Burn Notice: I don't own it, I just like to play with it.

This idea came to me this morning, thinking about what happened to Sam in "You Can Run" and "Game Change," between the time Michael brought Sam into the emergency room and the point where Riley tried to get information out of him by torturing him with the stimulant. So this is my take on what might have been.

The Long Fall

By WritePassion

It had been a little over twenty four hours since Sam was shot, and although the bullet was removed, he was still in severe pain and if he moved around too much the wound resumed bleeding. He was weak from the blood loss and pain and was pretty much useless to the team. So when Michael wanted to draw Riley out, Sam came up with the perfect solution. It allowed them to throw up a flag and get her to bite, and at the same time Sam would receive the medical care he needed.

No one thought about what might happen afterwards, but surely Michael would work that out later. If not, Sam figured he was doing Mike and the others a favor. He would no longer serve as a weight dragging them down, preventing them from escaping. He might lose his freedom, but if his friends gained theirs, the gamble would be worth it.

Michael helped Sam walk through the emergency room doors, half dragging him, while Sam pressed his hand to the wound that bled through another one of his good shirts. Elsa would be upset, because it was one of her favorites. The pressure of his hand didn't hold back the flow, but when his eyes scanned the people with less obvious issues waiting for care, the looks on their faces told him that it was best to shield them from the graphic appearance of his wound. A woman stared, her eyes full of shock. Other people craned their necks in curiosity to see the bleeding man approach the reception desk.

The nurse hadn't looked up yet. She just felt a presence before her and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Hey sweetheart, how're ya doin? I guess I need to see a doctor."

The woman asked, without looking up, "What's the nature of your injury?"

Michael answered her, "He got shot." Suddenly, her eyes were on Sam.

"Yeah, I was cleaning a gun and it went off. It was the damndest thing," Sam said, attempting to make it sound less serious than it actually was.

The woman jumped out of her seat, she said, "Wait right here, sir, I'll go get a doctor."

While they waited, Sam glanced around the emergency room. People stared at him. He would have preferred to not have the attention, especially since he was feeling a bit light-headed and might pass out if the nurse didn't hurry back with a gurney. Collapsing to the floor with all those eyes fixed on him would be embarrassing. Michael looked at him, concern and fear in his expression. He was afraid that his plan might not work and that Sam would be arrested and they might never see each other again. No, it would work. They had to believe that. Somehow Sam would have to sell his story, because if the cops got wind of how he was shot...

The sound of several pairs of rubber soled shoes came around the corner, owned by a doctor in a white lab coat and two orderlies in scrubs. Sam was never so glad to see a gurney in his life. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his skin, and he was starting to sense a case of the shakes coming on. He would have given Mike a farewell hug, but it would be awkward in this situation. Not to mention the fact that Sam didn't want to bleed all over his friend.

"Alright, this is it Sam. Are you ready for this," Michael asked.

"Yeah, I get the easy job. I get to lay in a bed. You get to deal with Riley."

"Take care, Sam." What he didn't say was, we'll get you back safe. I promise. They'd known each other so long, some things just didn't need to be spoken.

"Just lay down here, sir, and we'll get you into exam room one."

"Exam room one." Sam's grin was weak. "I like the sound of that."

Cool hands guided him to lay on the gurney, and he let out a labored breath. It felt good to be horizontal. As the orderlies pushed him toward the exam room, Sam raised his fist, his thumb up, signaling to Michael that everything would be okay. The ceiling seemed to whizz by faster than the conveyance actually moved, and it made him dizzy. To ease his discomfort, Sam focused on the doctor who looked down at him with concern in his eyes.

"I'm Doctor Pabst."

Sam let out a soft snort. "Like the beer, huh?"

Dr. Pabst looked as if he'd heard that one a million times. "Can you tell me your name, sir?"

"Yeah. It's Chuck. Chuck Finley." It was safe enough to use the alias, since the driver's license in his wallet bore that name. He wasn't sure where his passport had gone, but at the moment it didn't matter.

"Mr. Finley, can you tell me how this happened?"

Sam closed his eyes, unable to look the doctor in the eye and see the moving ceiling tiles beyond his face. He swallowed and answered, "I was cleaning a gun. I thought I unloaded all the rounds, but…" He let out a soft, nervous chuckle, careful not to add to his pain. "Apparently I missed one."

"Yes, apparently," the doctor responded with a tone of disapproval.

Probably one of those pacifist gun control nuts, Sam thought. If only he knew what some people dealt with on a daily basis….

The gurney turned and the corner bumped into the door frame. The shockwave jostled Sam, and he dropped his forearm over his eyes. He listened to the sounds of people moving around the exam room, and his nose picked up the signature odor of disinfectant.

"Alright, Mr. Finley, we're going to lift you onto the bed now," one of the orderlies said.

Sam nodded. Hands gripped him under the shoulders and at his calves, and the men transferred him with very little fuss to the cool crisp sheet covering the mattress. He opened his eyes now that he'd stopped moving and blinked against the glare from the overhead lighting. The doctor moved it so it was less intrusive.

"Better?" He smiled at Sam.

"Yeah. Thanks."

To his right, a nurse placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm and squeezed the bulb. He always hated the way those things cut off his circulation, but it was only temporary. The pain from his gunshot wound, however, had been a lot more enduring and torturous. The medication Campbell gave him had worn off a long time ago. When the paramedic left to work his shift, Sam had no more access to the pain pills. He was in a hospital now, where a whole other crop of pain-numbing chemicals waited just for him. In the meantime, however, he had to suck it up and wait.

"BP is ninety over sixty, pulse is eighty two," the nurse reported as she stripped off the cuff. She slipped a plastic clip onto his finger, attached the lead to a board, and turned it on. Numbers appeared, giving the medical personnel a constant monitor of his vitals.

Sam lay on the bed, silent, waiting for more questions. He knew enough to be aware that the blood loss was creating problems again. Despite the transfusion Mike gave him he was still lacking, as evidenced by his blood pressure and pulse. His body shuddered and he sensed unconsciousness creeping to the edge of his awareness. He should just let himself go, but he was too wary and curious to see what they would do, especially when the doctor examined him and found no bullet in his gut.

This was something that wouldn't be easy to explain. As it was, the incision that Dr. Jed made to remove the bullet was pretty obvious. He and Mike discussed it in the van on the way there, but they didn't come up with a good enough explanation. Sam would have to wing it, or fall back on taking advantage of the shock to obscure his recollection of the event.

Someone stuck him with a needle, and a few moments later a hand reached up to hang an IV bag over his head. The doctor used the time to wash up and returned to the bed. He looked down at Sam and spoke to him.

"Mr. Finley, how are you doing? How is your pain on a scale of one to ten?" While he asked questions, the doctor examined him.

"Uh, a eight, nine, maybe ten." He shook his head slowly. "I don't know."

"Do you know if you're allergic to any medications?"

"None that I know of." Sam licked his lips. He was starting to get thirsty, and the pain worsened. He tried to glance at his abdomen, but he was in a bad position to see much of anything.

Dr. Pabst laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Try to stay flat, Mr. Finley. Nurse, start a morphine drip in conjunction with the saline. Do a type and cross match."

"I can save you the time," Sam blurted. "I'm A positive."

"You're certain of that?"

"Yes." Sam looked up at him. "I've had transfusions before."

"Okay. We'll still do the type match and get you on a pint," Dr. Pabst said with an indulgent smile.

"If it's all the same to you, Doc, I'd rather have a beer. Or a mojito," he muttered and closed his eyes. The doctor laughed.

In a normal situation, Sam might have been offended that the doctor didn't believe him, but he understood that under physical duress people often gave the wrong information. The man would rather be safe than sorry, and Sam had to give him credit for that.

"So, let's take a look at what you did to yourself, Mr. Finley." Dr. Pabst unbuttoned his shirt and pushed up his undershirt to examine the wound. With gloved hands he probed around it, causing Sam to stifle a groan. "I'm sorry that hurts, doesn't it. Are you sure you did this to yourself?"

"Positive." Sam closed his eyes again, waiting impatiently for the morphine to hit his bloodstream.

"The trajectory isn't consistent with a self-shooting, Mr. Finley." Dr. Pabst shook his head. "I'll have to talk to your friend and get his perspective on this."

By this time, Michael should have been leading Riley on a wild chase, so Sam would have to stick to his story and hope for the best.

"It looks like the bullet went in your side, but when I palpate the area, I can't feel a mass. It also appears that someone did some cutting here." He raised an eyebrow and looked directly at Sam. "Care to tell me who did the amateurish operation on you?"

Sam managed a false look of surprise. "You mean it's not in there?"

"Not that I can tell. We'll do an x-ray and see where it is. Judging by how much bleeding is here, I suspect the spleen might have been nicked. Whether by the bullet or your back alley doctor, who knows." He rattled off a series of tests and instructions that the nurse tapped into a computer. Then he said, "We'll cover this up and try to stop some of the bleeding, and after the test results come back, we'll see what we do next." Dr. Pabst pulled off his gloves. "I'll be back in a little while, Mr. Finley." He spun on his heel and left the room, tossing the soiled gloves in a biohazard bin on the way out.

The nurse applied a pressure bandage to his wound, and an orderly came in to assist in undressing him. In any normal circumstance, he wouldn't have minded a pretty woman stripping off his clothes. But she wasn't Elsa, and this wasn't a normal situation. Even worse, he suffered the indignity of a man pulling off his pants and underwear. If he'd had enough blood, it would have rushed to his cheeks in embarrassment.

Once he was clothed in a flimsy hospital gown that was slightly scratchy and smelled of bleach, the bed moved through the doors and down the hall to radiology. Sam lay still, moving only when told to, and let them do what they willed. The morphine was starting to kick in, and he felt like he was floating on a cloud.

He imagined Mike in the waiting room, wondering if he even had time to finish filling out Sam's paperwork before Riley showed up. No doubt the receptionist was on the phone right away calling the police, which was standard protocol with gunshots, even if someone claimed it was an accidental self-shooting. Riley was sure to come with tons of cruisers and cops, and Mike could put his plan into motion. In the meantime, Sam's role was to lie in bed and get well. After that, who knew what would happen. If Riley caught Michael, Fiona, Jesse, and Maddie, things would not end well. If Riley got caught, the outcome was less obvious. Sam's mind grew too fuzzy to consider it, and he slipped into unconsciousness.