The Journey

This Story takes place after the final DQ Movie.

Chapter 1 – The Patient

Dr. Mike was upstairs, gathering the linens from the bed in one of her recovery rooms. Mrs. Simmons had spent the night for observation after breaking her leg the day before. Dr. Mike had set and casted it for her, and provided her with a set of crutches to help her around for the next 2 months while her leg healed.

While she worked, she found herself glancing up at the new picture adorning the wall. It was a hand drawn picture that Rebecca had sent from the remote island of Jamaica. It featured colorfully dressed women balancing baskets of fruit on their heads, with turquoise water in the background and strangely shaped trees. It certainly bespoke of an altogether foreign land, but she had thought it perfect for her recovery room and written to Rebecca to request additional paintings and drawings from her travels. Not only did the painting brighten up the room, but it gave the patient something to hopefully dream about a bit and occupy their mind while they recovered.

It seemed that strong minded women running off on mad adventures ran in the Quinn family after all. Rebecca's husband had passed away not long after their mother, but with all of her children grown, and her parents and husband deceased, instead of properly donning her mourning clothes and sitting docilely at home waiting for her own time to come as society deemed she should have, Rebecca had decided to travel and go see the world. She had seen the West when she had come to visit Michaela and much of Europe in her younger years, but she wanted to see more. She had met some other "interesting" ladies through Marjorie and just managed to convince one of them, a single lady about her own age named Emma, to go along with her as her traveling companion.

And then came the letters and drawings, each new locale more foreign and interesting than the last. There was a health resort in the mountains of North Carolina, a seaside village in Northern Florida, and now it seemed they had found themselves on a ship which had taken them to the isle of Jamaica. Rebecca wrote of all sorts of new and interesting foods and customs, although apparently the place was actually quite civilized. The small city they were staying in was apparently a bustling port.

Michaela smiled as she thought of her sister. Rebecca had really been the only one other than her father to support Michaela's unorthodox life choices, and she had always suspected it was because Rebecca hadn't been truly happy following that path which had been set out for her, and thus, she lived vicariously through her youngest sister's antics. Michaela was glad that her older sister was enjoying herself. She seemed to find Emma a very agreeable traveling companion and she was truly enjoying learning and expanding her view of the world. Michaela found herself getting her own little thrill of excitement every time one of Rebecca's letters or drawings arrived in the mail, although she herself had had enough adventure for a lifetime and was quite content with her friends and her career, and of course her family.

She heard the bell over her door tinkle and she began to head downstairs with her arms full of laundry to see who had come in. She heard footsteps heading towards the stairs, starting up towards her.

"Hello?" she called out.

"Hey there," her husband greeted her, blocking the stairwell.

"I was just heading down with this laundry," she explained over the top of the heap in her arms.

"That's funny, I was just headin' up to see ya," he replied, still blocking her path.

"Sully," she gave him a look. "I have work to do. I have to set these out for Mrs. Jenkins to pick up in the morning, and theres a new shipment in from Denver I need to put away. Plus, I have patient appointments all afternoon."

"You got a patient right now," he grinned at her again.

"There's someone downstairs?" she asked, trying again to squeeze by him.

"No, you got a patient right here," he pointed at himself, grinning.

"Oh yes?" she eyed him, her arms still full of laundry. "And what seems to be the problem?"

"I think you call it melancholia. I've been feelin' awful down." He was clearly hiding a grin.

"Have you?" Michaela answered somewhat dryly, slightly annoyed that he was holding her up.

"I have. Might be because I barely seen my wife in the last two days," he replied. "Or it could be somethin' else. Maybe you'd better examine me."

"Sully, you're perfectly fine. I'll be home tonight."

"Is it catchin'?" he asked. "Cause you don't look so great yourself, Doc. Maybe you ought to get undressed and let me have a look," he started gently herding her back towards the recovery rooms.

"Sully! We can't do this here! A patient could come in at any moment," Michaela chastised. "Tonight?"

"Nah, ain't no other patients comin'. Closed sign is out. Door's locked."

"Sully!" Michael chastised again, but was silenced as he backed her into a wall and pressed his lips up against hers. Her willpower dissolved and the pile of laundry dropped to the floor as he kissed her soundly and wound his fingers into her hair. He reached under her then and swept her up into his arms and carried her into the newly refreshened recovery room, his lips never leaving hers. He placed her onto the bed and smiled down at her before throwing his shirt and belt to the floor and sitting down next to her, starting to undo the buttons on her blouse.

"Sully..."she protested again, much more meekly this time. Her conscience was telling her that she really ought to finish with the laundry and get everything put away before her first patient arrived that afternoon, but his lips felt so good as he kissed his way down her neck. He pressed his lips to hers again as he worked to help her out of her blouse before moving on to her belt.

She rain her fingers through his hair and over his arms and chest, unable to stop herself from giving in to the desire she felt for him. Her skirt and underclothes soon joined his clothing on the floor as he began kissing ever inch of her.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered to her, running his hand over her breast, his eyes never leaving hers. "Sometimes I can't help myself."

She couldn't help but smile then and closed her eyes as he moved between her legs to join with her. It felt so good to be one with him, even after several years of marriage she couldn't imagine ever not wanting to be with him this way. She savored every moment as they both found their release and lay sweating slightly in each others arms, curled together on the tiny recovery bed.

Suddenly a frantic knocking sounded from the first floor. Michaela shot bolt upright, clutching the blanket at the bottom of the bed to her chest, as if whoever was at the door could see through walls and ceilings. She quickly turned beat red and gave Sully a wide eyed look, leaping from the bed, and struggling franticly to find shoes, stockings, chemise, and more in the pile of clothing that had been created.

By the time she had found her underclothes, Sully already had his buckskins on and was on his way downstairs, pulling his shirt over his head. He opened the door to find Horace standing there, about to knock again.

"Sully..." Horace noticed Sully's untucked shirt, and the fact that his customary beads and belt were missing and reddened a bit, guessing at what had been going on upstairs at the clinic. "Uh...sorry to bother ya," he stammered. "This telegram's come. It's from about Dr. Mike's sister. I think it's pretty important."

"Thanks Horace," Sully said, shaking his hand. He went back inside, shutting the door, just as his wife came hurrying down the stairs, dressed, but hair still a bit mussed.

"It's a telegram from Rebecca," Sully handed it to her.

Dr. Mike took it and began to read.

To: Dr. Michaela Quinn, Colorado Springs, CO

From: Miss Emma Washington, Kingston, Jamaica

Rebecca very ill. Stop. Fever. Stop. Nausea.Stop. Alternates betweens sweats and chills. Stop. Quinine does not seem to help much. Stop. Very few doctors on island. Stop. Please advise. Stop.

Michaela blanched when she read the letter. It sounded as if her sister had contracted Malaria, but if the quinine was not helping, that was not a good sign.

"What is it?" Sully asked, placing his hand on the small of her back.

"She's ill," Michaela said, worried. "It sounds like Malaria, but the quinine's not helping. Her friend, Emma, wrote asking for advice. Apparently there aren't many doctors on the island.

"What about the Cheyenne tea?" Sully asked. "Maybe that could help where the quinine doesn't?"

"It might," Dr. Mike said. Deep in thought now, she began pacing back and forth.

Sully caught her after about 5 minutes of pacing, "Michaela, you're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

"I feel so helpless," she looked up at him, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilling out. " It's only been a year since we lost mother and Rebecca was really the only one besides father who supported me. I just couldn't bare to lose her, too. If I was there, I could help her, but she's so far away. The purple cone flower for the tea probably doesn't even grow there."

He drew her to him then, "Well what if we brought it to her? Along with any other medicines she might need?"

"To Kingston?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Yeah. I mean, if you think it would improve her chances, then we should go."

"It's a long trip, though. We'd have to take a ship, and Katie..." Dr. Mike trailed off, the wheels in her head turning now.

"Maybe it would do Katie some good to see more of the world first hand," Sully said. "Besides, I don't think you're gonna be able to stand just sitting here in Colorado Springs waitin' for news. We could catch tomorrow's train and be on the East Coast by the end of the week. We could have Horace book us passage on a ship from here."

"Yes," Dr. Mike said, looking more hopefully now. "We could probably make it there in less than a month. Yes, I think I need to try."

"Alright," Sully said. "You finish up with your patients this afternoon. I'll go see Horace about those tickets."

Dr. Mike had picked up a hanky and used it to wipe her face, "Thank you, Sully."