He froze at Doc's words. Linda was probably already on her way, despite what he'd told her; but calling his dad…he couldn't.

"Why, Doc?" The younger man looked confused, and he went on bitterly, "Why bother calling them? I…I hurt my family. I scared Jack, I scared Linda…I could have…I could have killed them the other night!"

"But you didn't, Danny. I think that even in a flashback, you would have recognized your wife and your boys. We can treat your PTSD, we can find ways—continuing to talk about it, perhaps some medication—to help you fight the symptoms, so you can be there 100% for your family."

He shook his head, and Doc said urgently, "Danny, over the past few weeks, you have told me repeatedly that you don't want to hurt your family, that you know it would have destroyed them if you hadn't come back from Fallujah. If you give up, if you let the depression and the PTSD win…won't that hurt your family…permanently?"

He rubbed at the back of his neck, and was trying to think of an answer…any answer other than the truth…when his Sergeant's desk-phone rang.

The Caller ID read "Commissioner Reagan."

"It's my dad," he sighed, but didn't move. He really did not want to talk to his dad right now.

"Answer it, Danny. You need to know you're not alone."

He sighed angrily, then picked up the receiver. "Sergeant Gormley's office, Detective Reagan speaking."

"Danny, O, thank God. Linda just called me in a panic."

His dad himself sounded more panicked than he'd ever heard him, and Danny swallowed hard. "Sorry, I…I didn't mean to scare her. I…I'm not doing too good right now, Dad."

"I know, son, and I'm on my way. Detective Baker is going to pick Linda up and bring her to the precinct. You hang in there, Danny, you hear me?"

"I…I hear you, dad."

"Promise me, Danny."

"I…I'm trying."

"There's no try about this, Danny. I will not bury another son. Promise me."

He flinched at the tone in his dad's voice. He hadn't heard that tone since he was in high school. "I…I promise I'll hang in there."

"Thank you, Danny." His dad ended the call, and Danny hung up the phone.

"What was it your dad made you promise?" Doc asked.

"To hang in there 'till he gets here."

"What did he say right before that? You looked like he'd hit you."

"He…he said he wouldn't bury another son."

His head was pounding, and his whole body ached with exhaustion. He leaned back in the chair, squeezed his eyes shut.

Memories…Joe the last day they'd seen him alive…the funeral…the day they had taken down the Blue Templar…ran through his mind.

Doc was talking. "…but all I know about your brother is that he was killed in the line of duty. Tell me about Joe."

He bolted upright at that. "He was killed while he was undercover trying to take down a group of dirty cops. My dad, Jamie, and I found out...about two years after his death. We hunted their sorry $$e$ down. The scumbag who killed Joe…confessed, and then killed himself. I took the rest of their shields." He let out a shaky breath, swallowed hard. "I miss him."

"I know. How did you feel when you found out the truth behind his death?"

"Angry."

All Joe had ever wanted to be was a cop, and it was what had killed him. All he himself wanted to be was a cop, and what if this…what if he lost that?

"Doc, if I get put on sick leave—so I can't work—I'll go batty. I have to keep working, even if it's on modified! What if I never get my gun and shield back?"

"Danny, look at me, please."

He stared at the floor for several minutes, but he could feel Doc's eyes boring a hole in him; and, finally, he gave up and looked up at the younger man. Doc's eyes were warm, compassionate.

"I get that you're worried about never getting your gun and shield back—because being a cop has defined who you are for years. Tell me why you think your dad put you on modified."

"Because…I got my loaded gun out of the safe in the middle of a flashback."

"If you'd gotten drunk while on duty and carrying your loaded gun, would he have done the same thing?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. What you're saying is that your dad took away your gun so that you couldn't hurt yourself or someone else by having access to a loaded gun in an unstable frame of mind—because being drunk is an unstable frame of mind, and so is having a post-traumatic stress flashback. Am I right so far?"

He sighed. "Dammit, Doc, yes, you're right!"

"If you keep being open with me—talking through your problems, working through them—my report to Dr. Forsythe will read that you are fit for duty. I am confident that at the end of your time on modified, you will get your gun and shield back."

He let out a shaky breath. "Thanks." The panic was rising again. "But what am I gonna do until then, Doc? I've got 28 days left on modified, and I'll be stuck at home…I don't think even you will convince my dad to keep me on modified, not like this."

"Danny, we'll figure this out, second by second, minute by minute. If you'd like, I will sit down with you, Linda, and whoever else you want; and we'll come up with a game plan for the next few days, and the next few weeks—a game plan to keep you safe and keep you near your family, so you know you're not alone. It might be a good idea to also consider medication for depression, just to get you through this time. For right now, though, you and I are just gonna sit here, and chat, and keep breathing. Can you do that?"

He nodded, but he was still trying to breathe underwater. "Doc…I still don't…I can't…"

Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "You can get through this, Danny. I promise you, I'm not gonna let you drown. Take a breath with me, okay? In…and out."

He took a shaky, gasping breath. "O…okay."

After a minute, he realized what Doc had said. "Medication for…depression?"

"Yes, Danny. I can't prescribe it, but I think it would be helpful—to get you through this low period right now."

He was trying to find the words to tell Doc he didn't need medication, that he wouldn't be able to work if he was on medication, when there was a knock at the door.

Doc rose, and Danny shivered. "It's probably your father. I'll let you two have some time, maybe try to stall Linda when she gets here." He opened the door. "Commissioner Reagan."

There were a few murmured words, and then Doc left.

A/N: If you're drowning, please reach out! Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255. You matter and your life is worth living!