.:SUBJECT 13'S BUTLER:.

-His Doctor, Recruiting-

PART 1:

Bardroy Atkins-Brown, Field Doctor.

The phone was ringing.

It kept ringing, quite oblivious to the only occupant of the small apartment's groans and sighs as he rolled over, roused from his slumber, only to tumble right off the couch to the thinly carpeted floor below. Pain lanced through his shoulder, through the place where the scar of the old wound still sometimes bothered him, and with that, Bardroy Atkins-Brown was officially awake.

And surprisingly enough, the phone was still insistently ringing.

Another groan, another grumble, and several grunts of effort later, the blonde twenty-six year old hauled himself up off the floor and into a technically upright position. His chest and feet were bare, and he wore a faded pair of blue jeans with a rip in one knee. There was more than one scar on his pallid torso – a couple long scraping scars, and two puckered, numb thumb-print sized scars on his right shoulder; all had little white dots surrounding them from where he'd been hastily patched together by the on-site medic, but it was the two bullet-hole scars which always bothered him the most.

He snatched up a battered, half-empty box of cigarettes from the arm of the couch at his side, and tucked one of the tobacco sticks between his teeth. The phone had stopped ringing by now – as Bardroy lit up his smoke, the caller began leaving a recorded message; it took a moment for him to blurrily recognize who it was, but he chuckled callously to himself as he shook his head, half-listening to the words. Of course. How could he forget? There was no one else in all of England who had such a flawless, incredibly crisp English accent, with deep, dulcet tones and a rich note to their voice.

"Bardroy," the caller began. "I know it's been a couple of years since we've spoken – but I was told that you've recently returned to London from your work overseas. Listen, I know it's a lot to ask, but I need your help. You saw me through medical school and all the way throughout our combined efforts in Africa – and now I need your insight and perception again. I don't know if you know, but I've been working in the private sector of the Karnstein's Children's Hospital for the last two and a half years – however this particular case and contract has brought me to a standstill. You see, there's a child, and he's…"

The words drifted through Bard's ears. He heard the voice, he heard the words being said, but after the mention of Africa his mind began to wander. Had it really been nearly three years? Of course, that's right. Deployment almost immediately after graduating medical school at the age of twenty-two and straight into the army medical department. Far out, he'd come a long way quickly. Shunted two years ahead of his peers in high school and graduating at sixteen. What had his uncle dictated he study at university? Medical sciences. End of discussion. No bastard child of his uncle's brother was going to be a pansy chef or barrister. No – Bardroy was going to do something useful with his life and that was that.

Africa, wasn't it? The most useful years of his life, Bard knew, had been out there, in the sand and the jungle undergrowth, crawling on his belly, medical supplies lashed to his back, trying to avoid any guerilla soldiers. War was a funny business, Bard supposed. His job was to heal those victims caught in the crossfire, and try not to die himself. Initially, the thought had terrified him. Going into unknown territory? Tending to sick and wounded villages and soldiers alike, not knowing when the next air strike might hit? Stupid. Ridiculous. Field doctors were expendable, however, and so Bardroy had been deployed with a team of others to set up within a war-torn village and give medical attention to those who needed it the most. Often, the team would have to move – going from tiny village to the next was often a long, arduous journey, trekking through humid jungles, arid wastelands of rock and sand and blistering heat. Despite being guarded at all times by a small troop, Bardroy was hardly surprised when he figured out that, no matter where they went, if they were on the move, they were sitting ducks. The days traveling were spent moving with nervous adrenaline and constant, fearful glances over shoulders. Then again, even if they hadn't been ambushed, there was always the possibility of disease and injury that could kill any of them. Ironically, he had been one of three doctors out of twenty who had been deployed to survive – all the troops of their platoon had been killed, and it had been a desperate race of drop everything and run for the nearest ally supply point.

Even then, he sighed as he remembered, he had been the only one to return home. Did he consider himself lucky? No, of course not. He'd seen hell, felt hell's blood on his hands, stitched hell's sordid wounds and swabbed them as best he could. He'd given the dying hope when he knew there was no way of saving them. He'd sat beside cots in the medical tents at night, holding the hands of the sickly and dying, muttering prayers or trying to cheer his patients with jokes and stories. But in the end, everyone around him had died. In the last leg of the dash to the supply point which was give him and his two fellow comrades a chance of escaping and being extracted, guards attending the supply checkpoints post had mistaken them for enemy deserters. Only one of his comrades had been killed, though. The other, once they were safely within the checkpoints walls and safely assuring the guards they were both on the same side, had taken his own life, unable to deal with the overwhelming trauma of seeing such a bloodbath they'd just barely managed to escape from.

Bardroy, it seemed, always ended up as the only one left.

He'd been sent home on the very next helicopter out of the war zone, back to the base station and from there had been shipped right back to England on the next plane. His injuries had been treated, having taken two shots to the shoulder in the escape from the jungle from a guerilla fighter. The others scars he'd accumulated over the two or so year's he'd spent working in the war zone, and most of them were well on their way to healing. Once back in England, however, wounds that were less obvious were beginning to fester.

Bard had gone from one psychologist to the next, trying to understand all the nightmares, his lack of appetite, his inability to focus and his need to rush everything he did. Cooking was a disaster, everything all over the place and nothing ever served. Too many clothes in the dryer at once, overloading it. Running from place to place, fearful of being late. But every single person he spoke to had the same response after hearing his story: post traumatic stress disorder. Each had prescribed him different anti-anxiety meds, and each of them had then sent him on his way with best wishes and instructions to come back if the doses weren't working out. He'd finally given up on going back to them – they weren't doing much more than giving him drugs to screw around with his brain's already messed up chemical balances.

The apartment was quiet now; the recorded message had finished without him even noticing. He'd been too busy thinking over the nightmare he woke from each and every night. Why did he keep surviving? Why did he somehow manage to avoid the worst of everything, but what he was left with was, in the end, nothing? What was it that kept him here?

Shaking his head of the thoughts, Bardroy sighed and trudged over to the phone – the handset sat on the dining table next to an untouched apple and three assorted bottles of half-finished medications. He stared numbly at the little red blinking light of the answering machine for a moment, before he lifted a hand and hit redial, turning on the speaker and not bothering to replay the message.

After three rings, the call was answered.

"Bardroy?" the deep, rich tone greeted him.

"Hey. You called?"

"Yes – I tried about ten minutes ago but got no answer. Did you get my message?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Didn't really listen to it though. Wanna tell me what you want?"

"You're not sounding so good, old friend – have you been all right since you got back from Africa?"

"Waddaya want, Michaelis?" Bard snapped irritably. He did not want to have to go through this. Not this morning.

There was a crackle over the line as the voice on the other end sighed.

"Well, since I returned from my travels and have been working via private contracts here at the Karnstein Hospital –"

"Bloody hell, you're so good you work private contracts now?!"

"Erm, yes – in any case, I have one case at the moment in particular which I could use your insight in."

Bardroy raised an eyebrow as he leant against the kitchen counter and gazed out the window; the view from his apartment gave him a nice view of the city around him, but it became quite boring after a while. "Eh? Since when has the great and amazing Sebastian Michaelis needed my input?"

On the other end, Sebastian Michaelis chuckled modestly. "You have much greater intuition than I do, Bardroy – your foresight and perception saved my ass more than once when we were out in the war zone."

"Before you decided to go on vacation."

"I was forcefully extracted, Bardroy, you know that. I hate to say it but the war zone was really no place for me once I took that bullet during the raid that night."

Bard stopped himself – oh yeah. In all the turmoil, he'd completely forgotten. This man was the one who'd put himself between an enemy platoon full of firearms and a camp full of wounded soldiers. Gods, Michaelis was barely twenty-four this spring, and the time they spent working side by side in Africa had been a good two and a half to three years ago now. Christ – he remembered seeing it happen from one of the tents, Michaelis standing stalwart against all odds without a weapon on his person – but he could only imagine how it much have felt to be in the guy's shoes. A war hero was putting it lightly, but Michaelis had been shipped out and back to safe territory to recover after he'd taken a stray bullet from a trigger-happy enemy in the gut. That was the end of Sebastian Michaelis' field service.

"Shit. Forgot. Sorry."

"Heh – please, there's no need for an apology. I know you're struggling right now, but the distraction might be good for you. This case I'm in at the moment is indeed a serious one, and I've gathered a medical team of two others to assist me."

"Yeah? So what d'ya need me for?" the blonde asked skeptically.

"I've already told you. Intuition. Survival. Perception."

"What's survival got t'do with this kid?"

"What are his chances of surviving if I do not have the best of the best at my side should I make a mistake, Bardroy?" the smooth voice questioned in retaliation to Bard's. It took Bard a moment.

"Uh…dead? Wait, hold on! Waddaya mean, 'best of the best'?!"

There was a light chuckle over the line, and with a growl Bardroy knew he'd been won over. And the bastard hadn't even said please. Damn, the blonde cursed himself silently. He had to stop being such a pushover.

"Shall I take it I'll see you at the Hospital sometime this week, in that case?"

Bardroy rolled his eyes, and blew out a long wispy grey stream of smoke from between his lips as the cigarette chomped between his teeth smoldered brightly. "Yeah, yeah you can take it as that. Is this an emergency case?"

"I'm taking as many precautions as I can. But you're the best man I know at avoiding traps and pitfalls; having you here as soon as possible for consulting and diagnostic purposes would be invaluable."

The blonde sighed, and took the cigarette from between his teeth, stubbing it out in the small glass ashtray that sat upon the table next to the phone; it was almost overflowing with soft ash and old, forgotten stubs. "Right." He said, almost to himself. "First off, I'm gonna need a shower."

And with that, without even wishing Sebastian Michaelis goodbye, Bardroy Atkins-Brown hung up, stretched, and headed for the bathroom. He was definitely going to need a shower.