It was a tiring day for Danny, as news that visiting restrictions had been removed had flown through HPD and there was a constant stream of on and off duty officers popping in to say hello. To prove to Bergman that he was up to going home, Danny badgered a couple of nurses into taking him for short walks around the hospital corridors and even briefly outside. The fresh air felt great, but each time it also pointed up how weak he still was. He tired very easily and could cheerfully have taken an afternoon nap, except he kept getting more visitors. By the time Bergman appeared in the early evening, Danny was drooping.

The coroner took his time reading Danny's notes, noticing how much he had eaten that day, how his vitals had been and how much pain medication he had received. In Bergman's personal opinion, Danny hadn't had enough for the pain, but his vitals were all right and although he looked tired, he still had good colour. Bergman knew that Danny – like Steve – couldn't bear being cooped up in a hospital room for any length of time.

"Well?" Danny's impatience was getting the better of him.

"Well what?" Bergman asked, knowing full well that his answer would infuriate the detective.

"Doc! Can I go home tomorrow?" Danny turned pleading eyes on the crusty medic. "Please?" he added hopefully.

"Well, since you ask so nicely, all right," Bergman agreed. "We might get more work out of the nurses without you here."

"Hey, I've hardly bothered them at all," Danny protested. He did not mention that at least three different nurses had given him their phone number. "I've been a model patient."

"After I sedated the daylights out of you," Bergman reminded dryly. "And then sent in the big guns."

Rolling his eyes, Danny had to laugh. "You cheated," he accused the doctor.

"Whatever works, Daniel," Bergman responded. "Whatever works. Tell Steve he can come and get you in the morning, but you are not to go into the office for at least a week. I want to see you again before I approve you going back for any length of time at all, understand?"

"I understand," Danny agreed. He was glad Bergman had not made him promise, because he was pretty sure that was a promise he would be unable to keep. He knew he would get bored pretty quickly on sick leave, because he was unable to swim, surf or jog. Sitting in the sun watching the bikinis go by was pleasant on a day off, but as a way to fill a week or more, even Danny could see it would lose its appeal in a remarkably short time.

Wise to the ways of the Five-O detectives, Bergman didn't push the issue. He knew full well that Danny was likely to start haunting the offices at the Palace as soon as he could make his way there without too much discomfort. That was the nature of the beast and as long as Danny didn't exert himself too much, Bergman would pretend that he didn't know what was going on. It was a system that worked pretty well, all things considered.

However, there was one thing that had had Bergman thinking since Danny had been brought in the other day. "Danny, you're right handed, aren't you?" he asked.

"You know I am," Danny replied. While not exactly clumsy using his left hand, he was obviously nowhere near as dextrous with it. "Why?"

"Then how in the hell did Shem manage to shoot you in the right shoulder?" the coroner enquired. "The butt of your gun should have taken the round instead."

"I don't know," Danny admitted. It hadn't occurred to him to think about that at all. He was too busy dealing with the pain for that to have been any kind of a consideration for him. "Maybe it ricocheted off something when I lowered the stock," he suggested.

"Maybe," Bergman agreed. "Or I have another theory."

"Oh?" Bergman was the coroner after all and he could often come up with a theory about a dead body that sent the detectives in another direction to solve the case.

"Have you seen your rifle since the shooting?"

"Of course not," Danny replied. "I've been in here." In point of fact, he had no idea what had happened to his rifle and hoped that someone had taken it down the hill for him. He hated to think of it lying up there, exposed to the elements. "I don't know where it is," he confessed. "Why?"

"I think what might have happened is that the bullet glanced off the stock of your rifle and that is how it ended up breaking your collarbone and trapping the subclavian artery." Doc raised an eyebrow as Danny's brows scrunched together in thought. "Didn't you say the bullet knocked you over?"

"It would anyway," Danny replied, still thinking.

"Yes, but Steve said that you were unresponsive on the radio for a period of time – longer than he thought you should have been. He thought you'd hit your head, but as you know there were no lumps or bumps to be found, just a couple of minor scrapes. I think the bullet hit you hard and knocked the wind out of you and combined with your fall, you were unable to breathe properly. Getting the wind knocked out of you is bad enough without getting shot, too." Bergman shrugged. "It's a thought," he offered. "It doesn't really matter; I was just curious."

"When I find out where my rifle is, I'll be able to solve part of that mystery," Danny agreed.

As Bergman left, he lifted the phone to call Steve and ask for a lift home the next day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XX

The nurses had helped him dress the next morning, but Danny suspected that dressing alone would take him quite a long time. He was tired when they arrived back at his apartment and quite glad to sit down while Steve stowed away the groceries he had picked up on the way to the hospital. He bid Danny rest, and promised to bring the detective's rifle over that evening when he popped round with some food or to do some cooking for the injured man.

After an impromptu nap, Danny rose and looked out of the windows. It was another glorious day in paradise and he thought it would be nice to stroll gently along the sand for a short time and feel the wind in his hair. He was just glancing around for some flipflops that would easily be slipped on and off when the doorbell rang. Cautiously, he went over and called, "Who's there?"

"Delivery," came the response in a feminine voice, and Danny carefully opened the door.

A young woman stood there with a huge bouquet of flowers in her arms. They were huge lilies and the sickening scent hung heavily in the air. "Here ya go, sir," the girl said, depositing her burden on the table by the door and giving him a broad smile, she left.

If there was one flower Danny hated, it was the lily. He looked for the card, wondering who on earth would be sending him flowers. The card was hand-written in block capitals. Danny dropped it and backed away, shaken to the marrow.

It read ITS YOUR FUNERAL.