Consciousness comes slowly, then all at once, and suddenly John's jolting back to awareness, grit stinging his eyes and itching like mad in places he doesn't even want to begin to think about.

Darkness presses down on all sides, so utterly black and endless that John blinks a couple of times, wondering with a stir of panic if he's gone blind. He can feel a warm wetness trickling down the side of his face, tickling against the bridge of his nose.

The pain comes after, a radiating throb that spreads from the center of his chest to his arms, his head, his le-

John sucks in a deep breath, then breathes in dust and coughs painfully. He can't feel his legs.

Shit, he's back in the raid again, Pelham at his side and blood, so much red pouring from what's left of his leg, fog and smoke and flame everywhere-

He can't move, can't see, there's something just inches above him, solid stone on either side. His right arm is trapped against his side, oddly numb, but his left is bent by his head and still has a limited range of motion. John wiggles his fingers experimentally, wincing when he bumps his elbow against something unyielding, and gropes upward with his free hand. He can't even tell if his eyes are open or shut, random synapses firing in his brain and sending white sparks fizzling across his vision.

His hand meets fabric, stretched over a smooth surface that gives way a little when he pushes harder, and John frowns.

"Hi." The whisper is low, oddly grinding, and John would jump if he could. As it is, he sucks in dust again and chokes briefly, his chest heaving and brushing against whatever's suspended above him.

"Dorian….that you?" John croaks, not trusting his voice. He plucks at the fabric and tries to feel more, but his hand can only reach a few inches of what he soon realizes is Dorian's shoulder.

"Sorry," Dorian says again, and there's definitely something wrong with his voice. It sounds like the first time John heard him speak, metal scraping against metal like rusty gears. "I can't move off your legs."

"I've still got legs, then?"

"Last I checked," Dorian says gravely, and for a second, John almost forgets that they're trapped beneath what feels like the entirety of the warehouse. As far as he can tell, Dorian's half lying on top of him his knees digging into John's thighs and his arms just barely managing to keep his torso off John's face.

"Okay." John closes his eyes, though it doesn't make much of a difference in this blasted dark. "Okay," he says again. "Now what?"

Dorian's silent and John pokes at him the best he can. His thumb comes across something smoother, and he pauses with his hand bumping against the side of Dorian's face. "D, you there?"

"My battery charge is….running low," Dorian says. "I'm trying to redirect sixty-four percent of my currently functioning power to keeping approximately six hundred, seventy-four pounds of cement from crushing us both."

John blinks uselessly and drops his hand back to his side. "Oh."

"Approximately."

"Well, that's…..that's good, then. Could be less." He tries to keep his tone light, but he's never been optimistic and, to be honest, this looks bad. "Back-up?"

"I don't know." Dorian pauses, and John feels him shift slightly, sending a tiny fall of gravel pattering down around them. "I can't get a signal."

Somehow, that makes John want to laugh, and he quells the urge hastily. It'll hurt too much, for one- he suspects that there's something wrong with his ribs, the way his right side twangs sharply whenever he takes a breath.

The numbness is starting to wear off now, giving way to the small and not-so-small pains throughout his body, and he tries to shrug his right arm experimentally. Pain rockets through the joint of his shoulder, edging right on through to agony, and he freezes, a noise of discomfort escaping before he can catch himself.

"John?" Dorian whispers, his voice edged with concern, and John lies very still, waiting for the waves of jagged pain to ebb away.

"Ow," he finally says, aiming for mildness and missing spectacularly. "Bad idea."

"John, are you hurt?" Dorian asks, louder now. "I can't scan you, I can't see-"

"I'm fine," John says, slightly surprised by Dorian's panic. It occurs to him then that while he's been in situations like this before, Dorian hasn't. At least, not while they've been together. John thinks back to his Academy days and tries to remember what they always told the recruits. "Buck up," he attempts, then feels stupid.

Dorian laughs anyway, a quiet chuckle that- thank God- doesn't shake his body. "I'll try." John feels the tiny puffs of air skimming across the top of his head and feels his mouth twitch in response.

"Hey," he says after a short while. Time passes oddly like this- he thinks it's only been a few seconds, but it could just as well have been whole minutes. "You think you could…..disco it up a bit in here?"

Dorian's quiet for a second, then answers, "No." He sounds almost regretful, almost….something else, but John's too busy feeling relieved. Part of him was wishing the answer would be a no anyway; seeing how completely screwed they are would only make it that much more real.

"All right." John moves a bit and grunts when his shoulder screams again. There's something wet, he thinks vaguely, something warm and wet, and now his shoulder's pulsing unsteadily with every heartbeat, dull pangs shooting down his otherwise dead limb. Something's wrong about that, he decides, except he can't seem to pull his thoughts together to make the right words…..

"…n. John!"

"Mmm?" John slurs, blinking sluggishly. There's an edge of urgency to Dorian's voice that's setting off little alarms, but John's having too much trouble remembering how to think straight to be concerned.

"You blacked out."

"How lame." John closes his eyes, bracing himself before twitching his shoulder again. This time, he grits his teeth through the pain, confirming grimly that there's definitely something skewering him to the ground. "Damn," he offers weakly. "Think I'm stuck."

"I'm sorry."

"Pff," John huffs exasperatedly. "Not….your fault."

Dorian goes quiet again and John wonders just how much energy he's having to divert into keeping the two of them from being squashed like insects. He's glad for it, but the radio silence is starting to bother him- in this dark, only the sound of his own breathing is keeping him from slipping off the edge of sanity, and only just barely.

The next few breaths are more difficult, and John suddenly realizes that soon, air might become more than a bit of an issue. As if sensing his concern, Dorian says, "There's about fifteen minutes of air left. If you're conservative about breathing."

"Just once….." John croaks, trying to repress an extremely unhelpful bout of panic, "….could you be a bit more precise?"

"Thirteen minutes, forty-eight seconds. Please don't panic."

"….'m not….I'm not panicking." Just breathing a little faster now that he knows there's not much of it. Calm down, John snaps at himself. You're no use like this. 'Course, he's already not much use to begin with, pinned down like this.

"John, look at me."

John snorts halfheartedly.

"You know what I mean," Dorian amends, but John can hear the smile in his voice. "Don't lose your head."

"Don't you….tell me….." He's having trouble concentrating again, probably due to an alarming amount of blood loss and physical trauma.

"You're going into shock. Focus."

"Trying." John reaches up hesitantly with his free hand until he feels fabric again, and he clings on to the torn edge of Dorian's jacket. Something drips on his cheek, startling him, and he frowns uncomfortably as it rolls slowly off the side of his face. "What…..what was that?"

"Nothing," Dorian answers smoothly. "Keep talking. It'll help."

"Air," John reminds.

"You have eleven minutes. If you pass out from shock, I can't help you." Dorian's voice wavers a bit, but John's not sure if it's just his own imagination. "Say something."

"Uh." John tries to think of something to say and comes up with nothing. "You think…..think they're coming for us?"

"Explosion might have tipped them off," Dorian says wryly.

"Right." It's starting to come back now in fuzzy bits and pieces. Making the raid. Tagging most of the dealers…one crazy son of a bitch igniting the fail-safe and then-

His shoulder flares up excruciatingly, and John fights the urge to curl in on himself, his hand jerking free from Dorian's jacket and skimming down his chest-

John freezes, his fingers brushing against something hard, slick, and ominously pointed. "D….?"

"Don't worry about it," Dorian tells him calmly, his voice only fizzing out a bit at the end.

"Don't worry about it?" John repeats incredulously. If he had more strength, he'd be royally pissed off. He fumbles at the object protruding from Dorian's torso, gingerly feeling out the good four inches of what feels like a steel rod, about two centimeters across. The sides are ridged, like a screw, and John frowns worriedly when he feels the greasy fluid covering the tip.

His frown only deepens when he realizes why Dorian's been adamantly keeping his upper body as far away from John's as possible, despite the awkward angle. Any lower and John would have much more to worry about than a mangled shoulder.

"Dorian."

"It's not as bad as it looks," Dorian assures him.

"Bullshit, you can't see a thing either," John accuses. He's in too much pain to be properly angry, but it burns in his gut nevertheless. "Why didn't you say-"

"It doesn't matter," Dorian says. "You're going to be okay."

"I'm- I'm not the one who's been impaled!"

"I've had worse," Dorian says, so deadpan that John can't tell for sure if he's joking or not. At the moment, he doesn't care which.

"Damn it, Dorian-" In his overexcited state, John starts coughing again. Each spasm tugs at his arm, and there are tears in his eyes by the time he can breathe again. Belatedly, he wonders how much air he's used up from that.

"I can still hold it up," Dorian says quietly. "Don't worry."

"Idiot….'s not what I'm worried about," John says irritably. He plucks helplessly at the sodden fabric around the rod. "Does it…hurt?" he asks, almost dreading the answer. To be honest, he's a bit in awe that Dorian's even talking, but…..thinking back on it, he supposes Dorian really has seen worse. What this says about their partnership, he has no idea.

There's a deep rumble above them, and John holds his breath unthinkingly as he listens to the sounds of rubble shifting around them.

"Don't think about it." Dorian's voice is aggravatingly steady and John latches onto it desperately. "Think about how pissed off you are instead."

"Oh, I am," John chokes out, then coughs some more as a new cloud of dust descends down around them. He's dizzy and lightheaded when the rubble settles, but he's still aware when Dorian's arms suddenly quiver on either side of him. "What's wrong?"

Dorian doesn't answer, but a few more drops of goop land on John's cheek and he swears he feels the end of the rod brushing against his chest.

"Dorian?" John demands.

"Digging," Dorian says. His voice is nearly incomprehensible with static, and John glimpses a sickly scattering of yellow-green light above him before everything is dark again.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters, when the rocks around them start shaking again. More thick fluid drips onto his cheek, and he brings his hand up in concern, laying it against Dorian's torso. It's closer than it was just a few moments before, the sharp rod actually digging into his skin enough to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Dorian says again, his voice small, and John growls in frustration, thumping at Dorian's chest with a closed fist before realizing that might not be such a good idea right now.

"Shut up," he whispers harshly, hoping that whoever's up there digging will move their asses along a little faster. "Shut up, we're gonna be fine-"

"You," Dorian corrects.

"Shut up," John repeats helplessly. His voice is rough, scraping painfully at his throat. More dust falls, accompanied with a shower of stinging gravel, and John groans when whatever's pinning his shoulder down tears at the wound.

"John," Dorian starts, and even now he's still worried about the wrong person. John opens his mouth, ready to start laying it on him, when his shoulder's jarred again and his reprimand turns into a pathetic whimper instead.

"I'm fine," he gasps, tasting bile on his tongue as he struggles to keep conscious.

"You're not-" Dorian's voice cuts off abruptly, and John squints fruitlessly into the darkness.

"Dorian….?" All the shifting rubble has made their tiny pocket even smaller, and his left arm can't move as far anymore, but he strains upward anyway. He can just barely reach Dorian's collar, his fingertips brushing the edge of Dorian's jaw. "This isn't funny, man."

He hears a distant metallic grinding above him before the rocks tremble again, and John gives a shout of pain and shock when he feels the rod break skin, stabbing into his flesh. He shoves ineffectually at Dorian with one hand, fingers scrabbling at the slab of stone behind the android's head. Increased pressure from above, he thinks fuzzily. Pushing down on them.

"Dorian," he whispers harshly. He coughs wetly and tastes copper as the convulsion brings the rod deeper inside him. His hand finds his way back to the side of Dorian's face. "Please, buddy, you gotta-"

The grinding sound is louder this time, and John nearly blacks out again. Spots of light dance behind his eyelids, the bottom of his stomach dropping before struggling back into place. When he opens his eyes again, one of the spots doesn't go away, and he stares up at the light in disbelief. It's faint, barely there, but it's there, just far enough to be out of reach.

"Dorian," he says again. He can just barely glimpse Dorian's shoulder, everything else still hidden in shadow. The pain's gone, he notes faintly, and that's definitely not a good sign. If anything, he's just cold now.

A trace of blue rolls beneath where his thumb digs against Dorian's cheek, and John tries to pull himself together. "D."

Dorian whispers something, but his voice is so mangled by now that John can't tell what it is. He thinks it may be his name.

Another world-shaking shudder and the spot of light grows wider. John blinks at it, wondering why it's turning dark again when he knows the light is there. His shoulder…can't feel it much anymore, and he doesn't really care. Who needs it anyway….he's already got a bum leg…..one more bum arm ain't gonna….ain't gonna mess him up any…

One final jolt, and then everything's on fire, heat ripping through his frozen body and tugging him up and away. Everything flickers black, then his head's tipping back and John finds himself staring up at the pale blue sky.

It's nice, he thinks, and then he stops thinking completely.

…

The voices come and go, touching so briefly on his consciousness that John's not sure if any of them are real. Somewhere in the darkness beneath the rubble, he's lost all sense of time and perception, and with that wandering thought, he jerks awake.

A massive wall of pain crushes him instantly and he tenses with a weak groan before flopping back limply again. The nurse adjusting his IV line looks down at him impassively, then humphs and gently adjusts the sheets back over his lap.

John blinks at her, trying to sort his thoughts in order. He opens his mouth and gives an unimpressive croak.

"The doctor will be right in," the nurse tells him. She starts to move away and John struggles to lift his hand from the bed. His fingers feel about fifty pounds each and he fumbles clumsily at the hem of her pale pink scrubs.

"My partner," he rasps, proud that he managed to string three syllables together.

"The doctor will be right in," she repeats, but her eyes are soft when she peels his hand away and lays it back at his side. John watches helplessly as she leaves, the glass door sliding shut behind her.

He takes the time to take stock of his numerous aches, beginning with the thick white bandaging around his shoulder to the wad of gauze around his middle. He frowns slightly and feels the stiff tug of stitches on his temple, marking a cut he wasn't even aware he had. Looking down takes effort and makes his head swim, and he blinks down at the mottled bruises patterning his bare chest, extending down to where the sheets are tucked around his waist.

The doors open again, and John raises his head too quickly, wincing at the resulting whirl of dizziness. "Goddammit," he says thickly, and the doctor offers him a vague smile.

"You're a very lucky man, Detective Kennex." She glances at the chart at the end of his bed before moving to his side and probing at his bandaging with brisk, light fingers. "How are you feeling?"

John thinks briefly. "Like hell."

"Pretty apt, actually." She pokes at his shoulder a little too hard and John bites back a curse. "From what I've heard, the only thing that kept you alive was your partner."

John grabs her wrist before she can pull away. "Where is he?"

The doctor stares at him with the mild exasperation reserved for the more difficult patients. "Detective Kennex, I have absolutely no idea."

John releases her, momentarily abashed, and watches as she finishes taking his vitals and then picks up his IV line. "What's that?" he asks warily, when she lifts a syringe full of clear liquid.

"Something to let you sleep." She injects the fluid before he can protest and offers him a sympathetic smile. "Take your mind off things."

"I don't want…." John scowls at her, his tongue feeling heavy and useless in his mouth. "Ughmnnh."

"Good night, Detective." The last thing he feels is a pat on his hand.

…

"Are you awake?"

The voice is clear, mild, and altogether too familiar. John's still struggling from the vestiges of sleep when he hears the words, and he frowns, trying to muster up the strength to open his eyes.

"That's okay. I know you are." He hears the sounds of Dorian settling into the bedside chair. "You can just listen for now."

Dorian clears his throat, an oddly human gesture. "I'm sorry."

"Shuddup," John groans, wrenching one eyelid up and squinting grouchily. The silhouette of his partner swims slowly into view, and John takes in the new jacket, the clean shirt underneath, both devoid of dust and indigo fluid. Something settles in his chest when he sees Dorian there, an unease he didn't realize was there until it was dispelled. "Lookin' good. Better, anyway," he amends.

"John." Dorian's smile is wide and sincere, relief palpable in the way he leans closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"What do you think?" John pries his other eye open and yawns carefully, feeling his jaw pop in and out of place.

Dorian looks contrite and opens his mouth. John cuts off the apology before it can form and glares as best he can with his bruised and swollen face.

"It's not your fault. You saved my damn life, D, it's nothing to be sorry for."

"I couldn't hold it up," Dorian says uncertainly, his eyes dropping to John's torso.

John grunts dismissively. "You got the worse end of it," he says. "So how about you? You all patched up?"

Dorian looks down at himself, as if surprised by the question. "Rudy's done a few repairs, but he's waiting for more parts to come in. He was angry," he adds, with a hint of affection.

"Can't blame him," John mutters. He plucks distractedly at his sheets. "Let me see," he says impulsively, and Dorian blinks at him a couple of times.

"What?"

"I want to see," John repeats, gesturing before he can change his mind. "C'mon. Humor the cripple here." They've taken his prosthetic leg away, leaving an awkward gap beneath the sheets, and as far as he can tell, no one's had the courtesy to leave him any manner of transportation.

Dorian pauses and gives John a careful, measuring look. "It's not pretty."

"If I wanted pretty, I wouldn't be asking," John grumbles. "Up and at 'em."

Dorian looks at him a moment longer, then cocks his head and stands, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it neatly on the back of his chair. John shifts in his bed, grimacing at the dull throb from both his injuries, and watches as Dorian pulls his shirt over his head, bundling it hesitantly in his hands. "So?" he asks cynically, holding his arms out for inspection.

John stares at Dorian's chest. There's a thin patch of silicon plastered onto his chest, about halfway down his sternum, but the gaping hole beneath it is clear. Even as John watches, Dorian shifts his weight and something sparks behind the patch.

"It's temporary," Dorian says, sounding almost self-conscious. "Should be back on duty next week."

John reaches out without thinking and traces the edge of the path. It feels odd, smooth like the rest of Dorian's synthetic skin, but cooler and less…less alive, as little sense as that makes. Faint blue light follows the path of John's finger, and he wonders if Dorian's even aware of it.

"Got you good, didn't it?" he murmurs, looking at the hole dubiously. "You're like a…..like a donut," he realizes, grinning before he can help himself. "Chocolate donut."

"Please," Dorian says flatly. "Spare me." But there's a smile playing on his face when he ducks his head and pulls his shirt back on.

John yawns again, wondering what the hell the doctor had given him. Good stuff, is what….he blinks, and realizes from Dorian's amused expression that he must be saying all that crap aloud. "Ugh."

"Go to sleep, John. Get better." Dorian's head tips a little to the left in consideration. "You're a donut too, you know," he says conspiratorially, tapping his own shoulder.

"Huh?" John blinks befuddledly. The world's going fuzzy again, running out from between his fingers. He turns his head towards Dorian, squints at the blue eyes and wry smile.

"I'll be here," Dorian says. "You know that, right?"

John frowns, his last act of voluntary motion. "Don't be stupid," he says, fighting to keep his mouth moving to the end. "'Course I did."

He falls asleep to the sound of Dorian's quiet laugh.