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John said his farewells to the few familiar faces he passed on his way out of the hospital. The day was filled with ups and downs that left him exhausted as he made his way to the parking garage where his Jeep was parked. It started out rough with those German tourists that had food poisoning, but it got a bit better after he saved Mr. Zambano. Peter did scold him in the hallway later on about the danger of improper diagnoses and malpractice fees which dampened his spirits, but there was not much that could make him forget the high that came from saving a man.
It wasn't that John didn't know an accurate diagnosis was important, but the way Peter went about explaining things came off more snarky than helpful. He enjoyed working under the guidance of Peter as he was clearly a very skilled surgeon, but he definitely did not have a good way with words.
John sighed when he reached his door and fumbled around in his pocket for his keys. Pulling out a random strip of paper, he shoved it back in and opened his door before dropping into the seat like a dead weight. He turned to drop his bag in the backseat, but startled at the sight of Liz, his poison ivy patient from earlier, sitting there.
She smiled, humored by his startled shout. "Hi," she said playfully. John responded with a much more confused greeting. He watched her in shock as she climbed in his front seat, eyelids fluttering when her hair swept over his face.
"How did you get…" he trailed off, looking around his car for some sort of opening that she could've squeezed through.
"So let's go."
"Where?"
"Your place," she said in that same amused tone with that same cheeky smile.
John, still shocked from the scare of having a random woman in his car, glanced around awkwardly. "I live with my folks." His hand gripped the steering wheel in an effort to dispel his nerves.
Liz thought for a moment before suggesting her place. Although, John thought it was less of a suggestion and more of a final decision. With his brain finally caught up, John shook his head.
"Sorry, but no." She pouted in John's passenger seat, her lower lip jutting out as she lifted her legs dramatically to turn herself until she was facing forward. John looked away, uncomfortable. When Liz didn't say anything in response, John awkwardly cleared his throat and glanced at her. She had her arms crossed and a pout still on her face.
"Uh, I can still drive you home?" She perked up at that and smiled at John.
"Okay!" Shaking his head a bit, John slowly moved his car into gear and backed out of the parking spot as he attempted to understand how he ended up in this situation.
—
After a very weird drive to Liz's apartment, he pulled into the parking garage she pointed out to him.
"I live on the twelfth floor, so you can bring me to the top." John nodded and made his way to the top floor of the parking garage. It wasn't nearly as high as the actual building, but it would bring Liz halfway to her apartment. With each level John drove through, the fewer cars he saw. While the first two levels were dense with limited open spots, the third and fourth level were sparse with a handful of cars parked near the entrances. When John reached the fifth and final level, he only saw one other car.
"Park there." Liz pointed to the far corner of the parking garage where the lights barely reached. It was dimly lit with just the edges of the light softly illuminating the farther corner. Not thinking much about it, John did as he was told and parked under the dim lighting.
He turned to Liz with the intent to wish her goodbye and good luck with her poison ivy, but she grabbed his face and slammed his head against the steering wheel. John gasped in pain as a thick stream of blood quickly traveled down his face from the fresh gash just on the edge of his hairline. He reached out half blind from the blood trickling in his eye to pry Liz off of him, but she brought his head down again. Disoriented and in pain, he sat there even after she let go of his head while his hands moved sluggishly to prod at his injury. Before he could think of what to do next, his seat was being dropped backwards until he was suddenly horizontal.
"What—" Liz crawled on top of him and immediately started tugging at his clothes, her nails digging into his skin. She clumsily wrapped one of John's hands that was moving in an uncoordinated manner in his undone seatbelt until it was stuck and used her free hand to put pressure over his throat. John's eyes widened at the pressure and he tried to push her off of him, but his slow-moving limbs refused to listen to him.
"It's okay," she said softly, smiling down at him as her other hand wandered around his exposed skin. "Don't move."
—
The next few days were a struggle for John. He made up some excuse for his head wound at work the next day, awkwardly stumbling through an on-the-spot explanation after hoping nobody would notice it behind his floppy hair. Doug chuckled at the image of him walking into his cabinet while Carol asked if he needed someone to look over it. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, John declined any help and ignored the pounding in his head. He secretly took mild pain medication when it became too much to focus and played it off as nothing serious when someone asked.
At home, he struggled to sleep. He tucked himself into bed each night, but woke up in a panic only an hour or two later as the events of that day creeped into his unconscious mind. Sleep was fitful which meant he was nodding off more frequently at work in between cases. He was awoken multiple times in just a single shift by increasingly exasperated coworkers. Three days after, he had to face the annoyance of Peter when John fell asleep in the middle of doing charts that he was already alarmingly behind on. He even fell asleep on the train that he decided to ride to and from work since the incident as getting into his car was too much at the moment.
Then, the burning. John knew enough even without med school to guess what was going on. After a few days of dealing with it (and trying to ignore it in an effort to forget what happened), John worked up the courage to ask Doug about it.
"Doctor Ross," he called, softly. He was nervous, eyes glancing around them to see who was within earshot and a lump slowly growing in his throat. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
"Yeah, sure, if you can keep me awake."
John swallowed nervously, feeling flushed as he spoke following the mental script he practiced throughout the night. "If a, uh, patient has, like, a burning sensation, does he necessarily have a…" he trailed off, uncomfortable finishing because it meant admitting that he likely had one out loud.
"Sexually-transmitted disease?" John nodded as he became increasingly uncomfortable. Doug had a stare that almost made John feel exposed as if the man knew exactly what happened just a few days ago. "He probably does. You have to do a culture. You ever do that?"
John shook his head before clearing his throat. "No."
"No? Okay." Doug ran through the tests John needed to do with practiced ease. With each word, John grew more and more nervous. Just talking about this made him feel dirty. When Doug finished, John thanked him. "Who's the lucky girl?"
"What?" John swept his hair from his forehead anxiously, his palms suddenly sweaty and that lump in his throat felt like a boulder pressing down on his trachea. He took a few shallow breaths before Doug was cracking a smile.
"This 'patient…' how'd he get it?"
"I don't know," he forced out, sounding winded and weirdly defensive. Doug raised a brow, but John just shrugged. "Why would I know that?" He heaved a few more weighted breaths and pushed more hair off of his forehead that was getting sweatier with each second that Doug stared at him.
"Carter, what—"
"I have to go." John snatched the supplies off of the cart before scurrying off. He locked himself in one of the bathroom stalls, his chest moving rapidly as panic descended over him in waves. How did Doug know he was talking about himself? Could he tell that John had this dirty secret hanging over him? Could he see the bruises that were just starting to fade?
He shoved the handful of supplies into his pockets and loosened his tie as he leaned over the toilet. A sudden bout of nausea hit him like a truck that left his stomach rolling as sweat continued to drip off his forehead. Falling to his knees, he clutched the bowl as he emptied the limited contents in his stomach. He heaved and gasped and sobbed softly until the feeling passed.
—
John got his results later that day. He threw up stomach acid until his throat burned and cried until he felt lightheaded.
Before he left, Doug approached him despite John making an effort to avoid the man ever since they had their conversation earlier.
"Carter! You get those results you asked me about?" He thought of ignoring Doug and sprinting out the door, but there were other people around. Mark was reading over some charts from his spot on the couch. Peter was fussing with something John couldn't see. Susan walked in the room, complaining about needing some coffee.
"Uh, yeah." He fiddled with the straps of his bag and avoided eye contact.
"Were they positive?" John flushed to the point of feeling feverish. He embarrassingly confirmed to Doug that yes, "the patient" had an STD before rigidly walking to the door. Just as the door to the lounge closed behind him, he heard Susan ask what that was about.
—
Over the next few days, nothing really changed. John still took the train and struggled to get more than an hour or so of sleep at a time. He fell asleep for just a few minutes more and more at work. The small bruises on his chest faded to almost nothing, but they were visible enough to act as a constant reminder of what happened.
The only difference was Doug's incessant questions about the so-called patient that had an STD. John took his medication numbly, trying to think of it as vitamins instead of what it really was to distract himself, but Doug wouldn't stop asking.
"How is that patient of yours from the other day doing?"
"He still complaining about the burning?"
"Did you ever find out what happened?"
With each invasive question, John grew more and more agitated. He quickly started to ignore the question in favor of brushing past Doug regardless of who was around. If people started to think he had some sort of issue with the man then that was fine with John. He just couldn't deal with the constant questions that made it harder for him to just forget what happened.
Just over a week after he drove Liz home, John walked into the lounge and, quite literally, walked into Doug. He stumbled back, but didn't fall due to the strong grasp on his wrist.
"Oh, Carter! I need to talk to you." Worried it might be something important, John followed Doug into the room. He quickly noticed how the man deliberately placed himself in front of the only exit and grew doubtful that they would be talking about something other than his STD.
"Honestly, the way you acted the other day was suspicious."
"What do you mean?" John asked harshly, already defensive.
Doug raised a brow. "That's what I mean. You're defensive and nervous."
John immediately stopped fiddling with the bottom of his coat.
"You said it was positive, right? Is something wrong?"
John's breathing picked up and his fiddling resumed without his brain's permission. He felt cornered. Defenseless. He scratched his cheek absentmindedly and cleared his throat before running a hand through his hair and clearing his throat again.
"How, uh, how is that any of your business?"
"Carter—"
"It's personal."
"—I'm worried." Doug took a step toward John. John took a stumbling step backwards. He awkwardly cleared his throat once again, the same lump from the other day returning. The nausea returned too, and John anxiously glanced at the trash can in case he needed to make a dive for it.
"Did something happen?" Doug didn't take another step, but John felt like he did. It was as if all the air from the room had been sucked out and John was left breathless as the walls closed in on him. He tugged his tie from his neck with shaky hands as a dizziness settled deep in his brain and panic slowly clawed its way up his throat. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry. There was no way he was crying in front of Doug.
"If something happened, you can tell me." Doug sounded like he was talking to a child with his voice soft and concerned. "Your head wound appeared around the same time you started asking about STD testing. Are they…connected?"
John pushed past Doug in a panic and ripped the door open but came face to face with Mark. Just his luck.
"Woah, what's going on?" Mark entered and John was slowly pushed back into the room to make space for the two men. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," he snapped.
"He has an STD—"
"That's my business!" John yelled despite how humiliating it was. The panic of his two superiors finding out what happened was enough to override anything. The shame of being found out would be even worse than the shame of shouting at them.
"Yeah, Doug, I don't need to know that." Mark looked between them with clear confusion.
"I think something happened. Three days after coming in with a mysterious head laceration, he has an STD. Whenever I try to ask about it…" Doug continued, but his voice slowly faded away until John heard nothing more than static. He watched as a stressed Doug and Mark spoke to each other through blurry vision, his own stress growing with each passing second. He raised a trembling hand up to his neck and practically ripped the top few buttons of his shirt off in order to free himself from its suffocating hold. It reminded him of Liz's hand pressing against his neck with varying amounts of pressure depending on how agitated John got. It reminded him of how much he struggled to breathe through his sobs when he was left alone in his car after she took what she wanted. It reminded him of years prior when he would muffle his cries in his pillow after the maid left his room late at night.
"Carter!" John was jolted back to the present by Mark's voice. His hands were sitting heavy on John's shoulders, his twitching fingers acting as anchors that were far too heavy for John's shaky legs. He sunk to the ground with a sob as Mark's arms wrapped around him. "Carter? God, are you okay? Carter?"
Mark pushed him back a bit to get a good look at his face. His own face was pinched in worry and confusion. His eyes were open wide behind his glasses and his mouth turned down into a frown. "Are you okay? What's going on?"
John looked at his with wide, wet eyes as tears freely flowed down his cheeks. His skin felt hot with shame and all he wanted to do was hide, but Mark was looking at him with so much concern that John couldn't bring himself to run. He glanced at Doug who was crouched behind Mark, his brows furrowed in worry. Despite the mental anguish Doug had put John through the last few days, he knew it was from a place of genuine concern. Doug noticed something suspicious even as John did his best to hide it away from the prying eyes of his coworkers.
Choking around a sob, John brought shaky hands up to clutch at Mark's coat. He dug his fingers into the fabric, grasping the cotton like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Breathing through his stuffy nose, John moved a bit closer to Mark. Even though it was only the three of them in the room, he felt like he needed to whisper or the shame would overwhelm him.
Not quite sure how to say it and too scared to be blunt, John finally settled on a vague confirmation of Doug's suspicions. "Something did happen," his voice warbled and he took another steadying breath. "My head wound and my… STD. They're connected."
Despite his voice growing quieter at the end of his admission, it was clear the other two men heard him. Mark sucked in a quick breath and Doug swore before getting to his feet. He ran his hand through his hair, his face scrunched up like he was angry that he was right.
"Carter," Mark whispered back, seemingly too shocked to know what to say. John, suddenly overcome with the intense emotion he just managed to push down, felt his lip wobble as tears once again streamed down his face.
"Doctor Greene." He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed, his hands moving from Mark's coat to his shoulders as John all but threw himself into the man's arms. "I'm sorry," he forced out.
"Don't apologize, Carter. You have nothing to be sorry about." Mark wrapped his arms around John tightly with one hand moving up to rest at the base of his neck. It was a comforting presence that had John crying even harder. Despite everything, Mark held him close.
"We'll figure this out, okay?" John looked up from where he had shoved his head in Mark's shoulder, his eyes meeting Doug's. The other man looked angry, but sad. His mouth was turned into a frown and his eyes shined in the light almost like he was about to cry. "I promise."
Doug reached a hand up and dropped it softly on John's head. His fingers pressed into his hair and John just shoved his head back into Mark's shoulder, content with the comfort being offered to him.