Die Laughing part 2

"Susan hasn't talked to him," announced Steve several moments later, having conversed with a highly aggrieved nurse whom he had awoken from a well-deserved sleep with his call. "In fact, she hasn't done since she got the flowers."
Mark allowed himself a small smile. That particular incident had been one of the more amusing manifestations of the hospital prankster's reign.
The prankster.
There was no further doubt now in Mark's mind that he or she was behind Jesse's disappearance. It was an inescapable conclusion.
But how?
Then everything fell into place.
"Of course!"
"What?"
"Where does Jesse usually park?"
Steve shot him a quizzical look. "His car isn't there, dad. I checked on my way in."
"I know that." Impatience was creeping into Mark's voice. Now that he had the clues he was eager to follow up on them. Every moment they wasted may be crucial to Jesse's wellbeing. "Just show me where he parks, Steve."
The detective nodded. His dad had that expression on his face - the one that said that he was in the process of figuring everything out. He knew better than to argue with it. "Come with me," he said and led the way out.

"What are you looking for?" he asked five minutes later. The older man was crouched beside the empty parking spot, squinting in the dim illumination offered by the nearby street light.
"Just a minute, son," came the distracted response. Then, "Ah ha! There! You see?"
The detective squatted next to his father, peering in the direction in which the older man was pointing. "What is it?" he wondered aloud.
Mark dipped his finger into the pool of liquid and then sniffed at it. "If I'm not mistaken, I'd say that's brake lining fluid," he proclaimed.
"What?"
The older man turned to his son, his face set in grim lines. "Someone's cut Jesse's brakes. Steve, I think he's in big trouble."

'Big trouble' was an understatement.
Dawn was peeking over the horizon, tinting the undersides of the boiling clouds which obscured most of the sun with a vivid red - the colour of blood. It made for a magnificent sight, but the man trapped in the wreckage of his car couldn't find it within himself to appreciate it, consumed as he was by the monstrous pain that had hauled him from the pleasant confines of unconsciousness.
Molten tendrils of liquid fire had reached out to engulf very nerve and fibre and he could barely draw breath for the brutality of it.
He whimpered raggedly as the torture continued, building up to a crescendo before levelling out again. His hand was clamped around the object in his side, having instinctively reached out to steady it as his body spasmed under the attack. Dimly aware that he was in danger of tearing it out, thereby condemning himself to a quicker death, he shakily unclenched his fingers, suddenly wanting nothing more than to rip it from his burning flesh. But the rational part of his mind warned him against such an act, reminding him that he had to hold on.
But hold on to what?
Still, his fingers hovered over the branch, as he silently debated whether it wouldn't be better to end it now instead of lingering here, alone, wracked by excruciating pain and in the grip of a fever, precipitated by the infection that now raged in the jagged wound. But then the decision was taken from him as his vision clouded over and he descended once more into darkness.

"We've called everyone, dad. All of Jesse's other friends, his colleagues at the hospital; we've spoken to his neighbours. No-one knows where he is or where he was headed."
"Well, he has to be somewhere! He can't just have disappeared entirely!" raged Mark as Steve shut off his cellphone after his latest futile enquiry.
The detective ran a hand through his hair, quelling the urge to rip it out in frustration. "What do you want me to do? We can't initiate anything officially until he's been missing for 24 hours."
Mark's mouth thinned into a grim line. "That could be too late. We have to find him, Steve. Quickly."
Steve had learned over the years not to question his father's hunches. Mark Sloan seemed utterly convinced that their young friend didn't have enough time and that was good enough for his son to believe the same.
Or it could just have been that Mark's fears were contagious.
Steve had heard of people surviving incredible odds - trapped after earthquakes and landslides had buried and grievously injured them, only to be found hours or sometimes days later, clinging on to life with grim determination. He could only hope that whatever had happened and wherever he was, Jesse's incredible tenacity and strength of spirit would enable him to do the same.
"Hold on, Jesse," pleaded Steve silently. "Just please hold on."

Even had it been possible for Jesse to hear that desperate entreaty, it was now completely beyond his ability to comply.
His gruesome injury and its attendant effects had extracted a terrible toll on his body. The fever which had been building now had him completely under its thrall. His head tossed from side to side against his seat, sweat trickling down the finely sculpted, chalk-white face to stain the collar of his shirt as agony blazed its path through him. It was shocking in its intensity and he writhed in a futile attempt to escape from it, the movement only serving to aggravate it instead.
A long, tortured moan was wrenched from his throat, but there was no-one around to hear it. His breathing was rapid, shallow and uneven, each intake of air accompanied by the small, pitiful sounds of a man beyond his endurance.
The will to fight had evaporated, his self-control crumpling beneath the nightmarish pain and the incandescent fire that engulfed him. He was unaware of the shrill cries of birds flying overhead and the sounds of small animals scrabbling in the brush nearby. The thrum of a car engine on the road above him escaped him completely. He was completely immersed in a hellish world condensed to his own blood thundering in his ears and the unspeakable agony that engulfed him.

Crumpled, misshapen metal gleamed dully in the daylight as the sun struggled to pierce the cloud cover. The wreckage of Jesse's car was practically invisible from the road. Partially covered by the foliage it had smashed into on its plunge down the mountainside, it blended almost seamlessly into its surroundings. It would take a miracle to locate it and save its suffering occupant from the fate that awaited him.
But occasionally miracles did occur - even in the midst of despair.
One of the many pleasures afforded the rich and famous in LA was the ownership of a private plane. Those who had the inclination to pilot such machines and could easily meet the expense of lessons did so, revelling in the freedom it granted them and the joy of the experience of soaring above the landscape.
The constant drone of an engine penetrated the quiet of the grey, misty day. It grew louder as it flew directly toward the scene of Jesse's accident.
Richard Greene was a born aviator. He couldn't recall a time when he had not wanted to fly. As a young boy he had collected every model of airplane that was available, had avidly watched every film in which aircraft were prominently featured and had harboured his desire like a precious treasure, until he was old enough to take his first lesson.
He came from a wealthy family and his parents had catered to his every whim, denying him nothing, although nothing else had ever mattered to their son except his overwhelming passion for planes. He had expressed his desire to enter the Navy whilst still at school. A trip to an aircraft carrier, organised by his father - an Admiral - had only served to further fuel this. He had watched in fascination and awe as F14 Tomcats launched from the massive vessel, their sleek outlines swiftly disappearing into the distance under the thrust from their powerful engines. The noise and the fumes had punched his adrenalin up even further, and from that moment he had put all other vaguely entertained dreams from his mind. This was what he wanted.
His dream had come true. He had ended up at Annapolis and five years after graduation was flying Tomcats off the USS Nimitz. A dedicated officer and top pilot he rose in the ranks to command his own squadron and was honoured with two Navy Commendation medals as well as several other service awards.
Off duty, he maintained a modest apartment, furnishing it with the all latest gadgets - the only concession he made toward his inherited wealth. But any days on leave were not complete without a flight in the Beech Staggerwing he owned.
His favourite route was over the hills of LA, where he could have the freedom he craved to do all the fun things he couldn't participate in when he was flying off the carrier.
Banking and rolling and looping the loop, he was revelling in the joy of simply being alive that afternoon, having taken advantage of the five days leave he had been given, driving straight for the airfield to re-acquaint himself with Betsy, his beloved plane. As he came out of a steep dive, however, he caught a flash of something in the thick undergrowth - something that was out of place amidst the verdant foliage.
Swinging the plane round, he made another pass, descending a fraction more in order to identify what he thought he had seen.
His eyes widened as they alighted on the barely visible, crumpled wreck of the Mustang, then he inhaled sharply as he glimpsed the person inside it. Was the guy still alive? What the hell was he doing out here, anyway? How had he ended up down there?
There was nowhere for him to land to get the answers to these questions or to offer his assistance. He had only a rudimentary first aid kit aboard in any case and he had a feeling that the injured victim would need far more than a simple band aid.
With a heavy heart he accepted there was only one thing he could do. "Strummer to base. Strummer to base. I have a car wreck and a victim. I think he's still alive. Over."

"Think, Susan. This is very important."
The pretty blonde nurse chewed her lip at Mark's urging as she searched through Jesse's room at his request, looking for any clues that might tell them where he had gone. Steve had called her again shortly after the last phone call. She had answered immediately, having been too unsettled to get back to sleep again. The brief conversation had not told her much, but the worry in his voice had. Jesse was obviously in trouble and that fact had sent a cold shiver running through her. When he had called again, informing her that the young doctor was missing and they needed her help, her anxiety increased tenfold, turning to an icy fear. As she had pulled on some clothes, barely noticing her hands shaking, regret for her behaviour toward Jesse for the past few days had flooded her.
Now she was terrified. Upon reaching his apartment, she had found Steve and Mark rifling through Jesse's place, wearing gloves to avoid tainting any fingerprints there might be. Mark had then gently told her of his suspicions regarding Jesse's welfare.
Someone had cut the Mustang's brakes and Mark and Steve suspected that it might be the person who had been responsible for the wave of practical jokes at Community General.
Accepting now that she had been wrong to lay the blame for the flowers at Jesse's door had only served to deepen the guilt with which she had been lambasting herself all the way there and she had thrown herself into the task of trying to find some evidence of his whereabouts with a feverish intensity.
But where to start?
She looked around the bedroom. A sob rose in her throat as she envisioned the man she loved tearing through the apartment, throwing his work clothes on the bed, dumping the towel on the back of the chair and dashing out.
The Sloans were convinced that he had believed that he had been meeting her. It was the only feasible explanation. But she hadn't arranged anything with him - had barely spoken to him during the last few days - and she tried to quash the nagging and unpleasant suspicion that was forming in her mind, that maybe he had been meeting another woman.
Her eyes strayed to his wardrobe. The door was hanging open. He had obviously been in so much of a hurry that he had neglected to close it. Curiously, she approached it, glancing inside.
"Oh my god!" she breathed.
"What? What is it?" demanded Mark, stepping to her side.
"My favourite shirt. The blue one I told him matches his eyes … it's missing."
"So he did think he was meeting you."
Mark's conviction was enough for her - together with the evidence of her own eyes.
"I … I guess so." She turned to him, her vision blurring as tears clouded her eyes. "Oh my god, where could he be?"
Gentle hands grasped her arms, leading her to the bed, persuading her to sit down. Gratefully, she complied. She didn't think her legs were going to hold her up any longer, anyway. She fought back the urge to sink into hysteria.
"Susan, think. If Jesse thought he was meeting you, where would he go?"
"I don't know!" she cried, helplessly. "Oh god, Mark, if something terrible's happened to him … what are we going to do?"
"We're going to find him." The older man sounded so sure. His calm, even voice instilled the same confidence in her and she tried to compose herself. Panic wasn't going to help Jesse. Rational, clear-headed thinking just might.
"Okay, okay," she said, shakily. "Where would he go? Um … he's wearing my favourite shirt and the cologne that I told him I liked. He's dressed up." A tremulous smile broke through. "The last time he wore that shirt we went to our favourite restaurant … " Her words tailed off into a gasp. "Oh my god. Hoshima's! It's up in the hills. Mark, that road … his brakes … "
She couldn't voice the rest of the thought. Horrified blue eyes met Mark's and she saw her terror reflected in his face.

Steve had watched the exchange with growing horror.
Jesse.
The twisting, winding, dangerous mountain road.
No brakes.
He thought he might be sick.
The sound of his phone intruded rudely into the deathly silence which had fallen following Susan's revelation and yanked him back into the here and now. "Sloan!" he spat into the instrument after fumbling to retrieve it from his jacket. "What?"
Mark and Susan watched the detective's face drain of all colour, then he slowly closed the cell and turned to face them. At first his mouth opened but nothing emerged. Then the words spilled out. "That was Tanis." His voice was strangled and forced. "Someone called in an accident off route 16 - the mountain road that leads to Hoshima's. It looks like we've found Jesse."
"Steve …" Mark didn't want to give voice to his worst fear. The words simply refused to come.
"I don't know, dad," came the terse response. "They're getting a rescue team out there and. The car is halfway down the cliff. It's totalled."

It was the discordant sounds of the rescue team and their helicopter that pulled Jesse from the deep, death-like sleep he had fallen into. The noises thundered around him, exacerbating the headache that pounded in his skull.
Experimentally, he cracked open one eye. His vision was blurred and all he could make out were distorted images looming out of the darkness. There was a sense of urgency about their movements but he couldn't bring himself to question the reason why nor what they were even doing there.
He just wanted to be left alone.
Their voices carried on the wind that was buffeting him, making no sense to his befuddled brain. Then someone touched his side and he let out a strangled scream as agony lanced through his body, reverberating long after the contact was severed.
"My god!" The horrified gasp was loud enough to penetrate the grey haze of his thoughts as the monstrous pain abated. Whoever it was must have been standing right next to him. "We need some tools over here!"
Jesse tried to focus on the speaker, but all he could make out was a fuzzy blue image. With a sigh, he allowed his head to loll against the back of his seat and tried to breathe. He wheezed painfully, unable to inhale enough oxygen to satisfy his craving, but before he could succumb to the panic that was about to seize hold of him, he felt something pressed against his face - and cold air flooded his nostrils and throat. It felt so good. He drank of it greedily, almost hyperventilating as he inhaled breath after breath.
"Easy, Jess, easy," warned a voice nearby. He frowned. It sounded familiar and he desperately wracked his memory for a name, but his thoughts were strangely insubstantial and wouldn't co-operate with him.
"Ah … Ah … "
"It's all right, my friend," the voice soothed him as he struggled to speak, failing dismally. "We're here now. Everything's going to be just fine."

Mark studied the younger man as Jesse relaxed against the driver's seat, instinctively complying with the advice even if he didn't seem to be fully aware of who was giving it. His friend looked terrible.
And that was an understatement.
Sweat beaded his ashen face, trickling down into his hairline, staining the blond strands which had fallen onto his forehead. The greyness of his complexion was accentuated by the vivid red on the high cheekbones and the dark bruising around his eyes, testament to his long and arduous ordeal and his lips were dry and daubed with dry blood from where he had bitten into them during his ordeal.
But it was the grisly sight of the tree limb protruding from Jesse's side that the older man knew was going to haunt him for days - if not weeks or months - to come. On close inspection, the flesh surrounding the object was mottled with dark bruising and it was badly inflamed, confirmation, had Mark required it, of the fever that was raging through the young doctor's mutilated body. There was evidence of bleeding but that had stopped hours before. His mouth thinned as he investigated more closely, careful not to touch the angry-looking tissue around the wound. The heat radiating from it was so powerful that he could feel it even as his fingers hovered over the site, and he tried to visualise the damage that had been done internally.
"Dad?"
"Not now, Steve," he muttered, tersely, immediately regretting his tone. "I'm sorry," he apologised, half-turning to find the detective crouched beside him, an expression of mute horror on his face. "He's in a bad way. We're going to have to get him out with that thing in him. We can't risk moving it here. He'll bleed to death in minutes."
Steve swallowed. His face was lined with strain and the blue eyes were haunted. "How long d'you think he's been here, trapped like this?"
Mark shook his head. "That's difficult to say. At least twenty-four hours, I'd estimate. It's a miracle he's still alive at all."
The younger man snorted humourlessly. "He's tougher than he looks. We've always known that."
"Yes, we have. I just hope he can hang on a little while longer. His abdomen is slightly distended - which means he's bleeding internally. Until we get him x-rayed we have no way of telling whether there's any organ damage and there's still the question of crush injuries to his legs. He's well and truly pinned beneath the hood of his car. I've ordered a large bore IV set up to try and minimise liver and kidney damage. Then there's the infection he's running. When that branch penetrated his side it took with it all kinds of debris - fragments of his clothing and the dirt that the tree itself would have accumulated. He's so out of it he isn't even properly aware of our presence. I tried to get through to him, but I'm not sure if he knew it was me or was just responding to my commands."
Steve listened to his father's bleak prognosis in increasing alarm. Whilst he had imagined the worst during the hours that Jesse had been missing, nothing could have prepared the detective for the sickening, brutal reality of his friend's condition. As a homicide cop, he had seen everything, had believed himself hardened to injuries of every variety, but this was different. This was someone he knew, someone he cared about. At first glance he had been forced to turn away, retching helplessly.
Now, squatting beside his father, as Mark inspected the IV and tightened the oxygen mask around the frighteningly white face, he felt utterly helpless. He didn't even want to touch his friend for fear of hurting him. He was fighting the urge to rip that thing from Jesse's body. It didn't belong there. And yet if he succumbed to this overwhelming compulsion he would be condemning his friend to death.
He drew a heavy breath, opting to stare instead at Jesse's face, searching for any sign of recognition in the blue eyes, which were open at half-mast, glittering with the unmistakable signs of fever. There was none to be found.
The rescue operation was well underway, but Jesse seemed entirely unaware of their presence next to him, lost in the miasma of infection and the gruesome injury which had now, thankfully, been concealed by a blanket - thrown over him in an attempt to offset the effects of shock. He was trembling uncontrollably, the vibrations dislodging the branch and eliciting faint whimpering sounds from the dry, sore lips.
"What can I do?" Steve demanded of his father, his voice harsh with emotion.
Mark spared him the briefest of glances. "Find whoever is responsible for this, Steve. Find them and make them pay."
The detective winced. He had never heard such venom in his dad's voice before.
But then, he was having trouble suppressing his own impotent rage. Why should Mark Sloan be any different? "Don't worry," he replied, grimly. "I'll find him - or her. And when I do … " He left the rest unspoken. He was envisioning what he would like to do to the person who had done this to Jesse - who had cut his brakes and left him here like a wounded animal to die.
They were going to pay for this. Big time.

Jesse felt cold, despite the fire that raged within him. Disoriented and hurting, he was helpless to stop the little bubbling sounds that issued from his throat. Each tremor of his pain-wracked body was a new experience in torture. There was something restrictive around his face and he inhaled deeply as the oxygen and air flowed around his mouth and nostrils.
He experienced a brief moment of lucidity as his restless gaze settled on the blurry figure at his side, blinking rapidly until it coalesced into the familiar shape of his mentor.
"M …. M …k …"
His voice was barely audible beneath the mask and the older man was, in any case, too engrossed in directing the rescue workers in how to proceed to realise that his patient had awoken.
Struggling to move, the young doctor expended all that remained of his dwindling energy and lifted his hand, and tears streaming down his face from the effort, grasped at Mark's sleeve.

Mark suddenly became aware of the fingers clamped on his arm, tightening painfully in a show of strength that should not have been possible from the gravely injured young man. He glanced down, to find wide, terrified eyes locked onto his and summoned up a reassuring smile for his young friend. "It's all right, Jesse," he crooned. "We're going to have you out of here soon. I promise. You're going to be just fine. All right?"
Jesse didn't seem to hear his words. "H … hurts!" he managed.
"I know." A gentle hand cupped his cheek. "I know it does, but we're here now. You didn't think we'd leave you here, did you?"
A rush of shame flooded the young doctor. How could he admit how close he had come to giving up? He should have had more faith in his friends - should have known that they would find him in time. They had never let him down.
"No," he lied. "No." He dredged up a ghostly smile for the older man, but the effort was too much for him and, his limited resources now thoroughly depleted, his head fell to one side and he passed out.
"We're ready, Dr Sloan."
Mark glanced up at the rescue worker who had suddenly appeared beside him, nodding curtly as he slowly withdrew his hand from the burning skin of his young colleague. Now came the gruelling task of extracting Jesse from the crumpled remains of his car. It was going to be harrowing for everyone, not least the man at his other side, who had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout his short-lived exchange with Jesse. He stole a glance at Steve, dismayed to find his son's face lined with strain, the muscle in his cheek twitching spasmodically - eloquence enough for the father to realise the extent of his keen distress at the plight of their friend.
There were no words of comfort to be offered. Platitudes would be useless at this point, anyway. Steve was only too well aware of how bleak the situation was. He didn't need coddling from his own father, even though Mark wanted nothing more than to take away his pain.
"Steve, I need you to help me," he said, in a low voice. Giving the younger man something to do might make things easier on him, the older man reasoned silently. So far, the detective had been powerless to do anything for Jesse. His skills as a cop weren't needed here yet. But his abilities as a friend were.
Steve swallowed as he tore his gaze away from the waxen face of the unconscious man. "Sure, dad. What d'you want me to do?"

The rescue operation was a slow, painstaking process because of the risks involved in worsening the injuries the young doctor had sustained. The people involved - ambulance, firemen and paramedics - worked as a well-oiled team and as daylight waned and dusk fell, overhead lights were set up and turned on to illuminate the site. A Jaws of Life was brought in and utilised in prising the front of the buckled dashboard off Jesse's legs, the screeching and grinding of the tortured metal as the powerful hydraulics levered it away adding to the cacophony of sound which filled the canyon. Jesse's car door having been heaved off by a couple of the firemen, the piston rod had been placed between the mangled dashboard and the doorframe, whereupon the pumping action was commenced. The young man was oblivious to the battle to free him, his head resting against Steve's strong shoulder, the detective having positioned himself next to his friend as instructed by his father. Mark had wanted him in position to support Jesse - whose neck was encased within a brace - in order to keep as much pressure as possible off his back. They still had no idea what kind of damage had been inflicted on his spinal column and until they could get a backboard in place, Mark needed him kept immobile
"You're gonna be okay, now, Jess," crooned Steve, even though he knew the younger man couldn't hear him. "We'll have you out of here soon. I promise. You're gonna be fine. You hear me? You're gonna be just fine."

Mark registered Steve's words as he monitored Jesse's condition, helping to supervise the efforts to free him. The young man's heartbeat was erratic and his breathing - even with the aid of the oxygen mask - was growing more and more laboured, his chest rattling worryingly each time he inhaled.
He knew that there was nothing more he could do to help his friend until they got him to Community General, where they had the means to stabilise and treat him more thoroughly. But he was also well aware that death could occur at any time. They could do everything possible for him - he might even make it through surgery - yet he still might die. Multiple organ failure - especially after such a lengthy period - was not only a distinct possibility, it was practically guaranteed.
A whirring noise directed his attention to the limb stuck in Jesse's side. One of the firemen was holding it steady whilst another was using a saw to shear through it at a point just above the entry point. Despite the caution they were showing, however, blood welled at the site and Mark cursed under his breath, shooting an alarmed glance toward Jesse's face.
His friend looked impossibly young beneath the ghostly pallor but he showed no signs of discomfort. Mark wasn't sure whether to be worried or comforted by this. It meant that Jesse was so deeply unconscious now that he could no longer feel pain.
This was definitely a bad sign.
Steve raised his head and their eyes met over the insensible form, their silent, anguished exchange expressing more eloquently than words ever could their shared fear that all of this effort may yet be in vain.
Then Jesse was free and the bulk of the wood lodged in his side removed. A backboard was slid beneath him and he was swiftly strapped to it before being carefully transferred to a stretcher and carried to the waiting helicopter.
Steve held the IV aloft as they sprinted the short distance, before reluctantly relinquishing it to his father as Mark climbed in beside his patient.
"Dad … " His voice was barely audible over the 'whop, whop, whop' of the blades as the rescue craft began to lift off but somehow, Mark heard him, their gazes locking for a long moment before the doors closed and he stepped back as the downwind from the rotors almost swept him away.
Even as the chopper disappeared from view, the detective couldn't help but wonder if that was the last time he was ever going to see Jesse alive.

Amanda yawned as she stepped into the doctors lounge. It had been a strenuous two days. Whilst she could think of nothing that compared with being a parent, being the parent of a highly energetic and garrulous three-year old was exhausting - particularly when that three-year old had been having the time of his life at Disneyland.
It was a trip she had been promising CJ for months - the last opportunity having been marred by a sudden and quite virulent infection which he had unexpectedly picked up. They had spent the entire day there, her over-active son bouncing along beside her, utterly ecstatic at meeting Mickey and Minnie, Pluto and Snow White. He had dragged her onto every ride on which a three-year old was allowed and they had eaten so much ice cream and candyfloss that at one point, she had been in danger of throwing up.
Watching CJ - his little face lit up with joy and enthusiasm radiating from every pore, she had had to smother a giggle. The sheer gusto with which he threw himself into life was so reminiscent of someone else she knew - even though that someone else was - reputedly - a grownup.
Idly, she had wondered what the trip would have been like had Jesse been able to accompany them then had felt thankful that he had not. Much as she loved him, her young friend was like an overgrown kid at the best of times - the only exception being when he was doing his job, to which he was utterly dedicated. It was hard enough having to cope with a lively three-year old. The extra pressure of having a full grown kid with enough zeal for three people would have driven her insane.
She had treated CJ to an overnight stay at the nearby hotel and they had arrived back home only two hours before. Now her mom was babysitting whilst she called in at work to finish up some documentation that was needed for the next day.
Humming quietly to herself, she turned on the lamp next to the couch and retrieved the first file from the large stack she had carried up from her lab. Having been on her feet all day for practically two days she yearned for the comfort of something soft to sit on and the chair in her office didn't offer that luxury.
She was just becoming immersed in it when a commotion from beyond the confines of the room caught her attention and she wandered to the door.
"Caucasian male, twenty-eight, impalement to the left lower quadrant, multiple lacerations, decreased breath sounds on the right. BP 80 over 60, pulse 40, GCS 6," came the announcement from the paramedic who was running alongside a gurney that was being wheeled into the ER. Amanda stood transfixed for a moment as she recognised Mark in the melee of people surrounding the victim and then her eyes widened in utter shock as they fell on the still figure itself.
"Jesse?"
Mark spared a glance in her direction and she flinched at the anguish in his pale blue eyes. "Amanda …" He got no further as the team surrounding the gurney rushed into the nearest trauma room, the pathologist swaying dizzily for a moment as she tried to process what she had seen before forcing her reluctant feet to carry her forward.
There was a hive of activity around Jesse when she reached the door of the trauma room. Mark was issuing commands in a no-nonsense tone of voice as two of the nurses started to cut the ripped, blood-stained clothes from the immobile form.
"I want CBC's, electrolytes, BUN, creatinine, ABG, PT and aPTT."
"We're gonna need an aortography and a TEE," chipped in the doctor assisting him.
"And a chest scan and CT!" yelled someone else.
"He's had 20% Mannitol administered at 25m and an IV line of normal saline with 50 mcg /L of sodium bicarbonate infused at a rate of 1.5 liters an hour was placed at the scene."
The assisting doctor nodded as Mark imparted this information, watching as the nurses removed the last of Jesse's clothing and attached a Foley catheter. "Can we get an NSG placed, too?" he demanded. "How's his perfusion?" he went on, turning to Mark.
"Surprisingly good," replied the older man, although his expression was grim as they performed a full examination of the young man. "Let's roll him to check his back, but be careful. We don't want to dislodge that thing."
The other man nodded, eyeing the branch with muted horror.
Amanda could only watch, speechless with dismay, as the assessment was carried out, barely able to believe that the person at the centre of all this commotion was the young doctor with whom she had been laughing barely 48 hours before.
The pale, still figure on the gurney bore little resemblance to her animated friend, with his infectious grin and bright blue eyes. The diminutive frame was disfigured by ugly, purple bruises and ominous smears of dried gore.
Jesse looked like death - his waxen, almost translucent complexion offset by the twin spots of red on the high cheekbones and the dark shadows surrounding his shuttered eyes. There was surprisingly little fresh blood at the site of the hideous impalement but she could only imagine the damage that the object had done on its path through his body. She clenched her hands, trying desperately to quell the nausea that roiled in her gut as Jesse was probed and poked, more lines were inserted and the oxygen mask was removed.

"I'm going to intubate him." Mark's announcement seemed to be a further indictment of Jesse's dire condition "Dammit," he went on, edgily, "I can't find an airway."
"You want me to try?" offered the other doctor, pausing in his own efforts to glance up at the older man who had stepped to the head of the gurney and was now attempting to insert the instrument into Jesse's throat.
Mark shook his head. "No. It's all right. I think I've … yes, got it! All right, is someone monitoring his compartmental pressure?"
"We've got it," replied the other man. "My god. How the hell did that thing get stuck in him?"
The older doctor compressed his lips. "I hardly think that matters now," he snapped. "Let's just get him up to OR so we can get it out of him."

Amanda was forced to step back as the medical team, with Mark in the lead and the insensible Jesse in their midst, hurried by her. Another look passed between the young pathologist and the Head of Internal medicine before they entered the elevator that had been summoned and the doors closed behind them.
Her attention was still riveted in that direction when she heard her name being yelled from across the hallway and she half-turned, barely having the opportunity to reach out and prevent the person responsible from cannoning into her.
"Susan!" she exclaimed, snapping out of her stasis long enough to recognise the blonde nurse.
"Jesse! Where is he? Amanda - I have to find him!"
The younger woman was practically hysterical. Tears were streaming down her pale face and Amanda could feel the infinitesimal tremors coursing through her slender form as she held on to her.
"They've taken him to the OR," the pathologist said, striving for a composure she didn't feel. "Mark's with him," she added as an afterthought, hoping that fact alone might ease some of the anguish they were both feeling. It didn't.
"I was so mad with him!" Susan ignored the attempt at reassurance, immersed in her feelings of guilt and grief. "I've virtually ignored him for days and I knew, deep down, that he wouldn't ever do such a horrible thing to me. I don't know what I'm going to do, Amanda! He mustn't die! He can't!"
The pathologist swallowed hard, trying to tamp down her own emotions - but the image of her friend, his diminutive frame marred with multi-hued contusions, smeared with his own blood and, worst of all, skewered with the thin branch persisted, taunting her. She knew it was not something she would ever easily forget, coupled with the expression in Mark's eyes - an expression that had told her more than she had wanted to know.
"He's not going to die." She felt no regret for the bald statement. Maybe if she kept on saying it, it would prove to be true. "But we can't do anything for him for now. Why don't we go to the doctor's lounge and sit down?"
Susan shook her head, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her tear-stained face. "No," she murmured. Her hands clutched at the front of Amanda's blouse, fingers clenching convulsively as her breathing started to become erratic. "No, I …"
"Susan!" Amanda gave her a forceful shake, realising that the nurse was about to hyperventilate and desperate to prevent it. "Susan, it's all right! He's going to be fine! I promise!"
The words seemed to take an age to penetrate but eventually, Susan's laboured wheezing settled down into something approximating normal breathing and she hung her head, embarrassment flooding colour back into her face. "I … I'm sorry." The words were barely audible and were accompanied by a hiccup. "I … it's just that … Jesse .. he … I … "
"Ssshhh," Amanda soothed her, drawing the young woman into a hug, resting her cheek against the dishevelled blonde mane. "Ssshh, it's going to be all right. It's going to be just fine."

Their departure to the doctor's lounge was thwarted by another arrival. Bursting through the ER doors like the hounds of hell were on his heels, Steve Sloan's eyes held a wild, frightened look that seared Amanda's heart.
"Amanda!"
"Steve … "
"Amanda, where are they? I had to stay behind when dad went in the chopper. I got here as fast as I could. Where - they did get here, didn't they? You do know what I'm talking about?"
His gaze was darting frantically around the ER as he reached her, gripping her shoulders so fiercely that sudden, involuntary tears of pain were brought to her eyes.
"Steve … Steve!"
At first she didn't think she had succeeded in garnering his attention but then he seemed to shake himself out of his single-minded objective to ascertain one friend's condition long enough to realise that he was physically hurting another. "Oh! God, I'm sorry, Amanda. I didn't think. I - are you all right?" he demanded as he loosened his hold on her, mortified by his selfish behaviour.
"I'm fine," she assured him. "Your father is with Jesse. They took him to OR a few minutes ago. I was just telling Susan …"
"Susan?" He stared at her in sheer incomprehension for a long moment before his gaze travelled toward the other woman and he swore softly. "Damn! Susan, I'm sorry. I never thought … Dad and I needed to get to Jesse and we couldn't wait. Are you okay?"
Amanda frowned. There was a lot of information she was missing here - such as how had Susan known that Jesse was here in the first place and what did Steve mean? Maybe she could use the next few hours whilst their friend was in surgery to find out. "Steve, we were on our way to the doctors' lounge when you arrived," she told him, as Susan lifted her head from the pathologist's shoulder to regard the detective with an expression of misery mingled with accusation.
"Yeah." The cop ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Okay. I could use a coffee. Let's go."

The hours passed slowly as Steve narrated the story of their desperate search to find Jesse, their discovery of the brake lining fluid where his car had been parked and the eventual call from Tanis, informing them of his whereabouts. The pathologist had to strive to suppress her rage when she heard of how they had found him, trapped and bleeding, suffering from exposure and infection from the terrible wound in his side.
Try as she might, she still couldn't rid herself of the image of him in the trauma room. He had looked so ghastly and his total lack of response to the calling of his name by the doctors in charge had been truly frightening. Jesse never seemed to stop talking - it was an endearing habit which could sometimes, conversely, be quite irritating. He was an inveterate and incessant babbler - especially when he was excited or scared. His utter silence had been just one more indicator of how sick he really was.
Steve had posited the theory that the person responsible for the disruption at the hospital had also been the person who had cut Jesse's car's brakes. The Mustang was now in the hands of the police forensics team who would be going over it in a search for prints or any evidence to lead them to the identity of that person. The detective didn't, however, voice his private doubts that they would find anything. Whoever was guilty of this had so far managed to elude detection. They weren't about to slip up now.

The first wisps of dawn were beginning to filter through the blinds, banishing the shadows from the room when the door opened and Mark stepped in.
Three people instantly shot to their feet as he entered, their instant barrage of questions not even allowing him the luxury of taking a seat.
"Mark, how is he?"
"Doctor Sloan … Jesse ..?"
"Dad ..?"
Waving off their anxious enquiries with one hand, he stumbled across to a couch and sank into it, scrubbing his fingers over eyes gritty with the lack of sleep.
"He made it through surgery," was his opening statement.
A gasp came from somewhere to his right and he dropped his hand, focusing blearily in that direction. Belatedly, he realised that Susan was one of the people waiting for his prognosis and he felt a wave of guilt rushed though him. He and Steve had been so intent on getting to Jesse once Tanis had called that they hadn't given a thought to the young woman. They had simply left her behind at Jesse's apartment. She must have been going through hell whilst they were at the rescue site. At least they had been with Jesse, had known what was going on. For all she knew, he could have been dead.
"Susan, I …"
"Is he going to live?"
Her question was voiced in a strangled sob. She was only just managing to hold it together and her control was tenuous at best. Amanda had wound a supportive arm around her shoulder and it looked like that was the only thing that was keeping the young blonde upright. Not that the pathologist looked much better. Although she had obviously steeled herself to hear the worst, her eyes betrayed her fear at what he was about to say.
"He was damned lucky," he found himself saying, dropping his eyes again to focus inward, recalling the gruelling hours of surgery and how difficult it had been to forget that he was being forced to dig into the mutilated flesh of someone he fondly considered a surrogate son. "The branch missed any vital organs. There was still substantial internal bleeding, though. Once we removed it we had difficulty getting that under control. The site of the impalement was heavily contaminated. We debrided the worst of it and we've got him on broad spectrum antibiotics to combat the infection."
"So he's going to be all right?"
Mark glanced toward his son. It had been more of a statement than a question. Steve tended toward selective hearing when being given the prognosis of a loved one's condition. He had done the same thing years before when informed his mother had cancer. Despite all of the implications of the disease, he had been optimistic about her chances of recovery and had refused to listen to anything approximating negativity about her eventual fate. Clinging onto that belief had done him no favours when she had eventually died and it would not serve him well now.
"I didn't say that," the doctor said, gravely.
"He's not going to be all right?" Susan seemed to wilt in Amanda's arms and Mark sprung to the young pathologist's aid as she lowered the young nurse onto the opposite couch. Her face had lost every scrap of colour and she was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"He's been through a lot," Mark said, softly, seating himself next to her, peripherally aware of Steve and Amanda hovering nearby, anxiety radiating from them. "But there are any number of things that can go wrong, even now. You know that."
She nodded, wordlessly, mindlessly wringing her hands in the material of the loose sweater she had donned in her race to join Mark and Steve at Jesse's apartment.
"Are you saying he could die?"
Mark winced at the accusatory tone of Steve's voice, helpless to prevent the overpowering feeling of failure that swept over him. He had tried, goddammit, he had tried so hard. But Jesse had been out there for over 24 hours, bleeding internally, in shock, fighting the infection that had been generated by the blasted thing that had pierced his flesh and by the time they had reached him, he had all but succumbed. He was still dangerously weak and despite the surgical repair, any number of complications could ensue, from renewed internal bleeding to sepsis or even pneumonia. How could he offer these people - Jesse's friends - anything less than the truth?
Yet the truth was something even he did not want to acknowledge.
Despite everything they had done, they might still lose Jesse.
"Steve … "
"No, dad. Answer me. Is he gonna die?"
The older Sloan slowly rose to his feet, facing his increasingly agitated offspring. He schooled his expression into one of compassion as he met Steve's searching gaze and the cop recoiled from the look.
"Steve, he's still alive. Let's focus on that for now, shall we? I can't lie to you and tell you that everything is going to be all right - not when there are so many uncertainties. But he's still with us. He's in recovery now and once he's been transferred to ICU you can go and see him."
"I thought .. I thought …" Steve couldn't finish what he was about to say. Despite the way things had looked at the crash scene; despite the trauma that Jesse's body had gone through, despite all the odds stacked against him, the detective had never truly contemplated anything other than his young friend's full recovery. Whilst Jesse was small of stature, he had a big heart and a strength of spirit that had carried him through everything life had thrown at him - from numerous concussions - some more serious than others - to a smallpox infection. There was simply no way that he would give up or give in. He was a fighter and that was what would save him.
Which was why he couldn't accept what his father was telling them. It was inconceivable that Jesse would simply allow himself to surrender to his injuries. Hadn't the fact that he had still been alive, albeit in a bad way and only semi-conscious when they had arrived there proved otherwise?
"He's not gonna die," he managed, finally, his voice rough from the emotions he was struggling to suppress. "He's gonna be fine. You know him, dad. He wouldn't just give up."
Mark sighed heavily, closing his eyes momentarily as he laid a supportive hand on his son's shoulder. He could feel the tension running through the younger man. He was strung so tight that Mark feared one wrong word would snap him in two. "Steve, it's not a question of Jesse giving up. Of course he's strong and determined but his body has been through a lot. I'm just trying to prepare you - all of you - for the worst."
"Well, don't, okay?" Steve shrugged off his father's hand, stepping backward, opening up a chasm between them that was more than physical. "I don't wanna hear it."
Before Mark could say anything else, or try to breach the gulf that had been created, Steve spun on his heel and marched out of the door, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
"Mark …"
The older man raised a hand, stilling whatever Amanda was about to say. Steve's harsh words and abrupt departure had almost torn his heart out. He knew they were both on edge from the hours of searching, the rescue and the time that had passed whilst he operated on their young friend and Steve waited for news. He also knew, deep down, that he wasn't the target of his son's frustration and fury - that designation belonged to whoever had caused the accident in the first place. But still …
"Mark, he didn't mean it."
Amanda's gentle statement was a balm to his aching soul, but it didn't completely heal the wound that had opened up there. He nodded, wearily, unable to put his feelings into words and unable to face the compassion he knew he would find in her eyes if he turned around.
"I'm… er … I'm … just going to check on Jesse."
He hated the tremor that he heard in his voice but couldn't do anything to prevent it. Then, without waiting for her response, and forcing his feet to move, he started toward the door.
"You'll … let us know when we can see him?"
"Yes," he replied. "I'll let you know."

Steve had made it as far as the elevator before the full import of what had just happened crashed in on him. Guilt-ridden at the way he had treated his father - lashing out because of his inability to accept the older man's prognosis of Jesse's condition - he let out a muttered curse before slamming his fist into the wall in front of him.
"I think it's learned its lesson," came the bemused voice from beside him. "It'll never do it again … whatever it was it did in the first place."
Mortified at being caught venting his fury and frustration, Steve whirled to face the speaker, coming face to face with a man as tall as himself, with dark hair falling across laughing hazel eyes. "I … uh … " he stuttered.
"My name's Richard Greene," said the other man, extending his hand with a grin. "And you're Steve Sloan."
Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously even as he shook the other man's hand. "How do you know my name?" he demanded.
Greene raised his eyebrows. "You're famous, detective. I've seen you on the news. That last case of yours?" he clarified as Steve shook his head in utter bewilderment. "The Horsefield murder. You made quite a name for yourself on that one. Good work."
Recalling that his father had actually put together the pieces of that particular puzzle only served to deepen the detective's shame at the way he had treated the older man. "I had a little help," he admitted, with a rueful smile.
"Well, congratulations, anyway. And I hope they put that bastard away for a long time to come."
'Amen to that' thought Steve. The Horsefield case had been a particularly gruesome one. The man had killed his wife then disposed of her remains by dismembering her and wrapping the individual limbs, torso and head in trash liners before throwing them into the LA river.
He had tried his utmost to convince everyone that he had been a loving husband and that someone else had committed the murder, but a vital piece of forensic evidence and an incredible leap of deduction from Mark had proved him to be a liar as well as a murderer. The case had become so public because Mrs Horsefield had been a wealthy heiress, her father the CEO of a large and important hotel chain. Horsefield had killed her in order to get his hands on her money so he could continue his lavish lifestyle unencumbered by the woman who had her hands on his pursestrings. He would now, hopefully, be restricted to life in a small cell, with only other murderers for company instead of the jetsetting group with which he had surrounded himself.
"He deserves everything he gets," said Steve. "No-one should die like his wife did."
"Speaking of dying … " Greene cleared his throat. "I'm here to look for someone."
"Oh? Who?"
The other man looked slightly uncomfortable. "Well, that's just it. I'm not sure. I'm not even sure he's here or if he's even alive."
Steve's interest was now piqued, despite his overwhelming exhaustion and the raging turmoil of emotions that he was having difficulty suppressing. "Care to explain that?"
Greene shrugged good -naturedly. "I was out this afternoon when I spotted a car at the bottom of a ravine. I reported it, but I couldn't land there. I'm trying to find out if the guy I saw survived."
The detective's eyes widened. "You're the one who called in Jesse's whereabouts? Then we owe you a debt of gratitude."
"Jesse?" The pilot echoed. "You know him?"
Steve nodded slowly. "He's my … our friend. He went missing yesterday. If you hadn't found him when you did …" he let the words trail off. Jesse had been saved, sure. But his continued survival was far from guaranteed. The cop clenched his fists, struggling with his feelings of grief over the impending loss.
"How's he doing?" The gentle query brought him back with a jolt but remained unanswered for a long moment before he managed to dredge up a smile he was far from feeling.
"He came through surgery." The words were his father's and produced a fresh wave of regret over the way he had treated the older man. "He's in the ICU. They're … they're not sure he's gonna make it."
Disappointment swept over the other man's face. "I'm sorry." It sounded so inadequate.
"Yeah." Steve shrugged helplessly. He felt so impotent. Jesse still might die and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to prevent it. If only they're realised sooner that he was missing. If only they'd been able to find him before his brakes gave out. If only. The world was full of 'if only's'. He was to blame for all of this. If he had found the perpetrator of the pranks before they had turned so deadly then his best friend would not be lying in the ICU, hovering on the verge of death and he wouldn't have hurt his father with harsh words borne of exhaustion and self-reproach. He had failed them both.
"I'd … I'd better go."
Greene's soft voice forced him back to the here and now. He nodded. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for all you did."
The other man looked slightly discomfited. "Look, it was nothing. I just made a call. I wish I'd been able to do more."
More.
Suddenly the miasma in Steve's mind cleared and he started thinking like a cop again. He stared at the pilot - the intense look eliciting a frown on Greene's face. "What?"
"You saw the car," said Steve, tonelessly.
"Yeah. It was near the bottom of the ravine. If it hadn't hit that tree … " He shuddered. He didn't even want to contemplate what would have happened to the other man's friend if the tree had not been there. The victim had been damned lucky that the engine hadn't exploded.
"Did you see anything else? Anyone around? Anything at all?"
Greene frowned. "Why?"
"Because it wasn't an accident," Steve explained. "Someone cut the brakes on Jesse's car."
"You're kidding!" The pilot sounded scandalised. "Someone deliberately tried to kill him? Why?"
"Well, that's the million dollar question," said the detective in a clipped tone.
"My god. No wonder you were so steamed."
Steve allowed himself a small smile at that. Then, "So - do you remember seeing anyone else there? Any other vehicle? Anything at all?"
Greene's brow furrowed in thought for several moments. "You know, I did see a car up on the road," he said, slowly, as he went back over his memories of that afternoon. "I wasn't paying much attention at the time because of the wreck. I mean … "
"Yeah, I know." Steve cut off his apology before he could voice it, envisioning once again the scene that had confronted him and his father when they had arrived there. It had been the embodiment of his worst nightmare and it would haunt him for a long time to come. "Go on."
"I didn't see it clearly and as I flew over, it drove away. Now I think about it, that was strange. It's almost like whoever was in the car was waiting for something."
"Waiting for Jesse to die," Steve muttered, bleakly. "Yeah, that makes a sick kind of sense."
"Why would anyone do something like that? I mean - that's sadistic."
"I know." The cop felt sick with fury at the knowledge that the perpetrator had actually watched Jesse suffer - had probably enjoyed it. If he ever got his hands on the sorry son of a bitch …
"Hey, you okay?"
He was dragged out of his murderous thoughts by the anxious query and nodded, wearily, running a shaky hand through already dishevelled hair. "Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, I'm fine. Look, do you remember what kind of vehicle it was? The colour? The make? Anything? Anything that might give us something to go on?"
Greene shook his head regretfully. "Other than the fact that it was white, no. I didn't get the plate or anything - it was too far away anyway and I was too concerned radioing in the news about your friend. I'm sorry. I wish I could be more help."
"No, that's okay." Steve tried hard to quell the wave of disappointment that flooded through him. He had been pinning all his hopes on the chance that the pilot would be able to supply him with enough information for them to start to track down whoever had made the attempt on Jesse's life. Now he realised how hopelessly optimistic those hopes had been. "You saved Jesse's life," he went on. "If you hadn't been there … " he left the rest of the sentence unfinished as a shudder ran through him. Had Richard Greene not been flying over the ravine at that moment, then the consequences would have been even more dire. Jesse would have died - alone and in terrible pain. They might never have found him or, if they did, it would have been far, far too late. He should be thankful for small mercies, he knew.
Trouble was, it was difficult to feel any gratitude when his best friend was lying in the ICU, fighting for his life - facing an uphill battle that he still might lose.
"Look, I should go." Richard Greene's voice, filled with sympathy, reached him through the heartache that was threatening to consume him. "But I'll give you my number. I'm in town a few more days on leave. If you need anything - well, just call me, okay?"
Steve nodded. It was about all he had the energy to do. He felt completely sapped of strength and just wanted to go and lie down somewhere. But he couldn't. he had two important things to do.
One was to find the would-be killer.
The other was to apologise to his father.

Mark, Susan and Amanda were no longer in the doctor's lounge by the time he got back there. In fact, the room was utterly deserted - only the three mugs of rapidly cooling coffee sitting forlornly on the table giving any indication of anyone's presence there within the last few hours.
Trying valiantly to stifle the gut-wrenching fear that this scenario induced, Steve hurried down the corridor in search of anyone who had seen his father and his friend - his feet automatically taking him in the direction of the ICU unit.
He uttered a huge sigh of relief when he arrived there to be informed by the nurse on duty that Mark and Amanda had arrived not a few moments before him and were currently with Dr Travis. But his gut twisted when he asked how Jesse was only to have the pretty young woman avert her gaze.
"He coded a few minutes ago," she told him, sadly. "They only just managed to get him back. That's why Dr Sloan was paged."
The room swam sickeningly around him for a few seconds whilst he tried to digest this information. His mouth went dry and he couldn't voice the next question. It seemed he didn't have to.
"They got him back," she reiterated. "But he's in critical condition. Dr Sloan isn't sure whether he can survive the night."
Was that a tear he saw glistening on her cheek? He became fascinated by the sight as his mind refused to accept what she was telling him. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but here. The desire to flee became overwhelming but his legs refused to move from the spot. It was as though he was rooted in place and he wondered idly if he was going to be frozen in the same position forever and whether the nursing staff would have to continue their work around him.
He tried to smile at the young nurse, thank her for imparting the news, but he couldn't seem to formulate the words and his mouth seemed totally unwilling to co-operate with the messages his brain was sending to it.
He didn't know how long he had been standing there, simply staring at her when she glanced up and her brow creased in a worried frown.
"Are you all right, sir?"
'All right'. Now, there was a question. It wasn't one he could answer because he wasn't sure how to. He felt disconnected from reality, his emotions raging out of control but muted by shock.
"I … "
"Steve?"
His father's voice permeated the fog that had descended and he whirled around to face the older man. A myriad of thoughts tumbled into his mind, all vying for the right to be voiced, but only one emerged.
"Dad? I'm sorry."
His voice didn't sound quite normal. Higher-pitched than usual and shaky. He couldn't understand it.
The older man's worried expression dissolved into a tired, but warm smile. "Steve, it's all right. I didn't …"
"Is it true?" Steve blurted out. "Jesse …"
"He arrested a few minutes ago," Mark confirmed bleakly, the smile fading as the weight of the last few moments returned to rest squarely on his shoulders. He had been on his way back to the ICU when his pager had gone off and he had broken all speed records once he had read the message. "We got him back, but it was a close thing. I'm sorry, son, he's not doing so well. All we can do now is pray."
"But .. "
"There's nothing more we can do," came the firm interjection, forestalling the anticipated protest. "It's up to Jesse now."
"He can't just die." The detective wondered if he said it enough it would make it true.
"Steve … "
"No. No, I'm sorry. I know you're doing the best you can. It's just … hard, you know?"
"I do know."
Steve looked at his father and was shocked by his appearance. The older man looked haggard and grey, new lines of strain having etched themselves into his face. Mark Sloan had always seemed much younger than his years - mainly because of his vigour and the enthusiasm for life that he had retained despite all that it had thrown at him. Now he seemed to have aged twenty years in just a few short hours. He swayed slightly and, shocked and dismayed, Steve reached out a steadying hand. "Dad?"
"I'm all right, Steve." The words were intended to be reassuring. Unfortunately, the weary, doom-laden tone in which they were uttered was not. "It's just been a long day and the surgery was hard - on everyone."
"Why don't you sit down?"
Steve led his father over to the row of hard-backed chairs that lined one wall, easily forcing him down into one of them despite the token protest from the other man. As he cast an appraising eye over the slumped figure, one of the senior nurses - a large, plump woman with a pleasant face - approached them holding out a glass of water.
"Here. I think he could use this."
"Thanks," said Steve, taking it from her. "Dad?"
"I'm all right, Steve."
"Yeah, so you keep saying." The cop was trying his best to suppress his anxiety, but it was tough. His dad was so resilient, so strong. It physically hurt to see him looking so jaded and … old. "Here, drink this. Maybe it'll help."
Mark's hands shook as they took the glass that Steve proffered to him, but he refused the assistance that he knew would be forthcoming by the simple expedient of levelling a look that said, quite clearly 'back off'. A brief smile tempered the harshness of the command but Steve nevertheless obeyed, then watched as the older man slowly drained the glass.
"Perhaps I'm getting too old for this."
Mark's words, delivered in a world-weary voice, shocked the detective to his core. This declaration was definitely something he had never expected to hear from his father. "No, you're not!" he protested, fiercely. "You're just exhausted, dad. It's been a long day."
"I don't know, Steve." Mark re-directed his gaze - which had been focused on the wall in front of them - back to his son and Steve winced. Although the few moments of respite seemed to have helped a little - at least Mark was no longer trembling so badly - nothing, it seemed, could ease the pain in the pale blue eyes. "I thought I could deal with it. I managed to convince myself that once we got into the OR, I could put my personal feelings aside. Jesse was my patient - nothing more, nothing less."
"But you couldn't?" enquired Steve, softly.
The doctor shook his head, swallowing hard. "It may as well have been you on that table," he confessed, brokenly. "And now I'm not sure whether I gave him my best. I was too emotionally involved, Steve. That's the worst thing for a surgeon to be. I should have stepped back and allowed someone else to take over. I didn't have to do it. Now my selfishness may lead to Jesse's death."
"There's no-one better than you at what you do," declared the cop, loyally.
A sad smile quirked up the corners of Mark's mouth. "Yes, there is. Jesse is actually a quite brilliant surgeon."
"And he was the one who needed surgery," Steve pointed out, stubborn to the last. "He could hardly operate on himself."
"That's true, but I shouldn't have done it, either. I was too close to the situation. I couldn't perform at my best. I couldn't disassociate myself from him, couldn't make the balanced judgements necessary in life or death surgery."
"But you saved him! I don't believe anyone else could have done more!"
Mark shook his head, misery suffusing his tired features. "I'm not sure I did. I may have prolonged his life but … I certainly wouldn't have allowed another surgeon with so much at stake personally to operate in that situation. It was wrong and I probably made mistakes in there that I wouldn't normally have made."
Steve was appalled by what he was hearing. "No!" he exclaimed, ferociously. "No, you didn't make any mistakes. You're just tired. That's why you're beating yourself up over this. You have to believe you did everything you could and then some. I do."
The older man drew a shuddering breath. Steve's passionate belief in him was a balm on his troubled soul, but it didn't negate the fact that what he had done had put his patient's life at risk. He would never forgive himself if his young friend died now. He would always question whether it was because of something he had done - or hadn't done because he hadn't been able to stand back and be detached as any good surgeon would.
"Dad, Jesse's gonna be just fine."
The conviction in Steve's voice was almost sufficient to make Mark believe him - almost. But the younger man hadn't seen his friend since the crash site and he hadn't been in the OR, struggling to keep him alive despite the tremendous odds. That alone was enough to drain the hope from anyone. And then his sudden arrest a few moments before … Mark had arrived in the ICU to find the duty doctor and nurses desperately fighting to bring Jesse back. The whine of the defibrillator had reverberated deafeningly around the comparative hush of the unit whilst voices issuing urgent orders had acted as a counterpoint to the strident sound.
He hadn't even had the time to think but had just waded straight in, demanding to know how long Jesse had been down, what steps they had taken and then had taken over.
Three times they had slammed the paddles down on the immobile chest, three times the shock had jerked Jesse's body upwards from the bed, before it flopped back down again like a puppet with its strings severed. Mark remembered ordering an ampule of epiphenedrine, which he had then snatched from the nurse who had offered it to him. Plunging the hypodermic into the bruised skin over the stilled heart, he had unloaded its contents, praying to every god he could think of and silently begging his young friend to come back.
A few seconds which had seemed more like an eternity had passed before there was a blip on the monitor, followed swiftly by another then another. "We've got a sinus rhythm!" someone had announced and a wave of profound relief had swept the room. Of course, whilst this group of medical personnel cared deeply about and did their utmost to save every life, this particular patient was special. Jesse was a colleague and a friend. More, he was someone admired and well-liked. More than one of the small group had shed a tear of gratitude, although their emotional response had been quickly quenched as they sought to make sure that their patient continued to survive.
Re-living it now, he could only thank providence or whatever force had been present at that time for returning Jesse to them - and pray once more that the young doctor would find the strength to live.
"Jesse's gonna be fine."
The words resounded in his head in a never-ending cycle.
He just wished he could bring himself to believe that they were true.

Steve had been to the ICU unit several times during his life.
Mostly, he had been a visitor, in the course of his job, to interrogate a criminal, seriously injured when they had been trying to escape, or to interview a victim.
On one occasion he had actually been the patient.
His memories of that time were, thankfully, hazy at best, although he could recall fleeting images : his father's worried face, Amanda's tears and the gentle smile Jesse had bestowed on him when he had finally woken up and decided to live.
But nothing could have prepared him for the horror of what awaited him when he entered the unit to which he had, until now, felt such indifference.
As his father pushed open the door, he found his feet frozen to the floor, unable to breathe as he struggled to face the enormity of what lay beyond the threshold.
His best friend.
He was aware of every sound.
The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator.
The regular chiming of the equipment surrounding the bed.
The pounding of his blood in his skull.
His own ragged breathing as his suddenly clouded vision cleared and he stared at the occupant of the bed.
Jesse looked small and lost and helpless amidst all the medical paraphernalia which was helping to maintain his life. The wires from the heart monitor and the lines carrying saline and medication into his battered body snaked over his shoulder, whilst the tube helping him to breathe distorted the side of his mouth.
He looked - to all intents and purposes - dead.
Only the faint movement of his chest as it rose up and down and the lines running across the monitor, signalling his somewhat erratic heartbeat and pulse testified that he was still alive.
Alive - but could anyone actually call this 'living'?
Steve continued to stare, trying hard to reconcile the frail and vulnerable form with the young man who was so full of life and light.
This wasn't Jesse. It couldn't be.
Yet his eyes told him the unmistakable truth.
This was indeed his friend, his partner at BBQ Bob's - irrepressible, enthusiastic, energetic. This was what he had been reduced to.
Steve wanted to hit something - or someone.
Preferably the person who had done this to Jesse.
"Steve?"
His father's gentle intrusion into his private emotional turmoil was a welcome one. He turned to the other man and nodded. "I'm okay," he said, in a hoarse voice that didn't seem to belong to him.
A few minutes earlier he had been trying to bolster his dad's spirit. All those platitudes he had used now seemed hollow and meaningless.
This was reality.
This pale, lifeless figure. The animated face so lax and still, the bruising from the crash starkly evident against the ghost-white skin of his chest, the pallor accentuated by the pristine bandage wrapped around his torso.
He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away, even though he suddenly, desperately wanted to be anywhere but here.
Conversations floated into his mind.
"What am I going to do?"
"What are you going to do? You're going to treat him, examine him, comfort him. And most of all - don't hurt him."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oh, the law. Very complex. I forget. Well, what if someone, a doctor, maybe, did … that …"
"Then the cop might kill him."

"You left me …"

The accusation rang truer now than it had then.
He still hadn't managed to forgive himself for storming out of the cabin where he and Jesse had gone to spend a weekend fishing after discovering that his friend had brought only lite beer. Returning to find the door wide open, the cabin in disarray and no sign of the young doctor had been an distressing experience - and the ensuing days of futile searching had been harrowing. Only when Jesse had finally been found - badly dehydrated and sporting mysterious abrasions and contusions which he hadn't been able to explain - had Steve's world righted itself again. Then had come that damning phrase, that, he had discovered later, Jesse had no memory of uttering.
'You left me'.
And if he hadn't, then his young friend wouldn't have been kidnapped, drugged and subjected to the terrifying ordeal which had continued even on his arrival back home. The drugs which they had pumped into him had caused horrific hallucinations and a paranoia so deep that he had started to mistrust even his closest friends. Had it not been for Mark Sloan's belief in him and his incredible deductive skills, they may have lost him forever.
But that had been then.
And this was now.
He hadn't exactly 'left' Jesse on this occasion, but he couldn't help feeling that he had failed him somehow.
He should have anticipated that something bad would happen and he should have stopped it.
Seeing his friend propped up in the ICU bed, struggling for every breath, re-ignited all those feelings of self-reproach that he had struggled so hard to suppress when he had been attempting to comfort his dad.
His hands clenched into fists at his side, he fought for some semblance of control, unaware that his eyes blazed with fury and his face showed his anguish.
"Steve?"
"Yeah …I … look, dad, I can't … I've got to … I should call forensics, see if they've come up with anything."
So saying and without waiting for a response from the older man, he turned on his heel and bolted from the room.

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