Fic: The Kubler-Ross Model (4/5), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Kubler-Ross Model (4/5)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2270 this part [approx. 9000 overall]
Rating: Green cortina
Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of self-harm, angst
Spoilers: massive for 2.08
Summary: Sam says he's fine.
A/N: I'm having serious, serious withdrawal symptoms. Luckily, I've made it on today. Please enjoy!
Part 1: Denial Part 2: Anger Part 3: Bargaining Part 4: Depression Part 5: Acceptance
“I regret many things.”
“Any that you actually should?”
“All of them.”
*
Sam asked to speak with Dr. Gower. Actually he demanded it. Unfortunately, in here he was only Sam “Dobbins,” patient, not Sam Tyler, Detective Inspector. Forty-five minutes after he railed against one of the orderlies for incompetence, Dr. Peterson calmly arrived and took Sam to his office.
“I want to know where my roommate went. Alfie? Alfred Baskin?” Sam couldn’t say anything about recognizing police officers outside, as much as he desperately wanted to.
“Were you two close?” Dr. Peterson asked with detached interest.
“He was a man, who I knew, who’s now missing, and I’d like to know what happened to him!”
“Why do you think he went missing?”
“Because he’s not here! And no one will tell me where he went,” Sam ranted, failing to keep his voice in check.
“And you think you’re privy to this sort of information?”
“I’m not curious, you bastard!” Sam shouted, unable to control the guilt welling up inside him. “I’m concerned.”
Dr. Peterson stared at him blankly, before scribbling something in his notebook. “Alright, Mr. Dobbins. I’ll see what I can find out about your friend.”
“Yeah, you do that, and it would be nice if, oh I don’t know, you’d be able to tell me some time this week.” Since when did he subscribe to the Gene Hunt school of dealing with one’s guilt? He cursed himself for not using more tact, but what was done, was done.
“Okay, Sam. There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“Oh, there’s every need,” Sam mumbled under his breath. He knew he should stop himself, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the walls. He wanted to slam this Peterson against the walls. He wanted to slam himself into the walls.
Two orderlies escorted Sam back to his room, where someone was waiting for him, but it wasn’t Alfie. It was one of the older nurses, holding an archaic needle.
“What-what’s going on?”
The orderlies blocked the door.
“It’s alright, Mr. Dobbins,” the nurse smiled sweetly, and Sam thought it had the same effect as when Phyllis attempted to smile, only more disturbing. “Dr. Peterson just wants you to calm down a little before bedtime.”
“Can’t you give me a pill?” He backed up, hitting the wall of unmoving flesh created by the two large men behind him.
“Oh, this is much better than a pill. Now, just relax and we’ll be all done in no time.”
“No. No!” Sam tried to run as she approached him with the metal needle, but the orderlies grabbed him and spun him round, holding him still. “I don’t need that!” He shouted, then quickly decided that screaming in hysterics was probably not the best way to convince someone you didn’t need a sedative. He stilled in the men’s arms and did his best to reason with the woman.
“I’m fine. Really, I was upset earlier, but now I’m fine. I’ll go to bed, but you don’t have to give me that.”
“Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid,” she shook her head with false regret and Sam could do nothing as his arm was stretched out and held tight.
“No, please. I don’t...you can’t...” The needle pricked and burned as it was inserted under the flesh and into a vein. He watched helplessly as she pushed down the plunger, and felt the fresh sting of the drug sliding inside him. He barely noticed as the needle was removed, the medication already making his head cloudy. “No...no...” he continued to mumble as his weightless body went limp, held up only by his captors. “...’m fine...jus’ fine...” he slurred as they lifted him onto the bed. “ ‘M sorry...sorry, Annie...Ge...” He could do nothing as the drug overtook his mind.
*
“You’re quiet today.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
“Usually you have plenty.”
“Not today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t feel like talking. Is that so important?”
“Was it because he visited?”
“I just don’t feel like talking.”
*
“Sam! Help us!”
“Tyler!”
“You would let them die to prove a point?”
“What’d you do to yourself this time?”
The clouds in Sam’s head parted slowly, the sluggishness and confusion gradually dissipating as he blinked open his eyes. He threw a hand over his face to block the incoming sunlight, groaning slightly as his body began to register the morning. Somehow, he was in bed, yet he didn’t remember lying down.
As he propped up on his elbows, the memories of the previous evening slowly returned, bringing with them his frustration, guilt, and humiliation. Why had he acted so forcefully against the doctors? He should have known any outburst would result in such retaliation. How could he have been so stupid?
He turned his foggy head to the empty bed beside him, a reminder of his failure. If only he hadn’t taken those pills that night, he would have heard them taking Alfie. One more thing he’d done wrong lately. The list was piling up.
Sam spent the day staring blankly at the television, half-heartedly scanning the newspaper, and generally feeling disconnected from everything around him. He knew it was wrong. Every piece of police training he’d ever had was telling him this was the time to stop the operation. To get out. To get help.
At half past four, an orderly informed him that his “cousin Clint” was here to visit him. Sam declined to see him. Every piece of police training was telling him to get help. Pride refused to let him. He told himself tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow came and Sam began the day trying to search for clues. Odd behavior amongst patients or staff. Rumors whispered in back corridors. After a few hours he grew tired of probing for evidence and settled on one of the sofas, not wanting to think of anything because all he could think of was pain.
Again, his visitor returned. Again, Sam refused to see him. If the Guv knew what he had allowed to happen, well, he’d be furious. He’d reprimand Sam, degrade him, probably shout that he deserved to stay locked up, so that he couldn’t do anymore damage. Sam accidentally swallowed the pills that night. He had meant to hide them under his tongue. Somehow, it just hadn’t happened.
The day after, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed. He didn’t bother with a shower. He didn’t feel like having the orderlies watch him while he shaved, so he skipped that as well. Breakfast seemed as bland as usual, so he skipped that, too. His visitor arrived just before noon, apparently demanding that Sam come out and see him.
With a sigh, Sam decided that he might as well try to tame the lion, else Gene would storm into the ward, waving his warrant card about and blowing the operation. He shuffled down the hall, keeping his eyes to the ground as he entered the room, and dropped into a chair across from the smoking man, his fingers instantly beginning to pick at the chipped formica table.
“Where the bloody hell ‘ave you been?” It was Gene’s turn to ask the question.
Sam glanced around the room. “The answer seems pretty obvious,” he replied, dropping his gaze back to the table.
“They put you on summit?” Something akin to concern crept into Gene’s voice, possibly into his face, but Sam wasn’t looking.
“No,” he lied.
“That’s it. We’re done,” Gene forcefully stubbed out his fag.
“Such a short visit,” Sam quipped without emotion.
“You wanted someone to keep an eye on your condition. Well, I can see your condition, Sam, and it’s shite. We’re done here,” Gene reached for his coat.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Even if Sam Dobbins is released into the care of a family member, he could choose to sign himself back in, which he will. He still has work to do.”
“Sam Dobbins doesn’t bloody exist!” Gene hissed through clenched teeth.
“Try telling them that,” Tyler nodded to the orderlies at the back of the room, and got up from the table.
“Sam, don’t you dare walk away from me,” Gene growled.
“What are you going to do?” Sam laughed morosely. “Stop me? You know me better than that, Clint. One-track mind, me. Once I’ve got it set on something, not even you can hold me back. Isn’t that right? You can’t stop me.” Sam stared into space. “You couldn’t stop me...” He closed his eyes and blocked out the memories he’d been trying so desperately to forget. He turned, nearly running out of the room, as he ignored Gene’s shouts.
*
“Some days I feel like I’ve made a mistake, others I feel like I’ve never been more alive in my life, like I’ve never been happier.”
“What triggers these different moods?”
“I don’t know. It could be anything. It could be nothing.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“I think that would be obvious.”
“Describe it to me anyway.”
“...I feel like...like no matter what I do, I can’t make anybody happy. I’m always letting someone down. I went back to Hyde, I failed my friends here. I came back, and it was alright for awhile, until I realized that by returning to this place, I failed people there. Either way, I can’t win.”
“Do you really feel you failed anyone by leaving?”
“I disappointed everyone. And I don’t mean in a narcissistic way. I don’t think I was that important to anyone, but I feel I let everyone down. People were counting on me, and I didn’t come through.”
“What do you mean you don’t think you’re that important to anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think no one was upset simply because you left, but only because, in leaving, your failures were reflected onto them?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let’s take your mother for example. From what I gather, you think she was upset by you leaving because she would view that as her failure as a mother.”
“She would.”
“You don’t think she’d be upset just because you’re her son and she loves you?”
“When Dad left, she devoted her life to raising me. Either way, I’ve destroyed that life, so what does it matter why?”
*
He slept that night. He told himself it wasn’t because he took the medication. He told himself he took the medication so that they wouldn’t give him another injection. He knew it was all thinly veiled lies. He knew something more was wrong. Something was off, and it was more than the result of being undercover for a month and a half. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Every time he came close, he couldn’t find the will to take the final step. He never had problems with final steps before.
Annie was gone, and now he’d pushed Gene away, again. Annie had been right. Annie had a decent argument. Why did he find it so hard to believe that people here cared about him as much as people at home? The Guv might hide it, but Sam knew he cared. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have...
Sam stared at the wall. He turned his head and stared at the other patients. Dirty, unshaven, listless. Everywhere he looked felt like looking in mirror, so he stared at the wall. When they passed out the evening meds, Sam took his tiny paper cup and tossed back the pills, while he watched the nightly news. The television told him the date, and Sam couldn’t quite believe it.
He stopped the passing nurse and asked her what day it was. She smiled sweetly, told him, then took the empty cup. It had been three days since he last saw Gene. Three days since he mocked his concern before throwing it back in his face, all on the pretense of a failed operation. He hadn’t even had the courage to ask about Alfie.
Sam rose from his chair, ready to fall into bed and forget everything, at least for a little while. As he padded across the floor, his feet slipped on the slick floor, and he crashed into a nearby table. He straightened himself on wobbly legs, one of the nurses helping him to stand.
“I’m fine. Sorry,” he tried to gently push her away, but the older woman kept a firm hand on his wrist.
“Sam, look at your hand.”
He looked down and noticed a line of blood on his palm, a cut where he had grabbed onto the table. “I can’t feel it...” he whispered.
“Let’s get the bandaged up,” she pat him on the shoulder.
“No. I have to...no. I have to leave,” he panted, staring at the cut.
“Where do you want to go, Sam?”
“I have to get out of here. I have to see Annie and Gene and...it’s not right. This isn’t right.”
“Calm down, Mr. Dobbins.”
“No, this place is wrong. This hospital is wrong. I’m not supposed to be here.” He pushed her away and was immediately grabbed by an orderly.
“Time for bed, I think, Mr. Dobbins.”
“No! I want to leave. I want out now!”
“You can talk to the doctor in the morning. Now, it’s time to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to wake up. I was awake! Not in here. Out there. I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t...” In his disjointed shouting, he hadn’t seen the nurse with the needle, though he did feel himself going to limp. “No...bastards, I have to...I was wrong....Have to...to stay...awake...get out....get home...”
________
Part 5: Acceptance
Author: dak
Word Count: 2270 this part [approx. 9000 overall]
Rating: Green cortina
Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of self-harm, angst
Spoilers: massive for 2.08
Summary: Sam says he's fine.
A/N: I'm having serious, serious withdrawal symptoms. Luckily, I've made it on today. Please enjoy!
Part 1: Denial Part 2: Anger Part 3: Bargaining Part 4: Depression Part 5: Acceptance
“I regret many things.”
“Any that you actually should?”
“All of them.”
*
Sam asked to speak with Dr. Gower. Actually he demanded it. Unfortunately, in here he was only Sam “Dobbins,” patient, not Sam Tyler, Detective Inspector. Forty-five minutes after he railed against one of the orderlies for incompetence, Dr. Peterson calmly arrived and took Sam to his office.
“I want to know where my roommate went. Alfie? Alfred Baskin?” Sam couldn’t say anything about recognizing police officers outside, as much as he desperately wanted to.
“Were you two close?” Dr. Peterson asked with detached interest.
“He was a man, who I knew, who’s now missing, and I’d like to know what happened to him!”
“Why do you think he went missing?”
“Because he’s not here! And no one will tell me where he went,” Sam ranted, failing to keep his voice in check.
“And you think you’re privy to this sort of information?”
“I’m not curious, you bastard!” Sam shouted, unable to control the guilt welling up inside him. “I’m concerned.”
Dr. Peterson stared at him blankly, before scribbling something in his notebook. “Alright, Mr. Dobbins. I’ll see what I can find out about your friend.”
“Yeah, you do that, and it would be nice if, oh I don’t know, you’d be able to tell me some time this week.” Since when did he subscribe to the Gene Hunt school of dealing with one’s guilt? He cursed himself for not using more tact, but what was done, was done.
“Okay, Sam. There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“Oh, there’s every need,” Sam mumbled under his breath. He knew he should stop himself, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the walls. He wanted to slam this Peterson against the walls. He wanted to slam himself into the walls.
Two orderlies escorted Sam back to his room, where someone was waiting for him, but it wasn’t Alfie. It was one of the older nurses, holding an archaic needle.
“What-what’s going on?”
The orderlies blocked the door.
“It’s alright, Mr. Dobbins,” the nurse smiled sweetly, and Sam thought it had the same effect as when Phyllis attempted to smile, only more disturbing. “Dr. Peterson just wants you to calm down a little before bedtime.”
“Can’t you give me a pill?” He backed up, hitting the wall of unmoving flesh created by the two large men behind him.
“Oh, this is much better than a pill. Now, just relax and we’ll be all done in no time.”
“No. No!” Sam tried to run as she approached him with the metal needle, but the orderlies grabbed him and spun him round, holding him still. “I don’t need that!” He shouted, then quickly decided that screaming in hysterics was probably not the best way to convince someone you didn’t need a sedative. He stilled in the men’s arms and did his best to reason with the woman.
“I’m fine. Really, I was upset earlier, but now I’m fine. I’ll go to bed, but you don’t have to give me that.”
“Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid,” she shook her head with false regret and Sam could do nothing as his arm was stretched out and held tight.
“No, please. I don’t...you can’t...” The needle pricked and burned as it was inserted under the flesh and into a vein. He watched helplessly as she pushed down the plunger, and felt the fresh sting of the drug sliding inside him. He barely noticed as the needle was removed, the medication already making his head cloudy. “No...no...” he continued to mumble as his weightless body went limp, held up only by his captors. “...’m fine...jus’ fine...” he slurred as they lifted him onto the bed. “ ‘M sorry...sorry, Annie...Ge...” He could do nothing as the drug overtook his mind.
*
“You’re quiet today.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
“Usually you have plenty.”
“Not today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t feel like talking. Is that so important?”
“Was it because he visited?”
“I just don’t feel like talking.”
*
“Sam! Help us!”
“Tyler!”
“You would let them die to prove a point?”
“What’d you do to yourself this time?”
The clouds in Sam’s head parted slowly, the sluggishness and confusion gradually dissipating as he blinked open his eyes. He threw a hand over his face to block the incoming sunlight, groaning slightly as his body began to register the morning. Somehow, he was in bed, yet he didn’t remember lying down.
As he propped up on his elbows, the memories of the previous evening slowly returned, bringing with them his frustration, guilt, and humiliation. Why had he acted so forcefully against the doctors? He should have known any outburst would result in such retaliation. How could he have been so stupid?
He turned his foggy head to the empty bed beside him, a reminder of his failure. If only he hadn’t taken those pills that night, he would have heard them taking Alfie. One more thing he’d done wrong lately. The list was piling up.
Sam spent the day staring blankly at the television, half-heartedly scanning the newspaper, and generally feeling disconnected from everything around him. He knew it was wrong. Every piece of police training he’d ever had was telling him this was the time to stop the operation. To get out. To get help.
At half past four, an orderly informed him that his “cousin Clint” was here to visit him. Sam declined to see him. Every piece of police training was telling him to get help. Pride refused to let him. He told himself tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow came and Sam began the day trying to search for clues. Odd behavior amongst patients or staff. Rumors whispered in back corridors. After a few hours he grew tired of probing for evidence and settled on one of the sofas, not wanting to think of anything because all he could think of was pain.
Again, his visitor returned. Again, Sam refused to see him. If the Guv knew what he had allowed to happen, well, he’d be furious. He’d reprimand Sam, degrade him, probably shout that he deserved to stay locked up, so that he couldn’t do anymore damage. Sam accidentally swallowed the pills that night. He had meant to hide them under his tongue. Somehow, it just hadn’t happened.
The day after, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed. He didn’t bother with a shower. He didn’t feel like having the orderlies watch him while he shaved, so he skipped that as well. Breakfast seemed as bland as usual, so he skipped that, too. His visitor arrived just before noon, apparently demanding that Sam come out and see him.
With a sigh, Sam decided that he might as well try to tame the lion, else Gene would storm into the ward, waving his warrant card about and blowing the operation. He shuffled down the hall, keeping his eyes to the ground as he entered the room, and dropped into a chair across from the smoking man, his fingers instantly beginning to pick at the chipped formica table.
“Where the bloody hell ‘ave you been?” It was Gene’s turn to ask the question.
Sam glanced around the room. “The answer seems pretty obvious,” he replied, dropping his gaze back to the table.
“They put you on summit?” Something akin to concern crept into Gene’s voice, possibly into his face, but Sam wasn’t looking.
“No,” he lied.
“That’s it. We’re done,” Gene forcefully stubbed out his fag.
“Such a short visit,” Sam quipped without emotion.
“You wanted someone to keep an eye on your condition. Well, I can see your condition, Sam, and it’s shite. We’re done here,” Gene reached for his coat.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Even if Sam Dobbins is released into the care of a family member, he could choose to sign himself back in, which he will. He still has work to do.”
“Sam Dobbins doesn’t bloody exist!” Gene hissed through clenched teeth.
“Try telling them that,” Tyler nodded to the orderlies at the back of the room, and got up from the table.
“Sam, don’t you dare walk away from me,” Gene growled.
“What are you going to do?” Sam laughed morosely. “Stop me? You know me better than that, Clint. One-track mind, me. Once I’ve got it set on something, not even you can hold me back. Isn’t that right? You can’t stop me.” Sam stared into space. “You couldn’t stop me...” He closed his eyes and blocked out the memories he’d been trying so desperately to forget. He turned, nearly running out of the room, as he ignored Gene’s shouts.
*
“Some days I feel like I’ve made a mistake, others I feel like I’ve never been more alive in my life, like I’ve never been happier.”
“What triggers these different moods?”
“I don’t know. It could be anything. It could be nothing.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“I think that would be obvious.”
“Describe it to me anyway.”
“...I feel like...like no matter what I do, I can’t make anybody happy. I’m always letting someone down. I went back to Hyde, I failed my friends here. I came back, and it was alright for awhile, until I realized that by returning to this place, I failed people there. Either way, I can’t win.”
“Do you really feel you failed anyone by leaving?”
“I disappointed everyone. And I don’t mean in a narcissistic way. I don’t think I was that important to anyone, but I feel I let everyone down. People were counting on me, and I didn’t come through.”
“What do you mean you don’t think you’re that important to anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think no one was upset simply because you left, but only because, in leaving, your failures were reflected onto them?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let’s take your mother for example. From what I gather, you think she was upset by you leaving because she would view that as her failure as a mother.”
“She would.”
“You don’t think she’d be upset just because you’re her son and she loves you?”
“When Dad left, she devoted her life to raising me. Either way, I’ve destroyed that life, so what does it matter why?”
*
He slept that night. He told himself it wasn’t because he took the medication. He told himself he took the medication so that they wouldn’t give him another injection. He knew it was all thinly veiled lies. He knew something more was wrong. Something was off, and it was more than the result of being undercover for a month and a half. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Every time he came close, he couldn’t find the will to take the final step. He never had problems with final steps before.
Annie was gone, and now he’d pushed Gene away, again. Annie had been right. Annie had a decent argument. Why did he find it so hard to believe that people here cared about him as much as people at home? The Guv might hide it, but Sam knew he cared. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have...
Sam stared at the wall. He turned his head and stared at the other patients. Dirty, unshaven, listless. Everywhere he looked felt like looking in mirror, so he stared at the wall. When they passed out the evening meds, Sam took his tiny paper cup and tossed back the pills, while he watched the nightly news. The television told him the date, and Sam couldn’t quite believe it.
He stopped the passing nurse and asked her what day it was. She smiled sweetly, told him, then took the empty cup. It had been three days since he last saw Gene. Three days since he mocked his concern before throwing it back in his face, all on the pretense of a failed operation. He hadn’t even had the courage to ask about Alfie.
Sam rose from his chair, ready to fall into bed and forget everything, at least for a little while. As he padded across the floor, his feet slipped on the slick floor, and he crashed into a nearby table. He straightened himself on wobbly legs, one of the nurses helping him to stand.
“I’m fine. Sorry,” he tried to gently push her away, but the older woman kept a firm hand on his wrist.
“Sam, look at your hand.”
He looked down and noticed a line of blood on his palm, a cut where he had grabbed onto the table. “I can’t feel it...” he whispered.
“Let’s get the bandaged up,” she pat him on the shoulder.
“No. I have to...no. I have to leave,” he panted, staring at the cut.
“Where do you want to go, Sam?”
“I have to get out of here. I have to see Annie and Gene and...it’s not right. This isn’t right.”
“Calm down, Mr. Dobbins.”
“No, this place is wrong. This hospital is wrong. I’m not supposed to be here.” He pushed her away and was immediately grabbed by an orderly.
“Time for bed, I think, Mr. Dobbins.”
“No! I want to leave. I want out now!”
“You can talk to the doctor in the morning. Now, it’s time to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to wake up. I was awake! Not in here. Out there. I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t...” In his disjointed shouting, he hadn’t seen the nurse with the needle, though he did feel himself going to limp. “No...bastards, I have to...I was wrong....Have to...to stay...awake...get out....get home...”
________
Part 5: Acceptance