Title: A Son Remembered, a Son Lost 

Author: spookycc

Classification: Post-ep, John Doe. DRF, first person Reyes POV. 

Spoilers: John Doe, general knowledge of S8 and S9 thus far.

Summary: Monica helps John deal with the repercussions from his 
experiences in Mexico.

Disclaimer: I didn't ask for Reyes to love Jawn.
            I didn't ask for this.
	    But you see, these characters are not mine.
            They belong to that surfer dude, Chris.


Dedication: To Doggett's Bitch. Best friend, mentor, beta, soulmate. 
Captain of my former Ship . To Girlassassin, survivor and 
dear friend. And to the Sisters of SHODDS who wished me well on a 
journey that we can't make together. Thanks for the off-group emails. 
They were great. You guys ROK. 

Archival: I'll take care of Gossamer, XFMU and Ephemeral. Anyone else 
who wants it is welcome to it. Just let me know where it's going. 
OBSDS member sites, it's yours if you want it, no notification 
needed. 

Feedback: Love it. spookycc@earthlink.net

> ****


A Son Remembered, A Son Lost

Started: 1/14/02  Completed: 1/14/02


"John, I'm so sorry..." The words are terribly inadequate - I feel that 
as soon as they leave my lips. But I don't know what else I can do, 
here and now. He leans against the front of the police cruiser, and I 
see his expression clear a bit.

"I taught him how to ride a bike," he states simply, and a sad smile 
plays across his face. I nod, at a loss for words. Finally, he raises 
his weary head. "Let's go home."

I let A.D. Skinner know that we're heading back to San Antonio. John 
follows me to my rental car, and sinks gratefully into the passenger 
seat.

"You can sleep in the back seat if you want," I offer. "You look 
tired."

"No, I'm fine up front," He sits back and lays his head against the 
headrest.

Depression radiates off John in waves I can almost feel breaking over 
me. I've always been in touch with his feelings without conscious 
effort, especially now, when he is silent. I know he's hurting, I 
just don't know how to bring it up to see if he wants to talk about 
it. I reach down to turn the radio on, but a sidelong glance reveals 
that John is sleeping, so I leave it off. God knows he needs the 
rest. 

As I sit in line at a stop sign on the way out of this dusty, evil 
little town, I have a chance to observe John more closely. He's been 
through hell physically as well as mentally. His face is a mask of 
scratches and bruises. I wonder what other injuries he sustained, 
ones I can't see, and I shudder a little at the thought.

> ****

Back in Texas, I stop at a Walmart on the road, and pick up some 
sweats and a pack of t-shirts for John. Standing in the men's aisle 
wondering "boxers or briefs", I grab a pack of each, and a pair of 
sweat socks. Then I pay for a room adjoining mine at the sleepy motel 
I registered at a few weeks before. It seems like I've been in Texas 
for months. 

"Do you want to take a shower before we get something to eat?" He 
looks longingly at the bed, and I know he's tired, but I want him to 
eat first. 

He looks down at his present state of uncleanliness, and almost 
smiles. "Do I have to?" He feigns a boy's voice, then becomes serious 
again.

"Take your time - the hot water will relax you."

"I don't think that's a problem right now," he replies sheepishly. "I 
could sleep for a week." He picks up the Walmart bag. "Hey, clean 
underwear. Thanks."

I return his smile. He disappears into the shared bathroom with the 
bag, and I hear the water start a few minutes later. 

Glancing at my watch when I hear him close the taps, I smile. Fifteen 
minutes in a shower is probably a record for John. I imagine him 
toweling himself off, as I check the yellow pages for a decent 
restaurant close to the motel.

I hear a "thump" in the bathroom, and I'm at the door. "John? You ok?"

I don't know if his reply was meant to assuage my fears, but the 
weakness of his voice frightens me. I let him know I'm coming in, and 
try the door. It's unlocked.

John is half-sitting, sprawled beside the bathtub, where he 
apparently just landed.  His head is lowered. I kneel beside 
him. "John, what's wrong?"

He's doubled over, clearly in pain, but I can't tell what's causing 
it. I run a hand down his back as I lean forward to look him over, 
and he flinches as if I'd struck him. Pulling his t-shirt from the 
waistband of his sweats, I lift it up. A huge yellowish-purple bruise 
spreads over his lower back. By its location, he must have been 
punched - or kicked - in the kidneys.

"John. My God, why didn't you tell me you were hurting this badly?"

"Didn't wanna worry you," he mumbles, his voice barely audible. 

"We need to get you to a hospital. No arguments." I hear none, and 
that tells me more than anything else how bad he must feel. I run a 
hand over his wet, spiky hair and slide my hands under his arms, to 
help him up.

He needs my help to stand straight, and he accepts it without 
question. No tough guy pretense, like I see everywhere else in the 
FBI boys' club. I lay him in the back seat of my rental, and he pulls 
his knees up tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. I 
feel his forehead - he's feverish, and his skin is pale. His face is 
a mask of pain. 

I hurry around to the driver's side and pull from memory the location 
of the nearest hospital. I scoured them all upon my arrival here, 
right before I checked the morgues. A fleeting image of the body at 
the police station in Mexico enters my mind, and I force it aside. 
John will be fine. He has to be fine. I pull out my cell phone, to 
let Dana and A.D. Skinner know what's happened, and where we're 
going. 

> ****

Hours later, I walk into the E.R. cubicle. John is lying deathly 
still. The steady, though shallow, rise and fall of his chest 
reassures me that he's just getting much-needed rest, recuperating. 
At least physically. 

The E.R. physician pulls the drapes back, nods at me, and grabs 
John's chart from the end of his bed. After a quick perusal, he turns 
to me. "Agent - Reyes, was it?" I nod. "CBC shows no bleeding from 
the kidney, which is good news. But it does indicate some 
inflammation. The abdominal MRI will be back in a while."

"Assuming the MRI looks ok, I'll still want to hold him overnight for 
observation. I'll give him a mild analgesic for pain relief, if he 
needs it, and release him tomorrow." 

"Thank you, Doctor." He leaves just as the orderlies arrive to take 
John to his room for the night. I follow them wordlessly, and wait in 
the hall while they wheel him into the room and lock the bed in 
place. I smile my thanks as they leave, and pull a chair near John's 
bed...

As I drift into a light sleep, my mind returns unbidden to our 
conversation in the garage. I remember John's open curiosity about 
his son's name, how old he is. I didn't even have to tell him the 
truth - he saw it in my eyes. And that one bit of information, the 
terrible truth about his son, was the catalyst for the full return of 
his memory. 

I can still feel John's pain, as he sat slumped against the front of 
that old bus. I can still hear his quiet sobbing...

I open my eyes. The sobbing comes from beside me, in the here and 
now. 

I lean forward over John, rest a hand on his shoulder, and brush the 
tears from his face. "John. It's ok." My words sound hopelessly 
foolish, even to my own ears. 

He shakes his head, his tears continuing. "John, look at me." He 
opens his eyes - the left swollen almost shut - and allows me to feel 
the pain, the desperation, the guilt that flows from him. 

I almost lose myself in the strong current, his anguish ripping at 
the smallest piece of my heart that does not already belong to him. I 
gently trace the tears over his ravaged face with a finger. "You're 
right, John. It's not 'ok'. But we'll make it through. I promise."

He nods, slowly. I lay my head on his shoulder, and he closes his 
eyes. I feel his breathing even out beneath me, as he slips back into 
sleep.


~fini~



Author's Note:

I'm not a doctor, but I actually did consult a medical website about 
symptoms, tests and treatment for bruised kidneys. They usually heal 
themselves - go "figger".  Don't try my remedies at home, 
though. ;-)


Shameless plugs:

You can find all my Doggettfic (most of it is DSF/DSR) here:

http://www.geocities.com/spookycc/

My egroup Order of the Blessed Saint Doggett the Selfless is at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/OBSDS/