A Rush of Blood to the Head

Amissa Spe, Taking You With Me

Dennis Gant Snr. rushed to get things tidied up after he let John inside. "Excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting- What are you doing here?"

"I remembered the address, from the wake a few days ago, and- I honestly don't know," John replied, wincing as memories resurfaced. Once they subsided, he considered it a moment longer. "Well, I do, but I'm not sure I should have come."

"Is it about my son?"

His stomach twisted into knots, shoulders tensing up with every second he stood there in the foyer. "It is, actually. Um, maybe we should sit down."

Dennis agreed, though it made him uneasy. "I'll get us something to drink," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Water okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine," John spotted a family photo on the fireplace mantle. There he was, his best friend, his colleague, Dennis Jnr. It looked fairly recent. "Nice to see him happy."

He walked back to John, a glass of water in each hand. Dennis Snr. gave one to him and sat down. "Yes. Though I'm not so certain it was authentic now."

John's eyes flicked from his water to Dennis Snr., and back, then he took a sip. He was unsure too, but it still was a welcome sight. One that he greatly missed.

"He talked about you a lot."

That snared John's attention, just about making him miss the sofa entirely. "Me? Really?" Then his face went blank, the reality sinking in that, perhaps, he talked about too much. "Oh, God, did he-?"

"Relax son," He chuckled. "Me and my friends got into all sorts of things. I expected it. In fact," Dennis Snr. held up a finger, rose to his feet and headed into another room. Within seconds, he came back with a box. "Dennis' letters. I thought you'd like to have these."

"Oh, I couldn't."

"It's okay. Really. I made copies after-" He stopped there before he got choked up.

John, on the other hand, couldn't help it. He didn't full-on bawl his eyes out - he'd wait until he got to his hotel room for that - but he did tear up some. John set his glass down on the coffee table and took the box in both hands. "Thanks," he uttered, almost whispering. "This'll give me something to read on the flight home."

"Of course. Now, what's this about my son?"

"Well," John popped the box of letters under the table, and then stared earnestly at his friend's father. "I have some questions, if I may, about your son. You identified the body, correct?"

"As best as I could," He imperceptibly shrugged. "I don't have to tell you how-"

John nodded along and held up his hands. "I know. I don't mean to doubt your judgement, it's just I can't help but feel that maybe-"

"- It wasn't him?" he hazarded a guess.

"Yeah. Maybe I'm still in denial, I don't know."

Dennis Snr. dolefully smiled. "I've often wondered that, myself. If my boy would really do something like that. But if he didn't, he would have called. Right?"

It now truthfully struck him that it wasn't a good idea. It was stupid, if not inconsiderate, to not only bring up a sore subject, but to do something just to make himself feel better. John was more amicable than that, and he knew it.

"You know what? I shouldn't have- I'm sorry, Mister Gant. I, uh... I should just go," John plucked up the box, and one last time said, "I'm sorry."

"Wait."

John felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving. Gradually, he looked at him. A hint of guilt shone in John's eyes, prior to them rolling back into his head. The cardboard box slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor, papers spilling out. The next thing to plummet to the floor was John, with a harsh thud.

Dennis Snr. tried desperately to wake him to no avail. He felt for a pulse; it was rapid. Moving quickly, he grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa and gently placed it beneath John's head and rolled him onto his side. He checked his skull for blood. There was none. He was about to call for an ambulance when, suddenly, John came to.

"Doctor Carter," Dennis Snr. took hold of his forearm. "Are you okay?"

His eyes scanned the room for familiarity. For a few seconds, he couldn't recall where he was. It dawned on him when he saw the older, six-foot, bearded man hovering over him; he was still at the Gant family's house.

"I passed out, didn't I?" John asked.

"I think so."

"Oh, great," he moaned. With a grunt, he got back to his feet. Dennis Snr. attempted to help him up, but John declined it. "I'm okay. It happens to me sometimes," He went on, trying to shake off the sinking feeling that he was getting worse. His stumbling about only confirmed it.

"Easy, son. Sit down and drink some more water."

He had no problem with that. John held the glass with both of his shaky hands and started out sipping, then eventually gulped it down.

"Do you want me to call someone?"

John nearly choked and spat out his water. "No," he managed to say in between coughing fits. "It's fine."

"You don't look so good."

He was right. John appeared sickly pale and had dark patches around his eyes.

John plonked the glass on to a mahogany end table. Some water splashed out just from the force. He wilted into the sofa, desperately wanting to sleep right then and there.

"Maybe you should spend the night."

"I don't want to impose," John said.

"Don't worry about it. Go. Get yourself cleaned up and take a nap."

A nice, hot shower, or even a bath, and sleep sounded amazing. Rest and relaxation, something John didn't get any more. It came with being a surgeon, which he wasn't at the moment. So, in the rare chance he could, John took advantage of this downtime.

John agreed, slowly got up, and asked, "Where is your bathroom?"

"Upstairs, two doors to the left," he answered. Dennis Snr. watched him potter off up the stairs, then reached for the phone. He remembered the number for the hospital his son worked at and dialled. He'd gotten someone at the surgery reception desk on the line. "Yes, I have a message for Doctor Benton."