Gunrunners // A Harry Styles AU

1. Bullet In Your Shoulder

Friday 11th January 2019

I hate early morning phone calls. Actually, I hold a disdain for phone calls in general, but the ones that come before eight o'clock in the morning are the most unwelcome. You'd think being tucked up in bed and fast asleep, I might be able to ignore such a horror as the typical incoming ringtone of an iPhone. But no. I have to liken it to a pager. I have one of those too, though I do tend to ignore it when I'm not on call.

I tip my head up barely an inch and peel my left eye open to look at the phone screen. It's an unknown number but I automatically know that that means trouble is brewing. Blindly, I reach out for the phone and slide the bar across, all but smacking it to my ear.

"Hello?" As expected, my greeting is hoarse. Not necessarily unwelcoming but lacks life.

"Niki, I'm so sorry to call you up so early like this." A flustered Roberta, one of the nurses is the one calling. I think it's safe to say it's an emergency.

A groan leaves my chest, but it's from my shifting in bed and not one of bitterness. "S'fine. What's happened?"

"A group has just been admitted, all male in their twenties, some with knife and gun wounds, others bruised and broken ribs. One is already in surgery." Roberta sounds flustered, but who wouldn't be?

I hum once; short. I've barely registered it, but from her frantic tone I assume it's urgent. "Okay. I'm coming."

"Thank you!"

The nurse ends the call before I even have the opportunity to, which is better because I can just toss it into the middle of the bed and get myself up. The alarm clock reads 01:17. I moan disapprovingly to the empty room.

I drag myself to the shower for a quick wash. The water is too hot to start, sending me back to sleep rather than waking me up, so I turn the temperature down to the point it startles me. At least I'm still an intellect when I'm half conscious. I don't wash my hair, I only lather myself in body wash and rinse, before I'm leaping out of the shower again and wrapping my dressing gown around me.

I find the nearest clean clothes - a simple t-shirt and a pair of straight leg jeans I wouldn't usually wear out of the house, and then pack my scrubs into my bag. Once I'm fully dressed with my coat on, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and run for the door, making sure I've got a bobble on my wrist for when I get to work. I don't check my appearance in the mirror, but I know my black hair will be drenched because I didn't dry it properly, and my dull grey eyes will appear darker than usual with an accompanying pair of bags underneath.

Snatching my keys from the little dish I keep on top of the shoe rack in the hall, I sprint out to the car and brave the rain. The vintage Peugeot roars to life on the second twist in the ignition as always, and I can finally pull out of my driveway. I despise the drive to work, but for some reason it flies by today. Perhaps it's because absolutely no one is on the road at this inhumane hour. I choose to believe that's the case, anyway. Usually it's full of commuters or local idiots. 'Local idiots' is still the case since it's early on a Friday morning, they just have more space to spread out in.

The gaudy orange street lamps that appear and fade with each passing second are the only things I think that might be keeping me awake. They act as a clock - indicating how much time is ticking by since the distance between each could be the equivalent of a second. It might be slightly off, but if my maths is anything to go by, I'm into my twenty-second minute of my usual twenty-three minute drive from my home in Thornton Heath to St. George's Hospital in Tooting where I've recently transferred. Well, my maths and the big concrete sign that tells me I'm a minute early as I drive past.