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An older lady from his apartment building calls it in- she came back to collect a bowl he'd borrowed from her, and when she opened the door, he was on the floor. Unresponsive. Still in his sleepwear. The whole thing seems vaguely fantastical to Mark until the ambulance arrives, and from it emerges Carter, strapped to a gurney, completely and utterly… gone.
“25 year old male found unresponsive in his apartment by a neighbour, sats are normal but his resp rate is a little low. Minimal response to sternal rub- could be opioids?”
Mark frowns. Assists the paramedics in getting the gurney to the ground, Carter's head lolling sickeningly when the wheels touch down. No muscle tone. What the hell?
“Pupils?”
“Equal and reactive, if a little sluggish.”
“Any constriction? Dilation?”
“Nope.”
Well, unless Carter is having a very odd reaction to opioids, this throws that theory out the window. They roll him through the front doors, and it's hard to avoid the pointed glances and shocked expressions- Carter? Our Carter? What happened? Is he alright? Mark dismisses them with a wave of the hand, only drawing Kerry and Carol into the fold as he advances towards the trauma room. They hurry right in after him.
“Mark?”
The gurney is pushed through the swinging doors and lined up beside the bed.
“Help me with the transfer.” He murmurs. “On my count.”
They unbuckle Carter from the gurney, and in one smooth motion, slide him onto the trauma table. He's still totally floppy. The oversized tee he's wearing and the serenity of his unconscious expression makes him look almost… childlike. It takes a second for Mark to remember that this could be- and probably is- urgent. He clears his throat.
“Neighbour found him unconscious on the floor of his apartment. Minimally responsive to sternal rub. Slightly low resp rate and pupils are a little sluggish, but other than that- nothing pointing to the cause of his condition.”
Kerry’s already at the head of the table, lifting each of Carter's eyelids in turn. When she flickers the flashlight over his gaze, his pupils constrict and dilate- slowly, yes, but not enough to be immediately concerning.
“Carter? Open your eyes, sweetheart. Open those eyes for me.”
It's as though she hasn't spoken at all. Her hand moves to his chest, curling into a fist and rubbing into the deep notch of his sternum. His shoulders curl in as if to repel the movement, but it's all the response Kerry gets.
“Has he been feverish?”
From her position at Carter's side, already sliding a needle into his arm, Carol shakes her head. “Doesn't feel warm to me. Worth checking with the thermometer just in case.”
She's right, though. His temperature is normal. That lessens the probability of a whole bunch of scary diagnoses, but still leaves them with more questions than answers. It doesn't make sense.
“Carol, draw some blood- maybe the lab results will tell us something.”
“Sure.”
“And try to keep things as quiet as possible, hm? No need to send the ER into a frenzy.”
It feels like a necessary addition. Everybody there knows Carter, and seeing him wheeled into the hospital unconscious? They're going to want answers, and while the situation is still so… complicated, keeping rumours from circulating is important. As is, of course, keeping staff out of the trauma room unless absolutely necessary.
Peter Benton is apparently an anomaly. The moment Carol leaves with the blood she's drawn, he's barging in, brow set, the tails of his surgical gown flapping behind him.
“What the hell is going on?”
Mark sighs. “We don't know yet, Peter. He's stable but unresponsive.”
The surgeon’s gaze fixes on his student. He marches over.
“Carter?”
To the surprise of absolutely nobody except Peter, Carter remains dead to the world. Peter’s hand lands on his shoulder, shakes him.
“Come on, man, wake up. What the hell are you playing at?”
“Peter, he-”
“Wake up, Carter.”
“Peter! That isn't going to work. Just… we need to be patient.”
Benton looks at Mark like he's suddenly grown a second head. “Patient?” He gestures to the unconscious man on the table. “What if he's got meningitis? Some sort of brain bleed?”
“He's afebrile and we're getting a CT.” Mark explains. He keeps his voice as even as possible- right now, it seems he can't speak to Peter like a surgeon. Instead, he's speaking to him like… a father? A brother?
“Did he seize?”
Peter lurches forward, already taking Carter's jaw in his hand and opening his mouth to check for tongue abrasions. This avenue proves fruitless. When his eyes alight on nothing, he draws back, folding his arms. Mark can see that the gesture only exists to contain his nervous energy, evident by the way he taps his foot against the tile, worries on his lower lip with his teeth.
“We'll find out what's wrong.” Mark assures him.
Peter nods. Wheels round.
“I’m going to CT. They better get their heads out of their asses and take him, now.”
The CT is utterly unhelpful, but the blood test is not.
Benzodiazepines.
A lot of them.
Not enough to cause serious damage, perhaps, but certainly enough that Carter would have known he was taking too many. Most of the questions Mark and Kerry have are directed towards Benton- after all, he has most contact with Carter, and might know more than they do. Does he have any trouble sleeping? Has he seemed suicidal recently?
Peter brushes them off.
No intern has trouble sleeping, they're too busy and every break counts. Of course he hasn't seemed suicidal, he's Carter.
They get no closer to discovering why he might have overdosed- until, by chance, they do.
Carter's neighbour returns, dragging her oxygen tank behind her with one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other. Mark tells her to put it out. She does, albeit reluctantly. Mark asks her if she knows whether Carter has been having trouble sleeping recently. She tells him that she has, actually, and could he perhaps write her a new prescription for her sleeping pills, because she seems to have gone through her old bottle very quickly?
He almost misses it. He's halfway to his prescription pad when it hits him.
“Betty, did you see Carter this morning? Before you checked in on him later?”
She frowns. “The only reason I needed to check on him later was because he had one of my bowls!”
“Why did he have one of your bowls?”
“Because I gave it to him, of course.”
Mark grits his teeth through the urge to shake her. “Betty. Why did you give him a bowl?”
She gives him a toothy grin. “I made him some borscht."
The sigh that comes from deep within Mark's chest is relief and frustration all at once.
“Betty.”
“Yes?”
“Where did you keep your sleeping pills?”
“On the counter.”
Another sigh. “Right. Okay. Well, if you'll excuse me, I really have to-”
Betty makes a noise of indignation as he turns around, catching him by the arm. “What about my prescription?”
Mark gives her the most polite smile he can muster given the circumstances.
“Considering you tipped most of that last bottle into the borchst you fed our intern, I think I'll have to say no this time, Betty.”
Carter.
Come on, bud, open your eyes.
Can you squeeze my hand, sweetheart?
He sleeps.
Then-
Carter.
Carter.
Carter. Wake the hell up, man!
It's Benton's voice, as usual, that draws him up from the depths of sleep, lurching forwards and apologising profusely. Except… no, hang on, he hasn't done either. Instead, his eyes have barely opened and the furthest he's got movement-wise is the slight twitch of his left arm.
Which is… cannulated?
Benton swims into view, and the blurry furrow of his brow soon settles into an expression that looks almost relieved. That can't be right, though. Perhaps Carter is still dreaming. If he just closes his eyes again, he'll find that-
“Carter!”
Someone slaps him gently on the cheek. He opens his eyes again (halfway) to find that, yes, it is Peter Benton. And yes, he does seem relieved.
“Follow my finger.”
This is a very odd way of punishing him for falling asleep on shift, but Carter cooperates. Eyes right. Eyes left. Eyes closing…
Another slap for his troubles.
“Stay awake, man. You scared the hell out of us.”
He manages to furrow his own brow, loosing a weak noise of confusion.
Peter sighs. Waves his hand around vaguely.
“It's a whole- look, you accidentally took a whole bunch of sleeping pills. Mark said something about your neighbour and… Baklava?”
“Borrrrschtt.” Carter slurs in slow motion.
Peter nods. “Right. Whatever. The point is that crazy woman spilled a whole bunch of sleeping pills into it, so you passed out like a goddamn Disney princess a few hours ago and made us all think you were dying.”
Carter does his best attempt at a concerned expression. He's not sure it comes across very well. Really, he just wants to sleep.
“Carter? Hey, are you getting this?” Peter snaps his fingers in front of his face, but the sound is already becoming muffled.
His intern yawns, wiggling slightly in his burrow of blankets.
“...ter? … even listening to me?”
The frustrated blob in front of him slowly softens. A hand lands on his cheek yet again, but this time it doesn't slap, just settles. Its thumb moves up and down soothingly.
“...lright, then… to sleep.”
The last word is all Carter hears.
Sleep.
But as he smacks his lips and sinks slowly back into slumber, a hot murmur rasps close to his ear.
“If you ever eat food offered to you by a random old woman again, I'll kill you myself. Do you understand?"
He manages a small, weak, very uncoordinated nod.
"Good boy. Go to sleep."
He does.