To Build a Home

Pneumonia Is No Fun

"Donna!" Harvey practically bellowed out his office door and into the hallway, not caring that people were starting to stare at him. He was sure that it made for a good sight— the normally impenetrable Harvey Specter standing in his office, holding a very sick, half-conscious teenager up by the armpits. Normally he would be more concerned about his image in front of his coworkers and subordinates, but he had other problems on his hands right now— literally. Of course Donna had chosen this exact moment to go to bathroom.

He dragged Mike over to the couch (the kid was too damn skinny, it shouldn't have been this easy to pull the dead weight of someone only a few inches shorter than him) and sat him down gently before stepping back to assess the situation anxiously. Mike was just sitting there, slowly blinking. He clearly wasn't recognizing his surroundings and it was freaking Harvey out. He didn't know anything about illnesses— Harvey Specter did not get sick— but what if whatever ailed Mike was something life threatening? How could you tell these things without going to medical school or being a mother?

He tried his best to remember any useful medical trivia from his high school health class, but all that he could come up with was an alarming mental image of the live birth video they had been forced to watch all those years ago. He tried to tamper down the unfamiliar emotion that was steadily rising within his chest, but it wasn't going away and it felt a lot like panic. And Harvey Specter definitely didn't panic over anything.

"Donna!" He hollered again to combat the helpless feeling sweeping through him. Donna would know exactly what to do, but it wouldn't do Mike any good if she didn't get here soon.

It looked like he was going to have to at least start dealing with this on his own until Donna finished peeing or writing a novel or rollerblading to Siberia and back or doing whatever the hell it was that was delaying her so much. Right— first things first. Harvey tentatively reached out and placed his hand on Mike's forehead, cringing at the heat he felt there— definitely a fever.

Mike's eyelids fluttered briefly open at the contact, revealing hazy, fever-bright blue eyes, which Harvey added to his mental list of symptoms. Mike tried to lean into the coolness of Harvey's hand before his head lolled to the side and he gave up and drifting back to sleep or unconsciousness— Harvey couldn't tell which. Lethargy.

He then added Mike's unhealthy pallor, flushed cheeks, and perspiring brow to the list, satisfied with his budding talent as a diagnostician. But perhaps the most troubling symptom was Mike's labored breathing— he was wheezing and taking breaths that were far too shallow to be natural, not to mention the slight rattling noise his chest was making upon inhaling and exhaling.

Mike's eyes opened again as he descended into the throes of another coughing fit. It made Harvey's chest hurt in sympathy listening to the kid struggle to clear his congested lungs.

"Jesus Christ, Donna, where have you been?!" Harvey half-shouted with poorly-disguised relief as his secretary finally reentered his office. Then he noticed that she was already carrying a thermometer and a wet washcloth. "How do you do that?" He asked in bewilderment.

"I'm Donna. I know everything," she said mysteriously before kneeling down by Mike. Harvey raised an eyebrow at her. "Okay, fine. One of the temps came and told me what he saw and I figured it was faster to get supplies right away rather than come here and have to leave to get them later."

"You can't leave," Harvey said, trying not to sound panicky. "Donna, seriously, I have no clue what I'm doing right now—"

She just ignored him. "Wake up, sweetie," she said softly, gently smoothing the hair off Mike's sweaty forehead.

Mike blinked a few times. "Donna?" he croaked.

"I hear you don't feel so good, huh?" Donna said.