It was very rare (although if you go to Wikipedia there were many incidents like his that has happened since time began and their stories were much more incredible than his will ever be). Hospitals make mistakes. Big ones, small ones, like spreading Hepatitis B to thousands of patients because of recycled unsterilized needles, accidental deaths because a doctor did not get enough sleep, or accidentally switching patient information because of poor organization. It's amazing what happens in hospitals. Tragedy, happiness, they all happen in that small space. The most incredible and unbelievable things happen. So unbelievable and rare in fact, the story can end up being front page news if the word got around.

There was a young man brought in earlier on in the night in one of those hospitals. They had all thought he was dead when they found him in some flat they traced through a mobile phone but then the morgue assistant noticed a vain twitching on the young man's arm about an hour later when the body was sent to the morgue for an examination. It was quite a phenomenal happening actually. It could have been an X-file for all the assistant knew because the young man had died from a subarachnoid hemorrhage, how the hell can he still be alive? The morgue assistant found out later on it happened before to this particular young man who a month or so ago died for three minutes and then his heart started up again. There was a commotion of course. The assistant who has never seen this kind of circumstance before was still in shock. After all, you don't really expect the dead to come back to life after they have been pronounced dead upon arrival.

The young man, alive but unresponsive, fighting for his heart to beat faster and for his brain to stop bleeding, was taken upstairs to begin the procedures of getting "fixed up", which meant complicated surgery done by the hands of neurosurgeons. They had kept good watch on him. Subarachnoid hemorrhage is the deadliest type of stroke but here was a young man who survived twice. Chance of rebleeding was very high and death was always the probable outcome. The boy was placed in the new ICU ward where he was put on tight surveillance. They had put him next to another unresponsive young man, who, like all the other patients in the unit who were recovering from neurological traumas, was suffering from the same illness, a young man with a common first name and an almost similar last name, almost the same features, and the same short and lean stature.

They didn't know what the hell happened. Another commotion late at night? An overlooked situation when one of the doctors just passed on through or one of the nurses just slashed a check mark here and a check mark there and because of some distraction, information of medical histories were switched around. What were the chances? It was the first time in the hospital's history something that tragically unimaginable had happened, the attorney can tell you that much. It was an occurrence, where the saying, "One in a billion" would have been appropriate.

When they got a hold of the father through an address found in the boy's flat, he was reluctant to see the dead son's body. He took a glimpse, said "yes, that's him," and quickly looked away. He said he's been through this before; years ago, when he witnessed the death of his first son. His good son. His favourite. And now his second son was dead. That was that. In fact, he already expected it. His ex-wife had said something about it all in the beginning but he didn't really believe any of it until he witnessed it happening to her and to his sons. And so the boy who died for three minutes and woke up, then died again for close to an hour only to wake up and scare the shit out of a newbie morgue assistant and then to go through the same cycle of death, was finally put to rest and soon to be buried by his father, who didn't even shed a tear, who didn't even look twice at the son he turned away long ago, who didn't even have a fucking baby picture.

It took them a few weeks to realize there was something very wrong. How could it have gone that long? The attorney wanted to know.

The boy was still in hospital, still living, still fighting. He woke up and didn't know why he was in hospital again. He was asked what his name was and when he didn't answer, an attendant, looking at the patient forms said, "It says here your name's Charlie."

"I can't see," the boy said. "All I can see are clots."

"It's alright Charlie. You're in hospital. It'll be alright, they'll fix you up in no time." replied the soft, understanding voice of the attendant.

"Name's Chris. Who's Charlie?"

There was blood behind the boy's eyes. He couldn't see a thing. There was so much blood, it started bleeding behind his eyes. The attendant called a nurse to look at the patient's information. "There's something wrong. He can't see. It's normal isn't it?"

It was then they knew. They had given the wrong child to the wrong father.

When hospital administrators told the father what had happened he thought it was a bad joke. He hung up a few times but when he was finally convinced he came back to hospital and there in front of him was his real son, with IVs connected (which seemed to him, everywhere) on his son's body. His son survived again. He conquered death yet again. It was a miracle. The father stood there looking down at his sleeping mirror image back when he was the same age, touched the thin arm, laid his hand on the cold forehead. It was flesh he had not touched since the boy was 12, the year he learned this son would be going through the same pain. The same illness. The year this son also learned the truth about himself and started to go down the path of drugs, theft and whatever the hell he got himself into.

That was six years ago. If he did not run away, would he still be looking at this son here in hospital? Would this son have turned out different, would he have been fixed? Would he have been a fuck up? He shook his head. He stopped thinking about "would bes" and "what ifs". Maybe now he had another chance to be part of this son's life.

After all, he realized only too late this son wasn't really a fuck up and would be the type to give anyone a chance. He understood it all after the funeral held for this boy who was… IS… still alive. ALIVE. The girlfriend had told him all about the boy. How he completely turned a corner. How funny he was. How he loved everyone. How this son's voice sounded similar to his. How his son would give his left eye right there on the spot if anyone needed it. What's the use for the left eye when you have a right one anyway would be the son's thinking. She told him about how much he loved to read about phenomenal people, how one day he would have wanted to break the world record for something. He wished he could have given this son a chance. And he realized as he was looking down at the boy, with the sounds of the boy's heart beat trough the heart monitor playing like music in his ears, he realized he WAS given another chance.

He didn't know exactly how many weeks it took until his son was fixed. They had called him almost a month after the funeral. But he knew after being with his sleeping son he knew he had to be there for him this time, even if it was just during visiting hours, even if his son couldn't really see him, nor able to talk to him, he knew it was time for him to stop being a fuck up too.

A day later his son was taken to the operating room for brain surgery. For hours he waited, five hours, six… wondering if he wasn't dreaming all this, if the phone call he received a week ago was really just a prank and he's here because he drank a little too much last night and the doctors and nurses were just playing with him because they pitied him. Maybe he should go home and sleep away the dream. He'll wake up the next day and realize it was nothing. Two of his sons were still in that cemetery, everything was normal. He'll go back to his silent house alone and be alone.

"Mr. Miles, everything went well. He'll be a wake in a little while."

"Is he all fixed?" He said, nervously, wondering why he asked the doctor a question he would ask a mechanic. "I mean, is he, will it.."

"There are no guarantees. But he's a brave man, your son. He doesn't want to give in."

His son's breathing was steady, there were staples on his shaved head from where the neurosurgeon drilled through his brain to stop the bleeding, there were more IVs, and the heart monitor was steady. He sat down on the chair beside his son, loosened his tie and waited.

He woke up the next morning when he heard his son groan, when his thin fingers drummed slowly on the bed and the first thing out of his mouth was the word, "Jal." His son said it to no one in particular. He said it with a heavy tongue and with heavy eyelids. It was funny, this thing about kids and love. He, himself never understood it but looking at his son right now with a slight, confused smile on his own face, he clearly understood how much the girl who cried for so long in that cemetery, meant to this boy.

"She's in University. The Royal College of Music," he answered slowly. It was the first time in six years he heard his son's voice.

His son turned his head slightly to look at him with those same eyes like Peter's; the same as his own. They looked tired and confused, his vision was still clouded from the clots. "Dad?"

He felt awkward now talking to this boy he turned away since the boy was 12. It was so easy just sitting beside the boy or waiting without speaking but now that his son was awake, he was a little nervous.

"How'd you find out I was in hospital?"

"They called me. You died for almost an hour. 51 minutes to be exact. And then you came back." He fidgeted slightly. He felt strange talking to his son this way. Like a normal person, like a father talking to a son. Thoughts circled in his head finding the right words but all that came out was a stuttered, "Are… are you ok?"

"Did you know the longest time someone was pronounced dead only to revive again was 45 minutes? That means I had beaten it."

"Wh..what?"

"Have you been here all along? Has Jal been here? How'd you know she's in Uni?"

So many questions all coming out from a boy who didn't understand or know what had happened. Where can he begin? What to say? How to explain? "Well you see, about that… There was a bit of a mix up…"

"A mix up?"

"Right. So um.. ." He tried to find the right words before he spoke. So far he sounded like an idiot, stuttering and filled with broken sentences.

"Can you tell me tomorrow? Can you tell Jal I'm all right?" His son said slowly. "I'm just… I'm just a little bit tired."

He went home that night in his silent house; quiet, dark, alone. He had no one now except for Chris and he had to make it right. He prepared the extra room in his house for his son. He didn't exactly know if his son would agree to stay with him until he got better or at least stayed until he got his vision back to normal. The doctor had said it would get worse before it got better. It was his last chance to redeem himself for all he chose to miss out on. But he wasn't doing it for himself anymore. He wasn't doing it for selfish reasons or because it will make himself look good in front of his friends and family, he was doing it for the son who deserved everything he was deprived of since he was 12 years old.

The next afternoon, in hospital, he waited for his son to wake up while pacing the floor. He took his jacket off, looked out the window and wiped the beads of sweat congregated on his forehead. He tried to stay as quiet as possible but his nervousness made him clumsy and almost knocked a small fishbowl he brought in days before to brighten up the surroundings. He was clueless of what to bring (you always have to bring something to hospitals don't you?), flowers were a joke to him, stuffed animals were useless things, so he thought of fish. At least the one thing he remembered from his son's childhood was how much his son loved fish. He remembered being dragged during weekends to the zoo just to see the aquarium. He remembered feeling annoyed. How many times did he have to see the same fish over and over again? How many times did his sons beg him to buy the blue fish they saw at the aquarium but never did?

When his son did wake up, he started explaining immediately. It wasn't worth waiting for him to ask about it. It was better to tell his son what happened right before more questions were asked. "It's not exactly easy to explain. I thought… I thought… it was a practical joke at first… I mean…"

"Listen Dad, I just woke up. I still don't know why you're here. I can't see very much but I know you're fucking holding something, looking like you've just pissed yourself. My brain's been drilled on, I've died twice, I've been stuck in hospital for what seems like years right? And so nothing's all fucked really, cause I'm still here, yeah? Whatever it is. It's not all fucked."

He took a deep breath and gave the fishbowl to his son. "Right. I don't know if this is the right one. It's blue that's all I remember. I didn't know what to bring so, well anything else is pretty bullocks isn't it? Can you see it now? It's the same isn't it?"

He didn't wait for his son's reply. He went straight through with the whole (despite what his son said about nothing was really fucked up) unbelievable, fucked up story. He realized of course that it in the end it wasn't so much as it being fucked up anymore it was just too surreal to really put a grasp to anything that has happened so far.

But he was just rambling in his own mind wanting to make everything make sense. He told his son about a phone call he received late one night from this very hospital about how "you died from a subaracnoid hemorrhage." He said taking a glimpse at his son who was staring at the blue fish swimming in its fishbowl.

"They showed me where you were, asked me to identify you and I told them it was you. I didn't really want to see. I took a quick look. First Peter, then you. I wanted to get it over with. All I thought about was how fucked up you were and it was eventual. There were fucking empty drug packets on your wall for fuck's sakes".

His son stayed quiet and he continued. He told him about his step mother leaving him taking his half brother with her, he told him about going through Facebook to find the address of one Sidney Jenkins who, instead of a picture of himself had a picture of Batman as his avatar. He told his son about banning his friends to the funeral because he thought they'd embarrass him. How because of that they had stolen his coffin and eventually put it back. He told him about how his friends showed up anyway, about Jal's speech and the fireworks. He never knew he said, how loved his son was. It took him a long time to realize it and when he sat with his girlfriend in that cemetery he wished he had another chance. He told him about the "mix-up," the phone call he received from hospital and that his son after all was alive.

"They stole my fucking coffin?" His son laughed a little, "that's fucking Ace. I wish I could have seen that."

"We chased them around most of fucking Bristol. But they got away."

"Even more fucking Ace. A car chase before my funeral. What can be better than that?"

He managed to let out a laugh as well. It was pretty ridiculous thinking about it. It was even more ridiculous when he gave up and asked the funeral director to think of another way to bury a coffin without a body inside. He was such a pathetic fucking arse. It was no wonder he ended up alone.

"So everyone thinks I'm dead." His son said with a sigh. "My girlfriend thinks I'm dead."

"Right. But I'm …"

"When did they say I can get out of here?"

"In a day or two," He fidgeted. He always fidgeted whenever he had to say something he wasn't used to. He was used to being unemotional so nothing can break him but his routine definitely turned all kinds of directions recently. "I've prepared a room for you at the house. You know, it's umm. quiet and you need quiet and rest and a lot of rest and. I mean… it's all up to you. If you want to stay or not. It's your choice."

His son looked at him, again with those same eyes like his, holding the small fish bowl on his lap. His son seemed to be analyzing him wondering if what he was saying was true, but his son was the type to give anyone a chance right?

After a while, his son smiled a small smile and gave him a nod. He felt himself sigh with relief. He never knew how wonderful relief can feel. He turned to leave. He said he had to get everything ready.

"Dad?" his son called before he was able to turn the knob. "This is the right fish. How did you find it? It's rare you know."

"Right. I guess when you really try and look for it you'll find it. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

He left hospital with a feeling he never felt before. Fulfillment maybe? Happiness? He didn't exactly know because he's never felt this feeling before. It was a different feeling than falling in love or seeing your three sons being brought home from hospital or finding extra quid in your pocket when you least expect it. It was just something he couldn't explain and for once in his life, coming home to his house where it truly defined his pathetic existence in such a manner which made him depressed, he didn't feel at all like taking a drink and getting pissed or watching the telly and stuffing himself to death. He felt like for once in his life he had a purpose. And for once in his life he felt useful.

The next day, he took the bus to London where he eventually ended up in South Kensington right in front of the glorious, old, and intimidating red brick façade of The Royal College of Music. He didn't know where to start to look; it was like finding that one white rose between millions of red ones. He searched, asked questions, made hand motions to mimic playing the clarinet to the students he passed by, which he really didn't need to do in a college whose students not only knew what the fuck the clarinet was but can show you a large collection of old clarinets in its museum.

By half past two, he'd been searching for more than three hours but he was determined. Like he told his son, if you really try and look for it you'll find it. He walked, sat, cursed himself, cursed the students who didn't know who the fuck Jalander Fazer was… but as he passed a bench looking out over the greens, he found her walking towards the front of the college. He blinked a few times, wondering if she was just some image of his imagination, if his brain was just tricking him, but it was definitely her. He was sure of it. The one white rose.

He ran, trying to catch up before he missed her. "Jal!" He yelled. "Jal. Wait."

If it wasn't her then she wouldn't turn around and wonder who the nutter was that was calling. If it was her she'd stop and if it was her she'd listen.

"Jal?" He said again and this time she turned around.

It was definitely her alright. The smart, pretty girl his son somehow managed to snag. He couldn't help but smile and again felt himself sigh with relief.

"Mr… Mr. Miles." She said confused.

"Jal." He said again, catching his breath.

She touched his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I've been looking for you. You don't know how long. But that's not important. I'm… I'm just glad I found the white rose."

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head. He fidgeted again. He wondered if there were any pills to stop being so fidgety at the most crucial moments. "Never mind. I… I just have to tell you something. Do you mind? Is there someplace we can talk?"

"I have a class in 10 minutes… Is it important? Is there anything wrong?"

He shook his head. "It's about Chris."

The girl dropped her hand from his shoulder. Her face fell and she looked away from him. "Chris…" she repeated.

"Yes… you see, it's a little hard to explain but there was a bit of a mix up… A big mix up."

"A mix up?"

"He's in hospital. He's alive."

Author's Note: I haven't written any fanfiction in over 3 years until now only because I wanted something else to happen in the end and because Graham Miles never really "looked" closely did he? haha. I just think Jal/Chris are cute and since that scene where she chased him all the way to the cemetary in Series#1 - I knew it was meant to be. Oh well, I'm a sucker for all things cute and angsty - though when I was taking Creative Writing classes in college my Professor told me to stop being so morbid because I kept writing stories with a main character dying in the end. He said, "Listen Cindy, not all people die in the end ok? Think about it." So yeah - I'm taking his advice to good use.