Desperate part three

"He… he's not gonna die, is he, dad?"
Mark winced at Steve's question, uttered in a ragged voice filled with fear, knowing he couldn't give his son the answer he craved. His British colleague had given Jesse a chance. And that was all he could offer right now. He knew it wouldn't be enough.
Glancing quickly at Amanda's tear-ravaged face, he could see the realisation in her eyes. Amanda was a doctor too. She knew only too well the implications of what Rupert Evans had told them in not so many words. Had they not been colleagues, he knew that the surgeon would have told them that Jesse was in a grave condition. He hadn't needed to. He knew that they would understand the seriousness of the situation. Steve, however, did not - or perhaps would not - recognise the implications. He desperately needed for Jesse to be all right. In the few years they had known him, the young man had become the best friend Steve had ever had. There was nothing they wouldn't do for each other. They may tease each other incessantly, bickering about the least thing, but stripped of that outward veneer theirs was a close relationship which more resembled that of brothers than friends.
Steve wasn't ready to lose that. He wasn't ready to lose Jesse. None of them were. But, Mark reflected, silently, at least he and Amanda were in some way prepared professionally even if not emotionally. Steve was not.
"Dad?"
The detective's terrified voice broke through his gloomy reflections and Mark forced himself to give him the answer he didn't want to utter. "Yes, Steve," he heard himself saying, in a voice which didn't seem to belong to him - he couldn't seem to stop it from shaking. "Yes, he might."

Four hours later they stood outside the ICU room in which Jesse had been ensconced.
Mark hesitated before going in. He knew exactly what to expect. He had seen patients in ICU before. Hell, he had seen his own son in ICU. As a doctor he knew he should be accustomed to this but he never would be. It was not a pleasant sight even for the most hardened professional and he had never managed to cultivate sufficiently the detachment that would enable him to look upon a patient - any patient - in the ICU with clinical dispassion. And this was not just any patient. This was practically another son.
Steve was tensed beside him. His whole body was strung as tight as a bow. Apprehension and fear radiated off him in waves so tangible that Mark could almost see them rippling through the corridor.
In a way, the doctor almost envied his son. Steve's experience of seeing someone in ICU was limited to the occasional criminal whom he needed to question - said criminal usually being on their deathbed. Steve was single-minded when it came to his job. When someone's life was at stake and their very survival depended upon the answers that such a person could provide he paid very little attention to his surroundings and would not even have noticed the array of wires and machines keeping whoever it was alive in order to speak to him.
This was different. This was his best friend. And his best friend was going to be practically swamped with the wires and tubes and equipment which were keeping him alive. His eyes would be taped shut, his mouth contorted by the tube from the ventilator and his skin punctured by the IV's delivering blood, saline and medication. Then there would be the leads to the heart monitor, which would be attached to electrodes on his naked chest, the chest tube, draining his lungs of fluid and the catheter which drained his bladder of urine. As a doctor, Mark could accept that all of this was necessary. As a friend and surrogate father he knew that when he entered the room all he would really want to do would be to rip all of these invasive things from Jesse's body and take him somewhere safe.
But he was in the safest possible place right now.
Except Mark knew that Steve at least would not recognise that. He would feel helpless and angry and powerless to prevent those feelings from coming to the fore. Mark could only too easily predict the incredible pain his son would feel when they went into that room. And he could do nothing to prevent it. He could not even prevent his own pain. But at least Steve did not have the foreknowledge of what was in store for him. Mark did. And that knowledge was piercing his heart.

The sight that greeted them when they finally did make it through the door confirmed all Mark's worst fears and then some. Jesse's diminutive frame was swamped by all the medical equipment. The beeps and chimes from the monitors were counterbalanced by the steady pump and hiss of the respirator as it pumped oxygen into beleaguered lungs. The slender form was a mass of bruises and abrasions and the stark white bandage on his left side accentuated the garish colours. Beyond that, though, his skin was ashen and seemed almost translucent. His lips were grey and cracked and the dark bruising around his eyes attested to both his ordeal and the length of time he had been in surgery.
He looked even more ghastly than Mark remembered. He was totally unaware of their presence. All the older doctor wanted right now was for him to blink his eyes, wake up and smile at them. It was wishful thinking and wasn't appropriate in his role as a doctor. The only problem was that right now Mark didn't feel very much like a doctor. Right now he felt like someone who was being forced to face the loss of someone very dear to him.

Steve, meanwhile, was transfixed in horror. He stared uncomprehendingly at the machinery which dwarfed his friend - at the leads and tubes and wires - and felt very much like screaming and running out of the room. He couldn't, though. His feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. The various sounds did not reassure him. Instead they just made him more aware of the fact that this equipment was currently all that was keeping Jesse alive. That and his incredible will to live.
He ruthlessly quelled the sob which rose in his throat but couldn't control the trembling which seemed to have beset him. This wasn't fair, dammit! Jesse should have been home right now, sleeping off the effects of his exhausting shifts of the past few days. He shouldn't be here, in this room, surrounded by all these machines, having undergone a nightmarish ordeal and then a torturous 10 hours of surgery.
Despite his overwhelming desire to flee, he also wanted to touch his friend, to let him know that he was there. Even if Jesse couldn't hear him. But he couldn't take that step toward the bed. And even if he made it there he didn't know where to touch him which wouldn't hurt him somehow.
He couldn't believe the amount of bruising. It seemed to cover all of Jesse's body that was visible above the light covering of sheet and blanket. He didn't remember seeing all that before. And his friend had certainly not said a word about it.
In fact, the only words which Steve could recall right now were those that Jesse had uttered when the firecrew had left. He had been so adamant that he and his father leave. He didn't want to be responsible for their deaths. It was so typical of Jesse. Steve savagely bit down on his lip in an effort to prevent the tears in his eyes from falling.
"You were so determined that we survive, Jess," he thought, as he continued to stare at his friend. "Please, please don't die. Please live."

Amanda stared morosely at the paperwork in front of her. She couldn't focus on the words and in fact, they were doing a damned good job of dancing around the page right in front of her eyes.
She knew she should be at home, in bed. She had been officially off duty now for 10 hours. Of course, for 6 of those 10 hours she had been waiting to hear the news of her friend's progress in surgery. Not that she had been able to do any constructive work prior to that. When Jesse had been taken to the OR she had come to the Path lab intending to try to concentrate on something - anything other than what was going on with him. Examining the others who had died at the same scene had definitely not helped her composure - which was shaky to begin with. She had finally admitted defeat when Steve and Mark, both the worse the wear after their nightmare night, had wandered in, looking lost and as utterly wretched as she felt.
Time had marched by painfully slowly after their arrival. None of them had had any comforting words to say to each other - none that wouldn't sound trite or contrived, anyway. They knew each other too well to offer meaningless assurances. So they had stayed there, huddled together in the lab, waiting as each minute ticked by, desperate for any news on Jesse, and trying to hold on to the mantra 'no news is good news'.
Rupert Evans' appearance had shaken them all to the core. They had been prepared for it, had even been praying for him to come put them out of their misery. Still, when that moment had finally arrived she had found herself incapable of speech. She had just waited, with her insides knotting, as he delivered the news they were all so eager and yet so terrified to hear.
His prognosis for Jesse's recovery had shaken her to her very core. She didn't know how she had managed to remain standing. Her legs had turned to jelly and she had been subliminally aware that she was shaking from head to foot. But she had stayed upright - somehow.
She had been completely oblivious to the tears streaming down her face as he left. It had taken the gentle touch of Mark's fingers on her cheeks to make her aware of them and then she had fallen into his arms, sobbing for all she was worth.
He had held her for several minutes. She couldn't say, even now, who had been shaking the hardest - Mark or herself. She could feel the fine tremors running through his body but hadn't commented on it, just held on tighter, trying to offer comfort as much as receive it.
They had finally broken away from each other to do what they could to comfort Steve. The detective, though, seemed to be in shock. His father's reply to his anguished question had stunned him into immobility, it seemed. His face had been pale and his eyes - she shuddered even now when she remembered the expression in his eyes. They had been haunted. She had been forced to avert her own gaze from his frozen features. She couldn't bear the fathomless pain she had found there.
It was an echo of her own.

Another four hours had elapsed until Rupert Evans had come by again, this time to advise them that they could see Jesse in the ICU. Mark and Steve had been on their feet and halfway out of the door before the former realised that she hadn't accompanied them.
"Amanda?" He turned a puzzled gaze on her as she remained seated, rigid with terror. "Honey?"
She had raised her eyes to meet his own. Swallowing hard, she had managed to dislodge the constriction in her throat long enough to speak. "It … it's okay, Mark," she had said, hating the way her voice trembled, but unable to do anything to prevent it. "You go ahead. I … have a few things I … need to finish up."
The kindly blue eyes had crinkled in open concern but he knew better than to question her. Each of them were being forced to deal with this in their own way and it seemed that her way was denial. If she didn't see Jesse - if she didn't have to witness his poor, abused body lying beneath the twisted mass of tubes and wires - then she could pretend that everything was all right. That he was going to live.
Reluctantly, Mark had left, Steve way in front of him. Alone once more, she had given in to her feelings and hot tears had spilled out of her eyes once again. Laying her head on top of her desk, she had cried bitterly.
Now she sat, trying to stare at a report she didn't care about, in a Path lab which seemed cold and empty and too sterile, trying to think about anything other than her friend.
It wasn't working.
Since Mark and Steve's departure, all she had been able to think about was Jesse. All that she had been able to envision was his imminent death. That and the dreadful images that had continued to assail her since the moment they had discovered him under the rubble.
The sounds of the hospital - staff conversing in hushed tones, the clatter of med trolleys, the incessant ticking of the clock - washed over her. There was no comfort to be found in any of it.
She desperately wanted to be at her friend's bedside. She needed to see him, if only to say 'goodbye'. Conversely, she wanted to be anywhere but in that room. She wasn't ready to bid farewell to her dear friend. In the few short years they had known each other, she and Jesse had formed a bond which she treasured. Despite their little spats and the puppy-dog enthusiasm which occasionally drove her to exasperation, except for Mark and Steve, there was no truer friend. He had borne her insults, her accusation of betrayal and her anger and he had never wavered in his loyalty. He was always there for her - to cheer her up with his silly humour when things got her down, to go to bat for her when no-one else would and to support her when she needed a shoulder. No questions asked, nothing expected in return.
How could she possibly be expected to give that up? How could anyone expect her to? How could life be so unfair as to take such a sweet, dear person away from them?
She couldn't say 'goodbye'. She wasn't ready to let go.

They had only been allowed a few moments. The policy of the ICU was quite rigid. Visitors' time was restricted. Regardless of who they were. Even Mark was skating on pretty thin ground. He wasn't Jesse's doctor. That honour belonged to someone else. However, the nursing staff were not about to challenge the validity of the Chief of Internal Medicine remaining with his friend and colleague. He wasn't exactly flaunting the regulations - although he was bending them a lot. Steve, however, had no such right and he knew without even asking how much that rankled his detective son.
Jesse could conceivably die in the next few hours. That fact alone should negate any rules about staying with the patient in ICU. He shuddered, remembering his vigil when Steve had been in the same position - he could do no less for the young man who was as much family as his own son.
God, he was so tired. And he was tired of seeing the people he loved hurting. He knew Steve wanted to stay here - in case they lost Jesse during the night - and yet the rules to which he knew they should adhere refused to allow that.
Who had come up with such a damned idiotic regulation in the first place, anyway?
Reluctantly, he touched Steve on the shoulder. "Son, you have to go," he whispered, in deference to where they were.
Steve shook his hand off, however. "I'm staying," he snapped.
"Steve, son … you can't. They don't allow …"
"Screw what they don't allow!" he snarled, turning to meet his father's shocked gaze. Tears were brimming in his eyes and his face was suffused with anger and pain. "I'm staying with Jesse. I'm staying here … to make sure he doesn't … he doesn't … " He could no more say the word 'die' than he could stop the sun from rising in the morning. Anguish laced every word he uttered and hung around him like a shroud.
"Steve …"
"Please, dad," he begged. "Please, tell them to let me stay. I just … I can't leave him alone - not again."
That hit home. Mark winced as the words delivered a final blow to his heart. How could he refuse Steve's agonized request when it was all he wanted, too? "All right," he said. "Just this once. And … I'll stay with you."

The nursing staff couldn't very well refuse Mark's request that his son be allowed to stay with Dr Travis, especially as he was also remaining in the room. He had very rarely used his position to his own advantage - the only other occasion any of them could recall him doing so being when Steve himself had been on the verge of death. Dr Travis had been the surgeon in charge then and his friendship with both men plus his concern over Dr Sloan's emotional wellbeing had been somewhat capitalised upon by the older man. He had easily been persuaded to allow his mentor to remain at his son's side and had almost ended up becoming the next victim for the killer.
Now he lay in an ICU bed, his broken body tethered to the equipment which was keeping it alive. He was unable to perform the simplest bodily function; everything, from his breathing to his emptying his bladder was being taken care of mechanically.
No-one could say if he was going to survive - and no-one was smiling.

Pain dragged Jesse out of the comfortable cocoon of oblivion and back into the world of the living. Indescribable, excruciating, mind-searing pain. It seemed to have coiled itself around him, unwilling to let go, relentless and all-encompassing. Everything hurt. His head ached fiercely, his chest felt tight and restrictive - twinges of agony shooting through him at regular intervals - and nausea roiled in his belly. His arms and legs were strangely numb - for which he could only feel grateful, even though a part of his mind screamed at him that this was so not good.
He didn't want to open his eyes. He just wanted to lay there, to wallow in his own misery, to go back to sleep and escape all his hurts. But the sounds of the outside world were beginning to impinge on his consciousness and his inherently inquisitive nature could not be cowed even by the unremitting agony coursing through his body.
The first step was hard though. His eyelashes seemed to be glued to his face. Then gentle words of encouragement made it past the miasma in his mind, urging him to wake up. An accompaniment of beeps and tones played in the background and he frowned, struggling through the pain and the lethargy. He became aware for the first time of the fingers softly stroking his face …
"Jesse?"
He recognised that voice.
"…" He tried to answer, found he couldn't. There was a restriction in his throat. He coughed to dispel it, found he couldn't and began choking instead. Panic filled his mind, temporarily displacing the pain. He writhed to and fro, desperately, seeking to rid himself of whatever it was that prevented him from talking, gagging as he found the task beyond him.
Hands restrained him. He felt his shoulders pushed down and heard the voice urging him to be still, but he couldn't stop himself. Terrified now, he continued to thrash about, unaware that what seemed to him to be a violent struggle was little more than weak movements and a pitiful whimpering to those who observed him.
"Jesse, stop it!"
It was a command that he couldn't ignore. It sounded particularly shrill in the quiet that permeated the room. He flailed again, but was prevented from moving by the firm grip someone had on him. He tried to cry out but the sound was lost around the constriction in his throat.
"Jess, you're on a respirator. There's a tube down your throat. It's helping you to breathe. You must stop fighting it."
He had never disobeyed that voice. Not in matters of great importance, anyway. But he couldn't breathe and he so desperately needed to throw up.
"Jesse! Jesse, stop it! It's all right now. It's all right … "
But he couldn't be soothed. He coughed weakly - another attempt to dislodge the impediment. It didn't work. Tears of frustration and fear slid down his cheeks although he was oblivious to them. His distress increased and he gagged incessantly, convinced that he was going to choke to death.
" …. wrong with him?" he heard through the roaring in his ears.
" … panicking … tube choking him …"
"Can't …. rid … it?"
"No. ….. sedate …. "
He wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out but his arms remained immobile at his sides. This battle he was waging, however, was taking its toll on him and, eventually, the pain and the exhaustion engendered by his continued fight proved too much for his weakened body. He barely had the time to utter a strangled cry of relief as he was carried away into the welcome respite of unconsciousness.

His next foray into awareness was not quite so traumatic. There was no longer anything blocking his windpipe. Instead, a rush of air on his face coupled with a slightly uncomfortable tightness around his face told him that he was wearing an oxygen mask.
He could hear the comforting bleeps of a monitor somewhere in the room. The sound of soft breathing came from his left. He sighed softly, sinking further into the mattress beneath him. Experimentally, he tried to move his hand and was rewarded by a twitch of his fingers. Growing bolder, he repeated the procedure with his left leg and was swamped by relief when it, too, responded - albeit weakly - to his brain's commands.
The pain which had clawed at him like a living thing during his last awakening was no longer present, he belatedly realised, and the breath he had been unconsciously holding, waiting for it to strike at him, was expelled. Drugs held it at bay, he knew and he was suddenly incredibly grateful to all those researchers who had spent years coming up with the right medications and correct doses for just such an occasion.
"Jesse?"
The sleep-roughened voice startled him. He had been so lost in his own thoughts and the discoveries he had been making that he had entirely forgotten the presence beside him.
"M … M …k?"
His own voice was practically inaudible and sounded painful to his own ears. He wondered if the other man had even heard it.
"Hey there," came the response. Yes, he had. "Welcome back. We were beginning to think you'd sleep the week away."
A smile curved the corners of his mouth. It felt like a monumental effort but it was worth it as he heard the responding chuckle from his mentor and friend. "M …. sorry …" he murmured.
"That's all right, Jess." Warm fingers touched his cheek, then moved to his forehead and the lock of hair which had been tickling his eyelids was gently brushed aside. "Better?"
"Mmmm." He sighed, contentedly. "Much." His voice was echoing within the confines of the mask, and he tried to lift his hand to move it away so he could talk to Mark properly. But he couldn't convince his arm to co-operate and a tiny whimper of fear escaped him.
"Sssshhh," Mark soothed him, the tender touch on his brow gentling his panic. "It's all right, Jess. Your body's still recovering. There's nothing to be afraid of."
"Tha …'s easy …. f'r you …. to say…" he managed, trying to hide his shame at his own reactions. Hadn't he seen enough people go through the same thing? He was a doctor. He should know better. "Sorry, M…k," he mumbled.
"Don't apologise," the older man told him, kindly. "It's only natural. Just take it easy. You're going to be fine."
"I … I am?" he asked, hesitantly.
"Of course you are." Mark sounded so confident. "I'm a doctor," he went on, lightly. "Trust me."
"I … I do trust you." Suddenly, Jesse needed to see Mark. He needed to see the truth of the reassurances he was being given in Mark's eyes. He was tired though. So very, very tired.
It was a huge effort, but somehow, he found the strength to prise open his eyelids. Everything was blurry. Mark was a big blob of white looming over him and he couldn't make out his friend's features. He blinked, then blinked again in an effort to clear his vision. It worked - to an extent - and he smiled as he focussed blearily on the other man, seeing Mark's expression soften into a smile as their gazes locked.
"Well, hello there," Mark greeted him,
"H … hi," he croaked.
"You're going to be all right, Jesse."
It was almost as though Mark had known what he had wanted. He sounded so convinced, so sure of his own prognosis that Jesse believed him. He managed another smile. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the energy and before he knew what was happening, his eyes had drifted shut and he had floated away.

Mark slumped in his chair, letting out a deep breath as he watched his young friend succumb once more to the lure of sleep. He was beyond weary, but a sense of elation filled him, staving off the bone-numbing tiredness that threatened to drag him into slumber at any moment.
Jesse was going to be all right.
It had been a long haul. His young friend had lain unconscious for nearly a week, clinging tenaciously to life; slowly, by increments, day after torturous day, regaining strength enough to make his way back to them.
His initial awakening - had it only been two days before? - had been somewhat of an ordeal for all of them. Steve had been at his bedside when suddenly, the younger man had started to choke on the tube down his throat, fighting ineffectually against the respirator. He had either not heard or ignored Mark's entreaties for him to calm down and a frightening few moments had ensued until the sedative that Mark had been force to inject into his IV had taken effect. Steve's face had lost all colour, shaken by what he had been forced to witness. Mark didn't blame him. It was difficult enough to watch any patient going through such rigours. When it was someone you knew and loved - it was practically impossible to remain detached.
Mark had conferred with Rupert later that day and the decision had been made to replace the respirator with an oxygen mask. If Jesse was fighting to strenuously against the former, then he was probably sufficiently recovered to breathe without it. The latter was a precautionary measure. When he had been deemed well enough, that would in itself be replaced by a cannula. Thus he would be weaned off oxygen altogether. It was a slow process but a necessary one. His lungs had been placed under enormous strain during his entombment. They had needed help to recover.

He couldn't deny that he had been eagerly anticipating Jesse's next return to consciousness. With the impediment to speech removed, he had looked forward to hearing the younger doctor's voice again It had been too long now since they had been blessed with that sound. And he hadn't been disappointed. What he hadn't been expecting was such a lengthy conversation - if one could call it that - but he supposed he should have known. Jesse Travis was nothing if not stubborn and his natural loquaciousness was almost impossible to contain, even when he was as gravely ill as he had been. Anyone else would have lain there and allowed themselves to rest and relax, but not young Dr Travis. His voice may have been muffled and impeded by the oxygen mask, his body suffering the weakness of his injuries and subsequent, gruelling surgery, but his irrepressible nature had not been diminished one iota. And for that, Mark could only feel thankful. That and his sheer determination had more than likely been responsible for pulling him back from the brink of death.
He was a fighter, was Jesse. Thank god.
Mark couldn't remember having seen a more beautiful or welcome sight than when his friend's eyes had finally fluttered open to focus groggily on the world around him. He had seemed dazed and disoriented, of course, but the characteristic sparkle had been very much in evidence nevertheless and its presence had warmed Mark's heart.
He smiled as he studied the sleeping form. The scrapes and bruises Jesse had sustained in the explosion were fading now, the discolouration on his cheekbone, so stark at first against the sickly white skin having almost disappeared as he regained his natural colour.
They should have had more faith
They should have known better.
Jesse had everything to live for and of course he was going to survive.
But he couldn't forget that day nearly two weeks ago, when they had dragged his fragile, broken body out of the decimated building. The fear of losing him had been suffocating and it continued to resonate in his mind even now, as did Rupert's grim prognosis so many hours later.
It seemed to Mark that they had all been living in a kind of limbo ever since - unable to think about anything other than Jesse's dire condition and his probable fate. He had been operating on autopilot himself, he knew; tending to his patients, doing his job, trying to maintain a façade of normality even when his thoughts constantly strayed to the ICU and its gravely ill occupant.
He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to relax. Now, as a week's worth of tension drained from his body he felt limp and utterly sapped of all energy. He wasn't sure he could even move from the chair without falling over, yet he didn't particularly want to sleep there.
And he desperately wanted to sleep - now that he was thoroughly convinced that his young friend was going to recover.
He stifled a yawn, then chuckled at his own restraint. It wasn't as if any outward sign of his exhaustion was going to be seen by anyone.
Then he noticed movement beyond the blinds on the window which faced the corridor. Frowning, he wondered who could be loitering outside, recalling that Steve wasn't due back for some hours. The detective was at the precinct, working on yet another murder. He had called Mark several times, checking up on Jesse's progress and apologising for his absence. The older Sloan had tried to be reassuring but he could hear the strain in his son's voice and realised that Steve wasn't going to be satisfied until Jesse was awake and talking to him. It was such a shame that he had had to miss it when it had happened. He should call Steve, tell him, perhaps it would ease his mind.
The shadow outside the window made a furtive movement - almost as though whoever it was was trying to get away without being seen.
Without conscious thought he heaved himself out of the chair, dragging his weary body across the room.
"Can I help you?" he demanded as he wrenched open the door, his next words sticking in his throat and his face registering his shock as he recognised the person.
Amanda???
The young pathologist looked startled - and Mark was dismayed to see guilt writ large across her face. "Amanda?" he queried. "What are you doing here?"
"I .. I … " she stammered. "I'm sorry, Mark. I should … I should go."
Now he was thoroughly confused. She had only just arrived - hadn't she? "You don't need to do that, honey," he said, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you come in and say 'hello' to Jesse?"
"H … hello?"
She was acting very strangely. This wasn't like her. Amanda was usually so open, so forthright. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her this nervous. It was almost as though she were afraid to enter the room.
Then it struck him. He couldn't recall one occasion on which Amanda had visited Jesse - at least not when he had been present. In fact, he couldn't remember seeing her very much since the night of the explosion. She had refused to accompany Steve and himself to the ICU after Jesse had been brought her from recovery, claiming she had work to do. He had seriously doubted that, but, recognising her behaviour as fear for her friend and a reluctance to accept that he may well not last the night - something she may well have to accept if she faced seeing him - he had not pushed the issue.
Now he wished he had.
"You haven't been to see him since the night he was brought in, have you, Amanda?" he queried in a gentle voice.
She shook her head. Soft hazel eyes were starred with tears. "I .. I couldn't," she admitted, at last. "I … Mark, he was so close to death. I rode with him from the site and … I couldn't go through that again. I couldn't. I couldn't handle it and then I couldn't face him. And now I can't forgive myself. What if he had died? What if … and I hadn't been to see him? To at least say goodbye."
"But he didn't," Mark told her. He smiled sadly. "Amanda, honey, we each dealt with it in our own way. Jesse wouldn't have blamed you."
"I know!" she cried. "And that makes it even worse!"
Mark felt his heart lurch. He hated to see Amanda in pain. It never failed to elicit a reaction. Pulling her into his arms he held her close. She fell against him, clutching at his jacket, her face buried in his shoulder, sobbing silently. "He's all right," he soothed her. "He's woken up, Amanda. He's going to be just fine."
"He … he has?" She lifted her head from her refuge and looked him in the eye, gauging his honesty. What she saw in his eyes seemed to satisfy her and a tremulous smile graced her lips. "He's all right? What … what did he say?"
Mark chuckled. "Not a great deal," he replied. "He apologised for sleeping so much."
That elicited a weak laugh. "That's so like him," she said, quietly. Sniffing, she turned her head in the direction of the room. "I … I don't want to wake him if he's sleeping again …"
"He is," Mark confirmed. "But you can take my seat. I've kept it warm for you."

With Mark's gentle encouragement, Amanda found herself seated beside her young friend before she even realised what she was doing.
He looked terrible. Old, fading bruises decorated his pert features and his eyes were ringed with deep, dark contusions - a legacy of his injuries, the gruelling surgery and his ensuing battle against the dark dominion of death.
But he was alive.
And he looked ten times better than the last time she had seen him.
She let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding as she reached out and gripped his hand. He still felt fragile and insubstantial - as though a breath of wind could carry him away. But they weren't going to let that happen. They would anchor him here. Besides, Jesse's slender, diminutive frame concealed a wiry strength of both body and will. He wasn't going to go anywhere until he was ready and she should have remembered that.
It had been impossible, however, to do so, when she was plagued, night after endless night by the nightmare recollection of their journey to Community General, played out in technicolour and surroundsound. The siren's wail had drowned out every other noise - her constant pleas for him to hold on, the rattling sound of his chest and the awful, rasping breaths that he had sucked in so desperately as he strove to comply with her entreaties. She had re-lived, over and over again, the whine of the defibrillator as it was applied to his bloodied chest when the exertion had finally proven too much for his labouring lungs and he had simply stopped breathing, his heart rate fluttering and then ceasing at about the same time.
She had convinced herself that she would never see him alive again and Rupert's gloomy words had only cemented her fears.
But he had proved her wrong and now she bitterly regretted the hours she had spent working and brooding when she could have been at his bedside, whispering words of encouragement and being present when he finally opened his eyes again.
"I'm here now, honey," she whispered, squeezing his hand gently. "I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me."
"F .. give you f'r what?"
Amanda nearly jumped out of her seat, so startled was she by the raspy voice - albeit muffled by the oxygen mask. "Jesse?" she exclaimed.
A wan smile found its way onto his face and he blinked up at her, blue eyes barely visible beneath drooping eyelashes. "Tha's me," he whispered. "Hi, 'Manda."
"Hey there," she replied. She fought back the incipient tears which were blinding her to the miraculous sight of the friend she never expected to see alive again. His voice was a balm to her aching soul. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
A slight shake of the head which produced a wince and he didn't repeat the exercise. "'M okay," he replied. "You look tired though."
She wanted to weep. That was just so typical of Jesse. He was lying in ICU, barely having managed to survive the last week or so and he was more concerned about her. "I'm fine," she said, not very convincingly. "Really, Jesse," she went on, off his disbelieving expression. "Really. I'm fine." "Now," she added, silently.
"Tha's okay then…" he murmured. Then, "'Manda?"
"Yes, honey?" She leaned over him so she could hear him a little better. One hand went to his forehead and stroked it gently. He was very hot, she realised.
"Don' … don' feel too good."
Tamping down her rising alarm, she hit the button on the wall, waiting for the assistance that she knew would not be long in coming. He was breathing raggedly, his gasps for air reminding her painfully of the time in the ambulance.
His eyes flickered and then closed, then he inhaled once and was still. Frozen, she stared at him for a full second before reacting.

She barely heard the door opening and the voice demanding to know what was happening. There was a flurry of activity around the bed, calls of 'Code blue!' and the clattering of wheels from the corner of the room - where the defibrillator had remained 'just in case'. She thanked god for Mark's and Rupert's caution in ensuring that vital piece of machinery had stayed where it was most needed.
She continued her manipulations on his unmoving chest until she heard a call of "Charging! Stand clear!" Then the paddles were applied and Jesse's inert body jerked violently off the mattress, staying suspended for a moment before flopping back down again.
"Charge to 250!" came the command. Again the paddles were thumped against his cooling flesh. Again his lifeless form veered upward. "No output!" came the grim proclamation. "Charge to 300!"
She recommenced the CPR, praying like she had never prayed before. She could not believe this was happening. He was supposed to be all right! Mark had told her he was all right! Why had he lied to her?
"Clear!"
She stepped back, watching numbly as he was shocked for a third time. No response. The lifesaving techniques continued as Epiphenidrine was administered straight into his heart and the CPR continued. Nothing was working. His face remained lax and still, his features frozen in a serene death-mask. She couldn't breathe. Staggering across the room, she sank into a chair beside the window, watching through increasingly blurred vision as the activity continued unabated, listening with an increasing sense of detachment as orders were given and obeyed. But there was nothing to be done.
"No … " The groan of protest didn't even sound like her voice although she knew she had uttered the word. She allowed her head to fall into her hands, tears trickling between her fingers as she mourned the loss of her friend - her sweet, endearing, sometimes annoying 'little brother'.

"'Manda …?"
She was hearing things.
"Manda?"
It couldn't be …
"Manda! 'Manda, wake up!"
Startled, she blinked once, twice and found herself captured by two earnest blue eyes, his face a mask of concern.
"J … Jesse?" Her voice was hoarse - whether from emotion or sleep, she couldn't tell. "Oh my god …!"
"His worried expression faded to be replaced by a somewhat rueful smile. "You … nightmare," he gasped.
"N .. nightmare?" she echoed, stupidly. Hysterical laughter bubbled near the surface. A nightmare! None of it had been real. Jesse was alive and - well, maybe far from well, but at least he was getting there. Guilt overwhelmed her as she struggled for words. He didn't need to worry about her on top of trying to recover. "Oh Jesse, I'm sorry," she said.
"Musta been … some dream," he commented. "You … okay now?"
She smiled reassuringly - if a little shakily. "I'm okay," she said. "You should get some rest."
He grimaced. The expression looked somewhat incongruous, limited as it was by the restrictions of the oxygen mask. The corners dug into his cheeks and the initial expression was quickly followed by a wince. "Ow …"
"Jesse?"
""H … hate this … mask," he whined.
She nodded understandingly. "Well, hopefully you won't have to wear it for long, " she said.
"Don' wanna be here at all," he went on, miserably. He watched as the corners of Amanda's mouth quirked up in the semblance of a smile which she was obviously desperately trying to smother. "What?"
"I was just thinking that it's so good to hear you complaining again," she replied. Her hand squeezed his. "You'll be out of here soon, honey. But you have to give yourself time to get well."
"Right." He didn't sound at all reassured. Then, "'Manda …?"
"Yes, Jesse?"
"I … don' feel too good."
Her stomach flip-flopped. "Wh … what?" The remnants of her nightmare clung to her subconscious - his words too terrifyingly similar to the situation she had envisaged.
"B … back hurts," he complained, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain ebbed and flowed.
"Your … your back?" she echoed, bemusedly, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
He nodded, compressing his lips as the agony intensified, spreading out to encompass his buttocks and travelling down his thighs. "Uh-huh!" he gasped. "'Manda … please …!"
She didn't hesitate any longer. Reaching out, she pressed the call button, then tried to ease his suffering with words of comfort as they waited for someone to come.

"It's residual trauma in the nerves to his lower spine as a result of the injuries he sustained when he was buried," the orthopaedic surgeon explained to the assembled group a few hours later.
"And what does that mean?" demanded Steve. His face was white and strained with worry and his tone unnecessarily sharp. He had swung by the hospital as soon as his shift had finished in order to see Jesse, only to be told by the nursing staff that his friend was undergoing 'tests'. When he had asked what kind of tests he had been given the brush off and it had taken his father's timely arrival to calm him down. After apologising to the nurses for his brusqueness, he had followed his dad to the nearby doctor's lounge, where they had found Amanda seated on the edge of one of the sofas, distractedly wringing her hands.
"He's going to be fine, Amanda," said Mark, perching beside her and placing his hands over hers, stilling the nervous movement.
She raised her head and met his steadfast gaze. "I don't know, Mark," she whispered. "He was in such pain …"
"It's only to be expected," he stated. "He's lucky he didn't sustain anything worse."
"Lucky?" she echoed, disbelievingly. "I don't call what he's gone through 'lucky'."
Mark winced at her sharp tone, recalling that it had taken her till now to pluck up the courage to visit Jesse - and then only because he had convinced her that he was going to recover. "It could have been much worse. Three other people died in that explosion," he reminded her, gently.
"Dad!" Steve's shocked exclamation brought his father's gaze to bear on him and the whatever else he was going to say remained unspoken as he saw the anguish in those clear blue eyes. His dad was as worried as they were - but he was suppressing that concern in order to be strong for them.
Amanda had blanched a little at Mark's words, but had calmed a little. They had remained there, awaiting news, until the arrival of the surgeon who had ordered the tests on Jesse.
And he had delivered news which had not calmed their fears one little bit.

Martin Turner was accustomed to belligerence from friends and relatives. He had expected as much when he had passed the nurses' station on his way here and been informed that Steve Sloan had arrived and had exhibited somewhat uncivil behaviour toward the staff, although they had been quick to point out that he had eventually apologised. Heaving a huge sigh, he had continued on toward his destination with even less enthusiasm.
He had heard stories about Steve Sloan. The detective had become somewhat of a legend around Community General. He was every inch the consummate police officer - somewhat gruff and straight-talking - and although pleasant enough he wouldn't be vying with anyone for any popularity contests any day soon. Notoriously authoritarian and tough when the occasion demanded it, he saved his worst behaviour for the thankfully few instances when any member of his family was hurt - when he became particularly dangerous, exhibiting a cold rage that terrified most sane people, although it generally had little effect on any perpetrator.
And it was well known around the hospital that Jesse Travis was like a little brother to him.
Martin had not looked forward to Steve Sloan's reaction when he told them the news about the young doctor.
And he hadn't been disappointed.

"So?" growled Steve. "Is he going to be all right?"
Dr Turner sighed heavily as he turned to face the taller man. "He will - in time," he replied, somewhat cautiously. "We won't know the full extent of the damage until the swelling goes down."
"Swelling? What swelling?" Steve's demand precluded both his father and Amanda's more knowledgeable - and gentler probing. "No-one said anything about swelling before!"
Turner resisted the impulse to heave another sigh and tamped down his rising exasperation. Steve Sloan was worried about Jesse. He didn't mean to be rude. He was just exhibiting the normal reaction of a concerned friend. "The swelling I'm referring to has increased since his hospitalisation - exacerbated no doubt by the necessity of him lying on his back whilst he was intubated and hooked up to the monitors," he explained.
"Rupert didn't mention it at the time of surgery," Mark mused, getting in before his son for a change.
Martin shrugged. "He was trying to save Jesse's life at the time, Mark," he pointed out. "I understand that quite apart from the collapsed lung and the smoke damage there was some internal bleeding that he couldn't explain. Trauma to the spine was the least of his worries."
Mark nodded thoughtfully. "So we continue to monitor the situation," he mused.
The other doctor smiled tightly. "I'm afraid that's all we can do," he said. "There's no specific damage to the spine - nothing broken at any rate. We were lucky in that respect. But this trauma is going to cause us a few problems and is certainly going to lengthen his recovery."
"How long?" Steve interjected, both manner and tone brusque and to the point.
Turner suppressed his increasing desire to strangle the man - just. "How long?" he echoed. "I can't tell you that, detective."
"Then what can you tell us?"
The urge to wrap his hands around the Lieutenant's throat was beginning to take over. "What I just told you," he said, firmly. "Look, there are no absolutes or guarantees in this kind of thing. We monitor the situation, we administer pain relief where necessary and - when he's up to it, we start physiotherapy if that's needed."
"And you think it will be?" quizzed Amanda, her gentler voice a balm to the surgeon's increasingly frazzled nerves.
"My suspicion is that the swelling is nothing to be overly concerned about," he said, relenting a little. "It's what I said - residual trauma, and it's been worsened by his immobility. The swelling should recede, given time and pressure off the affected area, and then if there is still tenderness there, we'll need to start him on some gentle exercises - that will loosen it up and, yes, it will probably cause more pain but - to quote one of those old adages 'no gain without pain,'"
"I always hated that saying," muttered Steve rebelliously, ignoring the quelling looks he was receiving from both his father and Amanda, well aware, however, that he was behaving badly and in danger of antagonising one of the men who was in charge of Jesse's care.
"So do I," Turner said. "But in this case … it may well be true."
"You're right, Martin, of course," Mark temporised, trying to diffuse the tension that was palpable in the room - mainly courtesy of his own son. He could tell that his colleague was being hard pressed not to resort to violence against Steve and, quite frankly, he was a little exasperated himself. As much as he loved Steve, sometimes his sheer bullheadedness could be difficult to deal with. Mark had no idea where he got it from. "How is he doing now?"
"He's sedated," the other doctor replied. "The tests were … difficult for him, but he has a lot of fortitude, especially given what he's been through already in the last week or so."
"He was in a great deal of pain," Amanda said softly, wincing at the memory.
Turner sighed. "Yes, I know. But we can't really do anything to relieve it physically until some of the swelling recedes. About all we can do right now is give him pain relief and I'm hesitant to give him too much given what he's already receiving for his other injuries."
"It's going to be a long haul," Mark said, sombrely. "But we'll all be there for him."
"You bet we will!" Steve said.

Forward to part four

Return to part two

Return to Diagnosis Murder page

Return to Main page