The Fallen Ones--1-Finis PG
Posted: Mon Jan 19, 2009 7:37 pm
Episode: Loosely based after Sonata
Pairing: Mick
Rating: PG
Spoilers: I wish it had a spoiler
Beta Thank You: Lilly and Morbius
Summary: Nothing happens by chance, beware of coincidences
CBS & Paramount owns Moonlight, No copyright infringement is intended.
The Fallen Ones
By Moonshadow
Chapter 1
The concussion of the mortar round slapped his head and spit a stinging round of grit into his face, the stutter of machine gun fire bantered back and forth between the shock waves.
The repeated flashes from the muzzle fire ripped the darkness of the night like some insane dancehall with a crazed strobe light. Mick’s ears rang from the repeated blasts. Blood trickled down the side of his neck unheeded. The steam from his breath mixed with the mist that drifted from the gory wounds torn into the body beneath his crouched form. His bloody hands taunt in the miniature battle waged here for one more life. As the arterial spray shot a crimson rain into the smoky sky Mick felt another life slipping away.
“Stay with me”, he screamed from his sleep. Mick’s gut jerked as he sat bolt upright slamming into the lid of his freezer, “ouch” Mick yelped holding his forehead. As he lay there wide awake, the pain became a welcome distraction. Mick willed his breathing to slow and felt the cold flush of the adrenaline rush fade. The nightmares that haunted him for so many years before had returned with a vengeance. Mick folded his hands behind his head cradling it as he lay there thinking. It had to be Josh’s death that triggered the memories, and the ghosts. In the patterns on the frosty glass, one by one the faces of the men that had died formed; Harry with his carrot red hair, Joey with the infectious laugh, David the Jewish kid from Chicago, so many good boys that became men in a baptism of brimstone and blood.
With a sigh Mick flipped the lid open, sat up and swung over the edge of the glass wall. He knew from experience that sleep was useless now. Stepping into his lounge pants Mick tied the cord at his waist in an unconscious motion, walking to the door and heading for the stairs. He needed something to distract him from thinking; work, T.V., reading, surfing the internet, anything, anything at all. At the bottom of the stairs Mick glanced out the window judging the time of day as noon, great he thought disgustedly to himself, another night shot.
Looking up, the print on his wall caught his eye, Samuel Davis Kai was one of his favorite artists’ and Mick had bought a couple of his pieces. The artwork fit his mood, Mick thought as he walked to the kitchen especially today. Pouring a glass of blood he took it to the living room, lit the fire and settled on the couch letting the mood take him. The flickering flames reminded him of the fires they built in the trenches. During the few moments of sanity, they huddled around the smudgy light, shared stories of home, shared a smoke, and desperately tried to forget for even a second about the hell they were living in.
As a medic he’d had an odd place in the platoon. He’d been part of the camaraderie, the team, and yet some how he’d been removed from it all. You didn’t let yourself get too close to anyone, you couldn’t. One minute you might be sharing a smoke and the next holding their guts in with your hands. It was too much to talk about, it hurt too much to let your guard down. The guys on the ground respected that distance. Mick snorted in the quiet, if he’d had any idea how separated he was going to be from the rest of humanity he’d have done a lot of things differently.
He raised his glass to the print in a toast, “Here’s to you guys, rest easy I’ve got your back” and with that he tossed the drink down. Mick glanced at the TV screen, an hour had slipped away. This isn’t helping anything, Mick thought annoyed with himself as he stood. I might as well get some work done. He flipped the flames off, deposited his glass in the sink and headed upstairs to dress.
Sitting in his office Mick yawned, Great, he thought, Now you get sleepy. St John, you’ve got lousy timing. Picking up a stack of file folders he walked to the file cabinet, might as well get these done. Behind him on the desk the phone rang, Mick usually let the answering machine pick up the calls to the office. He used it as a screening service. Lots of people call a private investigator in the heat of the moment, the machine helped to weed out those calls. Given enough time most people realized that they didn’t really want to know the whole truth, only the part that fit their agenda. This time the voice and the message caught his attention, he picked up the receiver, “Mick St. John here,” he interrupted the message, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” The appointment was set for 2:00 p.m., he’d given the address to the office.
Mick heard the shuffled step down the hallway even before the knock on the door rang out; he opened the door looked at the old mans face and instantly knew who it was. Keeping recognition from registering in his eyes was a trick that Mick mastered years ago; it was a good talent to have, especially at times like this. Being old didn’t mean that the mind was any less sharp than it had been so many years before, and this had been one of the sharpest minds he’d ever known.
Chapter 2
Mick froze momentarily, then straightened and stepped aside gesturing for the stooped figure to enter. As he crossed the threshold the man paused, looked over his glasses and shook his head. “I’d swear that you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” “But, I could say the same thing about myself…” “You are the spitting image of a man I used to know.” “Ironic thing is you carry the same name.” A white eyebrow climbed up the wrinkled face.
Mick smiled embarrassed to be caught staring. “Please come in.” He gestured towards the desk chairs, “Have a seat.” He bit back the urge to say Sir. Circling around the desk he sat, folded his hands and looked at the face before him. “How can I help you Mr. Hills?’
“Please, it’s Doctor Hills,” The old man smiled, “I worked damn hard to get to this point and I’m going continue working until they bury my cold dead corpse.” Looking at Mick intently, he added, “Amazing.”
It was Mick’s turn to jerk an eyebrow upwards, “What’s that?” he asked with a quick shake of his head to indicate his confusion.
“Everything about you, your appearance, your voice, even your name belonged to one of the finest men I ever had the privilege of knowing.” The Doctor said softly looking past Mick out the window and into the memories of his own mind.
“Who was that sir?” Mick asked. Regretting the slip the instant it was out. Knowing it wouldn’t be missed.
“Staff Sergeant St John, a medic in the 112th Infantry Regiment.” “He went by the nickname of Mick too.” “Was your grandfather in World War II by any chance?” There was directness in the old man’s question that reminded Mick to be careful.
“I come by the name honestly, and the genes too.” Mick did his best do dodge the examination. “But, you didn’t come here to discuss me, how can I help you?”
“You’re wrong young man.” “I am here to discuss you, at least I’m betting your namesake.” “I am trying to locate some of the medics that served at the Bulge with me. They haven’t been forgotten, at least not by me.”
Mick rocked back into his chair, steepled his fingers before him, and looked carefully at the man before him. This could be very dangerous. It was never good when the past caught up with the present.
Chapter 3
Mick watched the face before him carefully, “What are you hoping to do, if you find them?”
“Well, like I said, I’m looking for the medics that served in my unit. I’ve found most of them but I’ve a handful of medals that need to go home to the brave men that earned them.” He sighed, “I’m dying Mr. St. John. I’ve got a few months left before the cancer and the medications turn me into a mindless hulk of flesh. I’ve let living get in the way of finishing this job and now,” he looked down, “Now time has run out.”
“So you’re looking for my grandfather?” Mick asked carefully.
“I believe so,” the doctor replied, “I swear just looking at you is a surreal experience. Even your voice is the same.” The doctor grimaced as he sat heavily in the chair, “You don’t happen to have anything to drink do you?”
Mick stood and nodded, “Actually, I have some thing of my grandfather, excuse me a moment,” he added. Mick blew a puff of air as he closed the door behind him, shaking his head, This was not exactly what I needed today, Mick thought with a frown, an honorable man with a mission and a deadline. As he fought to hold back the waves of memories that threatened to wash over him, the effort cost him. The reality of human frailty seemed to be something fate was determined to remind him of lately.
Moving through the loft, the image of Major Hills as a stronger, younger, figure stood in his mind. Major Hills had been a good officer, not afraid to stand by his men, to work side by side with enlisted men. He’d had a dry humor that Mick appreciated, and he’d saved a lot of good kids that other doctors would have given up on. To see him now; bent with age and wracked with pain, felt like a personal insult to a man whose body would never betray him. Mick snorted at his self pity shaking his head, knowing most people couldn’t understand his frustration. Ironic as it was, the fable of King Midas felt like it was Mick’s story.
Mick opened the liquor cabinet grabbed the scotch and a couple of glasses.
Midway across the room his step hesitated, remembering to get the item he’d mentioned to the doctor, he set down the bottle of amber and galloped up the steps.
Opening the black album he stopped at the photo of an innocent young face; a face full of patriotic hope and dreams for a better world. The black and white portrait held a face that had not yet held dying men in the gaze and a young body that had not yet been touched by memories of grief.
Holding the stiff photo in his hand Mick shook his head, This doesn’t even look like me, he thought, I look so young, so naive. He shoved the picture in his shirt pocket, grabbed the bottle and glasses in the living room, and headed back into the office.
“Dr. Hills, I don’t know if I can help you.” Holding up the bottle, “Scotch?” he asked.
The elderly man brightened at the gesture, “Neat” he replied.
Setting the glasses on the coffee table behind his guest, Mick fished out the photo and handed it over as he poured, “My grandfather.”
Dr. Hills took the curled photo and cradled it in his hand accepting the scotch in the other. Peering through his glasses and slowly moving it inward and outward as if adjusting the focus. Looking up at Mick sharply and back down to the picture, shaking his head, “The family resemblance is amazing, absolutely amazing.”
Sipping the scotch, he pursed his lips, his eyes moist, lowering the photo he cleared his throat before asking, “Did you know him?” he gestured with the photo.
Mick hated to lie to this man. He’d rather be honest but fate hadn’t left many options open to him. “No, I didn’t know him well; he died when I was young. Well, he thought sardonically, in a way that wasn’t so far from the truth.
Dr. Hills watched the shadow walking across Mick memory, his eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Young man, I know every family has secrets, but I want you to know something. Regardless of what you may have heard Mick St. John was one of the finest men I had the privilege of serving with.”
Mick held his glass of scotch before him staring into the golden depth, squirming in discomfort. Completely misunderstood by the good doctor, he lifted his head to say something only to be cut off.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, you want to protect him,” the doctor continued “What I need to tell you,” He glanced down and then continued, “you don’t need to worry.” “At some point everyone makes a mistake or two.” “If St. John had known…” he shook his head, “regardless, Grace married a good man and he raised that boy as his own son.” Looking at Mick he continued, “You had an uncle and cousin that you never met.”
Stunned, it was Mick’s turn to clear his throat. “How do you know that?” Mick asked. His face was white with shock at the mention of Grace’s name. Mick jerked. His face stinging with the memory of Grace’s hand print slapped across his face. Mick felt as if she was literally standing here before him, her dark eyes snapping with anger and pain, tears streaming.
The old man smiled “Your grandfather was engaged to Grace Cassela but he broke it off for some woman he met while they were engaged. Grace married Mathew shortly after John was born.” The doctor sipped his scotch before he continued, “And, I know that because, that boy grew up to by my son in law, he married my daughter Ivy.” He finished with a sigh. Anguish crept back into his face, I’m a fool for waiting so long,” he sighed, “We buried John and Ivy two years ago and last week I buried my grandson.”
Mick couldn’t breath, “I’m so sorry,” The words slipped out, of their own volition. They weren’t for the doctor’s pain, they were for Grace’s.
A wave of the doctor’s hand stopped his words, “Thank you, you didn’t know.” He drew a deep breath before continuing, “It’s just that you never expect to outlive your children. It just shouldn’t happen that way. My grandson was only 27.” The doctor’s eyes lost their focus as he looked out the window into the skyline. “I saw so many young men die in the war, but this” he shook away the ghosts.
No! Mick’s mind screamed, There is no way fate could be that cruel. He felt as if the universe had suddenly shifted away from him and he was drifting in mid air. Mick watched disconnected as the old man took a heavy breath and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Dr Hill took a swallow of scotch as he gathered his strength to continue, “So, fate’s played a funny hand, and here I am giving this to you,” he slid a box across the desk, “your grandfather would have wanted you to have this.” The doctor’s voice broke.
Mick’s hand shook as he reached over to the small simple navy blue box, hovering above it, “I don’t know what to say,” his voice barely above a whisper. “What can I say,” Mick thought as he slowly opened the lid to look at the medal pinned there.
The doctor shook his head, “You don’t need to say anything,” he downed the last of the scotch and stood, “Thank you for the drink, it’s really too bad you didn’t know him,” he added setting the empty glass down turning to go.
Mick rose to follow the frail form to the door. As he shook hands the sure knowledge that another familiar face from his past would soon be a memory wrenched at his soul. “Thank you.” Was all Mick could say. Closing the door and turning Mick spotted a slip of paper on the floor beneath the chair that Dr Hills had been seated in. Picking it up Mick saw that it was a memorial card, he glanced at the cover before setting it on his desk and froze.
Joshua Mathew Lindsey
1981-2008
In the echoing silence Mick stared at the empty glass before him, the sunlight creating a rainbow within the last droplet that hung in the large void of what once was full.
~~ finis ~~
Pairing: Mick
Rating: PG
Spoilers: I wish it had a spoiler
Beta Thank You: Lilly and Morbius
Summary: Nothing happens by chance, beware of coincidences
CBS & Paramount owns Moonlight, No copyright infringement is intended.
The Fallen Ones
By Moonshadow
Chapter 1
The concussion of the mortar round slapped his head and spit a stinging round of grit into his face, the stutter of machine gun fire bantered back and forth between the shock waves.
The repeated flashes from the muzzle fire ripped the darkness of the night like some insane dancehall with a crazed strobe light. Mick’s ears rang from the repeated blasts. Blood trickled down the side of his neck unheeded. The steam from his breath mixed with the mist that drifted from the gory wounds torn into the body beneath his crouched form. His bloody hands taunt in the miniature battle waged here for one more life. As the arterial spray shot a crimson rain into the smoky sky Mick felt another life slipping away.
“Stay with me”, he screamed from his sleep. Mick’s gut jerked as he sat bolt upright slamming into the lid of his freezer, “ouch” Mick yelped holding his forehead. As he lay there wide awake, the pain became a welcome distraction. Mick willed his breathing to slow and felt the cold flush of the adrenaline rush fade. The nightmares that haunted him for so many years before had returned with a vengeance. Mick folded his hands behind his head cradling it as he lay there thinking. It had to be Josh’s death that triggered the memories, and the ghosts. In the patterns on the frosty glass, one by one the faces of the men that had died formed; Harry with his carrot red hair, Joey with the infectious laugh, David the Jewish kid from Chicago, so many good boys that became men in a baptism of brimstone and blood.
With a sigh Mick flipped the lid open, sat up and swung over the edge of the glass wall. He knew from experience that sleep was useless now. Stepping into his lounge pants Mick tied the cord at his waist in an unconscious motion, walking to the door and heading for the stairs. He needed something to distract him from thinking; work, T.V., reading, surfing the internet, anything, anything at all. At the bottom of the stairs Mick glanced out the window judging the time of day as noon, great he thought disgustedly to himself, another night shot.
Looking up, the print on his wall caught his eye, Samuel Davis Kai was one of his favorite artists’ and Mick had bought a couple of his pieces. The artwork fit his mood, Mick thought as he walked to the kitchen especially today. Pouring a glass of blood he took it to the living room, lit the fire and settled on the couch letting the mood take him. The flickering flames reminded him of the fires they built in the trenches. During the few moments of sanity, they huddled around the smudgy light, shared stories of home, shared a smoke, and desperately tried to forget for even a second about the hell they were living in.
As a medic he’d had an odd place in the platoon. He’d been part of the camaraderie, the team, and yet some how he’d been removed from it all. You didn’t let yourself get too close to anyone, you couldn’t. One minute you might be sharing a smoke and the next holding their guts in with your hands. It was too much to talk about, it hurt too much to let your guard down. The guys on the ground respected that distance. Mick snorted in the quiet, if he’d had any idea how separated he was going to be from the rest of humanity he’d have done a lot of things differently.
He raised his glass to the print in a toast, “Here’s to you guys, rest easy I’ve got your back” and with that he tossed the drink down. Mick glanced at the TV screen, an hour had slipped away. This isn’t helping anything, Mick thought annoyed with himself as he stood. I might as well get some work done. He flipped the flames off, deposited his glass in the sink and headed upstairs to dress.
Sitting in his office Mick yawned, Great, he thought, Now you get sleepy. St John, you’ve got lousy timing. Picking up a stack of file folders he walked to the file cabinet, might as well get these done. Behind him on the desk the phone rang, Mick usually let the answering machine pick up the calls to the office. He used it as a screening service. Lots of people call a private investigator in the heat of the moment, the machine helped to weed out those calls. Given enough time most people realized that they didn’t really want to know the whole truth, only the part that fit their agenda. This time the voice and the message caught his attention, he picked up the receiver, “Mick St. John here,” he interrupted the message, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” The appointment was set for 2:00 p.m., he’d given the address to the office.
Mick heard the shuffled step down the hallway even before the knock on the door rang out; he opened the door looked at the old mans face and instantly knew who it was. Keeping recognition from registering in his eyes was a trick that Mick mastered years ago; it was a good talent to have, especially at times like this. Being old didn’t mean that the mind was any less sharp than it had been so many years before, and this had been one of the sharpest minds he’d ever known.
Chapter 2
Mick froze momentarily, then straightened and stepped aside gesturing for the stooped figure to enter. As he crossed the threshold the man paused, looked over his glasses and shook his head. “I’d swear that you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” “But, I could say the same thing about myself…” “You are the spitting image of a man I used to know.” “Ironic thing is you carry the same name.” A white eyebrow climbed up the wrinkled face.
Mick smiled embarrassed to be caught staring. “Please come in.” He gestured towards the desk chairs, “Have a seat.” He bit back the urge to say Sir. Circling around the desk he sat, folded his hands and looked at the face before him. “How can I help you Mr. Hills?’
“Please, it’s Doctor Hills,” The old man smiled, “I worked damn hard to get to this point and I’m going continue working until they bury my cold dead corpse.” Looking at Mick intently, he added, “Amazing.”
It was Mick’s turn to jerk an eyebrow upwards, “What’s that?” he asked with a quick shake of his head to indicate his confusion.
“Everything about you, your appearance, your voice, even your name belonged to one of the finest men I ever had the privilege of knowing.” The Doctor said softly looking past Mick out the window and into the memories of his own mind.
“Who was that sir?” Mick asked. Regretting the slip the instant it was out. Knowing it wouldn’t be missed.
“Staff Sergeant St John, a medic in the 112th Infantry Regiment.” “He went by the nickname of Mick too.” “Was your grandfather in World War II by any chance?” There was directness in the old man’s question that reminded Mick to be careful.
“I come by the name honestly, and the genes too.” Mick did his best do dodge the examination. “But, you didn’t come here to discuss me, how can I help you?”
“You’re wrong young man.” “I am here to discuss you, at least I’m betting your namesake.” “I am trying to locate some of the medics that served at the Bulge with me. They haven’t been forgotten, at least not by me.”
Mick rocked back into his chair, steepled his fingers before him, and looked carefully at the man before him. This could be very dangerous. It was never good when the past caught up with the present.
Chapter 3
Mick watched the face before him carefully, “What are you hoping to do, if you find them?”
“Well, like I said, I’m looking for the medics that served in my unit. I’ve found most of them but I’ve a handful of medals that need to go home to the brave men that earned them.” He sighed, “I’m dying Mr. St. John. I’ve got a few months left before the cancer and the medications turn me into a mindless hulk of flesh. I’ve let living get in the way of finishing this job and now,” he looked down, “Now time has run out.”
“So you’re looking for my grandfather?” Mick asked carefully.
“I believe so,” the doctor replied, “I swear just looking at you is a surreal experience. Even your voice is the same.” The doctor grimaced as he sat heavily in the chair, “You don’t happen to have anything to drink do you?”
Mick stood and nodded, “Actually, I have some thing of my grandfather, excuse me a moment,” he added. Mick blew a puff of air as he closed the door behind him, shaking his head, This was not exactly what I needed today, Mick thought with a frown, an honorable man with a mission and a deadline. As he fought to hold back the waves of memories that threatened to wash over him, the effort cost him. The reality of human frailty seemed to be something fate was determined to remind him of lately.
Moving through the loft, the image of Major Hills as a stronger, younger, figure stood in his mind. Major Hills had been a good officer, not afraid to stand by his men, to work side by side with enlisted men. He’d had a dry humor that Mick appreciated, and he’d saved a lot of good kids that other doctors would have given up on. To see him now; bent with age and wracked with pain, felt like a personal insult to a man whose body would never betray him. Mick snorted at his self pity shaking his head, knowing most people couldn’t understand his frustration. Ironic as it was, the fable of King Midas felt like it was Mick’s story.
Mick opened the liquor cabinet grabbed the scotch and a couple of glasses.
Midway across the room his step hesitated, remembering to get the item he’d mentioned to the doctor, he set down the bottle of amber and galloped up the steps.
Opening the black album he stopped at the photo of an innocent young face; a face full of patriotic hope and dreams for a better world. The black and white portrait held a face that had not yet held dying men in the gaze and a young body that had not yet been touched by memories of grief.
Holding the stiff photo in his hand Mick shook his head, This doesn’t even look like me, he thought, I look so young, so naive. He shoved the picture in his shirt pocket, grabbed the bottle and glasses in the living room, and headed back into the office.
“Dr. Hills, I don’t know if I can help you.” Holding up the bottle, “Scotch?” he asked.
The elderly man brightened at the gesture, “Neat” he replied.
Setting the glasses on the coffee table behind his guest, Mick fished out the photo and handed it over as he poured, “My grandfather.”
Dr. Hills took the curled photo and cradled it in his hand accepting the scotch in the other. Peering through his glasses and slowly moving it inward and outward as if adjusting the focus. Looking up at Mick sharply and back down to the picture, shaking his head, “The family resemblance is amazing, absolutely amazing.”
Sipping the scotch, he pursed his lips, his eyes moist, lowering the photo he cleared his throat before asking, “Did you know him?” he gestured with the photo.
Mick hated to lie to this man. He’d rather be honest but fate hadn’t left many options open to him. “No, I didn’t know him well; he died when I was young. Well, he thought sardonically, in a way that wasn’t so far from the truth.
Dr. Hills watched the shadow walking across Mick memory, his eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Young man, I know every family has secrets, but I want you to know something. Regardless of what you may have heard Mick St. John was one of the finest men I had the privilege of serving with.”
Mick held his glass of scotch before him staring into the golden depth, squirming in discomfort. Completely misunderstood by the good doctor, he lifted his head to say something only to be cut off.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, you want to protect him,” the doctor continued “What I need to tell you,” He glanced down and then continued, “you don’t need to worry.” “At some point everyone makes a mistake or two.” “If St. John had known…” he shook his head, “regardless, Grace married a good man and he raised that boy as his own son.” Looking at Mick he continued, “You had an uncle and cousin that you never met.”
Stunned, it was Mick’s turn to clear his throat. “How do you know that?” Mick asked. His face was white with shock at the mention of Grace’s name. Mick jerked. His face stinging with the memory of Grace’s hand print slapped across his face. Mick felt as if she was literally standing here before him, her dark eyes snapping with anger and pain, tears streaming.
The old man smiled “Your grandfather was engaged to Grace Cassela but he broke it off for some woman he met while they were engaged. Grace married Mathew shortly after John was born.” The doctor sipped his scotch before he continued, “And, I know that because, that boy grew up to by my son in law, he married my daughter Ivy.” He finished with a sigh. Anguish crept back into his face, I’m a fool for waiting so long,” he sighed, “We buried John and Ivy two years ago and last week I buried my grandson.”
Mick couldn’t breath, “I’m so sorry,” The words slipped out, of their own volition. They weren’t for the doctor’s pain, they were for Grace’s.
A wave of the doctor’s hand stopped his words, “Thank you, you didn’t know.” He drew a deep breath before continuing, “It’s just that you never expect to outlive your children. It just shouldn’t happen that way. My grandson was only 27.” The doctor’s eyes lost their focus as he looked out the window into the skyline. “I saw so many young men die in the war, but this” he shook away the ghosts.
No! Mick’s mind screamed, There is no way fate could be that cruel. He felt as if the universe had suddenly shifted away from him and he was drifting in mid air. Mick watched disconnected as the old man took a heavy breath and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Dr Hill took a swallow of scotch as he gathered his strength to continue, “So, fate’s played a funny hand, and here I am giving this to you,” he slid a box across the desk, “your grandfather would have wanted you to have this.” The doctor’s voice broke.
Mick’s hand shook as he reached over to the small simple navy blue box, hovering above it, “I don’t know what to say,” his voice barely above a whisper. “What can I say,” Mick thought as he slowly opened the lid to look at the medal pinned there.
The doctor shook his head, “You don’t need to say anything,” he downed the last of the scotch and stood, “Thank you for the drink, it’s really too bad you didn’t know him,” he added setting the empty glass down turning to go.
Mick rose to follow the frail form to the door. As he shook hands the sure knowledge that another familiar face from his past would soon be a memory wrenched at his soul. “Thank you.” Was all Mick could say. Closing the door and turning Mick spotted a slip of paper on the floor beneath the chair that Dr Hills had been seated in. Picking it up Mick saw that it was a memorial card, he glanced at the cover before setting it on his desk and froze.
Joshua Mathew Lindsey
1981-2008
In the echoing silence Mick stared at the empty glass before him, the sunlight creating a rainbow within the last droplet that hung in the large void of what once was full.
~~ finis ~~