Hello, chaps! Another chapter, and I would really appreciate some more reviews!

John Finnemore is the owner of Cabin Pressure. I am not John Finnemore. Therefore I am not the owner of Cabin Pressure.

Arthur yelped in pain as he inadvertently put pressure on his wrist. 'Ow! I've got to stop doing that, or it'll never get better!'

'Lucky it's not your dominant hand, Arthur,' mused Douglas, 'then you'd have real trouble.' He winced as he got into the car – his ribs were still healing, and bending down caused a small amount of pain. To be honest, even though neither he nor Arthur would be flying for a few weeks, he was very glad they were out of the hospital already. 'So where are we going, Carolyn?'

'Well, before we go home – don't give me that look, you're staying with us until you're healed enough to look after yourself – we're going to the airfield to see how the repairs are getting on and to fetch some things from the portacabin.'

'Righto.'

Carolyn pulled into the road and they drove toward Fitton, Douglas humming show tunes in the back while Arthur roped him into playing "yellow car" and Carolyn just sighed indulgently and let them have their fun. Arthur was acting like himself for the first time since the crash, and she wasn't going to stop him.

It was moments like these, thought Douglas, when they were all together and just acting like they usually did, that he always thought of Martin. He tried to think of the good moments – Martin with a lemon taped to his cap, Martin explaining the mechanics of flight to Arthur, Martin's face when he had a brilliant idea out of the blue (a rare occasion at the best of times; ideas were more Douglas' forte) – but every time, all he would end up remembering were memories of a limp hand losing grip on his, and the light going out of the Captain's gaze as he grew cold and still.

Having a friend die in his arms was something Douglas hoped he'd never experience again. He sighed and looked out the window, humming You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

'Yellow car!'

'Oh, well done, Arthur, I didn't see that one.'

'Mum, how long till we get there?'

'Not long, dear.'

He can hear the sound of a car stopping. He really should hide, but his body feels like lead and his head really aches. He's been here for a few days – how many exactly, he's not sure. The throbbing in his brain makes it hard to think.

He knows he really should find somewhere to hide.

But sleep sounds so good right now…

No, no sleeping! If he sleeps he might not wake up again.

There's the door opening. Should be hiding.

So tired…

When the three of them stepped into the portacabin, it was Arthur who regained his voice first. 'Uh, chaps? Is anyone else seeing what I'm seeing?' When there was no answer, naturally, he panicked. 'Oh, no. Does that mean I'm dead? Am I a ghost now too?'

Douglas, recovering slowly from the shock, stepped forward and hesitantly laid a hand on the arm of the chair's occupant. Bleary blue-green eyes opened at the touch, followed by a hoarse whisper. 'D-Douglas?'

'Martin? How on earth…?'

'Fell from the sky, Douglas…'

Carolyn's heart rate had returned to normal, and her shock was quickly mixing with confusion and anger, but there was no mistaking the slight huskiness in her voice. 'Young man, you have a lot of explaining to do. You were six feet under last time I checked, so how is it that you're sitting in an armchair in front of me? Start talking.'

'Uh… 'll try my best.. don't feel so good…' Martin replied, followed by a harsh bout of coughing. Carolyn's gaze instantly softened, worry creeping in. 'Not now, Martin. You're in no fit state to do anything at this point in time. Was it… raining… when you – for want of a better word – landed?'

'Y-yes…'

'And you've been here since then?'

'Yes.'

'Last time it rained was Thursday,' Arthur piped up suddenly.

'Arthur, dear, you were inside, not to mention asleep, how did you know?'

'People in the ward were talking about the rain.'

'Right. Douglas, he's been here for four days.'

'Which means he's been wet, cold and starving – no wonder you're sick, Martin.' Douglas gently felt the younger man's forehead. 'Dear lord, you're burning up. Carolyn, we need to get Martin somewhere safe where we can help him. Can you bring the car up as close as possible? I'm going to have to carry him, but I shouldn't really be doing that with my ribs the way they are, so the shorter the commute the better. Arthur, I need you to stand outside the door and make sure nobody's around.'

'Why?'

'One – in case you've forgotten, Martin's got wings, and two – he's supposed to be dead.'

'Oh. Right. Okay.'

'Before you do that, there's a blanket in that white cupboard up the back, can you get it for me?

Arthur scampered off, returning with a patched green wool blanket, before darting secret-agent style out the door to act as lookout. Douglas wrapped Martin carefully in the warm fabric, and, at Arthur's all-clear, gingerly picked the younger man up – he shouldn't be this light – and carried him out to the car. With Carolyn's help, he managed to manoeuvre both himself and Martin into the back so the smaller man could curl up on the seat next to Douglas, the First Officer's hand staying in contact with the thready, erratic pulse in the carotid artery.

He could see Carolyn's worried glances in the rear-view mirror the entire trip, but it was Arthur who asked the question that ate away at the hard shells the others had built for themselves over the past months. 'He's not gonna die again. Skip's gonna be okay… isn't he?'

'I don't know, Arthur. I don't know.'