Lonely No More

Chapter One

Summary: Desmond finds his destiny.

Rating: So far, PG, but could go higher

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost, Desmond, Jack, etc. That's all Abrams. Damn you, Abrams, damn you to hell! But not really. Cause I love you.

A/N: If this first chapter is confusing, it's supposed to be. Everything will be explained in due time, my precious. I was trying to make this story as "Lost-like" as possible.

Desmond ran with every little ounce of energy he could muster. He ran until his side ached and he felt like throwing up. He ran until, finally, he tripped over a fallen limb from one of the nearby trees. For a moment all he did was lay there, breathing heavily, and removed a gun from his pocket. He turned to lay on his back, staring up to the tree thicket above him.

He had on his usual Dharma jumpsuit, but the top half hung loose from his waist. His white undershirt was stained with mud and grass and grease. His arms were shaking and in the dim light of the dense jungle there were scars that seemed to be just healing over. One traveled the length of his forearm, but he had not cut so deep as to leave a permanent, visible scar.

Through the trees he could just barely see the sky, perfect and blue. He took in this view and pushed himself to his knees. He looked down at the handgun, felt the weight of it and how cold it was against his warm, sweaty skin. This was a bad idea and he knew it. Who would push the button? Vaguely he wondered if they would even send anyone if the countdown was allowed to zero. Or if there would even be anyone to send.

In truth, Desmond had almost let it happen once. It was a month after Kelvin had died and he could no longer take it, getting up every 108 minutes to press a button. He would always linger near sleep, but the warning would sound before he actually achieved a solid, restful state. He had finally had enough. While the alarm blasted around him, he just sat in the chair in front of the computer and watched the countdown whittle down to zero. But he had entered the code and pressed execute before it had even reached twenty seconds remaining.

Deep inside, Desmond had always been a coward. Yes, he had traveled the world alone, but all it took was the persuasion of Kelvin to keep him pushing that button, never trying to get off the island. Now he knelt, gun in hand, wondering if he would be a coward now. If he shot himself he was a coward, but, somehow, if he did not, he would still be a coward.

Jus' a li'l bit of pain, bruthah, and it's all over with.

Carefully, he took off the safety and thumbed back the hammer. Again, he just stared down at it. What if the world ended? It would be all his fault, just because he couldn't handle the loneliness. But even as he weighed the options in his mind he could not push aside the burning of his tired eyes, the fog that had long ago taken over his mind, and the terrible ache in his heart that he had not been able to shake since Kelvin had died. Without another thought he brought the gun to his head and shut his eyes tightly.

"Stop!"

A voice. His eyes flew open at once. There, standing just a few feet in front of him was girl, a young women really. Her hair was a long, straggly brown. From his distance from her, Desmond could see dark, passionate eyes. Her cloths seemed to either be too small or too big. She wore a dark shirt that may have once been tan, but was so covered with dirt and grime (and Desmond could have sworn he saw blood) that it was impossible to tell. She floated in the pants she wore, grey ones with the very bottom cut off just above the ankle. She had no shoes or socks on and her feet were caked with undetermined amounts of mud.

"Who- Who're you?" he stuttered, sitting up straighter then before. She moved closer to him, but only slightly. There was a deep silence hanging between them, which she used to, again, move closer to him. Soon, she was kneeling in front of him. Their kneecaps touched, the slight pressure of it and warmth sent goosebumps running down Desmond's arms. She looked into his eyes and opened her mouth to speak.

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Jack bent over the unconscious form of Sawyer, who had contracted a semi-serious infection in his bullet wound. Out of the corner of his eye was a flurry of movement. Bernard and Rose were still holding one another near the fire, where they had been since the tail section survivors had returned. Kate was hurriedly retrieving water, medicine, and whatever else Jack had asked her for. Ana-Lucia stood still like a statue next to him. What a mind-blow that had been, finding out that she was alive.

"Help me!" Came a shout from the cave entrance before Jack could dwell too long on the sudden appearance of Ana-Lucia and the other survivors. Jack turned, there was something familiar in the shout.

There stood Desmond, caked in mud and carrying something in his arms. It took a moment to realize that it was a person through all the blood and dirt that covered them both. It was a girl, young, probably early 20s. Jack watched as Locke came forward to help Desmond.

"Desmond, what happened?" asked Locke, putting his arms around Desmond in an attempt to keep the man upright.

"Boxman, I need the doctor, yeah?" he answered, out of breath. Locke lead him to Jack, who met them halfway.

"Bring her over here," ordered Jack, not even bothering with a hello. "Kate, I need you to clean her off for me, I can't see anything through this."

Kate hurried from what she had previously been doing to grab one of the nearby towels. Desmond laid the girl down carefully and it was only when Jack saw him supporting her neck that he remembered that Desmond had once told him that he had almost been a doctor.

Jack grabbed the small flashlight, pried open her eyes, and shined the dim light into them. The pupils dilated and there was a quiver in her brown irises. He leaned his head down and let it rest on her chest, a faint heartbeat met his ears. Kate joined him with the now wet towel and began wiping away the mess that covered the girl's face.

"Is she allergic to anything?" Jack asked Desmond, while grabbing a vial full of clear liquid.

"No, I don't think so," Desmond answered. He was holding tightly to the unconscious girl's hand. Jack filled syringe nearly half way with the liquid injected it into the girl's arm.

"How old is she?" Jack continued, ignoring the 'I don't think so' part of the answer.

"Twenty-three," replied Desmond.

"What's her blood type?" asked Jack. But Desmond did not answer him. "Desmond, what's her-"

Jack stopped mid-sentence upon looking at Desmond's face. He was frowning deeply and Jack could clearly see tears beginning to form in his eyes. There was a haunted look about him, an emptiness in his eyes that Jack had never in his entire life as a doctor seen.

"No," was all Desmond could manage. Jack looked down at the hand that was encased by Desmond's. It was limp and pale. Again, Jack put his ear against the unmoving chest, but this time was greeted with no sound at all.

"Dammit, she's not breathing," he said to no one in particular. He began chest compressions. "Kate, I need you to stop the bleeding."

"I would if I could, Jack," Kate answered, taking off the last of the dirt from one of the patient's arms.

"What do you mean?" asked Jack.

"There are no cuts," she answered simply. Jack stopped at once and looked at Kate, who held the bloody towel in her hand.

"What? That's not-" but, not for the first time, Jack was unable to finish. The girl's eyes flew open and she coughed with a terrible harshness. For a moment, Jack was flustered, his hands still poised on the girl's chest where they had stopped.

The girl wheezed as she took in deep breaths to fill her lungs. Everyone who had been close to the scene now stood back, mouths agape, and Jack was just as confused as any one of them.

"Desmond?" The girl whispered, her eyes searching. He bent over her and ran his dirty hand down her face and let it rest at the base of her neck.

"You gave me a scare, Alex. Told you not to do things like that to me, sistah," Desmond answered with a smile. It was at this that Jack tensed and someone came out of the throng of the surrounding people. It was Sayid, the same look on his face as was on everyone else's.

"What did you say her name was?" Sayid asked. Desmond knitted his brow, but answered anyway.

"It's Alex. Alex Rousseau."

To be continued...