Desperate hours part two


Mark watched with growing concern as Jesse gasped in breath after successive breath, his upper body arching upward as he fought the mask, trying desperately to drink in more than it was able to deliver. "Jesse, stop it!" he ordered, in as stern a voice as he could muster, given his anxiety over his friend. "You need to breathe with the mask, not against it! Jesse, Jesse, listen to me! Stop it - now!"
His words got through. The young man hitched in another desperate breath then paused, waiting for the mask to do its job. Gradually, his respirations slowed and settled into a regular rhythm and his body settled back down onto the floor once again.
"That's it," Mark's voice soothed. "That's right, Jess. Just breathe. You're going to be fine."
He was? Jesse could hear the doubt lacing the older man's voice. He inhaled again - and slowly became aware of the hardness biting into his cheeks. Mark's earlier words slowly sank in. A mask. He was wearing an oxygen mask. Then Mark was here - beside him and that meant … that meant …
Had he been found?
His eyelids were caked with drying dust and grime and it seemed like too much of an effort to open them but he had been alone under the debris for so long, convinced he was going to die without seeing his friends ever again. He just wanted to see one friendly face. He needed to see Mark, just to reassure himself that this was all real and not just some hallucination conjured up by his own mind. He could be dreaming all this - although it all felt so real.
That reality became all too obvious moments later as he shifted slightly and paid for the movement as agony exploded in his side. He moaned, flinging his head back and only barely registering the pain as it banged against the hard floor.
"Jesse!"

Mark's cry of alarm alerted Steve and he paused in his rescue efforts to glance over to where his father and Amanda were administering to his best friend. Jesse was writhing in agony, new tears leaving tiny trails down the grime-streaked cheeks. Mark had both hands clamped around the blond head, trying to prevent Jesse from hurting himself any further in his attempt to escape from the torture he was undergoing. Amanda was preparing an injection, on the older doctor's terse instructions. She was biting her bottom lip, trying desperately to ignore the muted cries from beneath the oxygen mask.
Steve bent over, putting his hands on his thighs and inhaled deeply, trying to regain his own composure. It was so hard watching his friend in such pain. And it could only get worse. He continued to observe his father and Amanda minister to Jesse, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene despite the horror he felt at what his friend was being forced to endure.
Jesse's lips were moving soundlessly beneath the oxygen mask as he begged for an end to the torment and his eyes were tightly closed, mobile features contorted with agony. His chest heaved as silent sobs tore out of him and it was becoming progressively more difficult for Mark to keep him still. His helpless squirming was threatening to worsen his situation as some of the debris moved. Loosened dust particles flew into the air and the other rescuers glanced over in alarm at the struggling figure. They had no way of knowing just what was holding up the large pieces of timber and concrete which lay piled up around his body and one false move from any direction could bring the whole thing toppling down around him - or them.
"Dad!" yelled Steve, gesturing frantically to the clouds of dust which were being generated by Jesse's increasingly desperate movements.
Mark glanced up briefly, silently acknowledging what his son was trying to tell him, the strain beginning to show in every new line of his increasingly haggard features. Then his concentration returned to the young man on the floor, holding him firmly as Amanda plunged the hypodermic into Jesse's upper arm.
Jesse continued to thrash for a moment more, then his struggles diminished and eventually ceased as the painkiller took effect.
Steve watched as his friend subsided beneath Mark's hands, and Amanda lay trembling fingers on his cheek, mute apology for the force with which she had administered the drug. Then he had to turn away, wiping his arm across his eyes.
'It's just the dust in here' he told himself as his forearm came away wet. 'I'm just fine.'
Then he returned to work with a renewed vigour, determined to get Jesse out of there alive.

Mark sat back on his haunches with a weary sigh, watching as Jesse's breathing returned to something resembling normal. The young man had been practically hyperventilating by the time the drug had coursed through his system - the result of panic and pain.
It hurt Mark to see him this way. His heart twisted in his chest as he tenderly wiped away the evidence of his young friend's tears with his left thumb. Jesse's heart thumped madly beneath his right hand when he placed it flat on top of the slender chest and he gently massaged the warm skin, muttering soothing, nonsensical words which he could only hope the young man would hear.

Amanda stared numbly at her friend. She couldn't believe that even though they had found him, the nightmare was continuing. Jesse was suffering so dreadfully and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that more torture awaited him as more of his body was uncovered.
Shock had played a major part in shielding him from it until now but the injuries had remained untreated and continued bleeding, open to the air and infection for some considerable time. Now the pain was beginning to break through the barriers which the body had, initially, automatically erected. The dosage which she had given to Jesse wouldn't keep it at bay for long. And there was still the danger of whatever wounds he had sustained on the lower half of his body and his extremities. She didn't even want to contemplate what lay beyond that darkened rubble.

Now that the pain had diminished to a tolerable level, Jesse slowly became cognizent of his surroundings once more.
The low murmur of voices, the scrape of metal, the thunderous noise of stone falling on stone …
He couldn't quite figure out what was going on.
Confused and disoriented, it took a few more moments for him to become conscious of the gentle pressure of a hand on his chest. It felt solid and comforting. Reassuring him that he truly was no longer alone. That someone really was there with him.
It was Mark, he realised. He could hear the older man's ragged breathing.
Ragged? Was Mark okay?
Then came the warmth of a finger on his cheek. The touch felt hesitant, tremulous, but he leaned into it, savouring the life he could feel pulsing beneath the soft skin.
"Jesse?"
That sounded like Amanda! Amanda was here, too? God, please don't let this be a dream!
"Jesse? Honey? Can you hear me?"
This was real, right? He could trust his senses. His instincts. And every instinct within him was screaming at him right now to open his eyes, look into her face, touch those fingers which were gently stroking his cheek … feel.
"Jesse?"

Amanda watched anxiously as Jesse's face creased into a frown at her plea. Mark was kneeling beside her, his face suffused with worry and they exchanged concerned glances as Jesse murmured something under his breath and moved his head ever so slightly. Then they held their respective breaths as eyelids fluttered against impossibly pale skin, then were slowly, inexorably dragged open and a pair of confused blue eyes were eventually revealed.
"Hey, you," Amanda greeted him, ignoring the tears streaming down her own face at the sight.
"Uh … uh … hi …" he managed. The voice, muffled by the mask, didn't sound like his. It was hoarse and ragged and he sounded like he'd been to hell and back. He looked like it too. But it was still the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
"It's all right, Jesse," she soothed, as he glanced around, catching sight of Mark, then grimaced as a muscle spasm threatened to send him tumbling back into oblivion. "You're going to be fine. You just lie still and let them get you out."
"Y… you f ..found me," he squeaked. The bleary blue eyes held an expression of utter relief. "'M … Manda?"
"Yes," she managed, through her tears. "Yes, sweetheart, we found you."
He closed his eyes, letting out a huge sigh. "Th … thank god."
'Thank god indeed,' thought Mark. Aloud, he said, "Jess, I need you to tell me where the pain is most severe if you can. Jesse? Jess, can you hear me?"
For a moment they thought he had succumbed to unconsciousness again. His eyes were still closed and his face was lax and still.
But he was awake. He felt groggy and dizzy and nausea was roiling in his stomach, but he was awake. He forced open his eyes once more to meet his mentor's concerned gaze.
"M … okay, Mark," he said, in an effort to reassure the older man. It didn't work. Not only didn't the concerned expression go away. It deepened.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, young man," came the terse response. Mark appreciated his protégé's selflessness in trying to protect them from his own suffering but if they were to get him out of here alive, they needed to know as much as possible about his condition. And they needed him to tell them what that condition may be.
The mild chastisement had the desired effect.
It elicited a small grin.
That soon faded, however, as the young doctor began to catalogue his own condition - something he hadn't particularly wanted to do when he had been alone. What had been the point? He had been convinced he was going to die. Mentally listing his own injuries had seemed like an exercise in futility and would only have made him feel worse. Now, however …
He removed the oxygen mask with hands that trembled uncontrollably and fought Mark's attempts to re-position it over his face. "Uh … side hurts," he managed, fastening onto the most obvious wound first. "Th … think something h … hit me."
Mark nodded, compressing his lips tightly. His worry didn't seem to have diminished one iota, although Jesse could tell that the older man was doing his very best to hide it. He knew that this in itself should scare him. Somehow, though, it comforted him.
"I … c … can't feel my legs," he went on. "'nd … head aches 'n chest hurts … may … maybe crushed ribs. C … couldn't breathe … d … doin' better now, though." He attempted a smile in acknowledgement of the oxygen mask Mark had clamped over his face but it didn't remove the strain from Mark's face and, as he glanced at her, he caught Amanda quickly trying to cover her own anxiety with a watery smile. "H … hey, guys, don't … don't worry," he rasped. "Ev'rythin's gonna be fine now. It … it's all gonna be … " His reassurances were curtailed as he was suddenly assailed by a bout of violent coughing which once again left him struggling to breathe.
Mark acted swiftly, moving behind his young friend and lifting him so that he lay supported against the older man's chest, one hand at Jesse's back to gently massage it, trying to ease the attack. He could feel Jesse's panic as he once again fought for every breath and winced at the harsh wheezing that was magnified by his proximity to the younger man. "It's all right, Jess," he soothed, stroking a hand down the contorted face. "It's okay. Just hang in there. I'm here. It's all right …" The oxygen mask was placed gently over the ashen features again and Mark continued his soft litany of encouragement until, finally, his friend's respirations began to return to normal and he sank back against Mark's body.
"Th … that hurt …" came the small voice some time later.
Mark glanced down at the young man in his arms in total surprise. He had been sure that Jesse had drifted off to sleep after his coughing fit. That didn't seem to be the case, however. It seemed that the young doctor had merely been resting, conserving his strength until he could summon up sufficient energy - and breath - to speak again. "I bet it did," he replied, ruthlessly quelling the emotions which surged through him at the courage of his friend. Despite the medication, Jesse was still in pain. He was also still pinned beneath a mass of twisted metal, concrete and other debris. Yet his first thoughts were for his friends, downplaying his own pain and the ordeal which he was undergoing in an attempt to save them from worrying about him. "Why don't you just relax now, Jess," he went on, softly, resisting the urge to tighten his hold and hug the young man - he had to maintain the façade that everything was going to be all right. An overt show of emotion right now would certainly not convey that. "You need to rest and conserve your strength whilst we get you out of there."
"Y … you won't leave me?"
The question was uttered in a quiet, fretful voice and both Mark and Amanda exchanged troubled glances.
"Of course we won't leave you, honey." Amanda accompanied her reassurance with a light squeeze of his hand. "Why would you think that?"
He smiled tremulously. "I … I dunno," he admitted. "I guess … it's just … didn't think I'd ever see you guys again."
Amanda felt very much like crying at those words. "Oh Jesse," she exclaimed. "Sweetheart, I am so sorry. We found you as soon as we could. I promise!"
Guilt flooded through him as tears streamed unheedingly down her dusty cheeks. He had caused his friend pain. That was the very last thing he wanted to do. "Oh god …. 'Manda … I'm sorry. I … I didn't mean … "
"Sssh," she soothed, laying her other hand on the blond head and stroking her fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Jesse. I know. We both know. It must have been awful for you and of course you were scared. I would have been terrified. But we're here now, honey and we're not going anywhere. We're going to stay right here until you're free. Okay?"
"Okay."
He was tiring. Mark could tell from his voice. Surreptitiously, he checked his friend's pulse and was alarmed at how rapid and weak it was. He didn't know how Jesse was managing to remain conscious. Sheer strength of will, he suspected. He glanced toward the rescuers, who were toiling to get the remaining rubble off Jesse's body. Steve was working tirelessly, totally concentrated on his task. He was determined to get his friend out of there. Mark swallowed, hard. There wasn't much time left. Jesse obviously had internal injuries. His blood pressure, which they had been monitoring diligently, had dropped alarmingly during the last few minutes - indicative of internal bleeding. It was imperative that they get him out soon.

That necessity became even more urgent moments later. The work that had been done on removing the wreckage from around Jesse had compromised the remaining support. As the fire crew continued to ease the fragments out so that they could free the young man's lower body, something shifted and the creaking and groaning of tortured metal grew louder and more frequent. The fire chief glanced apprehensively upward. The remaining roof was teetering dangerously, threatening to give way at any moment and bury them all.
"We're gonna have to work quickly," he whispered urgently to Steve, taking him aside and pointing upward to the impending collapse. "If we don't get him out in the next few minutes, we're not gonna get him out at all. I can't put my men in any more danger."
Steve was appalled. "You can't just desert him!" he exclaimed angrily. "He'll die!"
"We'll all die if that thing comes down on top of us," pointed out the other man, grimly. "So why don't we stop talking and try to get on with it - because in five minutes I'm pulling my men out."

As the five minutes elapsed, so did the danger increase. Parts of the roof, no longer supported by anything, began to fall, narrowly missing the rescue team and raising clouds of dust as they impacted with the debris which was already strewn across the floor. Everyone ducked as cladding and parts of beams plummeted down around them. No-one wanted to give up, but it was becoming too perilous to continue.
At length, the fire chief reluctantly ordered his men out of the area. The whole thing was about to topple down on top of them and whilst he truly regretted sacrificing the one life, he had other lives to consider. "Okay!" he yelled. "Everyone out! That includes you, too, Lieutenant," he added, turning to the younger man.
Steve shook his head. "I'm staying," he said, firmly. "I'm not abandoning my friend!"
The Fire chief grabbed his arm. "Now, look, I'm not playing around here. That roof is gonna come down and we're gonna be killed unless we get out of here now. I'm not leaving anyone behind …"
"You're leaving my friend behind!" shot back Steve, wrenching his arm out of the man's grasp. His mouth was set in a determined line, his blue-eyed gaze seeming to pierce right through to the other man's soul. "I don't care what you and your men do. I am not leaving until we've freed Jesse!"
"You'll die!" roared the chief.
"Then I'll die!" came the equally loud retort. "I'm not leaving him!"

The commotion had carried over to Jesse. He had also watched as the rescue team grudgingly filed out. His heart started to race. 'Oh god … they're leaving me! They're gonna let me die!"
He began to struggle within the circle of Mark's arms, desperate to free himself from the wreckage which still trapped him. But his mentor only held him closer.
"It's okay, Jess. I'm not leaving you," the other man assured him.
Jesse couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe properly as panic assailed him. He continued to thrash about, but the older man just held on more tightly, preventing his escape.
"Jesse! Jesse, stop it! I'm not going anywhere! I promise. You're not going to be alone! Jesse!"
Finally, the words got through. And as they did he was flooded with shame and a different kind of fear. "No!" he gasped. "No! Mark, you can't! Y … you heard them … gonna … gonna collapse … you … you'll be k .. killed … "
"I'm not leaving you," Mark repeated. His voice was soft and low, but it was encased in steel. There would be no arguing with him. Jesse tried anyway.
"No!" he insisted. "No, Mark … you and 'Manda and Steve … you … you've gotta go. You've gotta get out … out of here. I … I don't want you to … die!" His plea ended on a sob. He couldn't be responsible for the deaths of his friends. He couldn't. It wasn't right!
Mark merely tightened his embrace, resting his chin upon the top of the blond head. "And we don't want you to die, either, Jess," he murmured. "I am not going to leave you alone. Not again."
"B … but …"
"We're not going anywhere, Jesse," Amanda chipped in, cutting off his protest. Her determined expression mirrored the older doctor's. "God, we would never leave you. Don't you know that?"
"Please don't do this!" he begged them. Tears rolled helplessly down his waxen cheeks. "I … I don't want you to die for me! I don't!"
Mark bit his lip, then glanced at Amanda. She stared back at him, resolute. "Amanda, I need you to go," he said.
Her eyes widened in shock. "No!" The response was automatic. "No, Mark …"
"Amanda, honey, Jesse's right. Partially right," he amended. "Please … I don't want anything to happen to you. Think about CJ and Dion. They need their mother. Please, Amanda, please … go."
She wanted to disagree. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That Jesse was just as much her friend as he was Mark's and that she cared for him too. But he was right. She had other responsibilities. CJ and Dion. Her heart turned over as she thought of her two boys. What would they do without her? She had promised both of them that she would always be there for them. How could she break that promise now?
But how could she not?
She glanced once more at Jesse. At the bright blue eyes, still brimming over with tears. A wan smile of encouragement had broken through, however. He knew how important her boys were to her. But he was important to her too, and it mattered that he knew that.
"Jesse …"
"Go, Amanda," he whispered, hoarsely. "Please … just go."
"I love you," she replied, huskily. She could barely see him through the film of moisture in her eyes. She bent to bestow a gentle kiss on his temple. "I'll see you outside. Okay?"
He nodded. "Okay," he croaked. "See ya."

Leaving him - and Mark and Steve - was the hardest thing she had ever done in her entire life.

"You … you have to go … please, Mark." Jesse lay limply back against Mark's chest, labouring for every breath, trying desperately to remain conscious. His plea was barely audible. What little of his strength remained was disappearing fast.
Mark glanced toward Steve, who was struggling to lift the concrete slab which had Jesse pinned down. It was no longer necessary to be judicious in moving the debris.
Jesse's condition was deteriorating beyond the point where they would be able to save him.
The roof was ready to come down and bury them all.
The risk of crushing him beneath what remained on top of him had become very much a moot point.
There were absolutely no choices left.
"I've already told you, Jess, we're not going anywhere," said Mark, softly. "Steve and I are going to get you out of here."
Jesse's head lolled back against Mark's shoulder as a weak cry of protest escaped his parched lips. He no longer had the energy to put up any resistance. Guilt-ridden, he could only utter a soft sigh as he lost his battle against oblivion and fell headlong into her welcome embrace.
Mark knew the moment when Jesse succumbed to unconsciousness and his fingers went immediately to the young man's neck, fumbling for the carotid artery. What he felt did not reassure him. Jesse's pulse was rapid and growing fainter. There was no time left.
As if to emphasise this, the roof above them shook violently and the tortured groan which accompanied the motion almost deafened them.

Steve wasted no time. Wet with perspiration, grime streaking his face, he ignored his aching muscles and put all his energy into hauling the giant piece of stone off his friend. He could not look at Jesse. He didn't want to see the evidence of what his father's eyes told him as he had glanced at the older man. He was only too well aware of how little time they had left.
The awful sounds coming from above him and the prospect of being buried alive were nothing compared to the pain in his heart. They had not been toiling for all this time for nothing. He was not going to give up. They were going to get Jesse out of this, get back to Community General and his friend was going to live.
He would not contemplate an alternative.

He couldn't get purchase on it. Every time he thought he had it within his grasp, his hands slipped. The groaning sound of metal and the ominous creaking of the roof was acting as a counterpoint to his desperate tussle with the massive slab. The dust was swirling around them, and he got a taste of what it had been like for Jesse underneath the rubble. He could barely breathe and his lungs were already straining with the effort he was expending.
But he wasn't about to give up. He didn't want to die but he wasn't doing this for himself. Two of the most important people in his life were in danger and he would give his life for either of them, in an instant. All he had to do, dammit, was just lift this thing and then his father could pull Jesse to safety and they could get the hell out of there. If only he could move the damned thing!
Every muscle protested and he was beginning to tremble with the strain, but slowly, inexorably, the block was moving. He didn't care any more what he dislodged as he moved it. They weren't going to be there long enough for it to matter.
Hopefully.
"D … Dad!" he gasped, barely able to get the words out. "Dad … get … ready …!"
Mark nodded. He could see for himself the strain this was putting on Steve's athletic frame. Sweat stained the back of his t-shirt and it was running in rivulets down his dusty face. The muscular arms were stretched tight, the blood vessels visible beneath the taut skin. One leg was braced against the pile of rubble, the other placed firmly on the floor. Teeth bared, eyes closed, the detective was putting every ounce of strength into his task, his determination so great that he seemed impervious to the fact that this task might be too monumental for him to complete.
It moved! Incredibly, the slab shifted and the debris around Jesse's legs loosened. It was now or never. As Steve hefted the chunk of concrete further into his arms, ignoring the pain of over-used muscles, Mark pulled Jesse backward and out. He was free!
Before he could let Steve know about their joint success, the slab fell out of the detective's arms and crashed back down with a loud crash.

Steve scarcely had the time to register that his father had pulled Jesse free before he was scrambling across to them. There was no time left. The strain of supporting the large section of roof and the removal of the debris from around it had finally taken its toll on the badly weakened column. It disintegrated beneath the weight and with a deafening roar, the roof finally caved in.
They barely made it. Between them, they had hoisted Jesse's unresponsive body into their arms and sprinted out of harm's way. They did not dare look back. The noise was thunderous, reverberating through their heads. Even as quickly as they moved, the dust cloud created by the collapse enveloped them.
It was suffocating and completely overpowering.
It filled their nostrils, travelling down their throats and clinging to the inside of their mouths.
The acrid taste nearly overwhelmed them.
It was slowly filling up their lungs.
They were both coughing helplessly by the time they reached the sidewalk.
A small army of men surged forward to help them. Mark and Steve felt themselves being supported by strong shoulders as they started to falter.
Oxygen masks were clamped over their mouths as they strained for air.
Then Jesse was torn from their arms.

Neither of them were in any condition to protest. They were wheezing and struggling to remain upright despite the arms around them. Neither of them could see for the tears streaming down their grime-caked cheeks. The dust had irritated their eyes and everything was just a blur.
"Je …. se .." croaked Mark, his hands flailing. "St … ve .."
"It's okay." The reassurance came from Amanda. He couldn't see her. His eyes were watering too badly. "It's okay, Mark. We have him. He's being treated."
"In … int …ernal … " he choked.
"I know, I know," she soothed. "I've already told them his condition. They're just stabilising him."
He heard the tremor in her voice and was instantly alert. He tried desperately to free himself from the tenacious grip on his arm. To no avail. Whoever was helping him was determined not to let go. "'Manda …" he rasped. "Wha … wha … condi… tion?"

Steve sat numbly in the ambulance taking him to Community General. Although his eyes were slowly recovering after the treatment at the scene, he was still having trouble focusing. It was like looking out on the world through a fog - a nasty, caustic, painful fog.
His breathing was still compromised too. He had inhaled more of the dust cloud simply because it had reached him first. He had already been panting hard, his body aching with exhaustion after his strenuous attempts to single-handedly rescue his friend. The adrenalin which had sustained him had disappeared together with his strength and as they had reached safety, he had practically collapsed into the arms of the fire crew and paramedics.
His father had also been badly affected but, ever the consummate doctor, his first concern had been for his son and his friend. Steve had heard the desperate questions Mark Sloan had asked of Amanda. He had also heard her reply through the roaring in his ears.
"He's critical, Mark," she had said, in a low, unsteady voice. Steve's heart had almost stopped at the words. 'Oh jesus!' "You were right. There are crush injuries to both legs. There's a deep penetrating injury to the left side of his lower abdomen and he has crushed ribs - one of which has pierced his left lung. He also has a pretty bad concussion."
There had been silence for a moment. A heavy, oppressive, portentous silence. There was worse to come. He knew it.
"He has severe internal bleeding, Mark," she had whispered fearfully, at last. Steve could barely hear the words and half wished he could tune her out, even though he was straining to listen. "They're rushing him to Community General … Mark … he looked so awful. He's pale and clammy and he was barely breathing when you got him out here."
Steve didn't hear his father's reply. He was too busy trying to remain in control of his rampaging emotions.
After all they'd been through; after everything Jesse had endured; after the way he'd hung on so tenaciously …
"No! He can't die now! He can't!"

Father and son had not spoken since leaving the site of the explosion. This was partly because of the dust still clogging their throats and partly because neither of them could think of any words which would comfort the other.
There were both only to well aware of the magnitude of Jesse's injuries. Any one of them could potentially prove fatal.

Amanda's words reverberated in Steve's head. "Mark, he looked so awful …"
Steve had to agree with her assessment. Jesse had looked awful. Even as he had lifted his young friend from the floor and run toward safety, the detective had noticed the blood saturating Jesse's shirt and pants. It had slowed to a trickle by the time they had extricated him from the rubble, but even as a layman he could tell how heavy the flow had been at one stage.
The lifeless face, grime-stained cheeks fanned by long dark eyelashes had been silent witness to the torment he had undergone. Pain had deepened the lines around his eyes and blood on his mouth told of how he had bitten through his lip as the agony became too intense to bear.
Steve felt like sobbing as all this ran through his mind. Had he been able to draw breath, he might well have succumbed to his emotions and done just that.

Mark, meanwhile, was lost in his own dark thoughts. His own heart had almost stopped as Jesse had lost consciousness for the final time. Questing for a pulse had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He had been half-convinced that his young friend had passed away in his arms. The weak and thready beat that he had finally located had done little to comfort him. He had already noticed Jesse's abdomen becoming distended - confirming his earlier diagnosis of possible internal bleeding - never in his life had he wanted so badly to be wrong. Without immediate treatment and dependent on the site of the bleeding, Jesse would most certainly die.
Getting him out of there had used up the last of Mark's reserves. He had wanted nothing more than to continue caring for Jesse, as he had done over the last few gruelling, torturous hours. He wanted to be the one who examined his injuries properly, got him loaded into the ambulance and rode with him to Community General, where he would then accompany him to theatre and mend his broken body.
Instead, he was sitting here, breathing with the aid of a mask, physically and mentally exhausted, unable to help the young man he considered very much a surrogate son.

Jesse had already been rushed into surgery by the time the ambulance bearing Mark and Steve arrived. Amanda met them as they were both escorted in through the emergency doors. The strain of the last few hours was evident in the lines of exhaustion on her face and the haunted expression in her eyes illustrated the ordeal of accompanying her critically injured friend to the hospital.
"He's still alive," she informed them, shakily, pre-empting the question she knew would be foremost on their minds. "Dr Stone is operating."
Mark knew he should be mollified by this. Rupert Stone was an eminent surgeon, very well-respected and extraordinarily talented. His arrival here
from England, where he had been one of the top surgeons in his field, had been hailed as a triumph for Community General. It had not taken him long to prove his skills - saving lives which under less accomplished hands may not have survived.
The hospital was extraordinarily proud of having him on staff. Mark valued him as a colleague and as a doctor, although the man occasionally showed flashes of arrogance in keeping with his standing. There could be no-one better taking care of Jesse.
So why did he feel this overwhelming sense of foreboding?

Both Sloans refused inpatient status for their dust inhalation, despite the fact that their breathing was still impaired. The doctors treating them couldn't force them into being admitted, although it was not for the want of trying and after a couple of hours treatment they were released AMA.
Neither of them left the hospital, though. They wanted to be on hand for any news about their young friend.
They found Amanda in the pathology lab. She was examining the corpses from the building, desperately trying to keep her mind off what was going on several floors up.
It wasn't working.
Dealing with the people who had been victims of the same explosion which had left Jesse so critically injured was just reminding her of what the young man had endured.
Her mind was filled with images of his suffering, his injuries and how they had fought to bring him back to life in the ambulance on the way to Community General. Her own heart had almost stopped when he had suddenly crashed not five minutes into their journey. She could still hear the scream of the defibrillator, still see his slender form jerking upward as the pads were applied to his bare, bloody chest and recalled with amazing clarity the utter relief which had rushed through her as he began to breathe again. The paramedic's announcement of 'I've got a sinus rhythm!' had been five of the most beautiful words she had ever heard.
He was terribly unstable, though. His heartbeat was erratic, his breathing laboured. His body was horribly mutilated by the explosion and even as a seasoned pathologist she was unable to bear the sight. This was not some nameless victim about whom she could feel impersonal. This was one of her dearest friends - and he was dying.
Arriving at Community General had been a relief in more ways than one. Here he could receive the best medical treatment on offer. Here they could at least get to the internal bleeding and stop it.
And she wouldn't have to sit next to him, holding onto his hand as tightly as she could without causing him more pain, whispering frantic words of encouragement that he probably couldn't even hear.
For all that though, as they rushed him through into Trauma Room one, she found she was reluctant to let go. As long as she could feel that warm, pulsing flesh in her hand, she knew he was alive. Once he was torn from her grasp, however, she no longer had any influence over him. She could only hope that he knew, somewhere deep down, that they were all rooting for him, that they loved him and that he should fight to live.

Amanda blinked rapidly as the memories assailed her. Crying was not going to help Jesse. And it was impeding her examination of the corpse on her table. She couldn't seem to stop the tears, however. There seemed to be a never ending source of them and they streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto the table perilously near the body. The last thing she wanted to do was contaminate any evidence. She stepped back - and collided with the solid presence behind her.
"Oh, M … Mark!" she sobbed, turning into his arms as they encircled her. "He mustn't die! He can't! Oh god …"
All the older doctor could do was hold on whilst she sobbed into his grime and blood-streaked shirt. He could offer no assurances, no words of comfort. He didn't know how. He was just as frightened as she was - but he wouldn't admit that to her for the world. "I know, honey," he murmured, in a voice still rough with the after effects of the dust. "I know."
Steve had to turn away from the scene. He couldn't watch. He too felt the sense of hopelessness, the sense of impending loss. Rupert Stone was an excellent surgeon - his dad had told him so on numerous occasions. But even excellent surgeons occasionally lost their patients. Sometimes there was just too much damage, too little time. Jesse was only human and humans could only withstand so much before their bodies succumbed to their injuries.
His throat closed up as he tried to imagine life without his effervescent young friend - more a brother than a friend, really. He couldn't. It was impossible to envision a future without Jesse in it. It seemed like yesterday when he had first walked through the doors of Community General and straight into their hearts. And it also seemed like a lifetime ago. They had all been through so much together. It didn't seem possible that it could end here, now.
And yet, it could.

Rupert Evans looked grey with fatigue when he finally wandered into the Pathology lab, having been searching the entire floor for Mark Sloan and the others for the last fifteen minutes. He also wasn't in the best of moods.
Jesse had been on the operating table for at least 10 hours. He had coded twice and they had staged a desperate battle to bring him back on both occasions. The injuries had been severe and the internal blood loss massive. Evans still wasn't sure how he had survived for so long under the rubble with those kinds of injuries. He suspected that the young man had been existing on sheer willpower and little else by the end.
They had pulled him through. But it had been hard and bloody and not without consequences.
The crush injuries that Jesse had sustained had, fortunately, been minimal. His extremities had been largely protected by the larger slabs of concrete that had also been responsible for trapping him so completely.
The IV which Mark had set up with Amanda's help had staved off the threat of acute renal failure - something for which Evans was devoutly grateful. And the medical team had dealt with the remainder in the trauma room, measuring his compartmental pressure continuously with a disposable tissue pressure monitor.
The penetrating wound on his left side had been deep and messy. Something had gouged out an area roughly the size of half a saucer. There had been some nerve and tissue loss there, despite the surgeon's best efforts. It would leave a nasty scar. Dr Evans had repaired it as neatly as possible under the circumstances, but there had been too much damage, not the least of which had been caused by the grime which had accumulated there during Jesse's entombment. Even now there was a huge risk of infection - something they were combating with an aggressive course of intravenous antibiotics.
Jesse's left lung had been punctured by one of the fractured ribs. The organ had been drained, re-inflated and the chest tube left in. That had been a relatively minor procedure compared to everything else. It had been almost a relief for Dr Evans to deal with - something simple after the complications of the rest of his injuries.
The internal bleeding had been something else again. It had been excessive and incredibly difficult to control. Just when the surgeon thought he had a handle on it, a new bleeder would start up somewhere else. He couldn't see what he was doing for the red gore that was continuously spurting in all directions and the numerous clamps which were attached to the ruptured vessels. Jesse had lost over 10 pints of blood by the time they managed to get everything under control. Evans had stopped counting once it reached double figures. He hadn't been able to look the anaesthetist in the face during the last two hours of the procedure. He hadn't needed to. He had been able to feel the increasing anxiety for their patient. The young man's BP had been dropping, his heart rate had been increasing and it had become a race not only against time but against Jesse's own failing body.

But the young doctor had survived surgery - just. Rupert Evans was no great believer in God, but even he was forced to admit that a minor miracle had taken place here in Community General this day.
He was unable to predict, however, just how long this miracle would last - or even if it would.

Jesse was still desperately unstable. Any number of things could go wrong with his recovery from this time onward.
They had been forced to perform a nephrectomy - the left kidney had been torn to shreds and its function had been minimal. He was on dialysis until such time as his other kidney could compensate.
A sonogram taken prior to the surgery had reassured the team that the young man had not suffered any liver trauma but they were monitoring him just in case.
They had intubated him in the Trauma room, and he would remain on a ventilator for the foreseeable future. His breathing had been heavily compromised due to the toxic agents he had unwittingly inhaled.
Electrodes on his chest took the readings from his heart and translated them into waves on the monitor at his bedside. His heart rate had remained erratic throughout surgery - its constant fluctuations had only added to the nerve-wracking atmosphere in the OR.
Then there were the IV's of saline, blood and medication which dripped into his system through a complicated array of leads and tubes which stretched across his mutilated body and ran into the various bags supplying the liquids.
Jesse's survival through the gruelling hours of surgery didn't necessarily indicate that everything was now going to be all right.
Rather ominously, there had been some bleeding that Evans had not been able to account for and he was still concerned that he might have missed something. As a doctor and surgeon he believed in being thorough, even though this meant that he was always butting heads with the people in charge of the purse-strings at Community General, who didn't believe in unnecessary procedures or tests.
But there was no way he was taking any chances with this particular patient. He had watched the faces of the trauma team as they worked on his colleague. They ranged from expressions of fear to those of grim determination. Young Dr Travis was very well-liked. More, he was one of their own. He was certainly not going to start stinting on treatment now.

After Jesse had finally been wheeled into recovery - from where he would make the short trip to the ICU - Dr Evans had practically staggered out of the OR.
He was exhausted and pessimistic about his patient's recovery. He hated losing patients. He had enjoyed unqualified success since arriving here. And he'd be damned if young Travis was going to mess up his record. Besides, he'd worked long and hard on the other man. He didn't like seeing all that good work going to waste.
Not to mention that every life was precious. And he considered his skills a gift in order to ensure that everyone who passed through his hands received their allotted time on earth.
Jesse Travis was not going to die if he could help it.
Not after all that time he had spent ensuring that he lived.
Ten hours of total hell.
And now he had been forced to search what seemed to be half the hospital for the recipients of the news about young Dr Travis. He figured he had the right to be a little grumpy.

Exhaustion, strain and fear had taken their toll on the three people who turned as one to greet him as he entered the lab.
Suddenly, Evans didn't have the heart to utter any of the caustic words which his search had provoked. Instead, the compassion that usually lay hidden beneath his crusty exterior rose to the surface. "He's alive," he announced, tersely, feeling the need to put them out of their misery. As he saw the utter relief which swamped them, however, he was forced to qualify his statement. "But I'm not sure how long that's going to be the case."
"What?!"
"Rupert …?"
"God, Jesse …."
Three voices expressed their shock, replacing the relief which had been so evident only seconds before.
"You saw his injuries," he said, grimly, addressing Mark. He couldn't bear to look at Amanda Bentley. He had heard the tears in her voice and had no wish to see the evidence of her distress, nor acknowledge that he was the instigator of it. "You know how serious they were."
Mark Sloan's face was white, his features drawn with fatigue and anguish. "I know," he whispered, in a rough, pain-filled voice. "But .. " He braced himself with splayed hands on the examining table. "Rupert, just tell us the worst. Please. Just - put us out of our misery."
Dr Evans pursed his lips. He hated this part. He hated telling anxious and agonised relatives and friends that their loved one may not make it through the night - hell, may not even make it past the next hour. And this - having to inform colleagues about another colleague and friend … this ranked right up there with the worst experiences ever. "He's on full life support," he told them, regretfully. "He coded in the OR and it was a fight to bring him back. I re-inflated his lung, managed the crush injuries with a pressure monitor and stitched up his side. It was a bloody mess. And I mean that in the literal sense. He's going to have a nasty scar there. I had to perform a left nephrectomy - it had been virtually ripped to pieces - and I've kept him on oxygen because he was having a lot of trouble breathing due to all that poison he inhaled."
"And?" Mark prompted as Evans's litany of surgical procedures tailed off. Clinical and cold it may have seemed, but there was nothing within the list which could account for the grave expression on his colleagues face.
Dr Evans sighed, averting his eyes from the piercing stare of the Head of Internal Medicine. The man was far too perceptive for his own good. "There was extensive internal blood loss," he said. "Far too much for my liking. I lost count of the number of units we hung but it went into double figures."
"But you stopped it, right?"
Steve Sloan's voice was tight with anguish. He was barely holding onto the semblance of control.
Evans shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, reluctantly. "I tried, dammit. But every time we stopped one bleeder, another one would go. His abdomen looked like an ironworks by the time I'd got them all clamped off. And there was some bleeding I couldn't figure out. It took hours to suture everything back together again and by that time it had disappeared. But … "
"But you think it might start again," interjected Mark.
Evans nodded. Rubbing his right hand over gritty eyes he went on, "I like my surgery to be straightforward, with no mysteries," he said, tiredly. "And Dr Travis's surgery was - for the most part - just that, except for that damned bleeder. I conducted a search for it before we closed him up, but his vitals were falling and I couldn't keep him open any longer without risking him coding again."
Mark nodded. As a surgeon himself, he understood only too well the risks involved. It didn't make it any easier to bear, though. He tried to prevent the image of his friend the last time he had seen him from entering his mind, but he was unsuccessful. Jesse had looked ghastly. And there had been so much blood on his lower torso once they had freed him … He shook his head, forcing the image to flee. What they had to concentrate on was the fact that he was alive. Rupert Evans had saved him. If he felt any regret or resentment at all about the fact that he hadn't been able to perform the surgery himself, then he didn't acknowledge it. This was no time to be thinking of his own feelings. "We'd like to see him when he's moved into ICU," he said, in a level voice which didn't reflect his own inner turmoil.
The other surgeon nodded. "I'll come back and let you know when that's possible," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me …" he motioned with one hand to his blood-soaked scrubs and Mark cracked a small smile.
"You should get changed," he said. "Of course. And, Rupert?" This as the other man made to leave. Evans turned back. "Thank you."
As the door closed behind the surgeon, Mark turned to the other two people in the room.


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