Fragments part four

Exhausted by his emotional eruption and his own self-imposed, punishing regimen over the last few weeks, Steve eventually fell asleep in his father's arms.
After manoeuvering his son back into bed and covering him up, Mark stood, gazing down on the slumbering detective for long moments. Then he quietly left the room, giving orders to the nursing staff that Steve wasn't to be disturbed, and walked down the hall to visit his other patient.
He wished he had been able to tell Steve that Jesse was still alive, but the younger man had been in no fit state to hear him, nor fully understand the implications. The news would now have to wait until Steve awoke.

Jesse had continued to be a cause for concern. Emotionally, he was in a very dark place. His customary irrepressible nature had been all but extinguished by the weight of not only his own self-recrimination over Ellen's death, but Steve's condemnation of him, too.
Mark and Amanda had been constant visitors to his bedside, each of them trying to convince him that he was not at fault, that he was the victim here and that Steve was wrong - to no avail. His failure to help Ellen - to save her - consumed him. He simply couldn't understand how he had lived when she had died and seemed to be doing his level best to remedy that situation.
Amanda's barely concealed tears and Mark's obvious distress only added fuel to the fire of his guilt. It seemed he was hurting everyone and he didn't know what to do to rectify that. He couldn't think of anything to say to ease their anguish, so resorted to barely saying anything at all. That only seemed to hurt them even more and he became steeped in a despair which seemed fathomless. He barely ate - only doing so because he didn't want to further disappoint his two friends and it seemed to be the only thing he could do to elicit a smile from either of them.
Steve's words reverberated around his head constantly, a verbal accompaniment to his memories of that horrific night. He couldn't get rid of the images or his friend's voice. They haunted him whilst he was awake and returned in the form of terrible nightmares when he slept. He didn't sleep more than two hours a night. He would wake up with a scream of unmitigated terror as Ellen was raped and killed in front of him, bringing nursing staff running to his room to calm him down. This only served to make him feel even worse. He was making extra work for those around him and they didn't deserve that.
So he tried his best not to sleep. It was hard because he was so exhausted and his eyes ached with the need for it. But if it would give his colleagues some respite from constantly having to look after him, it seemed worth it.

And so it was a pallid faced, hollow-eyed young man whom Mark visited that day. As he opened the door he fostered a vain hope that Jesse might have rallied since the last time he had seen him - only hours before. But that hope died a death when he entered the room.
Jesse was lying propped up on a mound of pillows, his dinner plate virtually untouched on the table beside him. His face was lined with fatigue and the deep, dark shadows under his eyes bore silent testament to the kind of night he had endured.
He looked so forlorn and, Mark noted, with a feeling of foreboding, hopeless. His hands clutched convulsively at the covers, as though he was fighting off bad memories and, the older doctor reflected, sadly, he probably was.
Closing the door quietly, he made his way to his young friend's bedside and stood looking down on him for a moment. Jesse didn't even seem to realise he was there. He was lost in his own nightmare world, reliving the moments when the two intruders had confronted him and how it had all spiralled out of control from that moment on.
"Jesse."
No response.
"Jesse."
Still nothing.
"Jesse."
Slowly, painfully slowly, the young man's eyes turned to him and Mark was staggered at the pain he found in their depths. A sad little half-smile appeared then was gone and he felt his throat constrict at the brief sight of it.
"Hey, Jess," he said, as normally as he could, given that he felt like crying. "How are you feeling?"
"M'okay." The reply was so quiet that Mark barely heard it, but he nodded as though satisfied and started to examine his patient.
Jesse lay there lethargically and endured. Mark did this several times a day. It was almost a routine now. Amanda would undoubtedly be the next one here. She would sit beside him and relate all the hospital gossip, then fill him in on what CJ and Dion had been doing of late. She would smile bravely in front of him, but there was always a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes and he had come to dread those visits because of that. He didn't know what he was supposed to say or do to take those tears away and he hated that she was sad because of him.
Then there was Doctor Spencer, the staff psychologist. He had been here once a day for the last few days. Jesse didn't know what he was supposed to say to him, either, nor why he was there. So he simply ignored the man. He would close his eyes and feign sleep and eventually, he would go away.
"Jesse."
He realised that Mark was speaking to him again and made an effort to concentrate on what his mentor was saying. Mark looked awful. His white coat was rumpled and wet and his face was haggard. Jesse sighed inwardly. The older man didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of it. If only he had been able to fight off the men who had broken in to the beach house then there wouldn't be any reason for all this pain. Then Mark wouldn't look like hell and Amanda wouldn't be constantly on the verge of tears all the time. He knew he had made a grave mistake in not saving Ellen. Mark and Amanda adored her and they must be missing her terribly and Steve … Steve … a sliver of agony pierced his heart at the thought of his best friend. What had he done to him? He had taken Steve's very reason for living away.
He knew how it felt to lose someone whom you have more than life itself. Susan had seen to that. Of course, his friends didn't know. He had concealed the pain her departure had left in his soul, insisting that he didn't miss her, that they were not suited for each other when in reality, he had imagined them growing old together; had even bought a ring. Then she had run off with another guy and he had been left holding a useless piece of jewellery together with the pieces of his shattered heart.
So how much worse this was for Steve. He had lost his wife to be because Jesse had allowed her to die - and worse. He deserved every ounce of his friend's hatred and he secretly hugged it to himself as further proof of his culpability in what had happened.
"Jesse?"
Damn - he had done it again. Allowed himself to drift off, worrying Mark once more. He strove to focus and met his friend's eyes, wincing at the sorrow he found therein.
"M'sorry," he mumbled.
Mark smiled sadly. That was the entire crux of the problem right there. "What are you sorry about, Jess?" he asked, gently, seating himself on the bed beside his young friend.
"Ev'rything," came the reply. A lone tear snaked its way down the wan cheek. "S'all my fault," he went on, raggedly. "M'sorry."
"Oh, Jesse" Mark bowed his head, striving to retain control of his own emotions. Jesse wasn't getting any better emotionally - he was barely recovering physically. He was getting worse. He reached out a tentative hand and placed it on the pared down cheek. "Jesse, son, none of this is your fault. Why can't you see that?"
The young doctor hitched in a breath at the words. Mark and Amanda were always trying to make him feel better but he wished they would stop. He really wasn't worth the effort. He wished they would just leave him alone. Perhaps then he could just fade away without anyone noticing. They could get on with their lives and he wouldn't have to endure this awful pain.
"M'okay," he said, mindlessly repeating what he had said when Mark first asked him how he was. He knew he hadn't convinced the other man because Mark kept staring down at him with that terribly sad expression and his hand kept stroking his cheek. He didn't deserve such friends - not when he had done such a terrible thing. Without warning, more tears spilled from his eyes and down his cheeks and the next moment he found himself wrapped in a warm embrace, Mark uttering mindless words of comfort which he couldn't understand and didn't allow himself to believe. He lay stiffly against his friend at first but then a wellspring of emotion seemed to overcome him and he sagged against Mark's chest as he sobbed helplessly.
Mark simply hung on as Jesse's slight body shuddered in his arms, the ragged sobs muffled against his coat. He didn't have the words to reassure him - the young doctor wasn't listening to anyone these days and the visits by Dr Spencer had been a spectacular failure. The older doctor despaired of being able to help him. Only one person could do that and he was in a bad emotional state himself. But something had to be done and quickly. Otherwise, they were going to lose Jesse.

Half an hour later, he gently placed the young man back into bed and covered him up. Jesse had mirrored Steve in that he had fallen asleep crying. Unlike Steve, however, whose slumber had seemed relatively peaceful, Jesse was already shifting restlessly, obviously caught up yet again in the nightmares which had plagued him since the murder.
Mark sat back in his chair, determined to keep a vigil on his heartsick young friend. He ached to return to Steve. His heart was being torn in two seeing both his son and the young man he had always fondly considered a surrogate son going through such deep emotional trauma.

It was late afternoon the next day by the time Steve awoke. He lay there for several moments, trying to figure out where he was and recall how he had got there. As it all came back to him, he groaned, covering his face with his hands.
Brewer.
They had caught the bastard responsible for the deaths of both his wife to be and his friend.
But he had been shot - twice.
Which meant that he was somewhere within this hospital.
Throwing back the covers on his bed, he levered himself up, surprised by how weak and giddy he felt. He remembered the fight, recalled how he had hit the floor, but he had only sustained slight injuries. How was it possible that he felt so drained?
Sitting on the bed, with his legs dangling over the side, he waited for the dizziness to abate. It seemed to be taking its time.
"And where do you think you're going?" demanded a voice he knew only too well.
"Dad …"
He looked up. Mark wavered into being beside him. There was a stern expression on his face. "Steve, you're injured and you're exhausted," he said, firmly. "Why don't you get back into bed and rest?"
"I can't," protested Steve, even as his father grabbed hold of his legs and swung him back into bed, folding the covers up and over him and then sitting down beside him, effectively preventing his escape. "Dad …"
"Steve, you need to rest." It was a Mark Sloan patented 'I'm your father and you'd better listen to me' tone of voice. "From what Cheryl tells me, you haven't slept for days - probably longer. It's a wonder you didn't collapse days ago. I'm not letting you out of here until I'm sure that you're healthy."
"I'm perfectly healthy," objected Steve grumpily. "What I need is to get out of here and … "
"And what?" broke in his father. "Steve, you caught Brewer. He's in custody. Oh … that's where you were going," he suddenly realised. "Well, you're too late. He's gone."
"Gone?!" Steve's heart almost stopped as he shot his father a look of utter panic.
"I mean he's been taken down to the precinct," Mark said, hastily. "He's being booked even as we speak. Don't worry, son, he hasn't escaped. He'll still be there when I let you out of here."
"And when is that likely to be?" demanded the detective, crabbily, folding his arms across his chest and pouting.
Mark had to suppress a smile at the effect this produced. "When I think you're fit, and not before."
There was silence for a moment then, "Steve, I have to talk to you."
Uh-oh, this did not bode well. Steve looked up at his father and saw concern and worry etched on his face. He felt a sudden rush of guilt for putting it there. "Yeah?" he said, warily.
There was no easy way to say this and he didn't know how his son was going to react, given his reaction last time he had been here. He liked to think that this was good news, but in Steve's present tumultuous emotional state, anything was possible. Mark took a deep breath and simply forged ahead. "Steve, Jesse is alive."

Steve couldn't speak. He tried to think of something to say but his brain had shut down.
Jesse isn't dead.
He knew he should feel a joyous elation at this news.
He wasn't entirely sure what he did feel, but it was nowhere near joy.
Guilt, remorse, shame … all vied for prominence. He was overwhelmed with it all.
Unwanted memories tumbled into his mind. Jesse's inert, blood-soaked form lying on the varnished floor of his home. Monitors screaming alerts as medical staff worked on the slender body, trying to sustain life. An ashen-faced young man, lying in a hospital bed, looking stricken as Steve flung terrible, cruel, harsh, hateful words in his direction. And the sudden deterioration … Steve realising that he had all but finished the job the murderer had started.
It was all too much for him to handle.
"Steve?"
His father sounded so terribly worried. And well he might. The dizziness was back, tenfold. The room had started whirling uncontrollably and he felt sick. Before he knew it, he was retching, hot bile coming out of his mouth and spilling into a bowl someone had strategically placed beneath his mouth.
When it was over, he sank back onto the welcoming softness beneath him, panting for breath. He wanted to say something to reassure his father, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just felt even more exhausted. A cool hand on his brow was comforting and helped ease the headache which had made its appearance during his bout of sickness. He relaxed into its welcome touch and found himself drifting. Within seconds he was once again asleep.

"I don't know what to do."
Amanda sat beside her friend, her eyes wide in stunned horror as Mark related to her Steve's reaction to the news that Jesse was still alive.
"Oh Mark," she breathed.
"I'm hoping that it was just the exhaustion and his body's reaction to it rather than what I told him," Mark went on, miserably. "I can't even contemplate what will happen if it was because I told him Jesse was alive."
Amanda couldn't, either. She hadn't been there, hadn't seen Steve's response to the news which Mark had imparted, but from what he had described, it sounded extreme. "Mark, I'm sure it will be all right." Her reassurance rang false even to her own ears.
"I don't know," he said, quietly. "I just don't know, Amanda. Jesse's physical recovery is being hampered by his emotional state. By now he should have been out of the hospital, recuperating at home. But first, Steve's behaviour caused a relapse and then that infection grabbed hold and now … now it's almost as though he's fading away before our very eyes. I've tried everything I can to prevent it. John Spencer says he's unreachable and it's not like him to give up. He wanted to try again but I've asked him to back off. It's patently evident to me what Jesse needs and I'm not even sure that will save him."
Amanda choked back a sob at the prediction. "Oh Mark, surely when Steve wakes up, he'll realise how unjust he was to Jesse and go to see him. He'll apologise, he'll reassure Jesse that none of this is his fault and it will be all right."
That prompted a snort of derision from her friend. "Right. It's not that easy. Jesse is so far gone now that I'm not sure anything will bring him back. And you're forgetting - we have to get Steve in there first and I'm not sure that that is even going to happen."
Amanda's shoulders slumped in defeat. Mark was right. She was kidding herself and she knew it. But they couldn't just give up. Jesse was depending on them. More, he was depending on Steve … if only Steve could be persuaded to see his friend …

"I can't. I'm sorry."
Amanda felt like screaming. She had entered Steve's room half an hour before and their conversation had been going round in circles ever since. Upon seeing her, a small smile had illuminated Steve's pallid features. Then she had dropped her bombshell. Jesse had given up on life. It had probably started at the scene of the attack, but had been exacerbated by Steve's words to him after the funeral. She told him how ill Jesse had been, how the infection had very nearly killed him; how she had stood there watching the heart monitor flatline and had prayed hard for his life. That prayer had been rewarded but it seemed that Jesse had not wanted to return. He was, in fact, doing his level best to die, and only Steve could help him now.
Steve himself had listened to this catalogue of events with growing horror and an ever increasing sense of self-loathing. If he had felt bad before, now he felt infinitely worse.
Jesse was dying and it was all his fault.
'Oh my god, what have I done?' he mourned, silently. Tears streamed down his cheeks at the torment he had put his best friend through and he found himself unable to breathe properly for the grief and horror that overwhelmed him.
"You have to go and see him," Amanda insisted.
"I can't," he replied, hopelessly. "Don't you see? I'm responsible for all of this. What good is it going to do? I'll only bring it all back to him. He'll feel worse if he sees me. I can't do that to him. I've done enough damage."
Amanda resisted the urge to shake some common sense into him. A part of her was relieved and pleased to see the return of the Steve she knew and loved, but another part of her despaired of it. Steve did 'stubborn' better than anyone else she knew and that, combined with his heavy sense of responsibility at what he had already done to Jesse was all that was preventing him from helping his friend. That and the terror of seeing the evidence of what his horrible behaviour had wrought. "Steve, please," she begged. "Please just go and see him. I don't think there's any more damage you could do …" Whoops. She hadn't meant to say it quite like that. She risked a glance at him and winced as she saw the agony suffusing his face. "Steve, I didn't mean it like that," she said, quickly, trying to pacify him.
It was too late. The detective's features hardened as he made up his mind once and for all. "No, Amanda, I'm sorry. I'm not what he needs. Jesse doesn't need my guilt on top of everything else. He has enough to deal with. I can't do that to him. I won't do that to him. I care about him too much."
"If you cared about him, you'd see how much he does need you, Steve. He needs your explanations about why you said what you did. He needs your apology - which I know you want to offer. He needs your friendship. He needs to understand once and for all that he did everything he could do. He needs forgiveness and only you can give him that … and you need to ask him to forgive you for what you said and did. He needs you, Steve, and if you can't see that, well, then you're stupid and dumb and … " Amanda couldn't say any more. Her words ended on a sob and she turned and fled the room.
"I'm sorry, Mark, I thought I could help."
Mark put his arm around her reassuringly. Amanda had found him at the nurse's station after exiting Steve's room and his eyes had widened at her stricken expression. He had guided her into the doctors' lounge where she had admitted to him what she had done. She felt so ashamed of what she had said to Steve, of how she had treated him. But she had done it with the very best of intentions and Mark couldn't fault her for that.
"It's all right, honey," he soothed her. But privately, he wondered if it would ever be all right again. He had been right. Steve was hurting - badly, and it was getting in the way of his love for his friend. Mark knew his son. Steve would fight tooth and nail to prevent any of those he loved getting hurt. But what if he was the one who had hurt them? Hurt them so badly that their very existence was in danger? He was the very one he would have to fight against. And in such a personal battle there could be no winners and only one victim.
What were they going to do?

Another week went by. Jesse's physical injuries were healing and the infection was a thing of the past. But he continued his downward spiral emotionally. He looked terrible. The boyish features looked so sad, his eyes enormous in the thinned down face. He seemed haunted, and, indeed he was. They had tried everything to help him to sleep without the nightmares with little effect. They were a constant companion, although he rarely referred to them, even when his cries of panic brought medical staff running.
His misery was a tangible thing. It had wrapped him in its invidious shroud and it didn't seem to want to let go. More, he succumbed to it as though it was only what he deserved. Despondency didn't come close to describing his condition. He was lost in a despair so deep that there was no rescuing him. Not that his friends didn't try their best. But where a permanent sparkle had once resided in those big blue eyes, now there was only a bleakness which seemed infinite. No trace of Jesse was left. He had become a wraith, temporarily held by the bonds of friendship. But even these were weakening. Day by day they could feel him getting further and further away from them and there seemed to be nothing they could do to prevent it.

Steve had returned to work, despite his father's protests. Unbeknown to both Amanda and Mark, he had actually hovered indecisively for several moments outside Jesse's room on the day of his discharge. He wanted so much to put right what he had done but he was paralysed by guilt and fear. And it was those two which eventually led him out of Community General without actually seeing his friend.

Another four days elapsed. On the fifth day, Amanda paid her usual visit to Jesse's room. What she found there stopped her heart.

"Mark! Mark!"
The man in question spun around from the nurses' station, where he was making a notation on a patient's records to discover Amanda running down the hall, utterly panic-stricken.
"My god, Amanda, what is it?" he demanded as she practically fell into his arms, panting heavily.
"Jesse!" she gasped, pointing toward the young doctor's room. "It's Jesse! Mark, he's … he's gone!"
"What?" Mark's face drained of all colour at the pronouncement and he staggered slightly against the desk. Suddenly, it became Amanda who was holding him up and not the other way around.
"No, no," she temporised, hastily. "I mean - he's not in his room!"
He stared at her for a full minute before the full import of what she was saying got through, then he recovered his senses and, pulling away from her, strode down the hall to take a look for himself.
Sure enough, Jesse's room was empty. What was more, the clothes that Amanda had brought in for him - on the optimistic prospect that he would be going home before very long - had also disappeared.
"Oh my god," Mark breathed. "Jesse …."
"Where is he?" demanded Amanda from beside him. "Mark, maybe he went home …"
Mark frowned as he considered the situation. "He would have had to get a cab," he said, thoughtfully. "His car was at the beach house. He won't have taken a chance on calling one from the nurses' station. He must have sneaked out and hailed one from outside. I think our best bet is to try his apartment first and then if he's not there … we call Steve."
"Steve?" echoed the beautiful pathologist. "But …"
"He can find out which cab company Jesse used and where it took him far quicker than we could, Amanda," Mark pointed out, tersely. "I'll call him on the way to Jesse's apartment - just in case."
"I'm coming with you," she said, as though daring him to refuse her.
He didn't.

Jesse wasn't at his apartment. Steve met them there with the spare key that he had persuaded his friend to give him a couple of weeks before the murder. The detective's face was set in granite as he opened the door and they entered.
"He's not here," reported Steve grimly as Mark and Amanda waited in the main room. The lieutenant had searched both the bedroom and the bathroom but had found no signs of life, apart from a dead spider in the shower. Jesse had obviously not even been home.
"Then where is he?" Amanda tried to suppress her rising fear, but it was threatening to spin out of control. Her young friend had been in no fit state emotionally to leave the confines of the hospital. He had barely been in a fit state physically. He was still so weak, so fragile … where could he be? More to the point what was he doing? She didn't even want to think about it.
Steve shook his head. "I don't …" His cellphone's strident ring interrupted him and he took the call, turning away from the two distraught doctors as he did so. As the call ended, he turned back. His compressed lips and the apprehension in his eyes told them all they needed to know.
"Jesse?" whispered Mark, fearfully. "Steve, please …"
"That was Cheryl," he said, quietly. "She tracked down the cab company and spoke to the driver. He says he picked up a young guy from outside the hospital about an hour ago. He dropped him off at Brucker's Point."
There was an indrawn breath from Amanda and Mark whispered a shocked 'oh no!' at the news. Brucker's Point was a well known spot for suicides. It was high above Los Angeles and had a lovely panoramic view of the Pacific. It also had a 200 foot drop, straight down.
"Steve, if he's up there … "
The detective nodded. "I know, dad. Believe me. I know."
"You have to get us up there, Steve!" begged Amanda, despairingly. "He needs us!"
Steve shook his head. "No."
"What?!"
"No," he repeated. "Don't get me wrong, Amanda. He does need his friends … or at least he needs a friend. I can't believe that I've been so stupid, so blind, so caught up in my own guilt … it takes this to make me see … " His words trailed off as he strode past them toward the door. "I'm going up there - alone. I've made enough stupid mistakes with Jesse - I'm not about to let this one be the last."
And with that, he was gone.

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