[ WP ] You make a deal with the devil but afterwards you decide to get out of it but you signed it blood .

*long time listener, first time caller. Inspired in the shower by this prompt, I decided to grow some balls and post* 
 
 `` What seems to be the problem?'' the young doctor seemed self-assured, and Sparrow hoped that would n't be a problem. 
 
 `` I do n't really know where to start,'' he replied, letting a nervous chuckle out as he reclined on the hospital bed. 
 
 The stark white sheet was itchy on his legs, he instinctively reached down to scratch them. He quickly abandoned this act, remembering that scratching was a sure sign of addiction. He needed to keep his symptoms straight first and foremost, if this was to work the way he needed it to. 
 
 `` Let's start with your history then?'' her eyebrows seemed to travel towards the heavens, making him instantly unsettled. `` It says here you suffer from Crohn's Disease since 2001.'' 
 
 `` I was diagnosed when I was ten, yes. I'm on some maintenance meds, regularly admitted for fluids and also rarely for TPN and lipids.'' 
 
 `` You're quite knowledgeable about medical things,'' the doctor replied. Her eyebrows still wide, her lips pursed in confusion. `` Oh wow, it says here you're a resident at Wash U?'' 
 
 `` Second year,'' he replied. `` I felt weird about going to my hospital.'' 
 
 `` Understandably,'' she responded, her eyes narrowing finally. `` Let's skip formalities and jump to the problem. I'm sure you have better things to be doing with your time.'' 
 
 He groaned, his stomach churning loudly alongside. This plan had to work, it had to. 
 
 “ I ’ ve been abusing quinine, ” he finally whispered, hoping the line delivered the way he ’ d practiced it. 
 
 “ So that ’ s it, diamorphine abuse as well, ” she rolled her eyes, rising off the silver stool. 
 
 “ Who said anything about heroin? ” he exclaimed, rising to a sitting position. He could feel his face turning red, it was indeed working. 
 
 “ There are treatment programs for residents, Sparrow. You can ’ t be afraid to admit this, you won ’ t begin to heal unless you do. There are no legal repercussions, the most important thing is to take leave and enter a treatment program. ” She strode towards the large door, exhaling loudly. 
 
 “ No, no, no, you don ’ t understand! There is no diamorphine! I am truly abusing just the quinine, ” he stammered. He could feel himself begin to sweat, his hands wringing together in anticipation. 
 
 “ Why the hell would you chug quinine? ” she broke character, her head slanting to the right side a bit. 
 
 “ Who said anything about chugging, ” Sparrow giggled uncomfortably. He was desperate, but felt prosperous. 
 
 “ Why are you here? ” the doctor asked, crossing her arms. 
 
 “ I believe I am in the final stages of thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura, ” he smiled. 
 
 “ There aren ’ t stages of TTP, ” she responded, eyes narrowed. “ There is only diagnosis and treatment. What primary symptoms have you witnessed? ” 
 
 “ Malaise, bruising, dark urine, regular headaches and semi-confusion and numbness, my blood film had some evidence of red cell fragmentation, ” he recited. 
 
 “ I ’ ll need a blood draw, we will be depending on a hematologist and we will diagnose this quickly. ” she stated concisely, turning into a super serious doctor on a dime. 
 
 “ I don ’ t have a lot of time, ” Sparrow murmured. 
 
 “ You know prognosis is fairly good with treatment, Doctor Crain. ” she offered a small smile, noting something on the tablet in her arms. 
 
 “ I don ’ t mean mortality, ” he stated, although strangely enough this was a lie of sorts. “ I ’ ve got to get back to work, I don ’ t have time for extensive treatment. ” 
 
 “ Say it ’ s as bad as you assume, ” she sat on the edge of the hospital bed and focused on him. “ What treatment would you suggest. ” 
 
 “ Exchange transfusion, ” he smiled, his eyes lighting up. He rested his elbow on his upper thigh, allowing his head to be propped up by his fist. 
 
 “ That ’ s a brilliant idea, ” she responded. “ I ’ ve never been a part of a live exchange. I ’ ll call in a phlebotomist and consult with the specialist, I see no reason to pursue any other form of treatment once we ’ ve identified the thrombus. ” 
 
 “ It ’ s a great day to save lives, ” Sparrow chortled. 
 
 “ I fucking hate that show, ” she rose and walked towards the door. “ Excuse my French. What kind of actual doctor has on eyeliner and fresh underwear every day? Who actually has sex in an on call room? ” 
 
 “ Agreed on all points, ” Sparrow allowed himself to breathe for the first time since the consult started, feeling his insides start to glow. He ’ d always associated his soul with his insides, not so much his heart but everything below the chest cavity. How fitting that he ’ d been able to figure out his problem by using his ‘ everything below the chest cavity ’ to it ’ s best use. Chugging the quinine for a month had also helped it out, but mostly the innards. 
 
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 “ Sparrow, we ’ re going to take you back now. ” 
 
 “ I figured as much, with the caps and gowns. ” He was in a gown himself, an I.V. inserted into both arms. “ Where does the blood come from? ” 
 
 “ You ’ re a resident, you should know this. ” 
 
 “ Maybe I ’ m testing you? This is a small hospital and you ’ re about to anesthetize me, ” he smiled broadly. 
 
 “ Your blood and platelets came from a matched donor, ” the doctor responded. 
 
 “ What happens during the procedure? ” 
 
 “ We relieve your system of blood in cycles, then replacing said blood in it ’ s place, ” the doctor huffed while keeping pace beside the moving hospital bed. She placed her badge up to the reader, allowing automatic doors to open with a steady beep. 
 
 “ I ’ ll be anesthetized? ” 
 
 “ To ease discomfort, we will knock you out. ” The doctor stood by the bed, glaring at the patient before entering a STAFF ONLY door. The orderly pushed the bed through separate doors and into the operating room. Various staff stood by what seemed like a large group, most notably the anesthetist who had introduced himself earlier. 
 
 “ Alright Sparrow, ” he smiled, his bright teeth peeking out from his half-done surgical mask. “ You know the drill, you ’ ll breathe in and count to ten. Enjoy your nap! ” 
 
 “ Wait! ” he exclaimed, raising his hands to prevent the nurse from putting the blue mask over his mouth. 
 
 “ What ’ s up? ” the anesthetist replied. 
 
 “ So I ’ ll wake up with only new blood, right? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ” he responded. “ Not a quart of blood will be the same as you have in this moment. ” 
 “ Not even a teaspoon? ” 
 
 “ Not even one drop, ” he whispered as he lifted the mask towards the patient ’ s face. 
 
 “ That ’ s right, not a thing you can do about it, ” Sparrow slurred as the gas put him to sleep. His eyes seemed to glaze over, but they were fixed on a point in the back of the group that seemed to shadow one of the staff in a red sheen. Perhaps this was a trick of light, the shaking head of and exasperated breathing a product of the heavy medicine that was affecting his brain. 
 
 In that moment he stayed awake just a moment longer than was normal, just so he could smile at the devil and remind him that he ’ d outlasted their contract. 
 
 He let the moment linger, he had won. 
 
 
 

