The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 31 - The Miracle

You can't bear it.  He's dead.   After all you've both been through.  After all the bonding and loving and caring.  You feel cursed.  You sob uncontrollably at the unfairness of life; at all the years of unhappiness Brahms suffered; at the short, so short, time he had happiness with you.   Most of all you weep for yourself because now life doesn't even seem worth living anymore.  How can you stay here alone when every corner and brick of the place echoes with reminders of him?   This house he grew up in.  This childhood home?

Slowly, so slowly, you raise your head and stare down at him.   His eyes are closed, he looks peaceful, asleep.  The puddle of blood gleams darkly on the polished floor, seeping into the cracks between the parquet blocks.   He's still warm.  You press your lips to his.  One last kiss.  A fresh wave of grief as you realise that all he is will decay to dust beneath the soil; you'll never look into those eyes again; feel the safe haven of his arms;  feel him inside...

You tenderly lower his head to the floor, then stare at your blood smothered hands.  His head lolls to the side and you see the gash the bullet made.  It gapes like a mouth filled with gore.  You see it move.  You watch it pulse.  Dead men don't bleed.

He's alive!

'Brahms!'   You lift an eyelid.   His pupils are dilated.  You scramble to your feet, then run to the kitchen, rummaging in one of the drawers until you find what you're looking for.  Running back, you kneel beside him, then shine the torch into his eyes.  The pupils contract.

'Oh, God...Brahms?'

He's unresponsive.   You put an ear to his mouth and hear him breathing shallow breaths.  His pulse is slow but strong.  Brahms is too tall and heavy for you to lift.  You get a cushion and place it beneath his head, then reach for the phone.  Mid-dial, you stop and replace the receiver.   If you ring the ambulance, you'll have to ring the police.   The medics will know this is a gunshot wound and the cops will want answers.   Nobody knows Brahms exists...not officially. They'll want to know who shot him.  If they arrest Elias, they could trace Joel, and if they find Joel, Brahms will be arrested for his murder.

You only take a moment to decide.  Taking Brahms beneath the armpits, you drag him into the lounge.    The flooring is thick carpet.  You pull the cushions off the couch and make a bed for him, keeping his head propped up.   You put towels beneath his head to soak up the blood while you turn the kitchen upside down searching for a first aid box.  You find one beneath the sink, tear it apart and take what you need.   Setting a pan to boil, you ransack Mrs Heelshire's sewing box  until you find some needles and thread, and a pair of embroidery scissors.  Then you take a thin plastic straw from the drinks cupboard and cut it in half.  You sterilise these  items in the boiling water, scrub your hands,  then set to work on Brahms.

First you clip away all the hair around the wound.  For the first time, you get a good look at it.  The gash is five inches long and has cut through the skin and muscle just above his left ear as precisely as a surgeon's scalpel.  You see the wink of pale bone, grit your teeth and douse the cut with TCP.   This washes away most of the gore, and you see none of the skull has been damaged.  With a pair of tweezers you pick out two tiny bits of hair, then set to work sewing up the wound.  You have no idea what kind of stitches to use, but you know they are usually individual ones, so tie each off with a double knot and snip. Between the last two stitches, you insert the piece of straw.  You remember seeing a documentary on TV about an operation on a head wound where the doctor put in a drain to stop pressure building behind the skin.  Sure enough, you watch as blood drips down the straw.   He's not bleeding as fast now.  You place a square of medical gauze over the wound, then sit back on your heels.

Delayed shock sets in and you kneel, trembling.  Now, it's a waiting game.  He'll either rally or die.  You've done your best.  You take his limp hand in yours and kiss the back of it.  'You've got concussion, Brahms.   Another inch with that bullet and you'd be dead for sure.   But I'm here.  You're not gonna die.   I won't let you.'

You fetch some  blankets and cover him.  His breathing is heavier.  His pulse still strong.  You don't want to leave him but need to get a signal for your phone.  You go outside, warily searching for Elias.  But you know he's gone.  He'll be halfway to the airport by now.  He won't dare stay in this country for fear of arrest.  He thinks he's killed Brahms.

Google tells you about concussion and head injuries.   You dash back inside and kneel down next to Brahms.   You need to see if he'll wake.

'Brahms?   Wake up, Brahms.  Talk to me.  Can you hear me?'

You slap his cheeks gently.   His breathing changes.   'Brahms!   Come on, speak to me.'

His eyelids flutter and he blinks up at you as though he's having great difficulty focusing.  You give a sob of relief and smile down at him.  'Stay with me, Brahms.   Try to stay awake for a while.'

He does his best to comply.  'Y/N,' he croaks.

'Yes, it's me.  I'm here.  Elias missed.  The bullet cut a groove in your scalp and knocked you out. You probably banged  your head on the floor as you fell too judging from that bruise on your forehead.' 

He smiles up at you and your heart lurches with relief.  But you know he's not out of the woods yet.   You have to see him get through the next 24 hours before you know if any real damage has been done.

'Can you stand, Brahms.  We need to get you off the floor and onto the couch.  You'll be more comfortable.  Lean on me.'

Slowly, painfully, you get him to his feet.   He sinks into the soft down filled cushions with a groan, then asks for water.   He drinks two glasses then falls asleep.  The bleeding from the straw has stopped.  You lie on the opposite couch.  It's going to be a long night.