Chapter Ten:
Thank you for the reviews! They really have made my day, so thank you all! Here's Chapter Ten- I hope you enjoy it!
Connie sobbed, her mouth moving but silent, as she drove into work, barely safe to drive. Her hair was screwed back into a messy and bedraggled bun, her eyes still showing remnants of makeup from the previous day. She hadn't even bothered to brush her teeth as she'd thrown on the closest outfit that nobody could see up, down or through, and raced out the second that Sam had turned up to watch their daughter. He'd offered to drive her, but she'd refused. She had to have some time alone before facing this.
Dylan was driving in from the other end of Holby, more steadily. Still, he found himself exhaling and inhaling in a pattern he'd almost forgotten, something he'd learned as a coping mechanism in the years prior, and was subconsciously floating back to him. That couldn't be a good sign.
He was wearing a fleece coated in Dervla's fur, his gardening shoes which didn't require lacing up, and a pair of trousers which he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't thrown into the washing basket because a patient had bled on them.
He met Connie in the carpark, walking up to her car as soon as he saw the flash of her headlights, and had to hold her up for a second as she almost collapsed onto him, weeping. 'Connie. Connie!' he said, trying to gain balance between being sharp enough to get her attention back, and gentle enough to support her. 'Connie. Come on. We're going into the hospital. We don't know what's going on yet.'
The quickest route to orthopaedics from the carpark, if you had a lanyard and accompanying keycard, anyway, was directly through the ED. However, that wasn't a good idea, Dylan realised, and steered Connie down the side of the hospital. 'Henrik's meeting us down there. Come on, Connie. Deep breaths.'
The makeup she'd forgotten to remove last night was shifting now, down her cheeks in little black drips. Dylan bit his lip, and pulled a tissue from his pocket, frowning. He wasn't quite sure how to handle this. Slightly uncertainly, he dabbed at her cheeks.
She jumped, snapping. 'What are you doing?'
'Your… eyelash paint. It's running.'
'Mascara.' She sniffed, taking a deep breath. She spat on the tissue, glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, and scrubbed at her face. 'Gone?'
It was, more or less.
Dylan nodded. She'd stopped crying, at least.
'Caleb's on standby,' Connie said, shakily, as they entered through a brightly-lit set of double doors. 'I'm updating him the second we find out. Oh, God.'
Neurology wasn't a department Dylan was particularly familiar with, having been fortunate, by his account, to have avoided interaction with anyone who wasn't medically necessary to either himself or his patients throughout his career. He almost prided himself upon it, really.
Henrik Hanssen, CEO of Holby City Hospital, was stood waiting grimly in the entrance. He nodded at the two doctors, without smiling. 'He's in recovery, now. They've said we can go in in a minute. I expect it's a lot for you to take in, so I'm planning to be a pair of ears.'
Connie nodded. She pumped a blob of hand sanitizer from the dispenser on the wall, and rubbed it over her hands, for something to do with them, if nothing else. She felt sick.
There was a small scratch on her hand, a nick from having to remove a tin from the rubbish and into the recycling thanks to Grace's laziness. It was almost healed, but the alcohol foam seeped into the cracked skin. It stung. She was glad to feel it, feel anything, for that matter.
'Ms Beauchamp?' Henrik called. Trust him to sound as cold and clinical as a bloody clamp at a time like this. Or was that what she wanted? She looked up, inhaled, and followed him and Dylan through into the recovery room of one of the neurology department theatres.
Henrik watched their reactions, trying to force a distance. He was one of theirs, after all. Dylan was harder to read than Connie. Connie was trying to steady herself.
'What happened?' Dylan demanded, as Connie snatched up a clipboard and read it, furiously.
'He was having a nightmare. He managed to fall from the bed, and he's hit his head very badly. I'm afraid he's had a subarachnoid haemorrhage. We don't know yet the prognosis fully. We operated very quickly, and it wasn't too severe. However, it's still a bleed on the brain. As you're aware, the next few hours and days are critical.' Guy Self said. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself. Connie has moved to be next to Ethan, stroking his hand. Ethan looked paler than he'd been in weeks, a huge bandage covering his head, and even more wires snaking across him than before. 'The hip injury will complicate things. However, it's the least of my problems, currently.' Guy glanced at Connie. She was whispering to Ethan, her eyes scanning his head. Tufts of sandy hair poked out from the bandaging, while a sizeable chunk of his hair had been shaved off to allow Guy to operate. 'I can't say for sure what his recovery time will be. It's possible he'll recover fully, or recover enough to allow him to have a happy and fulfilling life, even with limitations.'
Dylan suddenly moved, to the surprise of the other staff in the room. Guy realised what was happening, and helped lower Connie to the floor. Her eyelids flickered open almost before they'd laid her down, but Dylan dropped to his knees to stop her getting up. 'You've fainted Connie, that's all. Stay still. Vasovagal. It'll be the shock. Guy, can you elevate her legs. It's alright. It's alright, Connie.'
She was shaking a little, but nodded. She allowed her eyes to close for the briefest of seconds in an effort to snatch the time to take the news in. Normally, the thought of fainting or God forbid showing any weakness at all at work would have mortified her. But just then, she was almost grateful to have an excuse to keep her eyes off Ethan's limp body.
'He's coming round. Absolute silence, please. You two,' Guy glared down at Connie and Dylan. 'Stay there. Out of his sight. Silently. I don't need to tell you that this is critical.'
Two fat, hot tears slipped from Connie's eyes and rolled down the side of her face, trickling into her ears, as she lay there, forcing herself to listen and shut everything away. Dylan gripped her hand, with some difficulty. His palms were almost dripping.
He strained his ears to hear. 'Ethan? Ethan? Do you know where you are?'
A voice replied, strained and grated. 'Hospital.'
Connie felt Dylan shaking now. Relief.
'That's right. Do you know where?'
'Ed.'
It was an effort for "ED", Dylan deduced. Was that good? Bad? What did it mean?
'You work in the ED, don't you?'
'D-d-d-doctor.'
'Well done, Ethan. Do you know what happened to you?'
A sudden, noisy cry caused Dylan to grip Connie's hand so hard that she gasped. She sat up, leaning on him for support. Would he remember any of it? His previous surgeries?
His last memory of her. He'd been terrified of her, agitated, shouting. What if he didn't remember anything else. What if he only remembered that he was scared of her?
