Friendly Fire part two

It was happening again. Terry Michaels, Sergeant in the 91st airborne, felt an odd sense of deja vue as he surveyed the scene in front of him. The Iraqi who'd tried to escape, killing one of his own unit in the process, was now slumped against the wall of the outbuilding, his blood staining the cold stone. His life was slowly ebbing away and Michaels felt nausea rise within him at the sight. He had truly believed he had been prepared for this. He was a soldier, after all. Soldiers were trained in armed combat. They were trained to kill. Yet it was the first time he had seen bullets penetrate another living being's flesh and the sound and sight had sickened him even as instinct guided his fingers on the trigger. The coppery smell, combined with the overpowering stench of sweat and the aroma of the cordite from his weapon was making him feel light-headed, yet he knew that he had to ignore that particular weakness. He had to tear his eyes away from the dying man - felled by his weapon - and concentrate on the living. And what a bunch they were. The second Iraqi, held tight in his grasp, one arm firmly placed around the man's neck, not tight enough to cut off his breathing, but restricting his movement so that his struggle to free himself was futile. Standing in front of him, his own CO, staring at him as if he had gone mad - perhaps he had. He wasn't even sure himself, any more. Then the dead body in the corner - one of his buddies, killed by the discharge from his own weapon when he and the first Iraqi had struggled for supremacy of it. What a waste of a young life! And the third Iraqi, kneeling on the cold slabs, cradling the dying man in his arms, sobbing softly. He wasn't sure whom he pitied and despised more. The Iraqis for their unprofessional show of emotion or his senior officer for his complete lack of leadership and utter stupidity.

He felt restless and utterly overwhelmed by the events of the past few moments. He wasn't sure what to do next. They had chanced upon this building after escaping from the devastated area where they had been bombed. So many of his buddies were back there, blown to bits by the firepower of their own aircraft. Their CO, inexperienced and completely inept, had panicked when they had chanced upon some Iraqi troops and called in an airstrike on their own position. His men had not had the chance to react before they were being fired upon. Diving for cover, he had seen his men cut to ribbons, falling in bloody heaps to the soft sand. His best friend, beside him, had been in the midst of a scathing tirade against the man who had instigated this disaster when his words were abruptly cut short and he started to gasp for breath instead. Terry had wound his way to the man's side despite the rain of fire which seemed to be literally dripping from the sky and held him as he died, the warm blood running in rivulets down the other man's face and oozing from his lacerated chest and stomach. He had died in agony, his last gasp of breath bringing forth a gush of blood from within his punctured lungs. Terry had held him for a long time, staring into the lifeless eyes, until he was pulled to his feet by one of the survivors and practically forced into a dash for the more substantial cover of some not too distant hills. He didn't recall a lot about that short journey. He had felt numb and bone-weary and didn't care any longer if he was cut down where he was standing.

They had reached the sanctuary of the hills to discover some dilapidated, abandoned buildings just north of the rugged terrain, and had decided to take shelter there. The fleeing men included four of the Americans, three of the Iraqis who had been part of the contingent upon whom they had chanced back at the firezone and the CO who had caused the devastation. As they made it into the first building, throwing themselves into its sparse shelter, anger and resentment had slowly begun to develop in Sgt Michaels grief-stricken heart and it had not taken much to shape it into rage and hatred against both his CO and the Iraqis for the different parts they had played in events.

And thus had the situation, already a tragedy, disintegrated into more death and destruction, and Sgt Michaels, teetering on the brink of insanity, did not know what to do next.

Steve had been watching the play of emotions across the face of the tortured vet, and, only once had he cast his worried glance back at his two friends. Amanda still cradled Jesse in her arms, speaking softly to him, even though it was obvious that he could not hear her entreaties. Jesse himself was spattered with his own blood, his face completely grey, his lips blue. He looked dead. Only the halting rise and fall of his heavily bandaged chest gave lie to his appearance. Steve tried to bank down his rising fear and desperation. His best friend was going to die if they didn't get him out of here in the next few minutes. And he had no idea how he could do that in so short a time. He felt very much like screaming. Only common sense and his own strength of character prevented him from doing so. He was slowly coming to the conclusion that it would require a desperate act to save his friends and he was gearing himself up to that final commitment because the alternative, that his best friend should die, was unthinkable. He didn't matter any more. The only people who mattered were the innocent souls who had been trapped in here with him and the vet. If it required the ultimate sacrifice, then he was willing to make it. With that in mind, he took a step forward ...

Amanda was only peripherally aware of what was going on in the room behind her. She could feel Steve's fear for their friend and his determination to get them out of this horrible situation, but she could do nothing to help him. She was needed by someone else right now and she would not have deserted him had her life depended upon it - which, she reflected, bitterly, it just might. She saw Steve take a step toward the gunman, and her breath caught in her throat as she also heard the cocking of a gun. Then she felt the figure in her arms stirring and her attention was transferred immediately to him. "Jesse?"

"… Mand …" It was a thin thread of sound, and she had to strain to hear it but it was still the most wonderful sound she had heard in what seemed like eternity.

"Jesse, just lie still," she counselled, as he struggled to move. Jesse's eyelids fluttered slightly and, slowly, a pair of bleary blue eyes became visible and stared up at her in bewilderment.

"I … I don't …" A rasping cough wracked his slight frame and he curled into it, wincing with pain as it aggravated the pulsating agony which tightened his chest and made it difficult to breathe. "… oh … oh … god ..!"

Amanda felt completely helpless as he buried his head in her breast. She could hear the harsh sounds of his attempts to breathe through the attack, each intake of air sending a shudder through the tortured form. A series of small whimpers escaped his parched throat and she held him tighter, trying to convey through her touch how much she was hurting for him. Small, long fingered hands clutched at her white coat, hanging on desperately as he fought for breath, for his very life. Slowly, the pain eased slightly and his grip slackened. He was panting heavily as his head fell back onto her supporting arm and his eyes were closed once more, as he concentrated on trying to remain conscious. It was an uphill battle, but he fought the encroaching darkness with every ounce of strength he had remaining, even though all he really wanted to do was to give in to the pain and let go.

"Jesse ..?"
"… Man… da …"
"It's all right, honey," she soothed, removing her hand temporarily from where it had been holding the pressure bandage over his wound and running her fingers slowly over one cold cheek. "It's going to be all right."
He shook his head. Tears leaked out from below his shuttered eyelids and ran down the pallid face and he bit his lip to prevent the cry of pain which was trying to escape. Gasping painfully for breath which wouldn't come he shifted fretfully and felt her arm grip him more securely. She felt warm and safe and he wanted to crawl into the security she offered and go to sleep forever. But his own reluctant self-diagnosis dictated that he remain awake as long as he could. Not because of any sense of self-preservation - the burning agony was intensifying with each passing second and it was getting harder to fight the darkness - but because he couldn't, he just couldn't die in Amanda's arms. He wouldn't do that to her. "N.. not … 'll right …" he managed, through clenched teeth. "M .. mand..a.. hurt … hurt bad."
She swallowed - hard. It didn't help. Tears came unbidden to her eyes anyway and spilled down her cheeks. Jesse was not only a brilliant surgeon but an excellent diagnostician - a younger version of Mark Sloan himself - and he was only too well aware of the severity of his injury and the consequences if they didn't get him out of here very soon. Amanda almost wished he had remained unconscious. At least then he would not have been aware of what was happening to him. Watching him suffer like this was almost tearing her apart. "We're going to get you out of here and we're going to get you fixed up and everything will be all right!" she insisted, in a voice which shook with suppressed emotion. "I promise you!"
His smile was almost beatific and it terrified her. "You … don't have to … pretend .. for me .." he whispered. "You … good friend … Mand a…."
A sob caught in her throat at that statement and she could no more have responded verbally than she could have flown to the moon unaided. Instead, she held him tighter, her hand trailing through soft, silky golden hair, desperate to communicate to him how much he was needed by those who loved him. "I couldn't have asked for a better friend than you," she countered shakily, at last, when she was able to locate her voice again. "You're the most forgiving person I have ever met, Jesse, and I love you for it."
Surprise forced his heavy eyelids open and he stared at her wondrously for a long moment. "Y .. you do?" he gasped. Amanda nodded mutely. One of her tears dripped onto his face, and he reached out a trembling hand to touch her cheek. "D .. don't cry," he begged her. "P … please, A.. Amanda … don't."
It was all she could do not to sob aloud. Even though he knew that he was dying, Jesse's first thought was for others - for her. His innate selflessness and compassion was one of the things she loved most about him. "I'd like it even less if I let you go through this alone." The words he had spoken to her when he had insisted on helping her in identifying the bodies from the plane crash a few years ago echoed through her mind. "I don't deserve to be your friend," "Says who?" His easy forgiveness of her belief that he was the author of a salacious book, which had included her embarrassing affair with a married man, had been one more example of his caring nature. Their friendship had been filled with moments such as those. Moments when he demonstrated time and time again that loyalty and unconditional love between friends was not merely some impossible ideal expounded by dreamers and novelists, but it actually existed. And he was living proof of it. Living proof who was, even now, bleeding out his life over the cold, hard floor of the trauma room. "Oh Jesse .. please, please just hold on!"
He frowned slightly, then shuddered as a jolt of searing pain tore through him. His hand dropped limply back to his side and he couldn't suppress the cry which ripped from his throat. Oh god, it hurt! It hurt so much! He couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and when he did the agony which it elicited was unbearable. And he was cold. So very, very cold. 'When did it get so cold in here?' he wondered, vaguely. 'Should tell Mark. Shouldn't be cold for the patients we get in here. Not good for them …" His thoughts careened all over the place, as his mind tried desperately to distract itself from the appalling pain which was slowly swallowing him whole. But the throbbing energy in his chest was a constant, agonising reminder which drew him back even as it threatened to push him into oblivion. "I … I … can't!" he gasped, even as another paroxysm threatened to cleave him in half. "… Mand..a… don't …. leave me …."
"Jesse!" she screamed as the pale blue eyes glazed over and then closed, and his head lolled forward on her arm. Trembling fingers felt for a pulse and were finally rewarded by a faint, rapid beat. It was too fast. His heart was working feverishly to pump blood around his body but with each contraction, the lifegiving fluid was seeping out of severed arteries. Without surgery very soon he would die. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. This was Jesse. Their Jesse. Respected colleague, beloved friend. And he was going to die. She could suppress her anguish no longer and, leaning over his frighteningly still form, she hid her face in the blond hair and sobbed for all she was worth.
"Shut up!!"
The cruel command came from just behind her shoulder and, startled, she twisted round to find that the gunman had borne down on them and was now standing directly behind her. Instinctively, she pulled Jesse even closer, trying to protect him from further harm and was terrified as she heard his breath start to falter. Oh god … "Please let us go!" she begged the man who had caused all this mayhem in the first place. "He's dying! He needs help …!"
"He's supposed to die!" came the curt rejoinder. "He shot my buddy and you want me to save him? What do you think I am?"
Amanda stared at him, utterly bewildered by his words. Jesse had shot someone? When? How? Jesse didn't even like guns, let alone own one. Quite apart from the fact that he was a surgeon - who had seen more than his fair share of gunshot wounds - he was the gentlest person, apart from Mark Sloan, that she had ever met. He would never harm anyone. It was absurd! "I … I .." she faltered.
"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "You Iraqi's are all the same. Bet you didn't even want to fight for good al' Saddam either, didya? Just like all your countrymen?"
Saddam? Amanda risked a quick glance at Steve. He shook his head mutely and, suddenly, realisation dawned. This man thought he was back in Iraq! That meant … he thought Jesse was an Iraqi and he had shot him! Oh god …
"Got nothing' to say?" he went on, disdainfully. "You people are all the same. I can't believe we came to this fuckin' country to save your goddam countrymen from that bastard - and what do we get for it? Thanks? No. We get you little bastards tryin' to kill us and our own brass trying to finish the job. What d'ya say, LT?" he demanded, rounding on Steve suddenly. "Ya wanna call in another airstrike? See if you can get us all this time?"
Steve compressed his lips. He had been about to grapple with the other man for control of the gun when Jesse's deteriorating condition and his coughing attack had intervened. Both he and the vet had been distracted and then, before he could prevent it, the other man had crossed the room in three long strides to post himself behind the huddled figures on the floor. Jesse had lapsed back into unconsciousness by this time and Amanda was crying softly. The sounds of grieving had incited this new rage in the gunman and now Steve wasn't sure what was going to happen next. One thing was for sure. He didn't dare try anything whilst the man was so close to Amanda and Jesse. It was one thing to risk his own life. It was quite another to risk his friends'.
"Stop it!"
The command rang around the room, its source so unexpected that for a moment the whole tableau remained still. Then both the gunman and Steve focused their attention on the speaker. Amanda. She had listened to the man's ravings, stunned into immobility for a long moment, then the sound of tortured breathing had reached her ears and everything else had paled into insignificance. Staring down into the pallid face of her friend she was horrified to discover that Jesse was now struggling for each breath and the pressure bandage was slowly but steadily being soaked with blood. The increasingly laboured breaths were indicative of a punctured lung - she didn't understand why she had not recognised this before. His breathing had been bad for some considerable time but now it was deteriorating quickly. Without conscious thought she had switched back from prospective victim into professional mode. She needed to save her friend. They were in a trauma room. If they weren't going to leave immediately, she at least needed to stabilise Jesse's condition until they could.
"You're tellin' me to shut up?" screamed the veteran, waving his gun in her direction. "You little snot. I oughtta kill you right now. You wanna go join your friend there, do ya? Do ya?"
"No!" she yelled back. Completely heedless of her own safety, she slowly placed her precious burden on the floor, rose, and determinedly faced the man down, her one priority now that of helping her friend. "No, and he's not going to die, either. I don't know where you believe you are, but this is Community General Hospital, we are in a trauma room, where you were being treated and the man you have shot is one of the kindest, most wonderful human beings I have ever been privileged to know. And I am not going to just let him die! He's my friend and I am going to do my utmost to help him. You .. you can do what you want," she went on, her voice losing some of its clarity but none of its strength as fury and desperation warred for prominence within her. "I don't care if you shoot me. I am going to stabilise his condition and if you don't like that, well, it's just tough!"
With that, she spun on her heel and strode toward the scattered medical equipment and paraphernalia. She knew that this was only an interim measure; that all the IV's and oxygen in the world couldn't take the place of the surgical procedure necessary to save Jesse's life, but she couldn't just sit back and watch as his life ebbed out over the cold, hard floor.
Terry Michaels watched her go and shook his head. He was confused. It hadn't happened like this the last time. Then again, he couldn't remember having fired his gun so often before. In the dream, he had only ever fired his weapon once, and the Iraqi had been hit. This time there had been an echo, and he had recoiled from the discharge several times. His gaze shifted to the soldier beneath the table. The Iraqi had shot him - hadn't he? He couldn't remember. And that worried him. Then his attention was diverted once more as the LT stepped toward him. All his confusion was forgotten again in the wave of hatred which swept over him - directed toward this man and his actions. He had gotten so many men killed. He had forced them to seek shelter here, besieged by Iraqi solders outside - good thing he had had the foresight to close the tattered curtains. No-one could see inside their barren sanctuary and that meant they could stay alive a little longer.
The Iraqi he had shot lay still on the floor. He was chalk-white - which was strange in itself because all the Iraqis he had encountered had been dark-skinned. He shook his head. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. This time he was going to kill the son-of-a-bitch who was responsible for all of this. This time he was going to kill the LT.

"There's no answer," said Mark, grimly, as he replaced the receiver on its rest after his third attempt to call Steve's cellphone.
Elaine's fearful gaze darted between the elderly doctor and her ex husband. "What does that mean?" she demanded, in alarm.
Dane heaved a huge sigh. "It means … we have no way to get a replacement hostage in for Jesse." He closed his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. "If we don't get him out of there soon …"
"He'll die," declared Mark, quietly. He turned away from the phone, and Jesse's parents, unable to bear the anguish in both faces. The trauma room was just 7 feet away. It might as well have been 100 miles. The blinds had been drawn from the inside, the entire area was cordoned off by an entire squad of police and the gunman would likely shoot anyone who entered. Meanwhile, inside that room was his son and two people who were more family than friends, one of whom was mortally wounded. Never had Mark Sloan felt quite so impotent. Dane's idea had kept up the morale of those waiting outside for all of five minutes. They had been some of the longest minutes of Mark's life as he had listened to the constant ring tone of his son's cellphone. He had finally been forced to accept that there was going to be no response and had reluctantly conceded defeat. Their half-concocted plan was forcibly abandoned and now all they could do was wait. Wait for something else to happen - either inside the room or out here, in hospital corridors, which more resembled a war zone than a place of healing. An entire wealth of emotions bubbled within - fear, frustration, helplessness, and an overwhelming rage. This shouldn't be happening, goddammit! Not in his hospital. Not to his family. Not again! He could hear Elaine Travis's soft sobbing behind him and closed his eyes momentarily as the pain of potential loss rose up and engulfed him. With startling suddenness, his fist slammed down on the desk, as he expressed his churning emotions the only way he could. Several shocked faces turned his way and he smiled ruefully. "Sorry," he said, in as normal a voice as he could muster, given his rising fury. "Nerves."
The cops who had turned at the sudden noise returned their attention to the room on which their weapons were trained. Tanis merely raised her eyebrows sardonically. "I'm glad someone else is feeling as helpless as I feel," was all Dane Travis said. Mark turned to face him. "I know my boy means a lot to you, Mark," he went on. There was a suspicious moisture lurking in his deep blue eyes. "I thank you for that. I thank you for being there for him when his mother and I could not. Thank you, Mark, for letting Jesse know what a father's love really is." With that, he thrust out his hand to envelope Mark's in a warm grip. The doctor's eyes misted over at the words, their sincerity and their implication. They had lost their only chance to get Jesse out of there before he bled to death from his wound. They were going to lose him.

Amanda had been trembling violently when she turned away from the gunman after her tirade, but her resolve never wavered as she made her way across the room toward the emergency equipment, hoping that it had survived the onslaught of the attack. Nurse Swanson was slumped on the floor at the opposite end of the room, gingerly rubbing her throat and gasping for breath. The gunman had let her go when he had stormed across the room to berate Jesse for not dying quietly enough. Nancy Culver still lay where she had fallen when she had been fatally shot. The green eyes - which Jesse had commented on admiringly the previous day - were wide and staring and Amanda took a second out of her search to close them. It was all she could do for the dead woman. Resuming her search amongst the wreckage of the room for breathing equipment and IV's she meanwhile spoke softly to the traumatised Nurse Swanson. "It's okay, Tracy," she soothed. "You're okay now. Just breathe slowly. Inhale lightly, that's it … you're doing good. You're going to be fine …" As she continued trying to comfort the nurse, Amanda wondered if she was only delaying the inevitable. Maybe they were all going to die in here. Angrily, she forcibly swept those negative thoughts from her mind. She had only one objective now - and that was to ensure that Jesse survived until they could get him to an OR 'and please, let that be soon!' she pleaded silently.
Steve watched Amanda walk across the room with something akin to awe. He had encountered her feisty side on several occasions during their long friendship but he had never had cause to see it under such duress before. It had taken a lot of gall and no small amount of courage to face down the vet like she had and she was lucky to be walking away. But then, the guy obviously didn't see her as a threat - if he saw her at all. From what he could glean from the things the guy had said, an Iraqi had shot one of his buddies and his commanding officer had called in an airstrike which must have hit the Americans instead of the actual target. And it seemed that in the gunman's confused mind, he was currently playing the part of the commanding officer. As he turned from watching Amanda, he found himself facing the business end of his own weapon and from the expression of utter fury in the other man's eyes, he was about to pay for that other man's mistake.
"Whaddya say, LT?" drawled Terry Michaels. His voice dripped venom as he glared at the other man and his finger remained steady on the trigger of the gun. "You ready to pay for what you did?"
Steve felt his heart beginning to race as adrenalin rushed through him, and he strove to remain outwardly calm, summoning all his training from his years on the force and, before that, the military. During his police career he had seen it all. Calculating murderers, crazed psychopaths and mean, vicious killers. But this guy was different. This was a man who had been to hell and back again and was currently residing there once more. This was not a cold, mean killer. This was a man on the edge, someone who had seen too much, had suffered for too long and had lost it all. On the other hand, this same man had shot Jesse - his best friend. There were mitigating circumstances, sure. The guy truly believed he was back in the Gulf, re-living what must have been a hellish experience. He truly believed that he had shot an Iraqi. That he was acting in the best interests of his squadron; and Steve could not argue with that. But his dearest friend was as close to death as Steve ever wanted to see him and his heart was dictating the pace of events. Time was of the essence and it had just run out. He didn't have the moments necessary to try and talk the veteran out of shooting him. It would have to come down to brute force if Jesse was going to have a chance of surviving.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Amanda setting up an IV to replace the lost fluids and fitting an oxygen mask over the lax, grey face. Jesse was still breathing - but it was an uneven gasping rhythm which he knew could halt at any second. The oxygen was an interim measure - one which would not sustain him if his lungs ceased to function properly, which they were threatening to do. The IV fluids, too, would not be sufficient to maintain his life. He needed blood - and lots of it. He needed to be under the care of surgeons. And Steve's next action could facilitate that. Of course, it could also get Steve killed, but the choice was an easy one and one that had already been made.
Therefore, instead of answering him, Steve inhaled deeply for a moment, centering himself, then, suddenly, launched himself forward, his hand going for the gun at the same instant that it was fired.

The sound of the gunshot and the resulting scream reverberated around the hall outside the room. Police marksmen tightened their fingers on the triggers of their own high powered rifles as Tanis stood her ground, waiting for some sign that she should give an order to fire or for the men to stand down. Meanwhile, utter dread swamped the souls of the civilians who stood nearby, and a cold knot of fear settled into Mark Sloan's stomach as the seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Silence descended. A terrible, dark, forbidding silence which stifled them all with its insidious grip. They stood, motionless, waiting, each of them unwilling be the first one to break the stasis. Then, suddenly, the door was flung open and Steve Sloan, hands held up in the classic surrender pose, his service revolver clutched in one palm, stepped out. Mark hitched in a shaky breath and felt his knees begin to buckle at the first sight of his son. Then sharp, practised eyes spotted the stain of red growing on Steve's left shoulder and before he knew it, he was beside his firstborn, easing the tweed jacket away from his body and frowning as he examined the bullet wound. "Steve, you've been shot!" he exclaimed, somewhat unnecessarily.
Steve stared at him. "No kidding, dad," he replied, ironically. Then, "It's just a flesh wound. I'll be okay. Dad … Jesse …"
Doctor Sloan needed no second bidding. Not even stopping to enquire what had happened or where the gunman was, he stepped into the room, and gasped at the scene of utter carnage. The trauma room was unrecognisable. Instruments, bandages and equipment lay scattered across the floor - victims of the desperate attempts by the occupants to escape the gunfire. The gurney lay on its side. Nurse Culver was trapped beneath it, sprawled in a pool of her own viscous blood. Nurse Swanson crouched in a corner, taking refuge behind an IV stand. Her eyes were filled with terror and she was visibly shaking. She had no visible injuries, even though Mark now recognised that it was her scream she had heard. Shock, he diagnosed. She should be treated. He smiled gently at her, trying to reassure, then his eyes fell to the huddled figures on the floor near the other wall and his smile disappeared. "Oh god," he mumbled. "Jess …."
He was back at the door in two strides, yelling for a gurney and staff before he remembered that the entire area had been cleared by the police - who were now retreating, their presence no longer required. With a muttered curse, he hurried back into the trauma room, and, gritting his teeth and mumbling a silent apology to the dead nurse, grabbed the gurney and hauled it upright. The next moment he was crouching beside Amanda and Jesse, experienced eyes taking in the terrible chest wound as he examined his young friend, and silently congratulating Amanda's attempts to prolong her friend's life. "Good, good," he said, distractedly, as he finished checking the pressure bandage and took note of the IV's and oxygen. "Amanda, I need you to help me get Jesse onto the gurney and then we need to get him to theatre as fast as possible."
The beautiful pathologist smiled shakily at him as he knelt beside her, placing a gentle hand briefly on her shoulder and squeezing hard. "Mark," she murmured. "Thank god. He has a punctured lung," she went on, unsteadily. "I tried to do the best I could but …"
"It's okay, honey," he assured her, gently, with a quick hug. "I know. We'll get him to the OR and insert the chest tube there. But we have to hurry."
Within moments, the two of them had their precious burden safely ensconced on the gurney and, after ensuring that the IV's and oxygen were secure, wheeled it out of the wreckage of the ER.
As they exited, Mark caught sight of the man he assumed to be the gunman, lying face down on the floor underneath the window. He was unconscious and his hands had been handcuffed behind him, Tanis and a couple of uniforms in the process of dealing with him. He shook his head, marvelling at the turn of events, vowing to extract the full story from Steve later, then, belatedly remembering his son's injury, felt guilt flood through him. His son needed him … but as he glanced down at the small, still, bloodied figure on the gurney, he remembered where he was needed more. Jesse hadn't moved during their efforts to lift him from the floor. His limp body had felt insubstantial, and fragile as glass, and the tiny puffs of air which emerged from lips turned blue from lack of oxygen were accompanied by the smallest of whimpers - as though, even through the layers of unconsciousness, he could feel the pain. Mark felt tears spring to his eyes as he stared at his young friend. He was fighting so hard to cling to life, yet each beat of his heart brought him closer to death. Long dark lashes lay still over waxen cheeks and the tousled blond hair framed a face which, despite the deeply ingrained lines of agony, still looked far, far too young.
"Jesse!"
Lost in his own morbid thoughts, Mark had temporarily forgotten about the other people waiting outside for news and cringed as Elaine Travis, her shoes clattering noisily over the polished floors of the ER hall, appeared beside them. Her hand went to her mouth as she stared in horror at her son, who lay, seemingly lifeless on the gurney, and she could not suppress her tears of anguish. "Oh my god," she moaned. "Is he ..?"
"He's alive, Elaine, " Mark replied, rather more brusquely than he had intended. A shadow appeared at Elaine's side and the older doctor sighed with relief as Dane Travis took his distraught wife by the shoulders and pulled her away from the gurney, where she was in danger of impeding their progress to the elevators.
"Jesse will be fine, Elaine," he told her, calmly, his voice betraying none of the torment which Mark saw in his eyes as he glanced briefly at the other man. "Mark's going to make sure of that. Aren't you, Mark?"
Under other circumstances, the older Sloan may have taken the ex agent's words as a challenge, but he could see beneath his cool façade to the scared man beneath. This was a father who was terrified that he was going to lose his only son. Mark knew how that feeling could consume every part of your being. He had been on the receiving end of it himself once or twice. He couldn't afford to feel it now, however, even though every instinct within him was screaming at him to let go, admit how petrified he was about losing this boy, this friend, this almost-son - and how fearful he was that he would fail in his efforts to keep Jesse alive. "I'm going to do my very best," he told them both, honestly. "But we really need to get him to surgery … now!"
"Let my dad do his work, Elaine." Steve had appeared beside them as if from nowhere, right hand still clutching his left shoulder, which was bleeding profusely. His face was pale, but the steely determination in his eyes had not wavered. "You're a doctor. You know any further delay …"
"I know, I know," she interjected, wearily, defeatedly. She stepped back, her eyes still riveted on Jesse's pallid features, almost as though trying to map every inch of her beloved son's face, just in case she never saw him again. "I'm sorry, Mark," she went on, "please, just go … save him for us. Please."
Mark nodded, but as they reached the elevators, where Amanda had already pressed the button, he turned to his son, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the other man's face. "Steve …" he murmured, wondrously.
Steve smiled wryly. "I know, dad," he said, in a soft voice, as he reached up and placed his own hand over his father's. "I know."
"Go get that wound seen to," ordered Mark, sternly, as the loud 'ping' heralded the arrival of the elevator and he and Amanda manouevered the gurney inside. "I mean it, Steve. Do it. Now."
Steve nodded wordlessly, then his eyes drifted to the motionless figure lying on the gurney. Jesse looked piteously small and helpless and the detective couldn't prevent the fear that was churning in his stomach from rising up and practically choking him. "Dad … "
"It'll be okay, son." Mark's voice was soothing, but was laced with an echo of the same apprehension. He locked eyes with his father and a moment of silent understanding passed between them, then the elevator doors slammed closed and he was left standing in the hall alone.
"You'd better do what your father said," came a voice from behind him. "I'd hate to be in your shoes if he comes back and finds you still bleeding all over his ER."
Steve allowed himself a sardonic half-smile and turned to face the other man. "Thanks, Chief," he said, acerbically. "I'm sure we wouldn't want to get any more blood on this nice linoleum."
Chief Marsters backed off a little, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just giving you some advice," he replied. "Don't get the wound seen to. Bleed to death. Course, then I'm going to be one Lieutenant short but - we can always get another one."
"I'm touched," muttered the detective, grumpily.
"You should be. And, hey, Sloan, nice work."
Steve stared after him as Marsters made his way toward the ER room, where Tanis and the uniforms had the gunman in custody. It wasn't very often that the Chief handed out praise, and he knew he should feel some kind of pride, or at least some sense of accomplishment. But instead, a leaden weight was sitting inside his gut, counterpointed by the fear in his heart and the guilt which threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought about his friend. This entire situation had been his fault. Jesse had been shot with his gun, goddamit. He had all but fired the bullet which, even yet, might kill his best friend.

Mark and Amanda travelled the short distance in the elevator in silence, both lost in their mutual fear for the life of their friend. As they reached their destination, and willing hands - alerted by a brief but informative telephone call from the ER - hurried to help, Amanda reluctantly relinquished her end of the gurney. She watched with a heavy heart as Jesse was wheeled away from her, unwilling and unable to tear her eyes away from him until the gurney disappeared round the corner. Then, suddenly, she was alone. Bereft. Glancing down, she noticed the bloodstains on her white lab coat and, lifting her hands, she found that same red gore staining her palms, ingrained in her nailbeds; thick, red, viscous liquid which, barely an hour before had been in Jesse's body. Where it should be. Staring at it in horrified fascination, she was at first unaware of the warm moisture making its way down her cheeks, until first one, then another tear splashed onto her hands, diluting the blood and pooling in the creases of her palms. It took a full minute for her to realise that she was crying.
Mark had been about to follow the surgical team, and turned to say something reassuring to Amanda, to assuage her fears, only to discover that the words wouldn't come. Any reassurances he could offer right now would be empty at best, cruel at worst. He couldn't - wouldn't - do that to her. She deserved so much more. She deserved the truth. But as he drew closer to her, he realised she was trembling - violently, and a silent torrent of tears was streaming down the beautiful face. "Amanda," he murmured. Then he stepped forward and took her in his arms, holding her close whilst she cried, her entire body shaking with reaction and increasing dread. "It's all right, honey," he soothed her. "It's all right."
"No, Mark!" she exclaimed, lifting her head from his shoulder, where she had been sobbing into his jacket. "No, it's not all right! I watched whilst my friend was shot! I had to stand by whilst he bled all over the floor and the best I could do was bandage it! I should have been able to do something, Mark! He was in such pain - and yet all he thought about was everyone else. Oh god, when he collapsed in my arms .. I thought we'd lost him, Mark. I was so sure …. and now he's barely breathing and there's potential blood poisoning from the bullet, not to mention the damage it's done internally … I don't want to lose him. We can't lose him. Not after all this!" As she concluded, she buried her head in Mark's shoulder again and he tightened his hold, fighting back his own tears.
"I don't have the time," he thought, "nor the luxury." He had to go in and operate on the young man he had come to consider part of his family. He couldn't afford to break down. Not now. Not yet. It wasn't time. "Amanda …"
"No," she protested, suddenly pushing against him as he hugged her tightly. Loosening his hold he regarded her questioningly. "You have to go," she insisted. "You have to go in there and save him. I know you'll try your best, Mark. That's all you can do." With that declaration, she stood back from the circle of his arms and practically steered him in the direction of the OR. "Go," she said, softly. Then, as he did as she asked and strode quickly down the hall, the whispered, "save him, Mark. Please. Save him "

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