A/N: I am a strong believer in the Indoctrination theory, so this is based on said theory. Hope you all enjoy!

Shepard pulled away from him as Grunt and Jacob dragged him back into the Normandy, and he struggled, trying frantically to get back to his Spectre.

"Shepard!" He shouted "SHEPARD!"

But his cries bounced back at him, reflected off the Normandy's hull, the echoes empty and hollow. Gasping for breath, he fought desperately. She needed him; she couldn't do this alone. Powerful hands held him back, preventing him from getting at the Normandy's hatch. All he saw, all he noticed was that gray-silver hull; it was all that stood between him and Shepard. He had to get free so he could go after her. He heard nothing for a long minute, saw nothing but that hull. All others were enemies; they had to be neutralized so he could get out and back to Shep. Wooziness hit him suddenly, and he staggered, falling to his knees. He heard Liara's voice then, soft and gentle, but undoubtedly worried.

"Garrus!"

He pulled at the hands holding him again.

"Garrus, you need to relax! If they don't stop the bleeding, you're going to die!"

"Shepard…" He moaned. A cool hand touched his cheek and he looked up into a pair of large blue eyes.

"Please, Garrus…"

He went still. Hands helped him onto a soft surface, but he stared only at Liara's face, at her eyes that were almost like Shepard's, but not quite. Her small hand slid into his.

"Tell Shepard…." His vision flickered dangerously, "tell Shepard I'm sorry."

He felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck as she nodded. The strength fled from his body, and his arms fell limp. As his sight faded, he dimly wondered if he had seen correctly, and if that had been a tear on Liara's cheek. Then sleep engulfed him, and he knew no more.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He woke up in a blank whiteness, with the familiar dull ache in his body and blank haze in his head of post-surgery. He moved against the blankets covering him, felt the tug of an IV in the back of his hand. He growled softly, his other hand jumping to the tube, ready to rip it out, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." An accented voice said calmly.

He looked up into the face of the Normandy's doctor, Kerin Chakwas.

"Why?" His question was short, hard, and dry.

"Because you did far more internal damage to yourself than we thought. More than one ruptured organ, multiple broken bones, plenty of burns. Not to mention massive internal bleeding. If you pull that out," she pointed to the tube, "you're going to cut off the painkiller, which is the only thing keeping the pain at bay."

He moved his hand away from the tube, staring up at the hospital lights.

"Where are we? The Normandy?"

"No. Joker took us out of range of the Reapers, and we set down at the nearest station. I stabilized you, then had others take over for me. I'm not an expert on turian anatomy, so I needed help with damage as extensive as yours."

"Where is everybody? Did you…" his voice stopped working as he realized what was missing. "Wh-where's Shepard?"

Chakwas looked at him, pain evident in her eyes. Garrus scrambled to get up, and the doctor tried to hold him back without success. He ripped free of the IV tether, desperate to get out of the hospital. Where he was going, he didn't know, but he just wanted to get away. It felt as though his heart was going to burst from the pain. He was howling; the agony was too great for him to bear, but the sound of his cry was distant, far away, as though happening to someone else.

An age passed in a moment. Then the moment was over and he collapsed, spent. His breathing was ragged and painful as he knelt there, choking on his own grief. A small, cool, strong hand gripped the back of his cowl, pulling him to his numb feet, and he blindly stumbled as the human guided him back to his bed. He vaguely registered the doctor speaking soothing nothings to him as she rested a hand against his arm. He ignored it, burying his talons in the soft blanket and trying to ignore both the pains from his wounded body and the knife in his heart. He wept without tears, his mandibles and teeth ripping into the pillow as his agonized gasps echoed through the still air.

The doctor stroked his cowl, trying to comfort him, and he felt a small sting. His eyelids suddenly drooped, and he fell back into peaceful darkness.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Chakwas staggered out of the ward into the waiting room, her hair tousled from wrestling with Garrus. Half the crew of the Normandy had gathered, with the exception of Grunt, Javik, and Zaeed, who, she was told, were still picking through the rubble. She felt a dozen pairs of eyes lock into her, the crew members waiting to hear what she had to say. Tali spoke up first, her voice tense and tremulous with worry.

"We heard him. Is he okay?"

"Physically, he's stable. But he's in terrible pain over his loss. I gave him a sedative so he could rest in peace, but if his psychological condition does not improve, then I can't say whether or not he will heal."

"We could still lose him."

Chakwas nodded grimly. "A person's ability to heal comes down to their immune system and their willpower. If someone with trauma like his doesn't want to get better or believes that he is doomed, then…."

She let the sentence trail off. There was no need to finish it.