Disclaimer - "Mystery Case Files" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Big Fish Games, Elephant Games, and Eipix Entertainment. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters. Original characters, however, are mine - please contact for permission before using. This includes Darnell as a defined, fleshed-out character in his own right.
Aftermath
by DragonDancer5150
Chapter 4 - Recovery
"Ugh. This whole thing's even more balls up than I thought."
Darnell had already felt himself starting to court consciousness when the muttered complaint brought him around the rest of the way. He shifted, finding himself prone with only the vaguest recollection of reaching a hotel room and faceplanting on the nearest bed to pass back out for good. He wasn't sure he'd even paused long enough to kick off his asylum-issue loafers first. With a soft groan, he pulled his elbows under him, then rolled onto a hip, propping himself up to take in the room – modest with two beds, a long, low dresser, a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, a desk in the corner, and a small bathroom visible through a door opposite him.
Sitting in the desk chair, Thomas looked up from his laptop with a small, crooked grin. "Welcome back, Master Detective. Wasn't sure there for a while if you'd just passed out or died on me."
"Ha ha," Darnell deadpanned. He sat up, thankful that the exhaustion seemed to have let up with the sleep he'd gotten – how long was I out, anyway? Now he just felt like he'd been worked over by a prison gang wielding baseball bats. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out some of the stiffness. "Where are we?"
"A Premier Lodge in Preston. We're just a little out from Blackpool, and about an hour from Manchester. We'll swing through there first, stop at the asylum for the rest of your belongings, then head back to London."
Darnell frowned. "The rest?" He would have called that the first. Everything else he'd brought with him had been in his suitcase in the trunk of his car, wherever that was at this point.
Thomas was ahead of him on that, nodding at the space on the floor at the near end of the dresser.
"My suitcase!" Darnell looked up at Thomas. "My car?"
"Towed over this morning. It's sitting in a spot in the car park just outside." Thomas gave him a smirk that was half-amused, half-apologetic. "I had to call a locksmith to get into the trunk. He should be back any time to rekey everything. Your old keys will probably be found by some bewildered boatman in the belly of a fish."
"Yup, probably." Levering himself to his feet, Darnell grabbed his suitcase and hoisted it to the bed, unlocking and opening it to pull out his toiletries bag and a change of clothes. He desperately needed a shower. A glance at the alarm clock on the side table between beds told him it was a little before noon.
"Here – you'll need these. No getting that wrist wet for at least another three days. Doc's orders."
Darnell caught the small plastic bag Thomas tossed to him. He didn't remember that part, about his wrist, but there was a lot about last night that he didn't clearly remember. Maybe it was something they told Thomas when they were being checked out. He looked in the bag to find a handful of latex gloves, a roll of surgical tape – presumably to seal the wrist of a glove to his forearm – and more gauze, bandaging, and ointment. He nodded and started for the bathroom again. "How long was I out?"
Thomas shrugged. "Fourteen, fifteen hours? We left the clinic about eight. You were out as soon as your arse hit the seat in the taxi. I got us a room here and managed to rouse you enough to get you out of the car and inside, but I don't think you ever properly woke up. Figured I'd let you be till noon or one before I knocked you up."
Darnell nearly dropped half his armload as he spun around, stunned by the comment. "Before you wha-?" And then the meaning - the British meaning - of that phrase caught up to him. The American detective had been working in Great Britain for seven years now, and yet people still managed to catch him off-guard with particularly British words and phrases on occasion. Sometimes, he thought Thomas did it to him on purpose.
Now, apparently, wasn't one of those times. Thomas gave him a frown of confusion at the reaction before the American sense of the phrase hit him. He laughed. "Cor blimey! You American blokes give everything a dirty turn, don't you? Go get your shower, you bugger."
Darnell grinned. "We're just making up for our uptight cous-!"
Thomas threw the pen from the desk's pad of paper at him, cutting him off. "Don't you finish that, Yankee!" he warned, laughing. "Naff off!"
Snickering, Darnell ducked into the bathroom.
