Chapter Text
Martin would never admit it to anyone, but solitary confinement was nearly unbearable.
Nearly unbearable.
With no one around him for weeks, he was trapped with himself and his thoughts, and he didn’t always like where his thoughts went. He wondered how much he was missing out on--if Malcolm needed him, if Ainsley needed him, if Malcolm was okay because, despite everything, he did worry about his boy.
It was similar to his first year in the hospital. He couldn’t stop thinking about his children. He couldn’t help but wonder if Malcolm was alright. Malcolm was his pride and joy. He was so young and so smart and so much like himself. And his little girl! Ainsley was still his baby, and he would miss out on so much with her.
His entire first year in the hospital, he was plagued with trying to remember how it felt to hold Ainsley on his lap and to sit with Malcolm before bed. He tried clinging on to the feeling of proudly putting his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders as teachers praised him. He tried not regretting not making sure that Malcolm was in bed that night. He tried not regretting how he didn’t hide things better from Malcolm before he was ready. He had been too eager. Too careless.
In the end, however, it was Lieutenant Arroyo’s fault. It was always his fault.
Martin could work, at least, from his cell. He had his books to distract him. He had music and journals and he was consulting, which he thought was very kind of those who allowed him to do it. He had group meetings and a routine that helped him keep his mind off his flaws (and it was only his worst moments that he acknowledged that he had flaws). And eventually, Malcolm did come back to him. Somewhat.
In solitary, there were no books or music or group meetings. No distractions. He had read studies, years and years ago, about the effects of solitary confinement. Long-term solitary lead to a decrease in the size of the hippocampus, leading to a change in memory, the ability to learn, and spatial awareness. On top of that, fear and anxiety were seen to increase as well disruption of circadian rhythms.
Martin wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew that that wasn’t good. When the door first closed, he prepared himself. He knew what to expect. Maybe he could fight it off until they let him out. He, of course, had to be stronger than the others who had been in before him. He was certainly an outlier.
He didn’t doubt himself when started jumping when his door was open. He didn’t doubt himself when he slept until dinner and then stayed up for a full day after that. He didn’t doubt himself until he was out for the first time.
He was aware of what he must have looked like. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a haircut or had his beard trimmed, but he could feel longer curls resting on the nape of his neck. He knew how unkempt he must have looked, unaware of the dark circles under his eyes and his ashen complexion when he stumbled back in front of the lieutenant. He still didn’t like hearing about it.
“Do you need a chair? You don’t look so good.”
Martin couldn’t tell if Gil said that out genuine pity or if it was a snarky remark. Either way, he snapped. And then he fell to the floor, trying to walk himself through the symptoms of a heart attack and the ways to keep himself conscious. Once the benzos took hold, he thought maybe solitary was getting to him.
His only relief came when a message was passed to him half a week later. He was in control again. Malcolm was his again.
And finally, he could see his boy. He looked at the cast on Malcolm’s hand and asked about it. He heard the slight sniffles and one cough and asked about that. As a doctor, he wanted to give his opinion. As a father, he wanted to offer something more. He wanted to prove himself. But Malcolm wanted none of that.
“Feel better!” he had called out as Malcolm walked out. “Remember rest and fluids!”
Martin should have known that his immune system was shot. He wasn’t exposed to many viruses in the hospital. Not like he would have been living outside, walking amongst hundreds of people every day, swapping germs and building up resistance to strains of influenza and the common cold. The hospital was a mostly sanitary place, and he only came in contact with maybe a dozen outside people before solitary.
And then the stress of being solitary would have only make it worse. He should have known. He was a doctor. He shouldn’t have been so close. He should have kept his distance. God knows what Malcolm had.
Two days after seeing Malcolm, he felt the first symptoms start to develop. A scratchy throat and congestion. Nothing too awful. He thought that maybe he could get away with a mild cold.
Three days after seeing Malcolm, his throat felt on fire and his body ached. At night, he felt chilled.
Four days after seeing Malcolm, he was rudely woken from a feverish nap to be told he had a guest.
Martin remembered when his kids were young and brought home all sorts of germs. There were nights of nursing Malcolm through fevers only to succumb to them himself a day later. Jessica would kiss him on the forehead to check his temperature even though he insisted it wasn’t an accurate way of gauging fever.
Malcolm looked better. His voice was clear from any congestion. Martin asked him, with a hoarse voice, how felt and was ignored. His own ailments were ignored as well. Martin gave him as much information as he could muster, trying to think through his headache and talk through his congestion.
He was little help, according to a frustrated Malcolm. He had mumbled a snarky apology as the guards closed the door behind his son.
Couldn't anyone see that he was suffering? That his temperature was climbing? That his muscles were aching and his chest was heavy and his coughs were wet?
The guards weren't gentle when they brought him back to his cell. They never were.
Martin looked at his one, pathetic blanket as his handcuffs were removed for the night.
"Do you think I could--"
The door slammed. A shiver went down Martin's back.
He was in for a long night.
Martin woke up feeling exceptionally worse. He was freezing and lightheaded. His chest was even tighter and nausea clawed at his stomach. He was ill and was, he thought frantically, in need of someone's help.
It was a flurry of emotions. He was losing control. He knew it. Solitary was making a mess of him, but there was nothing he could do to stop it without help.
He regretted sitting up but he pushed through the dizziness. If he didn't get medical attention soon, he'd risk complications of whatever plagued him.
With how feverish he felt and how his chest rattled when he coughed, he put his money on pneumonia. Malcolm was probably working through a mild flu, and now Martin was going to drown.
He needed antibiotics if it was bacterial. Maybe a course of antivirals if it was viral (at the very least he needed something for the fever that made his body feel a hundred pounds heavier). And a blood test to determine which one it was. He probably wasn't pulling in enough oxygen, either.
He needed the infirmary. He could treat himself if he needed to, and he wasn't sure if he trusted anyone to handle his health after they let him contract pneumonia.
“Excuse me! I think…” he was breathless, and his voice was hardly the volume he wanted it to be. “I think I need help.”
There was no response. He clutched the edge of the bed and slowly rose to his feet. It really didn’t feel good. His head was officially spinning. He stumbled and fell against the door, using the last of his strength to pound on the door.
“I really must insist…”
He couldn’t keep himself upright. Maybe someone would find him when bringing him whatever meal came next and finally realize something was wrong. Martin just hoped that they would find him before his organs shut down from the lack of oxygen or before he developed pleurisy.
He took a step back to his bed and didn’t make it any further.
He was freezing. The cell had never been so cold before, and his shitty blanket had never been so ineffective.
“I need better lighting.”
“You can’t get it in here.”
Martin felt a hand at his forehead. He leaned into it. He hadn't realized how long it had been since someone else had touched him.
He didn’t remember getting back into bed. Perhaps someone had laid him in it. His head ached terribly, and he remembered falling. How long had he been on the cold floor before someone found him?
"It looks like his lips are blue."
Blue lips. That's right. Pneumonia. Central cyanosis, then. It also explained the wheezing he heard come from himself.
He heard someone rustling around in a bag. It was definitely a medic or a doctor next to him.
Smooth plastic ran over his forehead. There was a beep. A thermometer. His blanket was pulled away from his arm. There was a light pressure on his finger. A pulse ox.
“His temperature’s at 104.” Another beep. “And his oxygen saturation is at 85%. It’s probably pneumonia. He should have been in the infirmary by now!”
Those numbers were bad, Martin knew. If he could think clearer, he'd be able to do something about it.
There were voices trying to defend themselves. Martin liked whoever this woman was. She continued giving orders, telling others what she needed and what he needed. He was wrapped up in thinking about how powerful that all was. He didn’t realize that she had begun talking to him.
“Dr. Whitly? Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes and turned to the voice. She was kneeling by his side. He had expected a smile in his direction--a kind, sympathetic one that doctors always gave their patients when they woke up. Martin had given his fair share of them. But there was none this time. He suspected that it may have something to do with him being a serial killer.
“Dr. Whitly?”
“Yes.” It hurt to speak. Not only was his throat raw from coughing, but his lungs protested against using any extra breath.
“You’re going to be taken to the infirmary in a few minutes,” she said. “I’m going to start you on oxygen and then, I’m going to run a blood test for pneumonia along with all the usual vitals. We can’t do chest x-rays here, but if we need to do one or any other type of imaging, we’ll take you downtown to a medical hospital. But we’re going to try to avoid taking you out of here, okay?"
Martin nodded and closed his eyes. The doctor sighed. She pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, tucking his exposed arm back in. It was… tender. It made Martin feel just a fraction better regardless of if he actually deserved to.
Martin took a deep breath (as deep as he could). “Thank you.”
And he very nearly meant it. He didn’t thank a lot of people in his life, but this doctor seemed to deserve something. Maybe he wasn't totally out of control just yet. Maybe he could play the sympathy card.
He heard her zip up her bag and leave. He wasn’t awake to notice the medics taking him out of the cell and down the hallways.