Warnings: Spoilers for Patient X. Oh, and some bathroom issues, so if that grosses you out, you're forewarned.
Disclaimer: Obviously, the show, characters, etc. don't belong to me, so no suing.
He probably hadn't needed the third shot. Really, he probably hadn’t. His practice at the range was definitely showing, though: right, left, center—dead on… literally. He could still feel the adrenaline surging. It had almost, kind of sounded like the shrink was talking him down… But the guy'd been unstable as hell, and he was armed… Still… probably should've stopped after the second shot…He saw more flashing lights and went outside to meet the rest of the team as they showed up.
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He'd already given his weapon to Jack. It would go down as righteous. He wasn't that over the line… yet. Shit, he felt like shit. He kept his hands out of sight so Sam wouldn't see them shaking. And he didn't look directly at her—she'd see the sweat on his face and in his hair. She'd probably put it off to the shooting… unless she touched his skin… or got a look at him in the light. Shit, he was going to be sick…
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He let the cold water run down his neck and tried to get a grip. He couldn't lose it, not here. The whole house would be gone over by forensics; someone might notice something…
Damn—a lot of prescriptions for what looked like a reasonably healthy couple. He didn't recognize a lot of it. An anti-depressant—one of those "low risk of "sexual side-effects" things they were always advertising, some sort of allergy-thing… Ah, that one he knew…
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He couldn't get Great-Uncle Paul out of his head. Him and his sick story about his appendix. It rupturing and he wanted to be so tough—a skinny kid with glasses had to be in the 1940s—wouldn't tell anybody. How he'd been peeing black by the time he said anything. They'd rushed him to the hospital and pinned him down, placing a mask over his face to knock him out so they get it cleaned out before the massive peritonitis killed him. And that's why Great-Uncle Paul was allergic to penicillin now…
He sat in the stall and put his head in his hands; took a deep, shuddering breath. His temperature was up, he could tell. And he's sweat through his tee and his dress-shirt. It was so damn cold in here! He could feel the tremors in his arms.
He'd finished his meds weeks ago—everything had seemed fine… Then, kind of gradually, it wasn't. He'd been drinking tons of black tea—he hated the stuff, but it was supposed to have antibiotic properties… Even went to the health food store and got some cayenne pepper in little capsules. Didn't that screw up his stomach! But maybe it would burn things out… Oh shit, please , burn it out.
As soon as he'd got back to the office he'd come into the bathroom and taken a really heavy dose. It had been expired—you weren't supposed to do that—you were supposed to take it all. But he figured that meant they wouldn't notice it was missing… Amoxicillin was pretty mild, right? And it's not like too much was going do him any harm! It didn't hurt to pee; hurt to do the other, though. He made himself look before he flushed… No, probably not good colors there. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Did his belly feel distended? Maybe he was imagining it? It'd be nice if he was... They'd said he might have digestive problems for a while, maybe even a long while. But Fitzgeralds were hearty; he should be recovering fine. Should BE recovered. His scar didn't look bad—healthy pink, well healed over, not hot to the touch.
Something was very wrong, though… And he didn't want to go back, and have them check and have it be his imagination… Or worse, be right and have to have another surgery… The way they got away with those tiny incisions was to make a curve and pull the skin back, then fill the cavity with air… and didn't that hurt like hell while all the air eventually leaked out and the skin shrank back and the swelling went down… Please let it be his imagination. Let his little experiment with alternative remedies do the trick…
It felt like his whole body was shaking now. He straightened his clothes, got himself together, walked out and washed his hands. They were shaking, but only a little. He could keep it under control…
As he walked down the hall he saw Danny coming out of the coffee room. That's what he needed—more hot tea. And more of those nasty cayenne pills. What else was supposed to work? Acids, like salsa and stuff. That made his stomach turn sickeningly. Keep it together, Marty. Suck it up; it'll go away… His vision started to tunnel as he reached the bullpen. He could barely hear Danny yell something just before everything went black…
the end