A Rush of Blood to the Head

Selfless

The sound of his pristine white shoes slamming down hard against the floor echoed throughout the hallway. He was running, but his footing was unstable. Carrying a man weighing fifty-five kilos whilst sprinting was no easy feat, but he did it. He had to. He ran so hard, his chest burned as if he had a sudden, horrible bout of heartburn.

Narrowly, he dodged other doctors and nurses. A noise he didn't even realise he could produce, one that was a mixture of grunting and wailing, had escaped his throat.

Arriving in the ER, finally among faces of people he recognised, people he could trust, he stopped. Some nurses and interns looked at Peter with curiosity and shock, with an inward admonition to do something before they became suspicious.

He caught his breath and screamed out, "Come on, I need some help!"

It caught the attention of Carol and the other nurses at the desk.

"Oh, God," Carol murmured. She motioned for Lydia and Chuny to come with her. "Is he–?"

Peter marginally shook his head. "Unconscious."

"Trauma one," They passed Mark as he was examining a patient. "Mark, we need you!"

"Son of a–" He immediately stopped what he was doing, excused himself and rushed after them. By the time he joined them, John was already on the gurney. While slipping into a thin, yellow gown and latex gloves, he asked Lydia, "What's going on?"

"Heart rate, thirty-nine, BP is seventy-one over twenty, pulse ox is eighty-nine percent," Lydia said.

"What happened, Benton?"

"I-I don't know," Peter replied. "He was fine, then he stood up–"

"And collapsed?" Mark finished.

How did–? Never mind. "Yeah. He said something about a condition. Any idea what it is?"

"Well, he hasn't been around much to be checked, but best guess? Dysautonomia," Mark looked to Chuny. "Start an IV, Dopamine, eight milligrammes; one-milligramme Atropine, push."

Carol, without hesitation, bagged him and gave him some artificial air through a mask.

Tucked into the corner of the trauma room, Peter stood with arms wrapped around himself. Though he wouldn't ever admit it, it scared him to lose John.

Bit by bit, John opened his eyes, only just enough to see Carol leaning over his head.

After double-taking, she kept her sights on him. "Mark?" She tapped him on his arm with her free hand. "He's coming to."

Mark gave John a slow smile. A small victory, but with his vitals still on the low side, he knew it might not last long. "Carter, can you hear me?"

John stared beyond them, chocolate brown eyes focused on something unseen to everyone else.

"Carter?"

He peered around the mustard yellow room, barely keeping his attention on one thing for more than a millisecond, eyeballs straining to look at the beeping monitors above the crown of his head. He didn't have the energy to fully move. In the end, he landed on Peter, where he anchored his gaze.

Noticing this, a Sisyphean smile flashed across Peter's face as he meagrely waved to him.

"He's unresponsive," Mark noted, then turned to Peter. "Did he hit his head?"

"He's just waking up, Mark," Carol insisted.

"I don't think so," Peter told him.

Carol glanced at the monitor before stopping assisted breathing. "Sat's back up. BP is climbing and so is his pulse."