Chapter 23
The atmosphere around him in the ER waiting room was hectic, noisy, and charged with anxiety and urgency. People bustled past him with purpose, faces unguarded and mostly grim. Usually, even in a high stress situation, he would be in the midst of the action, or at least actively observing the players. However, he sat engulfed by a numbness that dulled all his senses.
He was impermeable to the cloying hospital odor of antiseptic and sickness. He didn’t see the concerned faces of the nurses as they stared at him. He didn't hear the anxious whispers of others waiting for news. He tasted nothing, because his mouth was parched.
It was as though he had been expelled from the world around him, cut off from everything, leaving him open and vulnerable. He was defenseless against the all consuming burning in his gut, the vines of guilt that wrapped around his heart and refused to let go.
On the outside he was calm, seemingly in his own world, but he could hardly breathe. He didn’t know how his heart could still be beating, how he hadn't already punched a hole in the opposite wall, marring the sickly white paint with his knuckles.
He didn’t know what held him together, but he figured that it had a lot to do with the simple fact that he was not going to lose Watson. At least not physically.
No, she was going to be alright. The cut was long and jagged, but the wound was shallow, and at the first responders initial glance, missed all the vital blood vessels. Still, Turner couldn't imagine how that was possible considering the amount of blood that seeped out of it.
He wished his eyes would close as the image of Watson in his lap, pale as a sheet and unconscious, materialized in front of him, but instead of darkness, he found himself staring down at his lap. It was the first time he noticed the red stains dried into the dark gray fabric of his pants.
Blood.
Watson's blood.
His fist twitched at the thought, as he tried to catch a breath, heartbeat escalating as the vice wrapped tighter around him. The lack of sensation gave way to the prickle of needles all over his body, tormented him with that unwelcomed burning again. However, as he unfurled his palm, the glint of gold shone in his hand and something about the sight of the small and very simple cross, now dangling off a broken chain, placated him.
It should disgust him, this normally insignificant piece of jewelry, but it didn’t. Despite what most would think, the cross wasn't to blame for Watson's condition, he was. He was the reason why she was behind closed doors, unconscious on anesthetic, and being sewn up.
It was all his fault.
Not Evans', not even the Red River Killer's, but his, and he recognized that the moment he had become lucid.
As his thumb traced over the delicate engravings on the gold pendant, he thought it might take some time to accept the fact. Accepting the realization that his single-mindedness, his obsession, and his utter mistrust of everyone around him, had hurt the only person who mattered, the only one who had been his hope for any sort of future. Now, even if she wanted to speak to him afterward, and she would, because she's Watson, selfless and loyal to a fault, there were still far more reaching consequences, ramifications outside of his or her control.
This wasn't a game anymore.
He knew there was no way to avoid the department finding out. Rodrigues and Harper, the men who stood behind the force that defined her career, an entity that had defined who she was, and she had betrayed it in a way, for him.
She did him a favor by risking her professional credibility and aiding in a side investigation that she was aware was in pursuit by Harper. He could spin it any way he'd like, word it in any elaborate form, but he couldn't avoid the simple truth. Watson went out on a limb for him and he put her in the hospital and created God knows what consequences for her career.
Suddenly, he felt helpless. It was an emotion so incredibly foreign to him, that he acutally yearned for the numbness to return, secretly wishing his senses would slip back into oblivion.
He clutched the cross in his hand, eyes shut as he felt the imprint on his palm, worried for a moment that he might bend the precious metal. Still, he regrouped, realizing why it reminded him so dearly of Watson, because it was just as solid and just as resilient. She would pull through as she always does.
His lip twitched upward ever so slightly at the thought, a tiny seed of warmth sprouting. However, it was not strong enough to fend off the guilt he felt, the burning shame that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside of him, pricking his every nerve and leaving him keenly aware of his surroundings now.
He still ached for it back; wished cowardly for a complete disconnect, because this felt so much worse. It was as if his mind had finally caught up, and was forcing him to acknowledge exactly what had happened, how quickly his world spun off its axis.
This had only happened to him once before. He could live with the dull ache of that memory, but this, God, this pain is so new, so fresh, digging its claws into him, scratching him, and suffocating him. He felt every strain in his muscle now, every jolt of tightness in his belly, and every pull on his heart.
There was a panic in his chest that was unfamiliar, spreading from within, rushing through him like a thousand electric shocks and pulsating all around him. He felt the pressure in his temples, the throb at the back of his neck. He wanted to reach back, run his hand over the source of pain, but all he could do was clench his fist tighter around the necklace, trying to fend off nausea as it sweeped over him as he stared at the red stains on his legs.
An unexpected but gentle hand on his shoulder disturbed his catatonic state. Turning his head sharply to the side, he was not prepared for the sharp pain that ripped through him. Apparently he didn’t hide it well, because even in his perfectly stoic expression, Ng's eyes widened slightly as they connected with Turner's.
However, the Asian man didn’t say anything, his dark brown gaze communicated all the concern he felt, none of which Turner deserved.
"Let me guess, you wouldn't let anyone check you out." Ng's tone was as even as always and Turner was strangely comforted by it.
Still, it was only for a minute, until he felt the weight of reality, of unworthiness enveloping him, and he couldn't keep the self-pity out of his voice.
“Yeah, you know me."
He didn’t look at Ng, simply unclenched his palm and ran his thumb over the cross again, yearning desperately for the numbness to return, that sweet paralysis.
There was a pause, as Ng didn’t say anything, but even in his haze, through the thumping in his head and the rush of blood through his body, Turner could sense when Ng's resolve weakend and he could almost predict what the man would say before he opened his mouth.
His reply was ready as Ng began, "Listen, Turner, I have-..."
Turner was certain he would ask him to relay what happened, or warn him about something, his tone seemed cautioning, but Ng's inquiry was cut short by another voice, a feminine and far more panicked one. Both men looked up, Turner squinting against the bright florescent lights, to see Cranston almost sprinting towards him, calling his name.
His vision was a bit blurry, but there was no mistaking her fiery red hair or the taller, larger shadow that followed her. Barnes was hot on her heels as they covered the distance of the waiting room in a few long strides.
"We came as soon as we heard." Cranston announced, slightly out of breath as she sank down onto the seat next to Turner.
All professional boundaries seemed to disappear as she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Turner didn’t look up from the floor. He did however feel Grace's eyes as they examined him . The slight tremor of her touch and sharp intake of breath reminded him that despite being a cop, Grace was first and foremost a person with feelings, attachments, and a deep respect and honor for her supervisor. Thus, Turner expected that the sight of Watson's blood on his slacks would elicit some sort of reaction.
He cleared his throat, as he felt the warmth of another person so close to him. Between Ng and Cranston, there was a certain level of comfort, of seclusion that didn’t make him feel claustrophobic or even embarrassed, just shameful because a sense of calm was slowly beginning to wash over him, a tranquility he had no right to feel.
He stood abruptly, walked to the opposite side of the hallway, and leaned against it as he looked over the three people who have become his makeshift family. Family.
He marveled at the three people watching his every move, their eyes hooded with concern. Even a year ago, he never thought he would have a family again. While they didn't fit the conventional definition, Turner was stunned to discover that they had indeed filled that void within him. Still, as he viewed their faces, he detected something else in their expressions, even Ng's.
Fear.
It only served to remind him yet again, that an important member of their family, the glue that held this unit together, was missing, injured, and hurt, because of him. He looked away, the urge to put his fist through the wall returning, as his grip on the necklace tightened and his jaw set.
"Why are you guys here? Your flights are today."
The reaction to his snipe was instantaneous as Cranston frowned noticeably and Barnes, in a rare show of annoyance, actually rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Turner. It's Watson, there will be other flights."
He was taken aback by the taller man's response, but his guilt still drove him. He couldn't have these people around him, couldn't let himself rely on them, couldn't show them exactly how much it meant to him that they were worried not only for Watson, but also for him. If he does, if he lets himself get too close, lets them get too close, they will get hurt.
Everyone around him did.
"Though that may be true," he continued. "Watson would probably not want to inconvenience you, seeing as neither of you were able to make it home for Thanksgiving."
His words were measured, exact, and delivered with a nonchalance he was certain they were all used to. Turner hoped the coldness in his tone would put them off, and they would leave him to his misery, but it didn’t.
"Well it's a good thing she's not here to tell us to leave then," Cranston matched his steely gaze with one of her own, a defiance in her demeanor and sarcasm in her voice that he had never encountered before. On any other day, he would be proud of her. He did tell her once that she was completely capable of being a bitch.
Her musing observation derailed his train of thought for just a moment, but it was enough for Ng to give him a slightly skewed look, as if trying to warn him again. Barnes to cut in.
"Look, Turner. We just want to make sure she's okay."
The only one standing, Barnes walked up to him, the tension drained from his face, and Turner felt a hint of defeat sink into him. The three sets of eyes trained on him displayed varied amounts of unease, but no pity. None of them were angry or indignant, which would be a much more appropriate and well-deserved reaction. For a second, his defensed buckled just a little, the wall that he built slowly coming down, brick by brick. It terrified him to be so vulnerable, but he at least owed them an explanation, and respect.
Apparently, he was more transparent than he'd like to be, because as soon as he contemplated letting his guard down, Cranston relaxed and stood up, walking up to him with a rueful smile.
"So we didn't really get all the details, could you tell us what happened?"
He met her gaze, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye, and the reply died on his lips.
Two very familiar men were striding purposefully toward them and Turner instinctually returned his eyes to Ng. The smidgen of discomfort and sympathy that managed to penetrate through the man's usually impervious expression made everything click in Turner's head.
It all made sense now.
What Ng was trying to warn him about.
Despite the painful wrenching inside him, despite the blood stains on his pants, and despite the image of Watson lifeless and pale swirling in his mind, the mask was put back in place, immaculate, impenetrable, in the time it took Rodrigues and Harper to approach.
Instinctively, he felt a sense of pride when he saw Ng stand up and Barnes take a step towards him as the two men approached. With Grace standing slightly behind him, together the three officers formed a shield around their advisor, imperceptible to some, but one look at Harper and its evident the man sensed this.
Turner couldn't help the gratitude that welled up within him at their protection. He knew that he shouldn't feel the hint of smugness at the look on Harper's face, but he allowed himself that one tiny luxury, knowing he was about to bear the full brunt of the detective's ire.
One glance at the advisor and Rodrigues felt the grasp of an impending headache taking hold. He didn't want to believe it, didn't even want to entertain the thought that it actually happened, because that would mean his best detective had knowingly violated some pretty important rules regarding PPB protocol.
It was grounds for suspension, grounds for review, and grounds for a whole slew of unpleasant things, starting with Sam Harper demanding to know what happened as soon as Ng stepped into his office. His ex-wife may be a horribly overbearing individual, but she was probably right about one thing: working on a Sunday never did anyone any good.
However, the headache moved to his heart as he took in Turner's appearance. He knew the extent of Watson's injuries, was wholly relieved that she would be okay physically. He was just not prepared for the sight of the advisor trying so hard to conceal the shock and shame he felt.
The fact that Rodrigues could actually detect the traces of this on the younger man's face was testament to how poorly he was faring. It also showed in how his eyes were constantly tracing over the blood stains on his clothes, and his hand periodically clenching and unclenching, something gold dangling from his grasp.
Turner didn’t look at him right away, preferring instead to engage in a staring contest with Harper, but when his eyes did flicker over to Rodrigues, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and everything fell into place.
He realized very quickly that Turner didn’t look like a worried colleague, the pure agony in the depth of his blue eyes, the pronounced creases around them, and the guilt coloring all his features were all indicative of something else entirely. He didn't look like a concerned friend...he looked like a distraught...lover?
Oh, God, he should have retired when he had the chance.
His hand reached up, instinctively pinching the bridge of his nose as the realization hovered over him like a cloud. He shouldn't be so surprised and when he really thought about it, he isn't.
Perhaps he was just a little disappointed that this was the situation they all found themselves in and despite wanting to give Turner a stern reprimand, relieved some of the frustration that had been building inside, Rodrigues felt his resolve weaken, replaced by something he didn’t usually feel for the department’s advisor.
Sympathy.
If his suspicions were correct, which would explain Harper's insistence on tagging along, then he could not imagine what Turner must feel at the moment.
Despite being flanked by Watson's team, replacing the armor he so valiantly paraded on a daily basis, the Turner’s inability to truly conceal how he felt only worried Rodrigues rather than annoyed him. Therefore, even though he wanted to yell, accuse them both of being incredibly stupid for doing this, the knowledge that Natalie would be okay pacified his anger just enough for him to give into the fatherly instinct that tugged at him.
"Turner, go home, you look like shit," he offered by way of greeting. The few raised eyebrows he got in response and the mild surprise on Turner's face reminded him that everyone was prepared for a tongue-lashing. Then again, so was he.
Until he realized this situation had exceeded professional boundaries a long time ago. Besides, even in his silence, Sam seemed ready to attack and he could almost feel how easily the control of the moment was bound to slip through his fingers.
Turner managed a wan smile and nods in appreciation, "Maybe later."
Neither one of them missed the sharp exhale and smirk from Harper. Even now, the sight of the senior detective looking ready to explode amused Turner, and he could tell Rodrigues shared his sentiment as the man gaveshim a side glance before averting his attention to the team.
"Is there any news?”
"No," Turner shook his head, "Not yet. The paramedic said the wound was superficial but since she was unconscious, they gave her a mild sedative so she wouldn't wake while they stitched her up."
Rodrigues nodded. It was good enough for him. He mentally compiled a list of things to do, damage control, that sort of thing, and although the amount of work he would probably have to take on in order to smooth this over only added to his headache, he couldn't help but breathe another sigh of relief.
Natalie will be okay, and that was more important than the million other responsibilities now weighing heavily on him. He suddenly realized that Watson made his job a hell of a lot easier. It didn’t escape him that he was assuming her role in this situation, and even though he knew he would have to at least suspend her and Turner, for the moment he let himself relax and took a seat in a plastic chair not too far from the group.
Still, the tension didn’t ease, everyone watching him in silent expectation, everyone except Turner, whose gaze travelled to the revolving doors behind him, no doubt hoping for any sign, any person to appear and tell him what was going on.
Rodrigues rested his head against the wall, eyes closing for a moment, seeking relief but it was short-lived.
"So that's it? That's all you're going to do?"
He opened his eyes to find Harper's dark gaze boring into him, occasionally interspersed with side glances to Turner, who seemed to slowly be regaining his composure, his real armor. It only served to elevate his heart rate. He really didn't need a pissing contest in the ER lobby, not now, not ever.
"Well, what would you like me to do, Sam?" He replied, tone dripping with sarcasm.
He was not particularly irritated by Sam's indignation, it was well deserved, but he didn’t like when his credibility was questioned, his methods placed under the microscope. No wonder Natalie's relationship with the detective was strained; the man questioned anything that didn’t remotely appeal to him.
Harper let out a puff of air, hands falling to his hips as he paced for a moment. He looked over at the others, gazed momentarily at Turner, but then just shook his head.
"It's unbelievable, you know. No disrespect, but seriously, you people have got some role confusion going on."
Though he didn’t appreciate Harper's comment, Rodrigues didn’t respond, only continued to watch the normally composed and polite detective roam the short distance of the hall, like a caged tiger ready to pounce. If it weren't for the circumstances, he would be amused, but he couldn't deny the feeling that whatever Harper planned to say, despite it being driven by emotion, would probably ring truer than he would like.
Rodrigues turned to his right, saw Barnes and Ng surveying Harper’s every move as he walked around, working himself into a frenzy. They looked ready to draw their weapons at any second. Their stance reminded the older agent of old Westerns he used to watch with his dad.
Eventually, Harper had enough of the silence and came to a stop, eyes squinting at Turner as he pursed his lips together beneath his mustache, hands still on his holster. Then he looked over at Rodrigues.
"Turner's not a victim here! It's his damn fault that Watson... that all of you are in this mess."
"Hey, wait a minute-...”
Barnes tried to interject, but the soft touch on his shoulder halted him.
"Don't, obviously Detective Harper had a bone to pick with me, let him."
Turner spoke directly to him, making sure to avoid eye contact with the man in question. He knew how much it irritated people, and irrationally, he wanted to push Harper's buttons; he just could't help himself.
Barnes nodded and stepped aside, walking over to stand beside Grace, who looked equally alarmed and annoyed.
"Oh so now you're going to play the martyr, hmm? Self-sacrifice for the good of keeping the peace, let me tell you something that apparently no one else here is willing to."
Harper took a few steps toward him, but it didn’t intimidate Turner. Despite the dull ache in his head and the slight queasy churning his stomach, the man was still very easy to read, the right buttons to push were quite evident.
"You intentionally took part in your own little investigation, knowing full well that you were about to question a possible witness in a pending case. I'm sure the consequences of that don't matter at all to you, but what should matter, what you should realize is that you're the reason we're all here right now. You're the reason Natalie is hurt."
Face to face now, Turner could practically feel the revulsion radiating off Harper, but he wasn't fazed.
"You don't think I know that?" Turner asked softly, calmly, almost too calmly.
He knew what to say, could already predict Harper's reaction, but instead of it giving him confidence, the nausea boiled within him, his stomach twisted as the lights started to burn a little too bright all of the sudden. His head was pulsating again, sending jolts of pain through his cranium, but he fought against it, trying to remain nonchalant.
"Do you?" Harper sniped back, ready to launch at him again, "Really?"
"Yeah, I do." Turner snapped back, gauging the other man's stance. Harper was poised for another barrage of accusations, understandably frustrated, but in all his anger, he left himself vulnerable, exposing an open target, and Turner was never been one to back down from a clean shot.
"I am very well aware that Natalie is in the hospital, because of me. That yet again she had put herself in danger, because of my single-mindedness, but that's not really why you are so upset right now, is it?”
"Excuse me?" The older detective was momentarily stunned into silence, but then quickly his expression morphed to one of incredulity, then amusement. A small smile stretches his short bears as he rolled his eyes, "Seriously, Turner. Don't try to pull that bull-..."
Turner interrupted him with a hearty, but very fake laugh, a move that only intensified the throbbing in his skull, but he ignored it.
"Oh I see. So there's a double standard now? No, it didn’t work like that. I know what I did, I'm aware of my issues, but if you choose to point it out, don't expect me not to point out why you're pacing the hallway like some sort of chained lion. It's not the fact that Natalie is hurt that irks you so much. We both know she'll be alright. It's not that at all."
Turner turned the tables, walking Harper back across the hall, his eyes burning with the possibility of an easy mark, enjoying a momentary release from his own guilt.
"You're just angry and bothered because you could't figure out how she could have possibly been as stupid as she was. You're trying to justify her actions, trying to figure out how I managed to rope her into it?"
Harper stood unmoving, absolutely still, the smirk gone and his fists clenched at his sides.
"Don't try to twist this around." The older man cautioned, and this time it truly felt like a threat, but Turner was unmoved by it. His steely resolve muted everything he was feeling inside, every stab of pain, every twirl of dizziness, the perspiration forming on his forehead.
"You just could't handle the fact that I simply asked her to come with me and she did. It makes you mad, mad and bitter that your precious Natalie went willingly with me, me of all people, the person who represented everything you so despise. The possibility that I did not somehow coerce her into it nauseates you, because the implication of that is too much to handle, isn't it Sam?"
Harper's stunned expression and narrowed eyes confirmed Turner's suspicions. He was a little surprised, however, that Harper would be so shocked that Watson went with him. After all, once upon a time, she would have done the same for her mentor. Perhaps that was what bothered the detective the most, that he was no longer that individual in her life, replaced by someone who he does not think deserved it.
At least they could agree on that one fact.
It didn’t matter now though. He was high on the relief of venting his frustrations, of releasing all the pent-up anger borne of always needing to justify his and Watson's relationship.
After hearing about this, she would probably have his head, but it would be a small price to pay for resetting the balance. If she was willing to chastise him for his amateurish attack on Harper, then maybe she could forget the other reasons she should be so upset with him.
All those thoughts ran dizzyingly quickly through his mind while Harper stood silently in front of him, tension palpable as his lips twitched beneath his mustache. Turner couldn't help but picture Harper drawing his gun and putting a few into him if he could.
Turner wanted to smile or look smug, but the queasiness was back, threatening to consume him completely, taking his legs out from under him.
His vision was a little fuzzy again and he regretted denying medical attention earlier. Yet it was only for a moment, because his eyes quickly turned to the revolving doors and he remembered that Natalie was far worse off than he was, and a little headache shouldn't be such a bother. He thought that if he just sat down for a second, it would go away.
However, before he could find his way to a chair, sweet relief for his unsteady frame, a hand on his shoulder jerked him around, pressing him back against the wall. It sent another wave of nausea through his system, and this time when Harper looked at him, even though he was only inches away, Turner couldn't make out the details of his face.
Turner blinked a few times, but his vision only grew more muddled, unclear. Panic started to set in, and instead of pushing Sam away, he tried to steady himself by leaning on Harper's frame. Whatever threat or insult the detective had planned didn’t come as Turner gripped onto his shoulder.
"Hey Turner, you alright?" He asked, his voice seeming a million miles away.
The pounding in his head intensified as Turner tried to contain the bile that was slowly making its way up. His mouth felt dry and his limbs finally gave out as he felt for the arm of the chair and slumped down onto it.
The temperature around him rose, as small beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He felt them, but couldn't reach up to wipe them away, too tired. He desperately wanted to close his eyes, give into the exhaustion, and just slip into unconsciousness to make this pain go away.
Harper continued to shake him, slapping his cheek lightly, trying to keep him alert, but Turner couldn't feel anything anymore. The numbness he so desperately wanted earlier had finally taken over, paralyzing his limbs, though not staving off the ache.
He could barely move his head, but out of the corner of his eye, Turner saw Rodrigues shouting something at the nurse's station. Cranston knelt down beside him, hand on his shoulder as she said something to him, but it was indistinct, as if she was shouting from a distance. He gave her a small smile, wanted to compliment her on her show of defiance earlier, but his tongue felt heavy. He couldn't form the words.
Suddenly, he was being pulled away by someone, perhaps one of the nurses who were previously staring at him with sympathetic eyes, but he couldn't be sure. Whoever it was, was inches away from him, hands probing, asking him questions he couldn't answer because he couldn't hear. Voices faded into the background as he finally gave into the exhaustion, eyelids falling shut.
There was indistinct chatter around him, movement, someone touching him, but the delicious numbness spread through his body quicker than he expected and pretty soon he felt nothing. He heard, tasted, and smelled nothing.
He was back to hours ago.
Back to the waiting room, back to watching the doors swing back and forth as he wondered if Natalie would be okay, but this time there was no panic, no anxiety, just warmth and stability. He felt the imprint of her cross in his hand, and even though the actual necklace wasn't in his grasp anymore, he didn’t panic, because he knows she would be alright.
She'll be just fine.
And he will be too.
He just needs to rest his eyes for a little bit. That's all.