Between Darkness and Light

Disclaimers: I do not, and have never owned any part of Third Watch.

A/N: This was written at the end of last season as a follow-up to Monsters. Originally, it was a stand-alone piece that evolved into three parts due to the wonderful feedback from the readers at 55 David.

This one is especially dedicated to Faith in Faith and all those who work to heal the sick.

Enjoy

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I once tried to grow flowers from seed. I don't know what got into me because I didn't have enough room for Fred and the kids in the apartment and suddenly I needed to grow flowers from a seed.

So, I set up the pots and bought the soil and fertilizer and sowed the seeds. But despite my best efforts, I failed miserably at it. The plants grew too quickly and I over watered them and before I knew it, I had long, scraggly weed like flowers. They never did develop into anything meaningful but that's probably because I didn't put my heart into it and the best soil, fertilizer and seeds couldn't overcome my lack of motivation and talent.

When I look down at Bosco, lying helplessly in that bed, I can't help but think of those seeds. They had the best of everything and could not grow. Now, Bosco has so much stacked against him but I can't even imagine giving up on him.

The doctors and nurses tell me about the odds against him making it. They quote numbers and percentages. If there's one thing I know it's never bet against Bosco.

I can't bet against him even though my brain knows the machines are what are keeping him alive. But, when his fingers squeeze my hand, I felt his will to live. And no doctor or nurse explaining involuntary muscles spasms to me is going to convince me otherwise.

I look up at the clock on the wall; it reads 4:34 a.m. It's been almost 10 hours since he's been out of surgery and 6 hours and 18 minutes since he squeezed my hand. The doctor said the first 24 hours would be crucial, in other words they weren't expecting him to make it that far.

The nurses are in and out constantly, but I'm the one who needs to nurture Bosco and make sure he survives the next hour. None of them need him as much as I need him. None of them will feel the loss of a friend if he dies. None of them will lose a piece of themselves if he doesn't make it.

I lean over and apply some Vaseline to his lips to keep them from drying out and chapping with the breathing tube running out the side of his mouth. I remove the washcloth from the small basin on the table and wring it out before placing it on his forehead. I run my fingers over his arm, gauging the temperature of his skin. I watch the machines and monitors for any changes. I check his bandages for any sign of a haemorrhage and I sow the seeds of hope when I tell him how much I need him.

I lay my head on the bed as I intertwine my fingers in his. I allow my eyes to close, to recover from a sleepless night. I permit myself to doze off as long as I'm here by his side.

The fogginess that envelops my brain allows me some reprieve from the current reality by allowing dreams of better days to permeate my mind. None of the images are clear, just bits and pieces, faded and blurred by time and fatigue. Sounds and images meld to produce sensations strong enough to make me believe they are real. Enough to make believe we are not in this hospital room, and that Bosco is okay.

I awake with a start. Joy rushes through my veins at the thought of an unharmed Bosco waiting for me in the squad. My eyes search for him but instead I spin back around to find the elderly priest standing over us in silence.

A warm, soft hand is placed on my shoulder. It anchors me to this room, to this bed, to this reality. It forces me to hold this moment, because it is all I have.

I stare down at Bosco's hand and fear grips me as I think he may never squeeze my hand again. I turn it over and pull his fingers open until I expose his palm. I kiss it lightly and then more forcefully. I lay my cheek in it as though he is caressing me and I feel my tears slip out of the corners of my eyes.

I begin to doubt Bosco, to believe that the nurse was right, that it was a muscle spasm that caused his hand to grip mine. I begin to doubt myself because I alone cannot keep him alive. I begin to fall into despair before I notice the first tentative streams of light piercing through the city buildings and illuminating the room in a soft, yellow glow.

I squint against the light and the tears until I feel a hand closing over my hand, enclosing both Bosco and myself within its grasp.

The priest's whispered murmurings call to the light and I pray that someone is listening.

A nurse steps back into the room and stops at the side of the bed, she dares not break this spell, she dares not interrupt. I watch her as she slowly places her instruments on the table and quietly inches closer to Bosco. She looks up at the priest before placing her hands over Bosco and lovingly encouraging him to breathe on his own to open his eyes to squeeze my hand.

It all becomes too much for me. How could I doubt the entire world when others are so willing to give of themselves for Bosco? I begin to understand that some of those tiny, imperceptible seeds of hope that Bosco may have planted when he helped the victims that were entrusted to him are now coming back to him in his time of need, and in my time of need.

I watch the concentration on the faces of the priest and the nurse and I'm overwhelmed by their generosity. I am awed by their devotion towards my friend and partner. I am indebted to them forever when the sunbeams burst through the clouds and fill the room as Bosco's hand unmistakably closes in over mine.

I am too overjoyed to even speak, to tell them the good news, to thank them for what they've done. But I don't need to because they can feel it too and my heart fills with hope as they force my fear and despair into the shadows.

The End.