A Rush of Blood to the Head

Crushing, Sinking to Something

"How long have we been doing this for?" Peter asked as he pumped away against Dennis' chest.

Malik glanced at the clock above the side door leading into the next trauma room. "Fifteen minutes," he responded.

As Peter began to slow his pace, John gawked at him, unable to comprehend why he was giving up so quickly. It was hardly quick, but to him, it felt like seconds, not minutes. Then he saw him stop. "No," John uttered in a distressed moan. "You can't!"

"Carter, it's over. He's gone."

He all but shoved Peter out of the way and took over compressions. "You're not trying hard enough."

"John, stop," Maggie placed her hand on his shoulder, only for it to be wrenched away with a quick shrug.

"No. I won't. There must be something we can do," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"We've already done everything we could," She tried to break him off again by pulling him away and just about whispered to him, "Come on. Let him go."

Gradually, unwittingly, John broke away and dropped backwards into her arms, as if something in his mind shoved his willpower out of the way and let rationality take over. It lasted for all but a couple of seconds when John's eyes trailed up to Peter.

"I'm calling it," Peter announced. "Time of death–"

"No way," John's voice came flat and empty of emotion. "You bring him back."

"I can't."

"There's gotta be something else. Some kind of procedure or-or– I don't know, something! Otherwise, whats the fucking point of us?!" A sudden impulse seemed to come from deep within him, transforming him into somebody else entirely. John darted to Peter, putting him in a corner in the trauma room. "You bring him back, do you understand me, Peter fucking Benton?" John screamed out, voice nearly giving out, repeatedly whacking him across the chest with fists. "Do you?!" His outcries turned into sobbing, and his once balled up hands relaxed and gripped at Peter's scrubs.

Malik hesitated to speak up for a few moments, nervous and uncomfortable. He'd never seen John this way before. Quiet despondency, sure, but not this. No-one had. Even if he did say something, he wasn't sure if it would come out right. It wasn't until after Maggie motioned towards the main door, indicating they should leave the two alone, that he said something at last. "I'm sorry, Doctor Carter."

Those four words were lost on John at that point. The only two things he could hear and perceive was his own weeping and a whooshing sound, akin to air blowing past his ears as he fell. He was falling, right into a dark fissure from which there was no escape.

The two men stood embraced, amidst the mess of blood, latex gloves and tear away gowns surrounding the gurney where Dennis' body laid lifeless and cold. The world around them seemed not to exist.

**********************

Peter Benton stood by the hospital's pay phone, wondering just what he'd say to them. It should have been easy enough — 'Carter's taking a turn for the worse,' would have sufficed — but it proved to be a difficult task. He felt uneasy being there, staring at the phone. He should be in there with John. Not that he would have noticed, with him still sleeping soundly.

Eventually, Peter picked up the phone and called the ER for a second time. "Hey, Jerry. Is Mark there?"

The whole time Peter had left John on his own in his ICU room, he stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. It was over, he knew it. There was no way he could work like this, and that killed him more than the condition itself. He spent most of his life dedicating himself to becoming a medical professional, sat through ridicule and contempt for it, and now he could lose all he lost blood, sweat and tears for, all because he didn't think of the repercussions of his self-harm. He didn't care at the time, but he wished he had.