A Rush of Blood to the Head

Claustrophobic

The CT scanner seemed so much more menacing when he was the patient. He would have given anything to be on the other side of that window. Anything to be where Mark was going to be. He didn't want to be there. It made him feel sick and alone, but what could he do? It had to be done.

"You okay, Carter?" Mark asked.

John fidgeted with his hospital gown, straightening it out incessantly. "I've never been in one of these things before."

"It's pretty straightforward. Want me to talk you through it?" A wave of John's hand was enough of an answer for him. "Alright," Mark intoned. "But if you get anxious, let us know."

"Sure," John answered. "I will."

"I mean it. No more hiding anything from us."

Why not? Benton is. "You got it," he lied. Besides, he'd rather not be any more of a burden than he already was.

"You sure you don't want some Lorazepam?"

"No," he lied again. "I'm not even sure it would help."

Mark gave him a thin-lipped smile and nodded. "Okay. Lie back, we'll get started."

The feeling of every muscle tensing in anticipation was worse than the actual event itself. That was until he laid back, his head being stuck in a cradle and a protective cover put across his body, and the tube of the machine loomed over him like a giant hand waiting for its plaything. John's comfort zone disappeared into darkness, waving farewell with a silk handkerchief. He tightly shut his eyes and blocked it out. Deep within the recesses of his brain, memories coalesced, a welcome distraction.

He remembered the way it felt to laugh uncontrollably until he got the hiccups, how amazing it was to be calm for once. He thought of that one time he rolled over onto his stomach and discovered Dennis in bed next to him. That came as a surprise, and it only happened once, unfortunately. A drunken mishap, he told him. Then he pretended he was aloof, when it couldn't have been farther from the case. Now, he stopped caring, and he hated it. It still didn't stop him from destroying himself. He didn't have a reason to stop. It wasn't about grieving any more. It broke him to be without Dennis, and that left him feeling empty. Worthless.

John started shaking, crying inaudibly. He didn't even notice he started.

"Doctor Carter," the technician said over the loudspeaker. "I need you to stop moving, please."

He couldn't help it. There was an attempt, an effort to swallow down the lump in his throat. Through his tremors, he whimpered, "I'm sorry."

Mark leaned over the microphone, pressed a button and spoke into it. "Carter, try to relax."

Relax? That was a difficult task for someone who was on edge lately, and more to the point, how could he?

He felt something, as if someone were holding his hand. Then, almost instantaneously, John's anxiety dulled to a degree. With each exhale, his heart thumped hard once and resumed beating quick, gradually slowing. He wanted to panic, but every other part of him became too wiped out to allow it. His mind and body said it was done. Before he knew it, he was falling asleep, although the occasional knocking and whirring from the machine woke him right up.

The noises were becoming unbearable; something about it seemed to amp up John's unease all over again. He was acutely aware of how trapped he was, which didn't help. A tendril of fear seized his chest, but that didn't mean he couldn't still hyperventilate.