Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh God… 

I don't know if you've ever experienced something for such a long time that it becomes totally normal. Know what I mean? Uh… maybe not. Say, if you've been sitting weirdly for a while and when you get up you have real bad pins and needles? And you can't really remember what it felt like not to have pins and needles? Your brain insists that life always consisted of pins and needles.

Heh. Pins and needles. I'm a doctor and I still use phrases like that. I really should be saying paresthesia, but honestly, who actually says that? Elliot maybe. I got pins and needles (not paresthesia, Elliot) once when having a "Bradeython" with Turk back in college. I tried to get up from the couch, couldn't walk and fell over Rowdy. I'm such a klutz that it's pretty normal for that sort of thing from me.

This isn't normal. I can't remember what it feels like to have wrists which aren't smarting dully every heartbeat. I'm trying to avoid the reason for this, but my stupid brain keeps returning to the problem and screaming it at me.

I think I'd scream if it'd do me any good.

This is going to take monumental effort, but I'm going to do it. Come on, Dorian! Ah, ya yellow chicken-coward. Fine, be a wussy snivelling little brat. In fact, use the ultimate motivation- SHEILA, OPEN YOUR EYES RIGHT NOW BEFORE I COME OVER THERE AND PERSONALLY PRY THEM OPEN SO YOU DON'T CHIP YOUR MANICURED NAILS AND WASTE THAT THIRTY DOLLARS YOU WERE SAVING TO BUY THAT PINK CHIFFON JUMPER TO GET THEM REDONE!

Focus on… what? My vision's a bit blurry, but that's not surprising. How long have I been here? Focus on the handcuffs around my wrists. And, following the chain linking them together, wrapped around the radiator. And the blood that's dried running down my arms. It's stained the sleeves of my favorite blue scrubs top, which is annoying. Not that they've never had blood on them before. Hell, I'm a doctor. They've had most kind of bodily fluids on them (heh, who else can boast that?) What's upsetting is that it's my blood.

This bastard's a psycho. But he's not even a professional one. The cuffs are so tight they've been cutting into the flesh of my wrists. Trust me to get a crappy psycho. Surely he'd want to- oh, I don't know, stick pins in my hands or something, and since they're weirdly numb I'd feel nothing.

I twist my wrists slightly, trying to get some feeling back. It sort of works- pain lances through them, and fresh blood trickles down to my elbow and starts to drip off, which is perceived by me with a vague sense of horror. Can I accidentally slit my wrists down here?

Other than that, I'm fine and peachy.

Except for the fact I haven't eaten anything for days.

And I've been drinking stagnant water.

And I'm chained up in some guy's basement.

And my clothes have mainly been slashed to pieces.

And this guy is probably going to kill me any minute.

And I'm more terrified than any other time in my life. Including the "sex with Jordan" part.

CRAPCRAPCRAPCRAPCRAP

Damnit. I was doing so well ignoring it…

Chapter Text

Oh… I guess you're wondering how I got here, right? I suppose I need to go over it myself- this has all happened so fast.

- - - Four days previously - - -

"Daphne!"

Crap.

I look up from my chart I've been studying at the nurse's station. Well, by studying I mean doodling, but man, Turk looks good in his Super Chocolate Bear suit I've been designing. I shove SCB's work wear underneath the rest of the paper held by the clip board as I'm advanced upon by Doctor Cox, who's wearing that insane grin of his.

I wish Super Chocolate Bear would save me…

Turk flies in wearing a bright red skin-tight hero outfit with SCB on the chest in huge letters, a black mask covering his eyes and a cape. He stands between me and Doctor Cox, holding up both his arms.

"Stop, Cox, you will not harm innocents whilst Super Chocolate Bear is around!"

"Get lost Ghandi, I'm trying to talk to Mother Teresa there,"

Doctor Cox shoots lasers out of his eyes, melting Turk into a puddle. He then steps over the mess with an: "Oh yeah, and Ghandi- I'm your father,"

"Not cool, dude"

"Oh, now, STOP THAT, Isabelle. I'm just not in the mood for your daydreaming,"

I shake myself out of my fantasy world and bite down the urge to make some paternity enquiry.

"I wasn't-"

"Yeah yeah…" He's standing next to me with his arms crossed over his chest. I shuffle the papers around a bit to hide the outfit as he continues- "There's a new patient, Steven Gourley, and since you're one of those-" he unfolds his arms to lift his hands into the air to make inverted commas with his fingers "- 'sensitive guys' and he's… well, one of those 'troubled guys'-" (fingers in the air again) "You might juuuuust be sli-hi-hightly useful."

He leans one arm over the nurse's station and slouches against it, grinning at me. I can't tell if he's in a good mood or if he's about to make some sort of gay joke about sensitivity. I glance over at Carla who's doing something with filing… or something like that. What does Carla do all day? I know she's always busy… If she knows anything about Gourley then she doesn't let it show, just raises her eyebrows and then shrugs slightly.

"Troubled with what?"

"Well, Nubility…Yeesss, that is right Clarissa, you are in a state of being marriageable, but I hate to tell ya this princess, that no guy's offering a ring right now and your body clock's definitely starting to ring alarm bells." He puts a hand on my shoulder in a motion of mock concern. "Gourley suffered childhood abuse, and despite the fact it was several years ago it still seems to concern him. I need someone who doesn't look threatening and you have got to be the least threatening peon in this place. With no exceptions. Not even the small fluffy toys in pediatrics."

He looks at me with that expression that I think means he wants me to reply. To be honest, I can't really think of anything to reply to that A grade Cox rant. It’s tempting to point out that there are clown toys in pediatrics – and I mean, come on, clowns – but I think this will make things worse, so satisfy myself with an "Oh". He growls to himself, then turns around and stalks down the corridor, calling "This way, Duchess!"

I scurry after him, trying not to grin.

"I guess this means you value my opinion?"

"Newbie, we've been through this often enough- I don't value your opinion, or indeed you. There are few things I value less… In fact, I cannot think of anything I value less."

"Hugh Jackman?"

"Ohh, don't make me choose between you two girls. Anyway, the point is Newbie, you are value-less. And don't mistake that for priceless, because, believe me, there's a difference,"

He's stopped outside a door and has changed mid-rant from "antagonizing Cox" to "advice Cox". It’s always jarring when he does this, it’s like he’s been possessed by a ghost that’s making him act like a half-decent individual. He puts his palm on the door, glances in through the window, then looks back at me.

"Look, Newbie… You know how I keep telling you that you always get too involved with your patients? Well, don't with this one. In fact, don't with any, but especially not this one. Seriously. Leave the psychoanalyst 'doctors' to do that. You can't help this guy."

Is that concern? I make my best 'cool JD' expression.

"It's fine… I won't. Okay?"

For a second I think he's going to say "Promise?", but he just looks at me for a second more, tosses the chart to me and then walks into the room as I trail behind like a devastating handsome moon to his planet.

Gourley doesn't really look like the abuse cases that I was lectured about in medical school. He's not a terrified individual who shrinks back and looks as harmless as possible, nor is he some overcompensating, excessively macho specimen. But then maybe nobody really does look like that, I’d never considered how ridiculously stereotypical that series of lectures had been until I came face to face with an abuse victim. He looks around mid-forties (which the chart confirms), with dark blond hair, broad shoulders and blue eyes. He looks like the kind of guy who works out, but doesn't obsess (so not a Cox or a Todd). He looks slightly uneasy at the sight of Doctor Cox, but then visibly relaxes when he sees me. Damnit- am I really that unthreatening? Not that looking threatening is something I particularly aspire to, but still… maybe I should start calisthenics or something?

I clear my throat and decide to aim for “unthreatening yet professional”, opposed to just pathetic.

"Mr. Gourley, it says here that you were admitted with… uh, injuries to the wrists-"

Gourley interrupts me with a gentle smile. "Yeah… don’t worry about saying it. It was self-harm, I was having a bad day and it went a bit… further than planned. It was stupid, I admit it. Doctor…?"

"Doctor Dorian -"

I hear Doctor Cox snort (well, what does he want me to introduce myself as? "Hi, I'm your Doctor. Doctor Newbie. I'm a girl." That inspires confidence)

"And this is Doctor Cox. He often stands and makes that noise."

I look at the chart for a second longer, then look up at him.

"How're the pain meds doing?"

"Oh, fine- can't feel anything really."

I put the chart down and examine his wrists. They've been bandaged, but there doesn't seem to be any bleeding. I look back at the chart – he had several slashes on each of his wrists, most shallow but there was a particularly deep one on the left. The right wrist is loosely bandaged and he should still be able to use it fine, although the left has had to be more tightly bound, resulting in slightly stiff movements there. He moves both at my request and I nod to myself.

"Well, there isn't really that much more we can do - we'll keep you on your pain medication and antibiotics, and of course we'll book you in for some counselling."

"Counselling?" He snorts. "No offence, doctor, but I've had more counselling sessions than you've had beers." (Not that many then… Beer has nothing on an Appletini) "They just don't work."

"Mr. Gourley, I understand that counselling sometimes takes time…"

"I just need someone to talk to, I guess… Someone who doesn't write it all down and psychoanalyze whether I'm crazy or not afterwards."

I'm perched on the edge of his bed as I look at him, but can see how much pain he's in. He just wants help. That's why I became a doctor, after all. To help people.

"Look, Mr. Gourley… obviously we'll offer you all the help that we can. But on the whole, the staff at this hospital aren't really qualified to deal with anything that's…"

"I don't need someone qualified. I just need someone to listen!"

Gourley’s blue eyes briefly look lost and tortured as he stares at me beseechingly. He just looks so sad. Right, that does it. Time to get more involved. “Look, I'll do anything I can to help…"

"Time out!"

I jump as Doctor Cox clamps both hands onto my shoulders and propels me out of the room. I glance back to see Gourley nodding slowly. Good, I got through to him! Maybe it'll be worth whatever horrible fate that's about to happen to me.

My back slams into the wall. Ouch. That's going to leave a bruise. Doctor Cox's hand is against my right shoulder, pinning me into place. I think he thinks I might run away if he doesn't hold me in place. I think I might run away if he doesn't hold me in place.

He runs his free hand through his hair, then does the patented Cox nose tap. Oh crap. He's angry.

"Newbie, were you listening back then?"

"But all I was saying-"

"I said don't get involved! You patch the guy up then you ship him to the purveyors of the psycho-babble. You do not get involved!"

"What? I didn't get involved! All I said was-"

"Too much, Daisy, that's all you said."

"What'd you want me to do? 'Never mind, you're going to the counsellors again because we don't care'?" Okay, I'm getting slightly mad. I'm not yelling but my voice is definitely raised.

"We DO care. It's just that we don't get involved. Not like that. You just stay professional."

He's not yelling. He sounds tired. Maybe he wants to get involved in cases like that? He takes his hand away from my shoulder, resulting in me sliding down the wall slightly. "What help can we be, Newbie? We don't know the first thing about helping people in those sorts of situations. We get them to the people who can help them. We don't subject them to our amateur psychology. We just patch 'em up and get them to people who might just be able to stop them doing it again. Which slightly reduces the workload, which in turn angers Beelzebob. So everyone ends up better off.

Just don't get involved, Newbie."

He's already walking off down back to the nurse's station. I watch him go, still sliding gently down the wall, then sigh and go towards the canteen. It's probably passed my lunch break. I realize I've left the chart in Gourley's room, including the sketch of Super Chocolate Bear's outfit, but can't bring myself to go back and get it. That kind of sucks… I wanted to show it to Turk. He'd have liked it.

"That told you."

He's grinning, with his stupid mop and his stupid bad hair cut and his stupid… height.

"Told me what?"

"Don't get involved! Hey, I know the rules- and you're not allowed to get involved with patients. Maybe I'll tell someone."

He leers at me and then pretends to look thoughtful, tossing a urinal cake in the air and catching it as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, a ponderous look on his face.

"Whatever," I grunt, moving past him, head down. Ignoring the "Hey! You watch it! Are they brain damaged? 'Cos I can't think of another reason that-"

I ignore him and check my cell. Unsurprisingly, there’s no messages. Dan has been sending me a series of ridiculous messages from the new age yoga retreat he’s gone to (“You will not believe the freaky chicks here, little brother!”), but it looks like he’s finally out of signal or credit or has ascertained Nirvana-ish enlightenment via a threesome.

I glance up to see I'm in the canteen. Thank God. I grab my lunch and track down the noisy, shrieking table consisting of my friends, noticing Doctor Cox sat some distance away, resolutely ignoring us and glaring at the table like it has personally offended him.

"'Sup dog?" Turk greets me. The Todd high fives and Elliot issues a "Hey, JD! Oh, you've got the chicken salad- that is so good today!"

I collapse into a seat next to her and poke my lunch without much enthusiasm.

“What’s up?” Elliot asks at my uncharacteristic quietness.

"I just sometimes think we're not helping anyone…"

"Dude?! What are you talking about?" Turk stares at me. "Today I have saved five- you know it!- five people's lives! And one guy who had a circumcision. How can we not be helping anyone?"

"Yeah, JD. We totally help people get better!" Elliot enthuses next to me. She blows her hair out of her face and then continues "We get sick people to be healthy again, remember? We're doctors!"

"I open people up, stick in my tool and-"

"No, Todd!" I groan, dropping my head into my hands.

"Five for trying?"

I shake my head.

"Dude, you just got a bad patient or something. No big deal."

I suddenly feel a lot better. Of course I'll help loads of people today- I'm a doctor! I cure the sick! It must have shown on my face because Turk grins at me.

"Riiiight?"

"Right!" I grin. "Hey, Turk, I've designed Super Chocolate Bear's crime-fighting outfit,"

"Nice!"

"Yeah, but I kinda think it needs to be fireproofed. Chocolate Bears melt easily. Especially when their fathers are around…"

"What?"

"Oh… nothing."

"What?!"

- - - - - - - - -

"Mr. Evans, I'm sorry…" I back off worriedly, holding my hands up in a placating fashion. Evans doesn't look entirely balanced at the moment, and it doesn't help that I just told him that his wife might lose their baby. My last case of the day and this happens…

"And that's just it? You'll have to wait and see?"

"It depends on how well Mrs. Evans copes with the medication - this won't necessarily end in a miscarriage, but it might -"

"And I might strangle you with that goddamn stethoscope around your neck!"

"Mr. Evans, I really am sorry. We're doing everything we can -"

He looks at me for a second longer then collapses into the chair next to his unconscious wife. Puts his head in his hands.

"No you're not…"

He's a big guy. He probably could strangle me with my stethoscope. Probably wouldn't even need the stethoscope. Only I think he's sobbing. I advance to him to offer some sort of comfort, but see Doctor Cox through the window making wild "no" gestures at me, like he’s signaling an aircraft to land. I stop then turn towards the door.

"I really am sorry."

"Just scram, kid…"

I hurry out, dodge Doctor Cox and then make my way to the locker room. Turk and Carla have already come off shift and I think Elliot's on double, so I'll be going on a little solo ride with Sasha. Maybe it'll clear my head?

I'm still contemplating this as I leave the hospital and go around the corner to where Sasha is parked. I don't even notice him.

"Doctor Dorian?"

A large hand lands on my shoulder. I jump and make a truly embarrassing yelping noise, then flinch as a sharp pain flashes through my side. I look to see whose hand it is.

"Mr. Gourley…" He's looking at me with a strange expression. It's sort of… intense? His hand is still on my shoulder, weighing heavily against the junction between my neck and shoulder. I shrug his hand off and try to move away, but my knees suddenly buckle. I look down to see that his other hand is holding a syringe that's pressed into my side, just below the ribcage. Horror swamps me, but before I collapse into unconsciousness I clearly hear him.

"You said you'd do anything to help."

Chapter Text

- - - Three days previously - - -

When I wake up I'm not as horrified as maybe you'd imagine I'd be. Getting abducted from work isn't something that often happens to me - well, it doesn't happen to me at all actually - but some patients might be a little needy…

I'm totally lying. I'm terrified.

The first thing I see when I open my eyes are my hands, which have been handcuffed to a radiator water pipe, the chain linked around the radiator effectively securing me against it. The chain isn't very long and my arms are stretched up. I must have been here unconscious for a while, because they're really aching already. I struggle to a squatting position to ease off my arms (ever tried getting up without using your hands? I should keep doing it, I’ll develop killer abs.) As I do so I notice that my side hurts, flinching at the memory of Gourley injecting me. Clearly he didn’t practice on an orange like I used to do to make sure I could do it as painlessly as possible.

I shift and flinch at the dull ache in my side. What could he have injected me with that could have knocked me out that fast? Probably some sort of opioid analgesic, although how he could have gotten hold of it I have no idea. I frown, trying to remember if his referral mentioned what he did for a living – something that allows him access to drugs? Nothing comes to mind and I slump sideways against the radiator, the handcuffs clanking dully. I tug at them gently, but they don’t seem to have any give at all.

It's pretty dark and gloomy - I think I'm in a basement. There aren't any windows and there's some stairs leading up on the far side of the room- nothing fancy, they're just wooden plain stairs. Apart from that the room is completely empty. It's creepy. Why would anyone have a basement containing just a radiator? If I had a basement I’d turn it into some sort of bar. I entertain myself briefly thinking about making appletinis for all of my friends, but the reality would be that none of them would appreciate them and want beer. Heathens.

I grunt and snap back to reality, noticing the warmth emanating from the radiator where I’m slumped against it. This makes me realize what's woken me up - I can hear water trickling through the radiator. An eerie gurgling noise fills the otherwise silent basement. I move away, squatting down onto my haunches and shift my hands, wincing - these handcuffs seem to be on pretty tight. They're cutting in…

I sit for a while in the dark. After the brief appletini bar imagery I can't zone out any more, which is annoying because this is the sort of situation that needs to be zoned out of. It really needs to be zoned out of. It’s practically screaming for it.

This radiator is heating up. I'm starting to sweat crouched away from it and the handcuffs are being heating by it - oh crap, they're metal! Metal's a conductor, right?

A man in a metal frock coat and pants stands in front of an orchestra. After a few blasts on music he wipes his forehead.

"Awfully hot in here, isn't it?"

Okay, looks like I can still zone out, although that was just plain weird. I think my brain's starting to freak out.

These handcuffs are definitely heating up now…

Oh God, I just heard a noise. What was that? Oh… it's a footstep on the stairs. I tense. I'm not entirely sure what I should do. Pretend to be asleep? Or I could maybe force myself to be manly (hah, Doctor Cox would laugh at that)? But he seems to find me unthreatening - should I remain unthreatening or should I become threatening and hope he gets scared rather than just deciding to kill me?

Why the hell would he kill me?

WhatshouldIdowhatshouldIdowhatshouldIdoohGodwhatshouldIdo?

The choice is taken away from me anyway. His voice floats down to me cheerily, a world away from the sad, defeated tone he was using in Sacred Heart.

"Ah, Doctor Dorian. I see you're awake!"

I glance up, but can’t really see anything from the way my arms are stretched out in front of me, tethered to the radiator. I glower at the only part of his anatomy visible – his feet – in an attempt to give myself courage.

"Mr. Gourley."

That actually sounded calm. The feet glowering is clearly working.

"Oh, please, John, call me Steve."

I hate John. No one calls me John. Dan just about gets away with “Johnny”, but that’s only because he’s been bigger than me my entire life, so has always been able to kick my ass if I raised a complaint.

"Someone's going to miss me eventually, Mr. Gourley.”

He's been walking across towards me as we've been speaking and now he's reached me. He squats down in front of me. I can see him now. I'm not sure if I really want to. He reaches to me and gently turns my chin so I’m staring straight at him. I flinch from the touch and shuffle awkwardly into a less painful position.

"It really is fine to call me Steve." His smile is way too pleasant. Too calm and collected. It’s like he’s catching up with some good friend at a bar, not crouching down speaking to the physician he’s just knocked out and attached to his basement radiator. If I'm going to be chained up by someone I want them to be drooling and laughing maniacally. That would somehow seem less threatening than this. And definitely less creepy.

I feel my eyes widen and I lean back slightly. He smiles at me more widely.

"What do you mean, someone's going to miss you? You're just helping me - that's your job isn't it? You're just doing your job."

He gets up again and walks around the room. With my wrists chained to the radiator the way they are I can't turn to follow him. I glare at the radiator instead.

"Did you read my medical notes, John?"

"N-no. No, I didn't, I just saw your admittance report briefly. Doctor Cox read your notes."

"Ah. He'd be the tall guy with you when you came in the room?"

"That's him…"

"Bit overbearing, isn't he? He seemed pretty proprietary over you."

I suddenly get more uncomfortable, if that’s even possible. I don't want to talk about Doctor Cox with this guy. I don't want to talk about anyone with this guy. I just want to get out of here.

He seems to notice my discomfort and sighs shortly.

"I've got to go for the moment, John. I've got an appointments. I’ll be back soon though, don’t worry.”

He gets up to leave. I wince as the heat in the handcuffs starts to get unbearable.

"Maybe you could turn the heat off?"

"Wouldn't think of it - I don't want you freezing now, do I?"

Someone's bound to miss me eventually.

But there's a problem with that, isn’t there? I mean, how long do I have to be missing for someone to start to notice? It’s a depressing thought, but I do need to think about it. I wasn't supposed to be at Sacred Heart today, so work won't miss me until at least tomorrow. There's always Turk and Carla at the apartment, but… if I don't come back home one night then they're not likely to think I've been abducted by a patient, are they? Turk once didn't come home three nights in a row at college. We all thought he'd been abducted by aliens or something, but it just turned out he was visiting his mom and had forgotten to tell everyone. Is it like me to not come home? I might have met some hot girl at a bar and -

Well, okay, not like me then. But will Turk and Carla notice? They might just think they missed me yesterday evening - went to bed early or something and then they're both at work today. And they’re so loved up are they really going to notice if I’m not there? They might think I’ve given them space, hell they might appreciate that I’m not there. They wouldn't realize until tonight. At the earliest.

It’s not even worth considering whether Dan will notice. With or without hippy threesomes in areas with no cell reception, we go without speaking for weeks at a time. Then he sends me a fart emoji.

It's pretty depressing to think that the first person to realize I'm missing will be Doctor Kelso when I miss work. Great. He hates me. Either that or Doctor Cox will notice that there's no one to call Sally.

The handcuffs aren't really heating to a high temperature. I guess the radiator isn't hot enough. I think they're still burning me a bit; enough to be uncomfortable and likely slowly cause third degree burns over time, but not anything more dramatic. But they chafe. I think I've rubbed my wrists raw already, and I haven't really been moving them.

I collapse down with my legs outstretched, my thighs aching from squatting for so long. I lean away from the radiator. It's just too warm…

Waking up is a bitch. I'm drenched in perspiration from the heat, my back is cramped, as are my legs, my wrists are throbbing, but worst of all is that feeling you get. You know the one? It's that feeling when you know that there's someone watching you, the one that makes all the hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end?

My Spidey senses are tingling.

Someone's standing in the dark and watching me.

Someone's just standing in the dark watching me and I can't see them.

“You’re awake, aren’t you John? I heard your breathing change just then.”

I screw my eyes closed and groan, pulling my knees up so I’m curled into as much of a protective ball as I can. Gourley starts to pace around me frenetically. When he speaks again he sounds choked, more like he sounded at the hospital.

"My father… well, he was a bastard. He used to do this sort of thing to me, you know? Well, maybe not exactly this sort of thing. Never the handcuffs, but when you're a kid you already have the restraints inbuilt, y'know? Maybe they're metaphorical handcuffs, but they're handcuffs nevertheless. You see, I'm being easy on you. You're not being forced here by your own mind. You're not trapped within the constraints of your mind. You aren't just letting things happen to you.

It's soul-destroying. You hate what's happening, but you're not strong enough, you're too weak" he spits the word out "too weak and feeble to get out. You're just stuck in your own head and in the end you don't need any physical constraints at all.

It's easy for you. You don't have a choice."

I want to scream. I really, really want to scream, but my jaws seem to have clamped together.

He moves into my field of vision and looks at me thoughtfully. The reasoning part of my brain seems to have shut down completely, but some lower level functions notice that there's a lamp in the room now. It's just a single bulb. But I've noticed it because of the light it's emitting. The light that's glinting off the metal that he's holding.

It's a scalpel.

It’s a fucking scalpel.

My breathing stops. I definitely can't speak now, and stare at him as he moves closer. My eyes must look huge.

He sinks down onto one knee in front of me and looks at the scalpel thoughtfully. Then he looks at me.

"I'm sorry. But I have to make you understand. You said you’d do anything to help and I need someone to understand."

His tone is apologetic. In fact, everything about him is. He genuinely looks upset. The hand holding the scalpel is shaking slightly. It makes it worse. I'm feeling guilty that I'm making him do something - and that's just stupid.

I've gone from not breathing to hyperventilating. As he moves closer to me I panic and try to lurch back from him.

MISTAKE.

My cramped legs can't support me as I try to propel backwards and I collapse. The handcuffs, stretched to their furthest extent, cut into my wrists as they're wrenched backwards. I dimly feel hot blood flowing down my arms, although the pain is muted. Adrenaline some detached part of my mind points out.

He catches me by my shirt and pushes me back to the radiator. The pressure on my torn wrists lessens enough for me to realize that I haven't done too much damage - but that hurt. I whimper slightly.

"Idiot!" he hisses at me. "Pain is a relief. That’s how I met you, isn’t it? Don’t you understand that you need the pain to let- it – out."

He punctuates each word with a slice to my shirt. I kick out at him unsuccessfully, not caring that he's not actually cutting me. He stops, catches my flailing legs and kneels on them, which really does hurt. He weighs more than I'd have thought.

My shirt's in tatters. I loved that shirt. That was my favorite scrubs top.

He leans forwards more, putting further weight on my legs. My knees make a warning cracking sound. My arms are held up by the cuffs. My midriff feels ridiculously exposed.

The first cut is across my chest. He's doing it incredibly slowly, tracing along the line of one of my ribs. Then he does a second across the next rib lower down.

I'm trying not to yell out, but every time he touches me with the thing I yelp. It seems to be getting him angrier for some reason.

"This helps." he hisses at me venomously as he cuts me a third time.

Unfortunately for me, my larynx and various other parts rally together.

"No it doesn't! You're fucking crazy!"

One look at his face tells me I've just been incredibly stupid. It isn't a contorted mask of anger. His face has frozen, but there is icy fury in his eyes.

Then he slashes at me. It's not the slow, almost careful cuts he was making before. It's burning slashes across my chest and back. Through the myriad of pain I'm in the part of me labelled “doctor” notices that he's not going near any dangerous areas where internal organs might be hit. The cuts are also shallow enough not to cause anything fatal.

But mainly I'm just screaming. In my head and out loud.

He finally stops, shaking, his breath coming out labored like he's been running a marathon. When his breathing calms down he moves his free hand to cup my face and runs his thumb gently down my cheek.

"You have to understand - you're making me do this." he looks as calm as ever. That icy fury has gone like it never existed and despite the heat from the blood and the radiator I feel myself shiver.

He gets up, then suddenly lashes out at my right arm. And that cut was deeper. I don’t scream this time, just dangle there, unable to process what is happening. Then he walks over to the light and turns it off.

"Goodnight, John."

He sounds perfectly civilized as he then turns and walks up the staircase. Like we'd just had brandy and cigars or something.

I'm left weirdly silent, pain wracking me. He must have cut me over twenty times, but all relatively shallow cuts (except my arm, which is smarting). And my wrists hurt. My throat hurts from yelling.

I curl into a fetal position in the dark, feeling the blood gently trickling down my back and chest and soaking into my clothes.

I feel useless.

I feel alone.

And worst of all, I feel helpless.

Chapter Text

- - - Three days previously - - -

This hurts.

I come out of my curled up ball non-consciousness long enough to take stock of feelings. My back, chest, arm and wrists hurt. I have a headache. My back still hurts from when Doctor Cox shoved me into the wall (was that only yesterday?) and I'm incredibly hungry and thirsty. And an increasing uncomfortable feeling reminds me that I haven't been to the bathroom for a while.

I gotta pee.

I shuffle my feet around. I bounce my head gently off the radiator. I move my fingers around as much as the handcuffs allow. When these don't distract me I groan softly and then clear my throat. It feels like mice have been living there or something.

"Mr. Gourley?"

"Mr. Gourley?!"

Oh great. I'm being ignored. Not even my psycho captor gives a damn about me.

"Steve!"

Immediately I hear footsteps. Apparently the whole "call me Steve" thing is going to be a necessity if I need anything.

"Yes John?" Don't call me that!

He's at the top of the stairs. Feeling embarrassed I call back:

"I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom."

I hear his footsteps retreat for a while and then come back. I hate how I'm handcuffed to this radiator. I can't turn my head enough to survey the whole room, so I only know he's standing beside me when his feet suddenly appear in my field of vision. Considering my bladder situation, I’m surprised it doesn’t make me piss myself.

He puts a bucket down in front of me. I frown at it, then jiggle the handcuffs. It causes more pain than I expected it to and I wince.

"I can't really… go… without using my hands."

His footsteps retreat - great, maybe he's getting the keys? Maybe I can jump him if he unlocks the handcuffs? Then piss on him? He returns and I see the now-familiar glint of light on metal that means the scalpel's back. Steve squats down and moves it towards me. I try to back off, but I ache all over and have the added discomfort of a full bladder.

It turns out his aim was just to shred my pants. For one terrifying moment I thought he was going to turn me into a eunuch (Mr Peeps!), but apparently Mr. Gourley doesn't get his kicks out of things like me singing soprano.

He doesn't go away afterwards. After need becomes desperation and not even the humiliation can put me off I have to squat uncomfortably over the bucket and - well, do my business. It really is humiliating, although I guess no worse than I expect patients to do in front of nurses. But less so than actually pissing myself.

When I've finished I move away and just close my eyes and curl up in as tight a ball as possible. My face is burning, I'm just feeling so humiliated.

I can hear him collecting it and going up the stairs. But I can't stop myself from asking:

"Why didn't you just take my pants off?"

There's surprise in his voice as he replies: "Why, then I'd have been undressing a handcuffed man in my basement."

I suppose that does sound crazy.

- - - Two days previously - - -

I just work up. I feel terrible. I have a severe headache and I'm burning up all over. My head pounds dully in time with my heartbeat. I can feel sweat dripping down my face, back and chest. It stings when it enters the scalpel wounds.

Infection.

That scalpel probably wasn't disinfected. This basement doesn't seem filthy or anything, but it's pretty likely this could happen. The injury in my arm is in real agony. What else has he used that scalpel on? Why does he have a scalpel?

Why am I focusing on this? Detachment? I don't know. I feel sick.

He has a scalpel and access to strong drugs. He mentioned appointments. Could he be in the medical profession?

Part of me wants to scream for him to come down here. I don't want to be alone. But I don't want anything else to happen. It all hurts enough already.

My legs have cramped again. And the damn radiator must have been on while I was asleep. The handcuffs are burning me again. My wrists feel raw. I tug at them weakly. I try to ease the cramp in my legs by moving from a squatting position to a half-crouch. I nearly get there, but then my legs give in. I fall against the radiator.

My left shoulder and side hit it. I can't stop the yell I let out, or the loud clang sound that emits from the radiator as it burns me.

It hurts.

It really hurts and I'm stuck leaning against it, my legs shaking from the strain and totally unable to lever my body away from it. My brain isn't working properly, all higher brain functions have been over-ridden with a message of painpainpainpain scrawled in fire through my nervous system.

I somehow pull myself away and collapse on the floor. In the back of my mind I'm whimpering about the throbbing pain now in my side and shoulder, but I'm more worried about that noise. There's no chance Steve will have missed that.

I'm all tensed up. My breathing sounds loud and ragged as adrenaline surges through me. The fever sweat I was in earlier has changed to a cold sweat and I'm shivering slightly. Focus hard on listening.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Did I just hear something? Is he coming down here?

I've been like this for so long now. Maybe a couple of hours. I'm not overestimating it. I've been tense so long that all my muscles are shaking from fatigue.

He's not coming down here yet.

I slump back against the wall, my body aching from the twitchy aftermath of my nervousness. I'm exhausted. The handcuffs have become even hotter in my panicked waiting and I didn't even notice.

He's not coming down here. I'm safe.

- - - - -

Being slapped isn't the most pleasant of awakenings. Being slapped when you were unconscious rather than asleep and your entire body feel like it's been River Danced on is even worse. My teeth have clashed together with the intensity of the blow and I groggily open my eyes, focusing on the floor.

I awake to a myriad of pain. The handcuffs are seriously burning now. My shoulder and side are still throbbing and the various cuts made by the scalpel are definitely infected. They're burning. And I'm shivering. I feel freezing except for the hellfire emanating from my various wounds. It's ridiculous, but I feel glad for that. It's warming.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

It sounds gentle, like he's talking to a child. Only like he's talking to a child he's just violently slapped awake.

I roll my eyes up to look at him, causing a weird ache at the back of my head. My vision's blurring a bit. I was hungry earlier, I recall vaguely. Now I'm not. I've gone past the stage of hunger where you desperately need to eat. I've hit that weird plateau where you're so hungry you're not even hungry any more. I did that a lot at college when I skipped a meal. At some point I didn't eat for two days until Turk forced me to eat a pancake. Then all of a sudden I was ravenous.

“What did you inject me with at the hospital?” I ask hoarsely, realizing this is a rather stupid question. I just feel so terrible and that oddly clinical part of me wants to add this in to the equation.

“Etorphine.”

“Etorphine?”

I'm staring at him without really seeing him properly. An odd detached part of me notices that he has blue eyes and that his blond bangs falls into them a bit. He reminds me of Elliot. Then he huffs it out of his eyes, just like she does.

I'm screaming. I don't know why. This all just suddenly became real and any clinical understanding is way out of my head now.

He's grabbed my left arm and stretched it out. I kick him without much strength. He's dragged my arm across his lap and has hunched over it. He’s twisted his body to grab my arm while it’s cuffed, my shoulder pressed up against his. I flail desperately; he's got that damn scalpel, I know it.

What if he's going to cut my arm off?

I know what real panic is now. I'm shrieking and I don't care that I sound like a little girl. When the scalpel enters my flesh for the first time I let out an animalistic howl of pain.

I always thought pain had an end point. Like it was discontinuous data, like I studied at high school. You could have blue eyes or brown eyes. You could be in pain or not in pain. It turns out pain is continuous. Like height. You could be any number of heights, there weren't set answers. And there are different degrees of pain.

The scalpel's going in deeply this time, I know it. I'm in agony. And he's taking his time over it. My screaming doesn’t phase him. And now I seem to have half collapsed over his back, making choked off screams in the back of my throat. Every so often I thump my sweaty head against his back, desperately trying anything to make him stop.

He hasn't touched me for a while now. I don't really care. I'm sobbing into the material of his shirt, stretched taut across his broad shoulders. He shifts slightly and I feel the needle slide just under my ribs again before he unfastens the handcuffs. The relief of being able to finally allow my hands to crash gracelessly down is nearly as overwhelming as the drug I can already feel running roughshod through my system.

Then his arms are around me, and I don't know why, but I'm being offered comfort by the guy who just did this to me. I still don't care. I just lie bonelessly in his arms, feeling him cradle me against him chest.

"Newbie!"

His footsteps come thundering down the stairs. I hear him freeze when he gets in the room.

"Shit!" He bounds across the floor to me and lifts me off the icy-cold ground. Wraps his arms around me and holds on like he'll never let go.

"Doctor Cox?"

I choke on a sob in my throat, the miserable pitiful scream I want to let out too much for me. I've got my arms around someone. His hands are stroking my back soothingly. His chin is rested on the top of my head. It’s not Doctor Cox – like he’d ever do this – it’s… oh God, it’s Steve, holding me like I’m precious and I’m clinging desperately onto him. Like he values me, like I trust him.

I hate him. I hate him.

"D-did you ju-ju-just give me a hallucinogen?" I gasp out between the heaving breaths I'm pulling.

"No. You're burning up." He sounds worried.

I laugh. I couldn't help it. I sound hysterical but I didn't care. I laugh and laugh, as the blood continues to slowly trickle down all my reopened wounds and I can feel it moving sludgily down my left arm, where whatever he has done is clearly much deeper than the rest.

"Why do you care?"

Last time I'd been blunt with him I'd ended up in a hell of a lot of pain. But now he doesn't react.

"Of course I care. I'm here for you," he whispers soothingly, rocking me gently in his arms. His hand trails gently down the back of my neck and makes gentle massaging motions at the junction between my neck and shoulder.

He’s all screwed up. That’s obvious. He isn't in his right mind. He’s a sandwich short of a picnic. Hell, he’s an entire hamper short of a picnic. He’s an utter fruitloop.

"My father wasn't ever there for me. That's the difference, don't you see?" he asks me earnestly. "He hurt me and made me think I was nothing. There was no one there afterwards. But you're luckier than I was. There's someone here for you." I screw my eyes up and frown into his chest.

There's a distinct possibility you're schizophrenic. Unfortunately everything you have said so far actually makes sense. It's just it makes sense in a horrible, horrible way.

This guy has just cut me up and degraded me and is very likely putting my life in danger. I rely on him for everything. But for some reason I'm not pulling away and screaming at him. I feel relaxed. Maybe I'm just too tired to tense up now.

I am hallucinating then. It must be the infection. Fever dreams or something. It was a bit of a laughable hallucination anyway. Maybe in the movies if someone is abducted (I'm not going to say kidnapped - that sounds like something that happens to kids. Kid-napped. Hah) their friends will find them, come bounding into the bad guy's hideout and release the captive. Just in time – ta da! Then they'll all make some corny joke and walk out. But this isn't like that- in the movies the captive can be chained up for ages but you sure as shit never see them having to try to piss in a bucket. You don't see the rope-burn on their wrists. And the bad guy always gives a long-winded monologue of why they're doing what they're doing.

Steve isn't likely to do that. I don't think he knows why he's doing what he's doing for one thing.

I'm still sobbing roughly. This is the first time I've actually cried here. Or cried in a long time, actually. It seems weird now, but before I was just panicking too much. I'm hyperventilating a bit too. I've gone past panic and I've hit terror. I quite like terror actually. I can think. I feel like my mind is floating on a freezing cold lake of white numbing terror, but my thoughts are clear.

There's a high chance you're likely to die here.

Yes. That sounds about right. It's so strange. Yesterday I expected to get rescued. It was just something that was going to happen. Movies and books have a lot to answer for. Warping reality and making our expectations way higher than they should be.

It reminds me of something from college. I was dating this girl - she was really nice, but I thought I was in love with another one. Anyway, one night the girl I was hopelessly in love with told me that she loved me and wanted to be with me too. I dumped my girlfriend and started a relationship with the new one. It sounds a bit callous, but I was very stupid then. I ended up losing my part time job because my ex was a friend of my boss. My grades really went down, but I didn't care. I was with the girl I loved. But then she got offered a placement in New York. She just called everything off and left. I remember how stupid it felt. I had risked everything for her. She was bound to come back within a week. Which became within a month. Which became within a year. It eventually dawned on me that she wasn't coming back. But you just don't expect that to happen. You give up everything for a girl, so you should live happily ever after. When it doesn't happen to plan you feel devastated and cheated. Maybe it was the karma God getting me for dumping the first one.

But that's what this feels like. I've been abducted. So I should be rescued. I was expecting to be rescued. Now it's dawning on me that maybe I won't be rescued. Maybe no one will come and save me.

If this is the karma God then I've got no idea what I did to deserve this. I must have killed someone. A bus-load of orphans or something.

"What were you saying about Doctor Cox?"

What? Oh, Steve's still here. I don't want to talk about anyone to Steve, but I can't seem to help it.

"I thought he was here."

"He's the one with the curly hair, isn't he? Pretty tall. Looks angry?"

"Yeah, that's him."

I'm not sobbing any more. Go me.

"Why would you want him to be here?"

Why wouldn't I want anyone other than you here?

"He's… important."

What?

"Important?!"

What?!

I’m struggling to understand and express how I feel to myself, let alone to Steve. I feel like I’m suspended over some chasm, not wanting to look in too deeply. "I used to think of him as my mentor. Only then I sort of expected him to be superhuman. I realized he wasn't. I'm trying to think of him as something else, but I'm not sure what yet. So… he’s just important…"

Where did all of that come from?

"Guessing he was like some sort of a father figure to you?"

Out of nowhere I'm pouring my heart out to him. Telling him all about my dad never being there, about mom remarrying, about my popular, fantastic brother Dan. Then about how dad died, and about my secret shame that my brother who I used to think was fantastic was just some loser now. Pretty much most things. I can't seem to stop myself.

What strikes me as weird is that Steve is actually listening. He's occasionally asking questions about whichever subject I'm talking about. He's probably the first person who's really listened to me in years. When I've talked all the crap out of myself I can't think of anything else to say.

"I wish my dad had never been here," Steve mutters against my hair. "When he was he'd hurt me. For fifteen years of my life he'd beat me. Use his belt. And then I'd end up cutting myself because I felt so bad."

A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach alerts me to the fact that I’m still cradled in Steve’s arms, my hands still uselessly dangling. And I also note the "cutting myself" comment against my own injuries he's inflicted on me.

"It made me feel better somehow. Let everything out I suppose. You just let everything out. See? The cutting made you do that. It's good for you. It helps."

I'm shaking now. I can't believe I just poured my heart out. I totally forgot myself. What’s wrong with me?

Steve gets up and stretches, dropping me to the floor carelessly. I wish I could stretch. I still ache all over and am sprawled uselessly on the ground.

"Sorry about this John-" I hate John! "But I need to crash. I have more appointments in the morning.”

“You’re a vet, aren’t you? Your appointments are with animals.” I slur out, addressing his feet again. I notice him stiffen.

“Yes… I suppose you figured that out from the etorphine?”

“’N’ all the scalpels…”

“Well, aren’t you a smart boy?” He squats down again and looks into my unfocused eyes. “Well done. As a treat, is there anything I can get you?"

"Wish I could have a shower." I mutter, mainly to myself.

"Right!" Steve says cheerfully and walks across the room. I hear the sound of water running- obviously there's a tap in here somewhere. The noise stops and his footsteps get closer. Then suddenly everything's icy cold. I can't catch my breath as the freezing water soaks me.

"There you go!" Steve enthuses happily. Then he seizes my wrists and drags me back to the radiator, my hips and legs still uselessly sprawled on the ground, my only movements the occasional spasm. I let out a desolate wail, but he grimly cuffs me back to the radiator and then I hear him go back up the stairs.

I'm shaking violently. Steve left the light on, I notice. My hair has fallen into my eyes, weighted down by the cold water. My head is full of fog and my body still isn’t moving properly due to whatever tranquilizer he put into me. The freezing water has awoken the pain in my left arm. With a huge amount of effort I roll my head to one side to examine what he did.

Steve seems to have cut my forearm. The top, rather than the underside of my arm and wrist. I glance at it, then freeze. I stare in horror, my teeth chattering violently inside my skull from the cold, the spasmodic shivers wracking me from the cold.

He's carved something into my arm.

WORTHLESS.

It's been hours. I've been staring at my arm and shaking violently.

Steve hasn't turned the radiator on tonight. My wrists aren't burning any more.

Chapter Text

- - - One day previously - - -

I didn't sleep well last night. I was shaking too much. I'm still freezing cold now. I managed to fall into a sort of unconsciousness earlier. I'm not sure how long I was out of it, but when I woke up I felt even worse than before. I ache all over. It's awful. I'm also shaking pretty badly, and I don't think it's the cold from the water any more. My headache has gotten much worse, and now I'm starting to cough. I think I've got chest pains as well, but I can't be sure whether that's from the cuts or not.

Doctor Diagnosis, my medical alter ego who apparently isn't affected by this, points out that I have many of the symptoms of pneumonia. I tell him to shut up.

Doctor Diagnosis also points out that I am also showing signs of hyperventilation and that my heart is racing, suggesting I almost certainly have infected cuts and that this could eventually develop into sepsis. I wonder if my patients find Doctor Diagnosis as annoying as I do.

My breath catches in my throat and I cough again.

A large white coat is floating next to me. 

Oh great, I'm hallucinating again.

"You do realize that this is a symptom of delirium, meaning that the subject is most likely to be agitated and confused?"

Doctor Diagnosis sounds a bit like a male version of Elliot.

"Of course it's a symptom of delirium." I roll my eyes.

"The subject has been in considerable emotional and psychological stress. Also note that the subject has not eaten for over 48 hours, so metabolic rate is bound to be-"

"Just shut up, would you? If you're my hallucination then why aren't you a hot girl or something? I don't want medical advice off an impersonal floating coat!"

Doctor Diagnosis is still hovering around. I was about to add something about shutting up to him, but there's a horrible tightness in my throat. My stomach's spasming a bit. I close my eyes to try to feel less nauseous.

I swallow. It doesn't seem to be doing any good.

Oh God.

I have managed, by exercising some serious self-control, not to throw up on myself. It wasn't much better, I still threw up, just didn’t spew onto my mainly naked self. Luckily I haven't eaten much, so it's more retching. Only it's pretty loud and my stomach is heaving. Which in turn is making my chest heave, which hurts.

I seem to be finishing off with a violent coughing fit. I'm shaking still. I can't catch my breath any more. The coughing subsides from body-wracking to the more usual "painful cough" category. There's something in my mouth, which I spit out.

Blood.

Doctor Diagnosis hovers over it.

"Well. That's not good."

When Steve appears I feel - well, there's no nice way to phrase it. I feel fucking awful.

I'm actually engaged in a coughing fit when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could have stopped it. The damn radiator hasn't been on all day and I feel so cold I can't actually remember what warmth was like. I think it's evening. It's pretty difficult to tell the time when you don't have windows.

Something freezing cold touches my forehead. I jump, but the coughing has pretty much incapacitated me. After a second I realize it's his hand.

"You're burning up."

"Don't feel well." I croak out. God, I sound awful.

He's got something in his other hand, I notice. My vision seems to have deteriorated recently. It seems to be something black and leathery- it's a whip.

Panic dully seeps into my consciousness. Earlier, when I was trying to distract myself from the coughing I tried to work out why Steve was keeping me here. I came up with a few ideas:

1. Steve is holding me hostage.
2. Steve is using me as collateral.
3. Steve is a nutcase.

I'm pretty sure it's 3. But there must be a reason for this? He doesn't seem to genuinely want to do half the things he's doing. I considered schizophrenia before, but my limited knowledge just says that means someone who doesn’t seem to understand reality – which doesn’t sound right. He seems functional. I wish I'd listened more in the few psychology modules I studied at medical school.

Maybe he's obsessive compulsive? Could that be a possibility? And not the nice kind of OCD that Doctor Casey had. I wonder what he would have done in this situation? He was always so calm…

Doctor Kevin Casey screaming hysterically in the basement.

Oh yeah. It's not very clean down here. He definitely wouldn't have liked the toilet arrangements.

My hair is still hanging in my eyes. I glare through it at Steve. I probably look like an animal right now, but I don't care. I feel like one after all. He’s used to them, anyway.

Then he does something that surprises me. He squats down on the floor next to me and rolls up his left sleeve. What I see manages to shock my coughing into silence.

The scars on his arm spell out "WORTHLESS".

"You… you… you're doing to me what… what happened to you?" I sound like some of the crack addicts I've treated when they're coming off the drugs. Wretched.

"In a way. I did this to myself, same as most of the cutting. Usually with a razorblade, rather than a scalpel."

"So… so everything you've done to me you've done to yourself?"

"Pretty much," he drops his head into his right hand and sighs. When he looks up at me again there are tears in his eyes.

"I just need someone who knows what it's like. It's all very well to go to a shrink and tell them everything that happened. I did that. The guy listened, all clinical disinterest and medical aloofness, then told me all the fancy words for what I went through. He obviously had no idea what it was really like. Just said things like "You have to put your past behind you". Idiot. How can you put something behind you that haunts you every day?"

Good question. Maybe I'm going to have to do that now. If I ever get out of this.

"Ju-just a bad psychotherapist I guess."

"NO!" he snarls at me, annoyance twisting his face into an inhuman mask. I flinch back. "None of them understand, you get that? None of them."

I'm still shaking, but I think fear's entered it now as well. "So what're you going to do?" I feel slightly proud that my voice didn't break when I said that. I'm staring at the whip. I know that he's watching me staring at it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I really am sorry."

I tear my gaze away from the whip to look up at him, my eyes wild.

"Sorry for what?"

"I have to do… what he did."

"No you don't," I whimper desperately. "You don't have to do anything!"

He grabs my arms and looks into my face intently. I yell when he does, the writing scored into my arm starting to bleed again as pressure is applied to it.

"But this time I can do it right."

There's something strangely eager about his expression. There's an intensity and focus in his eyes, but also something really really… not right. It's hard to describe. Maybe lunacy looks like that look in his eyes, that oddly blank iciness that's intensified by the focus. I tell myself that mentally disturbed people should never look focused, but what do I know outside of stereotypes and the occasional exposure to some sad elements of society, rolling into the hospital? What do I actually understand of trauma and the agony that some people go through every day? Me, who bitches about my childhood, but who was never hurt, never scared, not really. How ignorant, how utterly arrogant I was for thinking I could help, that I could understand…

But there's sorrow as well. I feel sorry for Steve, I really do. This compulsion that's driving him… it's a compulsion. It seems obvious that a compulsion is a compulsion, but I don't think he can help it. In many ways he seems to have as much free will in this as I do.

"Do it right?" I echo weakly.

"I can be here for you, don't you see? The way that no one was ever there for me. Someone who understands what you're going through. Someone who won't listen with clinical detachment and then tell you that you need to carry on with your life."

"That's good?"

"Yes. There's no life after this." It’s delivered monotone, bleakly.

He's let go of me and is unrolling the whip. My breath catches again. There seem to be studs in it. It doesn't look like one of those silly little whips you flick at each other in sado-masochistic little sex games. It looks like something designed to hurt someone. Which I suppose it is.

"You don't have to do this!"

Oh my God, I'm shrieking.

"I do. I am… I'm just so sorry."

"No! No you don't! Oh please, Steve, please, don't do this to me!"

When did I start thinking of him as Steve and not Mr. Gourley?

I realize where his first stroke is going to fall before it does- my face. I wrench my handcuffed arms over and cover my face with my splayed-open hands, ignoring the screaming pain in my wrists.

The whip cuts deeply into the palm of my right hand, the stud impossibly digging even deeper. Blood wells up from it. I feel it drip down onto my face, hot and burning onto skin that feels freezing.

I hunch over desperately to protect my face. It leaves my back utterly exposed but I don't care. I'd much rather that than the possibility of losing an eye. Maybe I feel completely doomed, but the thought of that happening utterly horrifies me.

The next stroke falls across my back. The pain makes me physically baulk and I scream. I don't really care how girly I sound any more. I'd like to see anyone else go through this not making a sound except a few manly cries of "Many women find me attractive!" or something like that.

The blows keep coming down. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… 14, 15, 16… 19… I lose count. Each one is as agonizing, each one biting deep into my flesh. The studs are the worse. They go deeper and gouge into me as they are dragged down my back.

He seems to have stopped. My breathing is ragged and I'm half-coughing every exhalation. My throat is raw from screaming. I choke and spit out some more blood. My back's soaked with blood. It's oddly warming to my shiver-spasm wracked form. My lungs… God, my lungs hurt… everything hurts so much…

It's silent, except for my harsh breathing and his panting. I guess wielding a whip takes a lot out of you. I can also hear a gentle dripping. I know without looking up that it's my blood running off the whip. It must be soaked.

I'm not surprised.

It hurts most where the blows have overlapped. Oh, it hurts. Why haven't I passed out yet? In movies everyone passes out from the pain when being tortured. Why am I still conscious? I'd really like to be unconscious right now.

"I'm here for you."

His voice is shaky. He's been crying, I realize, with total disbelief. He's probably been crying all the time he's been doing this.

He just tried to put his arm around me, but I screamed when he touched my back. I think he's feeling guilty, but I can't be sure. I haven't uncurled and I don't really want to.

I don't want him to feel guilty. It's an irrational sort of guilt, but I feel guilty for making him feel guilty.

"This is all my fault, isn't it?" I whisper.

He makes an odd cut-off sob noise and doesn't answer me. He probably thinks it's my fault too.

It… it is my fault though. I'm the idiot who walked into a patient's room and offered all the help I could. I didn't know anything about the situation. I just thought I could walk in and wave a magic wand and fix everything because I'm a- because I'm a doctor. All Steve did was take me up on that offer. I had the utter… the total pomposity to imagine that I could help. I always thought Doctor Cox was the one with a huge ego…

"This is all my fault!"

Steve grabbed my uninjured left hand. I held onto his hand like it was an anchor to everything. Clung onto him like he was everything in the world left to me.

This is ALL MY FAULT.

Carla's standing at the nurse's station, smiling at me.

"Hey Bambi. How're ya doin'?"

"Carrrrrrllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaa," I grin. She smiles a bit at my goofiness. She really does look beautiful when she smiles. She looks really happy - you know some people don't really look that happy when they smile? It doesn’t reach their eyes somehow. But Carla does. She looks ecstatic. Maybe that's something to do with Turk, I don't know.

"I'm doing okay, Carla."

"You sure, Bambi?" Her eyes are full of concern. She's full of concern. She's brimming over with it, it's running down over her like water… no that's my eyes. They're watering.

"Maybe I'm not okay. I'm not sure."

She walks over to me and places her hand on my arm. Gives it a squeeze. Part of me notes that it should have hurt. But it didn't. Why should it have hurt again?

"JD!" 

One of the few people in the hospital who actually call me JD. I would say my name, but it's not my name, is it? My name's John. 

"Super Chocolate Bear!"

He grins. He's wearing his usual surgical green scrubs and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, relaxing with his hand dangling against my shoulder. I choke up a bit - Turk'll never be able to do this to me again, will he? Carla will never be able to squeeze my arm, her eyes full of concern. Turk'll never be able to shrug an arm loosely around my shoulders. Even if I get out of this alive - will anyone ever be able to touch me again?

"Carla thinks you're not doing well, buddy." he mutters to me under his breath. "So I'd be careful- my wife will surely hunt you down and find out why. You know what she's like when it comes to delving into other people's business -"

"I can hear you, baby."

He shrieks and releases me, then tips me a wink.

"When it comes to delving into people's 'business' then you should be talking to me."

Todd's grinning stupidly. He raises a hand for a high five and I grudgingly raise my right hand- he probably deserved that one. He slams his hand into mine, making me wince as usual. He shouldn’t be able to do that either, right? Something’s wrong with my hand… what’s wrong with it? I can’t remember…

"Delving five!"

"You're such an idiot, Todd!" snaps Elliot, who's appeared next to me, her voice going high as it usually does when she's trying to be confrontational.

I shrug. "He's just being the Todd. Everyone knows the Todd."

"No - everyone wants to know the Todd. Am I right?" He grins, turning to the closest person to him, which happens to be Laverne. 

"I don't wanna know you."

"Me and the T-Dog have surgery. So we'll five you later!"

As they leave the Todd gestures towards Laverne and himself, presumably saying she wants a piece.

"Hey, JD, what is with that jerk? Sometimes he just seems totally sex-mad!"

"Erm, Elliot- it's the Todd. He is totally sex-mad."

She looks at me for a second and then says "Meh" and does that shrug thing that she does to mean "good point". I see someone moving out the corner of my eye and know I have to ask his opinion on something.

"I've gotta run Elliot- catch you later."

"'Kay!"

She hugs me briefly (she shouldn’t be able to do that – why shouldn’t she?). I run off after the figure in white, springing over the mop and dodging the call "Jerk!" from the Janitor. I wheel around to deliver a quick "You're a jerk!" back and then hurry off. Tradition has to be respected, after all.

He gets me in the back with the mop (that should be agonizing, but I can’t quite remember why?), making me stagger forward, but I regain my balance.

"Doctor Cox!"

He stops and his shoulders visibly tense. 

"Damnit! Newbie -" he turns around to glare at me and crosses his arms "- can't I just go five minutes in this hellhole of a hospital without you chasing after me and prattling at me?"

For some reason I'm thinking about color - Turk's always in green, Carla's always in pink, Elliot's always in blue, Janitor's always in grey and Doctor Cox is always in white. It seems oddly symbolic. Green - grass maybe? Spring? Turk isn't my spring, that sounds ridiculous (especially considering the general view that we're going to run away together) but Turk was my new start. From geeky kid to… well, to geeky adult, but I was a cooler geeky adult with him. Pink is easy - it's sort of motherly. Like Carla. Blue - well, in the past I'd say it meant me and Elliot belong together, but I've finally managed to work out the difference between romance and friendship. Yeah, Elliot's amazing. But I'm not in love with her. Lucky for her too. Blue is a water color - maybe calm? Elliot and I are both total neurotics, but on the surface we seem calm. Grey - well, I'm just going to say that that's the color of the devil. And white… well, white usually means pure, but that's just laughable when you think of Doctor Cox. It actually makes me think of a white knight. Riding to the rescue…

"Gertie?"

Crap, I zoned out on him. Nothing new there.

"Sir Cox?"

He's staring at me. I hurry on before he can belittle me too much "There's something I need to ask you about a patient," I wield a chart at him, my eyes saying look, I have a valid reason to be bothering you.

He sighs theatrically. "What is it there, Mary-Sue?"

I flip open the chart grinning at him - then stop as I stare at the chart I last saw when I was with him. The grin falls off my face. I feel sick. The bright white corridors of Sacred Heart and shadowing and darkening. Everyone's fading away…

Except Doctor Cox. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me.

"Newbie? Newbie, what is it?"

The chart slips out of my hands and clatters to the floor. I look into blue eyes which look back at me, an edge of worry to them. I can feel blood seeping through my scrubs where he's grasping my shoulders, can feel the pain in my body as it lies crumpled on the floor in some Godforsaken basement. I grab the front of his coat desperately, trying to ground myself. Sick panic is building inside me. Help me. Oh God, help me, see me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpme.

"Newbie, what's wrong? Damn it- NEWBIE!"

I'm soaked in cold sweat and shaking. The basement's empty again. My back is on fire. But the horror of what I just realized is sticking with me.

Crushing emotional agony runs through me. Carla can't grab my arm- the word WORTHLESS is slashed into it. Turk can't put an arm around my shoulders- they're raw and bleeding. Todd can't high five me- there's a deep agonizing cut through my palm, ripped open by a studded whip. Elliot can't hug me - my chest is cut up. The Janitor can't hit me in the back with the mop and I certainly can’t spring over his swing like a gazelle - the whip lashes again. And Doctor Cox can't grab me by my forearms, they’re covered in scalpel cuts. I can't be touched any more, just the normal things in my "normal" life.

And the chart… Oh God, oh God, the chart…

"Sorry for what?"

"I have to do… what he did."

The words from the chart are imprinted on my brain in flashing red neon, dark, dangerous and dreadful. When I close my eyes I can clearly read them. And that one line:

Steven Gourley: admitted and examined. Evidence of repeated childhood physical and sexual abuse.

My throat is raw. I don't care. I'm screaming for everything I'm worth.

Chapter Text

When I was a kid I hated getting vaccinations. I still hate needles now, actually, even though I’m a doctor. But when I was a kid I dreaded them. I'd used to pretend to get sick when they were due so my mom didn't make me have them. She never believed me.

What I hated more than the vaccinations were the times where you had to sit and wait for the shot. You knew what was going to happen and you really didn't want to have it happen to you. It was just a case of sitting there and waiting. And my brain would always be screaming at me, demanding why are you just sitting here? Why aren't you getting out of here?

I don't have to pretend to be sick at the moment. I really am sick. Up until recently I wasn't just sitting here - I was panicking and trying to free my hands. Adrenaline rushes from fear had been giving me the physical and emotional strength to unfreeze myself from my horror and wrench at the handcuffs. There's just blood all down my arms now. I should probably hope that there’s no arterial damage, but right now I don't care. Now the adrenaline is leaving me in great trembling waves, making my sick shivering even worse. The handcuff chain is rattling against the radiator.

I choke down a sob of frustration and collapse into a coughing fit. It rattles through me, making my breathing harsh and angry. My throat has gone past painful now, much the same as the rest of me. Each breath wheezes through my throat, catching. The radiator is on again, which I've been creeping around to try and warm myself, despite the pain it's causing me with the handcuffs. The tinny trickling sound of the water running through it is in chorus with my labored breathing.

I look towards the staircase. I just want to scream "Come down here, then, you bastard. Just do it, stop making me sit in the dark thinking about it and waiting!" It's nothing to do with bravery. I don't think I'm a particularly brave guy. It's probably the coward's way out of this. I just want it over with, so then it's happened.

Getting the shot always hurt more after I'd been waiting a while. I'd gotten all tensed up and couldn't relax. Is this the same? Does it hurt more when you’re tense and you get something stuck into you?

I retch.

I haven't slept and I'm not going to. I refuse to sleep. I'm sick of waking up with him hovering over me.

Why hasn't anyone found me yet?

I don't know how long it normally takes to track down a missing person. Surely they should have noticed I’m missing by now? How long should it take for them to find me? I have no idea of police procedure, I’ve never needed to know anything apart from what I need to report on the medical front. Is Steve is most obvious suspect? I don't know - if you think about it, I was only in his room for one or two minutes, tops. I'm not even his doctor. I don’t think I’d even be on any paperwork linked to him and the only person who even knew I met Steve was Doctor Cox. Will he realize?

I'm staring fixedly at the stairs. I can't take my eyes off them. I was like this after I saw "The Ring". I actually saw a copied version of it. A week later I was staring at my TV screen hardly daring to blink. I refused to turn my back on it. If the creepy dead little girl was going to come and get me, then I wanted to see her coming. I don't really know why - maybe being taken by surprise is even worse than knowing something is coming to get you. That staring at the horror coming towards you will somehow make it better. Or maybe not. You don't have to dwell on what you don’t know. But I know something's coming, and I'm damn well going to watch it. I don't think I'd do a very good job at ignoring it.

The problem with thoughts like this is that when nothing happens for a long period of time you start to mentally relax. I'm trying to force myself not to - just because nothing's happened yet doesn't mean that nothing is going to happen.

What is going to happen?

My mind keeps skittering around that particular question. I just don't want to think about it. But it seems idiotic to keep ignoring the question while I wait for it to actually happen to me. I take a deep breath, which catches in my throat. I cough for a few minutes, wrenching in breaths desperately. When it finally subsides I take in another deep wobbling breath and let it out slowly. It works a bit to calm me down.

Steve is probably going to sexually abuse me.

Nice one, Doctor Diagnosis. Like he has physically abused me already. Maybe I should actually think what's screaming at me.

Steve is going to rape me .

Okay, so I thought it. I wait patiently for some kind of reaction. My brain continues to scream desperately at me, but I don't feel quite as much terror as you might expect. Considering some of the other things that he's done to me, can it be much worse?

It'll probably hurt less than being whipped. Will it?

I don't know. I've never been raped before.

I think I've disassociated myself a bit from the events that are happening to me. Like they are happening to a version of me that I don’t identify with. There's only so long you can take being hurt and humiliated before you break. And then, when you've broken, things don't matter so much any more. I'm not necessarily saying that I've broken. But I think the part of me that was really, really badly affected by this broke when I clung onto his hand yesterday. If I hadn't gone through the past three days then rape would be some huge marker, some turning point where my life turned from "good" to "broken". I laugh harshly, noticing how strange it sounds in this basement with my raw throat and my wheezy breath. My life, if it continues, will have been irrevocably changed already. Rape is just another thing to add to it, but it isn't the turning point.

I'm still terrified of what he's going to do to me. I'm dreading it. But I'm dreading it in the same way I dread any interaction with him. And I'm sickly anticipating it in the same way.

This is where it gets really disgusting - you see, I actually miss Steve when he's not here. I am, of course, his captive audience in every way. If he wants to talk, he can come down here and talk. He inevitably does something awful to me, but I'm his audience. I'm someone to talk to. It sort of makes me feel important. I haven't felt important to anyone for so long, that it's strangely comforting. But the flip-side is that he's my captive audience. He's someone I can talk to. I don't have to feel embarrassed about anything I say to him. I don't have to worry about his perception of me. With everyone in the world, there's always something holding us back. I can't even talk openly to Turk about anything, for example, because I'll always restrain myself a bit. I can't say those goofy thoughts and daydreams in my head to other people because they'll all judge me a little. Not necessarily in a bad way, but there's… there's judging going on. Everything you say is judged a little bit by everyone who listens. It goes through a filter in someone’s head, but that’s normal. But with Steve it's a lot simpler. I can say anything to him the same way he can say anything to myself. No filter.

Down in this basement there’s no reason to hide anything, because this basement isn't really part of the real world any more. It's a space where everything else is stripped away and we're both down to our bare emotions. It's a space occupied by torturers and their victims. It's also a space occupied by the most intimate of lovers. I'm sure many people can make bitter jokes about a connection between the two. But the thing is that Steve is my captive audience as well. It's just with him you can't physically see what's holding him. We both have power over each other - his power over me is physical, my power over him is emotional. And we're both incredibly important to each other. For the past three days he's been everything that's in my head, really. He's what my new world revolves around. It's not a great new world, of course. It's horrible and sick and twisted. But he's the major factor in it. And I'd be prepared to bet Rowdy that for the past three days I've been the most important thing in his life.

It's sad when the most important thing in your life is a man who's insane and hurting you.

I know for a fact that what I'm feeling has a psychological name. Doctor Diagnosis is calmly diagnosing me with Stockholm Syndrome. I don't know why I hate Doctor Diagnosis so much at the moment - he was, after all, what got me through med school and my internship at Sacred Heart. I think it's probably because Doctor Diagnosis is everything in medicine that seems impersonal. He's a diagnosing machine that calmly labels the pain I'm suffering into something, tells me that what I'm suffering isn't unique at all, and all it does is tell me how very little value I have. How very worthless. Doctor Diagnosis is that clinically detached voice that tells a child in pain that all they have is a splinter and to stop whimpering about it. Doctor Diagnosis is telling me that it's not uncommon in these sorts of situation for the "hostage" to develop an emotional attachment to his "captor". It's true, but it's making me angry because it's so impersonal. I understand Steve's distaste for counselling, even though I know it's the best treatment for him. You're diagnosed into a state of something or other and told how to "fix yourself". You're being told you have an illness by someone who has no concept of what has happened because they haven't been through it themselves.

You’re put in a box and treatments are prescribed based on what works for other people, despite the fact that we medical professionals still don’t really understand the brain. It’s unsophisticated, it’s trial and error methodology. Yes, I shouldn’t be sat here having strangely intimate thoughts about the person who has locked me up down here, but I am and really, what can anyone do about that? Drug me out of it? Make me talk about it ad nauseum?

Don't get me wrong. I'm dreading what I'm pretty sure is going to happen. I'm absolutely terrified and I'd do anything to stop it.

I've also worked out his motivations behind this now. Steve is recreating what happened to him as a child, but trying to act out what he wanted to have happened to him. There are obvious differences, but that’s what he’s trying to do. I can understand him. I really can understand him – how can you not understand someone if they make you live the same experiences that they have lived? I can even sympathize and feel sorry for him. I can feel guilty about the pain I'm causing him, because I am causing him pain. It hurts him to do what he’s doing.

But I also have to face the fact that Steve is very dangerous. He's not in his right mind. I'm not him, he can't change anything by doing this. He's just trying to make me feel like he felt and presumably how he still feels. I turn my head to look at my left arm. Worthless. 

What happens when I understand him? When I’ve gone through everything he has? What does he expect?

I'm staring at the worthless on my arm when I hear him coming down the stairs.

It doesn't matter what I've just been feeling. It doesn't matter about my thoughts on whether just wanting this over with and facing up to it is either extreme bravery or cowardice. It doesn't matter that the boundary between physical abuse and rape is no longer that hugely important to me. Because right now I'm so scared I just want to die rather than have what's going to happen to me happen.

It's early. It's earlier than when he normally appears.

My body clock's screwed up, but I'm pretty sure it's morning. Steve usually leaves me alone until late afternoon – presumably because he’s working during the day. When he appears at the bottom of the stairs I tear my eyes away from the worthless to meet his. One look at him tells me enough: he's had about as much sleep as me. He's probably been up all night worrying about this, the same as I've been.

Our eyes stay locked. He doesn't dare seem to move and I don't dare to stop staring in case he takes the opportunity to move when I’m looking away. It's hopeless and I know it - however much I can delay this, it doesn't matter. But I'll delay it as long as possible, just because if I don't fight him every step of the way I'll just be disgusted with myself. I'll be as worthless as he feels he is. As he feels I am.

I'm not sure how long we've stayed locked like this, Mexican standoff style. I imagined tumbleweed blowing past and his fingers twitching at a gun in his belt at some point. But it's a stalemate - one of us has to do something to trigger the next phase. Unfortunately it turns out to be me, when another coughing fit overcomes me.

I have the feeling I've lost something here, but I didn't really have much choice. You can't really repress a coughing fit, however hard you try, especially when the apparent aim of that coughing fit is to hack up a disturbing amount of phlegm and blood. When I've finished I spit the stuff in my mouth out, noticing the horrible taste in my mouth. I've noticed it before, of course, but I've had other things on my mind. I still do now, but it seems somehow important.

Steve's standing next to me now. I can see his feet out the corner of my eyes. He’s wearing converse. All of a sudden I want to burn all the converse shoes in the state.

He's not squatting down, like he usually does. Which means he doesn't want to talk. He's just standing there as my breathing chokes a bit in my lungs.

Then he grabs my leg, just above the ankle.

A mindless panic overcomes me. I lash out with my other leg, kicking him in the shin. I thought my strength was totally depleted, but it seems not when he comes crashing down onto the floor, still grasping my ankle hard. I kick him again, stamping on his fingers that hold onto me. When I was kicking at him I’ve somehow managed to kick down my own leg – even in this situation I’m a klutz. I think I just grazed it, but I kick out at him again. I'm having difficulty drawing breath, but I don't care. He's still holding onto my ankle with a grip like a vise. I kick again, aiming at his face, but he deflects it with his other hand. I try to bring my hands into play forgetting the handcuffs, then yelp as I break open the aggravated flesh of both my wrists by trying to move them. The pain momentarily paralyses me, fresh blood running down my forearms, and there's a flash of realization in Steve's eyes when he notices what I just did.

He releases my ankle and seizes my shoulders in both hands, dragging me into a half standing position, my hands secured by the radiator, dragged down to around my midriff level in front of me. I look oddly like I'm praying. Steve's standing behind me, holding me upright. Then he leans me forward.

Dismay floods through me. I'm leaning forward at a crazy angle. If Steve lets go then I'm going to go crashing face forward onto the floor. I won't be able to catch my fall with my hands. I'll go face first -

He lets go.

Halfway down my mind unclouds from the numbing horror to point out I won't go face first. My wrists are secured on something solid. My fall will be caught. I seem to be going in slow motion, I watch the chain going from slack to tight in the slow, relentless way a lava flow slowly creeps along towards a village, watch as the chain tightens.

Everything speeds up. The chain's tight, stretching out to my left, but I'm falling with my hands in front of me. The chain jerks as I reach the end point and I spin over onto my back, the speed of it dizzyingly fast. Then all my weight, with the added force of my downward momentum centers on two very specific places: my wrists.

I slam into the radiator, but that pain is nothing compared to my wrists. It drowns out vision and pretty much everything else. The only other thing I have any other sensory information about is the terribly loud cracking noise as both my wrists break.

I think I just passed out for a second, but have come back to cursed consciousness. He's forced my knees apart and however much I try to kick him I can't manage it. The more I struggle, the more the agony in my wrists intensifies. I'm dangling by my wrists and him holding onto me.

I try to clamp my legs back together, but he’s crouched between them, starting to force my leg up above his shoulder with one hand as the other is unbuckling his belt.

“Please, Steve, please don’t do this.” My voice sounds raw, weak, pleading. He briefly looks into my eyes, a haunted, excitedglance, before he shakes his head and looks away. I try to pull back, but the pain in my wrists screams at me. I wriggle, arching my back, tensing desperately away from him, but his hands are on me, pulling me back.

I close my eyes.

I'm not going to watch him. It's the only defense I've got left.

- - - - -

I'm not going to go into detail about what just happened. It requires describing something that I don't want to think about. I'll think about it later, I know I will, but right now my mind is mercifully blank.

I'm not going to think about that burning pain, that vulnerability, that helplessness. That pain that was so foreign, so different, so intimate.

I'm not going to think about the way he left without a word when he was done.

I’m not going to think about the noises he made, the noises I made, the unpleasant sound of the act itself, I’m not going to think of the sticky damp mess between my thighs and over my stomach which I’m furiously telling myself is blood, just blood, nothing else, just blood.

I’m not going to think of the twisted mindset it’s created, that it’s forever warped my sense of intimacy and understanding and who I am.

I’m not going to think about how I want to clean myself from the inside out, burn it out, boil it out, how my skin crawls just thinking about it.

Not going to think of the finality of this, the closing of a door onto something that was only ever half-formed in my mind and now can never be. Don’t think about that.

Not going to think about the hours I then spent trying to get back into my familiar crouched position next to the radiator, rather than sprawled in front of it. Steve had shoved a chair under my back when he'd finished. Maybe he didn't want me dangling by my wrists. Maybe he felt guilty.

I don't know. He never said one word to me. It wasn't for me to sit on. I just collapsed onto it. I eventually managed to right myself and sort of crouch-limped back to where I had been for the past few days.

It occurs to me that he was probably quite gentle for this sort of thing.

Say it.

For rape, okay? For RAPE.

No matter how "gentle" he was about it, it wasn't consensual .

The psychological bubble I was in just burst. I can't keep protecting him like I was. I lean my forehead against the chair, shaking. No matter how much it seemed to have hurt him, psychologically, emotionally, whatever, he'd spent the last three days torturing me. And now he's raped me. I can't get past that.

I choke. Let out a sob. Suddenly feel angry and stiffly kick the chair. It upends and clatters loudly to the floor. The sudden noise startles me a bit.

Then I scream at it hoarsely.

Collapse against the wall.

Sob.

Steve should be back. My body clock tells me it should be around evening. He's normally back by now. I’ve spent the day not thinking. Steve had obviously done… what he'd done… before work.

That's just a lovely way to start your day.

I laugh slightly hysterically. The American dream: rape your prisoner, go to work, come home and beat him. I don't think so.

I'm still giggling slightly when I hear footsteps again.

I want to scream at him to get lost, but just wait with the patience of the doomed. I wondered earlier if maybe he was going to leave me in the basement to die. His father had never killed him, so presumably he wouldn't actively kill me, but he could just ignore me to death. I seem pretty close anyway.

He's walking differently. He normally walks with a spring in his step. He's walking heavily.

Oh shit, IT'S NOT STEVE.

I'm staring at a man. A man who's staring back at me in horror, his eyes wide and shocked beneath the peaked cap he’s wearing. A cop. It's like that stalemate situation again, but he's the one who tears his gaze away from me and yells up the stairs.

"Get down here NOW! And bring that doctor!"

Oh God, I hope it's not someone from Sacred Heart. I don't want anyone to see me like this.

The thought of the two worlds colliding makes me shake. If someone from my normal world comes in and sees this… it'll somehow make it more real. I curl in on myself further and feel my trembling increase in intensity.

To my relief another police officer and a doctor I don't know come bounding down the stairs. The officer freezes when he sees me, staring in sick fascination, but the doctor has gotten over here and is fussing over the amount of blood on the floor. On me. Everywhere. Only blood though, nothing else… I promise, it isn’t anything else…

The weird thing is I didn't even notice the blood on the floor earlier. There does seem to be one hell of a lot of it. The doctor's injecting me with something. A painkiller I hope. I flinch away from it, remembering Steve’s use of the animal tranquilizers.

More footsteps on the stairs. I'm still looking at the blood, wondering why I didn't notice it earlier. I wonder blankly where Steve is.

"Looks like he was right about Evans. I just never thought - get him down here will you?"

Evans?  My mind races. Who’s Evans? It sounds familiar…

More footsteps, but these ones froze halfway down the stairs. I'm still staring at the blood. I don't really want to look at people that much, the blood (only blood, only blood, nothing else) is way more interesting. Then there's a pretty loud crash as someone seems to have leapt from halfway down the stairs to the basement floor, with an accompanying yell of "Fucking hell!" from one of the cops.

The doctor fussing over me is wrenched away, making a strangled noise of protest and suddenly my vision is filled with a very, very worried doctor.

"Newbie? Holy shit, Newbie… what in the name of…"

Doctor Cox speechless is a really weird thing to see. I can't stop what comes out of my mouth:

"You're late."

I can't feel anything in my body any more. It's all numb. Which is probably why I'm not in agony when everything goes black and I collapse into his lap.

Chapter Text

"You're late."

I run my hands through my hair, staring at the horizon. Christ…

I didn't want to stay down there. For one thing, Newbie was unconscious and having a nearly naked, broken colleague in my lap wasn’t something I really knew how to deal with. The police doctor was fussing over him and you don't need two doctors, especially when one of them is me, a man with a self-proclaimed enormous ego. I had to stay where I was though, because Newbie was out cold in my lap and I didn't want to wake him up. I had to wait a bit for the sedative to kick in so he wouldn't be jerked awake when I moved. The option of carrying him out wasn't there - he seemed to have been handcuffed to the radiator. So they were working on him in the gloom of the basement, hemmed in by the blood and smell of infection and fear. I spent most of my time trying not to look at his injuries, or the floor, or in fact any of the surroundings. I wasn’t hugely successful. When he'd been out long enough for the sedative to take effect I got to my feet and made my way up here with a "the kid's bleeding all over my Steelers jersey". It got the expected revolted glance from everyone around me, but I couldn’t feel smug about being the biggest asshole in the room for once.

"Up here" being the outside of Steven Gourley's house. It looks like a regular house. Hell, it even has a white picket fence. I'm looking at the well-kept garden and the expanse of horizon above it. The sky's darkening into evening…

The kid was bleeding all over my Steelers jersey. It's my favorite one, but that's not the reason I left. Crap, if I'm being honest I couldn't have given a damn if the kid had deposited all matter of bodily fluids on it, I was that relieved to have found him.

The anger that had been shocked into submission by the damn basement is starting to build again. I'm pretty pleased with that - I wouldn't be Perry Cox if I didn't have this anger.

Why the hell didn't anyone listen to me?

One of the cops has appeared at the door. I'm about to ask him how Newbie's doing, but he throws up into the garden.

Oh.

I watch him with a certain amount of detached interest, waiting for him to finish. I cross my arms and lean against the wall, adopting my "completely unaffected doctor" pose. I'm not, of course, but I'm not going to start showing that. He glances at me, wiping his mouth.

"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forget that." he grins weakly, apologetically.

Me neither.

I think he's embarrassed. Normally I'd thrive on something like this, but I'm not in the mood to torment someone right now.

"How's he doing?"

There've been some horrible noises coming from the basement. One of them was definitely a saw, so they've been getting those handcuffs off of him at least.

"Doc says he's got infection and pneumonia-" Oh God- "- and that he's got a few pretty bad burns and… and…"

He's taken off his cap and wipes his brow. Oh great. I do things like that when I have to tell people that their relatives are dead. The cop just sighs and looks me in the eye.

"The light's crappy down there, but the doc reckons he's got a hell of a lot of cuts from something sharp - he doesn't really know what- and things that look like marks from being beaten with a whip or a belt. His wrists've been all… messed up. The cuffs were on too tight and they've cut right in, doc reckons it's only by chance they haven't severed an artery. And then they've been badly broken somehow."

I know that my normally impassive face has gone into a grimace because instead of the usual disgusted expression people give me when I look like I don't give a shit, this guy's looking at me sympathetically. I look away from him (damnit, I never do that). I've just remembered no one else knows what's going on.

"We'll be getting him out soon though."

The idiot has actually patted my shoulder. Normally anyone doing that can expect to have their arm rapidly detached within a few seconds, but I let him live this one time. If he does it again he's a dead man though. When I tell him that he looks at me sympathetically again, nods and walks off. I resist the urge to yell after him "I'm not being defensive, I'm always like this!" and take my pager out my pocket.

Found him. He's alive.

I don't really need any more than that. Carla will know who I'm talking about. After I've paged her I sigh, then force myself to page Gandhi and Barbie as well.

And then Sutcliffe walks past and the angerthat's been bubbling away inside me surfaces, like a geyser.

"You idiot!"

He whirls around and glares at me.

"I told you before, Doctor Cox, that we have to follow the leads that are the most likely to -"

"Wah!" I mimic crying at him and glare. Unslouch from the wall and take a pace towards him, using my height to best, most intimidating advantage. "I told you, didn't I? If you'd just damn well listened to me then the kid wouldn't be down in that God-forsaken basement right now, he'd have been out days ago!"

I'm yelling and drawing looks from people on the street. There were already looks, considering all the police tape and sirens, but now they're staring at what they probably think is a raving lunatic screaming at a police captain. Sutcliffe glares back at me, his annoyance showing.

"Oh, congratulations Doctor Cox. And what if it had been Evans? Just because you're relatively senior at Sacred Heart doesn't mean you're right about everything."

"Oh, you believe me Sutcliffe, I am always right about eh-he-verything," I'm making words several syllables longer than they should be again, but I don't care. "And I was just ever-so-definitely right about this!"

He's about to reply when there’s a rattling noise at the door and the stretcher with Newbie on it appears. I snarl at Sutcliffe then run over, only to be intercepted by the police doctor.

"You can see him in the ambulance when I'm done with him."

Even in the rapidly dimming daylight I can see Newbie's not in a good way. His skin's incredibly pale, contracting sharply with his dark hair. But they've pulled a cover over him from his chin, covering his body. I know that there's a lot under there that's worse.

I catch the police doctor's arm - what was his name? I've just been calling him Doctor Spineless for the past few days and it's stuck.

"What do you mean, when you're done with him?"

Doctor Spineless shifts and then takes his glasses off, polishing the lenses, before he put them back on to reply to me. I hate lens polishers. It's just stupid. Why keep people waiting with an apparently sincere gesture?

"I'll be doing initial treatments, but I also need to keep a photographic record of his injuries. I can’t have any interference, particularly from someone who’s so… involved."

Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that. They need evidence that Newbie wasn’t down there on his own accord. I scoff, but let go of Spineless' arm and let him get into the ambulance with Newbie. I consider going and chaining Sutcliffe up in the damn basement to see how he likes it.

"You're late."

I wince. Late for what? It wasn't like Newbie was accusing me of being late for rounds or anything like that. There wasn't any special occasion going on in the basement that I had an invite to. I suspected that the real reason was that he'd missed out a word:

"You're too late."

But too late for what though? The thought of it gave me a really uneasy feeling in my stomach. What had I been too late to prevent? For a relatively accusatory thing to say, Newbie hadn’t sounded angry when he said it. Just tired and defeated, which is somehow much worse than him furious.

Sutcliffe is coming back. My contorted "rage" expression firmly back in place on my face I glare at him.

"This is your damn fault!"

He glances at me, then carries on towards the ambulance.

It is his damn fault. If he'd listened to me then this "rescue" would have happened days ago.

When I went out to my Porsche after finishing my rounds, I noticed Newbie's ridiculous scooter still in the parking lot. He'd finished his shift hours before mine, but it didn't really worry me that the scooter was still there. It had been raining earlier, so maybe he'd hitched a lift back with someone else instead of being soaked on the scooter. What had he named the thing?

Anyway, I had had things on my mind. Evans' wife had died and he'd become violent. We'd tried our best for her, but telling him had been hell. He'd looked at me with empty eyes, then told me coldly that it was the fault of the incompetent doctors at Sacred Heart. It'd been in front of some nurses and I wasn't about to retort at a bereaved man, so just told him I was sorry and went to check on Gourley. He'd discharged himself hours before, saying he didn't think anyone could help and that he'd carry on with his counselling.

So Newbie's scooter didn't bother me too much. I just drove home, where Jordan yelled at me and I watched football with a beer.

The next day I was reading through my charts when Carla and Gandhi appeared. Gandhi appeared to be trying to get Carla to do something by his muttered "go on, go on, ask him!" I ignored them. I couldn’t be bothered to make a crude joke about whether they were about to request a ménage a trois, since my one beer last night had morphed into a six pack and then being made to sleep on the couch. Not because Jordan had a problem with me being drunk, it's just I'd forgotten where the bed was by that point. If I'd found it I would've probably started screaming when I saw what was in it anyway.

So basically, my head hurt.

"Doctor Cox!"

I grunted and looked at her.

"When did Bambi finish his shift yesterday?"

"Who?" I did my best to look like I didn't understand, whilst my head continued to thud dully.

"She means JD and you know it," snapped Gandhi. He must have been worried; he wouldn't normally be this confrontational with me.

"Ooohhh, Gandhi, showing some stones there. Has Carla not cut them off yet?"

He just glared at me. I rolled my eyes, then sighed.

"I don't keep tabs on Clarabelle’s every movement, you do know that don't you?"

Carla continued to stare at me.

"Fine! She finished at six. Why?"

"Because JD didn't get home last night."

My mind flashed back to the abandoned scooter, but I just shrugged. "Tell me Carla, have ya ever considered that just maybe she went to a bar, met that dashingly handsome Prince Charming of her dreams and even now she's throwing her legs in the air and just letting herself go wild?"

They both stared at me, then turned to each other.

"Should we call the police?"

I hate being ignored like that. I suppose no one other than Newbie ever really listens to me on my rants. I sigh.

"His scooter was still here last night when I left."

At their expressions I added defensively "Look, I thought he'd picked up a lift with someone. If you hadn't noticed I had a shitty day yesterday!"

I was annoyed that I had felt the need to defend myself. Like I should feel guilty for not checking where Newbie was. I definitely wasn’t feeling guilty, he’s not my responsibility. Not at all.

They then called the police. And I had work to do, so I was pretty much left alone by them until a Captain Sutcliffe called to see me, demanding I tell him what I knew.

Sutcliffe wasn't the hard gritty cop you might expect from the movies. He was wiry with sandy blond hair and generally looked harassed. He's also an incompetent idiot.

"We're holding a Mr. Evans for questioning."

I turned, surprised, to look at him. I was sitting in the doctor's lounge, watching My Stories and trying not to think.

"Evans?"

"I believe Doctor Dorian was treating him. He was the last patient he saw. And he was somewhat… disturbed."

I just frowned at him. Evans had been angry, but that was understandable. Patients usually lash out at their doctors, it was one of our wonderful service to the community things. Community punch bags. I tried to explain it to Sutcliffe.

"If you arrested everyone who ever threatened a medical practitioner you’d never have time to speed around the city with your sirens and God complexes on."

Alright, so I didn't explain things that clearly, but this guy really should have been doing his job properly.

"Look, doctor, he was overheard blaming the establishment and the doctor that treated him – Doctor Dorian - on the death of his wife. And this was witnessed by you and several other members of staff. Which, incidentally, we had reported to us by the attending nurses, not you."

“Because I didn’t think it mattered – Evans didn’t concern me.”

“Did he concern Doctor Dorian?”

“Not that I’m aware of. So what're you going to do now?"

"Question Evans.”

“Good luck. His wife just died, you realize?”

Sutcliffe looked at me in disgust and then left. I stared at the door he'd exited from for a second then slumped against the couch. That didn't seem right somehow…

"Hey!"

That damn janitor was in here, fiddling around with a lightbulb. I ignored him.

"Hey! Evans didn't leave until later."

"What?"

"Evans…" the Janitor waved the lightbulb thoughtfully, turning towards me. "He didn't leave until a few hours after Scooter."

I stared. "And you know that… how?"

"Oh, you know… it's not like I follow the kid around the hospital all day and keep track of his every movement to use against him…" He was trying to look innocent and was failing badly.

But he did have a point, sad and disturbed as he was. In fact, Evans' wife hadn't died until about eight, two hours after Newbie had left.

"That’s not concerning at all. So, who did leave around the same time?" I mused to myself.

"That blond guy did." the Janitor supplied. “Just after Scooter.”

Gourley… shit.

I leapt off the couch and bounded down the hallway towards the nurses' station. One of the supply closet doors opened suddenly in front of me which I ran straight into. Which hurt, although I tried not to let it show. I hit it with a loud thump. There was a neurotic cry of "Oh frick!" from inside the cupboard.

I picked myself up from the floor to be confronted with a teary-eyed Barbie.

"Doctor Cox! I'm so sorry, I didn't realize that you were-"

"Do you have Steven Gourley's chart?"

She stared at me. I suddenly found her wet blue eyes and flushed face incredibly annoying (or more so than usual). "Well, do you?"

"I… I don't think so…"

I growled at her and finished my sprint to the nurses' station. I could hear her behind me but ignored her. Laverne was seated there, staring at a computer screen looking bored.

"Laverne! I need Steven Gourley's file."

"I need a massage and a vibrating chair.”

I think she was still annoyed that I'd told her the season finale of My Stories I'd found on the Internet, but it seemed petty at the minute.

"Look, this isn't for me damn it. I know you like talking to Siobhan about your husband, so do it for her will you?"

I heard Barbie gasp slightly behind me, but carried on ignoring her. Laverne stared at me.

"What now?"

"JD, Laverne!" exclaimed Barbie behind me. How come people still don't get the girls name thing?

"Cue tip?"

She passed me the folder. I opened it and examined the check-out time; Gourley had discharged himself at 17:45.

"Do you have the phone number of that Sutcliffe guy?"

I called him on my cell outside of the hospital.

"Sutcliffe?"

"This is Captain Sutcliffe.," Petty bastard.

"This is Doctor Cox from Sacred Heart."

"What is it Doctor Cox?"

"Steven Gourley. He was one of Doctor Dorian's-" God it felt strange to call him that- "patients. He discharged himself at 17:45, fifteen minutes before Doctor Dorian’s shift ended. Evans didn't leave until at least 8."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then the sound of shuffling papers. "Steven Gourley? He's not on my list here."

"Oh? Well, I suppose he was my patient rather than his. But he came in the room to see him with me. He hangs around me sometimes."

"Did Mr. Gourley threaten Doctor Dorian?"

"No, but-"

"Did he make any general allusions to violence around Doctor Dorian?"

"No, but listen, he was a… well, he was…" It's difficult to say that a patient plain gives you the creeps. "Evans didn't leave until eight. What are you suggesting JD did for those two hours? Just hung around waiting for him?"

I'd called him JD. That meant things were serious.

"I know it seems unlikely, but he's the best lead we've got. Thank you for this information, Doctor Cox."

Then the line went dead. The bastard had hung up on me. I stared at my phone for a second, then snapped it shut. I had four hours of my shift left, but I didn't care anymore. I stalked into the nearest bar and crawled into a bottle, determined not to think.

When I couldn't hold my head up unassisted any more I slumped over the bar, staring blankly at the TV on in the top corner. It was advertising a "priceless" necklace you could buy for only one hundred fifty dollars.

"Anyway, the point is Newbie, you are value-less. And don't mistake that for priceless, because, believe me, there's a difference,"

I closed my eyes. I'm a horrible human being.

Chapter Text

I somehow got home that night. I'm not entirely sure how; I think a cab was involved, but it's all a bit blurred. When I woke up the next morning I was on the couch again and furious as hell. But I had another shift so I had to go in, but the effort to make myself look presentable was beyond me. As long as people are terrified of me I could care less, and as a hung-over, unshaven wreck of a doctor I guess I was looking pretty terrifying.

To everyone except Carla who kept looking at me sympathetically. She'd obviously been crying and I had an uncharacteristic surge of guilt to think I was ignoring her. I had to get on with work though, which was a welcome relief in most ways. I could just project my self-loathing onto my patients and everyone else around me. My acting like an A-grade asshole when I'm not in the best of moods might not be the most normal of behaviors, but it definitely helps.

Which is why I was even more pissed off when I found myself sitting in my break staring at Gourley's file like it contained the cure for cancer. When Carla and Gandhi followed Barbie in, who was whining on about something I didn't bother trying to hide the file but just ignored them all.

"Doctor Cox."

I looked over to Carla. Her eyes were red-rimmed - in fact Barbie's were too - and Gandhi looked like his world had fallen apart. I bit back some sarcastic comment, mainly because they looked like they'd break down and I didn't want to have to deal with that on top of everything else.

"Elliot said that you were saying something to Laverne yesterday before you took off. We were wondering what it was about."

"That moron – Sutcliffe - has got Evans in for questioning, but it doesn't make sense. He left the hospital two hours after Newbie got off his shift. This guy-" I tapped Gourley's file "-left at about the same time and when we were in his room… well, he just showed a bit too much interest in Newbie. He seemed… eager."

"Dude… JD's always like that with his patients."

"Yeah, Gandhi, but normally the patients aren't quite the same as this guy."

He'd used the present tense, I noticed. So he hadn't decided Newbie was dead yet. I hadn't either, but that was just because I hadn't been thinking about it. Or rather, I'd been stopping myself from thinking about it. I'm not sure why I told them what was on my mind; maybe it was because I could see how much it was affecting them and wanted to help. Yeah, right. It was because I was worried and I wanted to spread it around. That’s me, an A-grade shit-spreader.

Carla had been flicking through the file.

"Oh my… This guy's been sectioned before. Psychoanalyzed… admitted for suicide attempts, abuse… He's been in institutions for more years than he's been out of them."

"Yeah."

"So you think he did it? Just because he's been institutionalized in the past? Doctor Cox, just because someone's got a history of-"

"Shut up Barbie! This isn't time for your little politically correct Miss World speech. Newbie's gone missing and this guy was around at the time. It's possible and it's a damn sight more likely than Evans, if only that idiot Sutcliffe would listen to me! It’s nothing to do with his history, it’s to do with what happened."

"Doctor Cox… I know that you were a lot more fond of Bambi than you let on, but you have to accept it that… that he's gone."

"Baby!" Gandhi sounded close to tears. "You c-can't give up hope yet, nothing's been-"

I was ignoring them all, my head dropped into my hands, my fingers digging painfully into my skull. She'd used the past tense. I couldn't cope with this right now.

Someone's hand touched my forearm hesitantly. I snarled and stood up, sending the chair I was sitting on screeching across the floor and slammed my hand on the desk.

"I'm not giving up yet," I said hoarsely before leaving the room, crashing the door closed behind me. I punched the wall and then, for the second time in two days, left my shift early. I had Gourley's file with me.

When I got to the police station I was about ready to congratulate myself. I hadn't drunk anything yet, despite a burning urge to do so. I was standing at the desk waiting for Sutcliffe, continuing to aggrandize when he appeared. He looked harassed, but let me into his office. I ignored the chair he offered me and threw the file onto his desk. It clattered loudly, which somehow pleased me. I slouched nonchalantly against the wall, projecting as much ego and self-confidence as possible when you physically resemble an unusually tall, well-built, goddamn handsome hobo.

"Gourley's file," I said shortly. "Guessing you're having no luck with Evans?"

"I cannot comment on the case." Sutcliffe replied woodenly.

"Means no then.”

He ignored me and leafed through Gourley's file.

"Are you basing your accusations on this man's mental health record?"

"They aren't accusations," I snapped at him. "I'm basing them on what I saw, nothing else. Even if Evans is your prime suspect, can't you investigate Gourley as well? You aren't getting anything out of Evans after all."

He was sitting at his desk. He rubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly, and then glanced at me. Then he picked up his phone.

"Marie? Can you find a case record for a Mr Steven Gourley for me? Yes. Yes. As soon as possible. Oh, and get James in here too."

He hung up. He proffered the chair to me again, which I grudgingly sat in. I leant my elbows on his desk and steepled my fingers, staring at him from behind them. Looking like a calculating hobo. A calculating, unusually tall, well-built, goddamn handsome hobo.

"What's Evans saying?"

"I told you before, I can’t comment on the case."

"I'm guessing he's saying something like, oh I don't know, that his wife died at eight o clock, then he ranted at the staff because everything just hurt so much that he just had to lash out at someone and then he left and hit some bar and then he went home and stared at nothing. That he never went after the doctor. And I'll bet he doesn't even know his name."

Sutcliffe was staring at me. I grinned humorlessly (a guru hobo – a guru, calculating, unusually tall – oh, you get the gist). "Oh, yes, I do know everything. I am a gift from God."

"What?"

"Look, it happens a lot with these sort of things. People have to vent when something like that happens, and standing right next to them is some idiot in a white coat who said that they'd do whatever they could. If you investigated every time a patient told a doctor they'd get them for whatever malpractice or whatever that they thought had been committed then your officers would never get any rest."

"And the doctor in question doesn't usually vanish afterwards," pointed out Sutcliffe. "Look, Evans was mad. He probably did go to some bar, maybe saw your Doctor Dorian there and then-"

"Newbie's not really the type to go to bars on his own."

"Newbie?"

Damn it. 

"Doctor Dorian."

Sutcliffe was looking at me strangely, but then stopped when the door opened. There was a girl - presumably Marie - and the doctor who I very soon after labelled Doctor Spineless. They had a file with them, which I started to stare at. I had developed a file fixation thanks to Newbie, the little bastard.

Sutcliffe went over and muttered something to them. Marie left, and Sutcliffe returned looking through the file, Doctor Spineless trailing behind him. It reminded me disturbingly of Bob and Sweaty Teddy. Doctor Spineless was watching me curiously. I glared at him until he looked away, then I focused the glare on Sutcliffe, who unfortunately didn't seem phased by it.

"According to these psychiatric reports, Steve Gourley showed considerable positive steps. The institutions thought he was ready for rehabilitation into society ten years ago and he's gone to counselling sessions regularly afterwards. He’s never had any problems with the law. He has apparently been doing very well."

"Very well? He was admitted to the hospital on a suicide attempt!"

"In… in such cases, it is often thought that a patient whose only apparent psychological defects are based around self-harm is no danger to others. It's an expression of self -loathing rather than hatred of the surrounding world…"

I glare at Doctor Spineless. "Well, it looks like he was a danger to Ne- to Doctor Dorian."

"Doctor Cox, we cannot suspect someone just because they have a psychiatric record. That's persecution."

"But the guy left at around the same time! He'd been acting weirdly around JD when we were in his room!"

"How long was that for?"

"Not very long, but… look, the guy acted suspiciously around him. Why are you so focused on Evans? Has he got a record or something?"

Sutcliffe flinched and I smirked, seeing a touch-down. “Oh, well, now who’s persecuting suspects?”

Sutcliffe frowned and then looked thoughtful before he passed the file to Doctor Spineless.

"James, would you say that this patient is likely to be a suspect in Doctor Dorian's abduction?"

Doctor Spineless read the chart. Adjusted his spectacles. Flicked thoughtfully through the pages. I was staring at him hopefully, like I was a second grader and he was the alcoholic principal dressed up as Santa Claus. He eventually put the file down.

"I don't think it's likely."

I made a frustrated noise and slammed my hand down on the desk for a second time that day.

"Doctor Cox, I only have a certain number of staff who can work on this case. If I divert them on an investigation that apparently isn't likely then it lessens our chance of helping Doctor Dorian."

I glared at him. When I didn't reply he continued "Look, I understand that when Mr. Evans became violent you advised the staff to just let him go. Your guilt over your participation in the disappearance of Doctor Dorian is understandable, but you cannot assuage it by trying to come up with unlikely theories explaining his absence."

They were both looking at me like I was slightly insane. I snarled and got up from the chair. Spoke in a deadly level voice. "I am not feeling guilty. He's out there somewhere and this isn't helping."

They both stared at me sympathetically.

"I'm not in denial!"

My pager went off. I unclipped it and groaned. Turned out of his office and slammed the door on the way out.

Then I came back in and retrieved the medical file. Slammed the door again.

- - - - -

"Perry, if you keep going AWOL then I'll have no choice but to suspend you.”

"And you really would just hate to do that, wouldn't you Bobo?"

I was in Kelso's office. Ted was there earlier, but scurried away when I yelled at him to get out. I collapsed into one of the chairs and rested my forehead on one of my hands, closing my eyes. There was a clink from somewhere in the office, and then a glass of something was shoved into my hand. By it's smell it was pretty strong. I downed it in one go.

"I'm giving you a few days off. You're scaring the patients, not to mention running off every ten minutes."

I was unceremoniously evicted from the office. Kelso was standing in the door as I sloped off down the corridor, but then he called after me:

"Oh, and Perry?"

I turned around and gazed at him blankly.

"Pull yourself together. You're no use to the kid like that."

The door slammed, but I was grinning all of a sudden. Bob didn't think he was dead. And Bob had a point, as well as a direct line to Satan. Newbie was far too annoying to be dead.

My uncharacteristic optimism didn't last long. I got back to the apartment and collapsed onto the couch again. Several hours later found me lying in the dark staring blankly at the ceiling, nursing a scotch.

All this time I hadn't really been thinking about Newbie. I'd been thinking about me. I'd been annoyed at the trouble it was causing. But I'd never once stopped to think what effect it would be having on Newbie. If he was somewhere out there he'd be terrified. The kid always thought too well of people. He always wanted to help. Maybe it'd be better if he was dead. At least I wouldn't have to deal with this.

I am the most selfish creature on the planet. But that's just me. It's who I am. I don't want to talk about that night. I hardly got any sleep. I just lay on the couch staring at the ceiling trying not to think about him in pain somewhere. Imagining life without Newbie. Days stretching out like they had been recently, with no one trailing me asking annoying questions, no one really listening to me. Just being crazy old Doctor Cox, the guy with the alcohol problem and the shrink on speed dial (yes, isn’t it ironic that everyone thinks I’m focused on Gourley’s mental health issues, considering my own are so well publicized?). It wasn't as I would have imagined a Newbie-free life. I'd just imagined no annoyances in it. But in reality it was less colorful. People seemed to view me differently without him around. I at least felt respected with him around. I rolled over onto my side and stared blankly at nothing, wiping my eyes (I hadn't slept so they were watering, I was not crying, definitely, I'd never cry over Newbie). Curled up on my side.

"Hold on there, Sally…"

I don't know who I was talking to. Part of me thinks it might have been myself.

My dreams that night were plain weird. One was a recurring one; I was in the hospital and I kept telling Newbie he had no value. He didn't reply, just followed me around as I kept telling him over and over. When he didn't reply I grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled at him. And he just faded away, my fingers curling through his Scrubs top in a horrifying way.

I woke late and staggered around the apartment getting ready. I hadn't seen Jordan last night. Found a note saying she'd gone to her mothers with Jack. I looked at it blankly a while, then thought it was probably for the best at the moment.

The file kept drawing my attention. I had thrown it at the wall of the apartment when I got in, and it had slid down the wall. It was now lying on the floor, being insidious. I walked over to it and picked it up. Stared at Gourley's address.

"Fuck this."

If Sutcliffe wouldn't do his job then I'd damn well do it.

Gourley lived on the opposite side of the city. It took me over two hours to get there and I was full of uncharacteristically nervous adrenaline by the time I was standing in front of the door. My knock was answered by a middle aged woman.

"Er… Mrs. Gourley?"

"Who?"

She was staring at me.

"Does Steven Gourley not live here?"

She was looking increasingly alarmed. “No, I’ve never heard of him.”

“How long have you lived here for?” I asked, desperately. “I must have an old address.”

“Over two years,” she said, regarding me with definite suspicion now.

"Oh… did the previous owner leave a forwarding address?"

"Not that I remember."

She was definitely closing the conversation with that line. I apologized (for wasting her time? freaking her out?) and then walked slowly back to the Porsche. Surely Sutcliffe should take this more seriously? I tried to ring him, but didn't get through. Screw him. I drove to the police station. Marie looked positively horrified when I came in, and scurried off to find Sutcliffe.

"Oh, for the love of - Doctor Cox, what do you want?"

"Gourley's address on his medical file isn’t correct.”

"Well, maybe he moved house and didn't think to update it.”

Sutcliffe looked uncomfortable. Good.

"Captain Sutcliffe, we need you back in the interview room."

Sutcliffe ran a hand through his hair, looking between the cop calling him back and me. For the first time he looked uncertain.

"We'll get into contact with you," he promised me. Then left.

I stared after him, resisting the urge to scream in frustration. I don't remember the rest of that night, I was too drunk.

- - - - -

I woke up in the bathroom. It made a change from the couch. I was actually in the empty bath. For a second I wondered what had woken me up, then heard my cell ringing. I answered it with a grunt, which was about all I could manage.

Ten seconds later I was running around the apartment at high speed. Sutcliffe was going to investigate Gourley's work-place since his address was out of date. And he had grudgingly allowed me to accompany him, since I'd met Gourley before so could baseline his behavior. Or that's what he claimed. Who was feeling guilty now?

Gourley was a veterinarian, something I hadn’t expected. He worked in a practice with three others, all with some sort of specialism. We were asked to wait in the staff room, as Gourley was in an appointment. I flicked absently through the paperwork on the desk, noting that all four of the staff at the practice could treat most animals, although Gourley specialized in larger animals. One of the others had a reptile specialism.

The staff room seemed ridiculously… ordinary. While we waited we were served some piss-poor coffee and something my stomach wouldn't have been able to take anyway. It was just me and Sutcliffe. He occasionally attempted to speak to me, but I ignored him. I kept staying a mug that I guessed belonged to Gourley; “I save animals, what’s your superpower?!”. It was setting my teeth on edge.

By four I was getting worried. I spoke for the first time.

"He's flown the coop.”

"I doubt it. He's not likely to - ah, Mr. Gourley I presume?"

He was wearing a pale green scrubs with blood spattered on them; they were taut over his wide shoulders. He was surveying Sutcliffe with some curiosity and brushed his blond hair out his eyes.

“I am sorry, I’ve just been in surgery, Lila just told me that you were out here. Oh - Doctor Cox…"

I don't know what I saw that made me snap. It wasn’t helped by the blood on his scrubs that I’d been staring at fixedly, but when I’d met his eyes there was a flash of something - guilt, fear, I don't know. But he'd hurt him and I knew it. There was a white flash of anger where I made an animal noise of rage, then I had Gourley pinned against the damn desk, punching him with my free hand so hard it made my knuckles ache and screaming at him. Sutcliffe was flustering around behind me, trying to prize me off the bastard, but I shoved him away, then slammed Gourley into the wall.

"You tell me where the hell he is! You better damn well tell me where he is, you bastard, or I'll take your damn mug and shove it up your -"

"In the basement."

He was so cool, so calm, it was unnerving. His eyes flickered over me - I noticed I'd given him a black eye that was already rising - and then grinned. If his calmness was unnerving then that grin was just plain terrifying.

"Pain is useful to get people to understand, isn't it?"

I dropped him like he was burning hot. He crumpled to the floor. I spun around to Sutcliffe desperately.

"This office will have his contact details." he was already on the radio.

In the car we were silent. Sutcliffe and I only had one exchange during the ride:

"It'll serve you right if he sues you for assault."

"Go to hell, Sutcliffe."

And now I'm staring at the ambulance with Newbie in, desperately trying not to tear the door off to see if he's alright.

"You know, when Baxter wants a treat but knows he's not allowed it he acts like that. He's just waiting for his master's voice to say 'jump, Baxter, jump!'"

"Blow it out your ass Bob."

I don't know how he's there. I don't care either. Satan told him. I don't take my eyes off the ambulance.

"I don't have to act sensitive around you, do I?"

"No."

"Good."

"Why the hell're you here?"

"Doctor Dorian is one of my most talented members of staff. I need to check up on his well-being."

I wheel around to stare at him skeptically.

"Oh really? So what is Flopsweat doing here?"

Ted glances at me, then shuffles his feet. "Since Doctor Dorian was exposed to this risk at work then…" he glances at Kelso "he is, of course, entitled to full medical attention at Sacred Heart."

"Oh, that's very generous Bob. You don't give a crap, do you?"

"Oh, Perry, you know I don't care about any of you."

I nod, then turn back to the ambulance. Out the corner of my eye I notice Bob about to pat me on the back, then thinking better of it. At least I still have that effect on people. But I'm pretty sure that was him admitting he sort of cares, in the only way the devil can care.

Spineless has come out the ambulance. He looks a bit weirded out, but nods to me. I take a deep breath and get ready to face the guilt I've felt about this all along.

Chapter Text

Newbie seems to be conscious as I get into the ambulance. What’s disturbing is the way he's staring vacantly at the ceiling. If he's noticed my presence then he's not letting it show.

It could be the painkillers, of course. They might be making him drowsy. Only he doesn't look drowsy. I think he's in shock.

"Hey, Miranda."

No response. Not even a flicker of the eyes. He's just staring at nothing.

There's a lurch as the ambulance drives off. I stagger and grab the wall to catch my balance, then sit down on the chair next to Newbie. Several days of alcoholism, crap sleep and questionable nutrition are starting to get to me.

Something's bugging me about him. It's not just his silence and weird withdrawal. I look at him for a while, then realize what it is. His hair's not sticking up all over the place like it normally does. He doesn't look right with it plastered down against his forehead like that. Without really thinking I reach over and push his hair back away from his eyes.

He lets out a sharp gasp and then his eyes suddenly seem to focus. I freeze, my hand against his forehead. He seems to be taking in his surroundings, then focuses on me. I don't really know what to do, so I just stare back at him. For one of the first times in my life I'm at a loss for words.

He holds my stare for a moment. He looks slightly relieved, then his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out. Feeling unnerved, I absent-mindedly continue to brush his hair back from his face until I realize what I'm doing and look at my hand in mild disgust. I don't really want to look at his injuries; we'll be at Sacred Heart soon and if I look I know that I'll just start getting annoyed I can't do anything to help him immediately. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, waiting to get there.

After a while my hand wanders back on its own accord and carries on lightly brushing his greasy hair back from his face. It's just because I want to convince myself he's there, I tell myself, but even then it sounds a pretty pansy-ass thing to do.

I carry on doing it anyway.

- - - - -

"Doctor Cox, I- is that JD?!"

"Get lost, pee-pants. You won't be getting him in your department any time soon."

"Oh my God! Bambi!"

They're all trailing after me as I wheel him along the corridor, Doctor Spineless fluttering around in the background somewhere. Sutcliffe isn't in the background unfortunately, he's very much present. He doesn't seem to understand that we're in my territory now and that if I stick a very large syringe in his eye then he'll only have himself to blame.

I wheel Newbie into a room, then slam the door before any of the peons can follow me in. I sigh shortly, then open the door again to stick my head out.

"Gandhi? Get Doctor Wen, I'm going to need a surgical consult."

To my surprise I'm suddenly shoved back into the room, with Gandhi, Carla and Barbie all glaring at me. It seems to have been Gandhi doing the shoving; his hand is still firmly placed against my chest. For once I don't have the urge to laugh at his expression. There's nothing comical about it.

"JD's my buddy. If anyone's doing surgery on him then it's going to be me."

I snarl and then fling his hand off me. I'm bad tempered, pissed-off and incredibly shaken, so no one's damn well going to start pushing ME around.

"The reason you're getting a surgical consult, you idiotic bowling ball headed jock-boy frat-pack is for exactly that reason. You're his friend. Do you think you're going to be able to do anything with a sense of detachment?"

He's staring at me. The anger's leaving me; I try to keep a hold of it as best as I can.

"That's why none of us are treating him. I'll be hanging around, because I'm entitled to do that. Doctor Wen is the best surgeon in Sacred Heart, and Newbie's getting the best, you understand? Now go get him. And I don't give a crap if he's home with his wife, or a prostitute, or he's finally met Kate fucking Beckinsale, he's coming into this hospital within the next ten minutes or I'm trashing the OR."

Gandhi moves so fast I'm surprised he doesn't blur.

"Entitled? All you do is be horrible to JD all the time. Why're you entitled?"

"Because Barbie… I found him. And I've already seen how bad it is." Oh great, the anger's gone. I'm just feeling deflated, with the image of JD chained up against that radiator burned into my brain. "And you two do nahwt want to see him until he's been patched up."

"Is he that bad?"

Carla sounds terrible. All I've been thinking about recently is how badly this has been affecting me and concentrating on not letting it show. I haven't given a crap how she's been taking this. Or Barbie or Gandhi for that matter.

One look at Barbie shows me how she's been dealing with it. She hasn't put any of her make-up on, her hair's a mess and she looks like she's been going to cry in closets between patients. She's lost her self-absorbed neurotic look. It's been replaced by worried-neurotic. Gandhi looked lost, I noticed before. But he's changed as well. Maybe he didn't look comical any more because he wasn't laughing. And Carla… well, she looked like she did when her mom died. Devastated.

I have to stop thinking about this. It might be showing.

Only I can't meet Carla's eyes. I just shrug. Think of the blood.

"He's going to need a lot of sutures."

The door opens. I look up hopefully, expecting Doctor Wen. Instead it's Sutcliffe and Spineless. I snarl and stalk up to Sutcliffe.

"Get the hell out."

"Doctor Cox, I intend to be here. I need to gather evidence for the case."

"The case which you handled incompetently! What use are you exactly?"

I've forgotten about Carla and Barbie. Forgotten that they don't really know what's been going on behind the scenes. Don't even know the state Newbie was in down in that basement.

"I really think you're psychologically unbalanced, you know that? The way you attacked Gourley-"

"Look what he did to the kid!"

"You had no way of knowing of Doctor Dorian's condition at the time-"

"Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now."

Sutcliffe tries to stare back, but his gaze wavers. I step forward slowly and deliberately towards him. He backs off, glances at me haughtily, then frowns.

“I expect a full medical report from you. You understand that it is critical?”

I nod curtly, glaring at him. He gives me a brief nod back and then walks out quickly. Spineless watches him go, then yelps out:

"I'm here to hand this over to you."

Newbie's preliminary examination file is practically thrown at me before he scurries out after Sutcliffe. I catch it absently.

"You attacked someone?"

I ignore Carla for several reasons, the most important being that Doctor Wen and a nurse have just entered the room. He glances at Newbie, sighs, then turns to me.

"What's wrong with him?"

"What's not?"

For the next hour or so Doctor Wen works on Newbie. I get someone from the ER to come down and reset his wrists as well. I probably could have done that, but the thought of it makes my stomach turn. Barbie, Gandhi and Carla are hanging around outside. When Doctor Wen was working I went out there for a while, rubbing a hand across my face. They immediately bombarded me with questions, which I promptly yelled at them for and stalked back into the room.

As I walk in Doctor Wen turns to me, looking exhausted.

"I'm surprised we have enough sutures."

I don’t ask him how many he’s had to use. I really don't want to know. But I do know that Doctor Wen is the most likely doctor to do neat, small stitches with the least chance of scarring. He is the best. But I also saw his hand shaking a few times. It seems Newbie had more friends than I realized.

"You're done?"

He nods. "But he still needs bandaging up. I'll get a nurse to-"

"Don't bother, I'll do it."

He stares at me for a second, then nods. As he leaves the room I follow him out and ask Carla to get some bandages. I notice Gandhi following Wen, and from the loud "How many?!" guess that he was asking about Newbie. I sigh and run my hand through my hair.

"How is he?"

Barbie is staring at me, all blonde bangs and teary eyes. I didn't really know how to answer - I hadn't looked properly - so I just shrug a shoulder.

"Alive, which is a damn sight more than any of you were considering earlier."

I'm surprised how angry I sound. She looks shocked, then rushes away somewhere. But, thinking back on it, I am angry. Everyone just thought I was crazy. At least I was doing something.

Carla has reappeared carrying a load of bandages. She watches Barbie's retreating figure, then turns to me, looking annoyed beneath the exhaustion.

"What did you do to Elliot?"

"Nothing," I reply, as innocently as possible. I'm not feeling bad about that. I notice that she is carrying far more bandages than she normally would. I guess that she understood how bad the situation is then.

I am about to take them off her, but she stops me. Looks at me hopefully. With anyone else I'd have snapped at them, but I just sigh.

"Alright, you can help.”

Which is why Carla and I are bandaging Newbie up now. When I first saw his back I nearly yelled out. Carla let out a gasp. I think she's been crying all the time we've been working on him. His back really was a mess, though. I've just been finishing off his chest, wrapping the gauze over his skin gently, with far more care than is necessary.

Carla makes a strangled moan of shock and I look up. She's staring at something on his arm with a look of horror on her face. She's frozen, her brown eyes wide. Tears were already streaking down her cheeks earlier, but she seems to have stopped crying in her shock. With a feeling of sick panic in my stomach, I walk over to her to see what it is. And stop dead.

Worthless is carved into Newbie's forearm. Even after Wen's sutures, it's obvious. And it looks deep. That's going to scar for life.

My hands are shaking. I try to stop them, but it's not working. Carla seems to have unfrozen enough to start crying again. She reaches to his arm, but I catch her hand. Crouch down to get a better look.

Rage like I've never felt before is washing through me. I thought I'd been angry before in my life. But this is so intense that it's almost calming. It's icy rage, the sort that can propel a man to do almost anything.

In my case, it gives me the strength to bandage off Newbie's arm, hiding away that monstrosity from view. As I do so I notice how my hand can pretty much encompass his forearm, he’s so slender. What kind of sick bastard would do that?

His wrists are a mess, even set back in place. They seem to have been burnt as well as cut into by the handcuffs. Bandage them up stiffly so he can't move them. Deep cut in the palm of the hand. Probably a defensive injury. I'm disassociating the injuries from Newbie, but it helps. This isn't someone I know, he's a patient. And I'm a doctor. Somewhere in me Perry Cox is raging with each new injury that is uncovered, spitting and snarling revenge for each sacrilege, but for now I'm just a nameless doctor treating a nameless patient with a mechanical detachment that would scare anyone human.

Carla has run out of bandages. I inject the patient with another sedative. Consider going home, but in the end I crash out on a chair next to the bed. Before I slip into an exhausted sleep, I think it's not one of your patients. It's Newbie. A black wave of despair and impotent fury wash over me before I know nothing more.

- - - - -

I can't stop looking away from this last paragraph in Spineless's report. I'd read it all through, and it seemed pretty conclusive with everything we treated yesterday. I rub my eyes, mainly to stop them staring fixedly at the chart. Then look back at it.

"Patient became defensive when I attempted to check for sexual abuse. Crusting of blood and semen around the anus, thighs and stomach suggested forcible sexual abuse. The patient became non-compliant until it was suggested that a sedative be applied if this attitude continued, at which point he allowed the check. Further examination confirmed damage caused by rough sexual penetration, including severe bruising and some tearing. Samples taken with a rape kit and sealed in evidence bags. Patient gave no comment when asked whether any sexual congress was consensual."

I feel sick. This shouldn’t surprise me. The kid was damn near naked in that basement and Gourley was one sick bastard.

I look back at the chart.

"How's Steve?"

His voice is hoarse and tired-sounding. I freeze, still looking at the chart. Then turn around slowly. If I thought I was angry before then I'm setting some sort of record. My blood pressure must be hitting world record levels.

"What?"

The first thing he says. Not "thank you" or "how am I?" or even "how bad is it?". I think I'd even prefer it if he was crying or something.

He's looking at me, holding my stare, leaning up awkwardly on his elbows. "How is he?" he asks quietly.

"Why do you care, Newbie?"

He flinches and drops his gaze. Great, I won a staring contest against a physical wreck of a man. Boy. Girl. Whatever. He tries to shrug, then winces.

I'm angry, I really am. And for some reason all the anger is being directed at him. I know I should probably be supportive or sensitive or something around him, but I'm just too annoyed.

"Now while you're still conscious and apparently capable of answering some questions, I want some answers from you."

He sees the report in my hand, then stares back at me, with a panicked expression.

"What about?"

"Why do you care about how Gourley is?"

No answer. His eyes are wide.

"I’ve read this report, Newbie. I know everything. So why did you ask about him when… when he did that?"

Still no answer, except for his face to flush slightly.

"Damn it!" I grab him by his shoulder. He cries out, but I quash the sick guilt I feel flooding me for hurting him. Throw it into the already huge lake of guilt for not finding him sooner and then for not offering him any comfort when I did.

"Did he rape you?"

"No!"

That was far too defensive for my liking.

"Then you won't mind if I check Doctor Wen’s work there? Because he sure as hell needed to put sutures there and I’m intrigued as to what else could have caused it.”

I move and he flails slightly, which must have hurt like hell. I pause, desperation clawing at my throat. I hate that I'm doing this to him. But I can't think what else to do.

"No…" he whimpers quietly.

"What, are you saying it was consensual, Deirdre?" I'm laughing harshly. I'm an utterly cruel self-obsessed bastard. "Because I've heard of S and M, but that was just over-doing it down there."

"Shut up!"

"Well, did he or didn't he?"

He makes a choked-off sobbing noise. I don't know why, but I just need to hear him say it.

"Well, Newbie?"

"Yes! Alright? Yes he did!"

I seize him by his shoulders again. "Did what?" Why the hell am I doing this to the kid?

He looks me in the eye. With a now-familiar sense of detachment I notice he's crying. "He raped me," He sounds almost sarcastic when he says it, but closes his eyes immediately afterwards and starts sobbing harshly. His shoulders are shaking violently as he does so. His wracking sobs make my arms shake. I think any decent human-being would either leave him alone or offer him some sort of comfort. I do neither and ask the question my anger is demanding I do.

"Why were you defending him? Why were you asking about him? Why do you care?"

Newbie doesn't answer me. Maybe he can't. He just cringes a bit.

All of a sudden I just don't want to touch him. Not because of any "filthiness" or anything that I know some rape victims associate themselves with. I'm just so furious I'm afraid I'll hurt him more. I let him go, then calmly take a sedative and move towards him to inject him. It's probably the coward's way out of comforting him, but I just can't. How come I could touch him when he was unconscious without feeling this horrific anger? He tries to stop me, but there’s no strength to it, his hands awkwardly resting against my arm, his shattered wrists meaning he can’t put up any forceful resistance even if he had the energy. I sigh and press the needle into his skin. His choked sobs subside to whimpers and he eventually quiets down, his hands still pawing slightly at my arm, his wide eyes becoming unfocused, allowing the tears to flow unchecked down his face. Despite myself I gently reach over and wipe his face.

I'm torn up inside. I really am. I don't know where I'm going when I get up and walk out the room with a purpose.

Don't know where I'm going, even though Carla is asking me something.

I hardly even know what I'm doing when I grab another syringe, drawing the plunger back to fill it with air and slam my way into Gourley's room. He's being treated for physical injuries (which were, I can say with a certain amount of smug pride, caused by me). There's a police guard around him, but they don't seem to know what to do; after all, they associate doctors with healing.

Gourley's watching me calmly and with mild interest. Sutcliffe has appeared out of nowhere standing between me and Gourley. He doesn't even exist as far as I'm concerned. I stay staring at Gourley.

"Worthless, is he?"

Was that my voice? I sound like I'm a scotch away from a mental breakdown.

No one else in this room exists to me. Not Sutcliffe calmly repeating "Put down the needle, put it down, this isn't helping anyone" or Carla hanging off my arm trying to get me to put it down, or the police guards who look like they're wondering whether to draw their guns.

Gourley's just looking straight back at me. He doesn't even look guilty. It maddens me even more. I feel guilty enough to have done it, but he looks as if he's a goddamned priest or something. Serene and at peace.

"You're the worthless one," I snarl. "You're just an abusing, raping sick fucker and this," I indicate the needle "is far too good for you."

He nods. That's what surprises me, and lets rationality take a hold again. It's not Carla letting go of my arm in shock when I said "raping", it's that nod. The needle tumbles from my immobile fingers and shatters on the floor. The noise is incredibly loud. I tear my gaze away from Gourley to watch the shards of glass spinning in all directions, refracting the light.

I realize I've been staring at the floor a while, and look up. I feel horribly tired. But then I realize something. Gandhi, Barbie and Carla all followed me here. So they just found out that not only was their friend physically abused he was also sexually abused. And they found out in the least subtle way possible.

They all look shell-shocked. I can't stay in here a second longer.

Which is why I'm sitting in my Porsche in the hospital car park, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles are white. I'd say I was bawling like a little kid who's fallen off a swing, but I'm not. I'm just grimacing, forcing the pain to stay inside, and biting down the urge to scream.

I feel guilty.

I feel angry.

I feel terrible.

And all I can think of still is how bad it is for me because I'm the one suffering all this guilt. I think of Newbie sobbing as I force him to tell me what happened. Then I think of me calmly sedating him after teasing him and offering him no comfort at all.

Did I mention I feel guilty?

Chapter Text

I'm listening to the beeping of the machine I'm hooked up to with my eyes closed. There's several reasons for this: the major one is that someone's in the room and I really don't feel like talking at the moment. So I'm just faking sleep. I'm guessing it isn't Doctor Cox, he probably would have insulted me by now.

Oh my God. I really don't want to see Doctor Cox. Or speak to him. Or anything. I just keep remember him laughing at me, and that look on his face. He looked disgusted. The horrible sick feeling in my stomach lurches at me in nauseous recollection of that. I stop myself from crying because it's girly and also that whoever's in the room will realize I'm awake.

There's an oxygen mask strapped onto my face. It feels nice. I hadn't been realizing how much my chest was burning before and how difficult it was to breathe. Now I can do it easily. I heard a nurse earlier saying to someone that I had pneumonia and infection. My torso and arms feel sort of tingly, which I'm guessing is the effect of the antiseptic and painkillers. And presumably antibiotics.

My wrists are throbbing slightly though. They’re immobilized by my sides and feel like bundles of broken sticks. They hurt. But I'd rather lie here in pain rather than let it show that I'm awake. So yeah… basically I don't want to talk.

Maybe if I just pretend I'm asleep all the time they'll think I'm in a coma and then leave me alone? Admittedly, then I'd have to somehow fake inactivity in my brain, but I'm sure Doctor Cox would point out that I needn't fake that.

Which has brought me right back around to thinking of Doctor Cox. When I woke up after he'd sedated me I'd realized that I'd bled over the sheets from where he'd grabbed my forearms. I just went to sleep again, and when I woke someone had patched me up. It's something I'm starting to love about sedative; I get to be unconscious through unpleasant things.

Whoever's in this room isn't going away. Well… tough shit. I'm not going to "wake up" for ya, buddy.

My throat's tickling. Damn it, I think I'm going to cough. This isn't good. If I start coughing I'll have a coughing fit and then I can't fake being asleep. No one can have a full-blown pneumonic coughing fit when they're asleep. It's just not very realistic.

Crap crap crap crap crap crap!

I sound terrible, gargling out cough after cough. I'd say it's a phlegmy cough, but I think it's actually blood. Plus my wrists have been strapped up and I can't use my arms (why not?) so I'm coughing into the oxygen mask. Oh, yeah, and it's making my chest and back heave, which is making the sutures hurt. I hope they aren't rupturing.

Someone takes the oxygen mask off me. I hack painfully, my eyes streaming. Oh great, my mouth's full of… something. I spit it into the bowl that's put gently under my nose and gasp for air. My breath sounds wheezy. I open my eyes, noting that, yes, it was blood. Someone's stroking my neck and hair softly. Instead of finding it comforting I suddenly feel repellent- I haven't washed my hair in so long, it must be disgusting.

A hand strokes my hair, then pulls away, dripping grease. The owner makes a horrified noise.

Gross.

I hack up nothing a couple more mouthfuls of … ugh, then slump back against the pillows, my eyes closed. There's the sound of someone moving around, then something's pushed against my lips. Oh, it's a glass. I drink the cool water with relish; how come you never really appreciate water until you're sick or hungover?

"Don't gulp it Bambi, your stomach's not up to it."

At least it takes away the taste of the blood. I drink as much as I think I can handle then glance at Carla gratefully.

"Thanks."

She smiles at me. She looks really tired.

"How're you feeling?"

"Oh... like I've been chained up in a basement and beaten up for a few days."

I grin at her disarmingly. Only it doesn't seem to work. She looks so sad. Maybe I still have blood on my teeth or something?

"JD… Doctor Cox told us what happened."

The grin drops off my face. I suddenly feel like I've had my confidence betrayed. Which is stupid really, because I didn't tell Doctor Cox in confidence. I told him because he bullied and pressurized me into it. And because I'd been feeling so weak that I couldn't really hold out against him. And also because a secret part of me was hoping that maybe he would make me feel better about it.

Yeah, right. When Kelso's home freezes over. 

I can't look at her any more, her big brown eyes full of concern and unshed tears. I stare at the ceiling instead (I have vague recollections of doing this in the ambulance with Doctor Cox… stroking my hair? I must have been hallucinating again).

Although, thinking of hallucinations; how do I know that it happened? Maybe it wasn't real? Maybe it was a hallucination? After all, it wasn't all that unlikely. The grin's slipping back into place.

"Carla, I was hallucinating in that basement. And Doctor Cox… sort of pressured me into that. I wasn't thinking properly."

"It happened, Bambi."

I look back at her, still grinning manically. It wasn't true, it had just been a stupid hallucination. After all, Steve didn't normally come and see me in the mornings.

"How do you know that? No one's examined me-"

"Yes, they have, Bambi. You were examined in the ambulance, don’t you remember? Doctor Wen confirmed it as well."

Oh God. For a second there I'd felt a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of… something. I stop looking at her and stare back at the ceiling. I don’t remember being examined in the ambulance, I remember the doctor trying and getting angry at him. He threatened to sedate me and then… I don’t remember anything after that, blurred movements, voices, someone stroking my hair…

And Doctor Wen confirmed it? He was… he was looking there when I was unconscious? There's a catch in my throat. I'm not going to cry, I'm not.

"I suppose he laughed when he told you too?"

"Laughed?"

"He laughed when he was asking about it. Said something about if it was consensual then… and something about S and M…"

Tears are welling up in my eyes. I can't stop them. I can't even wipe them off my face because of my stupid wrists. I feel so helpless and crushed. Tears are dripping down my cheeks. I don't think I could have admitted that to anyone other than Carla. About how much it hurt, him laughing, him hurting me. But Carla had probably seen every single one of my failed attempts to connect with Doctor Cox.

She hasn't spoken back. I close my eyes, tears still seeping out under my eyelids.

"JD…" her voice has gone all wobbly. "Whatever Doctor Cox said, he didn't mean it. He was really upset when you were missing. And when he found out… what he found out, he was so angry. He went into… into the room of the guy who… who did it to you and was threatening to kill him. Then he went outside and sat in his Porsche. I think he's still there. I tried to get him out, but he just ignored me."

I choke on a sob. Great, so now I feel bad about making Doctor Cox go homicidal.

"Carla, can you just sedate me please?"

My voice is wobbling all over the place. I don't care. It's gone high too. I sound like Elliot in a neurotic attack.

"Bambi, I don't think-"

"I hurt, I'm tired, I'm emotional and I can't deal with this right now!"

Great, now I'm shrieking. Only she isn't moving.

"Fine," I snap, opening my eyes. Try to get up. Only I can't move my arms.

I have a moment of panic before I realize that they're strapped down. I stare at the restraints in confusion.

"You kept moving in your sleep," Carla explained. "And trying to move your hands. It would have slowed down your recovery time, so we strapped them down so you wouldn't hurt yourself."

I glance at her, then decide the best coping mechanism is the “staring blankly at the ceiling” technique. If she doesn't want to sedate me then fine, but I'm not going to talk to her. It sounds childish and pathetic, but that's just me all over, isn't it?

So I've been lying her for a while now, ignoring her. She keeps trying to talk to me, but I don't want to talk to her. What can we talk about? What can we connect over, her so perfect and me so broken? So I just stare at the ceiling and block everything out. After a while it seems to work. It's just that now I've only just noticed that she's gone and I'm all alone. I feel frightened for some reason.

And there's something lurking in my psyche that's bothering me.

Because for some sick twisted reason I want Steve to be here.

I may be out the basement physically, but I think mentally I'm still stuck there.

"Shall I tell you something Newbie? You're value-less. Worthless."

A scalpel digs deep into my skin, carving into my arm. I scream, jerking away as best as I can from the excruciating pain, but he's stronger than me and pins me down. He's laughing as he does it, that harsh laugh. 

"Help me Carla!"

She stares at me, then restrains my arms. "We don't want you hurting yourself now, do we Bambi?"

Doctor Cox grins at me, then morphs into Steve. "But that's exactly what we want isn't it? Physical pain, John- it's the cure to the internal agony you and me share now."

"JD!"

He seizes my hips and kicks my legs apart. I feel so exposed and vulnerable.

"NO!"

My eyes open. I feel burning hot. I'm sweating. Turk is holding me down, Elliot and Carla behind him looking horrified. I stare at them, eyes wild.

"W-what?"

"You were having a nightmare. Your fever's spiking."

Turk puts his hand on my forehead as Carla explains. It feels cool.

Turk touches me, but as he does so his hand melts and runs down my face. Some trickles into my mouth.

"Dude! Why are you obsessed with eating my hand?"

I melted Super Chocolate Bear.

They're talking to me, I think, but I'm feeling so drowsy. I close my eyes. My headache's back, thumping at my skull, making my eyes burn. My head feels light and airy somehow. Airhead. Haha.

- - - - -

Noises, voices, blurred figures, terrible throbbing pain in my head and through my chest. Exhaustion, blackness, silence.

- - - - -

The air in my lungs and through my throat feels like it’s on fire. Heat, dry, prickling pain. Itchy, weird, aching sensations through my body. Chest hurts. Head hurts. Tired. Can’t even open my eyes, too much effort.

- - - - -

Feels like someone has jumped on my chest repeatedly. Pain, pain, exhaustion, spiraling away to sleep.

- - - - -

I'm soaked. I don't want to know what I'm soaked in. I'm guessing sweat, but it's definitely not a very pleasant thought whatever. I have no idea how much time has passed, but this feels like the first time I’ve been properly aware of what’s going on for a while.

Opening my eyes is unpleasant; they are crusted together with something revolting. My vision is blurred and I still feel unnervingly like my skin is a furnace, but what I see gives me one of the biggest shocks in my life. Doctor Cox is asleep in the chair next to me. He looks a mess. He seems to have grown a beard (what? How did he have time to do that?) and judging by the shadows under his eyes he hasn't slept much. The room smells of alcohol. I'm guessing that's emanating from him.

It feels horrible, lying here sweating, my hair plastered to my head, overheating, scratchy eyes staring at a very much out-of-it Doctor Cox. What surprises me is that I don't feel much when I look at him. Except the tired urge to hit him with something. He looks a mess, and what right does he have to be in a mess?

I stop looking at him, and look at my arms instead. They're still restrained, but if I pull at them enough then the restraints start to give. I get one arm free before the exertion forces me into another coughing fit.

It's agony. It awakes all the pains in my chest, back and arms. It also makes my stomach hurt. I curl my legs up into a foetal position and roll onto my side, choking and coughing. I try to lift my arm to cover my mouth but the wrists are strapped too stiffly. I collapse on my side, hacking to myself. I'm burning hot and I feel dizzy. I itch all over.

Spit the blood over the side of the bed. Yes, it's disgusting, but I wasn't going to have that in the bed with me. The Janitor can just clean it up. Good. Hahahahaha.

I stay lying on my side feeling exhausted. I don't even know why. It's not like I'm doing anything other than coughing. I want my oxygen mask. Mmmm, oxygen.

I'm shivering a bit, but I'm not cold. I'm just lying here, my head swimming, feeling all spacey. My cuts are all throbbing, but I can't really feel them; I'm just aware that they're throbbing, if you know what I mean? Like when you get cold and your feet start throbbing, but you can't feel them.

And now I'm crying. Where did that come from? Oh yeah; I'm feeling helpless, exhausted, sick, alone, and someone has cut me up, whipped me, raped me and generally screwed my life up. Yet I still miss him somehow.

I hear a grunt from the chair. Oh God. Thank the lord I'm facing away from him. Promptly stop crying and make manly whimpering noises to myself instead.

Footsteps. Ignore them. Ignore him. The bed shifts as he sits down on it. Ignore it. It feels like he's sitting in the curve I've made with my body. His back brushes my stomach. Yep, that's where he is. But ignore him.

Ignore the hand resting on my side. Ignore that it's one of the few places on my upper body that doesn't hurt. Ignore how nice it feels. How cool and soothing.

I wonder if he's drunk?

I sob and try to inhale, but just suffer another coughing fit. He takes off the restraint on my other arm, then holds me under the arms to drag me into a semi sitting position. Oh, good. I'm not drowning in blood/phlegm/yuck any more. I rest my head exhaustedly against his clavicle.

I think I've emotionally crashed somehow. I don't seem to be able to stop crying. I'm not even sure I remember why I'm crying any more. Doctor Cox holds me awkwardly for a while, then tentatively touches my back. When I don't scream he pulls me up against his body. It's not really a hug because his arms aren't around me. One's stroking my hand absently and the other's holding my side so I don't topple over. His chin's resting on top of my head.

My sobs die down to odd hiccupping noises. I relax against him, noticing how weird it feels to have stubble against your hair. I feel so hot and tired. I remember feeling like this when I was a kid and had 'flu. I ended up lying there crying helplessly because I was just so tired. My mom had hugged me and given me warm milk with honey in.

I turn my head to the side and close my eyes, propped up against his shoulder. I want to say something, but I'm not sure what. Maybe "thank you," or "sorry," or something.

"'D'you try an' kill Steve?"

Oh, that probably wasn't a good move. It was mumbled and sounded weird. And he hardly reacted well the last time I showed any interest in Steve’s welfare. Only he doesn't stiffen and yell at me, like I think he will.

"Yeah. You nearly got me arrested, Newb."

Ooh. His chin moves and my cheek must be pressed against his throat because I can feel what he's saying as well as hear it. That feels weird.

"Why d'you try an' kill Steve?"

He doesn't reply. I sigh softly and absently try to move my fingers.

OW.

I hiss sharply. The indrawn breath makes me cough a bit. Suddenly the oxygen mask is back on. Mm. I love this oxygen.

Everything's a bit fuzzy. At some point Doctor Cox lays me back down on the bed and goes back to his chair. Before he did that I think I remember Carla sticking her head in the room and smiling. It looked like the first time she'd smiled in a while. I'd only really noticed because Doctor Cox had said something to her (only to me it had sounded like a rumble) and my eyes had flickered open to see what was happening.

Now I'm lying back, breathing deeply through the oxygen mask and drowsing to myself. Doctor Cox is asleep again.

Looking closer I think I can see tear tracks on his face. Looks like I'm not the only one who crashed.

My bed feels like it's made of marshmallows. Mmm. Nice.

Chapter Text

OH MY GOD.

I shriek, the warm peace I was in a second ago shattered as icy cold water is dumped over me. Jolted into awareness, every sense in my body is screaming at me in shock. It's so cold. It feels like it's in me.

When I open my eyes I'm expecting to see my hands chained against the radiator, the dingy basement light highlighting just enough to scare me, and Steve calmly walking away after dumping the water on me. I don't, but I can't really see anything.

There are things stuck in me, causing little needle-pricks of pain. Everything feels achey and stiff, but I'm flailing away from the water; but how can I get away from it when I can’t even see where it is? I'm on something soft, some back part of my brain notices, the part that's just sitting back and watching as lunatic JD takes over my mind, turning it into a screaming pit of horror.

Someone's yelling something, and a pair of hands are on me. I lash out at whatever it trying to grab me. My right hand makes contact and whoever they are yell at the same time I scream as my reset wrist and slashed up, burnt out skin feel the blow. It knocks the breath out of me, but I carry on. I've nearly escaped when I'm seized by something. It's not like the hands were a second ago. Whatever this thing is, it's big and male and ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Have you ever panicked so bad you can't think? You can't tell what you're doing? He had a hold of me and it was pretty obvious he could overpower me, especially in this condition. It's not fair, it's not right, I can't use my hands, he's just doing whatever he wants because I can't use my hands because he's chained my hands up!

I'm hurling myself at something, the desperate panic giving me an adrenaline surge that's making my physically shake. Flailing, kicking, I'm even trying to punch despite the agonizing pain in my wrists and I'm screaming fit to die. And he's yelling and trying to force me back but I am not going to, no I'm not going to let that happen again.

Someone else grabs me from behind- there's two of them now. I'm seized roughly and thrown back onto whatever this soft thing is and pinned down. I scream again and try to kick him, but then whatever was holding me before lands heavily on me. I can't move. I can just about breathe. I'm being pinned down.

I'm shaking now, but not from adrenaline. Oh crap. Any second now my legs are going to be forced apart, no matter how hard I fight against them and then- and then-

I scream hoarsely into the bed.

Oh, yes. It's a bed. I'm in Sacred Heart. Nothing is happening. I stop struggling and go limp, realizing I've probably broken all my sutures. My face is pressed into the duvet. It's oddly comforting. It's so soft and feels cool against me. Only whoever's on top of me and the hands pinning me down feel horribly warm. Flushed. I shudder.

"Well, that's real smart," Inhaling the bedsheet, I recognize Carla's voice. "After what he's been through you decide to dog-pile on him?"

Someone grunts (oh, that's hideous, I can feel him grunt and it's going right through me, it's inside me, oh god). The weight's lifted off me, and when I don't flip out the hands are gone as well. I ignore everyone and wriggle my way back up the bed and slump against the pillow. I'm sweating and shaking and I just don't want to look at anyone. That must have looked totally insane.

I'm sat in a straight-jacket in a white room grinning vacantly. I look around with the mad look on my face.

"The Bradey Bunch really suck,"

Turk looks horrified and puts his head in his hands.

I would lie back down, but it's wet with cold water.

The bucket of cold water is dumped over me, the freezing cold distracting me from my aching wrists-

I only manage not to scream by biting my lip. I stare blankly at the bed, trying to work out why is was soaked.

"I'm sorry JD."

Someone's hand is on my shoulder. I can't help but snarl and throw it off. I look around into Elliot's worried expression. Bitterness wells up inside me. Why the hell did everyone have to find out?

"Sorry for what, Elliot? Just generally about what happened, about some bastard chaining me up in-"

"I accidentally spilt the water on you," Her voice is wavering. What the hell? I stare at her uneasily.

"Why did you throw water at me?"

"I didn't! I accidentally knocked the pitcher over when I was checking your vitals and it spilt onto you. You- you really went crazy."

I look away. Crap. I did that with Steve too. Look where that got me.

"W-why did you get so scared?"

"JD?"

"JD, what happened?"

"JD, why did-?"

"Shut up!"

Okay, if I didn't look crazy before then I do now. I look at the three people lurking behind Elliot. Carla's just standing there staring at me, Turk has an arm around her, his concerned expression annoying me more and Doctor Cox has his arms crossed and is watching me looking mildly interested. He still hasn't shaved.

I glare at them all. I'm feeling lost and confused and I'm really not in the mood for this. I am just so annoyed that they all know what happened, so annoyed that they're all feeling awkward now, so annoyed I'm so defenseless at the moment. I resist the urge to yell at them to get out.

"Dude! You scared me!"

"Very manly Ghandi."

I roll my eyes. Glance at Doctor Cox, hoping he was too drunk to remember last night, then jerk away as Carla tries to change my bandages.

"Bambi, you're bleeding."

I really don't want her taking them off with everyone else in the room though. They might not know and I just don't want people staring at me. Especially not at my arm.

"A little privacy please?" I ask as sarcastically as I can manage. There's a lump in my throat, but as long as I'm staying angry then I can keep it there. I'm not going to cry or anything, it just makes me feel even more helpless.

Turk suddenly strides up to the bed and looks me in the eye. "JD, I just had to hold down my best friend as a neurotic alcoholic robodoc-" Doctor Cox growls "- practically lay on top of you to just get you to calm your ass down. You're not shutting me out."

I hate how well everyone knows me.

"What am I, a freak show?"

Ooh, that sounded bitter. Turk looks hurt and then backs away from me a bit. Good. Since no one seems about to leave I ignore them as Carla changes the bandages and inspects the sutures on my arms and back. Elliot and Turk both keep flinching when they see the injuries. I hope Elliot doesn't cry. There's nothing more depressing than someone crying when they see you topless.

Other than laughing, I guess.

When she finishes she changes the sheets on the bed. Stupid Elliot spilling water on the stupid bed making me look like a stupid psycho. No one's talking and that doesn't bother me one bit. They're all crazy if they think I want an in-depth conversation about what happened right now. Or probably even ever. Why does it matter?

Only now she's finished and everyone's looking at me expectantly and I just want to yell at them all to go away and stop judging me.

"Desiree, why did you freak out?"

"Huh?"

Oh, that sounded smart.

"Barbie asked why you freaked out. Don't you owe it to your gal-pal to explain why?"

I shrug and then wince at the pain that blossoms across my back and shoulders. "Just surprised me."

How come with everyone else I could tell them to get lost, but with him I feel I have to make some sort of reply, even if it's a pile of crap?

He looks at me disbelievingly. I don't really blame him. Being surprised wouldn't usually make someone have a full blown attempting-to-escape panic attack like I just managed to perform.

Oh, I don't care anymore. I just lie back down on the bed and pretend to go to sleep. If anyone talks to me I ignore them. Feigning sleep is something I'm finding useful, but it's not exactly surprising. I can't get up and walk away or anything. It's my only defense.

Someone's reattaching all the leads and monitors to me. I'm having to be really careful not to flinch when they do it. Whoever it is tentatively touches my hair for a second, then sighs. I am actually feeling pretty sleepy now, so whatever's said afterwards just sounds like vague voices I can sort of identify as Carla and Doctor Cox. Also I'm guessing that now the painkillers and sedatives are being pumped back into me.

The door just closed.

My eyes fly open, horrified. I don't want to be alone.

But I don't want them to be here either.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I doing this?

It's just lying there. I've been staring at it for a good while after I noticed it was here. But it's just lying there innocently on the chair. I outstretch a hand, wincing as my stiff fingers send shots of pain down my arm, but manage to pick it up by twisting my fingers slightly. I look at it.

Doctor Cox's pager.

Normally it would be everywhere with him, but it must have fallen off when he was in here. I examine it as much as I can with my wrists bandaged. Look at the door, where I can just about see that it seems quiet in the corridor. I don't think the hospital is busy right now, but…

But no one's answering the question I need to know. I'm getting afraid to ask them because they get angry at it. So it looks like I'm going to find out for myself.

But the most important thing is to get everyone out of the way. So…

I need to see you all outside in the parking lot. Now.

It doesn't sound very Coxish, but since all my pages off him have girl's names in I can't really think how he'd page without them. (Maybe an added “Morons”, but he wouldn’t say that to Carla, surely?) It takes about five minutes just to type it, my wrists and fingers aching abysmally when I try to use them. Then probably another five minutes to send it to Turk, Carla, Elliot, and then as an afterthought Laverne and the Todd. I don't think Doctor Cox would ever page the Todd, but if he sees me he might tell someone. That does unfortunately leave Doctor Cox still roaming about (and if he is with any of the others, or even within their eyesight then man, he's going to be pissed). But I don't worry about it, detach all these stupid leads (listening to the long drone of the heart machine flat-lining), clip the pager into the inside of my gown and slide off the bed. I can walk pretty easily, despite not having done so in ages. I do hurt, though. My legs and thighs and- well, yeah, everywhere on my lower body is sort of achey, but that's okay. My ass hurts and I don’t want to think about that.

I slip out the door, leaving the flat-line drone I associate with death in there without me. But it carries on in my head.

The nurse's station is empty. The hospital feels abandoned, but I doubt it is; it'll just be one of those dead late-night shifts and I've just distracted most of the staff. I walk over to the nurse's station and move my stiff bandaged hands to push my way through the files. Gourley… Gourley.. .ah, Gourley, S. B. Room number 116. (What does the B stand for? Brian? Brandon? Byron?)

Getting there is surprisingly uneventful. My heartbeat feels like it's thumping through my ribcage. I keep sliding behind walls and other handy cover whenever I hear people come past. When I walk past the lift I catch sight of myself in the mirror. It makes me freeze.

I’m so pale; it's been commented on before that I don't have much of a tan, but now I look almost albino rather than your garden variety pallid eek. It's contrasting sharply with my black hair, and the bandages covering my arms and torso under the gown look…awful. I've lost so much weight… I look like a corpse.

I don't feel like I'm really here. My body's doing this, whilst my mind is in some different dimension watching what this idiot is doing.

Damn it. There's a police guard outside the room. It's just the one, but… His back's turned. He looks like he's been on shift a while. Sure, he'd notice if Steve came running out the room with a knife about to get someone. I frown. I doubt I can sneak in behind him. Lean back, thinking, then unhook the pager again, wincing at the pain in my wrists, and page Doug.

Hey, Nervous Guy. Get that police guard away from Gourley's room. I need a "private" chat with him and they aren't letting me in after the syringe incident. This didn't happen, Pee Pants. Get him out of there in the next minute, or I'll end you.

I marvel at my ability to channel Doctor Cox, it’s clearly getting better with practice. Sure enough, within about 20 seconds I see Doug come running down the corridor, a look of utter terror on his face. He doesn't even notice me, he’s that panicked. He comes to a stop in front of the cop.

"T-there's an incident in the ER. D-Doctor Cox wants you to-"

Then they're both running off to the ER. I wonder what Doug's going to do when he gets the cop there and has to produce some drunken angry hobo or something, but then the ER has plenty of them. Some of the staff fit that description, after all.

I hurry over to the door and put my hand on the handle before freezing. My heartbeat seems too loud I'm surprised the whole hospital can't hear it. I take a deep breath, then open the door, step inside and close it firmly behind me, wincing from the pain in my wrists.

Then I just don't feel like I can turn around. I'm doing my deer in headlights thing again. Only this time I'm a deer that knowingly wandered into a road and then made obscene gestures at the car. Apparently I want to get run over.

"John."

I shudder. I'll always recognize his damn voice.

Turn around. Seeing Steve lying in a bed, handcuffed to the bedframe should be less menacing than seeing him in the basement but it seems about the same. He's watching me curiously.

"Steve… why are you in hospital?"

"Oh… who's the doctor? That one you know? Big guy."

"Doctor Cox?"

"Yes, he attacked me. Broke some ribs and things. So I need to be here for a while."

I resist the urge to apologize for Doctor Cox's behavior. I walk a bit closer to him and he watches me do so.

"I can't say I blame him," Steve added thoughtfully. "I wish someone had done that to my dad."

"Your dad didn't do this."

I gesture at myself. My voice is wavering quite a bit, but I'm not sounding too bad. Steve watches me, looking worried.

"No, he's dead."

I resist the urge to ask if that was anything to do with Steve.

"You know how much choice I had in this, John."

My eyes narrow. "More than me."

I've wandered closer as I've been talking to him. I'm standing right next to his pillow now. Steve closes his eyes. When he keeps them closed I get a bit worried.

"Steve?"

A hand lashes out and seizes my right wrist. I yell, and suddenly Steve's standing up, his left hand still handcuffed to the bed, but his right attached firmly to my wrist. His face is right up against mine. He's wincing a bit, presumably from his ribs. He snarls at me, then suddenly his grip on my wrist tightens and he squeezes.

I whimper and sway on my feet. I think he's just rebroken it

"You know how it was, John," he hisses. "You damn well know!"

I wince and try to look him in the eye. I want to demand he lets go of me, but then he's released me and collapsed back onto his bed. He's sobbing.

My legs aren't up to standing any more. My knees slowly bend and I slide down onto the floor, staring blankly at nothing. I sit there, listening to Steve crying. It's the way a child would cry, without worrying about anyone thinking worse of them. I just feel numb. Is this what I'm going to turn into?

The pager goes off, clipped inside my gown. I look at it blankly, then up at the door, where a silhouette is blocking off the light.

"What the hell?!"

I'm seized around the waist and dragged out into the corridor. Doctor Cox slams me into the wall.

"Watch my back!" I snap at him.

He glares at me, then suddenly his hand's rummaging in the gown and he wrenches out the pager and dangles it in my face.

"What's this doing here, Newbie?"

I turn my head away from him. He grabs my face and forces me to look into his eyes.

"What's it doing with you? And why the hell do I find you in there?"

I'm half-expecting to see Doug and the cop behind him, but they're nowhere in sight. Maybe they're still in the ER?

"Because I needed to know."

"Know what? If I'd found you in there with a scalpel-" I shudder at the thought of ever holding a scalpel again "-or – or – or a dirty needle or something it would at least be understandable. But this isn't, Newbie."

I can't look him in the eye any more. I glance away, but I'm not sure how to answer him. Do I know the answer?

"Whether he was alive."

"Who cares if he's alive?"

"I care!"

"Why? Damnit Newbie, you care about all your patients, you care about everyone, you care just too damn much, but why the hell do you care about him?"

"I… I don't know."

I stare at the ceiling. His grip on me relaxes and he sighs. When I look back one of his hands is in his hair.

"I had to go past your room and I heard what I thought was… was your heart stopped…"

He says it so quietly I'm not sure if I was meant to have heard it. He lets go of me and I slide back down the wall, continuing to stare blankly at nothing. I wrap my hands around my knees and do my best not to rock back and forth. I hear Doctor Cox sliding down it next to me.

"What if that happens to me?" I whisper.

His hand's on my knee- I'm guessing he'd have put it on one of my shoulders if they weren't such a mess. "It's not going to be you."

I just stay staring at nothing.

"Newbie, we're going to have to go. If they find me around here they'll charge me with assault."

I carry on staring at nothing. There's hands on me all of a sudden, but I don't scream. I'm feeling so numb. Just rest my head against Doctor Cox's shoulder and close my eyes as he carries me back to my room.

"I think he rebroke my wrist," I mumble to him when he puts me on the bed. Doctor Cox looks at me for a second, then unbandages it and checks me over. He sighs again. He sounds so defeated.

"It's had a lot of stress on it, but I don't think it's broken again…" he straps my wrist up more tightly, then rebandages it. He injects me with a pain killer then sits down back on the chair next to me. I’m starting to think of it as the Cox Chair. I was expecting a screaming angry Doctor Cox, but he just sits there. I feel sleepy from the drugs.

"Why is it not going to be me?"

He'd been looking away from me out the window. He turned and looked at me.

"Because I'm going to be here."

"Thank you," my eyelids were flickering shut, but I had to get it out before I fell asleep.

"You're welcome."

Chapter Text

Something is very, very wrong.

For the first time in days my head feels clear, like it's been stuffed with cotton candy before. Maybe it was some sort of defensive technique, or maybe it was… oh, I don't know. I'm a doctor and I can't even focus enough to diagnose myself. I just feel so… drained.

But I feel fine. Sort of. Well, not really, but I can’t cope with just lying here anyway. Which is why I'm planning to discharge myself. Sitting on the edge of my bed with my legs dangling over I'm just trying to gather enough energy to force myself to get up when the door swings open.

"JD! What're you doing?"

Elliot's fussing over me. I want to scream at her to stop touching me, but bite my lip and brush away her concerned hands with my heavily bandaged right arm.

"Elliot, I'm just lying here, I may as well go home…"

"JD, you've been really ill! Now lie back down-"

"What? I’m feeling fine, I’ve not been that ill-“

Elliot's blue eyes widen in shock, her blonde bangs dropping into her eye-line. It reminds me so much of Steve I can't help it. I freeze, staring back at her, my deer in the headlights look firmly back in place, while she stammers a bit and then gently pushes me back into a lying position.

"JD… you've been so sick. You’ve been here weeks."

I stare at her, uncomprehending.

"That makes no sense, I've only been here a few days-"

"No, JD," she sounds utterly distraught. "You… you've been here for three weeks. You've spent most of it unconscious or… or… sometimes you seemed awake but you weren’t responding."

She’s watching me with worried eyes, wringing her hands anxiously in front of her.

I can't take it in. "But-"

What? Lying there with my eyes open? Shock? Oh great…

“What do you remember last?”

Falling asleep… feeling safe, feeling protected by -

I shuffle back up the bed to a sitting position to stare at Elliot, who's looking back at me, biting her lower lip. I can't look her in the eyes any more, the blue wide-eyed innocent expression with the blonde bangs falling over them reminds me far too much of Steve. I flinch when I try to. I stare at her nose defiantly.

"How come no one’s told me anything about what’s been going on?"

Oh, wow, the emptiness is filling up with anger. I suppose that's better than the weird numb feeling I had before. Elliot's staring back at me with a confused expression on her face.

"Come on, Elliot! And is there anything else you might like to tell me?" At some point in my rant I’ve jumped off the bed, accompanied by a gasp from Elliot and an attempt to grab my arm, which I furiously shake off. "Like how the whole damn hospital knows what happened? Or maybe just any general information about the past few days- no, sorry, weeks would be useful!"

"Bambi! Why're you out of bed?"

I'm so sick of this.

"I'm not a child, Carla. I feel fine. It's just that some answers would be nice."

She's staring at me, clutching a chart like a shield. Elliot's staring at me too. It's making me feel really uncomfortable. They both look like they think I'm crazy.

All of a sudden I just can't stand it anymore. The staring, the pity I can see in their eyes (except Elliot's which are definitely a no-go area), the way they're acting so carefully around me, it's all just building up. Before I really know what I'm doing I'm stalking out of the room, brushing past them and walking behind the nurse's station. Searching for my file.

"Bambi, what're you doing?"

"JD! JD, you should be in bed!"

"Baby, what's going on? What the- Vanilla Bear, what're you-?"

Found it; Carla’s perfect alphabetical filing making it an easy job. I pull it out from the others and put it on the desk, then begin the painful, awkward task of trying to hold a pen. Elliot's right, I must have been here a while, I actually feel much better except my wrists. They're agonizing, even now. Right, I've half-filled out this discharge form and have managed to ignore Turk, Carla and Elliot's attempts to drag me back to bed so far. I think I heard Carla mention something about a sedative. If she comes near me I'm throwing the file at her head.

"What do you think you're doing, Daphne?"

I freeze again, the pen grasped painfully in my twisted hand. Some other feeling is flooding me and I have no idea what it is. Whatever it is, it feels icy cold. Stare at the chart.

"Because, you know Sugar, the last thing I knew about medical practice is that discharging patients who've nearly died isn't usually done without the signature of the medical consultant, and guess what Newbie? I'm that medical consultant. Now put the damn chart down and go back to bed."

My eyes are scanning the chart. Oh God. I had respiratory failure at some point. I really did nearly die.

How can he – how can he be drawling out crap in his usual rants? How can he be just the same when I’m so different? So changed? Why… why has this happened?

I can feel him standing behind me. Abruptly I can't stand how close he feels. He's too imposing. And I've identified that feeling - rage. I don't think I've ever been raging before, but I'm pretty sure that's what it is. I drop the pen.

"Good girl. Now skip along to-"

I seize the chart and hurl it onto the floor as I wheel around to confront him, trying and likely failing to hold back the urge to snarl at him. He looks surprised and eyes me with what looks like misgiving on his face.

"What the hell gave you the right to just announce what happened?"

Oh, that's what I'm angry about.

Doctor Cox stares back at me blankly. He looks temporarily speechless. Good. Fifteen-love to JD.

"Well?"

Cox rallies magnificently. "What you think I announced over the tannoy system what happened?" Fifteen all.

Come to think of it, I have no idea how I know what happened with him, Steve and the syringe. I can't directly remember anyone telling me about it. Maybe someone was talking about it when I was half asleep and I unconsciously absorbed it or something.

"I know what happened," I spit. "What the hell were you doing?"

Thirty-fifteen to JD.

"I found you in that basement, you little… I wasn't exactly in my right mind! And the state of you when you came in!"

I flinch automatically at the mention of that basement. Damnit. Cox is drawing thirty-all and is looking like he'll take the game.

"Why should that matter? You don't care about me remember?"

It's forty-thirty and JD has the advantage.

He actually looks hurt.

And now JD goes in for the killer blow.

"After all-" Is that my voice? I didn't know I could sound that bitter. "- I'm worthless, aren't I?"

It's game, set and match to JD! The crowd go wild as I volley the ball into Doctor Cox, knocking him off of his feet, and stride triumphantly out of the tennis field, wearing all white, a big grin on my face, Elliot cheerleading in the background.

Hang on, you don't get cheerleaders in tennis.

But I'm out of the nurse's station at the lockers before I remember that. Ignoring the look on his face, the apparent genuine pain and guilt and ignoring my own echoing stab of guilt for doing that. The Janitor's leaning against them, but when he sees me he turns around with a smile on his face. I can't deal with this, I can’t deal with any of this.

"Heyyyy Scooter! Heard ya were feelin' a bit-"

"Open this."

He stares at me pointing at my locker. "Open your locker?"

"I've misplaced my pants which contain my keys." I reply sarcastically.

He looks to my locker then back at me. "I don't think-"

"Just do it! If you'll open it to read my diary and spend ridiculous amounts of energy to torture me-" I just flinched really badly when I said "torture" and from his expression it must have been obvious "- then you'll open it for me to get a change of clothes!"

I've stalked towards him as I'm saying it. I'm actually feeling really uneasy around being close to him, but the anger's stopping me from running away screaming. I'm shaking really badly. I'll pretend it's an adrenaline rush. He raises his hands defensively then opens my locker before stepping back a few paces.

"Thank you."

Good, I left some spare clothes in here. I manhandle them out, wincing as I try to use my useless wrists, and stagger out of the locker room before hiding in a bathroom cubicle. It takes a stupidly long time to struggle out of the hospital gown and then to get on my boxers and my pants (why do I have a spare pair of boxers in here? Am I hoping I'll get lucky?) and then my socks and shoes. Topless I glance down at myself and feel nauseated. I look hideous. I force my T shirt on over my head and push my arms into it, wincing at the awful pain from my wrists. Then I scrabble into my hoodie and open the cubicle door.

Turk's standing out there. I shriek in a manly fashion.

"Dude! Calm down!"

I'm panting. I try my best to cover it up and glare at him suspiciously.

"Are you trying to stop me leaving? Because if you are then-"

"No! JD… I get it. Okay? You don't want to be here any more. I'm taking you back to the apartment."

"You're not trying to get me to stay here?"

Turk shrugs. "You obviously don't want to. It's pointless trying to force you to. So I'll take you there, 'cos otherwise I've no idea how you're getting back."

He has a point. I half shrug, then follow him out of the bathroom and through the exit, shuffling along in an attempt to be covert and faceless, my hood pulled up over my hair in a desperate attempt to be anonymous and not the doctor whose patient abducted and –

When I’m in the carpark I see Sasha standing there forlornly. Still in the same place as when… it seems so recent, but so long ago. I know that makes no sense. I can even see where Steve's car was…

"JD?"

Turk. I forgot about him. How long have I been standing here? Just get in the car and stop thinking…

- - - - -

The drive back was pretty uneventful. Turk had to get back to Sacred Heart because he wasn't officially off-shift. He looked pretty uncomfortable at leaving me here on my own, but had to. I don't know what he thought I'd do, but promised he or Carla would be back soon, then practically fled out of the place. Which left me here alone. Except for my thoughts, which are really starting to bug me.

You’d think I’d have a flood of relief or home-coming or something, wouldn’t you? But there’s nothing, the apartment feels weird and alien.

I tried to go to sleep in my bed, but I didn't feel safe. It's like there's someone else in the apartment watching me constantly, and not in a protective way. In an… ominous way. After a while I gave up and lay on the couch, but I felt the same, which is why I'm lying here staring at the ceiling and wondering if the apartment is bugged. Something feels missing. It's felt missing ever since I woke up at Sacred Heart. The people I know… they're more like strangers now. They're people to be afraid of. And there's only one person who I'm not afraid of. Because he's the one person who understands. The others don't understand.

I close my eyes and roll over onto my side. I sound just like him. I'm so, so screwed.

There's a knock of the door. I groan and open my eyes. And stare.

I'm facing the wall opposite the couch.

In our relatively Spartan apartment the wall has one major feature.

A radiator.

Don't get me wrong. It's probably incredibly comical for a grown man to be frozen in mind-numbing terror just because he's seen a radiator. But it doesn't feel funny at all. I'd scream, only my jaw seems to have clamped shut. I think I'd have been less horrified if it had been Steve sitting against the wall or something. There's someone at the door. What if it's him? Do I want to see him or don't I?

Staring at the radiator is making my wrists ache. I close my eyes to try and get a grip and have a flash of seeing my wrists handcuffed to the radiator. Incapable of moving, then he shoves me over, my wrists shattering as they take my body weight, and he's on me, everywhere, I can feel his breath, his blood pounding in his veins-

I yell briefly and roll off the sofa. Landing hurts, but I shoot backwards from the radiator and stagger into the bathroom. Only now I've hit another problem.

"Pain helps."

I look back at the radiator and then at it. I feel so… scared. So alone. So worthless.

"Pain helps."

Look back at the radiator. Memories of that basement suddenly rear up and swamp me. I'm drowning in it, suffocated by it, dragging me back down to there…

Look at the radiator.

"Pain helps."

Through the miasma of terror and remembrance I reach my hand towards it and pick it up. Glance back at the radiator, and then down at what my shaking hand is holding.

Look at the razorblade.

Close my eyes and tell myself this is not me, it is not me, I am not doing this.

Right?

Chapter Text

I'm not hiding. I'm just lying in the doctor's lounge flat on the couch and not answering when people come in looking for me. That's not hiding. That's just me being me.

Barbie came in earlier, crying. I tried my best to ignore her. I'd never admit it, but her crying which I normally find annoying actually got to me. My absence is probably saying more about how I'm feeling than me being seen, but I just don't think I can face anyone after what happened at the nurse's station. I probably shouldn't have antagonized him, but that's just what I do.

I close my eyes, trying to erase everything, but then I just think of what happened two weeks earlier. Apparently JD has absolutely no idea how long he was here, or how seriously ill he was. His condition deteriorated after what happened with… with that bastard and the syringe. When I woke up and found him nearly choking to death and had to give him oxygen he was getting worse. After that he just crashed. The pneumonia took over and for a couple of days he was touch and go. Barbie, Ghandi and Carla all walked around the hospitals like sleepwalkers (it made a difference from Newbie gazing off into the distance). I… well, I don't remember huge amounts. But one thing that I think will stick with me until I die is when I was in his room checking his vitals when he flat-lined. It was respiratory failure. Obviously he was in the best place to have respiratory failure, but I was terrified. For the first time in my career someone "died" on me and I just stood there and stared. After a couple seconds I remembered to get into action and save the kid, but…

I'm a good doctor. I'm a fantastic doctor. It's just that these situations are too personal. When you lose your professionalism you lose your ability.

When I was walking past his room and heard what I thought was him flat-lining a second time I nearly threw up. I ran in there, panicked, to find his bed vacant. I didn't want to think of where else he could be, but I knew.

I groan and sit up on the couch. Put my face in my hands. I just want a drink.

"Hey, Coxeroonie!"

I stop in my tracks.

"Dan?"

He's standing there, grinning like an idiot, looking as goofy as Newbie does… did.

"Why the hell didn't you answer your phone?"

Dan shrugs. "I’ve been out in the wilderness! Well, at a yoga retreat in the wilderness. No signal there and so I only picked your messages up when I came out of there.”

I stare at him. "You’ve been at a yoga retreat for over three weeks? A yoga retreat?”

He looks a bit defensive, then nods. "Yeah. You should see the chicks there.”

I stare at him some more and watch him wilt.

“I went with my mom…”

I can't believe Newbie thought his older brother was "cool".

"Riiiiight. Now, I'm going to stop myself from taking you to that jock-surgeon to listen to hundreds of 'yer mom' jokes-" I make inverted commas with my fingers "- because you apparently don't know the situation,"

"Nah. JD sick?"

"Um… Well, he's discharged himself now."

"So he's fine?"

"Not really… actually Dan, why are you here?"

Dan shrugs. "I swung by the apartment, but no one answered so I figured my lil' brother was here. Obviously not. He must be out hittin' the town, after the laydees,"

"I doubt that."

For the first time Dan looks like he might have realized something's seriously wrong. "Doctor Cox… what's happened to my little brother?"

Oh, I am such a coward, but I am not answering that. "He wasn't at the apartment?"

"No, no one answered. Doctor Cox- ?"

Something does feel wrong, but I mainly run out to find Gandhi because I don't want to tell Dan his little brother was missing for days whilst being tortured and raped. And we couldn’t speak with him about it because he was at a fucking yoga retreat with his Mom. Maybe Carla will tell him.

Unsurprisingly Gandhi's in the OR. I catch him before he goes in. "Gandhi! What’d you do with Nancy?"

He turns to me looking surprised. "I took him home."

"Who's with him?"

He stares at me. "Dude, no one. Everyone's working-" He stops when he sees my expression. "Look, Doctor Cox, I know what you think of JD, but he isn't as weak as you think he is. He's-"

"Gandhi, if what had happened to him had happened to Chuck Norris, he would still be under suicide watch. You surgeons, you just cut and fix and you don't think about healing, just mending and what's happened has psychological and physical repercussions!"

I catch myself before going into a full blown rant. "Now give me your keys!"

I snatch them from him before giving him the chance to reply, and then stalk out to my Porsche. Bob is probably going to fire me considering my performance recently, but he can blow it out his ass. I'm surprised to find Dan there standing next to it, his hands in his pockets. At my raised eyebrow he shrugs again.

"No one will tell me what's happening with Johnny. Plus it means I get a ride in the Porsche."

I'm in too much of a hurry to really argue- Newbie shouldn't be left alone probably, and since he seemed so pissed with me he might be slightly less girly and sulky with Dan around. I get into the driver's seat, and when Dan hangs around nervously outside I whistle to him. He scrabbles inside and puts on his seatbelt.

"Sooo, Doctor Cox, what exactly has happened to Johnny?"

Ugh. "No talking. Driving."

He's relatively quiet for Dan through the drive. Only he fidgets a bit, which makes me more nervous. When we get to the apartment he hammers on the door and repeatedly yells "Heyyyyyyyyy lil' brother!" through it. It’s annoying, if he did it outside my place I wouldn't answer it. I shoo him out the way and unlock the door, relieved to see a familiar mess of black hair over the back of the couch. I let out a breath slowly.

"Hey, Marjorie, when people knock you should answer, heck, even if you're still in your jammies and haven't got a speck of make-up on. If you don't then-"

My relief is short-lived when I see him properly.

He sprawled awkwardly, loose limbed and keeling to one side, staring intensely at something in his shaking right hand. He obviously hasn't heard anything I've said. I look at it more closely, then slap his hand sharply. He drops the razorblade with a yelp.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Johnny? What're those bandages?"

He's still staring at the goddamn razorblade lying on the floor. I seize his chin and pull wrench his face up so he's looking into my eyes, ignoring Dan's yell of protest.

"Did you do anything?"

The vacant look leaves his eyes abruptly. He glances at the razorblade, then pulls his face free, sneering slightly. "I've already got enough scars, wouldn't you say?"

"Sorry, but… what the hell's going on?" Dan shoves me out of the way and crouches in front of Newbie, taking his heavily bandaged wrists in his hands and then staring at him questioningly.

"Nothing.”

"Don't lie to me Johnny."

JD abruptly stands up, wrenching himself free from Dan. He's halfway across the room towards his bedroom when he makes a stifled cry of pain and staggers sideways. Only I was expecting it, which is why I'm already standing there to catch him. I lead him back to the sofa and sigh, gently pushing him back onto it and sitting down next to him.

"You were on one hell of a lot of morphine, antibiotics… I'm guessing they're all leaving your system now?"

He nods pathetically and slumps against me. I can feel the fine tremors running through his body, likely a combination of pain, fear and adrenaline burning itself out. I huff quietly and then take out my prescription pad before scrawling down what he needed, ripping it out and handing it to Dan.

"Take that to the nearest pharmacy."

"But- but what's going on? Johnny, what's happening?"

"Or I can always go and get it if you want a brotherly chat?" I sneer to Newbie. He shakes his head hurriedly, rather uncharacteristically hiding his face against my chest. "Looks like you're the drug donkey, Dan."

"But-"

"Your brother needs those meds, Dan. If you want him to be writhing around in agony then just leave them and keep bothering me."

"Fine, fine."

The door slams behind him. Which leaves me and a distressed-looking Newbie who's staring at the ceiling. I bend down and pick up the razorblade and then lift an eyebrow at him.

"What were you planning to do with this?"

"Nothing." he mutters.

"Damnit, Newbie, you're going back to the hospital for suicide watch if nothing else."

Finally, eye contact. "I wasn't going to… to do anything."

"Yeah, what were you planning to do? Shave your legs?"

He sits up and unconsciously shakes his head to clear it. "Alright. It was a thought that crossed my mind. But I wasn't going to actually do it. It was from something Steve said…"

"Well, could you stop listening to what Steve said for a second?"

"Look, he said pain helped him and… and I wanted something to help…"

"JD, I don't know what that freak told you, but whatever it was I doubt it was in any charitable context. Look what he did to you!"

"He said he didn't have any choice…"

"Why do you believe that?"

"Because he's right, no one understands until it's happened to them…"

"Well, people are trying. Your annoying gang of gal pals especially. Anyway, if he said it would work then why didn't you do it, if he's that right?"

JD half-shrugs and I’m struck by how similar the gesture is to the one Dan did earlier. "I accidentally cut my fingers when I picked it up. And the pain wasn't a relief. It was just… pain. I was hoping everything would go away and then nothing happened," he grins, a pathetic ghost of his former idiotic smirk "I was a bit disappointed."

I don't really know how to reply. I could say that that sort of activity is usually for relief of non-physical verbal or emotional abuse, where the pain is considered to be building up inside. But I guess he knows that and anyway, it doesn’t even help then. In an attempt to pretend this isn't scaring me I examine his hand and feel like a moron for staring at a scratch that a mother of a toddler probably wouldn't think worth applying a band aid to.

"I'm not telling your brother what happened, Princess."

"Why is he even here?"

I think he’s probably being a bit harsh on Dan, but decide not to let on I actually care. "Carla called him, but couldn't get an answer."

"He was away, I can’t believe he’s back. It can't have been three weeks…"

I'm not comfortable with this. He isn't aiming for some sort of mentor bond like he usually is, or trying for some ridiculous attempt to get an emotional response out of me. He’s essentially ignoring me and letting his slightly weird internal thoughts escape. It's unnerving. It’s not like him. I want to insult him or something just to make things more normal. I'm saved by Dan reappearing with packages of medicines, which I hurriedly take off of him and then pretend that they take great effort and concentration to get ready. Dan keeps half-asking Newbie questions, then apparently thinking better of it. I eventually give in and inject him with the anti-inflamatories and pain killers and then the sedative which I added as an afterthought. He's zoned out again- he barely noticed the syringes. He's like he was before- I presumed he was either ignoring people or in some disassociated state, but I think it's just shock and an unwillingness to face facts. As the sedative takes effect I push him over gently onto his back, retrieve a blanket and drape it over him. When he appears to be asleep I sit on the edge of the couch against his feet and drop my head into my hands with a sigh.

"What the hell happened, Coxer?"

I don't want to answer you right now, I don't want to answer you right now…

I can't help but think about his angry accusation at me- "What gave you the right to tell everyone what happened?" I would have thought finding him gave me enough right, but apparently not. I've already told everyone else, can't someone else tell Dan and share that guilt with me?

Maybe they'll share that whole "not finding him" part of it as well.

I stand up abruptly.

"Just look after him. If he wakes up and is distressed then give him more of the sedative."

"But-"

"Gandhi and Carla should be back soon. I'd ask Carla if you need anything, Gandhi will be too busy watching his girlfriend sleep in adoration."

I slam the door behind me. I don't care how worried I've made Dan. I abandon the Porsche outside the apartment (will they notice it? Will they think it means I care? Will they guess?).

- - - - -

I don't know why I do this. When I'm sober this seems a stupid, reckless sort of thing to do. How can it help? It just makes me feel hideous in the morning. 

When I'm drunk it seems a stupid, reckless sort of thing to do too, but I just don't care when I'm drunk. 

The glass falls over onto the bar. I watch the beer spill over onto the table, glistening in the bar light. It drips down the table like JD's blood down the handcuffs and the pool around him.

I feel sick.

Chapter Text

Someone's shaking me. I just want them to go away. Where am I? I can feel wood pressed against my cheek… am I at a bar? What kind of dive lets people pass out on the bar?

Sticky bar.

Whoever it is is still shaking me. And yelling angrily. Ugh.

"… You bastard!"

Oh, it's someone who knows me. Turning my head takes a huge amount of effort. I manage to get my head to turn from the cradle of my arms cocooning it and crack my eyes open.

"Whhuu'?"

My mouth tastes like something died in it.

The blurred face of Dan appears in my vision. He looks pissed. I sit up unsteadily, wincing as my head pounds painfully.

"Why didn't you tell me? You just left me there to find out… Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Oh God, I can't focus on him. My vision keeps scrolling upwards weirdly. I groan and slump back onto the bar.

"G'way Priscilla."

He's grabbed me by the shoulders again and is trying to haul me back up into a sitting position. Ugh. He's sort of succeeded, but I can't keep my head upright.

"What the hell… Coxy, firstly, I'm not the one who you usually call by girl's names, and secondly… how much have you had to drink?"

I turn my head slowly and try to pin him with a glare.

"Woah… and man, you really don't look so hot."

I narrow my aching eyes and then pick up the glass at the bar. On the third attempt I manage to get the right one, rather than the insubstantial doppelgangers next to it. Before I manage to drink it Dan's hand catches my wrist and pushes it away from me.

"C'mon, big guy, you've had enough."

"This isn't singles night at the gay bar, Dan," I say. Or try to say. Only it came out as a series of s's and a reference to a "bay gar". And now my scotch has left my drinking range.

I try to slump back over onto the bar, but Dan's hand on my shoulder stops me. I don't know what he wants me to do, walking is so beyond me at the moment. I grunt and try to wrench my shoulder free without much success, mainly due to a lack of any real effort on my part. I consider punching Dan, but that would require coordination.

"Whu' d'ya want?"

Dan sits on the chair next to me. "I was going to yell at you for not telling me what happened to Johnny and leaving me to have to find it out from Turk. Only from the state of you I don't think I can."

"Gh-Gandhi told ya wha' happ'n'd?" I try to snigger, only it sounds too much like a giggle. Manly. "Whu'd he say? Tha' Newbie's a strong person, huh? Stupid bowling ball head fr-frat boy n'rly got Sheila suicidered,"

Dan's staring at me. Maybe that didn't make much sense.

"Carla also told me… that you're the one who found him."

"Th'y all thought he wa' dead. But he's too annoyin' t' die. Stupid p'lice thought he wa' dead too. Idiots."

"But you found him?"

I look at him again, which he seems to understand as a "yes".

"What… what was he like?"

I stand up so fast the bar stool shoots out behind me. Everything spins and I cling onto the bar for a second then stagger out of whichever dive I've ended up in. I can hear Dan yelling, then the barman presenting him with my tab, which is making him yell even more. I snort and lurch into the cold night air, breathing it in. Only it's making me feel a bit nauseous. I lean against the wall and close my eyes. My knees buckle and I slowly sink down.

Someone's shaking me again. Argh. Get the hint and leave me alone.

Oh, great, it's Dan. Again. He's somehow managed to get an arm around my shoulders and is dragging me along the road. I wonder if he's going to leave me in the highway for not protecting his brother. I deserve it.

I just look down and watch my feet move. I can't feel them, it's like they aren't really a part of me. Ghost feet. Like how JD is now, spectral and changed and wrong.

Dan's trying to get me up some stairs. Why can't we just take the elevator? I stumble up them unevenly and can hear voices up ahead.

"Dan? Is that Doctor Cox with you?"

Dan pauses, panting. "Yes! Carla, get Turk to give me a hand, would ya?"

After being practically carried up the stairs I'm dumped unceremoniously on the floor of their apartment. Newbie's still asleep on the couch. It seems that Gandhi, Carla and Dan are in the apartment. Must be back from work. They're talking to each other about something. I ignore them and look over at Newbie. I then shuffle a bit closer to see if they've been injecting him with the various medications. Then move a bit closer again to slide a couple of fingers under the bandaging on his wrist to check his pulse. Only now I've done that it's kind of comforting to sit here knowing he's alive. The bandaging is holding my fingers against the soft warm flesh of his wrist and the comforting throb of life through the radial artery. I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, listening to the hum of their conversation and feeling the blood pumping steadily through Newbie's veins. He's twitching a bit in his sleep.

"Doctor Cox?"

I open my eyes to be confronted with a pair of big brown eyes and a mass of curly hair. I grunt in reply and glare at her.

"Are… are you feeling alright?"

I roll my eyes, then close them again and lean back against the couch. It seems the sensible thing to do. My vision is still scrolling everywhere in random directions when I have my eyes open.

"… Well, he can't stay on the floor."

"I don't see why not. Why should we have to do anything about him?"

"Turk!"

"Well, we're already going to be looking after JD. And Dan's going to have to sleep somewhere."

"Where did you find him, Dan?"

"He'd passed out in a bar."

If I lean my head back I can rest it on Newbie's side. He’s warm. It eases the thumping in my head a bit.

"HOW much was his tab?!"

"Perry isn't taking what happened to JD very well…"

"Newsflash, Carla- NO ONE is taking what happened to JD very well! Especially JD. Have you seen the state of Elliot? I mean, does she actually see any patients any more, because I'd be surprised if she had time between hiding in the closet and checking on him."

"But Doctor Cox found JD, Turk."

"Yeah, and I had to try and accept the fact my best friend was apparently dead. He isn't that much better off now. You don't see me getting so drunk I'm useless to anyone."

"Bu' Ghandi, y'r useless when y'r sober."

There's a pause in their conversation, then they just carry on. I sigh. Newbie makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. I open my eyes to glance at him. Hopefully he isn't having a nightmare. Maybe he should have more of the sedative, only I'm definitely not drunk enough to think I'm capable of injecting him with anything.

"Heyyy, Coxy!"

I glare at Dan. The glare seems to currently be ineffective against him. I might be focusing on the wrong Dan from the current five I can see though.

"That chair over there is probably gonna be more comfortable to sleep… well, pass out on."

I groan softly and close my eyes again, changing from sitting with my legs cramping up against me to lying on my side curled against the couch, my hand still stubbornly pressed against JD’s wrist.

"And… I guess you're just choosing to be uncomfortable."

The voices eventually went away and the lights went out. Someone tried to pull me up at some point, but I went unhelpfully rigid so they gave up eventually. Once they went I pulled myself back more upright to resume my previous position. So now I'm lying here in the dark, one hand still taking Newbie's pulse, resting my head on his side. It might be quite relaxing, except that he's whimpering in his sleep quietly. I screw my eyes shut, trying to pretend he's not making those noises.

"Please… please, don't… Please…"

I groan softly. I don't know whether to wake him or not. If I do, he'll be spared whatever nightmare he's having. But he'll wake up to someone who will be utterly no help to him. Even when I'm sober I'm not any good at this, so drunk I'll be even more useless. He should really have an on-call shrink or something. Only no one seems to have gotten that far in organizing anything. I had to call Sutcliffe earlier to tell him Newbie wasn't in the hospital any more. It wasn't the most friendly of conversations. I think he wants me to lose my licence.

"No… not that… they're heating up, they're burning… please, just… pain helps… 'm not worthless… not valueless…"

God, don’t remind me about that. It’s the equivalent of a cold shower and about five cups of coffee, sobering me in one horrible instant. I screw my eyes shut even tighter. He twists in his sleep, and makes a soft noise of despair.

"Please!"

I take my head off his side and shake him softly, trying not to touch him anywhere he might panic from. The noises stop abruptly, except for his harsh breathing.

"Newbie?"

In the dim half-light I see his eyes focus on me. The shadows make him look different. Although he already looks different, with his hair unstyled and a scruffy half-growth of stubble on him.

He looks terrified.

Scared, I have no idea how I should react to him like this. I just know I should get away.

"I’ll get you a sedative." I mutter, starting to haul myself up using the couch.

"No!" I look at him in surprise. He tried to grab at me, but then winced when he tried to use his fingers with much force. His expression is almost… distraught.

"I just… don't want to be on my own," he says so quietly I have difficulty hearing him. "I know that's probably girly, but… I just don't."

It is girly, but I sit back down on the floor and lean my arm against the couch. I try to think of something comforting or reassuring and get nothing.

"Go back to sleep, Newbie."

He's shaking. I put my hand gently on his side. To my surprise he doesn't flinch. I try to think of something to say to fill the gaping void between us.

"What were you dreaming of?"

Great, like he’ll want to tell me that. Like I’ll want to hear it. Only I kind of do, in that it seems to only way I can really be of any help. That odd comment earlier about only Gourley understanding, can I show him that someone else can understand as well? Can someone else understand as well?

"What happened…"

I'm not going to ask him if he wants to talk about it. That's clichéd and probably not very helpful. Newbie shifts slightly on the couch and stares at the ceiling.

"He did… all sorts of things," he shudders. "But it was the way he did them. He didn't act crazy. He acted like it upset him. Like… like it was my fault. And I knew he was going to… going to… going to do what he did before he did it. I had to wait for him to do it, expecting… knowing… what he was going to do. Just… just waiting."

I stare blankly at nothing. Pretending I don't see the shadow that's lurking next to the door, the shadow shaped like a brother listening in grief-stricken silence.

"You… you do know it wasn't your fault, don't you?"

He snuffles.

"Gourley's just a sick fucker, Newbie."

"And I was an unwilling fuck."

I wince. Is that humor? Black humor, not his style? Newbie's making an odd half-sobbing noise.

"You don’t have a future in stand up with material like that. It wasn't your fault, Newbie,"

"Th-that's even worse though, isn't it? I was just… helpless. Waiting for him to… to come and…"

"Be quiet," I snap. "Stop dwelling on it, Newbie!"

"What else am I supposed to think about?!" He wails.

"Puppy dogs an' candy bracelets an' whatever it is inhabits tha' dream world y'live in!"

I’m slurring again and my head is spinning. Apparently the sobriety I was pushed into earlier was temporary. I wait for a second. Silence. Only now he's shaking harder than ever.

I'm trying to stay awake, but everything I've drunk is getting to me. My head is spinning too much to focus and it's nearly impossible to keep my eyes open. I put my head on his side again and slump back against the couch. My fingers remain pressed against his wrist and I gently splay the other hand against his stomach, hoping that it gives some comfort, certainly better than anything else I could offer.

- - - - -

Someone's crying. I hope it's not still Newbie. He feels relaxed against me, no hitching breath running through him, his pulse low and steady. At some point in my sleep I’ve pressed my face against his side, his rib cage unpleasantly prominent after his confinement in hospital. I look up, and grimace when I try to shift myself, since my lower body seems to have gone totally numb. Dan's leaning against the back of the couch, his head in his hands. Newbie's gone back to sleep.

It's Dan who's crying. It's surprising.

I suppose when you always act like you’re untouchable, it's even more difficult when something actually does upset you. I've found that out.

I pretend I was asleep all along.

- - - - -

I look absolutely terrible. I haven't looked that good recently anyway - maybe I should shave at some point? Only now my eyes are bloodshot with shadows underneath them. In an attempt to make myself feel better I shower. It's actually quite amusing to identify whose shower products are whose. The over-compensatingly male ones that smell hideously of musk will be Gandhi, the flowery ones I suspect to be Carla (but difficult to tell) and the semi-girly ones that claim to be "unisex" have to be Newbie's. I flip open the lid on one of the shower gels and sniff it. That's definitely how Newbie tends to smell in the morning. I just really need some shampoo, but Gandhi doesn't have any, for very obvious reasons, so I have to choose between Carla's and Newbie's. In the end I choose Newbie's, since it's unlikely anyone will be smelling me anyway, and it was either that or smell of jasmine.

After showering and changing (I ran out to the Porsche earlier to get the spare clothes I always keep in it in case Jordan changes the locks overnight) I consider shaving, then decide against it and walk back out. Newbie's still asleep on the couch, curled in a fetal position. No one else is up yet, so I make a coffee and sit in the kitchen staring at nothing.

Carla walks in, wearing a skimpy purple satin nightdress.

"Carrlaaa," I grin appreciatively. "Looking good -"

She yawns and then stops me with a disgusted look. "You smell like JD."

Damnit. 

She moves around the kitchen, managing to make even the banging of pans and things sound revolted by me. I look into my coffee mug, focusing on the… actually, what the hell is that floating in this godawful coffee? Carla suddenly comes into my line of vision. Normally Carla bending over wearing a skimpy nightdress would be something I'd try and either take advantage of or embarrass her about, but she seems kind of pissed.

"What did you think you were doing?"

I stare at her. "What?"

"The state you were in! You couldn't even walk! How was that helping anyone?"

"It was helping me!"

She rolls her eyes. "Oohh, and what helps Doctor Cox is fine even if it doesn't help anyone else? Do you know what your problem is?"

Oh no… don't tell me.

"You're so caught up in what'll help you that you never think of what'll help anyone else! JD needs you, Perry, and -"

"I know that!" I snap. "But what do you want me to do? How can I help the kid?"

It's her turn to stare at me now. "Well… look, if you don't know what to do, then the rest of us really are screwed."

"Not as much as the kid."

From Carla's horrified expression that joke was obviously not appreciated. In case she's disgusted I hurriedly added "Anyway, why if I don't know what to do? I'm not an expert on this sort of thing!"

"But you're the one he always goes to," she hisses. "And you always help him."

"This isn't quite the same as some medical dilemma or deciding which nail polish she should wear, Carla!"

"But why get so drunk?" she snarls back at me. "Why-?"

"Because it fills something. Because there's nothing to think, there's just this gaping void that I can't fill with anything except drinking. How should I know what to do with Newbie? And ever since it's happened the void is getting bigger and bigger, and life is just getting too difficult to get through now because it's too painful. How are you supposed to cope with that sober?"

She looks horrified. "You do know you have a problem, right?"

“Tell me something I don’t know” I snarl and roll my eyes, then top up my revolting coffee. Her look changes to sympathy for a second, then she goes back to clattering around. I guess I'm forgiven, since she made me an omelet.

When Dan gets up, Carla changes the sheets on Newbie's bed. She then made Gandhi move Newbie until she could make some form of a bed up on the couch for him. I felt a stab of protectiveness watching, seeing how easily Gandhi lifted JD and had to bite down an odd urge to try and do it myself. What, do I think Gandhi’s going to hurt him now? He wants to elope with him, not hurt him.

That’s not actually helping and I’m ignoring that trail of thought.

Newbie didn't wake up when he was moved and when he'd been settled back in I injected him with more anti-inflamatories and painkillers. Carla had made him a makeshift chart to ensure that no one accidentally overdosed him, then had gone back to work. Which left three uncommunicative people in the apartment. Dan is sitting uncharacteristically silently staring at Newbie and then occasionally wandering off to do something else. Gandhi is sulking around. I’m too annoyed at him at putting Newbie's life in danger to expend enough energy to insult him. I’ve been pretending to check Newbie's vitals and do various other medical processes on him (check whether bandages have moved since ten minutes ago, etc.). When I took his pulse for about the fiftieth time Gandhi apparently snaps.

"Dude, stop fussing over him."

"I'll take my advice from someone who hasn't just abandoned someone who's been through a psychologically traumatic experience on their own in an apartment, thanks very much, Gandhi."

I don't need to look at him to know he's glaring at me.

"As I said, he's not as weak as you think-"

"Don't get me started on the 'surgeons don't understand the whole mind has to be healed as well as the body' rant again. I’m too hungover. Newbie could be emotionally the strongest person in the world, he still should not be left alone. He needs rest and recuperation."

I've still not looked up.

"Well, he doesn't need his pulse checked every five seconds! And he especially doesn't need a narcissistic emotionless alcohol-dependent bastard hanging around!"

"Stop it!" Dan snaps suddenly. "Just… stop it, alright? Let Johnny rest, I'm surprised he's still asleep."

We both look at him in surprise. However, there's a knock at the door and Gandhi skulks off. It apparently wakes up Newbie too, who groans and weakly bats at my fingers which have migrated to his neck taking his pulse. I pull back and then drag him up into a sitting position and lean him against the couch.

"Want anything to drink, Sonia?"

He nods and Dan rushes off to get him some water. As Newbie drinks it Dan twitters to him his usual meaningless trash.

Gandhi reappears at the doorway. Behind him is the person who I probably would least like to see, apart from Gourley.

"What do you want, Sutcliffe?"

Chapter Text

"What do you want, Sutcliffe?"

Doctor Cox sounds pretty hostile, I notice groggily, before glancing at the man who just walked in. He is watching Doctor Cox with a slightly wary expression, but doesn't seem particularly concerned by him.

"I'm trying to do my job, Doctor Cox."

"If you'd done your job from the start then-"

"Yes, thank you," he says sarcastically. “Why are you here, by the way? I was under the impression that this was Doctor Dorian’s private residence.”

Doctor Cox briefly looks embarrassed and then folds his arms and glares back at him. The man (presumably Sutcliffe), then turns to me.

"Doctor John Dorian?"

"Yes?"

Doctor Cox and Dan both throw rather startled looks at me. I think they thought I’d gone back to sleep or zoned out again or something. The man moves over to the sofa and perches on the edge of the armrest, clutching a file.

"I'm Captain Christopher Sutcliffe," he offers me his hand, then withdraws hastily seeing my wrists, flinching slightly. I feel my stomach lurch at the way he reacts to me and try to swallow down the unexpected wave of pain and shame. "I'm the main officer assigned to your case."

"Oh," I can't really think of anything else to say. I'm vaguely aware I look a mess and am still wearing the clothes I wore yesterday.

"Newbie, you don't have to talk to this guy yet, you're still being treated."

"I thought he'd been discharged?"

"He discharged himself, it’s not something I particularly support."

"Why wouldn't I want to talk to him?" I ask, confused.

Doctor Cox stares at me for a second, then turns back to glaring at Captain Sutcliffe.

"Doctor Dorian, I'm here to conduct an interview with you in relation to your… period of time with Steven Gourley."

O-kay, I hope no-one noticed that grimace I just gave. From Dan's expression I think he did.

"Is this really necessary now?" For once Doctor Cox doesn't sound angry, just tired. Captain Sutcliffe looks at him sympathetically, then sighs, half-shrugging.

"Whenever this happens, it'll have to happen eventually. And we're ready to charge Gourley, we just need an interview with Doctor Dorian. It doesn't need to be in-depth…"

I'm annoyed. I'm fighting to keep it down, fighting to appear normal. But they're all talking like I'm not there, like I can't understand them. If people keep patronizing me I'll go crazy. Well, crazier.

I glare at Captain Sutcliffe. "Do these two have to be in here?"

"If you want moral support from them then-"

"I don't," I reply flatly.

Dan and Doctor Cox glance at me in surprise.

"Of course, the Vanilla Bear will want his Chocolate counterpart with him."

"No he won't, Turk."

Now they're all staring at me, with mirrored expressions of hurt. Haha, I wonder if Doctor Cox realizes he looks upset. Sutcliffe looks uncomfortable and turns and stares at them. They look back at him, then shuffle out of the room. Turk looks hurt, Dan look lost and Doctor Cox glares at Sutcliffe venomously as he leaves. When the door shuts behind them, Sutcliffe turns back to me.

"Any particular reason that you don't want them in here, Doctor Dorian?"

"I'm not so comfortable talking about it in front of them. Plus you're more likely to speak to me rather than them now." Plus with less people to hear this, the less people will realize I'm not really a person any more. Just a thing to be used and discarded.

He shrugs slightly. "You have a point. Doctor Cox can certainly be… overbearing."

I nod. He shuffles through the papers he carried in with him and scans through them hurriedly. He then takes a recording device out of his pocket, turns it on with a soft click and murmurs "testing…" into it, clicks it off then replays it back to double-check. It's kind of cool. He then turns it back to the clicky record setting and places in on the couch between us.

"Captain Christopher Sutcliffe interviewing Doctor John Dorian in the case of Steven Gourley versus the state," he says clearly into it, then adds the date and location. He turns back to me with a worried expression, and glances at one of the sheets of paper.

"Doctor Dorian, could you please recount the events that occurred in your own words?"

"Um, well…" I glance at the device, then clear my throat and look rather helplessly at him.

"What were the circumstances surrounding your first introduction to Steven Gourley?"

"He was a patient."

"One of your patients at the-" he pauses, flicks open the paper, checks something, then looks back at me "- Sacred Heart Hospital?"

"No-  well, yes - it was at Sacred Heart, but he wasn't my patient, he was Doctor Cox's."

"I just need to confirm that you mean Doctor Percival Cox."

"Yes, him."

"And why were you with his patient?"

"He asked me for a second opinion."

"Alright… how long were you with Steven Gourley?"

"At most five minutes."

"And in that time did he act in any aggressive way towards you?"

"No."

"Did he act in any way that could be considered suspicious?"

"Not to my recollection," Ooh, I sound so grown-up.

“Did you act in any way that could have encouraged him to target you?”

“Encouraged him?!” I let the disbelief come across in my voice. “I examined him and offered help. I did not encourage anything.”

"Just something we need to ask, Doctor Dorian," he flicks through his papers again. "When was the next occasion that you saw Steven Gourley?"

"Outside the hospital on the same day. I was about to go home and he was in the car lot. He… he said my name, then injected me with something."

"Did you see what it was?"

"Not at the time, but it knocked me out. He later told me that it was an animal tranquilizer."

"Right," he scribbling something fiercely. "And then?"

"He said something else and then I passed out."

"What did he say?"

"I think it was… 'you said you'd do anything to help'… I think that's what he said."

"Did you?"

I look at him in confusion. "Does it make that much difference?"

"No, no, I'm just trying to understand his state of mind if I can."

"Oh… right. I said it earlier in his room, I think. Anyway, he injected me and then caught me – or I think I remember him catching me – then I don't remember anything else."

"Do you think he'd planned what he was going to do in advance?"

"I… I think he had. I can't imagine why he would be carrying around a tranquilizer otherwise."

"So you think there was premeditation?"

"Yes."

He looks thoughtfully at the recorder again then sighs. "'You said you'd do anything to help'?"

"That's what he said. Maybe he thought he was justified in what he did. Maybe he was."

Sutcliffe looks at me in alarm. The door bursts open and Doctor Cox stalks back in. "Don't be an idiot Newbie!"

"You were listening!" It comes out as an embarrassing squeak. On police record, nonetheless.

"Doctor Cox, I have to ask you to leave-"

"I'm not going anywhere." He folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Sutcliffe before deploying the dreaded nose touch.

"If you don't leave and don't have permission to be in here-"

"He's not ready to have an interview."

"- then I'll have to take him to the station to conduct the interview. I'd obviously rather not cause Doctor Dorian any additional distress."

"I'm not going anywhere, Newbie."

He remains planted where he is, but directs the glare at me instead. Sutcliffe looks between him and me uncertainly, then defers to me. "Doctor Dorian, if you don't want Doctor Cox here he can be ejected."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Forcefully if necessary."

"You'd enjoy that."

"Possibly." Sutcliffe grinds out from between gritted teeth.

I don't want him in here, I really don't, but he'll probably just listen at the door again if I don't.

"Are the rest going to join the party?" I ask sarcastically.

"Gandhi and your useless brother sulked off somewhere. So no."

I look back to Sutcliffe. "If he shuts up he can stay. Otherwise he'll just carry on listening at the door."

"You bet your ass I will, Newbie."

"Alright… Doctor Percival Cox joined the interview as-" he glances at Doctor Cox and then says incredibly sarcastically "- moral support."

We don't move around on the couch to make room for him. He glares at us for a second, then sits on the floor. It’s kind of fun ganging up on him.

"What happened when you woke up, Doctor Dorian?"

It's not remotely fun now. With the added audience of Doctor Cox I'm getting more nervous. I twist the blanket that's been draped over me between my hands.

"I… I woke up in the basement," I hate how scared I sound. "My hands were handcuffed to the radiator. They were… they were on too tight, they were cutting in. I'm not sure when anything happened, there weren't any windows."

"Steven Gourley's basement?"

"I guess it was. He never said."

"Did you wake up in the place where we found you?"

"Yes."

"Then it was Steven Gourley's basement."

"Anyway, St- Mr. Gourley came down the stairs. He said to call him Steve. He seemed to think that what he was doing was normal, that it happened all the time. He said I would be helping him. Then he left again and I think I passed out. The radiator was on and…" I shudder, despite myself "it kept heating up the handcuffs."

"That's what caused the burns on your wrists?"

"Doctor Cox, I told you before that you couldn't-"

"But this is medical and I'm the one who did the initial examination on the kid."

He did? Oh God.

"Actually, our doctor did."

"Then I'm the one that patched him up," snaps back Doctor Cox.

I'm happy they're arguing. I know what's coming next. I've been having constant nightmares about it, and I think those days will be permanently drilled into my brain. I've almost labelled the extra-special sections, and the one that's coming up has been labelled as SCAPEL in my mind. Exactly like that. Bold, italics, underlined, everything. I don't want to talk about it.

"Well, I suppose it was still a valid question. We assumed that was some other… practice. Were the burns caused by the handcuffs, Doctor Dorian?"

Shut up and leave me alone. Also, ‘practice’? What the hell? "Yes."

"What happened after that?"

I don't want to tell you, I really, really don't want to tell you. "When I woke up it was really dark in there. I couldn't see anyone, but I knew he was there."

"How did you know?"

"I don't know, I just knew, alright? I could feel it or whatever. Steve started talking about his dad abusing him-" 

It's easy for you. You don't have a choice.

"- then he came towards me and… and I saw he was holding…" My brain's screaming at me not to talk about it, not to think about it, that I should forget about it. I close my eyes and take a deep wobbly breath.

"He was holding a scalpel. He said he was sorry, and I panicked and tried to jump back. My wrists… I think I tore them a bit when I did that because I could feel them bleeding. And Steve got mad," I open my eyes, but I can't look at either of them anymore, so I look at my bandaged hands. "He slashed up my shirt. I really liked that shirt… I tried to kick him, but he knelt on my legs… And then… then he…" I choke, feeling my eyes burn, and bite my lip.

"He raped you?"

"No!" I snap back vehemently. "He cut across my chest a couple times. Really carefully, like it was something he had to focus on. Then I told him he was insane and he went crazy. He just kept slashing at me… I think they were shallow, but he did it so much. Then he just stopped and said I made him do it. Got up, then he suddenly cut my arm. Then he just left…"

I'm trailing off a bit. I pull the cover up further around me and wrap my arms around myself.

"I think we should break."

Doctor Cox sounds strange.

"Agreed. Interview terminated 11:54 for the interviewee to break."

Sutcliffe turns the device off of the record setting. I sigh and then notice my cell phone ringing. I pick it up gingerly and answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, JD."

"Oh… hey Elliot."

She still sounds like she's been crying. I frown. "Are you in a cupboard?"

"No!" There's the sound of her knocking over a box of stethoscopes. "Oh frick…"

"That's a yes then?"

"Look, JD…" She sniffles a bit. "If you ever, y'know, want to talk about anything then you can call me any time, you know that, right?"

"Yeah…" I'm feeling really uncomfortable with this. It's just like another interview. "Look, Elliot, there's a cop here and-"

"Oooh, God, right, you talk to him. Just don't mention me, Carla and that prostitute."

"Right. Bye."

I hang up, look at the phone in confusion, then put it down.

"You do seem to have a lot of friends who can help you through this, Doctor Dorian. A good support base is always vital in… recuperation."

I sigh. It's not helping that I'm pretty much ignoring my support base. Even Doctor Cox has shown he'll listen if I want to talk. I just really don't want to talk that much. I'm not even sure why. It's not like talking about it will make any difference. Only it does. It reaffirms what happened to me. And reminds me how I'll never really be whole again.

“Do you need anything, Doctor Dorian?”

Doctor Cox has come out of the kitchen carrying a glass of water with a drinking straw in, which he sets down next to me on the coffee table. I look at it in surprise; I guess I hadn’t actually expected him to think of anything like that. I collapses back onto the floor and leans against the couch, his shoulder pressed against my knee. The solid warm weight of it is grounding and reassuring.

“No, I’m fine. Can we restart? I’d rather get this over with.”

Sutcliffe turns the recorder back on and restates the interview purpose and time and date.

"When I woke up again he was back.”

“Can I please confirm that when you say “he” you mean Steven Gourley?”

“Yes, I mean him. He woke me up - well, he sort of hit me into being awake. Then he cut into my arm…"

"Which arm?"

"M-my left. He grabbed it and pulled it across his lap. I freaked out, Ithought he was going to cut it off, but then he carved… what he did into it. When he'd finished I think I started hallucinating."

“What did he carve into your arm?”

Sutcliffe looks confused. I look back at him and shake my head; he can’t ask me to say that out loud, can he? He leafs through the papers he has to find what I’m referring to. I can tell when he’s found the answer because he says “oh” very quietly.

“For the sake of the record, Doctor Dorian’s left arm had the word “worthless” cut into it with an unidentified sharp implement.”

“A scalpel.”

“I’m reading from the medical report, Doctor Dorian, not questioning what you are saying. You mentioned that you were hallucinating at the time. What did you hallucinate?"

Doctor Cox saving me. "I… I don't remember. Then he… he was talking about things."

"What things?"

I don't want to talk about it. "I don't remember. Something about his father I think, I can’t remember clearly."

"What was he doing at the time?"

Holding me. "I really don't remember. I just remember feeling ill. Then he dumped a bucket of water over me."

Sutcliffe is staring at me. "Why?"

"Why not? I guess. The rest is all a bit hard to remember. I was feeling really sick. He turned up at some point with a… with a whip. He said he was doing what had been done to him. He hit me with it. I tried to stop it hitting my face, and it cut my hand. Then I can't remember much afterwards. But… But I remember remembering that I saw he had been a victim of… I saw that he'd…"

"He'd been sexually abused?"

I nodded.

"Sorry Doctor Dorian, for the sake of the record you're going to have to vocalize an answer."

"Yes."

"So you knew he was going to-"

"Yes."

"And he did-"

"Yes. In the morning – or I think it was morning, it was hard to tell – he did it. He… grabbed me by the ankle. I know I was standing at some point and I tried to stop him, but he shoved me over and my weight broke my wrists. Then he… then he raped me."

My face has gone totally blank, my voice devoid of emotion.

"Then you guys showed up. Thanks."

Did that sound sarcastic? From their expressions it looked like it did. Captain Sutcliffe is looking at me intently.

"Interview terminated 15:03," There's a click as the device turns off.

Has that much time really gone past?

Something's happening… oh, crap, I'm zoning out again. I hear something about "…is he going to be alright?" "He keeps disassociating himself, it’s a common result of trauma. Like I said, he’s not ready for this shit yet. Do you have everything you need?" "I should do, I might need to ask him some more questions at some point, but we’ve got the full picture, so there’ll only potentially be specific areas we may need to…"

I'm not going to go into detail about what just happened. It requires describing something that I don't want to think about. I'll think about it later, I know I will, but right now my mind is mercifully blank.

No… Don't…

I'm dangling by my shattered wrists, and Steve's holding onto my hips, his fingers crushing into them with an agonizing pressure. My wrists are shattered, thundering pain pulsing through me, but I'm trying to kick him off me. I twist desperately, the pain in my wrists getting impossibly worse, and kick him hard in the midriff. He grunts, then forces my knees apart. I freeze for a second, the utter vulnerability and helplessness sending me into immobility. Part of me just wishes I was face-down so I don't have to see him.

"Please…" I sound so pathetic. "Please, Steve, don't do this."

He glances at me, then dismisses me as unimportant. I scream then, a scream that tears my aching throat to pieces, but I don't care.

"Please!"

I know what he's going to do just before he does it. As a last defense I close my eyes to try and block out what's happening. One of my legs is propped over his shoulder, leaving me horribly vulnerable and his pants are on the floor.

It HURTS. He forces himself into me with absolutely no concern for my pain. I really am screaming now, the throbbing pain in my wrists matched by his angry harsh thrusting. I try to kick him again, but it just makes him increase the pace and hurts me more. My eyes are kept screwed shut. He slaps me hard across the face. I don't care. I'm not going to look at him. That's the one thing he can't have control over.

"Newbie, it's alright! Newbie!"

I keep my eyes tightly shut.

"Newbie!"

Panic makes them open and I stare at Doctor Cox, fear coursing through me. I hurl myself desperately at him and try to cling on to him as best I can with my useless wrists immobilized, shaking. And he's holding me back fiercely.

"You didn't tell Sutcliffe the whole story, did you?"

"Yes… No…"

"What did he do, JD?"

"Just the way he did everything," I say, my voice totally out of control, wavering and distressed. "Between… what he did he was talking about himself and made me talk about myself. And he kept acting like he cared about me, kept holding me, offering me comfort after what he did… It was a fucking nightmare and I couldn't tell whether what he was doing was my fault, because he was acting so understanding, but he kept telling me it was my fault and after a while I couldn't think in any other way than his way… And God, when he did it it hurt, it really hurt and I don’t know how to deal with it…"

There's a soft click. I freeze, then pull away from him. He won't meet my eyes, one hand in his jacket pocket.

"That's Sutcliffe's recording thing, isn't it?"

"Yes, Shirley, it is."

Maybe it sounds paranoid, but everyone's against me. Okay, it does sound paranoid. Cold disgust is flooding me.

"Get out." I snap.

"You weren't going to tell him…"

"Get out!"

Surprisingly enough, he does.

I curl up on the couch, staring at nothing, tears flowing silently down my face. I want to tear myself apart from inside out, I want to destroy myself so I don't feel anything. It's not a suicidal thought. I don't want to be dead. I just feel so… so…

I wrench the bandages off my left arm and stare.

Worthless.

I miss Steve.

Chapter Text

I can't believe he did that.

I'm numb. My brain is just refusing to process anything. All I can really do is stare at my arm blankly. It's hideous. I'm hideous. How the hell am I ever supposed to let anyone near me again when I look like I do? I know what happened and I'm a doctor - I know how scarred I'll be. I just haven't dared to look yet.

And I can't believe he did that. What right does he have to… to do that? All Sutcliffe wanted was the facts and I was happy - well, not happy, but much more comfortable - giving an emotionless report on it. I don't have any control over anything happening, people just keep doing things which I don't want or haven’t asked them to do. Ever since Steve got me in that basement I've had no control over anything.

I huddle into the couch, curling up miserably. I extend my hand and pet Rowdy absent-mindedly. I can't stand being alone. But then again, I can't stand being with anyone either. When I'm here on my own I just want someone to be here. But whenever anyone's here I just want them to get lost. I hope Doctor Cox isn't hanging around outside. Again.

My body contorts painfully. I'm not sad and I'm not crying, it's much more than that. I can't even cry. It’s like there’s something huge and raw and screaming inside me, constantly trying to claw it’s way out. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the grief.

And fail.

I think I've been doing what Doctor Cox was talking about earlier- disassociating myself. I can't remember anything really. I've just been staring at nothing, thinking about nothing, doing nothing.

Someone's turning a key in the door. Turk? Carla? Both of them? Come to think of it, the door isn't locked, so they'll be locking themselves out. I resist the urge to go and slide the deadbolt into place so they can't get in. Then I'd have some control back.

Oh great, it's all of them. After the comical thudding after they tried to get in when the door was locked, they burst in nearly falling over each other. Carla, Turk, Elliot and Dan. Sounds like a pair of couples come to check on the sad single guy to see if he's slit his wrists yet. They actually make a perfect pair of couples, come to think of it.

They stare at me. I hate the staring. It makes me feel like a total freak. I'm expecting Turk to ask me what the cops were wanting, Vanilla Bear, but then I remember I pretty much told everyone to get out. Which makes me feel even more uncomfortable.

"Oh, Bambi, how're you feeling? How'd your bandage come off?"

Only Carla had already left, so obviously the discomfort hasn't quite passed over to her. She looks at my arm and then runs off to come back quickly to rebandage it. It shows how good a nurse is that Carla doesn't look revolted by my arm. I think anyone else would be. Which is why I think I like her treating me more than anyone else. Doctor Cox doesn't act disgusted, but I can just feel the anger boiling away. It's not at me, but it's still disconcerting.

I think about Sutcliffe flinching after he tried to shake my hand and then noticed my wrists. Shame floods me, a weird hot sensation pooling in my stomach and face.

Turk and Dan are hanging around looking worried. I suppose they're not sure whether to be mad with me or not. Elliot's doing something in the kitchen, I can hear her clattering around.

"JD, have you taken your medication?"

"Uhm, no. I don't know where it is…" I sound really croaky.

Carla looks over to Turk and Dan. "Did you guys give him anything?" When they don't answer she rolls her eyes.

"Doctor Cox gave it to him this morning," says Dan quietly.

Did he?

Dan's looking… odd. He seems really subdued. There wasn't any "Coxeroonie" comment in there, or something equally goofy and weird. He's not acting like nothing in the world could stop him doing exactly what he likes.

"And he hasn't had anything since then?"

No one answers. Carla glares at Turk and Dan, then gets up from her knees next to me and goes into the kitchen with Elliot. I glance up at Turk and Dan, feeling like a naughty school kid. Dan meets me gaze and gives me a weak grin. Turk shifts his feet.

Carla comes back in and injects me. I ignore the sting.

"Thanks Carla," I had noticed that I was feeling more pain, but it hadn't really bothered me that much. I suppose I like the medication because it makes me drowsy, and I can just block everything out and sleep when that happens. Only I'm getting less and less sleepy as I recover more. I suppose I should think of that as an improvement, but that's pretty difficult when consciousness just means reliving everything that happened to me.

Elliot reappears and shoves a mug of something warm into my hands.

"Here y'go," She smiles at me. It seems a bit forced, but she's trying.

"Thanks," I smile back. Not just for the drink.

I take a sip. It's hot chocolate. I don't know why, but it makes me feel better.

"Hey, how'd the interview go?" Elliot asks casually. And she seems to mean it casually, but Dan and Turk are suddenly staring at me intently. Carla glances at me with sympathetic deep brown eyes.

"Oh… it was alright," I lie. "It's just… talking about it, you know?"

Elliot gives me a hug. I jump, managing not to spill scalding hot chocolate down myself and her. She leans her chin over my shoulder and strokes my back a bit.

"At least it's over with," she smiles at me again. But this time it's definitely forced.

"It's okay, Elliot," I say softly. She looks at me wordlessly and I try not to flinch at the blue eyes staring at me compassionately. It's not her fault.

I'm trying to get used to Elliot's arm around me. We've been more intimate than this before (and the thought of that is suddenly alarming), but it's just getting used to people touching me and not expecting them to do something to me. I drink some of the hot chocolate to try and keep myself calm.

For the past couple of hours they've tried to keep everything normal and I've got to say that they've done pretty well. The TV's been on almost non-stop (ah, TV, always used in awkward situations, like staying at Nana Hobbs) and Carla's been cooking things whilst shouting that she wasn't being un-feminist, she just didn't trust Turk or Dan to cook anything edible. She tried to make me eat some chili and I did a bit but I really haven't had much of an appetite. I ate as much as I could to try not to upset her.

I doubt she'd be that upset, it's just that she took the effort to cook it, so I may as well have taken the effort to eat it.

Why am I worrying that Carla will be upset by my not eating some chili? What is wrong with me?

Elliot just left, giving me another hug goodbye and cheerily saying bye to the others loudly. Only then I heard her in the hallway with Carla sounding considerably less chirpy. I kinda feel sorry for Elliot. I think she's hurting quite a bit from this, and poor Elliot doesn't find emotional situations easy to deal with. She's making a huge effort for me though, and I'm hoping I'm not upsetting her too much. The problem with things like this is that I can't possibly try and talk to her about anything. I think her head might explode.

Headless Elliot running around Sacred Heart panicking.

"I can't find my patient's chart! Oh frick frick frick, oh nooooo!"

"Barbie, you don't have any eyes, how do you intend to read it when you eventually find it?"

"… Damnit!"

Carla's cell phone is ringing. She looks at the caller ID and sighs, before picking up.

"Yes?"

There's a long pause where she rolls her eyes and then frowns in confusion.

"What?"

There's a shorter pause this time.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're saying. Stop elongating all your words."

Pause. "Are you drunk?"

Pause. "Okay, that was a stupid question, yes, you're right. Counsellor?"

Pause. "Not yet, no."

Pause. "Because we haven't spoken to him about it yet," (Him? Argh!) "I don't know. I doubt he wants to talk to you… What about Sutcliffe? No, it's just you're totally unintelligible… Yes… Yes… I don't know… Look, go home. Seriously… I mean it… If you don't I'll send Turk out to make you… Well, there's no need for sarcasm… Yeah, right. Bye."

She hangs up and looks over at me, Dan and Turk.

"That was Doctor Cox."

"Baby, you should have just hung up on him if he was drunk."

I wonder whether Doctor Cox's liver will actually be able to cope with the past few days. It might explode soon and then I’ll have something else to be oddly guilty about.

"He'd probably just have come over here if I did that."

"What was he saying about a counsellor?" I ask her.

"I'm not sure- I don't know whether he was saying he'd found a counsellor for you, or asking whether we'd gotten one for you."

I look at her uneasily. I don't really think I want to go through the whole "telling a complete stranger the life-altering few days of your life" process. I stare at my nails, picking at invisible bits of dirt on them.

"I doubt he'd have found one in a bar," said Dan.

"Probably a bar stool, seeing how drunk he's been," muttered Turk. His attitude to Doctor Cox is confusing me at the moment. Turk's never been anti-alcohol, as seen by many of our college parties. I can see why other people should be mad at Doctor Cox, especially me. And the more he's away the madder I can get at him.

"I probably wouldn’t mind talking to a bar stool about it. Anyway, what do you mean?" I ask. I knew Doctor Cox had been drinking from what I'd seen, but why was Turk so pissed?

"He turned up here last night when you were asleep. Couldn't even walk," Turk sneers.

I wonder why they aren't worrying about him. Maybe people only have a certain capacity for worry and I'm using it all up at the moment? I feel selfish. I shouldn't use up everyone's worrying capacity.

I'm cut off thinking by a sudden urge to use the bathroom. I swing my legs off of the couch to stand up and get three startled people jumping up trying to stop me.

"What? I need to pee, there’s no need to try to stop me."

They all look slightly embarrassed. I get up, stagger a bit getting used to using my legs again, then walk quickly to the bathroom. I close the door behind me, then yell through it back to them.

"I think I'll have a shower while I'm at it."

I quickly lock the door when they yell at me in protest.

Control.

I decided against a shower, thinking a bath would be a better idea. For one thing, I'd have to keep the bandages on my wrists on whatever I did, since they'd be pretty useless otherwise. I hurriedly strip as the bathwater is running, then unwind various bandages from around my chest and arms. I'm slightly alarmed by the red stains of blood on them, but I kick them into a corner with my clothes and turn off the bath taps. I'm about to climb in, but something stops me.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I knew it'd be bad, but I didn't think it would be as awful as this. My back is, without doubt, the worst. It's covered with harsh straight cuts from the whip. It's utterly random and chaotic, the dark red thick welts vivid splashes of color against my pale skin, like some nightmare from a mad painter's mind. Some of the cuts come down to my… I try and think in my disassociated Doctor state, analyzing the patient as having severe cuts to the back and upper buttocks, but I can't snap out of myself any more. My chest is a slashed mess too, but not quite as bad, the cuts obviously more shallow and less random. The deep cut to my arm and hand are obvious. I wonder whether there's nerve damage to my hand. Carla's recently rebandaged bandage has also been removed, leaving the WORTHLESS clearly visible. It's never looked more correct. My skin is so pale the white bandaging over my wrists doesn't really contrast at all, but it covers what are probably the worst injuries.

It's like a car crash. It's horrible to look at, but somehow mesmerizing. I can't turn away from the grotesque mess that I've been left in.

When I finally get into the bath the water's nearly cold. I sit in it, huddled up, my arms wrapped around my knees and try hard not to rock back and forth.

I wonder if it's ever taken so much courage to turn a lock and a door handle. I've wrapped myself up in my bathrobe, which had been left in here, and tried to prepare myself to face everyone. Admittedly, they don't know what I look like. Only Carla does. I wonder how she can possibly face me, knowing what I look like under the layering of clothes.

I take a deep breath and force my hand to unlock the door. Click. Then turn the handle.

Dan and Turk are slumped on the couch watching TV. I resist the urge to yell at them to give my bed back.

"Heyyy little brother," calls Dan. There are several beer cans on the table. Ah. Apparently everyone's answer to what's happened is to drink far too much.

"Hey Dan."

Carla shoos me into me bedroom, which has been made up for Dan, carrying arms of bandages and the stinging disinfectant usually used to treat injuries. When she doesn't seem to be leaving the room I protest.

"Carlaaaaaaaa!"

She lifts an eyebrow at me. I make a face and retrieve a pair of boxers from the drawers in the wall and perform that well-known man dance labelled "trying to get underwear on underneath bathrobe with broken wrists". I eventually struggle into them and glare at Carla, daring her to laugh. Only she doesn't even seem like she's trying to suppress laughter. Her eyes, normally dancing with laughter and happiness, are dull. It reminds me of when her mom died. It's just… a void.

"Take off the robe, JD," When I clutch it to myself automatically she adds: "I've already treated you once."

I walk over to the bed stiltedly. It seems the longest walk ever, despite only being a few meters. I sit down, then slip the robe off, grimacing. Carla starts dabbing the disinfectant onto the cuts on my back. I wince, hissing as I draw in my breath between my teeth.

After about five minutes I start to cry. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because Carla's seeing what I am, or maybe it's because I've seen the physical state of myself. Whatever it is, I'm resting my head in my hands and crying quietly. Initially I was quite subtle about it, but now my entire body's shaking with it. Carla's stopped applying the disinfectant. I feel even more ashamed now.

"JD…" she says softly. "JD, look at me."

I can't. I can't look her in the eyes. I keep my head buried in my hands.

"I'm hideous, Carla," I force out, each word costing far too much than it should. It probably sounded more like "I-I-I-I-I'mhideousCrla!" but she seems to understand.

"Don't be stupid. You aren't hideous. I can't claim all the scars will go away- you're a doctor, you'd know otherwise, but you aren't hideous and never will be."

Her arms wrap around me, one of her hands softly stroking my hair. I lean against her. I don't know how I'm supposed to be reacting to this. I should be being all manly (“Chicks dig scars!”) and facing it without crying or anything, but I can't stop myself. I bite my lip, then voice the fear that's been nagging at me for so long.

"What if I end up like him?"

She stiffens. "You won't."

Maybe it's the conviction in her voice, or that she doesn't start listing off stupid reasons that I won't become like Steve, but something in what she just said makes me more confident that I won't end up like him. I lie my head on her shoulder, then look up into her eyes finally. She looks back at me, totally un-judgmental, all concern.

"I knew it'd be bad, but I didn't realize…" I close my eyes briefly, choking down the pain. It feels like there's something in my stomach trying to force it's way up my throat. I struggle against the monster. "It was just seeing it… And I had to tell Sutcliffe all about it today."

"I don't imagine it helped being on your own. JD, if you needed someone there then you should have called me. I know Turk, Dan and Doctor Cox aren't the most sensitive of people, but-"

"Doctor Cox was there."

She looks at me in surprise. "Turk said you told them all to leave."

"I know I did, but he was listening outside the door, so I just gave in. Just like me, huh? I'm totally a lapdog. But he was there. Only…" It seemed really childish, come to think of it, but it still hurt. "He brought Sutcliffe's tape recorder in afterwards, but didn't tell me. Then I damn near spilt my guts out."

"What did you do?"

"Yelled at him. Told him to get out. He actually did, as well."

Carla's grip tightened on me for a second. "I know you probably already know this, but he would have been trying to help with that."

"I know…"

She moves me off of her to clutch my shoulders and look at me properly. "JD, I… I think you probably already know this, but people are trying to help as best they can. Doctor Cox was a total mess when you went missing. He wouldn't accept any theories about you being dead or anything. He was in a state, but he's pretty much responsible for you being found. I'm guessing what he did was to try and get… Get… him-"

"Steve?" I ask.

"Yes. Him. He was maybe hoping for something to use in court. JD, why do you call him Steve? I'd imagine "that bastard" or something else to be a bit more… well, a bit more fitting."

"I know…" Trying to explain to her what happened in the basement was just too much. "It's… It doesn't really matter. I know Doctor Cox probably did what he thought was the right thing to do-" Even if some part of me thinks he was only listening in to get more material to torment me with "- but it still doesn't change what he did. Carla, I'm worried about him."

"Why?"

"The way he's reacting. He shouldn't be constantly drunk like he is."

She looks sad.

"Just… keep an eye on him or whatever, hey?"

Suddenly she's hugging me and crying. Bemused, I hug her back and pat her hair awkwardly. After a while she pulls away and smiles at me. It looks genuine.

"You really can still worry about him, can't you? You really are too good a person sometimes…"

She blinks away more tears, then hugs me again. She pulls away to look me in the eyes. I think this is "serious Carla" mode.

"You understand that Turk can't really deal with this? It upsets him that he doesn't know what to do… JD, I'm sorry he can't be more help. I know he's acting like an irresponsible idiot. I think he knows it too. It's just… you're his best friend. He doesn't know what to do."

"I don't think anyone does. Did you see the state of Elliot?" It was supposed to be a joke, but it really wasn't that funny.

Carla nods and sighs. Then she starts to bandage me back up.

My talk with Carla has actually made me a bit calmer. I pull on some jogging pants and a loose shirt on top of the bandages and the follow Carla to watch the TV vapidly. I sit down on the sofa between Turk and Dan, and don't wince when Turk shrugs an arm loosely around my shoulders.

"Hey, Vanilla Bear," he mutters to me. He doesn't sound pissed with me. My paranoia is apparently impressive enough to make me think Turk is angry when he is actually worried. These guys are my friends, and my abysmal older brother. I am still great at being totally wrong at guessing what they are feeling though.

Dan keeps glancing at me, I notice out the corner of my eye. When I look back at him he grins at me and messes my hair up even more than usual.

- - - - -

Now everyone's gone to bed and I faked being sleepy. Staring out over the night sky from the window of the apartment I feel… strange. But I also feel annoyed. My life is spiraling out of control and dragging me down with it.

I tear off the bandage on my arm and claw at the words until the bloody message of WORTHLESS dribbles down my arm in a judgmental mess. The stars reflect off the blood pooling around my elbow in a contrast of pain and beauty. I look at them until I can't remember the difference any more.

Chapter Text

It's amazing what there is to see when you finally slow down enough just to look at it. If you're slowing down because you're desperately trying to stop your arm bleeding using a disturbing amount of tissue paper then it's probably less amazing. Mopping up where you've bled all over the window ledge is also kind of messy. But still, the night sky is really pretty breath-taking when you look at it. Especially the stars and the moon, floating in inky darkness.

I've managed to clear up the blood on the sill. I take all of the bloody tissues and flush them, cringing in case anyone hears me. I doubt they'd be impressed by what I did. I think I broke most of the sutures, and that's bound to be noticed. I hurriedly dab at my arm a couple more times, then tip some of Carla's disinfectant on. It stings and I hiss an indrawn breath between my teeth. Giving up on the disinfectant I sloppily rebandage it (I normally get a nurse to do it anyway, and it's more difficult one-handed) then go back to the window to examine it for stains. It seems clean. I look back out over the night sky. It seems so… free. So uninhibited. I just want to be out there…

Well, why shouldn't I be? I'm not a child, I don't have a curfew and no one can stop me.

But… what could be lurking out there? It looks harmless, but Steve looked completely harmless too. Sweat prickles on my skin. Should I go out or not? Someone could be standing out there in the shadows… My eyes keep tricking me, making a shadow look like a man slumped against a wall.

I scurry into the kitchen and delve around until I find a knife. It's not a carving knife or anything huge like that, but it's a knife. I tuck in into my belt, feeling the cool metal pressed against my skin. I'm actually taking comfort in it. God, what’s wrong with me, it’s making me feel safer…

I take the keys and, being careful not to jangle them together, I unlock the door as quietly as I can. It takes about five minutes and I agonizingly slowly turn the key in the lock, hearing the mechanisms inside grind together softly. I open the door a crack and slide out slowly, then shut it breath-takingly slowly behind me, hardly daring to exhale. I quietly lock it behind me, then sneak along the corridor, freezing whenever I step on a creaking floorboard. The lights aren't on, but I don't need them on really. My night vision's alright now since I've been standing in the dark so long. I creep down the flights of stairs and step out into the cool night air, clutching my hoodie to me. The air blows through my hair and across my skin in a gentle tickling sensation. I gaze up at the moon, watching clouds scud across it, leaning against the side of the building.

It's so peaceful. My mind, so crowded over the past few days with unwanted thoughts, is clear and calm. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, my body relaxing as I bathe in the moonlight, stepping forward to feel it over as much of my skin as I can.

Hands seize me roughly from behind. I choke, my eyes flying open, and scream as the arms lock themselves around my waist and drag me backwards. Hot breath on my neck kicks me back into physical action as I lash out, stamping my right foot down the leg of whoever it is behind me. I scrape my foot desperately down his shin and yell again. I glance over my shoulder to see wild eyes beneath a mop of curly hair.

Ah.

"What the hell are you doing outside the apartment?" he snarls at me. I glare back at Doctor Cox.

"I could ask you the same thing," I struggle to free myself, but freeze when I see the light coming on in the apartment. "Oh crap…"

"You went on a midnight jaunt and didn't tell anyone?" Doctor Cox asks me incredulously as we both hear a shriek of "JD?!" It sounded like Turk, which at least comforted me that I wasn't the only girly one.

"It's not midnight," I point out. It's more like 3 am. "And everyone was asleep. I just wanted some air."

One of his hands is uncomfortably close to the knife.

"Why are you here anyway?" I demand, hoping he won't notice the knife. He ignores me and glances up at the apartment lights, where increasing noises of hysteria can be heard. I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but freeze again when I feel the bandaging slip on my arm. I clutch at it with my other hand, trying to stop it sliding off, and wince at the pain in my wrist when I try to hang onto it.

"Alright, Newbie, you're going back up there before Gandhi tries to shave his head in mourning and then realizes the terrible truth."

"But-"

"Newbie, you're going back up there, even if I have to drag you."

He seems too coherent to be drunk. But he looks like crap. Maybe I can trick him or something? I struggle again and kick his shin in a futile attempt to escape. He apparently takes this as an invitation to show he was telling me the truth by dragging me back towards to the apartment. It's another total loss of control, and I'm suddenly really angry. Uncharacteristically, teeth-grindingly, aggressively angry. I elbow him viciously in the chest. He grunts, but it doesn't seem to make him let go of me. He drags me backwards and catches my knee in the doorway in the foyer of the building, which I don't think was an accident. I yelp sharply and slip downwards. He tries to grab me to stop me falling flat, then freezes. I look down, with growing dread, to see his hand where he's grabbed me near my belt to stop me falling.

He's felt the knife.

I spin out of his grip hurriedly and back away, trying to hide in the gloom underneath the stairwell. He looks at me in shock for a second. Then he apparently regains the ability to move and starts to come towards me, the shock rapidly being replaced with anger. I back off, but he carries on honing in on me, with the horrible inevitability of the iceberg towards the Titanic.

"What the hell was that?"

He's caught up with me and he grabs me by the front of my hoodie. I wrench backwards from him. He grabs at my belt.

Which is apparently too much for me to handle. A strange, animal noise comes out of me as I stamp at his foot and shoot backwards. Blood pounding in my ears, breath hitching, I try as hard as I can to stave off a full-blown panic attack. He steps towards me again and before I know what's happening I pull out the knife and point it at him.

"Stay the fuck away from me!"

Ha ha. That stopped him. I back away a bit more, my back hitting the wall unexpectedly. I wince and accidentally glance behind me as fiery pain rips through my back, presumably initiated by Doctor Cox grabbing me. I look back to him to see he's coming towards me again, thinking I've been distracted. I wave the knife absently and glare at him. We stay like a frozen tableau looking at each other. I half expect tumbleweed to blow past us.

Why am I so obsessed with tumbleweed? It’s not like I’m a big fan of Western movies or anything.

Footsteps on the stairs make me glance over to them. I look back to Doctor Cox. He meets my horrified gaze calmly. I see Turk and Carla's feet appear and throw the knife underneath the stairwell. I was hoping it would be hidden underneath it, but the sharp metallic clang it makes draws the attention of Carla, Turk and Dan, who all look down at it, then back at me in surprise. I hate the way they're all staring at me, I just want the ground to swallow me. It doesn't, but Doctor Cox tackles me to the ground which at least causes some sort of diversion. I hit my head sharply off the floor and wince, seeing stars.

"Ow," I mutter to no one in particular. I kick at him weakly, not feeling particularly guilty that it appears to be national abuse Cox day. I giggle quietly to myself at the double entendre worthy of The Todd.

"What were you doing with this, Johnny?"

Dan's crouching down in front of me holding the knife. I squeak and try to get away from him. He looks at the knife, then puts it down behind him.

"What were you going to do with it?"

"I was just going to get some air," I snarl, mainly at Doctor Cox, who's looking at me disbelievingly as he pins me down. "Just in case there were some psychos hanging around outside." I add, looking at him pointedly.

They all stare at me.

"Why, what were you thinking I was going to do with it?"

They continue to stare at me. I feel my face reddening.

"What?"

"Newbie, you were standing outside after sneaking out of your own apartment with a knife. How does it look to you?"

“You think… what, that I was going to hurt someone?”

“It’s a knife Newbie, were you planning on, making crudités out there?”

“It was for self-defense! Why is everyone looking at me like I’ve gone crazy when you were just sat outside my apartment at 3am?”

"JD, you have to admit it looks slightly weird. We don’t exactly live in the Hood."

"Turk, I am not going to hurt myself or anyone else! It's a perfectly normal reaction!" Okay, I sound crazy. I bite my lip to stop myself adding "and I'm not crazy either!" in a hysterical outburst. From the looks they're all giving me they've already deduced that I'm crazy anyway. I don't really look that sane, sprawled on the floor with a large doctor pinning me down.

"Anyway, what are you doing here?" I ask Doctor Cox again. He growls at me, then stands up, hauling me to my feet, and proceeds to drag me up the stairs. I don't have much option other than following him. When I try to stand still he just carries on going, which is pretty painful on my ankles. The others trail up behind me, Dan carrying the knife. I look at Doctor Cox's expression and want the knife back for protection.

We get into the apartment and Doctor Cox drops me onto the couch. I sit on it and wonder if I can fake passing out so they leave me alone. He turns to me, his arms crossed. I try to judge how annoyed he is.

Nose touch! Argghhhh!

My back hurts. My arm hurts. I generally hurt. I glare at him and curl my legs up underneath me on the couch. He cocks his head sideways at me and frowns.

"What did I say about keeping knives out of his reach?" drawls Doctor Cox sarcastically. I'm not entirely sure who he's talking to, but it doesn't appear to be me. I look back out of the window at the moonlight-flooded street. Everything looks silver and beautiful. The shadows cast wonky, jagged cracks of black in the white-ish moonlight. One of them seems to be moving…

"JD?"

I didn't realize I'd got up from the couch to walk towards the window. From the way Doctor Cox used my real name, I'm guessing he tried all sorts of girl names first. Turk's arm is suddenly around my shoulders.

"Come on, Vanilla Bear."

He pulls me into my bedroom and shuts the door behind us with a sigh. He sits down on the bed and after a moment's hesitation I join him.

"Turk, what-?"

"Dude… you're acting totally strangely right now."

I stare at him. "What?"

"You're acting… odd."

"How do you want me to act, Turk?"

He winces slightly, but looks at me levelly. "I don't know, man… but what you're doing isn't what the JD I know would do," At my questioning look he waves his arms around vaguely. "Carrying a knife, being violent… you know."

"When was I violent?"

"Doctor Cox is limping."

"Good. The guy attacked me."

"No he didn't. He just-"

"Yeah, right, Turk…"

"And the sarcasm! Dude, you're not… not…"

"I'm not what, Turk?" I'm on my feet. He stands up slowly. "I'm not the same? Well, well done, buddy!" I turn on my heel, but Turk grabs my forearm. The pain makes my knees go weak and my head spin.

"What's wrong, JD?"

I glance back at my arm. Blood's welling up under Turk's fingers. He sees and lets go hurriedly. "Shit!"

I wrench my arm away from him and stalk out of the room, Turk following me desperately trying to apologize. I ignore him and glare at them all staring at me. I probably yelled louder than I realized. I'm so sick and disgusted by the pity I can see in their eyes.

"Screw you all."

- - - - -

Which is why I'm sitting in the car park at Sacred Heart on my scooter staring at nothing except the gloomy night, my arm still bleeding. The cool wind blows over my face and I glance over at the warmth and light spilling out of the hospital entrance. Once upon a time I could just stroll in there. I could be carefree and… normal. Now I can't remember how I'm supposed to act any more. It's like there's a specific behavior that's labelled as "JD" and right now I have no idea what that is. Surely however I act should be JD? But apparently not.

"Hey Sally."

I grimace, but don't bother turning to her.

"Why are you here?"

There's a pause where I listen to her stiletto heels clicking towards me over the tarmac.

"I was looking for Perry. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him recently?"

“I’ve seen too much of him, please keep him inside.”

“That’s not like you, now you’ve finally got the attention from him you wanted.”

I roll my eyes and glance over at her. "Yeah, sure Jordan. I took him away from you. I got abducted, tortured and raped just so I could get a hug."

"I wouldn't put it past you, DJ. You can be a bit pathetic sometimes."

I stiffen and turn my face away from her.

"What? No stupid comment? No running away? No day-dreaming? You're going to sit in the dark brooding in a manly way?"

"I guess that's not like me, then?"

"Not really."

She sighs and I hear her come closer. I resist the urge to scream and run the she-devil over with my scooter.

"Look… You know I'm not good with those whole "emotion" things…"

"Oh my God!" I've got my head in my hands. "This is just too much! Everyone is talking to me! And this is the limit, Jordan!" I'm not sitting on Sasha any more. I glare at her. "Why the hell would I want you to sympathize with me? What wonderful pearls of advice are you going to offer me, hey? Because, believe me, none of it helps,"

She slaps me. Hard. Ow.

"You think I don't know that?" she hisses. I stare at her in shock, my hand pressed against my cheek where she hit me, eyes wide.

"Let me guess: no one else understands how you feel? Part of you blames yourself, thinks that maybe you didn't fight back enough, that maybe something you did caused it to happen? People look at you like you're a freak, and everyone can see that there's something wrong with you? Well, guess what Sally? It's not just you in the world that bad things happen to,"

"You… you…?" I try to vocalize something.

She smolders at me.

"Something… happened to you?" I feel sick.

"’Something’ happens to 20 people per minute in the US alone. You’re not exactly alone."

She looks at me calmly, no suggestion of emotion on her face.

"How did you get over…?"

"I didn’t say anything happened. Not like it did to you, but I’ve had my own problems to get over, like so many other people. And I accepted them and carried on.”

"I wish I could say that," I mutter. She glares at me.

"Oh, you want to end up like me do you?"

"Oh God, no."

I feel utterly shaken. I thought it was only Steve who seemed to understand what happened. I look at her warily, but something dawns on me. Jordan's probably the strongest person I know. Maybe this doesn't make me weak and useless? I say it out loud.

"You've always been weak and useless, DJ," she points out. "But what happened doesn't make you more so."

I can't really think of anything to say. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For thinking you were a horrible, cold emotionless bitch,”

"Oh Sally," she smiles and opens her arms wide as if to hug me, then the look drops off her face. "I am a horrible, cold emotionless bitch. It's just me. You don't seem to get that what has happened to you only changes you if you let it. Personally I think you could do with changing, but various people seem to disagree with me."

"And you didn't let it?"

"No. I'm too stubborn," She sighs and rubs a hand over her eyes. For a second she looks tired, then it vanishes, along with any other vulnerability she might have had. "Look… I'd appreciate you getting your claws out of Perry. I'm bored without him to passive-aggressively torture. And I think Jack's starting to think the guy down the hall is his father. If Perry doesn’t come back soon I might make that trade. That's it. 'Kay?"

I nod mutely. She turns away from me, then looks back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Sally… don't tell anyone. Perry's already being a total girl after what happened to you. If he gets like that around me I might be tempted to show him I'm not a poor sniveling creature by removing your limbs and using them to slap him with. Right?"

"Right…"

I suppose that was kind of comforting. In a horribly disturbing way.

Once she’s clip-clopped back away I glance down and notice that I’ve bled quite copiously over the parking lot next to my scooter, which seems rather appropriate. It’s showing up in the dawn light and I’m suddenly worried that the Janitor will appear and start to berate me, so scuttle off.

I start the walk back to the apartment after taking my hoodie off and wrapping it around my arm to hide the blood from anyone walking past.

The sun's in the sky. I actually notice it.

- - - - -

"Sorry…"

They all have bloodshot eyes and generally look exhausted. I shift nervously, then sigh. "Look… I really am sorry. I've been… weird. I suppose it's difficult to get my head around things. I…" I meet Doctor Cox's eyes. I'm still annoyed with him, but I shouldn't go around punishing everyone else because of what happened. "I'll go and see that shrink. Whatever one I'm supposed to see anyway."

He nods slowly, but is looking at me suspiciously. I look over to Carla and motion to my arm.

"Uh… could you take a look at this after I’ve showered?"

She nods, biting back a smile.

So. I'm all stitched up, drugged up and loved up. Sort of. I managed to be more normal with Turk and smiled and him and Carla. I tried to look at Doctor Cox in "admiring my mentor" mode, but failed. He looked at me flatly and then got me an appointment with the counsellor. I don't think he believes me. Turk, Carla and Doctor Cox have all gone to work. I’ve shaved and dressed and generally made myself appear more like a normal, function person. And now I'm sitting at the kitchen table, feeling slightly more like a human being than before.

"Pancakes, lil brother?"

"Mm-mm!" I grin at Dan. He grins back and waves a pan around vaguely. He turns his back on me to start cooking them.

"Y'know, I was getting pretty worried about you Johnny. You weren't acting like yourself. But that's understandable. But hey- looks like the annoying kid in you will always get through in the end, huh?"

He looks back at me with a smile. I nod and smile back at him.

When he turns his back on me, the smile drops off my face.

I shouldn't be punishing everyone else around me because of what happened.

I grin at Dan when he gives me the pancakes.

"Want cream and chocolate chips?"

We spend so long trying to spray the cream into our mouths that the pancakes go cold. We laugh at each other covered in cream.

"I'm Captain Foamybeard!" Dan exclaims.

"Avast matey!" I reply.

"There only be enough room for one captain 'pon these seas!"

Dan gets me in the eyes with the cream.

I should be punishing one specific person.

I wash the cream off my face in the bathroom. Then I look myself squarely in the eye in the mirror, leaning over the sink, the stupid goofy grin I’ve manufactured sliding straight off.

Steve.

I look at my bandaged arm, then back at the mirror, noticing the cold fury in my eyes.

Steve.

Chapter Text

Maybe I'm a suspicious bastard who always thinks the worst of things. Or maybe I just see the truth when no one else wants to face up to it?

Aw, hell, why am I even questioning it? I'm both. There is absolutely no way that Newbie's "fine". If anything he's worse than before. He’s being a sneaky little bastard and I’m well aware of it.

I'm feeling annoyed and sarcastic and bitter. And did I mention annoyed? I haven't slept in my own apartment for… too long. I haven't even seen Jordan or Jack for about three weeks. I had to travel to work with Carla and Gandhi in their car. It was embarrassing. Especially the way they kept prattling on about how Newbie had taken an extremely positive step. I spent the whole drive biting down the urge to yell "It's all an act, idiots!". Eternal optimists drive me crazy.

I settled on spending the whole time in a sullen silence, my forehead resting against the cool glass of the window. I ache from Newbie's various assaults on me. Admittedly, he probably hurts more, but the little bastard can be vicious when he wants to be. That’s not like him, right? He’s the least aggressive person I’ve ever met, he’s practically one of those smiley Australian furry things (quikkas? quokkas?). It’s like being bitten by one. Unexpected and a bit unnerving.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and rub them vigorously leaving brightly-colored stars sparkling against my eyelids despite the gloom of the on-call room. I'm not up to working today. Most of the interns are rushing around with an enormous workload because of it, but I just can't focus right now. Never mind the fact my liver feels like it's been mule-kicked and I've had a maximum of two hours sleep last night, but I can't think properly.

I lie back on the bed, an arm slung over my face. Damn… everyone. Damn Sutcliffe and his interview, and Newbie and his reactions, and… and just everyone. I was worried after the interview Sutcliffe conducted, and as I left with him I realized he was too. He'd looked uncomfortable, then glanced at me uneasily.

"Is Doctor Dorian always like that?"

"Like what?"

"So… well… he wasn't remotely emotive."

"You'd rather he was crying hysterically?"

Sutcliffe half-shrugged and carried on looking uneasy. "It would just look better, that's all. Not that there's really that much to support any other case than general abuse, but…"

I had been annoyed. Understandably. Of course Newbie wasn't being emotional, he'd just met Sutcliffe for God's sake. So I snatched the recorder off of him and went back in. Looking back on it now, it was probably a bad idea, but I wanted that bastard locked up for good.

That look on his face… he looked to utterly betrayed by what I'd done.

I'm a weak man. I wouldn't normally admit to that (and ask me to my face and I'll deny it), but I am. I can't handle my problems like a normal person, I just had to have something to drink and forget about it all. Only I hadn't forgotten about it. I made a phone call to Carla, but screwed if I remember what it was about. Then I reached an all-time low and fell asleep in an alley outside Newbie's apartment. I was kinda smarting from what he said and, aw heck, I was worried about the kid. I woke with cramps in my back and shoulders and saw Newbie standing there in a patch of moonlight. He looked ethereal and it really freaked me out. Like he’d died and I was seeing his ghost. He was zoned out, which isn't unusual, but didn't have a stupid goofy smile on his face.

It was another bad idea to grab him from behind. But I was surprised and still slightly drunk.

I also admit that I shouldn't have manhandled him quite so much. But… the knife. That is NOT the sign of someone who is totally well-adjusted and I knew it. My first panicky thought was that he was going to kill himself. Looking back at it, I can understand why he seemed so annoyed. After all, he was just standing outside the apartment. If he was going to commit suicide he'd presumably do it somewhere more private.

I also think it was a hopeful thought back then. Suicide is something I can relate to. I can understand, just about, why he'd want to end it all after what happened. I can't get into his head now. He said it was for protection and I guess I believe that. But I don't understand it anywhere near as much as I would if he'd been planning to slit his wrists or something like that. Not a comforting thought, really.

Then his little speech the morning after. That was fake. No doubts about it. I nearly asked him why he was talking out his ass, but stopped myself. Maybe lying to himself helps, but I doubt it. He's lying to us now.

When did this suddenly become about "us", damnit? It's about me or no one usually. Just because we all know Newbie doesn't somehow bond us into some family unit to look after him. Screw that.

Especially since they all believe his lies. Morons. I re-heally don’t want to be in some moronic family unit.

I growl and take my arm away from my eyes, staring at the ceiling. I'm not annoyed Newbie's lying. I'm annoyed they're buying it. And I'm annoyed with myself. I've got no idea what to do about any of this.

I glare at the ceiling, like everything's its fault. It stays blank, as ceilings tend to do.

- - - - -

I'm awoken by my pager. I fumble around for it, then swear. Coding.

My head's still groggy as I pound down the corridors, but this feels good. I'm helping someone at least. Shouting "Clear!" and trying to resuscitate the patient feels good. This is what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to be helping. Carla keeps trying to grab hold of my arm for something. I ignore her.

"We've lost him."

"Doctor Cox…"

"Doctor Cox!"

"Perry!"

Okay, unless Carla's had a demonic personality transplant then that wasn't her. I snarl at Bob, then realize they're all right. Damnit. How long have I been shocking this obviously dead patient?

I drop everything and back away, lacing my fingers behind my head. Everyone looks at me with that slightly frightened "Doctor Cox is crazy" look that I'm used to. Only some of them look sympathetic too. That's not a look I'm used to, and I damn well don't like it.

"Time of death 1400 hours," I mutter, then turn and stalk out the room. I get as far as the nurse's station, then rest my forehead against my hand and resist the urge to thump something.

I can sense an evil presence nearby. Since I don't imagine Jordan's here then that only leaves one person. Or demon, depending on how you classify these sort of things.

"What do you want Bob?"

"You're not fit to be working."

I lift my head off my hand and glare at him.

"I mean it, Perry. You look like crap. You act like a lunatic. It doesn't inspire the staff and it damn well puts the patients off."

"And that's all that matters, isn't it? The damn reputation of the hospital?"

"The reputation of this hospital matters more than anything else," he snarls at me. I roll my eyes, then notice Ted hovering in the background.

"Laying me off now?" I ask sarcastically, although I don't know why I'm being sarcastic. I'd lay me off.

"You're going on sick leave."

"Nice one, Bobbo."

"And you'll come back when you're actually capable of performing your job," he snaps at me, then turns and leaves, Ted in tow. I vaguely hear him asking Kelso why he can't go on fully-paid sick leave as well, since he obviously isn't capable of performing his job.

I never let him get the last word in, but I just don't have the energy. I also know I'm surrounded by on-lookers who heard that. I stay glaring at the station, not looking at any of them.

"I'm turning around in five seconds," I announce. "And if any of you half-wits are still around when I do, then I will end you. Understand?"

I count to five under my breath, then add another two. When I turn around there's no one in sight. I breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently acting like a lunatic doesn't lessen my fear-factor.

Opening my apartment door feels strange. Jordan and Jack obviously haven't moved back in. I wonder what her evil mother thinks of that. Then I promptly feel sorry for Jack, living with two she-devils instead of one.

I walk into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. Stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. My gloomy reflection stares back at me. I growl, turn on the light and shave.

Then shower.

Then find some clothes I haven't slept in recently and don't stink of scotch.

Then clean the apartment with the thoroughness of a bleach-happy OCD janitor.

Finally I run out of things to do, and sit down on the couch. Now there's nothing stopping me from going over to see JD. And I really want something that'll stop me. I don't want to look into his eyes any more. Because when I do I just see what I did when he had that knife. That feral, angry expression.

I'm worried. Because I think all this lying is covering up the fact that those angry, feral eyes are the most truthful thing I've seen from him recently.

If everything's a cover up to hide that, then… then I'm screwed if I'm trying to help him. I don't want to admit to myself that deep down I think he belongs in an asylum at the moment. Or at least under medical supervision.

I manage to watch TV until four in the afternoon, when my cell goes off. I look at the caller ID: Sophie. I doubt he's ringing me himself, so that'll be Dan.

"Yes?"

"Coxeroonie?" Oh God.

"I'll hang up on you."

"Sorry… Johnny's got his appointment with the shrink."

In the background I can hear someone's voice. I think I heard JD asking why I'd need to know that.

"Aaaaand?"

"And… I dunno. I just thought you should know."

"You mean you want me to hold his hand, because you are, in fact, the most useless older brother the world has ever seen?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I'm the most useless older brother the world has seen who doesn't own a car."

I groan.

- - - - -

"Hurry up girls, I don't care if you're both wearing the same little red number that just gives you that darn fashionable hourglass figure right now," I snap at them as they leave the apartment building, leaning out of my Porsche window.

"You are sisters, after all, and your date might just like that kind of thing."

Dan glares at me, probably thinking that my humor is pretty distasteful considering what's happened to Newbie. I think it would bother him more if I didn't do it anymore. He doesn't look particularly upset, just follows Dan to the Porsche. Which may be something to do with the tranquilizers I prescribed him and conveniently forgot to tell him about. I'll need to warn his shrink about that, actually.

Newbie automatically gets into the back seat of the Porsche (presumably the big brother effect) and sits waiting for Dan to get into the passenger seat next to me. He doesn't seem to be saying much, but I can blame that on the tranquilizers.

Dan gets in next to me. I notice he's clutching a piece of paper.

"What's that?"

"The address of the shrink," he replies, opening the paper.

"Counsellor," Newbie corrects from the back seat.

"It's the same thing," Dan sighs.

"Quack," I think I hear Newbie mutter. Great. He has a positive attitude to this then.

I don't say much during the ride. Dan tries to turn some music on, and I tell him that if he values his life then he'll get the hell away from the stereo. I spend most of it watching the traffic and Newbie. He's looking out of the window pretty much non-stop. At some point he winds it down, his hair blown around by the rushing wind. He's unnaturally quiet. He's not talking non-stop about trash or even day-dreaming. He seems uncharacteristically focused on something.

He's the same in the elevator up to the floor that his counsellor - Doctor Wren- works on. Dan is more like standard Newbie - talking inanely and making weird comments about things. Newbie occasionally makes a lame remark about something, which makes Dan grin unnervingly. Apparently he doesn't notice the deadpan sarcasm Newbie's employing whenever he makes an "in-character" remark.

I keep glancing at him in the elevator. He ignores me most of the time, but does once catch my eye. I freeze when he does, then purposefully look away.

He looks dead inside. Even patients with terminal cancer nearing the end of their lives look more alive than that.

It's odd, actually. He isn't acting nervous, which is how I'd imagine him to be. He walks straight up to the receptionist and tells her his name. When she asks us to take a seat he doesn't smile at her, just does as he's told. After we sit down, Dan starts making comments about her rack. I roll my eyes, then notice Newbie doing the same thing. Oh God. He's turning into me. That should please the narcissist in me, but it really doesn’t…

"John Dorian?"

We all stand up. Doctor Wren, a short man behind a pair of very thick glasses, looks back at us in surprise. His black hair is in tight curls (natural curls, not permed at all- don't ask me how I know that).

"Do you want this much… moral support?" he asks Newbie.

"No," he replies curtly, stepping away from us and walking into the examination room, shutting the door behind him. Doctor Wren doesn't look particularly shocked and makes a move to follow him. I catch up.

"Uh… doctor?" I ask, trying not to accidentally insult him out of habit.

"Yes?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.

"The kid's on tranquilizers."

"Couldn't he tell me that himself?"

"Uh… he doesn't know."

Wren looks at me disapprovingly, then sighs. "Alright."

"Oh, can you give me a debriefing at the end?"

"That's not particularly confidential."

"Yeah… but…"

"Are you a family member?”

“No, but-“

“I can give you a basic run-through at the end, if Doctor Dorian allows it. If you'll excuse me, I have a patient to see."

The door closes behind him. I glare at it.

"Bastard."

"Why doesn't Johnny want us in there too?"

"Would you want an audience to that kind of thing?"

Dan looks thoughtful, trying hard to empathize. "I don't think I'd care."

I sigh.

"Anyway," Dan continues "he's so much better now."

I resist the urge to scream and throw him out the window. "Is he really?"

Dan looks at me lopsidedly. "Yeah… I know you're a pessimist, but you can't just ignore signs that-"

"Whatever," I snap back at him. Then frown. "How did you know I wasn't at work?"

"Carla 'phoned."

I snarl.

"Maybe you should get an appointment with him too?"

"Shut up, Dan."

- - - - -

"So, how is he?"

I sent Newbie and Dan down to the Porsche with the keys. And warned Dan that if the car was missing when I got down there then I'd perform an autopsy on him. When his heart was still beating. Doctor Wren's office is pretty comfortable, which I suppose is a good thing. If it was minimalistic and white hued it might look too clinical. I'm sitting on the dreaded couch while he sits at his desk, looking over notes.

"He's… interesting."

"There's no way Newbie's ever interesting."

"He seems almost cocky."

I frown at that. "Cocky?"

"Yes," Wren looks confused. "Whatever I ask him he replies by rote… usually in perfect medical jargon. And the textbook answers. He asks questions I'd ask him to rule out certain mental illnesses, then diagnoses himself."

"Well, he is a doctor."

"Yes, but… if I try to get him to talk about his feelings his replies are bland. His emotions are the main point of this – not to get some clinical diagnosis – and I’m not remotely assured that he’s actually telling me anything genuine about how he’s feeling."

Crap.

"It may just be because it's his first session," Wren explains, noticing my expression. "I'm sure he'll open up eventually. It just seems a bit odd, that's all."

I get up with a sigh. "Well… thanks."

"Oh, Doctor Cox?" he calls after me as I walk towards the door. I turn around to look at him.

"Yes?"

"This Steve… I have no idea what his attitude is to him. He's impersonal when he talks about him, like he's reporting something that happened to someone else. He said he hated him, but there was no vehemence in his voice, which would usually be expected. Something seems wrong about that."

I nod, then leave.

The Porsche is still there, miraculously. Dan has put the radio on, though. I wonder if not killing him will mean he thinks he can do it again. Newbie is sitting quietly in the back of the Porsche looking at his hands.

He looks up and meets my gaze. I narrow my eyes slightly at him.

What are you doing, Newbie?

I spend so much of the drive glancing in the rear window at the kid that I nearly crash a couple of times.

I'm keeping an eye on you. Whether you like it or not.

Chapter Text

Well, that was a load of crap.

I stare blindly out of the window of the Porsche, trying to pretend I don't feel Doctor Cox watching me. What does he think I'm going to do, jump out the car door? He's suspicious and I know why. I just can't bring myself to act all deferential and twittering around him like I usually do. Plus, he's a cynic. Everyone else wants to see an improvement in me, so I guess they're kind of blinding themselves to the truth. If I act generally right then hooray, JD's "fixed".

Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against psychiatrists in general. I think they can work absolute miracles. I just don't think it'll work for me. I can psychoanalyze myself perfectly well, thanks. What's mainly wrong with me isn't an inferiority complex, or multiple personality disorder, or whatever. What's wrong with me is that some bastard tortured and raped me. You don't need to be a shrink to know that.

Dan turns around in his seat to look back at me. "How was it, lil' brother?"

I shrug half-heartedly. "Alright, I guess. He didn't section me."

I notice Doctor Cox wince. That's interesting… he clearly doesn’t have as much confidence in my mental health as the others.

Dan looks stumped as to how to reply to that, gives me what I guess he thinks is a reassuring smile, then turns back, attempting to put the radio back on. Doctor Cox growls at him. I return to looking sightlessly out of the window.

The time with Doctor Wren really was pointless. He kept asking me ridiculous questions. "Were you angry?" Well, duh. I was tempted to reply "No, I was absolutely beside myself with glee,". I just gave the answers I knew I was supposed to give, desperate to get out of there.

I narrow my eyes, annoyed. Why did I have to do these stupid time-wasting things? And I have another appointment in two days to waste more time.

The Porsche is pulling up at the apartment. I open the door and slide out, wanting to get away from Doctor Cox and his accusing stare. I start to say "Well, thanks," but Dan cuts me off by asking him if he wants to come up to the apartment for a drink or something. I hold my breath.

He looks at me with a long stare, then says "As long as your coffee is better than some piss-poor excuse of mud in water."

Damnit!

There's a light flashing on the telephone when we get in. Ooh, message! I pick up a mug from the coffee table, then walk over to the answer-phone and press the replay button.

"Doctor Dorian, this is Captain Sutcliffe. I can't get in contact with you at the minute, you must be out… Anyway, Steven Gourley's bail has been met and so we have had to release him-"

Oh God, I've stopped breathing. I drop the mug, which smashes onto the floor, sharp cutting shards exploding from what was once whole. I dimly hear "What the hell?!" from the kitchen.

"- but there is a full order of protection in place. He cannot come near you or have any form of contact with you. If you have any questions, then please do not hesitate to call me on-"

I can already hear Doctor Cox yelling down his cell, drowning out the end of Sutcliffe's message. I yelp as someone's arms are around me, but then realize it's Dan. He pulls me over to the couch and makes me sit down. I realize I'm shaking.

"It's okay Johnny, he can't get near you," Dan whispers. "They've put that order in place."

I frown at the answer-phone. I don't plan on letting him get near me.

I'll get near him.

Everyone overreacting should probably be funny to me. In a way I do find it hilarious. They expect me to be a wreck and I have to admit that I'm shaking a bit. Only I feel numb. I know that I should be scared. But I don't really feel anything. My mind's just calm. I should be feeling like there's a storm raging around in my head, but it's all calm sailin' up there. Everything seems a bit muffled around me, like I've been wrapped in a duvet or something.

Dan seems to have decided that I'm falling apart since he's been sat with his arm around me on the couch for the past few hours. Doctor Cox has been yelling down his cell at Sutcliffe for a ridiculous length of time, then been stomping around the apartment, ranting. He then seemed to decide that ringing the hospital to tell Carla was necessary, which meant that she, Turk and Elliot appeared soon afterwards for "moral support". I'm guessing he didn't request Turk and Elliot though.

I keep spacing out. Not in my usual "wacky JD style", but in a blank, mindless sort of way. It freaked me out a bit before I realized I must be sedated. Trust Doctor Cox to sedate me and then not even tell me about it.

From what I gathered from the yelled one-way cell phone conversation going on, Sutcliffe didn't really have a choice. He had to bail Steve, who apparently had a great lawyer (obviously not Ted then). The full order of the protection was appeared to be something he worked hard to get in place, saying it should guarantee my safety.

Doctor Cox sighs and slumps onto the chair, kicking Rowdy vehemently. I look at him feeling fuggy and weird.

"How come the bastard had enough money to afford a top-class lawyer?" demands Dan.

"I guess he's rich enough… come to think of it, that veterinary surgery he was in when I went with Sutcliffe seemed pretty successful."

I frown. I don't know why, but picturing Steve going off and looking after fluffy animals between torturing me just seems twisted. If you asked me what I was picturing him doing, then I couldn't answer: I haven't really thought about it that much, if I'm being honest. It's just the thought of some guy torturing someone in his basement, then calmly going and performing animal surgery before then coming home to carry on the torture. It's horrible. Worse, it's human. If I dwell on it I lose the image of Steve as a loathsome monster and see him as a man. And when I see him as a man then it makes me realize that anyone could do it… That I could do it…

I shake my head to clear it of my thoughts. They're slow and woozy, probably because of the sedative. I glare blankly, trying not to focus it on Doctor Cox. I mustn't get him suspicious that I know what he's doing. I just have to try and stop taking them, which means working out how he's getting them into me. I'm being injected with anti-inflammatories and painkillers, and he wouldn't be stupid enough to mix them. He's probably putting it in food or something. Considering just about everyone makes me some form of food or drink at the minute, refusing it might be slightly difficult.

"JD?"

"Huh?"

Turk grins at me. "Not the best time to zone out, dude."

I smile weakly, noticing Doctor Cox watching me like a hawk. Buzz off. 

"Sorry Brown Bear. Wassup?"

Turk sits down next to me, putting an arm loosely around my shoulders. I flinch. He doesn't notice, but I'd bet Sasha, Rowdy and my pillow girlfriend that Doctor Cox did.

"You don't have to worry about this jerk, JD. We're all here for you, man."

"Yeah," Elliot chips in. "We won't let him get anywhere near you!"

I resist the urge to laugh. The thought of Elliot standing between me and Steve, shaking and saying "Frick!" is just comical. Apparently I still look worried, since Dan puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles at me in a way that he thinks looks reassuring, but in fact looks like he's got rigor mortis.

"Thanks guys," I grin.

It's total crap, of course. They were all there for me before and Steve still got to me. I just have to get to him first.

- - - - -

Doctor Cox actually left and presumably went to his own apartment. It's a miracle.

The evening was spent in ways which the others obviously thought of as unthreatening. We ordered a pizza and watched Titanic and Elliot cried. I then feigned exhaustion, so that everyone went to bed. I sat up until now, waiting until there were no sounds at all in the apartment.

I'm frozen, my knees curled up against my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs on the sofa. I changed back into my hoodie and jeans. I'm sitting in the dark listening intently. There was a sound about ten minutes back, just as I was uncurling which made me shoot back into this position. It was just a slight thud from Turk and Carla’s room. It could have been anything. It was probably Turk knocking over something on his bedside table, but screw that. I'm not taking any chances.

I shift my eyes to look at their door. No one seems to be moving around or making a sound. I unstretch from the sofa silently, wincing as the muscles in my arms and legs come back to life. I've been sitting there for ages and have gone a bit numb. But now I can do what I've been planning.

I slip silently into the kitchen. It's a good thing Turk doesn't take Doctor Cox seriously: I retrieve the same knife I was carrying earlier and put it in the kangaroo front pocket of my hoodie. I creep back into the sitting room, then stop. I don't want to use the door again really: sliding the bolts back silently takes so long. I walk over to the window and look down. Nope, there's no way of climbing out of here. It'll have to be the door.

I unlock the bolt as quietly as possible, then turn the key in the lock slowly. The mechanisms inside grind slightly and I let out a breath in surprise and dread, then freeze, my eyes darting about wildly. When no one comes to investigate, I carry on and unlock it properly. I slide out and am just about to close the door again when I notice how cold the floor of the corridor is.

Damnit!

I forgot my sneakers. I come back in and spend a panicky five minutes searching for where I threw them, my breath coming out in little whimpers of fear. When I finally find them under the couch I nearly cry in relief and run as fast as possible back into the corridor with them. I lock the door silently behind me, then sit down on the floor of the corridor to pull my sneakers onto my feet. I feel like a little kid who just raided the refrigerator, trying to hide the traces of everything I ate. On the fifth attempt I tie the laces of my sneakers with my shaking fingers (why, exactly, is it not suitable for adults to have Velcro on their shoes?), then bound to my feet, slipping the keys into my jeans pocket. I'm about to turn to the stairway, when I remember Doctor Cox waiting in the alleyway the other night. I frown. What if he's doing that again?

I dance around indecisively, then turn towards the fire exit and set off at a brisk walk. It comes out on the opposite side of the building, and he can't be watching both exits.

There's an alarm fitted in the emergency escape, I discover. Stupid thing. You know, the ones that start wailing if anyone opens them. I think they're supposed to act as a secondary fire alarm. I grunt, but can't be bothered to rethink The Plan.

The knife slashing through the wires leading from the door to the alarm is strangely comforting. I'm being proactive! Yeah!

Opening the door silently, I smirk to myself, then wince as the cold night air blasts into me. I hurriedly go out and close the door behind me. Standing on the metal outdoor staircase of the emergency escape makes me feel overly exposed, especially in such unusually cool weather. I hug my arms around me, pulling the material of the hoodie closer to my flesh. I'm surprised when I feel how skinny I've become.

I push those thoughts out of my head. They're just getting in the way of The Plan.

I bound down the fire escape, the energy I've been lacking so long suddenly resurfacing. I carefully accepted everything people gave me to eat, then had none of it. It's probably just that I'm not drugged up to the eyeballs.

I freeze where I am on the escape, my thin hands grasping the railings so hard my knuckles turn white, and laugh out loud. Drugged up to the eyeballs? That's a crazy phrase.

When I get to the bottom I leap down the last four steps and land unevenly, staggering a little.

Right. Time for action.

I turn on my heel and run from the apartment as fast as I can. After a couple of minutes my breath is coming out in ragged bursts, my back, wrists and chests aching. My lungs, which have felt fine ever since my apparent "near death" thing (that didn't happen, don't think about it, it's getting in the way of The Plan) are painful agony again. I slow down and glance around. I'm near to the hospital. After taking stock I turn, smiling manically, to my intended direction. Then stop.

"Damnit!"

My voice bounces and ricochets of the apartment blocks around me. I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I was so busy thinking about The Plan and what I'd do when I got there, that I forgot that oversight.

Okay: maybe I should be a bit less cryptic. The Plan was to get to Steve before he got to me. This seems pretty logical. If I just stay hiding I'll still be a victim. Now it's his turn. It made sense to go to his house. Only now I'm thinking about it, I never even saw the outside. I only ever saw Sacred Heart carpark, the basement, then the hospital again. I could be standing right outside the house now and not know it.

I cast a suspicious glance over the apartment blocks, checking if any had basements with nightmarish memories incarcerated in them.

Well, standing here like a hobo isn't going to help much. I turn back to the apartment, walking slowly, thinking it over. I just had to find out where he lived. Who knew who I could ask? Well… him, obviously. Sutcliffe (no) and Doctor Cox (definitely no). That was about it. But it'd be on the police file, but that'd be near impossible to get a hold of. I think stealing police files would be frowned upon as well.

I stop walking, a grin spreading across my face. Of course! The hospital! Even if they'd given his file to the police, he'd still be on the database. Kelso had complained enough when it had all been installed, but now I can see how useful it is. I just need a plan to get into Sacred Heart soon. I'm not likely to be back at work in the next few weeks, and I need to get this done now.

I don't know why I do, I just need to get this finished with.

- - - - -

The police guard seems a bit unnecessary. It also gets in the way of The Plan.

Well, guard is probably a bit strong. It's just the one guy who hangs around the apartment in case psychos try to come in and rape me. He consumes enormous quantities of mint tea and watches cable. Dan tried to get exciting cop stories out of him, then gave up after a while.

I need to get to the hospital. I need to come up with something…

Think!

It'd have to be an excuse to see Carla. She'd be at the nurses station, if he followed me in. Getting to the computer might be difficult, but it'd at least give me a chance…

Got it!

I go into my bedroom, watching the cop on the couch carefully. Dan has slumped on the chair, watching the TV blankly. It's one of those depressingly useless scenes which makes you want to give up on the species. I root around until I find what I need, slipping it into my pocket, then walk into the bathroom. I loudly clatter all the bottles around, then exclaim and run back into the sitting room feigning panic, pulling out the object in my pocket.

"I think Carla forgot her pager!" I yelp.

Dan and the cop both look at me without much interest.

"Her pager!" When they stare at me blankly I try again: "Used in emergencies? Kind of important?"

"Oh, but it's Friends, lil brother,"

"I don't care!"

Okay, so sitting in a cop car pretending to redeliver a pager to your friend and trying to think of a plan to clear an entire floor of people is slightly weird. Dan tagged along and I think is trying to get the cop to crash the car by annoying him. He suggested we ring Carla (a sensible suggestion really), but I said she might not be by the ‘phone and generally made it look like there was a terrorist threat at Sacred Heart to get them to move.

"Can we have the siren on?"

"No."

Seeing Sacred Heart looming towards me fills me with a strange combination of relief and nerves. I jump out of the car, wincing at the pains still in my back and chest, then wave to them.

"I won't be too long. Get a coffee or somethin'."

I bounce up the steps, then pause. Doctor Cox is probably on shift. I can't let him see me, at least not until I've got the address. He'd see through my puny human mind with his lazer eyes and discover The Plan. I peer into the lobby. And the janitor isn't there! Yes!

Laverne is though. And Kelso. Arghh.

I walk in as quietly as possible, then hide behind an obese guy (here for a bypass maybe?). He's walking in the wrong direction to the elevator though, and is bringing me closer to Kelso. I swear quietly, then dart out from behind him and run to the staircase at high speed. Laverne yells "Hey, don't that look like cue-tip?" so desperately yell "emergency!" and race up the stairs. Luckily doctors and nurses are unhealthy and all take the elevator, so the stairs are pretty abandoned. I find Ted standing on the second floor giving himself as inspirational talk.

"You are a first class lawyer, Theodore, you are just pushed into situations…" he catches sight of me, then continues "and now you're seeing things, great, early onset dementia…"

I guess it's always good to find someone worse off than you.

It's real busy near the nurse’s station. Carla's there and I stay hidden behind the trolley I've been sheltering behind ever since Doctor Cox walked past and I squeaked and darted behind it. I need some sort of diversion…

I see him walking past, grin, and pull him towards me. "Doug!"

"JD! I thought that you were-"

"Hey, Doug, there's been a big accident on the highway. The ER is kinda overloading and they want all the nurses on this department doing admin over there."

"But-"

"It's an emergency, Doug!"

"Who said that everyone should move?"

"Doctor Cox."

Doug goes pale, then runs out and starts yelling in a panic. He sounds so scared I'm not surprised they all go running out. I grin and lean back against the wall, the smirk wiped off my face a little when my back screams in pain at me. It seems to be getting worse. I shrug and ignore it. I should be feeling bad for causing all this disruption, but all I can feel is a sort of mad heat running through me.

Okay, everything's clear except for Doug. I run out.

"You should go too, Doug."

"But… but someone needs to look after here…"

"I'll cover for ya, buddy."

He makes a worried noise, then runs off. I saunter over to the computer, then search entries for Gourley, S. I find him, then click to access the link.

"Illness five!"

"Elliot's running around the carpark topless, Todd," I reply without looking up.

"The Todd is there!"

Got it.

i print the address out, fold it up and put it in my pocket. I consider hanging around to look after the place, then hear Carla's voice floating down the corridor.

"I can't believe that Doug just did that!"

I run back to my trolley, hearing coffee nurse saying he was probably misinformed. Carla and the other nurse go past, and I slip away down the corridor, congratulating myself. I bite my lip to stop myself grinning and hop into the crowded elevator.

Two things make the smile drop off my face. One is that I realized I forgot to close down the computer screen, so Steve's record is still up there for anyone to see what had been accessed.

The other reason was the hand that had fallen heavily onto my shoulder and then gripped with bruising force. I stare directly ahead, my eyes wide, and try desperately to quell the urge to scream. I don't look back at him, knowing he has that wooden expression on his face, and judge by the pressure he's exerting onto my shoulder to read his anger level.

He's mad.

The lift stops at the next floor and I'm unceremoniously shoved out. I rebound off the opposite wall and turn to escape, but find one of his hands against the wall blocking my exit. The other is against his hip and crowding me slightly. For some weird reason I notice that he’s shaved and generally looks slightly less manic than previously. And that he seems to smell nice. Now, that’s a slightly weird thought, stop it. He leans towards me and glares at me.

"What the hell are you doing here, Newbie?"

When I don't answer he leans closer. I automatically back up to keep some distance between us, my shoulder blades desperately trying to dig through the wall to escape him. My blank brain vomits up a suggestion.

"Pager!"

"What?"

"Carla's pager!" I pull the object out and dangle it in front of his eyes. "I… uh, I found this at the apartment and thought she must have left it."

Doctor Cox glances at it briefly, before dismissing it and looking back at me. "That's not Carla's pager."

"How d'you know that?"

"As far as I'm aware, Carla's pager doesn't have 'Property of the J Dizzle' written on it."

"Ah…"

"In what looks like pink nail polish."

I look sadly at my now defunct excuse. "Uh… I guess I wasn't thinking."

I try to grin at him disarmingly. He just looks at me. I hope he isn't reading my thoughts.

Stop staring at me, you crazy alcoholic. You and Jordan are perfectly suited, asshole.

Apparently not, since I think I would have been attacked for that one.

He grabs my shoulder again, drags me back into the elevator and hits the button to go back up to where he saw me get in. His hand stays fastened to my scapula and I wonder if my bones will actually have handprints on them from this. He shoves me back out into the corridor, and straight into Kelso.

"You back at work, sport?"

"What were you doing on this floor, Fiona?"

"If not then you're taking his crap unpaid. A terrible thing, boy."

I look between them in confusion. Since it's the only valid excuse I have, I reply "Carla's pager" again.

"Bambi! What're you doing here?"

Crapcrapcrap.

"And I've gotta bone to pick with you, Doctor Cox. What was the idea of sending us over to the ER? Some big joke?"

"What?!"

Doublecrapdoublecrapdoublecrap.

I see Doug appear out the corner of my eye. I glare at him and then make wildly violent hand gestures. He looks at me in mute horror, then scurries away.

"I thought I found your pager at the apartment, but it looks like it wasn't yours." I tell her. She looks surprised.

"Why didn't you just try paging me?"

"Uh… I didn't think of that…"

She smiles and ruffles my hair affectionately. The smile drops off her face when she turns back to Doctor Cox. "You know, we're people too. We have jobs to do, and don't appreciate being the subjects of your practical jokes."

Doctor Cox looks at her skeptically. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know! Just don't do it again, 'kay?"

She turns on her heel and stalks away. My neck is burning even more from his stare boring into me.

"Well… there's a cop waiting for me outside, so-"

My arms are seized and I'm slammed into a wall. I yell involuntarily and open my eyes to look directly into his slightly crazy gaze, his forehead pressed against mine.

"I don't know what you're planning, Newbie, but don't you dare do anything stupid."

"What're you talking abou-?"

He shakes me so hard my teeth rattle together. "I mean it!"

I can feel his curls pressed against my own depressingly unstyled hair. The close presence of a stronger guy seems to be  causing a subconscious panic reaction, my breath hitching slightly.

His eyes finally pull away from mine to look at the audience around us. I examine their horrified faces. I look like a patient, I realize. It looks like he's attacking a-

His lets go of me suddenly, glares at them all, then stalks off. For good measure I stagger into the empty lift and clutch onto the railing. When the doors shut I stand up easily and grin, trying to forget the moment of utter terror in my head that left me completely debilitated. I slide a hand into my pocket and finger the paper that's safely in there.

The grin that graces my face is totally devoid of humor. I think if I saw myself in a mirror I might just scream right now.

Chapter Text

I'm so annoyed. All of that was just for nothing.

Carla and Turk got into the apartment about twenty minutes ago. I was still gloating to myself quietly about my successful raid on Sacred Heart, which I think Dan was noticing from the way he kept looking unsettled and backing away from me. The cop had gone outside to his cop car to do cop things (haha… it's a cop)- hey, I said cop too much, now the damn word doesn't make sense. Anyway, focus, the police officer had gone. Carla and Turk had been unusually silent when they'd come in, then had gone into the kitchen.

"Dan! Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure!"

Dan had been watching Cartoon Network sprawled on the sofa. I'd been staring blankly out the window trying to plan.

"Could… could ya come in here and sort it out?"

"What's the point in offering if you want him to make it himself, woman?" Turk yelped.

Dan had shuffled into the kitchen. Then there was a period of quiet mutterings. You know that something's wrong when people are quietly muttering in another room. If they were still talking about coffee they'd be yelling about it.

I tip-toed over to the partition wall to listen in. If I pressed myself hard against the wall I could just about hear them.

"… what if it was JD?"

"Why would Johnny do that? Anyway, he was only in the hospital five minutes tops. He must already know where the sick bastard lives,"

"Someone accessed that patient file!"

"Maybe it was just a coincidence?" Turk suggested. The stony silence from the other two showed their opinion of that theory.

"Is it just me or are we ignoring the obvious suspect?"

"What are you talking about, Dan?"

"Coxy! You've seen the way he is- it's probably him."

"Perry already knew that address. He went to it soon after JD disappeared." He did? Then how the hell didn't he find me? "It's out of date, he doesn't live there any more."

A cold icy sensation flooded my stomach. What?

"It's probably one of the nurses. Looking for gossip."

Crap crap crap crap!

"My nurses would NEVER do that!"

"Baby, who are you kidding? You know what Laverne is like."

I'm ready to punch the wall. I snarl silently and then move back to sitting next to the window.

What the hell am I supposed to do now then? I frown. It’s pretty obvious that the only place that I can find the address will be with Sutcliffe. Presumably in his office. I drum my fingers on my leg and stare sightlessly out of the window. Great. I have to come up with another Plan.

Carla, Dan and Turk come back from the kitchen and glance at me uneasily. I look back at them and decide that the best way to play this is to act like nothing has bothered me. After all, if I was innocent of looking for Steve's address then this wouldn't bother me one bit, would it? I grin at them lopsidedly.

"Hey guys. Is there some coffee going?"

"JD… when you were at Sacred Heart today did… did you…" Carla stammers. I look at her calmly, noting with interest the miserable pain in her eyes. It should concern me. I should be upset that she's upset, but I can't hold anyone else's pain as well as my own. But something in her expression surprises me: she knows. She's lying to everyone else and herself. She knows that I'm anything but alright. And she knows that I accessed that file. She just can't bring herself to accept it.

"… Did you see anyone hanging around the nurse’s station today?" she finishes softly, breaking eye contact and glancing down at her feet before looking back at me. When she does that odd pain has gone. She's gone back to denying the truth.

I shrug. "Not really. Well, I didn't see anyone around there who shouldn't have been. Why?"

"Oh… someone just accessed some files without authorization, Vanilla Bear," replied Turk, glaring at the other two with an "I told you so" expression.

Oh God. I am such a horrible person.

The Plan Mark Two is about be launched. I feel like I did before I had my finals: the next few hours would make the difference between being a glorious winner or a crushing, revolting failure.

The first stage of the Plan is easy. Carla and Turk are at work again, so I don't have to concentrate on getting rid of them. Dan is still sitting around the house with the same nervous expression he is starting to adopt around me, like I might explode at any minute. I start to wonder if maybe he sees through me too, but the thought is sidetracking me, so get straight down to business.

"Hey Dan, know what I'd kill for?"

He looks at me slowly and questioningly. "What, little brother?"

"Cotton candy," I'd grinned at him. "Like when we went to the fair as kids?"

He grins in the same idiotic way that reminds me of me. Or me before all this. "Yeah! Cotton candy!"

"And… Cheers! I mean, how good was that show?"

"Hey- why I don't I go out and get some? I can rent out the Cheers DVDs and get some beers and cotton candy- and pop rocks!- at the store!"

I pretend to look surprised by this. "That'd be great!"

Dan rushes around, grabbing his wallet and jacket. "I'll be back soon, Johnny!" he yells, before running out the door.

Dan's enthusiasm over this doesn't surprise me. Dan is a "fixer". He wants to fix everything and I'd just given him hope that he could fix me with Cheers and cotton candy. And pop rocks.

Pop rocks are great.

I already have the entire series of Cheers on DVD (obviously), but I doubt Dan noticed that in his enthusiasm to just do something.

The next part of the Plan is just about to begin. I grab my jacket, keys, notepad and pen, then write a note to Dan, sticking it to the door as I lock it behind me.

The cop is sitting in his car just outside the apartment doors. It's actually a different cop, they seem to take it in shifts, but he recognizes me. I smile at him and lean on his open window to talk to him. When I realize I look like a rent boy my smile falters slightly.

"Hey- sorry. I was just wondering if you were going back to HQ any time soon?"

This cop is different, but it also works to my favor. He looks young and pretty bored. He'd probably watched Starsky and Hutch too much as a kid and was expecting the job to be exciting, full of shoot-outs, drug busts and huge explosions. I guess he's sick of looking after the boring nerdy doctor, although maybe the thought of a homicidal maniac turning up makes it less than deathly dull.

I'm becoming so jaded.

"Do you need to go there?" he asks, pulling me out of my character analysis.

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to Captain Sutcliffe."

"Was that your brother leaving just before?" he asks, but he's sitting up a bit straighter, looking more eager.

"Yeah, but I've left him a note."

He nods then beckons over to the passenger side of the car. "Then get in and I'll give you a lift there."

"Thanks," I grin and then scamper around the side of the car to get in.

I spend the drive in nervous tense silence, my fingers twisting around each other. I glance down at the unnatural posture they're in, noticing for the first time that my wrists aren't quite straight any more. I frown, then look out the window.

Oh, this must be the HQ. It just looks like… a building. Not some massive fortress, holding life and death information on murderers and thieves.

"I'll be going in too - do some paperwork or something," the cop tells me as we walk up to the door. "Just ask at reception for me and I'll take you back."

"Sure, thanks- sorry, I never asked your name."

He smiles at me reassuringly. "It's Brian Douglas." S B Gourley, does the B stand for Brian?

"Great, thanks Brian," I try to smile back, but probably just look in pain.

The man at the reception looks harassed. He's busy with some files or something when I walk up to it. After a minute or so of me standing there I feel like a total idiot and say "'Scuse me?"

He jumps and glances up, a look of impatience on his face. He straightens up and the expression smoothes out and melts into a politely helpful smile. He probably categorizes it as "employee of the year" and does it in the mirror every morning.

"Can I help you sir?"

"Uh, yes please. I'd like to speak to Captain Sutcliffe."

"Can I just take your name sir?"

"John Dorian."

There's a pause as he picks up a telephone and then a muttered conversation. He hangs up, then turns back to me.

"If you'll wait one moment sir, Captain Sutcliffe will be with you in a moment."

"Thanks."

I distract myself by staring at a "most wanted" poster that's been stuck up wonkily on the wall opposite the reception. If I unfocus my eyes hard enough I can turn each of the mug shots into an image of Kelso wearing a top hat with a chair, a whip and a lion which has Doctor Cox's face.

"Doctor Dorian!"

I jump and spin around to see Sutcliffe smiling at me and bearing down towards me with an unnervingly cheery attitude.

"Please, come into my office."

I trail after him like a lost puppy, the throbbing ache in my right wrist setting my teeth on edge.

Sutcliffe's office is pretty small and has the clutter of someone who doesn't have either the time or inclination to tidy things up. However, the folders seem to be perfectly alphabetized. I wonder whether he's got some form of file OCD or if he's just selectively anal.

"Please, take a seat Doctor Dorian."

I sit down on the opposite side of the desk to him. With the window behind him, Sutcliffe is slightly more difficult to focus on. He turns, rummages in a drawer, then pulls out a file. I can just see the words "Dorian, J" in the corner. I stare at it like I'm the Todd and it's a pair of breasts, my palms sweating slightly from nerves.

"Was there a problem, Doctor Dorian?"

I tear my gaze away from the file, wondering if he's gotten as sick of calling me "Doctor Dorian" at the end of every sentence as I am of him doing it. I also check the desk. There aren't any Kleenex or anything; a possible way of getting him out the office would be to start crying, but that's also a pretty embarrassing and emasculating way of getting him out of here.

"I… I'm… I'm just not sure about this," I reply uncertainly, meeting his gaze with lost, frightened eyes. And I know how I look. I've been rehearsing this since last night in the bathroom mirror. It's convincing.

"Sure about what?" he asks. I think he's trying to sound gentle, but he just looks a bit uncomfortable.

"What's going on- I mean, Ste- Mr. Gourley isn't in jail. Shouldn't he be locked up?"

"I'm afraid that he's innocent until proven guilty-"

"But he is guilty!" Yay. I can really get hysterics when I need to.

"I know, Doctor Dorian, it is frustrating-"

"Frustrating?! What? I mean- what? You think I did this to myself? You think I fucking ripped myself apart and raped myself?!"

I slam both my hands into the desk in faked anger and frustration. Then freeze.

I am such an idiot. Ouch.

Ouch.

My wrists feel like they've been rammed into a vice. I can feel the blood draining from my face from the pain. Sutcliffe's obviously realized what's happened as well, since he also looks pale.

"Oh- oh God, your wrists. Are you alright?"

This is obviously what I get for overacting. I screw my eyes up with the pain, then look back at Sutcliffe.

"Yeah, sorry- I totally forgot, I shouldn't have lost it like that…" I don't need to try to get my voice to shake, it's doing that on its own.

"Wait, we have a first aid kit, it'll have a cooling pad in it- I'll just-" I realize what he's about to do. I outreach a foot to where I can see the phone cable is plugged in beneath the desk and press my sneaker toe against the side of it. I wriggle my foot slightly and feel it slide out of place.

Sutcliffe picks up the phone receiver and listens into it. Then frowns.

"Great, my phone has broken. I'll get it myself, JD. I'll be a couple of minutes." JD?!

He hurries out of the office. As soon as the door closes behind him I stagger out my seat, walking over to his side of the desk, holding my wrists in front of me stiffly like painful spiky bundles of sharp sticks. I flip the front of the file open with a stiffly held hand and breathe a sigh of relief. Steve's address- his current address- is on the front page.

But I can never write with these wrists.

I read the address a few times over and repeat it in a litany under my breath, flipping the file closed again, careful not to move my wrists. I hurry back to my chair on the other side of the desk, still repeating the address under my breath in a weird almost monastic chant.

Damnit, I'll never remember it this way. I pull the notepad out of my jacket pocket and then the pen gingerly, trying not to move my hands independently to my arms. I flip the notepad open with my weirdly robotic hand movement, then hold the pen loosely between the fingers of my right hand.

Pressing down onto the paper is- argh. Ow. Ouch. Ow. Ow. 

I ignore the pain, gritting my teeth as I force the pen onto the paper to write the first line of Steve's address. That's all I need.

The pain is awful. Especially considering I'm doing it to myself. Gritting my teeth isn't enough. I bite my lip, sweat pooling in my temples as I force the pen to trace the painful contours of Steve's address. My wrists are on fire. They feel like they're going to snap with the pressure. I'm drowning in the pain, with only one thing to focus on as my pen meanders slowly and painfully through the address.

Flushed and with my lip now bleeding I blink the sweat out my eyes to look at it. It's just about legible. I clumsily shove the notepad and pen back into my jacket pocket, pain exploding from my wrists as I do so. I groan softly. I distantly hear the door open.

The cold pad feels amazing against my wrists.

"Should you go to the hospital?"

He's crouching down in front of me, looking worried. I shake my head.

"N-no. I haven't rebroken them. I've just been stupid."

Have I been stupid? I've got the feeling that I'm going to be even more stupid. But no- of course I'm not. I'm being sensible. It's just that no one else is.

My wrists throb angrily and I blink more sweat out my eyes.

Real sensible.

- - - - -

Brian's giving me a lift back, his worried glances at me suggesting he thinks I might do something else stupid. My wrists are feeling better now. I think the swelling's going down a bit. I can move them without it feeling like they're full of broken glass now, anyway.

"You alright?" enquires Brian. He actually just sounds concerned, rather than morbidly curious.

"Yeah, should be," I reply, giving him a rather tight smile. A thought suddenly crosses my mind. "Hey, Brian- are you going to be the one on guard tonight?"

"Yeah," he smiles at me. "Why? Feel more safe with me here?"

I nod, but feel my stomach drop inside me. I'm probably going to cause this guy to lose his job.

- - - - -

"More cotton candy?"

Dan went slightly over board with the stuff. About ten bags litter the floor as well as packets of pop rocks. Cheers is on the TV and at some point I'd consider this to be heaven (if Chocolate Bear was here).

I'd actually beaten Dan home, so I just took the note off the door. My wrists are still screwed up though. I don't think I've rebroken them, but the amount of pain I'm still in isn't a good sign. Nor is the swelling. But it doesn't really matter that much. I can use them, so it's not getting in the way of the Plan.

It's been a glutinous two hours which have given me a sugar high. I've spent most of it considering how disappointed I was that getting Steve's address was so easy. If some psycho like me can do that, then other psychos can do the same.

Hang on… when did I start categorizing myself as a psycho? Maybe I don't seem to be totally mentally balanced at the minute, but everything I've done is justified.

I wonder if all psychos think that?

Shut up.

Time is purposefully weird. Everyone notices it. When you're looking forward to something time goes incredibly slowly. If you're worried about something, then suddenly time is a rapidly accelerating blur. Which is why it's already four in the morning and I still haven't managed to get out of the apartment.

Firstly: everyone wanted to stay up late to watch Cheers. Because I'd had so much sugar I couldn't even pretend to be tired, so no one went to bed until about two in the morning (Carla and Turk have the day off so didn't need an early night).

Secondly: after everyone had gone to bed I needed to wait at least an hour to hope they were asleep. I sat doing nothing in the dark again. Only I dozed off.

So now I'm moving around the apartment as quickly and quietly as possible to retrieve my keys and my wallet. Then I turn and creep silently into the kitchen and find my knife.

The cool metal blade running against my fingertips feels comforting. I caress it for a second, then frown at myself in disgust and shove it into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. My fingers continue, against my intentions, stroke the plastic handle, as I slip out of the door and lock it behind me.

Good: no one's noticed my vandalizing of the fire alarm over the door. The cables are still split in two, jagged copper wires straggling out of the plastic tubing. I stare at the remnants of the violence for a second, then shove open the door, the cool air ruffling my hair in greeting.

Brian is around the front of the apartment. I doubt he'll be moving around the back, but I still don't take any chances, hurrying down the metal stairs. My dark navy hoodie and black jeans camouflage me pretty well in the gloom as I jog through the back streets. Coming out on a main road I grin to myself as I see what I was hoping for: a taxi.

I flag it down in a way I hope looks professional and like I'm totally experienced in catching taxis, rather than only ever doing it when I'm drunk.

"Why d'you need a taxi so early?"

He sounds disgruntled. Dis-gruntled- heh. Who ever sounds gruntled exactly? Maybe he's too used to picking up drunks at this time or something. The taxi does have a bit of a vomitty aura to it. But I work in a hospital, so that doesn't bother me.

"Just come off a shift," I reply. He grunts in return. I don't really fancy adding much to that- I don't really want to be that memorable to him. Although I haven't really done any planning in advance. I feel nervous for a second, then dismiss it. Doesn't matter. I tell him the street name, but a different house number.

When we arrive I pay him, then tip him an extra ten dollars. The service was crap, but I just do it on a whim. Then turn around and walk slowly up the street. Steve lives at number twenty-three. I stop when I come across it and stare.

It just looks like… a house. It was supposed to look like a concentration camp or Guantanamo Bay or something (although having a version of Auschwitz in suburbia would be noticeable, that's not the point). It's not supposed to look like a tidy little house with a long, well-tended garden in front of it. It's not supposed to look like somewhere your grandma would live. It's not supposed to have a white fucking picket fence.

This isn't right.

I stare at the house for a second longer, then take a deep breath and start walking up the driveway.

This is it.

Chapter Text

My hands keep slipping on the window-pane because of my sweating palms. I frown, then wipe them against the material of my hoodie. The door was locked, but one of the ground floor windows was open. My knees feel painfully sharp against the window ledge I'm half kneeling, half crouching on. I press against the window again, opening it to its fullest extent.

It's actually lucky that I've become so thin recently. Sliding through is pretty easy and I drop down soundlessly to the floor. I may normally be a skinny klutz who falls over his own feet, and gets mercilessly teased about it, but none of Doctor Cox, Turk or even the Janitor could have managed to do that. Nor could they slip around the room like a shadow.

I'm in a downstairs room… I've never been here before though. I've only ever been in the basement, after all - and presumably some sort of corridor to access the basement whilst I was unconscious. I glance around in the gloom, identifying a couch and a chair. I poke at them absent-mindedly, noting that they're modern and fashionable. There seems to be a flat screen plasma TV against the wall - damn it, I'd like one of those - and bookcases lining the walls. Some of them seem to have DVDs on.

The door's in the far right-hand side of the room. I pad over to it softly and open it, looking out into the hallway. There seems to be a kitchen to my left and a staircase directly in front of me. There's also a door set into the side of the staircase. I stare at it, feeling goose pimples rising on my arms and legs. I think I know where that leads.

I run quietly up the stairs and check out the first floor. There are three doors. I take a deep breath and cross to the closest, push it open and slide my head through. Moonlight floods the room, illuminating a well-made double bed with a silvery glow. The curtain flutters in the breeze from the open window. The room's empty.

The second room is similar - I'm guessing it's a spare bedroom, although the idea of Steve entertaining company is laughable. The last door leads to a bathroom.

I frown. Where the hell is Steve? Surely he should be in bed at this hour?

I close the bathroom door and turn back down the stairs. At the bottom I double-check the kitchen - no. I look out the kitchen window into the well-tended garden. Nope.

There's only one place I think he can be. I leave the kitchen and stand in the darkness staring at the door to the basement. The fingers on my right hand twitch spasmodically, then I turn away and cross over to the couch, sitting down on it heavily. I rest my head in my hands and listen to my panicky breathing, my fingers running across my temples and through my hair, my thumbs resting over my closed eyes.

The darkness is reassuring. I relax in it, slipping away from consciousness, my thoughts concentrated on my breathing and the sound of my heartbeat, slowly slipping from a racing panic-stricken thumping to a regular slow beat. I breathe deeply, feeling my hands shake against my forehead and a sickening lurching in my stomach.

Focus… it's easy enough… use leg muscles, stand up, walk over, ignore the weird fatigue shaking running through my body… Just keep going.

My palms are sweating again as I open the basement door, my breath shaking violently in my throat. I walk through and crouch down on the top of the stairs, looking down. Finally: Steve's here.

He's just… sitting there. It's quite creepy actually- he's crouched on the floor in exactly the same position as I am. He's next to the… to the radiator. I resist the need to scream and slowly walk down the stairs. I'm not being particularly quiet, but Steve doesn't move from his position on the floor. I pull the knife out from my hoodie kangaroo pocket and point it at him, watching the tip of it shake as I do so.

"Get up."

My voice sounds harsh and grating. Steve twitches, and then I'm regarded by a blue eye peering out at me from under blond hair. I grit my teeth and glare at him.

"I said: get up."

He does so, slowly. He's watching me with a face totally devoid of expression. It makes me angry: how can he be so utterly emotionless? I'm the one pointing the knife at him, but I'm shaking.

"John-"

"Shut up," I snap at him, waving the knife wildly. He looks from the knife to me, and then back to the knife.

"What are you planning to do with that?"

He sounds mildly interested, like he’s asking me about my plans for the evening rather than whether I was going to hurt him. Why doesn’t he think I’ll hurt him or does he just not care?

I'm not comfortable down in this basement. Not at all. I can feel the flashbacks building in the back of my mind, trying to drag me back into the past. Because I don't want to stay down here, and also because I can't answer his question, I decide to get proactive again.

"Go up those stairs," I instruct him, waving the knife again.

Ascending stairs when you're threatening someone with a knife from behind is pretty difficult. I kept imagining that Steve would swing around and knock the knife from my hands. I had utterly no advantage, being a few feet lower than him due to the stairs and also because I'm shorter than him anyway.

I could always stab him in the calf, I guess.

I usher him along the hallway with a couple of vague swings of the knife at him. He wanders along in front of me, then leans against the stair rail and looks at me thoughtfully.

"What are you planning on doing, John?"

I can't really ignore that question twice. It's becoming a pretty pressing concern to me as well.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm planning on doing. All of my forward planning involved getting here. I gave no thought at all to what I would actually do afterwards.

I glare at the knife, hoping it will give me the answer, then shift my angry eyes onto him. He watches me calmly.

This isn't right. He should be scared. That's the whole point. He's supposed to be as terrified as I was. He shouldn't be watching me with interest and resignment.

My fingers shift on the handle. He notices and looks me straight in the eyes with his own pale blue ones. I wonder how long I've been stood here indecisively.

"Planning on making you hurt as much as you made me hurt," I growl eventually.

"It's already been done, John."

"Shut up!" I screw my eyes closed and shake my head in an attempt to clear it. I open them again to discover that he's moved to my right. I wheel around and point the knife back at his heart.

"Don't do that! Stand still."

"Or what?"

When I don't answer he steps towards me again. "Or you'll do what?"

"Or I'll… I'll…" I'll do what? I'll stab you? I'll hit you with the handle? What the hell? I couldn't kill him. What's the point? Was I planning to?

What is wrong with me?

The knife slips from my relaxed hand and clatters onto the polished wooden floor. The tip of the blade gouges into the wood for a second, then falls onto its side. My legs collapse underneath me and I thud onto the floor, my hands covering my eyes desperately as I try to drown out the world.

What is happening? Why am I here? What was my deluded mind planning on doing?

My thoughts are suddenly icy, crystal clear, like the Arctic Ocean. Fall into those thoughts and you'd freeze to death. Instead of the ridiculous fuzz that's filled my mind for the past few days; the idiotic thoughts of messing the police around, of dodging my friends and lying to them, of tracking Steve down; are washed away with a wave of rationality. I just walked straight into a dangerous situation. Without even thinking about it.

What a time to rediscover your sanity.

Thinking of sanity… I'm sitting in the house of someone who I know is a torturing rapist, my head buried in my arms and my shoulders and back vulnerable. And I can hear his breathing and sense his heat, so he's not very far away either.

And now suddenly I'm scared.

I open my eyes and then jerk away in terror, stumbling to my feet and backing off. Dawn light is flooding the hallway and illuminating Steve holding the knife and looking at it thoughtfully. He looks at me and smiles slightly, the unbalanced sense I get from it freaking me out even more.

He twirls the knife in his hand and then seizes my hood and slams me against the wall, resting his forehead against mine. He looks deep into my eyes. I look back into an empty void, where someone should be feeling anger or desire or rage or… anything. The nothingness is just even worse.

This time it really is my fault, however you look at it. I blithely walked in here with that knife. I didn't even think about the consequences. It's like a baby deer walking into a lion's den. If it gets eaten then it didn't eat itself, but it still damn well walked into there to get eaten. You can hardly blame the lion for eating it when it does that.

Steve's fingers increase their grip on my hood, the fingernails of his hand digging into the skin of my neck.

I'm back. I'm back in this damn nightmare.

Chapter Text

His fingernails are digging into the soft flesh of my lower neck and shoulders. I stare back into those blue eyes that have been lurking at the edge of my nightmares for weeks now and feel a chill terror running through my entire body.

Steve's not really got any expression. That's what terrifying, I guess. There's not a person behind that face at the minute, nobody who would give mercy. His forehead's still pressed against mine, his skin cool and smooth. Mine's burning up and I can feel the cold sweat forming on my brow. The cool, sharp blade of the knife is pressing against my neck and side of my face. I twitch slightly and feel sudden pain. A trickle of blood runs down my face where I've been shallowly cut.

His knee suddenly slams up between my legs and forces my right leg upwards. I balance desperately by flapping my arms in a sickly comical way. Steve forces my leg up higher. The intenseness of the vulnerability that I feel makes me shudder. A twisted grin twists Steve's face into a mask that I want to patent and sell at Halloween under the name "lunatic".

And that grin has reminded me he's human. And that this time it's different; last time he was blank all the time. But now he's… he's grinning.

He's… he's grinning… he’s enjoying this.

"You sick bastard!"

I bring up my left forearm and catch Steve's right arm, sending the knife out of his grip, my wrist stinging as I do so, blood thumping through my clenched fist. His eyes widen in surprise, presumably that I'm reacting. His shock allows me to kick him hard in the knee and as he collapses at my feet I manage to stamp on him hard where the bastard deserves to be crushed.

He whimpers and curls up.

Sweat from fear and physical exertion is coating me. I glance around wildly and then run over to the door. I'm in absolutely no doubt that the only reason that I managed to get the better of Steve then was that he was taken by surprise. Physically I'm in no state to protect myself from an old lady, let alone him.

The door handle of the front door turns and then refuses to yield. I tug on it sharply, then wince at the pain spasming through my wrists. I gasp, then look around desperately for the key. There has to be one somewhere… I look for a hook to hang the keys off or something similar. Nothing. What kind of person puts away their keys?

It dawns on me that I got in through the window. I run towards the sitting room, jumping over Steve lying on the floor. He's twitching a bit, and looks like he might get up soon. My mind flits to the knife, but there's no time to find it in the dark. I get into the sitting room and look at the open window. It looks impossibly small to try and crawl through now. I grab a heavy wooden statue of what looks like an elephant from the coffee table and hurl it at the window. I shatters with a satisfyingly loud crash.

The hand that wraps around my ankle voids my attempt to run towards the broken window. I slam into the floor hard, choking as the breath is knocked out of me. A hand is forced against the small of my back, making it even more difficult to breathe.

"Someone will have heard that," I choke out at him. In the dawn light I see him look at the window thoughtfully and then shrug vaguely. Apparently that doesn't matter.

He flips me over onto my back. My chest heaves for air and tears sting my cheeks as I inhale, fighting for breath. Steve sits up next to me, propping himself up using one arm. I try to breathe again, my ribs in agony in my chest.

"It doesn't really matter if anyone hears anything," he tells me conversationally and brushes my hair back from my forehead. I try to catch his hand and he avoids me easily, grabbing my wrist and then twisting it. Through the blinding pain I hear something crack. I cough, my throat raw from the scream that just escaped, and try to pull my wrist away from Steve. He smiles at me chillingly. Through the fear I can feel my logical mind trying to work out how long it would take for anyone to notice I was gone back at the apartment or to have heard or seen the window shattering. Either way part of me insists that it's too long.

Too long to prevent what? I look at Steve's face and read everything I need to there. Oh no. Not again. No way.

Kicking him is probably the only option. My wrists and chest are far too weakened to do any damage. Even kicking him probably won't do much, but…

I lash out quickly, kicking him in the hip. The force of it sends him rolling over onto his back and crashing into the couch. I struggle to my feet, but my injured ribs and wrists slow me down so much that he's already sprung to his feet and is standing casually in front of the window.

"What's up John? There's nowhere to go."

He sounds like something out of The Shining. I resist the urge to scream 'here's Johnny!' at him in an attempt to freak him out and turn on my heel out of the sitting room, coughing and wheezing. He walks after me calmly.

I run into the kitchen in the hope of finding a knife or some other weapon. Nothing. The door I test is locked and the keys are nowhere to be seen. I back out and spin around to see Steve standing between the front door and the sitting room entrance. He smiles cheerfully and bobs on the heels of his feet.

"There really isn't anywhere you can go, you know," he informs me conversationally. I glare at him, then dash madly towards the one place that he probably doesn't expect me to go. Because I don't expect me to go here either.

The basement door slams behind me. I sit heavily on the floor, my back against the door. There's no lock, but it opens inwards. It thuds heavily against my back as Steve tries to open it after me. There's a long pause of silence, then I hear him laughing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Oh, John. I really did underestimate you. But you know, there's no point in this. You'll have to come out eventually."

Someone will have come by then. If not the police or the neighbors, then the post or the paper boy or something. I just need to sit this out.

Silence. I lean my head against the door and listen for anything from Steve. Then glance down.

The steps are directly in front of me, leading down steeply into the gloom of the basement. I shiver as I think what's down there, then look away. Sitting against the door, I barely fit onto the first step. I put my feet on the second step down and frown, waiting for Steve to do something. I can faintly hear him pacing around in the hallway. I listen intently, hearing his footsteps get fainter and fainter. Is he leaving?

His footfalls are suddenly fast and heavy, approaching me at speed. I freeze, then brace my left leg against the handrail and my right foot against the wall, squaring my shoulders.

Even anticipating it, I'm not ready. The blow of Steve ramming the door hits me hard in the back and I feel my knees buckle with the force. The door moves slightly, then slams back into place. My ribs scream as I choke and cough up a mouthful of blood; clearly my lungs aren’t as completely healed as I had assumed. I hear Steve's harsh breathing through the wood, then he straightens up and walks away again. I feel the blood drain from my face as he retreats then runs at the door again.

The second blow hits me in the shoulders and my head rebounds painfully off the door. I slump back against it, dazed. He's walking back again.

"Give me a break," I gasp out, trying to regain enough strength to withstand another blow. As I hear his footsteps coming back towards the door in a run I groan and then slide down the stairs a few steps, leaving the door unblocked. I wheeze and spit out blood.

Expecting some resistance, Steve bursts through the door. The momentum doesn't stop and he topples forwards and down the basement steps. Yes! He's taken himself out! He's KO'd! I'm a genius!

As I watch, I realize it would have worked better if I wasn't sprawled on the steps he was falling down.

He crashes into me hard. I grab at nothing, my wrists screaming, as I'm hurled into the wall, my head hitting it sharply. Steve rebounds off me and carries on falling down the steps. I slump my head down onto my arms, screwing my eyes shut against the pain.

The sounds of him falling have stopped for a while. I don't know how long. Did I black out? I open my eyes cautiously, my vision blurred and my head pounding. I look down carefully, seeing him sprawled at the bottom of the basement floor. I'd like to think he was dead, but it wasn't that long a fall. He's probably just bruised himself. I hope like hell he's unconscious.

Standing up makes my head spin. I stagger sideways against the handrail, and drape an elbow over it, trying to gain my balance. My vision's screwed, blurry and swirly. I'd say I was seeing stars, but that sounds way too cheerful for this nauseous, roiling sensation. I stagger up the stairs, tripping over as I try desperately to focus on the three steps I can see where I'm pretty sure that there should only be one. As I blink blood out of my eyes I hear a noise from below me and a groan of "no" escapes my gritted teeth. I stumble out of the basement door and across the hallway, weaving helplessly into one of the walls instead of the sitting room entrance. I close my eyes, trying not to throw up, and lean my forehead against the wall. In the pause that follows I hear my own harsh breathing and then the sound of someone coming slowly but surely up the basement stairs. My eyes snap open.

My rolling, stumbling gait gets me as far as the smashed window when he grabs me from behind, throwing me forwards onto the shattered glass. I feel it cut into my stomach and forearms and cry out sharply. I twist my aching head to the side to see him.

Steve's a mess. Blood has soaked through his blond hair and down the right side of his face, presumably where he hit his head on the fall down the basement stairs. From what I could hear from him following me, he's dragging a leg. The blood has gotten into one of his eyes and there are cuts on him. His shirt seems to have ripped somewhere along the way. He snarls at me harshly and hits me hard across the back of the head. My teeth rattle together sharply, but I grin at him crazily through the pain.

"Not so calm and collected now, are you? Still claiming that you're not doing anything out of the ordinary?" I hiss at him. He hits me across the back of the head again, so I spit a mouthful of blood into his face. For some reason seeing the monster beneath all of the strange 'average guy' behavior makes me laugh hysterically.

I stop abruptly when he presses me forward over the window sill, his hands starting to wrench at my pants. I kick him hard in the leg he was dragging and he stumbles, landing heavily on my back. I elbow him in the face, not caring about the pain in my ribs. He grabs a heavy book off one of the shelves and whacks me across the head with it. Despite my attempts to push him off and willpower, the blow stuns me. His hands return to wrenching at my pants.

Sick panic crawls up me and I wail quietly. I try to crawl forward over the broken glass weakly. I sense Steve hefting the book behind me and wince for the expected blow.

Nothing's happened. I untense and look up.

I'd like to say it was like in the movies. I'd like to say the sun was rising behind him, outlining him standing in a heroic pose. I'd like to say he came running over as inspirational music played in the background.

He didn't. The sun was in his eyes, so he was squinting. He didn't look heroic, he had that crazy eyed look that he has when he's so angry he looks insane. And he didn't scoop me up into his arms and fly away to the Batcave or whatever. He punched Steve so hard that it floored him, then seized me by the collar, dragged me over the glass, apparently not caring whether I got cut or not, and shook me so hard I thought I'd throw up.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

His breath isn't the freshest, he's unshaven, and as he speaks he spits into my face. But he's here. And, I notice vaguely, so are an awful lot of cops and… is that Turk, Carla and Dan? He shakes me again, but this time more gently.

"For God's sakes, Newbie…"

"I'm okay," I mutter vaguely. He stares at me intently, then releases his grip on me. I slump to his feet.

"Doctor Cox."

I collapse onto my side, my vision blurring. Who said that? It sounded like it came from the house…

Blackness engulfs me.

- - - - -

"My client pleads insanity.”

Two months later, two long, difficult months of recriminations and healing and frustrating amounts of admin.

It brings no relief. No sense of justice. No repayment. No vengeance. Carla, Dan, Elliot and Turk all argued with me when I told them I'd say my honest opinion of the matter; that Steve was mentally unbalanced. And now he's been sentenced to a long spell at a criminal asylum. It's probably the best thing for him. And me? I don't know.

They sectioned me after what happened. I didn't blame them. Only for a week, for intense psychological evaluation. Only now there's a vague hint of a memory I have, and a question that only one person can answer who isn't locked away in a straightjacket.

He's in a bar. What else?

"Doctor Cox."

"Newbie, even in your prettiest dress you don't make a half decent bar skank."

I sit down next to him and stare at the bar. I don't want to see his face when I ask what I need to.

"What happened to the knife?"

There's silence from him, and then a sigh.

"It’s never been mentioned. Not by the police, not by Steve’s defense team – what there was of that, since he pled insanity. But it was in that house. What happened to it?"

He's still silent.

"I may have been concussed and admittedly unbalanced at the time, but Steve said something to you just before the police came. And… I remember…"

Rolling over on the grass I looked back to see an angry Doctor Cox leaning over the window sill. From any other angle he just appeared to be leaning on the sill. But from my view point I could see Steve pass him something and mutter something. See his expression change, briefly look horrified, before he shut down all expression.

"Hannibal…"

"Like the Roman guy?"

"No, like the crazy guy."

"Oh."

"You weren't right in the head, Newbie. You imagined a knife."

"He gave it to you, didn't he?"

He looks me square in the eyes. "There was no knife."

I look right back at him. "What did he say?"

He sighs again and looks at his glass. "'Look after him'." His jaw is tensed and I remember the expression I saw on his face; Ihave the feeling this may not be everything that Steve said.

"What did he mean by that?"

"I don't know, Caligula."

I stare at the bar, confused, and try and think of something to say back. When I get nothing I shrug.

"You know, if you keep calling me the crazy names then Carla will actually kill you."

"Oh, please, Newbie. What looks more insensitive than calling a guy who's been sectioned names?"

"It was only a small asylum," I mutter.

"No stupid intern will ever approach me again. I will be the most insensitive asshole in the hospital."

"I could always tell them that you slept by my bed when I was touch and go."

"Newbie…"

"Or that you hugged me when I-"

"Newbie! I already owe you a beating for your Goddamn stupid escapades, let alone adding this to your offences."

“You only knew about my stupid escapades because my brother has a tiny bladder.”

He smirks. “Bet you didn’t feature in your plan that your brother eating a metric ton of cotton candy would mean he woke at 5 a.m. desperate for a piss.”

“How do you know about The Plan?”

“What?”

The barman is staring at me weirdly. I wonder if he's been listening in, but then realize that he's staring at my arm. My sleeve's rolled up and the first few letters of the 'WORTHLESS' Steve carved into my arm are showing. I pull it back down, suddenly feeling ashamed. I glance at Doctor Cox, and he looks away quickly. Ah, so he saw that.

He puts down the glass and kicks my stool lightly.

"C'mon Newbie. Your Mommy's going to wonder where you are."

"Huh?"

He rolls his eyes. "Carla."

We both stand and start walking out of the bar, going back to the apartment.

"Oh."

"I thought calling Gandhi your boyfriend was getting a bit old."

"Why won't you think that about the girl's names?"

He smiles slightly.

"Look, Doctor Cox… thanks."

He raises an eyebrow at me.

"If it wasn't for you I'd probably be dead and… well… I'd…"

"Stop making me regret my participation, Newbie."

I shut up, then frown. "What did you do with the knife?"

"There was no knife," he says flatly.

I tug the sleeves of my hoodie down over my arms, thinking back to the barman's expression. I am repulsive and I damn well know it. Only it could have been much, much worse. I stop walking, pulling down the hoodie sleeves. Doctor Cox walks a couple more steps then realizes I've stopped and turns back to look at me.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For not being late."

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: Rum Cove November 22 2019:

Hi readers!

I hope you’ve enjoyed this, in as much as anyone can enjoy the rather harrowing content. As you may know, this fic was originally hosted on fanfiction.net and written in around 2007/2008 time. This version is reworked and I thought I’d outline some of my thinking on this below – if you’re interested! If not then just skip this note.

To be honest, it was a bit of a wrench to destroy the original. When I wrote it I was very happy with it, feeling like I got the emotion and characters across the way I wanted to. Not to mention that it had over 500 reviews and had various links in from other archives. But there were things I was unhappy with and so I wanted to revamp the whole thing. So, the original has vanished from the archives.

I was aware at the time that I made slips on my “Americanisms”. I had never been to the US when I started the story and was reliant on the (substantial) amount of US TV that is available outside of the US. I made mistakes which threw readers and meant it lost some of the characterisation - when JD said he was going to the flat rather than the apartment, for example.

I made some plot edits too. One was that I forgot Dan when I wrote the original until considerably later in the plot. This time I conveniently slide in the excuse as to why he isn’t aware of what’s going on until later. There are also additional changes; Gourley is now a veterinarian when he was previously an office worker, giving him more explicable access to and understanding of tranquilisers (there was a previous rather lame excuse that he’d once been a medical orderly). Gourley is also edited a bit, coming across as slightly more… well, nasty. He’s more evidently planned and organised than he was previously. I think he’s still pitiable and I didn’t want to lose that; I don’t like it when a villain is simply “evil” with no understandable motivation or anything the reader can sympathise with.

There is some more detail in the rape scene, although I still shy away from describing it in much detail. More on that below. There’s also more general dialogue throughout, some more descriptions etc. Sutcliffe has been demoted, since he was originally a chief inspector, who would be wayyyy too senior for this kind of investigation. There’s also additional (much more realistic) detail around police procedure following sexual abuse etc. which was not there before. I’ve also changed some of the language, particularly regarding mental illness; what was appropriate and commonly used in the 2000s is not the case now and a few of the terminologies used made me flinch, to be honest.

One thing that did surprise me when I reread the original “My Captive Audience” was how much my tenses jumped around. It was bizarre, with characters referring to things in current and past tense. I’ve fixed that (I think) although was tempted to keep it in the sections where JD’s in captivity, since it demonstrates his mindset quite well.

On the content… I know this fanfic will not be everyone’s cup of tea. It is upsetting in places and I feel terrible throughout for subjecting JD to this. However, it’s not violence without plot or reason. I keep the really distressing stuff to the minimum, there’s no glamorisation of sexual violence and the rape plot is not used to somehow diminish JD. It is intended to be a realistic portrayal of the impact and fallout of this kind of attack, something that is often glossed over or sped through in other fics. There’ll be more of this in the sequel, but essentially I got tired of reading accounts where it simply felt unrealistic or a happy ending was just randomly shown when in all honesty, there’s much more damage than the physical impact. I wanted to write something that felt true.

So, yeah, JD has PTSD, something that was generally picked up when the story was published originally. Interestingly, less people noticed the impact it had on Cox, who is supposed to demonstrate the impact this can have on friends and family and how difficult it can be for them to cope. Arguably, Cox is the more obviously impacted – you know, what with him becoming so drunk he can’t function repeatedly. It felt like something the character would do under the circumstances, an extreme of his usual behaviour.

Anyway, those were the changes! I hope some of my original readership have seen this new version and appreciated the changes (shout out to Zebraofalabama!), which I am personally pretty happy with. Please look out next Friday for the first chapter of “My Caged Performer”. The vibe will be pretty different from “My Captive Audience”; my writing style has changed in the 10 year+ gap, but I’m hoping everyone stays in character (one reason I rewrote this was to try to get back into their speech patterns, etc. for the sequel), but the fic itself is actually written entirely differently. More on that later!

I hope you enjoyed; please do comment/leave kudos! I know Scrubs fanfic is no longer at the heights it was in 2008 (sob sob), but I’d really appreciate it.

All the best,

RumCove