Disclaimer: The episode 'The Mouse' was written by Edwin Self. Some dialogue he wrote is used in this story, no copyright infringement is intended.

The Mouse

 - An Extra Scene-

By Rona

As Roy handed his victim to the firefighter on the ladder, he turned back to get his partner, knowing that the paramedics who were in the triage area would care for the woman he had just rescued. But Johnny was unconscious in that apartment and even if he had come around by now, he would need help.

So it was with a huge sense of relief that he saw another fireman carrying his unconscious partner from the burning apartment building. Roy hurried over to help, relieving the Pasadena man of the burden. “Thanks,” he called over the noise of the flames.

“No problem,” the other responded and grinned. “I’d do it for anyone.” Roy grinned back.

He had traversed the ladder and was almost at the triage area when Johnny began to stir. As Roy lowered him to a waiting blanket, Johnny began to cough, deep harsh noises as his lungs tried to expel the smoke he had inhaled. “Easy,” Roy soothed. He glanced up and spotted Bellingham nearby. “Bob, can you give me the O₂?” he called.

Obligingly, Bellingham went to 51s squad and brought over the oxygen and their drug box. He deposited them by Roy and took a good look at Johnny before heading over to bring the trauma box. Roy hid a smile. “Thanks,” he offered as Bellingham put it down by him.

“No problem,” Bellingham returned. He grinned at Johnny. “I see you lost your helmet again, Gage,” he teased before making a hasty departure.

Johnny glared at his friend through bloodshot eyes, but he didn’t say anything; he was breathing deeply of the oxygen and trying to repress the cough that seemed to come from his boots. “’M all right,” he panted, pulling the mask away from his face. “Roy…”

“I know you’re all right,” Roy replied, and plonked the mask back over Johnny’s nose and mouth. “Just keep breathing that and you’ll be even better.” He picked up some gauze and started wiping the blood from Johnny’s face. He discovered that it was coming from a gaze above Johnny’s left eye. “Put your hand there and press,” he instructed, lifting Johnny’s hand into position. He noted the wince that accompanied the move. He took Johnny’s pulse.

There was a sudden influx of victims and Roy had reluctantly to leave Johnny and assist the others. Seeing how busy they were, Johnny started to rise, but was overcome by a fit of coughing. Hank Stanley fixed him with a stern glare. “Just sit there, Gage, until your partner is finished with you,” he instructed.

Reading permanent latrine duty in his future in his superior’s eyes if he disobeyed this instruction, Johnny subsided. In truth, he was quite glad to sit at peace, for his head throbbed fiercely and he ached all over.

Not surprisingly, given the scale of the disaster, the paramedics were kept busy until the fire was finally extinguished. Thanks to the thoroughness of the first people on the scene and the number of crews that came from all parts to help out, the fire was out in a remarkably short time. There were a few fatalities, mostly in the apartment that had suffered a direct hit from the jet’s engine. The injuries were not as numerous or as severe as they might have been, again thanks to the promptness of the response.

By the time the last of the victims was being transported to Rampart, Johnny was beginning to feel better. Roy crossed to where his partner was now leaning against the squad, oxygen in hand, and began to attend to the neglected cut on Johnny’s head.

“Ow!” Johnny winced. He tried to back away, but Roy was determined that the gash was not going untreated for one second longer. “Ow!” Johnny cried again. He coughed and put the oxygen mask on his face to such in some more precious air.

Rolling his eyes, Roy started to pack away the gauze. Another firefighter, dressed in the yellow turnouts of a Pasadena man, approached. He introduced himself and Johnny quickly thanked him, joking about ‘trying harder’ when the guy mentioned that Johnny was a ‘county’ fireman.

Turning back to where his partner was stowing the gear, Johnny studied Roy’s face. At once, he diagnosed that Roy was feeling guilty about something. Knowing Roy the way he did, Johnny knew what was bugging his partner. “Know what I’d have done?” he asked, when Roy glanced at him.

Shrugging, Roy asked, “What?” He dreaded the answer, fearing that Johnny would blame him for leaving him behind, despite the fact that saving the victim had priority over saving your partner.

“I’d have picked you both up,” Johnny replied, gesturing to each shoulder, “and just blown the flames out in front of me.”  He fluttered one hand, demonstrating. His face was quite serious.

At that moment, Roy knew that Johnny didn’t blame him for anything. Rationally, he had known Johnny would be okay with Roy’s decision; knowing it emotionally was quite another. It was a dilemma that no one had been able to solve. Every firefighter knew that his primary duty was with the victim, but it was hard to leave an injured colleague behind.

Although there was a desire to smile somewhere deep within Roy, it was subsumed by the desire to shed a few tears. So Roy did neither of those things. He pushed the mask onto Johnny’s face.

As Johnny followed Roy to the squad, Roy wondered how Johnny would take the news that he was going to Rampart. Cap had ordered the check-up and Roy was in complete agreement. Johnny had been unconscious; he had a head injury; he needed to be checked out.

Before Roy could say anything, Captain Stanley appeared at the squad window and looked assessingly at Johnny. The younger paramedic had taken the oxygen cylinder into the squad with him, as he still needed the occasional puff. His chest was still tight from the smoke he had inhaled, but he felt a bit better.

“You’re going to Rampart to be checked out, John,” Stanley told the startled young man. “No ifs, buts or maybes!”

At once, wounded brown eyes fixed the captain with a pleading look, but Stanley was immune. “I mean it, John,” he warned. “Roy…”

“Yes, sir,” Roy agreed dutifully. Johnny glanced at him, but Roy was already starting the squad. “You were unconscious,” he reminded Johnny. “Besides, Cap told Brackett you were on your way.”

“Judas,” Johnny muttered under his breath. He said no more on the journey to Rampart, but still drew on the O₂ and coughed sometimes. He knew he needed to be seen; he just hated admitting it.

********************************

Rampart was still busy when they arrived, but the initial rush was over. Now, it was more a case of finding beds for everyone. Dixie was at the base station desk, filing the charts, ready to send them up to the correct floor with each patient. She glanced up as the paramedics arrived, her eyes drawn to the white bandage above Johnny’s left eye.

“What’s the other guy look like?” she quipped and Johnny made a face.

“Ha ha,” he muttered. He was beginning to feel pretty tired now and his headache was worse. All he wanted was to lie down somewhere quiet and sleep for a week.

“Treatment four,” Dixie told Roy. “Kel knows he’s coming. He’ll be in shortly.” She gave Johnny a sympathetic smile, glad to see that he wasn’t hurt any worse.

“I’m fine,” Johnny protested as Roy ushered him across the corridor. “Roy, honest…”

He subsided as they entered the treatment room. Roy tugged Johnny’s turnout coat off and Johnny hauled himself onto the treatment table, wondering why it was so difficult. He coughed slightly and wished that he hadn’t left the oxygen in the squad. His chest still felt a bit tight, but he knew that time would sort that problem out for him.

They didn’t have to wait more than about 30 seconds for Kelly Brackett to arrive. He smiled at both paramedics, but they could see he looked tired. “Johnny, Roy,” he greeted them and immediately began to unstick the bandage on Johnny’s head. “Roy, could you get new vitals for me?” he asked.

Nodding, Roy obliged, while Johnny muttered something about ‘new’ vitals under his breath, adding, “Ow!” more loudly as Brackett gently palpated the cut.

“I’m going to have to put a couple of stitches in there, Johnny,” Brackett told him, straightening. He glanced at Roy, who was taking Johnny’s BP.

“130/90,” Roy reported. It was roughly normal, perhaps slightly higher than was usual for Johnny, but nothing to worry about. “Pulse is 75, respirations about 16.”

“How does your chest feel?” Brackett enquired. “Take off your shirt, please.”

“It’s a bit tight,” Johnny admitted as he eased his shirt off. He nodded his thanks to Roy, who again assisted him. Johnny wasn’t quite sure why he was feeling so stiff all of a sudden. He was suddenly rattled with a cough that caught him unawares.

“I’m hearing a lot of crackles in there,” Brackett commented after listening closely. “I’m going to keep you overnight, Johnny. I don’t want this getting any worse.”

The young paramedic’s shoulders slumped in acceptance. He had suspected that Brackett would want to keep him from the moment the word ‘stitches’ had made an appearance. “All right,” he agreed quietly.

“Johnny?” Brackett frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”

Given that Brackett was the doctor, it seemed a strange question. But he had learned the hard way that Johnny was not always honest about his health. “I don’t feel very good,” Johnny replied. It was something of an understatement, as he now felt really terrible. The headache was getting worse and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

“Here.” Roy thrust an emesis basin into his partner’s hand. Johnny was suddenly quite green. He put his hand on Johnny’s back to lend him some support and felt Johnny sag against him. Brackett saw Johnny sway and within seconds, the paramedic was lying on his side, unsure how he got there.

“You’re definitely staying,” Brackett told him, when the bout of vomiting was over. “You’ve got a mild concussion, my friend.”

“Good,” Johnny responded vaguely. He was feeling rather dazed and he was glad he was lying down. Somehow, he had the feeling he might have slipped ignominiously to the floor otherwise.

Exchanging a wry smile with Roy, Brackett went to the door to call Dixie. He would suture Johnny’s head wound and then they would get him settled in a room. Behind him, he could hear Johnny vomiting again and decided that if there was a third incidence, he would give the paramedic some Compazine to try and ease things.

*****************************************

It was some time before Johnny was settled in a room. Roy waited until Johnny was asleep before he left. Their shift was over, fortunately, and Dwyer had come to Rampart to collect the squad, driving Roy’s car, therefore saving the exhausted man a trip back to collect his car.

A good meal and several hours’ sleep later, Roy returned to see how his partner was doing. Johnny was off the oxygen, but according to his chart, he had had a bad time with the headache and nausea. Despite the Compazine, he had vomited intermittently until there was nothing in his stomach. He had finally got some sleep and was currently sporting an IV until his fluid levels had returned to normal. However, he was not getting home that day.

Twenty four hours later, it was a different story. Johnny was feeling better, his headache was practically gone and he had been eating like a horse – which wasn’t unusual. He was also complaining and the nurses on his floor were looking a bit harried.

“Here are your discharge papers,” Brackett announced, coming into the room. “When are you next back on shift?”

“Tomorrow,” Johnny replied, trying to look healthy. He knew there was no chance of Brackett saying he was all right to go back, but he was determined to try it anyway.

“No, too soon,” Brackett murmured and Johnny rolled his eyes. “None of that!” Brackett scolded, sounding amused. “Or I’ll sic Dixie onto you.”

Grinning, Johnny shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying, doc.”

“Come and see me the day before your next shift and I’ll have a look at you then,” Brackett decided. “I’ll decide when those stitches will come out then, too.” He wagged a finger at Johnny. “And take it easy for the next few days! I mean that!”

“I will,” Johnny agreed cheerfully. He saw the sceptical looks on both Roy and Brackett’s faces and insisted, “I will.” When the looks remained, Johnny splayed a hand across his chest. “Are you implying that I would disobey medical orders?”

Slowly Brackett nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m implying,” he agreed. “You are the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

Gathering up his bag and his discharge papers, Johnny hopped into the wheelchair that an orderly brought into the room. “Just be glad you weren’t your own patient then,” Johnny jibed, recalling that Brackett had not exactly been an exemplary patient when they both had the monkey virus. “Let’s go, Roy.”

Leaving Brackett standing, open mouthed, Johnny was pushed from the room. Roy shrugged and edged towards the door. “See ya, doc,” he muttered and hurried outside before he burst out laughing and disgraced himself.

Yes, it looked like John Gage was going to make another of his trade-mark recoveries and Roy for one was very glad of that.

The End

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