I'll start by providing a reality check: I have never been shot, and don't know anyone who has. The aim of this fic was to create a sense of slow motion and disorientation which I assume might be present in such situations. This is simply Spooks combined with my imagination and a couple of different experiences. I hope it provides a new perspective on this part of 2.10 / 3.1.
He heard the blood rushing in his ears as the noise of the bullet leaving the gun reverberated around the room. It slammed into his chest with an unbelievable pressure, throwing him backwards as he felt the hot metal slice into him, spreading a web that clawed deep.
His arms flailed loosely, out of control, and he lost his grip on the signal device held in his hand. Falling awkwardly against the wall, a new pain entered his body as his head cracked sharply against the hard surface. Sliding roughly to the floor, he slumped there, half-sitting. Then losing his remaining strength, slipped further, crumpling ungracefully onto the flagstones.
Zoe and Danny were suddenly hovering above him, visible through a haze. He heard both of them speaking, but couldn't make out what either said. He could feel the blood literally draining from his body, and a blanket of cold clamminess enveloping him.
Somewhere behind his eyelids he could see images floating, a confused patchwork of memories merging into each other. Zoe tearfully telling him of Tessa's betrayal. Danny proud at succeeding undercover as a trader. Ruth rebuking him after the EERIE exercise ... and before that, on her first day on the grid, when she'd surprised him with her passion, piquing his interest. Catherine and Graham as very young children, laughing as they tumbled enthusiastically down a hill towards him. And finally Tom, shock, confusion, and fear patently obvious on his face as he raised the gun and aimed it.
Overcome by an uncontrollable desire to escape, to clamber up and over the two people in front of him, he lifted his head. Then everything went black.
*****
His eyes flew open, and as confusion hit like a hammer, he began thrashing his arms around wildly. He pulled at the oxygen mask that covered his mouth, sliding it across his face, and thrust himself forward in an effort to sit up, "National emergency ..."
Strong hands pushed him down, "Mr Pearce, lie back ..." He strained against them, the muscles in his face tensing, "Mr Pearce, lie down!"
He continued to struggle, "I want a helicopter ambulance to London! I want to be patched through to ..." Gasping for breath, barely coherent, he sensed the blackness descending again, and allowed the oxygen mask to be placed back over his mouth.
It felt like an enormous weight had settled on top of him. Claustrophobia surrounding him like a billowing cloud. The web that encased his chest when the bullet entered, was like shards of glass pulsating through him. The pain was excruciating, so intense that he wanted to either throw up or pass out. As a wave of nausea washed over him, he succumbed to the latter.
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