Title: Mysterious Ways

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan.

Summary: "After a traumatic event, Woody's life is in danger and in his mind life goes on in a parallel universe. Now is Jordan's turn to save him."

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Chapter 1: In Sickness and in Health

It was three days after the shooting. The last words Woody had uttered before this nightmare began, I love you, were echoing in Jordan's mind like in a resonance box as she was looking through the glass wall of the hospital room at the intensive care unit of Massachusetts General Hospital. Woody was there, lying on a bed, fighting for his life, and she felt numbed by pain which seemed not to have an end. The air was rare. The lack of oxygen, the constricted space, the white walls and the aseptic scent were overwhelming. She was reflecting on how the snowball of the recent events had been growing until it crushed her, and she wanted to be anywhere but here, though at the same time there was no force on the planet that could make her leave this place.

Two days before, Woody had had a major surgery to repair his lung, and he wasn't awake yet. She wasn't allowed into his room because of some serious complications that they were going to explain to her today. This was the same hospital where Garret was staying, and although he still hadn't been released, he had been able to be with her since the incident. There he was with her at that very moment, and for that she was grateful.

The entire morgue family had been with her during the surgery, and after that they were coming to visit their wounded friend anytime they could. But Jordan hadn't left the hospital since the first day. She had made a vow, she had promised that she would wait for this man for whatever it took, and she was planning to be true to that promise. Her happiness, her life was at stake. She was using crutches because of her broken ankle, and that was uncomfortable but she didn't care. If it hadn't been for her friends, she would be in a deplorable state. Lily was bringing her a fresh change of clothes every day, and was making sure she ate. That was enough at the moment.

George was in that hospital too, and he was now out of danger, at the other side of the complex. James hadn't appeared since the incident. Rickman had died at the house, and Jordan had indicated to detective Seely where he could find the box with the maps. She wanted to introduce them as evidence of Rickman's motive for the murders he had committed. As far as her brother was concerned, she believed he might be exonerated for killing the major – they could plead legitimate defense.

After that day – the day of the shooting, and after Woody's surgery, she learned that Rickman was a suspect in her mother's murder, too. He had been like a malign shadow covering her life; he had taken away her mother, her grandma and she didn't want to even imagine he could take away her soul too, as Woody's life was endangered.

Max hadn't been informed about any of the recent events because nobody but Jordan knew how to contact him. She hadn't had any head for anything that wasn't related to Woody. Max hadn't called or anything, either, so he was forgotten.

Dr. Barrett, Woody's physician, headed toward them from the end of the corridor. "Dr. Cavanaugh, Dr. Macy," he greeted the ME's. "I'm afraid I don't bring you good news." Jordan's exhausted face revealed to him the inadequacy of this introduction, and he coughed.

"Why hasn't he woken up yet? What else is going on with him?"

Jordan's distressed voice hurt Garret, and he put his arm around her shoulder to show her he'd be there to support her, no matter what bad news Dr. Barrett had.

"You know, the lung that was injured – where the bullet caused epithelial rupture of the wall and contamination of proteins in bloodstream – had been repaired, but we haven't managed to put the infection under control yet." The doctor knew that these people needed more medical details than ordinary relatives, and he was struggling with how much they needed to know at this point. "It seems that his immune system doesn't want to work. He has problems to breathe, so we've put him on a ventilator; the bleeding caused by the infection hasn't really stopped, and we haven't been able to lower his fever." He decided that they weren't going to be satisfied if he didn't tell them the whole situation, so – after a short pause – he continued, "We're suspecting acquired aplastic anemia because his volume of packed red cells per hundred milliliters of blood is far below normal. We'll need a bone marrow examination, detection of GPI anchor membrane protein-negative leucocyte by flow cytometry, Ham test and the MRI of breast lumbar bone marrow in order to make a proper diagnosis. But you, as a doctor, should know that if we confirm aplastic anemia, and in this case a real severe one, the most effective therapy with anti-thymocyte globulin won't be as effective as bone marrow transplantation from an HLA-compatible sibling donor."

"Bone marrow tra… but how could it be, he hasn't been in contact with chemicals, and I know he doesn't do drugs; in fact, he hates them!" Jordan replied, alarmed. If this was that bad that they were already planning a bone marrow transplantation, Woody's state was worse that she'd imagined – a situation like this usually meant two or three months before the unavoidable end.

"However, Dr. Cavanaugh, in most cases of acquired aplastic anemia the cause is never found... I'm really sorry. But let's not take any of this too seriously before we do the tests; maybe there is some other cause of the infection…" Dr. Barrett finished. He knew that other causes were far behind, but he had to infuse these people with hope. This beautiful young doctor seemed to need some hope.

Jordan couldn't hold the tears any longer. "We need to find Cal," she uttered in a trembling voice. Cal hadn't been in the picture since the Albanian mob incident, and she didn't know where he could be living or what he could be doing; Woody hadn't told her anything about him. And although they could try a drug treatment or even search for compatible donors for the transplantation, Woody's best chance was his brother.

Garret hugged her tightly, trying to be reassuring. "We'll find him." It was a promise difficult to keep because even if they were able to find him, they needed to do it on time.

Meanwhile, in Woody's parallel universe…

Two entire days had passed since he was shot; it was the morning of the third one. He looked around the room, getting frustrated. From the golden rays of sunshine bouncing off the sterile white walls, one could say that it was going to be a beautiful day. And he had to stay in that damn hospital bed despite the fact he was feeling perfectly well. They had been able to treat the wound non-operationally. The bullet had nicked the liver, but it hadn't done a lot of damage. Dr. Barrett himself had told him last night that he would fully recover shortly. He didn't even need painkillers any longer. Well, almost. Why did he have to stay in bed, then? He swiftly threw the covers off, decisive to show them and himself that he was ready to go back to his normal life. No sooner had his feet touched the white tiles ("Why everything has to be so sickeningly white?" he wondered.) than he heard some commotion on the other side of the door and saw the knob turn. All his decidedness gone in a heartbeat, he promptly jumped back into bed, frantically trying to tuck himself in as well as he could. For, he had a hunch about who it could be that early in the morning, and he wasn't feeling like annoying that person, especially before her caffeine fix.

A tray with a big bowl of something that was still smoking and ominously smelled like hospital chicken soup (of which he had some dreadful memories dating from his last stay at Mass General) and an extra-large coffee-to-go entered first, followed by a chirpy, "Well, good morning, Detective Studmuffin!"

He blinked. The woman carrying the tray looked like Jordan, but the vocabulary, the tone and the as-sugary-as-they-go grin were… extremely uncharacteristic of her, to put it gently. Was she back to those crystal thingies? Or, was he hallucinating?

She carefully set her load down to the bedside table, and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Then she smirked, putting an end to all his questions.

"What were you doing while I was fighting dust bunnies at your place?" She smacked him on the arm. "I hijacked this," she motioned to the soup with her head, "from a ditzy blonde who was just explaining to her colleague how she was going to bring it to room 31." She paused a little. "To that studmuffin of a detective, ya know!" she added in a high-pitched voice before she let out a small, girly chuckle, obviously impersonating the perky nurse, who – by the way – had a very pleasant, soothing voice.

He grinned at her. "Why, Doctor, don't tell me you're j-e-a-l-o-u-s." The last word came in an almost singsong voice.

She smiled back slyly. "Why would I be jealous, Muffin? I'm gonna have you all for myself very soon," she informed him, underlying her words by tapping a finger against his chest.

"I actually prefer Stud," he retorted matter-of-factly, which made her snort. Before she had time to add a snarky comment to that unladylike sound, he pulled her in for a quick kiss. "And not that I mind you having me for yourself a bit," he told her after they separated, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, "but what exactly do you have in mind?"

"I had a chat with Dr. Barrett a few minutes ago. He told me he hadn't yet had the opportunity to see you this morning. And… he told me you could go home tomorrow or even later today." The Cheshire Cat would have been embarrassed by her smile. She had been so afraid ever since she felt his blood on her fingers that terrible day in her grandma's residence. Only three or four days in hospital… That was far better than she had expected.

His face immediately lit up, but he didn't manage to say anything because she continued.

"You will have to rest," she warned. "And you're not going back to work for at least two weeks.

His enthusiasm seemed to fade rapidly. That sounded as good as staying there.

"So, I was thinking something…" she went on. "It would be a good idea that you have someone to make sure that you're following the doctor's instructions and that all that housework is done. And… you should thank your luck because I volunteer for the position."

"Oh yeah?" The dimples appeared. This was better, a lot better. But she would be at work half the day, and their apartments weren't really close, and sometimes she would probably be too tired to come… "Just… wouldn't that be too tiring for you? Wouldn't it be better if you stayed with me for a couple of days?" He didn't know from where came the idea. Oh well, he did know from where the thought appeared, but not how he had the courage to voice it. Despite the fact that they were closer than ever and that she had even forgiven him for keeping things from her, she was still Jordan, i.e. one false step could ruin everything.

She stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds, and then asked, "Weren't you listening to me?" Seeing the expression of utter puzzlement on his face, she laughed and ruffled his hair a bit. "That bullet destroyed some brain cells, too? I am staying with you. In fact, I've already left a couple of things at your place." Then it occurred to her that that could be a bit too much too soon. After all, she hadn't talked to him about that. "I thought you wouldn't mind." Despite the effort, she sounded more cautious than casual.

As he wasn't exactly the most eloquent person in the world, he opted for showing her that he didn't mind it at all.

"I'll take that for 'On the contrary.'" she gasped out, flushed, quite a few moments later. "And, as much as I hate to break it to you, similar… activities aren't really allowed during the recovery."

He shot her an incredulous look, and she simply had to smile – he looked like a schoolboy who just found out that his parents were coming home a day earlier.

"But maybe, just maybe, if I assess your condition as… well, good enough…" Her voice trailed off as she turned to the table. "Eh, well, in order to recover," she started, taking the tray, "you will have to eat properly." She flashed him a beaming grin, knowing his hatred of chicken soup, but also knowing that this was for his good.

He made a grunting sound. Then, defeated, he took the spoon. "As you say, doctor."