TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of suicidal thoughts.
"You look like hell, Reagan," his partner said when he dragged himself into the precinct at 08:21. Jamie had dropped him off.
"Thanks." He headed for the hallway, gestured with his head that she should follow him.
"What happened, Danny? Did somebody rough you up?"
He shook his head, leaned back against the wall. "No. You know I'm on modified, and that I was out sick Thursday and Friday. Sarge tell you why?"
"No. What's going on, Danny?"
Tersely, he told her the events of the past five days.
"Danny, why didn't you call me? I would have…"
"I didn't realize how bad things were until…they got really bad, and then you were out on a case. It's okay."
"Are you sure you should be here?"
He nodded, wincing. "I don't want to drag out my time on modified any longer than I have to. Please tell me you have surveillance videos or cold cases or something to keep me busy."
"Can…you use your hands?" she asked, gesturing at the bandages. Linda had re-wrapped them that morning; but bending his knuckles still hurt like hell.
"Yeah, I'll manage."
"In that case…" She turned and walked back to her desk. "Six hours of surveillance videos. Here's what we're looking for…"
The hours dragged by; he managed half of the Chinese take-out Baez got him for lunch; ate the rest for dinner; and at 1730, he kissed Linda goodbye and knocked on the door to Doc's office. It opened almost immediately.
"Detective Reagan, how was…what happened to your hands?"
He shrugged, wincing when that pulled on his ribs. "Had a fight with the punching bag Saturday afternoon. It won."
"And you didn't wear gloves?"
He caught his breath as he sat down. "Forgot."
"Why do I have trouble believing that?" He shrugged, and Doc went on, "Why did you feel the need to hurt yourself, Danny?"
"Trying to not have a flashback."
"And what about my advice to call someone?"
"Everyone was busy."
"I wasn't. I told you to call me anytime."
"Didn't want to bother you."
"You are not a bother, Danny. Next time, call me."
He nodded. "Okay."
"Promise me, Danny. Next time you feel like you're about to have a flashback or a panic attack, and you're alone, and you start to think of hurting yourself: call me."
"I…I promise."
"Thank you. Who bandaged your hands?"
"Linda. I guess I wore myself out, fell asleep or passed out or something on the floor. She found me there, woke me up. I really scared her, because she thought I'd…"
He couldn't say the words out loud. Dang, if he had just called Doc on Saturday, then he wouldn't be telling him all this right now…
"She thought you'd what, Danny?"
"She thought I'd…tried to…kill myself, slit my wrists or something," he whispered.
"Did you?"
He tensed at that, shifted in his chair. A stabbing pain shot through his ribs, and he caught his breath with a hiss. He needed to sit still before Doc noticed.
"Danny, were you trying to kill yourself?"
"Dammit, no!" he yelled. The pain in his ribs took his breath away. He pressed his hands to his side, waited for the black spots to stop dancing.
When the room looked normal and he could breathe again, he said, quietly, "I was just…trying to keep from having…a flashback."
"I told you how to ground yourself to keep from having a flashback. Did any of the techniques I told you involve hurting yourself?"
He shook his head, glad when that didn't pull on his ribs…
A hand was on his arm, and he flinched. He was losing it if he hadn't noticed Doc get up and walk the few steps to his chair. "What happened to your ribs?"
Damn the man's powers of observation. "How…?"
"You're breathing shallowly, and wincing when you take a deep breath or move a certain way—all classic signs of bruised—or broken—ribs. If you've been at your dad's house all weekend, how'd you get beaten up, Danny?"
"My oldest son, and my little sister." Doc's eyebrows went up, and he explained, "Jack… figured out the real reason Dad had taken my gun; he was upset, and he lashed out. And yesterday, at family dinner…Erin realized something was going on, and…I told her, and she pummeled me."
"Ouch. That had to have hurt. You sure nothing's broken?"
He nodded wearily. "Linda checked me over thoroughly. Just badly bruised. I'll live," he sighed.
"Do you want to?"
He frowned. Damn pain was making him fuzzy. "Do I want to what?"
"You just said 'I'll live.' Do you want to live, Danny?"
He froze. He'd walked right into that one. "Doc…I…not now…please!" He hated how pathetic he sounded, but he really wasn't ready to talk about that right now…not yet.
"Okay, we'll come back to that later." Doc stood up. "Want some hot cocoa?"
"Sure. Thanks." He'd dodged that bullet.
The younger man handed him his cup, then sat down. "I'm sure Jack didn't mean to hurt you; kids sometimes lash out like that; they don't know their own strength. Why do you think Erin reacted the way she did?"
"She was scared."
"Probably. What was she scared of, Danny?"
He knew exactly what his little sister had been scared of, but saying it out loud…
"What did you say to her, right before she hit you?"
He took a careful, if shaky, breath, then let it out. "I told her…that I had almost…turned the gun on myself; and she just…laid into me."
"What was she scared of, Danny?"
"Dammit, Doc, how would I know?"
"I think you do know. Did she say anything before or after lashing out?"
His shoulders slumped. "Yeah. She was pissed that I thought the family would be better off without me, pissed that I thought she could handle losing another brother, and royally pissed that I would be so 'selfish' as to end my own pain and make theirs worse."
"Ouch, Danny. I'm sorry. She's wrong, you know."
He frowned, glanced at Doc, who locked eyes with him. "Suicide is not selfish; it's a response to pain that you think you have no other way out of. You were in crisis mode Wednesday and Thursday… you weren't thinking straight. I want you to talk to Erin about this later this week, because she needs to know that."
Doc finished his cocoa. "Based on what Erin said to you, what was she scared of?"
He stared at the ground. "Of…losing me."
He took a sip of hot chocolate as Doc said, "In the past five days, four members of your family have told you they can't fathom life without you. What does that tell you?"
"I don't know, Doc."
"Come on, Danny, you're a smart man. Stop being so stubborn. Your wife, your dad, your oldest son, and your little sister, have all—in one way or another—pleaded with you, begged you, to stay alive. What does that tell you?"
"That…that…they want me to live."
"Good job." Doc leaned forward to lock eyes with him. "Back to my earlier question. I want you to be selfish for a minute—think about yourself, not how your answer affects your family; I'll tell you why in a bit."
Doc's eyes were boring holes into his. "Do you want to live, Danny?"
He closed his eyes. How had he gotten here? Damn Doc's drowning analogy, but John Russell's suicide had pushed him under, into the waves of memories he'd been trying to forget. Now, it was everything else on top of that…the nightmares, the flashbacks, the guilt, the memories…that had made him ready to stop fighting the waves.
The pain in his dad's voice, the fear in Jack's eyes, the fury in Erin's…but Doc had said to not to think about them right now.
Could he honestly tell Doc that he didn't want to live, that he wanted to end it all?
Doc was speaking, his words sounding as if they came from underwater. "Did you hear me, Danny? Tell me: yes or no, do you want to live?"
He had to take a sip of his cocoa before he could get any words out. "Y…yes," he whispered.
"Good. I'm glad to hear that, Danny."
"Doc, I just…I don't know how to. I shoved everything down, and now it's exploding in my face and I can't…I don't…"
"Danny, you remember the game plan we made Friday? Talk to your family, come to your therapy sessions, call me, take your meds. Speaking of the Zoloft, how's it treating you?"
"Nauseous, dizzy, and can't sleep. Linda read all the paperwork and said these are common side-effects."
"I didn't see your car in the parking-lot; did someone drop you off?"
"Yeah, Linda, on her way to night shift. Erin'll pick me up; she's working late; tough case."
"Why didn't you drive, Danny?"
"Dammit, Doc, I just told you the pills were making me dizzy! Why do you think?"
"I'm trying to get you to think here. Would it have been dangerous for you to drive while you're dizzy and still adjusting to this new med?"
"Yeah."
"If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have driven anyway. Am I right?" He nodded, and Doc went on, "But you decided not to drive. Tell me about that decision, Danny."
He sighed angrily. "Linda made me promise not to, but why the hell do you have to analyze every single detail, Doc?"
Doc shrugged. "Occupational hazard, Danny. That's a good enough reason." He glanced at his watch. "One more question, and then I'll let you call Erin; you've worked hard tonight. How's Jack?"
"He's…doing better. He followed me around all weekend; asked me to sit with him 'til he fell asleep. Hasn't had any nightmares since that one early Friday morning."
"How'd that make you feel, Danny, knowing that your son was terrified for your safety?"
"Angry."
"It wasn't your fault, Danny."
"How the hell is it not my fault?!"
"You didn't choose to have a flashback, did you?"
"Well, no…"
"I doubt Jack made a conscious decision to listen in on your conversation; the fact that he overheard isn't really anyone's fault, Danny. What did the child therapist suggest to help Jack?"
"Suggested I talk with him, let him stick close to me all weekend—which I did. As far as school today, he said to talk to Jack's teachers and the nurse; tell them to have the nurse call me so I could talk to Jack if he started to panic."
"Did he call you today?"
"Yeah, once."
"Did that seem to help?"
"I think so. He sounded calmer when he got off the phone."
"Good. That reassurance, hearing your voice even though he can't see you right then, will go a long way to helping him. He will get through this, Danny. Kids are resilient; give him a week or two, and he'll be his usual happy self."
Doc rose. "You did good, Danny. You said Linda's working a night-shift?"
He nodded.
"Try to get some sleep, okay? Don't lie awake thinking. Call me if you need to."
"Copy that," he whispered, and rose to grip the younger man's hand. "Thanks, Doc. See you Thursday."
A/N: Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.
You matter and your life is worth living!