Friendly Fire part three

The ER had been cleared of cops, the wrecked trauma room taped off and slowly but surely, life had returned to the area. The hospital, temporarily closed to emergencies had re-opened and was, once again, a hive of activity, with medical staff attending to the sick and injured as they arrived through the familiar red doors.
For the small group of people ensconced in the doctor's lounge, however, life had not yet returned to anything even remotely resembling normal. The hustle and bustle beyond the closed door was merely a muted distraction from their thoughts and fears and did nothing to ease the former nor dispel the latter. Silence reigned. But it was a heavy, oppressive silence born of anxiety and dread. No idle chatter interrupted it, no sound from outside seemed capable of penetrating it. It hung above them and around them like a black cloud, just waiting for the moment when it could burst and drench them with tears of loss.
Elaine and Dane were seated on the sofa. They were perched nervously on the edge of the cushions, their hands entwined, their faces grim. Elaine shuddered every so often, picturing what her son was going through in the OR, visualising the scalpel cutting into the fair skin, slicing through nerve and tissue and muscle as his chest was opened up. Then would come the search for the bullet - a task made easier by the x-ray which would have been taken prior to his arrival in theatre, but a risky procedure even so. His survival was dependent on so many factors. Where the bullet had entered, what it had torn through on its journey through his body and where it had finally come to rest. He had been shot in his left side, close to his heart and lungs and she knew only too well what the complications from injuries to either of those two organs could entail - if he even made it through surgery. A lone tear tracked its way down her ravaged face at the renewed prospect of losing her only child, and she felt her ex-husband's hand reach up to gently stroke her hair. With a soft sigh, she lay her head down on his shoulder, where she began to weep, quietly, once more.
Dane felt numb. The ordeal which his son had endured had infuriated him, as well as stirring up memories he thought had been put to rest many years ago. He had always striven to protect his family. Now, in the space of a few short hours he had been forced into the role of spectator whilst his son, his pride and joy, faced danger. He didn't play the role of helpless onlooker very well. It wasn't something he was trained for. And the part of a father, powerless to help his own child, was something he performed even less well. All he wanted to do was to wrap his son up somewhere safe and make sure nothing ever hurt him again. He knew intellectually that this was impossible - Jesse was too headstrong, too stubborn and too damned inquisitive, not to mention too independent to allow that. But his heart wanted his son to be safe and he had failed spectacularly at that particular task. He closed his eyes as he held his ex-wife, trying very hard not to picture the moment when Mark Sloan would come through the door to give them the news they so very badly did not want to hear. It didn't work. All he could see was an endless loop of that devastating news, playing on and on until he felt very much like screaming.
Amanda tore her eyes away from the distressed couple, whom she had been observing for a couple of moments. She longed to offer some words of encouragement, but couldn't think of anything to say which wouldn't sound trite or false. Jesse's mom and dad didn't need that. What they needed was a miracle and she wasn't sure miracles were on the menu today. Turning away reluctantly from the Travises, she found herself concentrating instead on Steve, who, despite his shoulder injury, which had been treated and for which he now wore a sling, was pacing the room like a caged tiger. Just watching him made her feel even more exhausted. He had been doing it for some considerable time. "Steve, why don't you sit down?" she suggested, wearily, for the umpteenth time.
"What time is it?" he demanded of her, almost as though he hadn't heard her plea, which, she reflected, he probably hadn't. He seemed to be in a world of his own - one which, by his dark expression, she had no wish to inhabit. "How long have they been in there?"
She sighed, heavily, barely glancing at the clock on the wall, or her own wristwatch. She didn't need to. She had been clockwatching ever since she had entered the room. "It's 4:00am," she told him, quietly. "And it's been 6 hours."
"What are they doing in there?" he demanded, impatiently.
"What are they …" Amanda's voice tailed off as she regarded him with an expression of incredulity. "Steve …"
"I know, I know," he interjected, running agitated hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, it's just that … "
"You're worried," she finished off for him, as he finally took a seat beside her, his eyes straying to the other two people in the room, whom he had no desire to upset even further.
"Yeah," he admitted, quietly. "I am. Amanda, I've never … I'm not used to … It's the first time … I mean .. does it usually take this long …" He left the rest of his sentence unspoken, knowing that she would realise what he was trying to say.
The beautiful pathologist heaved a huge sigh and she placed a comforting hand on his knee. "You were there," she said. "You saw the bullet wound. Steve, I've known lesser injuries take a lot longer to fix in OR. There's so many things to take into consideration. The initial penetration point, the damage done by the bullet on its way through the body, how much internal bleeding there is to control and where the bullet has finally lodged. Then there's the time factor. Jesse was lying there for over an hour. He'd gone into shock, he was bleeding internally, his blood ox was dropping, his breathing was compromised because of his punctured lung … do you want me to go on?"
This clinical list, delivered in Amanda's typically professional manner, silenced Steve. He shook his head, unable to swallow past the constriction in his throat. Jesse's surgeons faced so many impediments, and the task seemed so insurmountable … He had the utmost respect for his father's abilities. Mark Sloan was a brilliant surgeon and an excellent diagnostician, but the extent of Jesse's injury could be more than even he could contend with. If Steve had been scared before, now he was truly terrified. What if Jesse didn't make it? What was he going to do then?

The wait became interminable and, as the minutes turned slowly into hours and the hours ticked by relentlessly, the tension became almost unbearable. It was like a living thing, reaching out and enveloping them in its insidious embrace. A brief distraction finally came in the form of Tanis, who had returned to appraise them of the gunman's identity and the motives he might have had for what he had done - which Steve had already figured out from what he had said during their captivity. He had shared his suspicions with Chief Marsters, whose imposing presence had temporarily prevented him from re-entering the trauma room, curtly demanding an update on what had occurred. Whilst Steve had been receiving treatment to his wounded shoulder, Marsters had ordered Tanis to discover what she could about the man, who had, upon regaining consciousness, been completely incomprehensible. Steve, in turn, had explained what had transpired in the trauma room and how he had got the drop on the other man.
"It turns out he was a Gulf War veteran," said Tanis, as she dropped into a chair at the table, where Steve and Amanda joined her, both nursing cups of rapidly cooling coffee. Jesse's parents dozed, in each others arms, on the sofa and none of them wanted to awaken the two of them. It might be the only sleep they got in a while.
Steve nodded. "I got that from some of his rants. I also figured that he and his unit were victims of friendly fire, instigated in error by their commanding officer."
"That's right." Tanis smiled approvingly at her partner. "Of course, the military deny everything, but we got more or less the full story from the only surviving member of his unit - we managed to trace him from records at the VA. The perp's name is Terry Michaels. He was a sergeant. Seems his squad was engaged with an Iraqi battalion and the CO radioed in the position for an airstrike. Except, as you said, he radioed in the wrong co-ordinates and they were victims of what was termed 'friendly fire'."
"Yeah," said Steve, heavily, "I got that. Go on."
"Well, there were heavy casualties. They left a lot of men lying dead or dying - including Sgt Michaels' best friend, who, incidentally, died in his arms." Tanis paused a moment as she saw Steve's barely suppressed wince and Amanda's convulsive swallow. Silently she berated herself, as she remembered, belatedly, that they had both been in a similar position in the trauma room, watching as one of their best friends bled out his life on the floor. "I … er … I'm sorry," she said, ruefully. "I didn't mean to remind you …"
"It's all right, Tanis," Steve broke in, tiredly. "Just … go on."
"Well," she continued. "The survivors, including three Iraqis they had captured, reached the comparative safety of a derelict group of buildings - probably an old settlement which was abandoned as the war drew closer to them. Apparently, Terry Michaels took charge at that point. Up till then, according to the guy we spoke to, he'd been almost catatonic. They'd practically had to drag him away from the scene."
"What happened then?" Steve thought he knew the rest of the story, but he needed Tanis to confirm the conclusion he had reached.
"They were convinced that the remaining Iraqi's were still in pursuit," she replied. "They were going to make some kind of stand there. Unfortunately, one of the Iraqi prisoners tried to make a break for it, and wrestled with one of the Americans for his gun. It went off and killed the American. Michaels shot the Iraqi in retaliation. Then he covered the windows so that the Iraqis they were sure were following them couldn't see in and they remained there for about a day and a half, until they were extracted by another squad. The guy I spoke to didn't know how the other squad knew they were there, or even that they were still alive. In fact, the incident traumatised him so much that he still requires frequent stays at the VA. Michaels was a permanent resident until last year when he went missing."
"Post traumatic stress disorder," murmured Steve.
Tanis nodded again. "Yeah," she said, in a heavy voice. "He had frequent flashbacks. Sometimes he would actually believe that he had killed his CO in revenge for what the guy had inadvertently done to his buddy. He didn't, incidentally. Apparently, he was a tower of strength during those 36 hours. He reassured everyone, took charge of sharing out the rations - even making sure the remaining Iraqi's got some. In all, he was the perfect soldier. He snapped about a year later."
"And was institutionalised," guessed Steve.
"Yeah."
"It wasn't his fault," the detective murmured, shaking his head. "He was having a flashback. He believed that he was back in that situation again and that Jesse … oh god, Jesse …"
"Steve, Steve!" Amanda's voice brought him back from his own personal torment and he managed a watery smile which didn't manage to reassure her in the slightest.
"He shot Jesse with my gun, you know?" he croaked. "My gun! Oh jesus …"
The pathologist reached over to rub her hand comfortingly up and down his back. "It wasn't your fault, Steve," she reasoned. "You didn't know who he was, what he'd been though. You are not a mind reader and you couldn't possibly know what he was going to do."
"Doesn't matter." His eyes bored into hers. They were dry, but there was a desolation in them that she found difficult to bear. "It was my gun, Amanda. He was able to take it away from me and shoot my best friend with it. How do you think that makes me feel?"
She didn't have to answer that. She could see it in his face. He would bear this guilt for a long time and she didn't know if anyone - even Jesse - would be able to talk him out of it.
"Steve." Tanis had her own concerns about her partner's self-condemnation, but she still needed to know how he had managed to overcome Michaels without a more serious injury than the one he already bore. "Hey, why don't you tell me how you subdued him? Michaels?" she elucidated, as he turned questioning eyes to her. "How you knocked him out without managing to kill yourself in the process."
The smile he bestowed on her was completely devoid of humour and she shivered, despite the warmth of the room. "You want to know how I overcame him?" His voice was cold. Colder then she had ever heard it. She suppressed a second shiver and nodded.
"I don't remember much," he went on. "All I remember is feeling this overwhelming need to do … something. My best friend was lying on the floor, bleeding to death, and I knew that if he didn't get help soon, then he would die. Michaels had been momentarily distracted by Amanda and then he rounded on me. I could tell that he was visualising me as his commanding officer and that he was going to kill me anyway. I figured 'what the hell?' If I stood there and let him shoot me, then not only would I be killed, but any chance of getting Jesse out of there would … so I figured I didn't have much of a choice."
"You rushed him?" guessed Tanis.
Steve shrugged carelessly. "Yeah," he replied. "I figured I would only get one chance and so just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, I went for the gun. I guess I didn't aim the barrel high enough," he uttered a short, humourless laugh. "The bullet hit me. But my momentum sent us both sprawling to the floor. He hit his head on the edge of the instrument table and lost consciousness. I couldn't believe my luck. I only wish I'd done it sooner …" His voice tailed off as the ever-growing sense of guilt pervaded his soul yet again.
"Steve, you couldn't have done more than you did." Amanda intended for her words to reassure him, but she could see by the disgust in his face that this wasn't the effect they were having.
"Couldn't I?" he demanded. His voice dripped with self-loathing and she bit her lip, hating to see the agony he was inflicting on himself, but unable to come up with any way to prevent it. "Jesse was shot with my gun," he reiterated. "I let him shoot my best friend and then stood around trying to reason with the guy whilst my friend had to endure terrible pain and by the end had almost stopped breathing. I should have done something sooner, Amanda. I could have done something …"
"What?" she demanded, almost in tears herself as her own feelings of guilt swam to the surface again. She had felt so helpless in there. So inadequate. And her own failings had almost cost Jesse his life. She should have acted sooner. Tied the pressure bandage a little tighter, given him fluids and oxygen faster … she dreaded to think what consequences her own incompetence could have. They might well cost the life of one of her best friends - someone she loved like a little brother. "What could you have done? Dammit, Steve, you don't have the monopoly on guilt! Don't you think I feel it too? I held Jesse in my arms whilst he was bleeding to death! I'm a doctor! I should have done more! I could have done more! I …"
"Stop it." The voice was quiet but the authority in it had the desired effect. Amanda's tirade was silenced and she swung round, shamefaced, hurriedly wiping the tears from her face. Steve bit his lip and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Only Tanis remained impervious, face impassive.
"Dr T ..Travis …" stammered Amanda. "I'm sorry, we …"
"You're all carrying a lot of guilt around, I know," said Jesse's mother, softly, as she rose from the sofa where she had been asleep until their raised voices had awoken her. "Believe me, I know what you're all feeling. It's something with which I am only too familiar. Detective Sloan, you believe that you should have done more than you did - trying to save the lives of all of those under your protection and risking your own life to save that of your friend's. Dr Bentley, you had to administer to a badly wounded friend and colleague under the most harrowing of conditions and despite danger to yourself and yet you did so incredibly well. You should be congratulating yourselves and each other for what you accomplished - not berating yourselves for what could have been. I, on the other hand … I haven't done a very good job as a mother and I put my own son's life in danger when I selfishly, unthinkingly tried to prevent him from being taken to surgery. I am a doctor myself. I know better. It took you, Lieutenant Sloan, to remind me of that - of my responsibilities as a mother and as a doctor. I am very well aware of my own shortcomings. I thought I had accepted them long ago. But still, it hasn't prevented me from wallowing in my own self-reproach, my own guilt. I know I wasn't responsible for Jesse's pain this time, but I have been responsible for so much of it in the past. His father and I … we haven't been the best parents in the world and my son is so … well, you all seem to know him so much better than we. I've heard him described as compassionate, caring and dedicated. Dr Sloan is not stinting in his praise for my - our son. But to hear you expressing your guilt - as misplaced as it is, I can see now that Dr Sloan was not only referring to his abilities as a doctor, but as a person, as a friend. You obviously care for him a great deal - you wouldn't be so upset if you didn't. That tells me that he is someone worth caring about - not that I didn't already know that," she continued hurriedly, forestalling the protests she could see about to come forth from Amanda and Steve. "But it's always nice to have that confirmed by others - especially others closer to Jesse than we are. I suppose what I am trying to say - so inelegantly - is that we are grateful to you - to both of you, for what you did for him in there. And not only that, but also for what you and Dr Sloan have been to him for the past few years. It appears that, despite our combined efforts, he has known what the love of a family means and for that, we are and always will be forever grateful to all of you."
Amanda tried to speak, failed and tried again. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she couldn't seem to stop them. She felt herself being taken into a warm embrace and leant into the older woman, feeling the slight tremors running through Dr Travis's frame. Dane, meanwhile, nodded his approval of his ex wife's speech and stepped forward to pat Steve awkwardly on the shoulder. Even Tanis had a tear in her eye. Then the door opened, and an exhausted, grim-faced Mark Sloan stepped through.

In OR, things hadn't gone so well. The bullet had caused massive damage on its path through Jesse's body. Tearing through flesh, tissue and soft muscle, it had punctured one lung, creating a hole through which air had immediately begun to escape, leading to its eventual collapse, and nicked the heart, finally coming to rest perilously close to the aorta. Although neither ventricles and atrium were damaged, his heart muscle had been severely weakened and the time it had taken to extract him from his enforced captivity had only compounded the damage. The blood loss had been immense, and they had hung unit after unit, trying to replace what he had lost and was still losing whilst in surgery. Mark had repaired and re-inflated his lung, resected the heart wall where the bullet had ripped its way through, stopped the bleeding and carefully extracted the small piece of lead which had caused so much harm. But it had not been easy. The lung had been the least difficult organ to repair and even that had taken some considerable time - time that Jesse didn't have, as his mutilated body insisted on reminding them. His heart had stopped several times during the procedure. They had been forced to use the internal paddles to re-start it and on one occasion, Mark had been forced to start open heart massage. But their attempts to keep him alive long enough to finish the surgery became more and more desperate as his heart's rhythm became more and more erratic. It had still been frantically trying to pump blood around veins which had been severed and torn to ribbons by the deadly projectile and although they were working as fast as they could to repair the destruction, they were racing against the clock and his body's own diminishing energy. He simply didn't have sufficient strength to last through the hours which it took to mend everything and during the final hour, Mark had been praying to every god he knew and some he did not simply to give him the time he needed to save this young man who was so important to him and so many other people. When he finally closed up, he had staggered back from the table, brushing off the concerned enquiries from the rest of the OR staff, breathing hard and blinking back tears of gratitude that someone, somewhere, had been listening. Jesse had come through surgery, although he was temporarily dependent upon an array of machines to keep him alive. But he lived. And Mark didn't know whether to attribute that to luck, prayer or his young friend's incredible tenacity. Whatever it was, he thanked it profusely, and watched as the small, still figure was wheeled into recovery, from where he would make his short journey to the ICU.
It was with a weary gait that he stumbled into the room off the OR, tore off his surgical cap, gown and gloves and threw them into the bin. He took a long moment just to breathe, and get his own heart beating again. It had been close. Too close. He didn't ever want to endure that form of torture again. Working on someone you cared about was one thing, having to jump start their naked heart was quite another. A shudder ran through him each time he recalled holding Jesse's failing heart in his hands, squeezing, letting go and squeezing again, as he tried to convince that organ to continue to function. Rising himself upright with an effort, Mark started to walk to the door. He got as far as the doorframe. Then he found himself slumped against it, one hand covering his eyes as tears - suppressed for so many hours - began to pour from eyes gritty with too little sleep and too much concentrated effort. He gave in to them, needing the catharsis they brought. Still ahead of him was the task of telling Jesse's family and friends the news. It was not something which he relished - it never was, but in this case it was personal, which made it ten times worse. He needed a moment, though, to compose himself. He couldn't go in looking like he did, he reasoned. There was still hope. Jesse was alive. Granted, he was dependent upon machines for the slightest bodily function, but he wasn't dead yet. What was that saying? 'Where there's life, there's hope'? Mark couldn't even dredge up a smile at the trite phrase. 'Where there's life, there's hope' What a crock.
Moments later, he found himself taking the longest walk of his life - to tell those who loved Jesse best that it was very likely that the young doctor would not survive the night.

"Mark! How is he?"
"Dr Sloan …?"
"Jesse …?"
"Dad ..?"
Four disparate voices, all with the same question - although it was asked in four differing ways. He didn't dare look Amanda or Steve in the face. They both knew him too well. They were both only too familiar with the expression they would see in his eyes. Instead, he focused on Jesse's parents. He tried to plaster a reassuring smile on his face; tried to conjure up some reassuring words, but found it impossible to do so. There was no encouraging news. Jesse was alive, yes, but …
"Dr Sloan ..?" Dr Travis's small, scared voice penetrated the darkness of his thoughts. Meeting her eyes, wide with fear, he realised that he had to tell these people the truth. There was to be no escaping the grim reality this time, no hiding behind medical terminology nor offering trite, meaningless words such as 'only time will tell' or 'we'll see'. Two of the people here were doctors, the other two engaged in professions which often held their own grim realities. He would not insult their intelligence by lying, or by telling half-truths. After another moment's heavy silence, he took a deep breath, cleared his throat and began.
"Jesse survived surgery," he told them. Good, give the good news first. That would settle them down, allay their fears … except they were all still staring at him as though they knew he had bad news to deliver. Bad .. worse .. worst. Well, okay then …
"He's critical," he continued, wincing as their faces reflected their greatest fear - one which he was about to confirm. "I can't lie to you. Things didn't go … well. The bullet pierced the left lung, causing it to collapse, nicked the heart and came perilously close to slicing through the aorta. Fortunately, it stopped there, but it was difficult to reach and it took longer than we expected. There was massive internal bleeding, which made the injuries difficult to visualise - as fast as we suctioned, more blood would pool in the areas we had just cleared. We went through at least 10 units, maybe more. I stopped counting. The good news is that we managed to mend and reinflate the left lung and resected the heart wall. But there were complications."
The four faces in front of him had started to waver slightly. It was an odd effect, one he had never seen before. It wasn't a bad thing, in his opinion, because for each word he spoke, the fear in their expressions increased tenfold and that wasn't something he particularly wanted to see right now.
"I .. there was no damage to the ventricles or atriums," he went on, barely recognising his own voice as it emerged from a throat which seemed to be constricting with each word. "But his heart muscle is very weak. It stopped several times on the table. We had to shock him and once I had to .. had to .. massage … " He couldn't understand why his words were faltering now. Words were something which had always come easily to him and he used them as weapons in the cases in which he, Steve, Amanda and Jesse got involved. Now they were failing him. He tried again. "We couldn't maintain any kind of heart rhythm. He's been suffering severe arrhythmia and we haven't been able to stabilise him. He's on intravenous medication but … " Suddenly, Mark's legs folded beneath him and the next moment he found himself enfolded in strong arms whilst a reassuring voice spoke in his ear. A chair materialised from somewhere and he was lowered gently into it. The soft formica of the table at which he had drunk many a cup of cold coffee with his son, Amanda and Jesse over the years was cool beneath his arm, which lay limply across it. "Oh god," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Soft weeping echoed around the still room and he cringed. His words had caused that. But he didn't have any comfort to offer. There was no comfort. Not for Jesse's parents, not for his friends and not for him. The young doctor was simply not responding to treatment and they were running out of options. They had done all they could in OR. They had kept him alive - just. But the damage had been extensive and the timing had been all wrong. If only they could have got to him sooner, if only the bullet had found its way to some other part of his body - or, preferably, not at all. If only … And now he had just informed Jesse's family and friends that there was no hope. It was too little, too late. The young man he had welcomed with open arms into his small circle of close friends, whom he considered a surrogate son, who had brought so much joy to those around him, was going to die.

Elaine Travis ignored all the trappings of the room in which Jesse had been placed, and concentrated instead on Jesse himself. He didn't look like her son, her child, her baby. He looked wraithlike, a stranger to her eyes. There was no colour at all in the beloved face, no trace of life. The normally animated features were lax and still and the sparkling blue eyes were closed. His slender torso was marred by flecks of blood and the stark white of the bandage on his chest contrasted sharply with the angry red of the skin surrounding the wound and ensuing surgery. The vibrant spirit which was Jesse was gone, sublimated beneath hours of pain and suffering and his continuing fight with death. She could not feel anything of him in the cool skin as she gingerly touched the back of his hand, carefully avoiding the IV which snaked out from it and joined its companions on their trail toward the various machines. Grief threatened to overwhelm her, but she suppressed it with grim determination. Jesse needed her love and support, not another motherly breakdown. He looked so little and lost beneath all the ICU equipment and she longed to gather him up into her arms, as she had not done since he was a child; hold him close, stroke the soft blond hair and tell him everything was going to be all right. But she barely dared touch him, let alone hug him. And even if she had dared, she was not allowed to.

His every breath, every heartbeat was being monitored by machines. It almost seemed like there was no Jesse left - nothing but this still, silent form lying here with a mocking simile of his beautiful face. It felt like she had already lost him. And, she reflected, desolately, she had. Many years ago. She didn't even feel she deserved to be standing here, watching him as the respirator forced air into his tortured lungs at regular intervals. He belonged to another family now. A family who had cared for him, loved him, made him feel worthwhile … If only she could turn back the clock, undo her mistakes … but she couldn't. If this was her punishment for being a bad mother then it was grossly unfair. Jesse didn't deserve to be lying here, in blood and pain, muted as it was by the drugs which were coursing through his system. He wasn't the one who had abrogated his responsibilities and if she only could, she would trade places with him in a moment, just to save him from all this. She would die in his place if she could. She loved him. "I love you, Jesse," she mouthed, knowing that he couldn't hear her and probably wouldn't believe her had he been able to. "And if you die, then I might as well die too."

Dane stood nearby, unable to approach the bed on which his precious son lay. His sense of failure threatened to swallow him whole and he couldn't bear to witness the result of that failure. But he had to be here. This was his son, his boy - a boy whom he had taken on fishing trips when Jesse had been just 8 years old. A boy who had been the light of his father's life, an incandescent whirlwind, all heart and enthusiasm. Their rare trips away together had become precious memories to sustain him through the long, lonely years since and, despite Jesse's own fears that his father didn't care about him, Dane loved him with a ferocity which terrified him. It was the reason he had stayed away from his boy for so long. As terrible as the separation had been - for both of them - the very prospect of Jesse becoming embroiled in his dangerous world, of being placed in danger had been far worse. He would do anything to keep his son safe from harm and if that meant that he had to stay away from him, then so be it, even if it practically killed him to do so.

And now he was lying there, looking for all the world like a corpse. Transluscent skin shone in the dim lighting of the ICU, and there was nary a twitch of his hand to show that life still remained in his fragile body. Dane ruthlessly quelled the raw grief which threatened to bring him to his knees and, instead, placed a steadying hand on his ex-wife's shoulder as she whispered to Jesse words he couldn't hear and may never know.

Shortly after Mark Sloan's startling collapse, the cardiac surgeon who had assisted him in OR had appeared at the door to inform them all that Jesse was now established in the ICU and that he could receive visitors, although only one at a time and only for a few minutes.
Dane and Elaine Travis had seemed torn. Each of them had wanted to see their son, but both were also aware of the other's desire. Mark, surveying them through eyes which were blurry with fatigue, had noticed and taken pity on their plight, advising Dr Simpson that on this occasion the rule could be bent and that two visitors would not make much difference in the long run. This reminder of their son's grave condition had only deepened the lines of strain on the faces of both parents and as they left the room, Mark sighed, heavily.

During their absence, Mark had regained much of the equilibrium which had been lost so suddenly and in such a shocking manner. The combination of exhaustion, the stress of the procedure and the strain of operating on someone who was practically another son had taken its toll on him both physically and emotionally. His body and mind had reached breaking point during his harrowing description of Jesse's problems in OR and current condition and they had simply shut down. It had been Steve's strong arms which had held him upright long enough to get him to a chair and Amanda placed a cup of reviving coffee in front of him. He had sipped at it for several moments before he had even realised what he was actually drinking and when he did recognise it, it was all he could do to feel grateful for its restorative qualities - even if it was stewed.

Amanda and Steve had exchanged worried looks over the top of the bowed white head - neither of them willing to confront, for the moment, their reactions to the devastating news that Mark had imparted to them. Amanda, though, comprehended all too well the implications of Jesse's condition. Steve did not. For the moment, however, their attention was focused on the older doctor, their concern for his welfare very real.

It had taken a little while, but, gradually, a little colour had returned to his face, which had been bone white, and the frightening fatigue had diminished somewhat. He still looked drawn and exhausted but no longer seemed as though he had been to hell and back - even though he might as well have been.

Now all three sat at the table and it was Steve who voiced the question that his father had been dreading since his arrival in the lounge.

"Dad, what you said …" he began, hesitantly. "Jesse … He .. he's going to recover, right?"

Mark didn't want to answer this question; didn't want to face his son with the inevitable truth, but Steve had to know. Jesse was his best friend - hell, they were practically brothers. They were certainly a damn sight closer than Steve had been to his sister. They shared a bond which had always seemed indestructible, despite the occasionally silly quarrel and they had always counted on each other in adversity. They were complete opposites in nature - Steve, strong and serious, his outwardly taciturn demeanour concealing a dry sense of humour which emerged at the oddest times, whilst Jesse was vibrant and outgoing, his every emotion evident on the expressive features, his sense of fun reaching out to encompass them all in its warmth. He had been a breath of fresh air both at the hospital and in their lives and Mark didn't even want to contemplate the future without that radiant soul within it.

"Dad?"

Mark started, realising that he had been lost in his own thoughts for several minutes. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet those of his son's. Curiosity and fear vied for prominence within their depths and the older doctor had to regain a hold of his own raging emotions before he could answer his son's question.

"Steve, Jesse's condition is very serious," he said, bleakly. "I told you, we haven't been able to maintain his heart rhythm. That means we can't stabilise him. His heart gave out a number of times on the table and it could stop again at any time. We might get him back again the next time, or we might not. The loss of blood was severe and his body is having trouble coping with everything it went through. He's very weak, he's on life support and, frankly, I … I'm sorry, Steve, I just don't think he's going to make it."

If Mark had hit him, Steve couldn't have looked more stunned. The detective shook his head silently, his eyes wide with horror. "No," he breathed. "No, that can't be! You're … you're a brilliant surgeon, dad, the best one they've got here, apart from Jess … you .. you worked on him. You saved him. He can't - you can't just sit there and tell us that he could die now - after everything … he can't. He can't! Dad …!"

"Steve …" Amanda's soft voice stilled his anguished protest and he turned to glance at her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and her face was a mask of grief. It seemed to him that she was already mourning the loss of their young friend and he shook his head in denial.

"No," he said, in a low, angry voice. "No. Jesse can't die. Not after all this. Not after everything we've been through. He came through surgery. You said it yourself, dad. He survived surgery. And he will survive whatever's to come. He's a tough little guy, you know that. He's had to be to deal with everything that's been thrown his way through the last few years .. I am not going to give up on him - not like the two of you. As long as he's still breathing, then there's hope …"

"Steve, he's on life support." His father's voice, weary and hopeless, cut into his words. "He can't breathe on his own. His cardiovascular system suffered a traumatic injury and … " Mark's voice trailed off as he locked gazes with his horror-stricken son. He felt Amanda's hand covering his own, offering silent support even though her own heart was breaking. Her other hand had reached for Steve's and they had unwittingly formed a circle of support.

Steve felt the sob in his throat before it even emerged, realised his eyes were filling with tears as his vision blurred and tried desperately to tamp down the pain which was swelling in his heart, to no avail. Acceptance hit him hard as he stopped fighting against the terrible prognosis and he bowed his head, giving the despair free reign at last.

Despite Mark's grim prognosis, Jesse survived the night. As morning eased its way into the corners of the room, gentle fingers of light ghosting over the faces of those sleeping on the two couches, the door to the doctor's lounge opened and Mark trudged wearily in. His haggard features softened slightly at the sight of the two figures slumbering on the sofas at each end of the room and he made his way quietly across to the table, pouring himself a cup of steaming hot coffee before he did so.

He couldn't relax. His shoulders, although slumped from exhaustion, were stiff and tense and his mind wouldn't shut down. His entire body was like a coiled spring, just waiting for something to set it off. He had spent the last few hours with Jesse, watching the young doctor breathe - or rather watching the respirator as it breathed for him. He had barely been able to dredge up a smile for the ICU staff as they entered to regulate or administer IV medication, check monitors and adjust tubes and lines. Jesse was comatose, the normally vibrant young man completely immobile, the grey tinge to his skin tone not at all reassuring. His effervescent, lively spirit was nowhere in evidence and he looked lost and alone amidst all the machines which were required to keep him alive. Sitting beside him Mark couldn't help but reflect on what a lonely journey his young friend was on. Although the machines were helping to maintain his life and the staff were keeping a vigil on him, no-one could recover for him. It was very much down to his internal strength and his will to stay alive. Mark didn't doubt either strength nor will. What he did have serious qualms about was Jesse's physical energy, which had been so badly depleted as to be virtually non-existent. Almost without thinking, his fingers had strayed to the slender hand which lay, lifeless, on top of the bed. Engulfing that hand within his own, he had spent the next few hours alternately praying and trying to imbue Jesse with some of his own strength - ravaged as that had been.

The arrival of morning had brought with it the first vestiges of hope. Jesse certainly had not improved overnight - no-one had expected that. But his condition had not deteriorated either. For the first time since the surgery, Mark allowed himself to believe that he might possibly have been wrong about his young friend's chances. He didn't dare admit this aloud, for fear that it might jinx the situation, but with every hour which passed, Jesse's survival seemed more assured. There was still a multitude of things which could go wrong, however. He was still far too weak to sustain even the simplest of bodily functions; there were still major concerns about his heart and he had yet to show the slightest sign of alertness. There had been no response to stimuli and his colour had not yet returned to anything remotely resembling normal. But he was still alive, and Mark didn't know whether to attribute that to his prayers, his silent transference of strength or Jesse's own tenacity and his will to live. The older doctor had seen many miracles during his years in medicine, but as the early morning sunshine spilled through into the room, he reflected that he had never witnessed one so important to so many people.

He left his young protégé's room a few minutes later, making way for Dane and Elaine who had returned from a scant few hours sleep in a nearby hotel where he had ordered them the previous night. They looked like twin souls in torment on arrival in the ICU. He had delivered the news to them that Jesse had survived the night, bringing them the first glimmer of hope since the previous day's traumatic events. Dane had looked vastly relieved - his haggard features brightening considerably at the prospect of his son's recovery. Elaine had been more circumspect in her relief. As a doctor herself, she knew only too well the dangers which were still in store for Jesse and was not about to celebrate until he was truly on the road to recovery.

Mark had watched them enter the room, lingering for a few moments outside to witness them standing either side of the bed, staring down sorrowfully at their only child. Elaine had reached out to carefully and tenderly brush back a stray strand of blond hair from the pale forehead, her other hand covertly brushing away a tear as it trailed slowly down her cheek. Dane had seemed stoic, but when Mark had placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder before their entrance into the ICU, he had felt the fine tremors running through the other man, belying his cool outward demeanour. He had turned away then, making his way toward the doctor's lounge, reflecting that despite appearances and what Jesse himself had believed in the past, the young man's parents obviously loved their son to distraction - just like he loved Steve. They just weren't as adept at showing their feelings under ordinary circumstances. These, however, were far from ordinary circumstances and he prayed that, if Jesse should live, then this would bring the family closer together. Nobody deserved love more than his young protégé and he for one would silently cheer if out of this adversity could come a better relationship for Jesse with his mom and dad.

He was still contemplating this - and Jesse's condition, as he sat at the table in the doctor's lounge, sipping carefully at his steaming coffee. So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn't realise that someone was awake until the soft voice interrupted his musings.

"Dad?"

Startled out of his silent reflections, he looked up to find Steve levering himself upright on the sofa. The sight of his grown son yawning and rubbing his eyes like a tired 12-year old momentarily thrust him back in time to when the lean, wiry detective had been a 12-year old, doing the same thing and it brought a brief smile to his fatigue-lined face.

"What?" Steve demanded, as he stared blearily at his father, recognising the expression immediately. His dad had a tendency to reminisce about the strangest things at the oddest of times and he wondered what had prompted it this time.

"Oh, nothing," Mark said, regarding his offspring fondly. "I was just remembering something."

"I figured that," came the grouchy response. Then, "How is he, dad?"

Mark didn't have to ask who the 'he' was. There was only one person with whom Steve was concerned at the moment and it was inevitable that it should be one of the first questions out of his mouth. "He's … doing a little better," he replied, slowly, then, noticing Steve's mouth twitching into a smile, temporised, "but he's not out of the woods yet, Steve. He has a long way to go."

"But he's still alive, right?" Steve refused to be discouraged. "You didn't think he'd last the night, right? You thought he'd die and he hasn't … he's gonna be okay, dad. I just know it. Jesse is gonna be okay!"

"Steve, just because Jesse survived the night doesn't necessarily mean that he's going to be all right. There are so many things that could still go wrong, so many things ..." his voice tailed off as he heard his own words and the doom-laden quality within them. More than anything he didn't want to be saying this, not about Jesse, his friend, the younger son he had always wanted but never had. It seemed somehow blasphemous to be referring to him in this way. But he was a physician and surgeon and it was his job - and right now it was a job he hated with all of his heart.

But Mark's words of caution were not registering with Steve. All he understood was that his friend had beaten the odds and was still alive despite all of the gloomy predictions otherwise. In his mind, this spelled success and he wouldn't accept anything else.

Amanda woke a few moments later and, like Mark, tried to convince Steve otherwise. Also, like Mark, she wished she didn't have to. She wanted Jesse to live, too. She wanted that more than anything else. But they had to accept that the odds were still against him, even if they were diminishing the longer he remained with them. There were still other complications for him to face, besides, even if he did start to recover. Infection, renewed internal bleeding … anything could happen. They had to be prepared for it. But Steve refused to acknowledge that anything could impede his friend's recovery - she had never seen such staunch denial and it scared her. Because she didn't know how he was going to react if things suddenly went downhill and, despite everything they did, they lost Jesse after all.

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