Fix Me | Phan High School AU

Chapter Fifteen

A/N: I've run out of procrastination time.

Dang flabbit.

(dan and phil have mentioned they don't mind us writing fanfic, right? I know they have [I think] but you know me.)

I'm writing this while listening to the Sherlock parody by the Hillywood show

Boy I'm shook

Phil's POV:

I have been sitting in this stupid, plastic chair in this stupid, cream colored waiting room for nearly an hour.

There are only four others in the room: a man in his twenties who had told everyone multiple times that he was going to be a father, a mean-looking, heavy set, Scottish woman who had only spoken once—to the man--since she had sat down ("If you don't shut yer mouth then your baby's arse won't be the only thing gettin' a beatin' t'night!"), a blonde girl who had to excuse herself after she went into a fit of coughing, and an elderly man. I genuinely hope that he is asleep and not dead.

The shock of the whole event had worn off on the way to the hospital, and I was able to actually process what had happened. I always had the idea in the back of my mind that one day it would come down to this, my father killing someone. Although I didn't realize what it would actually feel like.

The minute the numbness finally wore off, the realization hit me like a stack of bricks. I began hyperventilating and they had to call in a nurse to calm me down. She couldn't give me any shots or medication since the doctors still hadn't given me a proper checkup, so she just kind of kneeled next to me for twenty minutes.

After I recovered I was sent to wait until someone could see me and make sure I wasn't about to have a seizure for brain damage or anything like that. Which is quite dumb considering how long I had been waiting.

Finally, the door swung open and a Doctor stuck his head out.

"Phillip Lester?"

Everyone but me slouched back down, the Scottish woman swore, I wonder how long she has been here? I stood up quicker than I should have, the blood rushing to my head and another sharp throb pulsing through my nerves. "Ah..." I winced, leaning against the wall for support.

"Careful." The doctor stepped forward and helped me regain my balance. One I was able to stand up again, he lead me back into the hallway.

The walls were plain and boring, the only decoration was the occasional painting.

Finally, we reached a room full of equipment, and I was ushered inside.

"Alright Phil, my name is Dr. Milson. If you could just take a seat on the cot, I'll take your blood pressure real quick and we can get started!"

I sat down carefully on the paper covered seat, shifting around. I hated hospitals so much, particularly after my last visit. I've been clean for five months, but the whole mood of hospitals made me uneasy. I felt like my returning after only a few months was a taunting way for the universe to pick at my healing wounds.

Dr. Milson wrapped the sphygmomanometer cuff around my arm and recorded my blood pressure. I gritted my teeth in pain as the sleeve squeezed the bruises on my bicep, although I kept my pain silent. Finally, the tension was released and the doctor unwrapped the sleeve. I noticed the recognition in his eyes first, then the rest of his body as he seemed to recoil in shock. This seemed to be the normal reaction when someone saw my scars.

"Phil..."

"I've been clean for three months, I already had therapy. I'm fine." The last bit was a lie, I was pretty close to having an anxiety attack at the moment.