Author's note: This chapter is for the oofoof, because she accidentally dared me lo, these many moons ago, by saying, "I hope you're not going to …" That's like waving a red flag in front of a bull, honey. Indulge me while, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, I dive into one of the most hackneyed fanfiction conventions around.
Cigarettes and Coffee
The genie granting his requests has taken a malevolent turn. This is, technically, precisely what Gerry had wished for: he's spending the weekend with Sandra. Apparently Gerry's genie needs him to be really, really specific, though, because this is about as far as conceivably possible from what he'd had in mind. It's the letter of the law, so to speak, but definitely not the spirit.
"More coffee?"
He looks up at the sound of Jack's voice and wonders how long he's been morosely regarding the scorched liquid in his paper cup. "I'll get it," he offers, and hoists himself up from the hard plastic chair to strike off down the corridor. Anything is better than just sitting there and being bloody useless.
What's keeping them so long? The doctors and technicians are taking their sweet time with the MRI, aren't they? They've already established that her skull isn't fractured, and the less sensitive CT scan showed nothing alarming, so Gerry assumes the medical staff members are getting antsy. He certainly is.
Scratch that. He's going around the bleedin' bend.
Especially since it's entirely his stupid fault that Sandra is here in the first place.
He can't stop replaying the scene over and over in his mind, an endless cinematic loop of stomach-wrenching horror.
It had been such a normal Friday. Well, no, not exactly. Much better than normal, in fact. After they'd eaten their hot buttered toast and drunk strong black coffee, Gerry had dropped Sandra at her car, so she'd arrived at the office less than two minutes behind him – and yet when he'd seen her walk through the door, all fresh and cool and collected, and she'd looked right at him and offered a small, warm smile, Gerry's heart had skipped a beat.
If he told Sandra, she'd undoubtedly say he should make an appointment with Jack's cardiologist.
Late that afternoon the two of them had set out to visit a potential witness, or possibly a suspect – the line was usually a fine one – who lived on a council estate way out in the easternmost reaches of London. Gerry had insisted on driving, as he often did, or tried to do, and had secretly been delighted when Sandra had teased, "Ah, after all this time I finally know what it is – the real reason you always want to drive." He'd looked inquiringly at her as she buckled her safety belt, and she had continued, "It's nothing at all to do with bloody women drivers. It's cos I practically have to sit in your lap in this old pile of metal."
She wasn't entirely off base. In recognition, he'd leaned over and kissed her cheek right there in the police car park, and she hadn't even slapped his face.
He was waiting for an opportune moment to broach the subject of letting him cook a meal for her over the weekend. He didn't want to crowd her or pressure her, but it was a matter of common sense: how long would it take him just to get through the poultry selections in his mental cookbook if she only gave him one shot a week?
That and, you know, he couldn't imagine how he'd fill the sixty-four desolate hours of the weekend if he couldn't see her between Friday evening and Monday morning. Doing the laundry and the shopping? Watching football? What the hell was it he usually did with himself, anyway?
Marie Lambert was suffering from advanced dementia and was accordingly less than helpful. Gerry and Sandra had drunk tea and talked to her granddaughter, and fifteen minutes later Gerry was tromping down the four flights of unlovely concrete stairs behind the gov, wondering if she'd prefer skate or scallops. His pace slowed as he thought, so he was still several stairs up when Sandra suddenly bellowed "Oi!" and took off at a dead run, tossing her handbag recklessly over her shoulder like a bride tossing a bouquet. Gerry's eye went first to the bag, as he lunged to catch it; then, incongruously, to a bright red spray-painted smear of indecipherable tagging on the scarred tile wall; and finally to what had propelled Sandra into action: three hoodie-wearing little yobs who had just set about stripping the Stag.
"Police!" she shouted sternly, her boot heels pounding against the pavement as she ran toward them. Hers were a set of movements so fluid they could've been choreographed, so familiar and efficient that Gerry felt himself smiling as she charged. The two taller kids immediately turned tail and fled as fast as their spindly legs could carry them, but the third – the smallest, and likely the youngest – hesitated, as if wondering what the odds were that he could take a stand and impress his mates.
The odds weren't good, Gerry thought with a tiny grin as he jogged after Sandra, trying not to look too much like her errand boy or lap dog.
And that's when the odds suddenly, unspectacularly changed.
As she lunged for the kid's jacket, Sandra's foot slipped on something – a bit of oil, probably – and she began to fall backwards. She would've ended up with nothing worse than a bruised bum, but the little punk wannabe, his eyes so wide with terror that even at this distance Gerry could see the whites, took advantage of Sandra's momentum to shove her as hard as his scrawny little body could manage.
It was hard enough. Gerry heard the sickening crack as the back of her skull collided with the driver's side window, arresting her movement for a couple of seconds before she slumped against the tyre.
"Sandra!" Gerry shouted as he took off after the kid, police training getting the better of his instinct, which was to go straight to her. "Gov?"
His only response other than his own harsh breathing and the slapping of his shoes on the pavement was total silence, and when he looked back to see that Sandra was completely motionless, Gerry immediately changed direction. Sod the little villain.
"Sandra!" He spoke sharply, praying his voice would reach her, but his calloused fingertips were oh-so-gentle as he touched her jaw. There was a thin trickle of blood on her cheek, and for a second he thought she'd somehow been cut by the glass, but almost as quickly he realized her nose was bleeding. When he saw the matching crimson trail coming from her ear, he swore violently, fighting a rising tide of panic. His hand shook as he frantically dug for his mobile and dialed one-handed, his other hand resting on her shoulder. He knew she couldn't feel his touch, but he could at least feel her, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was minimally reassuring, which was better than nothing.
And that was – he glances at his watch – almost six and a half hours ago.
Even for Gerry, attempting not to think for six and a half bleedin' hours requires a really concerted, exhausting effort; but he absolutely can't allow himself to consider the possibility that Sandra is seriously injured, that she might not ever open those startlingly blue eyes again – and that even if she does, the part of her that makes her Sandra might be gone, stolen from her.
Stolen from him, he thinks, even as he despises himself for being so selfish.
Gerry trudges back down the corridor, squinting against the too-bright fluorescent glow, to hand the second coffee to Jack. They've been swilling the stuff for so long that Gerry's taste buds have mercifully gone numb. Then, maybe the sixty-seven cigarettes he's smoked have something to do with that.
Gerry's phone vibrates in his pocket and he answers without even looking at the display. "Brian, mate, one of us'll call you the second we know anything," he mutters. "We're not supposed to be usin' our mobiles, yeah?"
Since Esther carted Brian away at half eight, he's rung up three times. His wife should've just let him stay.
"Dad, it's Paula. Emily rang me. So you're still at hospital? My shift's just ended, so I thought I'd drop by on my way home, yeah?"
"Mr. Halford?" A quietly smiling duty nurse approaches. "Ms. Pullman is back in her room now. Visiting hours end soon, but you can sit with her until the doctor comes, if you like. Only one of you," she specifies.
Gerry swallows his bitterness and gestures for Jack to precede him. He'd been a little surprised – not unpleasantly – when Jack had immediately informed the administrative staff that yes, he was Sandra's relative. Gerry supposes the hospital has no legal obligation to keep two friends and colleagues informed of a patient's condition, even if those two friends are worried sick and struggling valiantly not to show it in order to keep one another's spirits up.
Gerry hovers in the hallway – Jack has somehow gotten Sandra into a private room, not on a ward – until a briskly striding doctor appears, and then crowds in the doorway behind him.
"The brain scan was clear," the doctor announces brusquely but not unkindly. "No swelling, no bleeding. Now it's a waiting game. I'm sorry I can't tell you more. If your, ah –" He pauses, looking questioningly at Jack, whose face is set as grimly as Gerry has ever seen it.
"Niece," Jack supplies, his lips barely moving.
"If your niece hasn't improved by morning, we'll do a more extensive battery of tests to assess her condition."
Jack mutters his thanks to the doctor, and once the third man has left, Gerry pipes up, "Scan's clear – that's good, innit?"
The two of them dully regard one another, and Gerry shoves his hands into his pockets.
"D'you want to sit with her?" Jack asks, and Gerry answers with a single nod. "I'll phone Brian."
Gerry stands at the foot of the narrow bed for a few minutes, sort of acclimating himself to the idea of looking at her. She's so still. It's unnerving. Serene, tranquil – Sandra Pullman? Not on your life. Even sleeping she has a – hell, a presence, an energy.
But now she's so still.
"All right, gov," he tries, "time to wake up and give me a proper bollocking. Go on, lay into me; I deserve it."
It's not entirely a trick of the light, he knows, that makes her skin look so sallow and fragile, but he tells himself it's nothing more. It makes it easier for him to draw the single chair to the bedside, avoiding the cords snaking out from the various monitors, and take her left hand.
She has elegant hands and beautiful nails, always glossy and just so. He bends his head over that hand, lightly tracing the symmetrical arches of her fingernails and feeling the steady pulse at her wrist.
'You're right, you know," he says suddenly, as if she'd spoken. "Car's a pile of shit. I'll sell the bleedin' thing off for scrap metal if you'll just open your eyes and glare at me."
Gerry squeezes her hand, faintly hoping for an answering squeeze. He doesn't give a shit about the car, not in comparison to the woman lying in this bed.
"That was a bloody stupid thing to do, Sandra. Three of them, one of you – and a useless old git like me. You're not sodding Superwoman."
Still nothing. He takes a deep breath and blinks. His eyes are watering; those aren't tears.
"This is extreme," he manages, desperately making a joke. "If you didn't want me hangin' around at the weekend, all you had to do was say."
He becomes aware of someone watching through the window in the door, and turns to see Paula. She offers a slight, sympathetic smile.
As Gerry passes out of Sandra's room, Jack wordlessly passes in.
"Hi, Dad," Paula says with that same slight smile that's so like her mother's. "No change?"
"Nope." He shoves his hands into his pockets again and raises his eyebrows. "Want to nip outside? Your old dad's dying for a fag."
For once Paula doesn't protest or scold, but simply follows Gerry downstairs and out into the overcast evening. They stand in silence through Gerry's first cigarette. As he lights his second she asks, "So, how are you holding up?"
He shoots her a quizzical look. "Better than the guv'nor. She's the one in the bed, if you hadn't noticed."
"Dad," she chides, linking her arm through his. She peers earnestly up into his face for so long that Gerry finally demands, "What?"
Paula hesitates. "Does Sandra know how much you – I mean, does she know that you're –" She breaks off as her father's expression changes and becomes carefully blank. "I thought you might like some company, that's all," she back-pedals.
He affectionately rubs her shoulders. "You need to be getting home. I know you've come off a long shift. Where's Gerry Junior?"
"With Mum." She hugs him fiercely and suddenly. "Let me know if I can do anything, or if, you know, you have any medical questions or… anything."
Odd, Gerry thinks as he rides the elevator up. Very sweet, but odd.
"Ah, there you are!" Jack exclaims boisterously when Gerry peeks into Sandra's room, and Gerry realizes that two pairs of blue eyes are trained on him.
"Sandra!" he exclaims, and her forehead immediately creases in a frown.
"Jesus, Gerry, keep it down. My head is splitting."
"Sandra," he repeats softly, grinning with delight. "You're awake."
She smiles crookedly, and all he wants is to gather her in his arms and surround her with cotton wool. She'd leap out of the bed and strangle him if he tried, even if she had two broken legs. She does hold her hand out, though, and he folds it in both of his, mentally sending Jack to Coventry. "I'm so sorry."
She frowns again. "Whatever for?" she demands.
"Are you takin' the piss? You're lyin' here because of me, because of my stupid car! If I weren't always going on about it, you wouldn't have –"
"I would've done the exact same thing if it had been a VW Golf, Gerry. Those jumped-up little sods were breaking the law," she interrupts, "and we do happen to be the police. Well, I am, anyway." Her voice is rough and scratchy, and Jack hands her a cup of water with a straw. She drinks and then smirks tiredly at both of them. "Besides, Gerry, my car's a hell of a lot nicer than yours, so imagine what might've happened if I'd been the one driving."
Jack laughs, breaking off to ask, "Where is that bloody doctor?"
"Could you find him?" Sandra asks hopefully. "I want to go home."
"Your wish is my command." Jack's smile before he pops out into the hall is so warmly affectionate that it fills Sandra with the tide of relief these two men are now riding all because of her, and she feels very, very grateful. Gratitude, at least, is safe.
"Sit." Her eyes drift closed as she tugs at their joined hands, drawing Gerry toward the chair. When he presses the back of her hand to his lips, she smiles slightly.
"Police or not, that was a bloody stupid thing to have done, Sandra," Gerry scolds fiercely. "What do you think you are, a one-woman army?"
Her eyes drift open and she smiles tiredly, self-satisfied. "I'm the guv'nor."
"Don't ever do that again," he continues in the same tone, squeezing her fingers until he realizes his stranglehold on her digits has to be approaching the threshold of pain.
She'd roll her eyes if her head didn't hurt so bloody badly; Gerry understands that clearly enough. "I didn't plan to do it the first time," she retorts.
"You scared the hell out of me, Sandra." The intensity of his tone yanks her gaze to his, and her eyes widen slightly. They stare at one another until the doctor bursts into the room, Jack hot on his trainer-encased heels.
Predictably, the doctor immediately puts the kibosh on Sandra's proposal that he turn her loose. "If everything checks out in the morning, Miss Pullman –"
"Detective Superintendent," she puts in frostily, and Gerry smothers a smile. He realizes he's still clutching her fingers, and sets about untangling his from hers as subtly as possible.
"Detective Superintendent," the doctor acknowledges in the placating tone that always sets Sandra's teeth on edge. "As I was saying, if everything looks good, you can leave tomorrow. Around lunchtime," he specifies, staving off the inevitable question.
Sandra isn't thrilled, but she looks too pained and exhausted to put up a fight. Jack and Gerry say their good-nights and Gerry adds, "Give me a bell, yeah, and I'll come get you tomorrow afternoon."
She hesitates. "If you want to, I suppose," she finally mutters grudgingly. Mindful of Jack's eyes on him, Gerry mumbles something about it being the least he can do.
Jack and Gerry ride the elevator down to the ground floor in silence. Jack isn't intentionally avoiding looking at him, is he? It's just Gerry's paranoid imagination.
He lights another cigarette as soon as they hit the cool evening air. This is a four-pack day if ever he's had one. He doesn't want to see any more wretched hospital coffee for the foreseeable future, though.
As if reading his mind, Jack catches Gerry's eye and raises an eyebrow. The older man's expression is unreadable as he takes Gerry's arm. "We can still make last orders if we hurry," Jack says neutrally. "Buy you a pint."
More author's notes: Right, so, I'm home now and promise to update as quickly as possible, provided you all let me know someone is still reading! I apologize for the long lag between chapters, but it turns out internet connections can still be a bit dodgy in the eastern Balkans ;)