Random drabble that takes place at the beginning of the Sixty Minutes verse. I wrote this over the summer, before the season began.

Coming To

“Go away,” you mumble, every time either sunlight or some unwanted din assault your senses. You haven’t bothered looking at the clock, not that you could make out the digits without the aid of your reading glasses. You’ve already been informed that you can have them, as well as your cane and other assorted items, once you get out of bed, take your medication and a shower, dress yourself and join the other patients in the dining hall. But easily eight meals have passed now and what seems like an endless supply of personnel have paraded in and out of your room and you’ve yet to make any attempt to meet their demands.

“Greg,” a new voice says. “It’s time to get up.”

“M’tired,” you say, the same excuse you’ve been offering since you got here. And besides that, it hardly qualifies as an excuse. You're exhausted. Just opening your eyes seems like a tremendous effort, and a wasted one at that.

After detox, they brought you to this room, or more like dragged. You could hardly walk or tell up from down. You vaguely recall being introduced to a room mate. You rather quickly ascertained that he was suffering from some sort of mood disorder, if the rapid delivery of his speech was any indication. You nodded at him briefly, saying nothing, and collapsed onto your bed. You think that was two days ago, although it's very possible that it may have been as many as five. And while you can’t remember ever sleeping this much in your entire life, especially not without the aid of sedatives, you’re still tired and you definitely don’t feel like getting up.

“Greg,” the person repeats. He‘s touching you now, his large hand gently gripping your forearm. His voice is deep and the authority in his voice implies that he is probably not a nurse or orderly. He’s an actual doctor.

“Go away.” You repeat what has up until now been your successful refrain. You're sure you've sold him, that he and whomever he's with will leave you and you can return to the pleasant obliviousness of your hibernation. Except that you feel several pair of hands on you and realize you’re being lifted into the air.

“Guh,” you grunt. You twist and struggle weakly against them. But your attempts are useless. God knows where they’re taking you now. You shut your eyes against the harsh hallway lighting, dizzy from the awkward angle at which you’re being held.

You hear a sound like that of running water and then you’re suddenly find yourself submerged in a large tub. It’s cold, though not intolerably so. It’s more like swimming pool or room temperature. But it’s still a shock when you’ve spent the last few days in the warm cocoon of your bed, and you let out a small cry of protest when they lower you into it.

When you open your eyes there are three orderlies and a man in a sweater vest and tie. You assume he must be your doctor, by the way his arms are folded in a no-nonsense pose. Both his mannerisms and attire remind you of Wilson, who you haven't seen in almost a week, and that elicits an brief, involuntary grin. The momentary respite is interrupted when someone thrusts a bar of soap into your chest and tells you to wash yourself.

“You mind?” You ask, because surely you’re not going to be expected to do this with an audience. You hate the tinny, faraway sound to your voice, like your ears are filled with cotton and you're speaking through a funnel. The doctor informs you that bathing privately is a privilege for those who choose to get out of bed and take their medication. Apparently you cannot be trusted yet, to perform even this simple task.

You’re not too keen on the nudity thing. But the last thing you need is these guys thinking they can get to you that easily. So you strip off your wet garments and wash yourself as immodestly as possible, even taking a few moments to fondle yourself with a soapy hand. You figure there’s no danger in it since it’s not likely that you could get an erection with four men watching you anyway. Although stranger things have happened.

When you’ve rinsed yourself off, one of the orderlies hands you a towel. While you dry yourself, another orderly leaves the room and returns with a fresh set of clothing, which he must have taken from the suitcase you arrived with. Oddly enough everyone sort of glances elsewhere while you dress, as though the act of clothing oneself is somehow more private than bathing.

Once you’re dressed, someone hands you a cane. It’s not your cane, but some hideous aluminum job, the kind that can’t help but remind you how pathetically crippled you are. You cringe as you accept it, taking in the unmistakble scent of fresh rubber. You've hated that smell as long as you can remember, probably even before you became dependant on such devices for mobility.

“Medication,” the doctor says, rattling a small paper cup in your face.

“What is it?” You ask. All you’ve taken so far that you know of is the methadone. There are three pills in the cup. One looks familiar, the other two not so much.

“Bupropion, Aripiprazole, Lorazepam,” he replies, producing another cup with water in it.

You study the pills for a second, an antidepressant, an antipsychotic, and a tranquilizer for anxiety. You don’t want to take them. You don’t even know why you don’t want to take them. You probably need them. It's just your instinct to rebel against such things.

“Is there going to be a problem?” He asks. And it's clear that he'd prefer the answer be no.

You shake your head. You still feel cloudy and disconnected. You figure you can always cooperate now and if you’ve got any objections to your treatment, you can sort it out later, when you're more coherent.