A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt.
If you're drowning, please reach out!
Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.
You matter and your life is worth living!
It had been eight days since he went up on the roof of Doc's office building.
He had been doing his homework and talking with Doc and taking his medication.
He had been trying to interact with his family.
Tonight, though, he was alone.
He was surprised they had let him be alone.
His dad was at an NYPD event that he hadn't been able to get out of, the boys were at a sleepover, Linda was at the theater with Erin—she'd asked him half a dozen times if he'd be fine, home alone with his grandfather—Jamie was on a night tour, and Nikki was at her dad's.
His grandfather was downstairs doing a crossword puzzle.
So technically he wasn't alone.
But he might as well have been.
Doc wasn't helping.
Stupid group therapy—he'd gone twice—wasn't helping.
He'd dropped his phone and killed it, so he couldn't call Doc, or Padre.
He couldn't take the pain anymore.
He had bolted after dinner with Gramps—the old man had said something, and Danny had had a flashback.
Pathetic—having a flashback in front of his 80-something-year-old Marine Corps veteran grandfather.
He couldn't breathe.
He could hear Gramps griping that they were out of milk.
Linda had accidentally left the car keys.
He picked them up, walked downstairs, sauntered into the kitchen. "I can pick some milk up, Gramps."
"You sure you should be driving, Danny?"
He shrugged. "I'm tired of being cooped up inside; fresh air might help my head."
No one had told him he couldn't drive…
His grandfather reached for his wallet.
"I've got it, Gramps."
He got back in the car after buying the milk.
He could go home.
Or he could just end it all.
The pain.
The nightmares.
The memories.
The flashbacks.
He turned the car on, backed out.
He turned onto the road that led to the pier.
This time of night—10 p.m. on a Friday in late February—it was deserted.
He pressed harder on the gas pedal.
He pointed the car toward the concrete barrier. "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee," he prayed.
Then he floored the gas pedal.
Tires squealed and metal screeched and glass shattered.
Everything went black.
Frank was counting down the seconds until he could escape the gala when Baker came towards him. "I hate seeing that look on your face, Baker."
"Detective Reagan was involved in a car crash."
Danny wasn't supposed to be driving; he was supposed to be home, safe, with Pops. "Likely?"
She shook her head. "I'm…not sure, Sir."
He followed her, Jim on their heels. "Details?"
"A couple of teenagers making out near the pier saw a car slam into a concrete barrier. They called a bus. EMT's took him to St. Victor's."
"Has someone notified Linda?"
"No."
"Take me home. I need to tell my father, then go pick up Linda and Erin."
"What happened?" Linda asked, over and over again. "We were gone for three hours, he was supposed to be safe."
Henry shook his head. "It's my fault. I was grumbling about not having milk. Danny offered to go pick it up, and I let him go. I shouldn't have let him leave—or I should have gone with him. I thought he was doing better."
"Blaming yourselves won't help you or Danny," Alex Dawson said quietly, and rose as the ER doctor came towards them. "Dr. Gillespie, how is he?"
The doctor sighed. "He's still unconscious, but we've ruled out any brain bleeds. He has a Grade III concussion, a broken left arm, and two broken ribs."
"Can I see him?" Linda asked.
"Yes, but I want you to know that, for his own safety, his leg has been handcuffed to the bed."
She flinched. "Why?"
"I read his file. This was a suicide attempt. As soon as he's stable, we're moving him to the psych ward."
"For how long?" Frank asked.
"I can't say. A minimum of 72 hours, no visitors."
Beeping.
Machines.
Hospital.
He was alive.
Dammit.
Unless this was hell.
He opened his eyes.
Hospital.
Definitely not hell.
He was still alive.
Dammit all to hell.
He'd failed—again.
Couldn't save the men in his unit.
Couldn't save John Russell.
Couldn't even manage to crash his car properly in order to kill himself.
Jackhammers were drilling holes in his head.
Concussion.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness and nausea.
Couldn't move his left arm—it was broken.
He tried to breathe.
Nope.
Broken ribs.
He heard a paper rustle, and opened his eyes very slowly.
This time, the room didn't whirl.
A large man in a business suit sat in a chair, holding a yellow legal pad and a pen. Shrink, Danny thought, and groaned.
"Who…who the hell are you?" he rasped. Damn, his mouth was dry.
"I'm Dr. Trautman, hospital psychologist. How are you feeling, Danny?"
He tried to roll over, but couldn't. "Go to hell."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You're under 1:1 patient supervision. And I'd like you to tell me what happened."
"Let me sleep."
"You've been sleeping. You were unconscious for about six hours. We've been waking you up every two hours for neuro checks."
Likely story. He didn't remember that.
He looked around.
Nothing in the room he could throw at the doctor.
No remote.
No water jug.
No box of tissues.
O wait. His IV pole was on his right side.
"I'm not letting you inside my head! You'll lock me up!"
"Detective Reagan…"
"Get the hell out of here! And get someone to find Alex Dawson! I'm not talking to anybody but him!"
He held his breath, swept his right arm out. The IV pole swayed, headed for the doctor.
Trautman bolted out of the chair just before it hit him.
"Detective Reagan, you need to calm down!"
Monitors were beeping,
Someone came into the room.
They put something in his IV.
"Go figure out who the hell Alex Dawson is. But tell him to be careful. We better restrain…"
Everything went black—for the second time.