Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
After twenty-seven hours of waiting for Dr. Bergman's miracle cure to work, Steve's thoroughly convinced that he needs to start planning Danny's funeral, because there's been no change, other than a somewhat steady rise in Danny's core temperature. That isn't enough to make Steve hopeful, and Max's ever-deepening frown isn't exactly selling him on the idea that there is any more hope to hold onto. This is it, they did their best to defeat death, but the Grim Reaper held the upper hand, and now they need to lay Danny to rest.
He knows what Danny wants: from flower arrangements – none of those gaudy, elaborate displays that'll make me look like I was some kind of fruity mobster; to music– I'm thinking some Jon Bon Jovi or Frank Sinatra, or maybe something a little more traditional, like Chopin's, "Funeral March"; and everything else in between.
They've both discussed the inevitability of their deaths, and he knows where Danny keeps his will – in the bottom of his file cabinet at work – that he just recently updated it, and that this will probably be one of the hardest things Steve's ever had to do in his life – bury his best friend.
Two hours and several headache inducing phone calls later, Steve's just ending a call to Danny's kid sister, when his phone starts ringing. At first he just stares at it, not comprehending that it's an incoming call. He's made so many outgoing ones that they all seem to blur into each other: one to the funeral parlor indicated in Danny's will; another to one of Steve's Navy buddy's to secure a military aircraft to transport Danny's body back to New Jersey; and still others that Steve just doesn't even want to remember having made, because each one was a reminder that Danny was dead, and it was like adding another nail to the man's coffin.
"McGarrett," he barks into the phone, because it isn't a number that he recognizes, and he's had a shitty couple of days. It's Max, and Steve leans forward in Danny's work chair. He plants his elbows on his partner's desk. If he doesn't, he might not be able to stay upright.
"What is it Max?"
Steve's gut clenches. Though he knows that Danny's dead, he doesn't think he can take hearing it from Max right now, because Danny's little sister hadn't handled the news well. He can't stop hearing the catch in her breath, or the soft sobs before she'd composed herself and ended the call after offering to take on the burden of informing the rest of the family. His relief had been palpable, and he feels guilty about that.
"Detective Williams has a heartbeat," the doctor says, "and he's starting to show signs of brainwave activity. I think it's just a matter of time before he starts to breathe on his own."
Steve blinks, stares at the phone, verifying that the conversation is real and not something his sleep-deprived brain has cooked up, and then he's on his feet and out the door, signaling Kono and Chin to follow him. He knows that he should call Danny's sister, tell her to hold off on informing the others just yet, but he's selfish and wants to see Danny for himself, and to make sure that what Max is telling him is real.
True to fashion, Kono and Chin follow Steve without asking any questions. They know that they'll get answers as they need them, that they can trust Steve.
When they get to the hospital Max is waiting for them, his excitement is contagious, but Steve doesn't allow it to sway him. He's seen Danny dead, felt his cold, lifeless body, and, in effect, buried him today. He won't believe anything until he sees it for himself.
"The breathing tube's been removed," Kono says, and she's touching Danny's hair, like she had when they'd first found him. "He's warm." The smile that spreads across her face is what makes Steve move across the room and position himself beside his partner's bed.
"Here, touch him," Kono says, grabbing his wrist and placing his palm flat on Danny's chest.
Steve isn't sure that he can trust his senses right now. Up isn't up, and down sure as hell isn't down, because Danny's heart is beating. Steve can feel the ba bump, ba bump, beneath his fingertips.
"You're alive Danno," he says, and he doesn't even know why he says it like that, as though he's got to convince his partner of that fact even as he struggles to convince himself of it. Miraculous stories aside, people do not come back to life after they've been dead for almost three days.
"You're alive," he repeats, "and I'm going to make sure that you stay that way, for a very long time."
"Same here brah," Chin says, and he places a hand on Danny's arm, just beneath one of the cuts that Danny had sustained while he was being held, "you're going to grow old and gray and drive Grace, and your grandchildren batty in your old age."
"You're not leaving us anytime soon Danny," Kono says.
"I wonder if he can hear us," Steve says, turning to Max.
"I'm not sure if he can hear any of us or not right now," the doctor admits with a tiny frown, "but other documented cases indicate that once the person has been reanimated, he or she regains all, or most of his or her bodily functions."
"What about brain damage?" Steve asks.
Max takes a deep breath and looks directly at Steve. "We won't know if Danny's brain has suffered any damage until he wakes up and is fully cognizant, which won't happen for at least another couple of days. In many of the cases in which people have been brought back to life after they've been frozen, damage to the brain from oxygen deprivation has ranged from no to minimal to severe brain damage. Of course most of those people have not suffered any severe head trauma prior to being frozen."
"So, you're saying…"
"He might wake up with a traumatic brain injury or some damage to the brain, but it's too early for us to tell."