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Tim slept fitfully the night Mad Dog jumped from the hospital roof. Once all the preliminaries were complete and Pearson’s investigation headed off, Grey sent him home. He didn’t bother climbing into bed, he knew real sleep was a lost cause. But after everything that had happened, he still dozed on the couch.
The first nightmare started out just like the events several hours prior. Mad Dog sat on the ledge and pitched himself over. But instead of looking down at the lifeless body several stories below before turning away, it was with a feeling of relief that Tim sat on the ledge and followed him over.
When he woke just before hitting the pavement, alone in his house, still the massive failure who couldn’t be with the woman he loved, he was swamped by disappointment. The colossal swing from calm acceptance to turmoil and self-loathing sent him tumbling off the couch, landing on his hands and knees, gasping for air.
He crawled toward the kitchen, stumbling to his feet to reach the liquor cabinet and yank the door open. Heavy drinking had helped stave off the nightmares after he returned from his tours of duty.
As he twisted off the cap, all of the reasons that drinking wouldn’t and couldn’t help him now slammed into him. He had people counting on him. Tomorrow wouldn’t be like when he’d returned from war, at loose ends and struggling to reconcile the acts of war with the civilian world he’d been thrust back into.
No, tomorrow he’d be fighting for his career. Maybe even for his life and the lives of every officer at Mid-Wilshire and the entire division serviced by Dr. Blair. He had to be as sharp and quick witted as possible under the circumstances. For them.
For Lucy.
He tightened the cap and sat down at the table. The bottle was cool against his fevered skin as he bowed his head. The smell of glass filled his senses as he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. This wasn’t his first panic attack and he was sure it wouldn’t be his last.
Mad Dog wasn’t even in the second nightmare. Tim was alone on the roof, standing perched on the ledge. He’d made the decision to jump and in making the decision was filled with peace and joy. He felt lighter than he ever had before. He simply stood alone on the ledge looking out over the city where he’d lived out so much of his life. Both the good and, more often, the bad. He leaned forward.
And woke as the pavement rose up to greet him, again drowning in disappointment.
He told himself that he wasn’t suicidal. He repeated it like a mantra until his phone alarm went off and it was time to get back to work. He repeated it as he got ready. On his way to the station. During his every interaction.
Then Lucy barged into the elevator, made clear she was still mad at him, and hugged him.
In his head, Tim knew he wasn’t alone. There were people who cared for and stood by him. When Lucy’s arms wrapped around him, he finally believed it in his heart: he was loved. Even at his worst.
That night, the dream returned. As he stood on that rooftop, Lucy was there with him. She was dressed in a buttery yellow top that hugged her curves and accented her softness, while her jeans clung to her legs, highlighting her solid strength.
They faced each other across the roof, just as he’d faced Mad Dog. Tim close to the edge and Lucy half the rooftop away.
“If we do this and it doesn’t work, I’ll have ruined the most important relationship in my life,” she said, just as she had right before he'd convinced her that the risk was worth it. That they were worth it.
She hadn’t ruined anything, he had. He'd ended the relationship they'd worked so hard for. Torpedoed the job she’d made possible for him to get. The job that had cost her any real shot at detective and advancing her own career. After doing everything in his power to set her up for success, he was the reason she’d failed. Then he'd abandoned her.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. But she was gone. “You were right,” he whispered to the empty space where she’d been. He wasn't worth the risk.
“I knew you were soft,” his father accused. Tim spun toward the sound of the other man’s voice. His father stood to the side, close to the ledge. “I tried to toughen you up. To make you a man. But here you are, that same scared little boy,” he said with disgust.
“Community is so fascinating,” Lucy interrupted. Tim's head whipped back around to her. She was dressed in her regular patrol uniform, just as she had been for most of the time she’d spent as his rookie, then his aide.
“There was this NIH study on a community of nuns,” she continued. “Upon their death, their bodies were autopsied. The markers for Alzheimer’s were present, but none of them displayed symptoms, even just before death. It was attributed to the continued sense of community they shared. Then there was that 50 year Harvard study on a bunch of men. Totally sexist to just do men, but it is what it is. To be fair, they did expand the study to the wives and children of the participants later on. Anyway, the participants that had good, strong connections: spouses, friends, family, neighbors, they all lived longer, healthier, happier lives.”
Tim's world exploded in fire, the roaring deafening him, the light blinding him. When his vision cleared Mitch lay to his left, silent screams tearing his throat, eyes glued to the mangled leg that had been partially blown off. Around him lay the charred pieces there were all that was left of Henderson and Coyle. Mark was bent down, reaching toward the remains, his hand shaking.
“I knew you’d never amount to anything,” his father said from his other side.
Glass shattered, tiny shards pelting Tim’s face and torso. He put his hand over his abdomen and it came away bloody, a red stain spreading across his shirt.
Lucy lay her hand on his and the blood was gone. He looked up at her.
“Who is your community Tim?” she asked.
Tim's legs gave way and he fell to his knees at her feet. When he looked back up, she was flanked by Angela and Grey. Behind them were Nolan, Nyla, Aaron, Wesley, James, Celina, Bailey, Ginny, Jan, Emmet, Luna, and Smitty.
Tim clung to Lucy, burying his face against the muscle just above her knee. She knelt, resettling his arms around her torso, his face against her neck.
Tim wept.
“Will you be all right?” she asked.
Tim didn’t answer. He simply clung to her tighter.
His alarm jolted him awake. He was covered in a cold sweat, his clothes soaked through in places. Tears continued to stream from his eyes as he stared at the ceiling.
“I’ll try,” he promised in a whisper. “For you, I am trying.”
He opened his phone and started looking for a new therapist. Someone not crooked this time would be a good start.