Now that he was on dry land he had to fight to stay there.
Because the tide kept coming in and trying to pull him out to sea. Unfortunately, he couldn't predict when it would try to drown him, because—unlike ocean tides—it had all the regularity of a hurricane.
It crashed over him when he woke up from nightmares. It tried to pull his feet out from under him when he was driving to work. So he started leaving 30 minutes earlier than he had to so he could pull over and talk himself out of driving off the bridge.
The tide was worst during his 40 hours a week on modified assignment. The thoughts were brutal: He wasn't doing the job he'd trained for; he was a worthless detective; with his luck, he'd languish here for years.
He used every coping mechanism Doc had taught him to outrun the tide.
Slowly, the hours turned into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. May ended and turned into June, June to July, July to August. Their family's annual vacation rolled around, but after the metaphor Doc had used in January—the most apt metaphor Danny had ever heard in his life—he didn't think he would ever again enjoy the beach. So he took Linda and the boys to the mountains instead.
After a week in the brisk mountain air, he went back to work in early August. Almost half-way done with half of his time on modified.
Every Sunday, as always, he went to Mass and family dinner.
He went out weekly with Jamie for darts and soda. Occasionally he took a cautious sip of his brother's beer, but he really didn't want to find out the consequences of mixing the anti-depressant and alcohol, so that was a rare occasion.
Twice in August, when Linda was working nights and he was home alone (well, the boys were there, but he couldn't talk to the 13-year-old or the 11-year-old), he picked up the phone and dialed the hotline number (1-800-273-8255) and talked to the anonymous person on the other end of the line until the tide receded and he could breathe again.
It was mid-November when he had his second fitness-for-duty eval. Linda had dropped him off, and she'd promised to pick him up when it was over.
At the end of the 7-hour evaluation, Forsythe muttered something about "meddling doctors" and "actual department policy," and gave him his results.
He had passed.
He was surprised, when he walked out of Forsythe's office on the 4th floor of 1 PP, to see his father.
He straightened to attention. "Commissioner."
"At ease, Detective Reagan."
He relaxed just a fraction, only to tense up again when his father pulled out his badge and gun.
"I think these belong to you. Welcome back, Danny. You start Monday."
His father pulled him into a hug. He didn't resist.
Linda hugged him when she got there.
Without his having to ask, she drove to Doc's office.
He was getting in his car, and he smiled when they parked next to her. "Danny, Linda! I hope this is good news?"
Danny nodded, opened his jacket to reveal his gun and badge.
The younger man held out his hand. "Congratulations, Detective Reagan."
"Thanks, Doc," he whispered, and stared at his feet. "Can…can I talk to you for a second? It won't take long."
"Of course." Doc sat down on the curb, and Danny sat down next to him. Linda got back in the car.
"Thank you for pulling me to shore."
"Thank you for reaching out for help, Danny. You have no idea how much more strength it took for you to reach out for help, to admit you were drowning, than it did for me to keep your head above the water. You did all the heavy lifting, Danny."
He nodded, not sure how to respond to that. "I suppose this is goodbye, unless I start to drown again?"
"Actually, Danny, I have a suggestion. This is obviously not mandatory, but I think it would be good for you to keep coming back, just to talk through things, make sure you reach out before you're knee-deep in water."
He didn't have to think about the words, they just came out. "Yeah, that would be good. Thanks, Doc. How often?"
"I'll keep the 8 o'clock Monday slot open for you. If you want to tentatively say every other week, we can do that; and if something major comes up, you can always see me weekly."
He nodded, stood up. Doc stood up, too, and he gripped the younger man's hand. "Thank you."
Danny looked Alex Dawson in the eyes. "When you told me I didn't need to wait till I was drowning to reach out for help…that advice…was worth a million dollars. See you around, Doc."
A/N: And now we have come to the end of "Drowning." What started 9 months ago as a one-shot—putting words to the silent scene at the end of 4x13—somehow turned into 58 chapters and over 90,000 words.
Special thanks to my most faithful reader and reviewer, JLMayer! She caught more than a few inaccuracies and helped shape several chapters. Thanks and many thanks!
Now might be a good time to confess: I am not a psychologist, and I've never lost a friend or relative to suicide. I read many, many heartbreaking stories and statistics about suicide among veterans and law enforcement officers, to assist with this story.