Author's notes:
The next installment of this series was supposed to be called "Healing." As I was writing it, however, it turned into a much longer piece than I intended, and I realized that I had tangented into several other 'reflections on the human condition'. I decided to follow the lead of my muse instead of trying to smash the whole thing down to a shorter piece which followed my original story plan. Thus, we have "Grief", which will be followed soon by "Hope" and finally "Healing" after that.
To get the full effect of the emotional journey I am on with this group of stories, it is best that you read the rest of the stories in this arc. Despair, Fear, Rage, and Guilt.
Comments, whether on discussion lists, sent directly to me, or occurring in the privacy of your homes or IRC chats, are welcome and encouraged.
Various influences on this story include: "To Kill A Mockingbird", Thomas Moore's "Music For the Soul" (a.k.a. "music to write angst by"), the episode "Nightwatch", my sister Cathleen, and the book "Body Trauma: a writer's guide to wounds and injuries" by David W. Page, M.D.
My thanks, as always, to Wolfpup for maintaining her awesome pages, and for resisting the urge to track me down and slap me senseless for leaving "Healing" in her 'Coming Soon' section for so long. Sincere thanks go to Laurie, Becky and Robyn for their encouraging comments and friendship.
Carolyn
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
-- C. S. Lewis
If men tied Jim down and kicked him repeatedly in the chest, he didn't think he could feel as heartsick as he did at this moment.
The cemetery was glistening with the after-effects of an earlier rainfall and a sky heavy with rainclouds hovered over the mass of people gathered around the grave of their departed friend and colleague. The large gathering was heavily populated by officers in their dress uniforms. Jim, too, wore the dark uniform which he had dug from the back of his closet at the loft while Simon waited in the living room below. The captain had arrived to offer moral support and to make sure his friend was able to get to the funeral despite his still-healing gun shot wound. Privately, Jim thought Simon was prepared to manhandle him there if he balked at attending, wounded shoulder notwithstanding.
It was his fault they were here. Regardless of what anyone tried to say to make him feel differently, he knew the truth. There would not be a funeral today if not for Jim Ellison.
And they had tried to soothe his tormented conscience. Rafe and Brown had cornered him in the few minutes he had spent at the station and despite their own grief, had endeavored to convince Jim that he was not to blame. Simon stayed with him the first night in the loft after the news had come in. The captain had more than made up for his harsh behavior during the case that had led to this moment. His apology had been heartfelt, and welcome. Simon had promised they would speak further once things had settled down somewhat. Jim hoped Simon was up for a good long wait, since there was no way the detective was getting over this soon.
Jim felt the absence of his partner keenly. Blair might have remarked on the psychological need for the living to have this one last formal good-bye among friends and family; at the same time insisting that the true essence of the departed had gone on to a different place. The anthropologist would have somehow convinced Jim that it was a better place. But all Jim could accept at the moment was that a friend was being lowered into the ground. Whether or not his soul rested in the heavens was up to others to determine. Jim would miss the man, body as well as soul.
Jonathan Juarez was there, wheelchair-bound and dressed casually in a black suit. His injuries prevented him from wearing the fitted dress uniforms his colleagues sported. A nurse stood behind the wheelchair, prepared to return him to the hospital once the ceremony was concluded. His arm was fastened across his chest in a sling very much like the one Jim had abandoned the day before. Jim was touched by his presence. His old friend and fellow officer had insisted that he be there, and no amount of arguing from his doctor or his family would dissuade him. He looked weak and haggard, and rightfully so. Seeing the sickly pallor on the officer's face made Jim's regrets and grief multiply tenfold. The bullet that had torn through Jon's chest and very nearly ended his life was put there by a man who had wanted Jim dead, the same man who had shot Pete Sigerson, and Blair...
Jim took a deep, hitching breath, feeling the ache in his chest contract more forcefully.
Before his mind could dwell again on the damage that one ex-con with a vendetta against Jim Ellison could cause, he shut it down firmly. Instead, he brought forth a memory from his days with Carolyn, when he had asked her how she had come to terms with bloody crime scenes and gruesome autopsies when she had been so squeamish before. She had smiled then, and told him that she 'thought of gray'. Anytime something threatened to upset her composure, she closed her eyes and brought up the most drab, unremarkable color she could imagine -- pure, unbroken, stark gray -- and held that in her thoughts until she could remain aloof and get her job done. Jim had attempted that and failed several times now. Unbidden, his mind returned to the reason for their being here, out in the chill weather, gathered around a casket to say good-bye.
If he had somehow been able to change the terrible events which had led to this, even if it resulted in his own death, he would have gladly taken the bullet that had ended the young life far too soon.
So much was left undone. Would he have married someday? Had children? His mother was not here. Her grief had been so all-encompassing and potentially self-destructive when she arrived at the hospital, the doctors had admitted her and there she remained, heavily sedated. His career had not even begun before it was snuffed out. And why? He had sacrificed himself for his best friend, his partner.
Somewhere in that thought was a glimmer of a larger truth, one that transcended bodily harm and even death, but the final blessing and the start of the coffin's descent signaled the honor guard to begin their salute. As the sharp crack of the rifles echoed across the cemetery lawn, Jim scrabbled with the mental dials for his hearing, cursing at the sloppy attempt he managed without Blair to guide him through it. One of the many women in the group began to cry in earnest now that the coffin had reached its final resting place, her loud wails reverberating in his head more harshly than the gunshots. Flinching against the heart-wrenching sound, Jim was happy when Simon draped an arm around his shoulders and steered him away from the mournful scene.
His captain was speaking to him, but the words did not register. The clouds had opened up again to sprinkle the grassy area with a light rain. The tears of God, perhaps, for the loss of such a promising life? Jim had lost any religious convictions he had held as a child when the brutal reality of his adult life had proved time and again that God, if there even was one, had little regard for the prayers of one Jim Ellison. Jim had prayed for the life of this young man, but the fickle deity had not seen fit to spare him.
"I'll take you back to the loft now, Jim." Simon's voice intruded upon his dark thoughts, and he realized that he now sat in the passenger seat of the captain's car. "You need to rest. You're not fully healed yet."
"I can't go back there, Simon, not yet. You know where I need to be."
His friend sighed as he turned the key in the ignition. Simon would not meet his gaze.
Jim knew that Simon's grief was no less acute than the Sentinel's, and the lost sleep of the past few days had taken its toll on him, as well. The captain had lost one of his men. Any captain would have grieved, but Simon had been devastated. Daryl was his only natural son, but many of the men and women under his command could be looked on as his adopted children. In this case, it was as though Simon had just buried a son.
Jim did not like that he was pressuring his captain at such a stressful time, but he knew where he was most needed, and it was not at the loft, grieving alone.
"Please, Simon."
With another sigh, Simon nodded tightly and steered the car out the south exit of the cemetery, in the opposite direction from the loft.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every
other wound we seek to heal--every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a
duty to keep open--this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
-- Washington Irving
Simon pulled up to the main entrance of Mercy Hospital and shifted his car into park. The sky had darkened with the coming of evening as they drove, and he idly flicked his headlights on before turning to speak to his friend.
"You sure you won't come over to my place for a while at least? Everyone there will be a friend, Jim. They know you're hurting and want to be there for you."
"I know, Simon, but I need to be here. I'll see everyone else soon enough. They know what's most important to me right now, though."
"Yeah, they do."
The captain fell silent, but Jim did not make any effort to leave the vehicle. Going into the hospital would be hard, and he longed for the added strength the captain would bring with him were he able to accompany the Sentinel on this visit. Simon was hurting, too, but his capable presence gave Jim strength, and the detective was content to sit and drink it up for a little while, knowing the captain was doing the same thing not three feet from him. Friends helped each other through difficult times, and Simon was a true friend.
"How's the shoulder doing?" Simon asked. "Do you think someone in there will loan you a sling?"
Jim rotated his shoulder within the confines of the vehicle, only wincing slightly at the movement.
"It's fine, Simon. I'm not going to be doing heavy lifting in there. I'll probably just be sitting and talking, same as yesterday."
"If there's any change you'll call me, right? I'd come in with you, but all those people are coming over to my house..."
"I know. I'll say hello from you."
"Good." Simon brushed a hand across his face, looking to Jim more tired and quite a bit older than he had seemed just a few days before. "God, today was tough. I don't want to do that again for a very long time, do you understand me? Tell him that, too."
Jim nodded wordlessly, the return of the vice grip around his heart rendering him unable to vocalize his agreement.
"Call me if you need a ride home, okay?"
After another nod, Jim got out of the car and began walking towards the sliding glass doors. Before he crossed half the distance, though, Simon had the passenger side window down and was calling to him. The Sentinel turned and moved back to the car, leaning forward to prop his uninjured arm against the frame.
"Jim." Simon seemed hesitant to speak. After a moment he shifted his body so he faced the detective fully. "Are we okay, Jim? You and me? I know you accepted my apology, but so much has been happening lately, I just want to be sure you know I'm here for you if you need anything. I need to know that you understand that. I buried one of my men today and that hurt like hell. I don't want to lose another one's friendship because his captain made an ass of himself."
Jim reached in through the open window to grasp at the hand Simon had extended towards him. The tightness in his chest eased somewhat with the contact, and he squeezed his friend's hand hard.
"We're okay, Simon. I don't like what happened, but I understand it. Neither of us is faultless here, though, and I can't let you take more of your share."
"You aren't blaming yourself for what happened, are you?"
The hand-hold was loosened abruptly. The comfort he had gleaned from his captain and friend faded all too quickly.
"Not now, Simon. I have someone waiting for me."
"Jim..."
"I'll call you later. Go home, Simon."
Jim turned back towards the entrance but heard the deep sigh which emanated from the car behind him. He was at the elevators, waiting for a car to the third floor before he finally heard the sedan drive away.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every
other wound we seek to heal--every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a
duty to keep open--this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
-- Washington Irving
To be continued in "Hope"