A/N: Now might be a good time to state "my" Monkees' ages. I go with a variation of my first impression, ans it has no real bearing on their actual ones.
Mike and Peter are both twenty-one, like Mike said in that one episode, Micky is nineteen, and Davy is eighteen. I have my reasons, though they're too long and lengthy to go into now.
"Dead?" Mike exclaimed, horrified and incredulous. "Peter, are you sure?"
"I don't know," the other boy said, miserably. "Everything is coming back so...so foggy, it's hard to know anything for sure. But I do remember seeing two go into the alley, and only one come out, and that one wasn't Micky. Why would the other guy leave him if he was still alive? I don't want to believe it, but I don't see how I can't."
Mike got up from his own bed and sat down on Peter's, drawing his friend into a hug, while searching for words to give comfort and hope to both of them. "Hey, buddy, don't worry, okay? Micky is alive and fine."
"How, Michael? How do you know that?"
"Well, for one thing," began Mike. "For one thing, he's a Monkee. Look at all the times we've been in danger, and we've always made it out okay. Besides, I think I would feel something if Mick were really... gone, y'know. Maybe it's just a crazy, deluded fantasy, but what I'm trying to say is that we gotta keep our hopes up. I, for one, am not going to believe anything until I see proof of it in front of my eyes, and I don't think you should, either."
"Thank you, Michael."
If Mike doubted any of the words he spoke, it didn't matter when he saw how comforted Peter looked. As the taller boy looked at his friend, he even caught the glimmer of a smile. Within minutes, both boys were drifting off.
Mike never bothered going back to his own bed, choosing instead to curl up at the foot of Peter's.
He slept better that way, anyway.
Officer Marcus Ridley sighed softly to himself as he cruised slowly down the darkened street, the glaring headlights of his car lighting his way. So much for going home tonight. From the looks of things he wouldn't enjoy the comfort of his own bed for another twelve hours, at least. Oh well. Some days were like that. You could not expect nice, regular hours working in the Police Department.
He, like the rest of the officers on duty, had been given a description of each of the three missing boys and detailed to a certain area of town. Figures he'd get the slummy area, though. He really hated being one of the juniors in the force. In that position you always seem to get lumped with the nastier work.
The two-way radio beside him in the car beeped loudly, and the voice that buzzed through the static was calling him. Ridley quickly pulled it to his mouth and answered. The voice buzzed through the speaker to him once again.
*Civilian witness states hearing gunfire coming from your sector. Search thoroughly. Over.*
"Roger and out," the officer replied, and the connection was dropped. Looking around him, Ridley saw that he'd pulled into a large street lined with darkened alleyways. That would mean getting out of the car and searching each one. With another sigh of resignation, the policeman grabbed his high-power flashlight and climbed out of the car.
The first thing he noted was the dilapidated state of the concrete. *The city should really fix this up,* he thought, idly, as he began his methodical search of the street and alleys.
Finally, he had searched all but one, and found nothing. Coming to the last alley, he hardly supposed that his luck would change. Shining his flashlight down the narrow strip of road, he let out a small involuntary gasp.
A body lay crumpled in the alley, face downwards.
Ridley broke into a run. When he reached the body, he turned it over, and saw it was a very young man - no more than nineteen or twenty. The policemen stifled a sharp intake of breath as he saw that one side of the boy's face was crusted with dried rivulets of dark blood. For a brief and horrific moment, Ridley wondered if the kid was even alive as he placed two fingers against his neck, checking for a heartbeat. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt one - a slow but steady pumping of life through the veins. It was only then that the police officer remembered to check the boy's identification. A wallet protruded from the back pocket of his jeans, and pulling it out, Ridley found his driver's license, identifying him as George Michael Dolenz - one of the missing boys.
The police officer fumbled at his belt for the walkie-talkie clipped there. Within moments, he had contacted HQ, telling them of his find, and to bring the paramedics.
Davy sat gloomily in his cell, massaging his sore throat. He'd been yelling every insult or profanity he could ever remember hearing for the last two hours, trying to get his message across, but to no avail. No one came to let him out or even give him some sort of news. Aside from one snoring drunk in the adjacent cell, the only person he had seen since being locked up was Carstairs, who had taken five minutes to bring him a cup of coffee, a blanket, and a pillow - in case he decided to shut up and sleep, the detective said.
But Davy couldn't sleep. Not without at least knowing where his friends were, or what had happened, or if - but he wouldn't think about *that* possibility. It was not as though he didn't trust the ability of the police to do their best, but he wished he didn't feel so helpless. If only he had been allowed to go out and look, too! Stupid Detective Carstairs! Stupid Police and their stupid rules and stupid "safety measures"! He could take care of himself! He was eighteen years old, after all, and-
His mental rant was cut short by the appearance of Carstairs, accompanied by an officer, at his cell door. Davy stood up, hopeful that some information was at last available to him.
"News?" Davy asked, and his voice cracked as he spoke. Carstairs grimaced.
"I see all that noise making has finally caught up with your voice. Yes, I have some news - good and bad."
"Give me the bad news first."
"Okay. It appears that Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork have indeed been kidnapped, most likely by that gang - almost certainly, as there aren't any other suspects. Micky Dolenz was caught by gunfire just off 48th Avenue." Seeing the boy's face filling with simultaneous grief and fear, the detective hurried to add. "But the good news is he's very much alive. According to our forensics team, the bullet fired at him ricocheted off a cement wall near him. A small piece of stone chipped from the wall grazed his head, just above the temple. Wounds like that bleed quite a bit, and the great amount of blood coupled with the dark could cause a man in a hurry to believe his victim was dead, or dying. The assailant probably thought your friend had been hit by the actual bullet, and if so, due to the irregular shape the ricochet would cause, such a wound would be fatal.
However, from a mild concussion and a nasty cut underneath his hairline, you friend is perfectly fine. When I last checked with the hospital he was showing every sign of coming round."
"When do I get to go see him?" Davy begged impatiently, anxious for his friend.
"Now, if you like. But I must insist that one of my men accompany you. I can't risk your going crazy and trying to run off after a bunch of dangerous criminals." At that, the English boy scoffed.
"You're treating me like one of them!"
"It's only for your own safety."
"Well I think it's bloody ridiculous."
Carstairs sighed. "I didn't ask you what you thought. One of my men goes with you or you don't go at all."
Davy, though not at all pleased, had to agree. He maintained a sullen, tense silence all the way to the hospital, though the officer he was saddled with attempted to make small conversation with him. When they reached their destination, he persisted in this attitude, only finally speaking when they reached the front desk to ask after Micky.
The officer accompanying Davy was not permitted, for the sake of the other patients, to accompany his temporary charge. However, he agreed to sit in the waiting room until either Davy emerged or he received other orders.
The nurse who led the English boy to his friend's ward, a large woman, was a chatty sort of person. Albeit this trait was slightly mollified by the fact that she was working the tail end of the night shift (it being now between two and three A.M.), but nevertheless she gave Davy a lengthy rundown on Micky's condition. The boy listened with half an ear, more concerned about actually seeing his friend than hearing a repeat of what he had already been told.
Finally they reached the door the curtained-off section that hid Micky's bed, and after the nurse had shown Davy in and announced his presence, she had the decency and forethought to leave the two alone.
For a moment, all Davy could do was stand in utter silence, which Micky, sitting up in bed and looking very awake (if a little worse for wear) eventually broke.
"Hiya, Davy."
"Oh thank God," was all Davy said as he broke and rushed over to Micky's bed, causing the other boy to laugh out loud, then wince as the laughter bothered his already aching head. "It's not that funny, Micky!" Davy scolded. "I was worried sick! I still am!"
"Sorry, babe. It's just your face. It got me thinking of the time when your grandfather tried to take you back home and to stop him Peter dressed up in that ridiculous Icarus outfit," Micky said, shaking his head and giggling, and Davy, tickled by the memory, chuckled too. Then both suddenly sobered.
"The gang got Mike and Pete," Micky said, sombrely.
Davy nodded. "As far as we know, though, they're alright - for now." Micky grimaced as the full impact of that statement sunk in. Davy went on. "But at least you're okay. You have no idea how I felt when they mentioned you were caught in gunfire. For a moment I thought...thought..."
"I guess I'm just really, really lucky." Micky cut him off so as to curb the tears that Davy was showing every sign of producing. "Apparently the bullet didn't even hit me...just a piece of chipped cement. Aside from a headache that'll last awhile, I'll be fine. The doctor says I can leave tomorrow."
"Well that's good news. Maybe you can convince Detective Carstairs to bung my police escort." Davy said, half hopeful, half bitter.
"Your what?!" Micky exclaimed. "Why on earth do you have a police escort, Dave?"
"When you guys were missing I threatened to go out and look for you. Apparently that would have messed up police plans, 'cos the detective decided to lock me up until you were found and brought to hospital."
"Well if that isn't the silliest thing I've ever heard," Micky said, clearly annoyed.
"Oh well," replied Davy, shrugging. "It doesn't really matter." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, then drew them out again in surprise. In one he held a pack of Tums, in the other, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He showed them to Micky. "I picked these up earlier. Guess you don't need them anymore."
"Not for my stomach, no. I think whatever it was cleaned out of my system a while ago. But keep them. We might be able to use them for something later."
"It's odd to think that was the last time I talked to Peter. And Mike - last time I talked to him it was to hand over my chores. I can't help wishing I'd hung around to do those dishes -"
"Don't think about that, Davy," Micky said, gently. "It will turn out okay in the end. But it's late. You look like you could use some sleep."
"Speak for yourself," Davy mumbled, but Micky ignored him.
"When I'm discharged tomorrow we'll head over to the police station and sort out the escort thing. Who knows, maybe we can convince the cops to let us help. But let's get some sleep first, okay?"