Merry Christmas, Doctor Carter

I Don't Want to Swim the Ocean; I Don't Want to Fight the Tide

Screaming and crying cut through the air. All from one man, a patient. There was another who was worse off, bleeding profusely from his eye socket. One went to Truama One while the other was moved into Sutures. The other man wailed on and on about how it was an accident, how horrible he felt. It made it all the more difficult for the doctors to concentrate.

While struggling with hearing and poor visuals from the excessive bleeding, Mark suggested, "Carter, why don't you go treat the guy with the arm LAC."

"What?" John demanded in affront. "I'm–!"

"Now, Carter! I can't think straight in here."

"Is this because of what happened earlier?" he asked, almost whispering.

"Not here. Just go."

"Because if it is, it means you're doing it again."

"Carter, I'm not gonna say it again after this," A frown of annoyance wrinkled Mark's brow. "Go."

Darkness crossed John's face. It was bad enough that Lucy started regarding him differently, now he still had to deal with it from them, and in front of her. John ripped off his gloves and with a swoop of his arm, he threw them across the room and stormed away.

Mark could see the concern in Lucy's eyes. He needed her there, her attention entirely on the patient and not on her attending, although it was frivolous to even bother either way. The patient was shot in the head, there was grey matter on the backboard, and, when it came to Lucy, she obviously felt something for John. Regardless, Mark knew the strained, dysfunctional relationship they had, and dysfunction was not what John needed right now. Then again, maybe seeing Mark wasn't what he needed either. Thinking back two years ago, he surmised he wasn't.

"We're just gonna leave him?" Lucy asked.

Ignoring her, not wanting to hear any more about it, Mark defeatedly pulled off his gloves and tossed them in a bin. "Stop compressions. I'm calling it. Time of death... o' nine seventeen hundred."

"I don't know why he shot," the man said, looking the other way as John stitched his arm up. "Why he lost it... He could have just talked to me."

"Maybe he was scared," John answered, tone flat.

"He didn't have to be. I mean, it was me. We were friends. I wasn't gonna hurt him," He looked at the room his friend was in, his view almost obscured by other doctors and equipment in the room between them. "I didn't mean to. He's dead, isn't he?"

The man's words stuck with John, like paper to glue. As it sunk in further, he could feel it twisting and turning in his stomach. Both John and Dennis were scared; one of getting their heart broken again, the other for something they did without thinking. In that moment, he finally understood, and he had to do something about it before could Dennis run again.

Slowly, John rose to his feet and asked Chuny, "Do you think you can get Lucy to finish this?"

"Lucy?" she echoed, making sure she heard him correctly. "Really?"

"She's ready."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just need to... take care of something."

Almost mindlessly, with one thought in mind, John made his way through the hall, side-stepping past doctors and nurses, one of whom was Kerry.

"Carter. I'm glad I caught you. We need some extra hands this coming week."

"Not now, Doctor Weaver."

"If you could just–"

"Later!" John snapped unwittingly. He would have gone back to apologise, but there was no time.

"Where are you going?" Kerry demanded. "We're swamped! Carter!"

He ignored every word, and blew through the sliding doors, heading for his car. Once he got there, he realised he still had his gloves and stethoscope on. He ripped both off, threw them in the back and started the engine.

After John most likely committed multiple driving violations, he made it to Dennis' apartment building. He tugged and tugged at the car door handle repeatedly until it hit him that he needed to put it in park first. One moment of forgetfulness later, John opened it, damn near jumping out of the vehicle.

John arrived at Dennis' apartment. It took everything out of him just to get up the stairs, heart beating and breathing at a rapid pace. At this point, he didn't care. Nothing was going to stop him, not even death.

First, a few moments of painful breathing and hesitation came before he knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me..." John moaned, panicked. He then banged his fist against it, over and over. "Dennis!"

At least, the door opened, stalling John's umpteenth knock. Dennis was on the other side, stunned by his abrupt presence. "What are you doing here?"

Shakily, John exhaled. Soon after that, every single word he spoke came tumbling out in a rush. "I'm sorry. I know I wasn't a good friend. I wasn't there and I should have been and I know you've done some stupid things. I don't care about that — I'm not mad — and I will be here, no matter what happens. Okay? So, please, please, don't run away from me again. I ca-I can't–!"

"Hey, hey, hey," Dennis put a comforting, reassuring hand on John's arm. "John, calm down. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me," he uttered in a hushed tone.

"Unless someone shoots me–"

John whimpered out, "Don't talk like that."

"Sorry," A brief, thin-lipped smile cropped up on Dennis' face. "You have my word, I won't leave you."

Whether it was the affirmation or the way Dennis looked at him, John didn't know, but he found himself becoming increasingly absorbed by him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame. John hastily approached Dennis and kissed him passionately on his full lips, their tongues entwined.

The two went inside, all the while locked together, stepping until John had Dennis against the wall. He took advantage of Dennis' position and started kissing his neck, his lips rolling over his skin repeatedly.

Dennis knew full well where this was headed, and for some strange reason, he wanted it to. "I thought... we were... taking it slow," he managed to get out in between laboured breaths

John paused long enough to say, "I can't. Not with you."

"I'm fine with that."

John gave him a gentle grin. "You're sure?" The sudden stroke of his cock was enough of an answer. Sharply, he inhaled, hitched his breath momentarily and let it out with a stutter. "Good enough for me," he said. "But you might be in for a surprise."

A smirk tugged up the corners of Dennis' mouth. "I'm counting on it."