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Close To Home

by Writer JC

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Steve Sloan slipped quietly into the beach house, closing the door gently behind himself. He paused as he reached the top of the foyer steps, catching the very faint sound of falling water. Caution gave way to an exasperated sigh as he continued on at a more normal pace. There was no more need to creep through the house as his dad was obviously up and taking a shower. So much for hoping he would have slept in after an exhausting extended shift the night before.

Exasperation changed rapidly to an affectionate grin. What else had he expected? His father wasn't much for sleeping in, even though he did finally have a day off. As he moved into the kitchen, and toward the file folder that was his reason for returning home in the first place, the grin and thoughts of his father were still with him. He paused in a moment of introspection to truly take a look around the spotless abode. There were so many memories here - breakfasts, laughter, case files. If he just closed his eyes, he could almost taste some of them. Suddenly bypassing the folder on his way to the refrigerator, he cast a glance at his watch. 9:39 A.M. Yes, he should just have enough time to return the favor in a small way.

Minutes later, he breathed in the rich aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon. All that remained to be done was to scramble the eggs. He'd save the toast for when his father arrived in the kitchen. He smiled as he imagined the look on the older man's face when he stepped out of the bathroom and caught a whiff of his morning surprise. Of course, he would then feel the urge to 'investigate'. Steve especially enjoyed the image that brought. His father would appear in the entry to the kitchen, his gray hair tousled, smiling that loving smile especially reserved for those he loved. Right on cue, the sound of the shower stopped. It was time to make the eggs.

With quick motions, he removed the bacon to paper towels to drain. He wanted to be sure everything was ready when his father appeared in the kitchen. Figuring he had five minutes at best, he reached into the refrigerator for the egg carton then flipped the lid open. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. There was only one egg remaining, and it had a decidedly unappetizing little crack down the side which was oozing something yellow.

"Great," he grumbled. How was he supposed to do a surprise bacon and egg breakfast without the eggs? Another quick glance at his watch alerted him that time was running out. Then he remembered the gas station across the street. Sure, he was going to pay highway robbery prices, but if he ran, he could make it to the store and back before his father appeared. He hoped.

<>=<>=<>

Mark Sloan ran the towel briskly over his head a final time before placing it around his shoulders. Looking into the bathroom mirror, still partially steamed, he stared at his reflection. There were lines of tiredness around his eyes, and if he was honest with himself, he'd admit that he could use a couple more hours of sleep. But he just couldn't remain in bed any longer. There were too many other things that he'd rather be doing on his day off. One of which was to go to the market. Both his and Steve's lives had been far too hectic of late and the cupboards were getting bare.

Deciding that there was really no time like the present, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the cooler air of his bedroom. The remnants of steam and the smell of shampoo and soap followed him, then dissipated in favor of the wonderful twin aromas of coffee and bacon.

"Steve," he murmured, a smile lighting his features and warmth encompassing his heart. He was sure his son would have left hours ago for work. Quickly dressing, he followed his nose.

"You really didn't have to . . . " he began as he entered the kitchen. His smile faded away as he encountered an empty room.

<>=<>=<>

Steve kept a careful watch on the young man who was hovering near the front of the store. He thought the young man looked a lot like Jonah Andersen's son. What was his name? Jimmy? Timmy? Steve wasn't sure. The age looked about right, anyway. Although, the last time he'd seen Jonah's son, a couple years prior, before Jonah and his wife had split up, the young man had been more clean cut. Not the scraggly, baggily dressed teen before him. Worse, when he moved, Steve could detect an ominous bulge just about waist level beneath his shirt tails.

"Earle, you're killing me with these prices," Steve called to the burly man at the counter. Earle Tatum had run the counter at the gas station/convenience store for as long as Steve could remember. The man had seen kids come and go. He and Steve had once joked that the older man could pick out a shoplifter on sight. More, Earle knew all of the kids in the neighborhood who frequented his store.

"What is it that you want from me? I've got to make a living somehow." Earle joked back. But Steve looked across the rows of merchandise into the man's eyes, and saw the seriousness in the brown gaze. Earle had spotted the young man, too.

"Maybe you could give me the cop's discount," Steve suggested, emphasizing the word 'cop' ever so slightly. "I am sorta on duty, you know."

The kid's head jerked in Steve's direction for half a second, before his gaze shifted quickly away. Then an expression that Steve could only describe as surprise tinged with fear settled across his features as he focused on something on the opposite side of the large glass windows. Steve turned further to see what had caused such a reaction. The only thing he noticed was an old black and red Cadillac pulling into the parking lot. The vehicle was overflowing with young men who appear to be dressed in like fashion as the teen before him.

Steve refocused his attention on the young man only to find that he was already being watched. Their gazes locked for several moments, blue looking into blue. Steve thought he saw something there, as if the youngster desperately wanted to say something to him. Then, the boy's features hardened, and he began to move steadily toward the door and out into the parking lot. It was not until the glass door slipped shut behind him that Steve caught the motion as he reached beneath the hem of his shirt.

<>=<>=<>

"Steve? Son?" Mark called, a frown marring his brow as he took in the open egg carton sitting on the counter near an empty pan bearing a bit of butter. There was also bacon for two draining on paper towels, and the coffee pot was full of what smelled like fresh coffee. Under normal circumstances his mouth would be watering. But he was curious about the son that he wanted to thank. Unfortunately, that son was nowhere in sight.

<>=<>=<>

"Call the police," Steve murmured toward Earle as he moved out after the kid. Something in his gut warned him that things were not quite right. The young man was headed quickly toward a faded blue Dodge parked a several spaces over from an outside storage building. His body language screamed trouble, as he moved, head down, practically running toward the Dodge.

"Jimmy!" One of the young men in the convertible yelled his name, and still he did not turn, but continued on toward the blue vehicle. Steve, watching the drama unfold with increased alarm, did turn. And that's when he caught the motion of an upraised arm.

<>=<>=<>

Moving closer to the counter, Mark picked up the carton, noting the single cracked egg. He placed it absently back onto the surface and moved on. His hand next settled on the McClellan case file which sat off to one side of the counter. Surely Steve wouldn't have left without that. Wondering if perhaps his son had headed back downstairs, he left the kitchen and headed toward the top of the steps leading to the lower part of the house. That was when he heard the sound.

Pop!

Initially he frowned in confusion. But then the sound was followed by the more distinctive rat-a-tat of automatic weapons fire. And it sounded as if it was coming from across the street. Mark gasped, feeling as if his heart had dropped to his toes. With little thought for his own safety, he rushed out of the front door and toward the driveway, confirming his worst fear. There sat Steve's police sedan. There was no one inside of it.

<>=<>=<>

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Steve tackled the younger man, pulling him to the ground as automatic weapons fire sailed over their heads. Jimmy, having had no expectation of the move, completely lost his balance, falling heavily against Steve's left side as they both impacted the hard concrete.

Steve grunted as he felt something give in his shoulder. Only adrenaline kept him going as he pushed the young man up to his knees and around to the far side of the car away from the buddies who had decided they wanted to kill him. It wasn't until they were there, leaning against the side of that car that he realized just how 'wrong' his left arm felt. Almost immediately the pain started, an agonizing throbbing sensation that radiated through his upper arm and along the side of his neck. His legs gave out on him, and instead of crouching behind the car, he found his backside firmly settled on the ground with his right shoulder propped up against the side of the car.

"Man, I think your arm's gone out," the frantic teen stated the obvious, speaking for the first time.

Steve, calling on every stubborn gene in his body, bit back a sarcastic remark and tried to pull himself together. The pain in his shoulder was growing steadily worse, and they couldn't stay out in the open. Waiting for back up wasn't much of an option either. Already he could hear the other vehicle's doors being opened. The only light in the situation was that there were no other patrons at the station. He hoped it stayed that way.

Reaching to his side, he removed his gun right-handedly. "What are the chances I can talk some sense into these guys?" he asked.

Jimmy made a sarcastic noise. "Slim to none."

"That's what I thought." Still, he carefully levered himself up, and yelled over the hood of the car. "I'm a police officer and back up is on the way. Put down your weapons."

He fully expected the laughter and derisive comments he received in response. Then, surprisingly the laughter began to die away, and he could make out the sound of a police siren. It sounded close. Running footsteps and squealing tires followed as the young delinquents quit the scene. Pushing himself up the side of the car, he attempted to focus on the retreating license plate.

One of the young men leaning out of the passenger window raised his gun and fired. It was a lucky shot. The bullet impacted the Dodge's gas tank causing a small explosion. The entire back end of the car jolted, knocking Steve off his feet. Off balance, and unable to control his momentum, he was along for the ride as his body was hurled backward into the side of the storage building. The pain receptors in his brain registered momentarily off the scale before he crumpled to the ground senseless.

<>=<>=<>

Mark arrived in the parking lot of Earle's station and paused at the sight of a vehicle burning off to one side of the lot near a storage building. The explained the explosion he'd heard after activating the siren in Steve's car. It occurred to him to wonder, and hope, that someone had called 911.

Beyond the flickering of flames, nearer the storage building, he could make out two figures who appeared to be engaged in heated debate. Neither of them looked like his son. He quickly scanned the rest of the area and saw no one. Where was Steve?

Moving quickly in the direction of the two arguing forms, Mark put a hand up to his eyes. The heat form the fire made it difficult to see clearly. One of the men, that he could finally identify as Earle, pointed to the ground at the something between himself and the other man. Mark's eyes followed the motion and he squinted. Suddenly he could see, and he knew.

"Oh, no. Steve," he breathed. His jog became a run as he identified the crumpled form between Earle and the blonde-haired teenager.

"Dr. Sloan," Earle's voice was heavily tinged with relief. "I didn't think we should move him," he said, revealing the cause of the previous debate. The teenager stood uncertainly by, seemingly having nothing more to say.

Earle continued, "I think we're far enough away from the car. It's probably done all it's going to do anyway. The fire looks like it's dying down."

"You've called 911?" Mark asked looking up from a stooped position near where Steve lay, slumped against the storage building, his long legs stretched out against the concrete. Sandy hair hung haphazardly over his brow while his head drooped in the direction of an obviously dislocated shoulder. His left, Mark noted. His heart ached at the pain and damage that he knew could be caused by such an injury. He half-hoped that his son would remain unconscious long enough to have the reduction procedure, which would bring the shoulder back into alignment, done.

"What happened?" Mark asked, after registering Earle's positive response to his earlier question. He placed two fingers against the pulse points at Steve's left wrist, checking for circulation. The teenager's replay of the events was lost as Steve began to stir at his touch, making a weak attempt to move his head. Immediately his face creased in pain.

"Steve? Son, can you hear me?" Mark called to his offspring, hoping for some type of response that would help him further gauge his son's condition. As there was no obvious external bleeding, what remained were injuries that were more difficult to diagnose in the field.

Steve groaned deep in his throat, and struggled to open his eyes. "Dad?" The word came out more as a breathy sigh.

"Yes, son?" Mark leaned forward, hoping to get a closer look into his son's eyes. A concussion was a sure bet, but he really needed to see his pupils. But Steve squinted then squeezed his eyes shut.

"Dad. . . I. . . eggs. I . . . "

"Relax, son," Mark tried to reassure him. "It's alright. Try not to move. You have a complete anterior dislocation of your left shoulder. Can you tell me if you hurt any where else?"

Steve gasped suddenly, and Mark could see the intense spasm as the muscles in his shoulder moved beneath the thin material of his t-shirt. Steve paled, and beads of perspiration broke out on his brow. He breathing became erratic as he made small frantic motions. "Sick. . . gonna be . . . "

Mark supported him as he tilted to the side, in agony, as his body revolted against the insult that had been inflicted upon it. Waves of his own sympathetic response washed over him, and he forced his mind onto the task of being the doctor, concentrating on the medical aspect of the situation.

The new sounds of approaching sirens brought a sigh of blessed relief. The paramedics arrived, along with two patrol cars. He was sure that the fire department wouldn't be far behind. He was familiar with both the EMTs staffing the ambulance, and quickly updated them on what he knew. The possibility of a field reduction was briefly discussed and discarded. Steve's arm and neck were quickly stabilized for transport and they were on their way.

<>=<>=<>

When Mark hurried into the ER alongside the gurney that carried his son, Dr. Jesse Travis was waiting for them at the doors. Having been notified of their pending arrival while the ambulance had been enroute, he wasn't surprised to see his friend and business partner stretched out on the moving bed. Nor was he surprised when Mark delivered the updated information on Steve's vitals and condition.

"Trauma One is set up and ready," Jesse responded, moving to one side of the gurney and helping to steer it along the corridor to the aforementioned area. He glanced gratefully toward Amanda as she placed a gentle hand on Mark's arm, holding him back as they wheeled Steve away.

"Okay. One my count. Nice and Easy. One. Two. Three." The transfer to the hospital gurney was carried out as gently as possible, but Jesse could tell that the jarring motion caused Steve a good bit of pain. "I know that hurt, buddy," he spoke soothingly, glancing up briefly as Mark eased his way into the room. "But we're going to get you all squared away real soon."

"Get an IV going with normal saline," he said. Then, focusing first on the loss of consciousness that had been reported, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.

"I'm going to check your eyes, now, Steve. I'm going to shine a light in them so I can look at your pupils." Though he knew that Steve had the procedure done several times in the past, the words helped him to maintain a professional distance if he treated him like any other patient.

"Pupils equal and reactive," he stated.

"Vitals?" he questioned the nurse, then satisfied with the results, continued, testing Steve's responses and asking several more questions, most of which served to frustrate the patient who was slightly dazed and in a lot of pain. But Jesse did not want to prescribe anything that might mask another potential problem.

"Okay, Steve," he said, finally satisfied. "The worst is almost over." Then focusing on the nurse, "I'm going to need a head CT, 1mg Versed and 2 of Morphine. Then tell Ortho we're ready for the shoulder X-ray." He rattled off several more instructions, then allowed the nurses to complete the necessary preparations as he turned toward his mentor.

Mark was leaning against the wall, looking completely exhausted. The worst of it might be over for Steve, who would soon be quite out of it. But they still had the reduction ahead of them, and the worry over possible fractures, rotator cuff problems and nerve damage. Jesse was certain that Mark would want to be on hand for all of that.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Trouble, Jesse," Mark responded, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. "Trouble happened, and he was right across the street from home."

"Then I guess it was a good thing you were there, too," he replied, trying to lift the older man's spirits. It didn't seem to be working.

"There wasn't an awful lot I could do."

"We're ready, Dr. Travis." A nurse called to him, and he turned and moved back toward the bed.

"You were there for him," Jesse told the older man. "Sometimes that's all it takes."

<>=<>=<>

Steve opened his eyes and found himself looking into a pair of worried blue eyes. "Dad?" He took in the room at a glance, knowing immediately where he was. How he'd gotten there was something of a blur. His last clear memory was of entering the beach house in search of a forgotten case folder. At some point since he'd acquired a sling and pain in his left shoulder, an IV, and a very fuzzy head no doubt brought on by the really good drugs.

"Welcome back, son."

"How'd I end up in here this time?" he asked. "And how long do I have to stay?"

"As long as it takes," Jesse called from the doorway, entering the room alongside Amanda.

"How are you feeling?" Amanda asked, leaning in to give his right arm a slight squeeze.

"Confused," he responded. "And a little like I partied too hard last night."

"You dislocated your left shoulder," Jesse said. "But the good news is that there are no fractures, and no nerve damage. You should make a full recovery. You also have a moderate concussion, which means you get to experience Community General's hospitality, at least for the night. If there are no problems, you'll be discharged first thing in the morning. But you do get to keep the sling for the next few days."

"Great," Steve grumbled, knowing that meant he'd be limited to desk duty for a while. "Well, that's one question answered."

"Do you remember going to Earle's station?" his father asked.

Steve started to shake his head, but then the memory began to come back in snatches. The teenager, the boys in the Cadillac, the guns, the explosion. Then he remembered why he'd gone to the store in the first place: to get eggs so he could surprise his father with breakfast. He looked up at his father with a wry smile. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry about the kitchen, Dad."

His father smiled affectionately. "No problem, son. It was a lovely thought. Thank you."

Steve returned the smile, allowing his gaze to linger with his father for a moment. "What happened with Jimmy? The last thing I remember is hearing the sirens before the car exploded."

Mark frowned. "Jimmy was fine. But there were no. . . " His eyes widened in realization, then his expression sobered and he murmured. "Oh dear."

"What?" Steve looked to Jesse and Amanda then back to his father. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, I heard the gun shots and ran out to your car and started that siren. The police really weren't on their way yet."

Relief flooded his system. "I'm glad you did, Dad. We were in a very bad position, trapped behind that car with me trying to use my gun right-handed. You probably saved our lives."

"I told you that it was good thing you were there," Jesse chimed up, smugly.

Mark shot a sheepish look around the room. "The neighbors might not think so. I don't think I ever turned it off."

Steve sputtered. "Dad!"

"Surely the officers at the scene. . . . I think I've got a couple phone calls to make," Mark replied, leaving the room in a hurry.

Steve shook his head and laughed with Jesse and Amanda as they watched him go. His dad was truly one of a kind, and he wouldn't have him any other way.

<>The End<>


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End Notes: Occasionally stories seem to spawn ideas of their own. This one is attempting to spawn at least one other surrounding the kind of trouble the our favorite DM characters can find in the most innocuous of places. The next story in this (loosely called) Trouble series is "The Supermarket". After all, the cupboards are bare and at least one of our boys is going to be very bored soon. This is probably a bad idea, but stay tuned anyway if you're so inclined.

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