A/N: Suspension of disbelief is necessary for this chapter. Danny remembers what happened. I know, I know… Sorry!
He had drowned.
Not just half-drowned.
Totally drowned.
He couldn't breathe.
Pain and pressure and water suffocating him.
Why did drowning sound like a hospital?
Machines were beeping.
Something was tickling his nose.
He brought his arm up.
Oxygen thingey.
Someone was trying to make sure he could breathe—even though he was underwater.
Waste of time.
He took it off.
"Put it back on, Danny," said a familiar voice.
The voice came from far away.
The voice was above water, alive, breathing.
He was underwater, dead, drowned.
He didn't know why people kept talking, like he could hear them.
He didn't know why he answered, like they could hear him.
But somehow he could.
"Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck!...Answer me, O Lord…I am afflicted and in pain!" (Psalm 69:1, 16, 29)—that was Padre Donovan.
"Do not go gentle into that good night" (Dylan Thomas)—that was Doc.
"Take my hand, Danny, I'm not gonna let you drown!"—Padre again.
"If you can hear me, squeeze my hand"—Doc.
He squeezed.
He frowned.
He had felt that.
It wasn't part of the underwater dream.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The room didn't whirl.
Bile rose in his throat.
He swallowed it.
Puking with broken ribs would hurt.
"Put the oxygen back on"—Doc.
He put the oxygen thingey back on.
He looked towards the voice.
Dr. Dawson sat next to him, reading the newspaper. "Doc?" he whispered.
"Hey. Can you tell me your name, the date, and where you are?"
"Drowned. Underwater. You're not real."
"I promise you, I am very real, Danny."
Doc stood up, put a hand on his arm.
The touch was familiar.
"Doc…why?"
"Where else would I be? Can you tell me your name and the date and where you are?"
"Danny Reagan. February…21st? 2014. St. Vic's. Not the ER. Where…?"
He tried to sit up, to look around the room, but gasped in pain. Alex put a hand on his good arm. "Easy, Danny, you've got a broken arm and broken ribs. You've been in and out for a while; it's actually Sunday, February 23, but that's okay. Welcome back."
Welcome back?
Where had he been?
Besides drowned.
He leaned back, squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was racing, thumping painfully against broken ribs. He couldn't breathe.
"Breathe, Danny. Nice and slow. They couldn't give you too much pain medication because of your concussion. Breathe with me, Danny. In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five. That's it, there you go."
He breathed…in and out, in and out, in and out…over and over again.
He'd done this before…breathing in and out. With Doc.
The pain eased.
He opened his eyes.
Doc smiled sadly at him. "Can you tell me what happened?"
He shook his head, gasped at the pain. When he could breathe again, he asked, "How long…?"
"About forty hours. It's about three p.m. Sunday, February 23. You were out like a light for six hours; they did a bunch of tests, worried you were bleeding into your brain. You tried to clobber the hospital psychologist yesterday, because evidently you only wanted to talk to me—do you remember that?"
"Didn't want to talk to him."
"You could've just asked them to call me, Danny."
"Didn't want to be locked up."
"Well, they ended up having to sedate you, which they really didn't want to do, because of your concussion. Tell me what happened, Danny."
He took a shuddering breath, winced. "Concussion, remember?"
"You remembered my name and had enough skill to knock your IV pole over with your good arm. Plus, the doctors need to know if your memory's been affected. They're all afraid to come in here, so…you're stuck with me. Tell me what happened."
He closed his eyes. "Told Gramps I'd go pick up milk for him; he doesn't like driving after dark."
"After that?"
"Was I in a car crash?"
"Tell me what you think happened, Danny."
"What does it matter? I failed."
"What did you fail at?"
"Dammit, Doc, I was trying to kill myself! Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"I want you to tell me the truth, Danny."
He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling. "I got the milk. Then…either I could go home, or I could…end it all. I drove to the pier, straight at the concrete barrier."
"What happened next, Danny?"
He gagged.
He couldn't even scream at the pain because that required oxygen.
Doc was raising the bed, shoving a basin under his chin.
He retched.
"Stay with me, Danny, the pain will ease. Don't you dare out on me, Detective Reagan!"
He heaved.
Bile burned his throat.
He spat it out.
He cursed at the jackhammers in his head and his ribs.
There was a voice.
"Hang in there, honey, we're giving you something for the nausea. Keep breathing for me."
Tugging on his IV line.
The nausea eased.
He swallowed thickly.
There was a cup at his lips. "It's just water. Rinse and spit."
He obeyed.
Then he was lowered back down.
"What happened after you headed for the barrier, Danny?"
"Leave me alone, let me sleep."
"I can't do that, Danny." Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "It's okay. You can tell me. It'll help."
He reached out blindly.
Doc gripped his hand. "I'm here. You're not alone, Danny. Tell me what happened after you pointed the car towards the barrier."
"I knew I was going to crash and I didn't care. I…I wanted to die."
He froze, waiting for Doc to yell at him.
"I'm so sorry, Danny."
"I said a prayer. I heard the crash. Then everything went black."
A hand on his shoulder. "You did good, Danny. Rest now."
"How long…?"
"When you're stable neurologically and physically, they'll transfer you to the psych ward. Minimum 72 hours there."
That was too much time to be alone with his thoughts.
Might as well kill himself now.
"Easy, Danny, you're not going to be alone. Father Donovan and I will be taking shifts with you."
"Linda?"
"Your family's in the waiting room. They can't see you until after the seventy-two hours—hospital policy. But they wanted me to tell you that they love you, Danny."
He flinched.
"Concussion…so why the hell can I remember what happened?"
"That is a question for your neurologist, not your psychologist, Danny. Don't get us mixed up. Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Doc, I don't want to hurt anymore," he whispered.
"I know. We'll talk more later, when you're feeling better, but, now I just want to ask you one thing: How do you feel, that you're alive instead of dead?"
He would've shaken his head, but that would have hurt like hell. So would shrugging his shoulders.
"I don't know. Confused."
"That's understandable."
Doc stood up.
He shuddered. "Don't leave me!"
"I'm going to let your family know that you woke up, and that you remember what happened. Father Donovan will stay with you."