Sounds.
But not really sounds. More like vibrations or changes in the air. As time passed, they took on a cadence. Gradually he could tell if some were low or high, soft or loud. The rhythms became words spoken by distinct voices.
"John, can you hear me?" Intelligent and strong.
"Come on, tiger, open those beautiful brown eyes for me." Warm and melodic.
"We're going to take some blood now, Johnny." Kind and trustworthy.
And the one constant voice in the background, the foreground, ever present. "Junior, please wake up."
More time, more words, more voices. In the core of his brain, understanding began to take place.
"Roy, it's been three days. When will he wake up?"
Jo? Why are you crying? I'm fine.
"We're all here for you, buddy."
Thanks, Cap.
"Mama said to tell you that when you feel better, she wants you to come over for dinner."
I love your mother's enchiladas, Marco.
"Sheesh, Gage, you're milking this for all it's worth!"
Shut up, Chet.
"I read a really interesting article the other day about this trail in the Sequoias."
Really, Mike?
And so it went. He slumbered in a starry twilight that soothed and rocked him.
On day four, Roy approached a breaking point, and everyone could see it. Between working, going home, and staying at the hospital when he could, the man was worn out mentally and physically. Station 51's A shift as well as other firemen who were friends with John took turns sitting with him, reading to him, or just talking about everyday happenings. But it was Roy who was the mainstay.
As Mike Morton and Dr. Brackett passed the waiting room, Mike gestured toward the paramedic, who was slumped in a chair on a break.
Dr. Brackett grimaced. "I'm going to recommend he take time off of work."
"Gage isn't improving?"
"No." The doctor crossed his arms across his chest. "He isn't."
••••••••••
It was an unfamiliar voice, deep and loud.
"Um, hello. I'm Detective Molino. We met that day at the park. I really don't know how to do this…anyway, I wanted to let you know Michael Reynolds—the man who kidnapped and assaulted you—is in jail."
Johnny's peace was jolted as images and feelings swirled in his mind's eye.
"It was really smart of you to get that scumbag to come to the hospital. I understand he might have died, and you, too, if you hadn't diagnosed him and convinced him to get treatment."
The man. A gun. Fear.
"I know you went through a lot to keep your friends safe."
The station. Save Chet. The note.
"When you get out of here, I'd like to take you out for a beer. So, um, feel better, OK? Just know you did the right thing and that you're safe. The guy is behind bars."
Too much pain. Heat. That watch! Why did I ever pick up that watch?
It was like coming up for air after swimming under water as John's senses gradually awoke. He became aware of the antiseptic smells of the hospital, the beeps of monitors, the weakness of stiff arms and legs that hadn't moved in a while.
The detective was across the room in three strides. John Gage, who was supposed to be in a coma, had moaned.
"Hang on, buddy. I'll go get help."
••••••••••
Roy sat in Dr. Brackett's office, listening but not listening to the doctor list the symptoms of exhaustion when the call came in. He watched as a rare smile blossomed across the doctor's features.
"He's coming out of it," he said as he hung up.
"He is?" A wave of relief passed over Roy.
Brackett nodded, still grinning. "Let's get up there."
As the doctor checked his stats, John followed his partner with partially open eyes. I wonder how long I've been here, he thought. Roy looked like hell.
"Hey, Junior, welcome back. How is he, doc?"
Dr. Brackett patted his patient on the shoulder. "He's going to be fine."
Roy took John's string of beads out of his pocket and held them up for his friend to see. "I've been keeping these safe for you," he sighed. "I'm going to go call Joanne and Cap to let them know. I'll be right back, Johnny."
John lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgment. He started to drift off when a big man he didn't know entered his room right after Roy left.
"How's he doing, Dr. Brackett?" the man asked.
"He'll be all right, detective. You were here at the right time."
Sonny walked up to John's bedside. "Mr. Gage, I'm Detective Molino. I am really, really happy to see you again."
John cocked his head to one side, a grin of recognition starting. He tried to speak, but the words weren't coming out. Sonny leaned over to hear what the paramedic was mouthing. To him it sounded like "beer."
••••••••••
When Chet came to visit him, Johnny was feeling much better, having eaten all of his breakfast after a good night's sleep.
"Hey, Gage, how ya doing today?" the curly-haired fireman asked as he pushed open the door.
"Not too bad, not too bad at all. How are you?"
"Good. Great, actually. Just talked to Donna down the hall. She is one sweet lady."
John rolled his eyes. "You don't stand a chance with her. She's seeing Dr. Flores in pediatrics."
Chet gave him a cocky grin. "Let the best man win." He looked around the room. "I see you finally got DeSoto to go home?"
Smoothing down his blanket John nodded. "Joanne and I double teamed him."
"You really did a number on him this time, Gage. I've never seen him so worried."
"Oh, like I got kidnapped and knocked out and was in a coma only to worry him? You are such an idiot." John snorted derisively.
For once Chet didn't have a snappy comeback. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and looked at the floor. "Yeah, um, about all of that? I wanted to thank you. I know you did what you did so I wouldn't get hurt."
John pointed toward a pitcher of water on the counter. "Would you mind pouring me some?"
"Sure," Chet replied, reaching for a cup.
"Not too much, just half a cup. Try to find a straw, too. And get me some ice."
With an exasperated sigh, Chet said, "You might think spending some time in a coma might rewire your brain and you'd wake up a little less annoying, but that didn't happen, did it?"
John grinned as Chet slammed the cup into his hand, splashing water onto the sheets. "You wouldn't have me any other way, now would you?"
••••••••••
A few days after Johnny was released, the assistant district attorney phoned to let him know that he wouldn't have to testify at Michael Reynolds' trial. The murderer would plead guilty on all counts in exchange for a full confession in open court and the death penalty taken off the table.
"The judge will hear the confession and sentence Reynolds on July 30," George Hudson told him.
"May I be present?" John asked.
"Yes, sir."
John hung up the phone slowly. As painful as it might be, he needed to know the answer to one lingering question: Why?