time in a long time, a prayer—one memorized as a six-year-old at the knee of Mary Margaret Reagan—was going through his head, and it wasn't making him angry.
Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…
He murmured the words under his breath, trying to slow his breathing down. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen.
"Reagan!"
He raised his head. Sarge had dragged a chair over and was looking at him. From his tone, he'd been trying to get his attention for a while.
"Sorry, Sarge."
"Don't you start apologizing to me, Reagan. Why didn't you come to me, why didn't you let me know things had gotten this bad? When the Commissioner called to inform me you were on modified, he never…"
"I…didn't realize how bad things were until…until he called me and…asked me…made me promise to call someone…"
"Aw, hell, Reagan."
There was a knock on the door, and Sarge opened it. There were a few murmured words, and then Sarge had left and Doc was sitting in a chair, facing him.
"Hey, Danny."
He blinked. "Thanks for coming."
"Thank you for reaching out. Tell me more about what your dad said to you, why that rattled you so much."
He tried to take a breath, but his chest felt tight and his heart was pounding and he was breathing as if he'd just swum 500 meters in 10 seconds.
"Take a breather, Danny." Doc rose, pulled a water bottle out of his coat pocket, and handed it to him.
His hands were shaking so much he couldn't open it, and Doc took it from him, loosened the cap, and handed it back. "Nice and slow, Danny."
He gulped it down greedily, only to find he was gasping for air again.
He flinched at the grip of a warm hand on his arm. "You need to slow your breathing down, Danny. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five." He let out a shaky breath, and the doc let go of his arm. "That's it, there you go. You're safe, Danny."
He took the cap from Doc, forced his fumbling fingers to put it back on the bottle.
The bottle slipped from his hand, and he flinched when it hit the ground with a dull thud. "I…I'm drowning, Doc."
"I know you are, Danny. I'm not gonna let you drown. But in order to pull you to shore, I need your help. Can you do that?"
He laughed bitterly. "I don't know; probably not. I couldn't help John Russell. Hell, I offered to help, but it didn't do any good. How ironic that now I'm where he was."
"But you're not, Danny. Right now, right here, you're safe. I'm here, and I'm not gonna let you drown. Linda sure as hell isn't gonna let you drown. Jack and Sean need you, Danny. We will not let you drown, but you have to help us."
"Help? How the hell can I help?" He hated how helpless he sounded, but he was floundering in ten feet of water and he didn't know where the shore was.
"You're going to have to really open up. And when you think you can't, you lean on your family. I think you should call Linda back, have her come down here. And while we wait for her, you can call your dad. Okay?"
A/N: If you're drowning, please reach out! Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255. You matter and your life is worth living.