Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟳𝟴 beth and derek

"This, on the other hand, it's a bit more serious than the fact your Head of Plastics can't keep it in his pants..."

At first glance, Derek could see that it was a phone transcript. 

A series of lines that followed, what looked like, a very long conversation. He briefly saw the time stamps between each sentence—it had been hours in the making, a long meeting that had happened over the past day across a series of calls. Slowly, a dent appeared between Derek's eyebrows and Ballard cleared her throat, preparing to launch into the details from the past forty-eight hours.

"Obviously, because I'm new here I don't really know the protocols very well," She spoke with her hands, gesturing down to the minutes of her meeting with a flippant wave. "So the hospital board recommended that I reach out to you for some help with this. I don't know the staff in my department that well and I was hoping that you'd be almost like a staff co-ordinator in these proceedings. I'll need someone whose a bit more familiar with the staff."

"Sure," Derek said, now very wary of what exactly she was about to say. "So this is an HR issue?"

"From what I've gathered through all of the meetings I've been in for the past two days, it's an everyone issues," Ballard's joke felt dry and exhausted. Her smile cracked dull against the sigh that fell past her lips like punctuation. "But essentially, yes. It involves my department, a member of my staff in my department and the DEA."

DEA. Derek could see it printed on the top of the phone transcript. 

DEA: Drug Enforcement Administration. 

The sort of people who dealt with all of the legal things that went on behind hospital doors when it came to pain medication and the ongoing war against addiction. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Ballard handed the document to him. 

He could hear it slide against the desk, the scrape of paper against wood. It was faint and yet it was almost like the sound of nails against a chalkboard; it made his muscles tense and a chill run down his spine.

Issues with medication weren't taken lightly, Derek knew that. 

For the DEA to get in contact with the Chief of a department, that's when things got messy. He looked down at the paper but found himself unable to read the words on the page; everything just looked like a mess of tiny characters, of lines and punctuation that his exhausted brain couldn't keep up with. As Ballard began to speak, Derek found himself unable to do anything but listen.

The last time Derek had been in contact with the DEA, things had gotten more than messy. He'd sat there in an office, watching as the Surgical Coordinator at Manhattan West started making phone calls and organised meetings, throwing the government agency's name around as if they were good friends. 

He'd watched things get bloody and brutal and things get personal—He'd watched the DEA investigate Beth and threaten to sully her good name, all because he'd voiced concerns about her practice as a doctor.

Derek swallowed, his throat dry and cracked. Yeah, he didn't want to think about that, not now.

"They reached out a couple of days ago and I've been in contact with them since..." 

Ballard was pulling more papers out of her folder, oblivious to the way that Derek seemed to lag behind very slightly. There was so much information, so much to read and so much to listen to; he wasn't sure whether he was just tired or he was a little too close to something that almost felt personal. 

"I've been through hours of meetings trying to discuss what the best plan of action is and that leads me here, to you, and I'm sorry for the short notice—"