Page 182 of Detectives in Love
“I love you,” I say—and hear him let out a sharp sigh.
“Shut up,” he mutters, then yells off to the side, “Willand! Get the paramedics, now!”
That’s when I close my eyes and let the weight of everything I’ve been holding back finally take me under.
***
For a long, long time, I float in darkness—voices swarm faintly around me, muffled and distant. My thoughts are a tangled mess of fragments and memories, blurred and confusing. Then I wake up in a bright white room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces—doctors, nurses, people I don’t know. One of them tells me they’ve given me painkillers, and that I’ll be sleeping for a while.
“Where’s Xavier?” I ask, panic rising fast, tightening my chest.
“Is that your partner, Mr. Doherty?” the doctor asks, and I nod.
“He’s outside. Just rest for now. You’re going to be fine.”
“Okay,” I whisper, and close my eyes as exhaustion and pain rise up to swallow me.
***
When I open my eyes again, I’m alone in the hospital room. The lights are dimmed, machines beep softly around me, and a deep blue pre-dawn glow seeps through the windows.
How long was I out?
It looks like morning already—so I must’ve been here all evening and night.
For a few long minutes, I just lie still, trying to piece together what happened. I think about Xavier. About Nimoy. Itry to remember anything after I was shot, but it’s all a blur. Disjointed images flash through my head—
The paramedics lifting me onto a stretcher.
Carrying me out of the café.
Xavier beside me in the ambulance, holding my hand, not letting go.
I roll onto my side—surprisingly pain-free, probably thanks to the meds. I’m in a hospital robe, covered by a thin blanket. I glance around, looking for my things, but my phone’s nowhere in sight.
I reach for the red nurse call button and press it.
A few moments later, a nurse enters the room. She looks to be in her fifties, dark-haired, with a warm smile.
“Mr. Doherty, you’re awake,” she says softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “How am I doing?”
She smiles at the question. “You’re doing great, sir. The vest caught all the bullets—none of your ribs are broken, which is excellent news. Everything looks good.”
“That’s great,” I say. “When can I go home?”
“The doctor will decide in the morning,” she replies. “He’ll be in at eight-thirty. You also have a blood test and a head MRI scheduled for eight.”
“A head MRI?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Pretty sure my head’s fine.”
“Your partner, sir—Mr. Ormond—told us you had two possible concussions over the past couple of days, so the doctor scheduled a scan just in case.”
“Alright.” I can’t help but smirk at that, my heart picking up pace. “Is he here?” I ask. “Mr. Ormond.”
“No,” the nurse says. “Visiting hours don’t start until nine, so we sent him home. Along with everyone else who came to see you.”
“Everyone else?” I repeat, a little confused.
