Merry Christmas, Doctor Carter

Six Days, Seven Hours

Something had been bothering John ever since he and Dennis were intimate; something nagging. He couldn't do anything about it now, though, while he saw to a patient. Not that he paid much attention. All he could think about was the urine sample he had stored away and getting some privacy.

"You know, it wasn't until a night ago, when I noticed was still a bit sore," the man said. "It was cold, too, so it could have been that."

"Mm-hm..." John droned, with a lack of interest, his focus fixed on a random spot on the floor.

"In fact, I think–" He noticed his doctor appearing as though he might pass out. "You alright, doc?"

Sharply, John inhaled and he widened his eyes, hoping it would somehow keep him from falling asleep, giving him his full, undivided attention now. "Yeah," he lied as a hot flash surged through him, starting at the crown of his head and stopping at his chest. "Let's not worry about me, though. What seems to be the problem?"

The man stared at him as if he'd just been insulted. He was, slightly. "My knee?"

John's sights were once again shifting elsewhere, this time trying to think back to a point where it was mentioned. "Yeah...?" he drew out in question.

"I had surgery done on it two weeks ago, and it still hurts."

"Okay, well, mister..." He struggled for a while to remember the guy's name.

"Johnson."

"Johnson," Vaguely, John gestured at him before grabbing the patient folder and using it as a make-shift fan. "Right. Well, it's only been two weeks, give it time, and I'm sure it'll stop."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Come back in and we'll take another look."

John was halfway out the door when Lydia grabbed his attention. "Doctor Carter?"

He whirled around, his expression as manic as a med student ten minutes before final a assessment from their resident. "Yeah?"

"Is that it?"

"Yes," he answered, irritation in his voice. "but if you want a second opinion, by all means, go for it!" John burst through the door and stormed away. Seconds later, he came back and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, but I really need to take care of something."

Minutes later, John rushed into the medical cabinet, frantically searching for something. Vials clanked, pill bottles rattled. Eventually, he spotted it. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the very top of the shelf and grabbed a small, skinny box. In the process, he lost his balance and stumbled backwards against the metal grated wall.

Carol saw it happen and rushed to help. "You okay, Carter?"

As soon as he heard her, he hastily stuffed the box in his doctor's coat, hoping to God she didn't see him do it. He felt his chest pounding, scared and worried out of his mind. It was a full five seconds before he finally responded. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, so nervous that his voice went up a few pitches. A clear of his throat and he tried again, this time sounding less apprehensive. "Yeah. I'm good. Just looking for the..." John faked a glance at the medications and plucked up a random bottle of pills. "Ah! Morphine."

"Okay. Except that's Vicodin," Carol tilted her head to one side, sliding him a sceptical gaze. "Carter, what's going on?"

"Nothing!" His utterance spiked again.

She then reached a level of incredulity that she didn't know was possible. Carol glanced down and saw a strange bulge. "Uh-huh. What's in your pocket?"