LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games.

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews/favorites and to my beta Sassy Satsuma for her continued support, patience with my ramblings, and for helping me to speak better British! ;-)

*Original post February 2011; major revision 5/13/12. Beta'd again by Sassy*

Revised 9/7/2013

"Raz...dva...tri..."

Soap gasped as he was lifted onto a brightly lit exam table. Medics wearing gloves and plastic aprons swarmed around him, cutting off his bloody clothing.

"His pendant – underneath his shirt – it's got his blood group on it," shouted Price, to no one in particular. "Nikolai, tell them!" A dark-haired, bearded medic pulled up the chain to glance at the dog tag and, finding Soap's own morphine pen, spoke to the other Russians working on MacTavish. "And tell them he got ten of morphine," Price added.

The team hovering over the blood-smeared, almost naked man was in constant motion. Velcro crackled as a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Soap's bicep. One medic carefully fitted an oxygen mask over his battered face while a second snapped a rubber tourniquet on his other arm and began probing the crook of his elbow for a vein. The dark-haired one stuck his stethoscope in his ears and leaned over MacTavish, listening to his chest. He spoke Russian in a commanding tone, snapping his fingers in front of his nose, trying to keep his wandering attention. Soap blinked back at him, clearly having difficulty just keeping his eyes open.

Price watched the face of the man taking vital signs. He didn't seem too pleased with his findings as he reported them aloud to the group.

Terse orders were barked out in Russian. The plastic of the mask clouded with his breath as Soap groaned, softly at first, then louder in response to the removal of his dressings and the examination of his injuries. Price's gut twisted at the sound, and at his own helplessness as bustling medical personnel jostled him further away from the scene. Tubing was taped to Soap's arm while an IV bag was hung overhead and the clamp thumbed wide open to begin pouring fluid into him. Paper backing was peeled from small white disks; they were pressed to his chest and monitor wires snapped into place.

A second drip was being started as the dark-haired medic, his stethoscope now dangling from his neck, leaned over MacTavish and spoke in heavily accented English. "Hello, my friend. What's your name? John? John, I need you to look at me. That's it. Tell me what happened. Do you hurt anywhere besides your belly?" The mask muffled Soap's faint replies. "All right. Listen, John. We're going take you to surgery in a few minutes. I'm going to give you something to make you sleep, okay?" Soap nodded weakly.

Soap's tattoos stood out in stark contrast to his ashen pallor, and Price cursed his inability to give proper aid in the field. When they'd set out after Shepherd, they hadn't exactly planned on rescue. So they'd packed light. They'd never expected to survive, much less need a trauma kit. It had been one of the first things left behind. If they hadn't, Soap would have been stabilized by now. Instead, he looked like he could be going into shock, and once that happened…

He thought of Soap's family. Would Shepherd's version of the story be all they knew about the fate of their son? It was unacceptable. Somehow, some way, in whatever time he had left, he had to get word to them, to tell them the truth.

If only they'd been a little closer, flown a little faster...

Price jumped at a sudden loud alarm from the monitor, a high-pitched pinging that was quickly silenced by one of the group. Their movements remained calm, organized and deliberate. He tried to stay focused on that, and the fact that as critical as he was, Soap was still responsive.

His gaze descended to the forest of feet and legs milling around the scene. The floor was littered with discarded dressings, wrappers and small empty boxes. Fresh blood spattered their shoes. His eyes were drawn back upward by shadowy figures outlined by harsh light, smudges of red, a glint of metal. A pair of blue-gloved hands held up a syringe, drawing up a dose of medication. Dizziness descended on him like a lead curtain, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through it.

"He's in good hands," Nikolai said, his sudden close presence startling Price. "Now you should let someone take a look at you."

Price didn't respond to Nikolai's urging; his eyes were glued to the hive of activity on the other side of the room - the room that was now tilting slowly to the side. He screwed his eyes shut again, which only seemed to intensify the ringing in his ears.

Nikolai came closer, his voice softening. "Price, there is nothing more we can do. You need to be seen to now."

"I'm fine," Price snapped. "I've had worse."

That was all too true. Price would not readily admit to some of the things that were done to him in prison; he kept those memories deeply and safely buried. But it was also true that his discomfort was growing. Dried blood and sand pulled at the raw skin of his face. His eyelashes tickled the puffy flesh around his eyes, one of which was swelling shut. The throbbing in his head and face was relentless now, along with the ever-present pain in his side and the shortness of breath. He recognized it for what it was – he'd broken ribs before. More worrisome to him was the pain that radiated through his back, abdomen and left shoulder. He felt sick, and knew that it wasn't just out of concern for Soap.

While medical instruments were being laid out nearby, Soap went limp and silent, eyes closing once again. The dark-haired medic stood at the head of the table, watching him. He pulled the mask from MacTavish's face and nodded to one of the others, who injected another drug into the IV line. The Russians crowded around Soap, making it difficult to see what was happening. Price caught glimpses of them tilting his head back, putting something in his mouth, inserting a curved tube down his throat… Price's hands tingled. He felt odd; something was wrong.

With nods and murmurs of agreement, the crowd began to disperse. They'd attached a blue resuscitator bag. One medic squeezed it in a gentle rhythm while another secured the tube in place with cloth ties.

Whoosh ... Whoosh … whoosh. Right in time with the pulsing pain in Price's skull – it matched the pounding in his chest. The bright lights overhead were hurting his eyes...

Everything was fading to gray...

CRASH!

A tremendous metallic clatter erupted next to Price. Footsteps and voices surrounded him. "Chyort," one swore. Hands caught him under each arm and began steering him … somewhere.

Nikolai's voice sounded strange. "I've got him. All right Price, that's it, let's get you in here." The hushed voices all blended into a hum. The ground shifted, and he felt like he was floating...

With a crisp snap, fumes of ammonia seared into his sinuses; Price gasped and jerked his head up. An arm reached up to tilt the overhead lighting out of his face. He was lying on a trolley, surrounded by drawn curtains. Nikolai was leaning over him, along with the same medic who'd spoken to Soap earlier.

"Nikolai —" Price winced. He had a splitting headache, and felt like someone was sitting on his chest.

"He's in surgery. And no, you haven't been out that long."

The medic tossed away the crushed ampoule of smelling salts and turned back to Price. His dark brown wavy hair and beard were filtered with threads of gray. He looked to be in his forties, though his brown eyes were older than his face – eyes that had seen too much, too quickly. "Captain Price."

Price flinched involuntarily when the man reached for him. The medic stopped for a moment with a flicker of concern, then raised the head of the trolley a bit, relieving some of the pressure in his head and chest, but not much. Price peered back at him in confusion.

The solemn expression shifted to dry amusement. "Let's just say your reputation precedes you. I'm Misha, one of the doctors here. You were swaying on your feet, knocked over my cart." Careful hands touched Price's face. "What happened here?" Misha asked, flashing a penlight into his swollen eyes.

Price stopped squinting and fixed him with a look. "History."

Misha's eyebrows shot up. That put a stop to the questions — for now.

When Nikolai and Misha helped Price to remove his jacket and shirt, his injuries really began to register. Now that the adrenalin rush had worn off, there were few parts of him that didn't hurt. Every breath was a vicious stab of pain.

Misha's eyebrows arched again at some of the fresh scarring on Price's body, but he prudently remained silent.

Nikolai met the doctor's eyes. "I think it's time I got out of the way. I'll be back in a little while."

After the 141 had literally broken him out of prison, Price had known better than to let their medics anywhere near him - they'd have kept him off the mission in a heartbeat. He'd insisted he was fine, and he'd prevailed, but not before he'd been confronted by a few skeptical teammates, Riley especially. Though it had stung his pride, Price had resorted to pulling rank.

The debate hadn't ended well.

Now it had all finally caught up with him. When Misha's hand pressed into his abdomen, Price's breath hitched and he gripped the trolley's tubular frame, his knuckles whitening. Though he'd never been very fond of them to begin with, he'd never realized it until now: he couldn't stand doctors. All the poking, prodding … the incessant questions. The clinical smell. He glared up at Misha. "Thought you lot were supposed to make me feel better."

"You will."

"Then hands off, eh? I have to sit up. I can't breathe and my head feels like it's going to explode."

"In a minute."

Misha touched another sore spot, and Price nearly flew off the trolley.

Pain and fatigue had gotten the better of him; they carried on with their examination, unimpressed with his further attempts to argue with them. Afterward, the change of clothing seemed to be a peace offering. The baggy Afghan tunic and trousers were soft and warm, a welcome relief from being cold, wet and sandy – if he could just get them on. He attempted to brush off the medics' assistance but had to stop. "You said those pills would take the edge off. What edge?" he panted, his eyes squeezed shut. "They're not doing a damned thing."

"We can't give you any of the 'good stuff' right now. Not with that concussion," said Misha. He finished pulling the shirt over Price's head and began to help him lie down again. "Relax, we're not done with you yet." The other Russian medic sorted through a cabinet, pulling out little glass tubes for a blood sample.

Price had other ideas. He started to get up. "The man that was brought in with me – " Pain finished his sentence for him.

"Nothing yet, my friend. They are still working on him. Now," Misha said, easing Price back down. "It is time to take care of you."

Price sighed in resignation.

Chyort: Damn!