Urgent shouting wakes the shivering double-oh. Bond peers up from the blanket and he freezes. All of the prior events come crashing together in a jumbled, tangled heap. The impossible, bright explosion as the helicopter crashes into the Skyfall. Silva, holding the gun to M's head, ready to pull the trigger-M!

The medics guide M's stretcher from the helicopter, helped by two others. With the utmost care, they scramble around to load her in the flashing, screaming ambulance waiting on the side. The doors swing shut and the car speeds off into the night.

Stunned, Bond stands up and pushes the blanket off, eyes wide with urgency. Where were they taking her? He staggers and catches the seat before he falls to the ground.

"Hey, are you alright?"

A middle-aged medic steps into the helicopter, offering a hand even as Kincaid offers his own. The gamekeeper watches Bond with a mixture of pity and concern.

The medic closer than Kincaid, Bond accepts the man's hand. As soon as he makes contact, the medic draws in a quick breath. His brown eyes travel over the blanket piled in the corner and to Bond's shaking form.

"Why didn't anyone notice-" the medic pauses a bit and a small smile appears, "Just sit back down, we don't want to move you just yet." At this, Bond gives the man a confused glance. Still, that little smile doesn't disappear.

"Just sit down; we need to check medical forms, please." The medic insists with the fake smile. As out of it as Bond is, double-oh training still kicks in. Suspicious, the agent looks the man over. What is he hiding?

"James, sit down like the man said," Kincaid orders, soft and firm. Bond settles back down on the bench, picking up the blanket and wrapping himself in it again. He doesn't remember the last time nights got this cold.

Eyes half closed, Bond watches the medic through an odd dream-like air. The man speaks low and fast into his cell phone, yet another act that puts everything off balance. Kincaid sits down next to Bond, giving him a side glance.

"Sir, what is your name?" The medic asks, his brown eyes locked on Bond. One hand holds the phone and the other grips a pen poised over a medical form.

"Bond. James Bond," the double-oh says, finding it hard to speak. Would they mind if he fell asleep? A short sigh escapes the agent as he pulls the blanket even tighter to him. It must have a hole somewhere; it doesn't seem to be doing any good.

Something clanks, jerking him awake again. Two people push another stretcher into view. Confused, Bond looks around. Was anyone else hurt? The sickening feeling in his gut grows when he can't find anyone injured. Kincaid wasn't injured, was he?

Then Bond feels the medics placing him onto the stretcher and for a moment, tenses up. Blue eyes wide with confusion, he struggles to sit up again. A hand on his chest pushes him down again.

"Sir, please, calm down. We just need to get you into the hospital and it would be faster if you didn't resist." A woman soothes Bond as she covers him with a thick blanket. All of Bond's training rebels.

"Why, what's wrong?" asks the agent, but be doesn't try to get up again. The woman tucks the first blanket in and adds another. Her soft eyes look up at him.

"You are a little cold. We just need to stabilize your body temperature," she informs Bond as the medics guide the stretcher into a waiting ambulance.

"I am fine," Bond insists, making the move to get up. The woman places a firm hand on his chest for a second time, pushing him back down. The agent almost lashes out as a reflex, but curbs his instincts in time. Two of the medics share a glance.

"James," begins Kincaid, hands resting on the open doors of the ambulance, "I'll be coming as soon as I can. Don't snap at anyone; they are trying to help you." With that, the doors close and the gamekeeper disappears from view.

Scowling, Bond lets the medic check his heart-rate. His blue eyes rake over the two medics and the inside of the ambulance. The other two went to the front.

"Who was that?" The woman asks, her blond hair swinging when the engine starts up. She lays a warm hand on the double-oh's left arm, turning it so the palm faces up. The other man, skin a deep tan, hands something to her. Both medics maneuver around the stretcher with proficiency born of practice as the car begins to move.

"Kincaid," Bond replies, not wanting to say more. He closes his eyes, too heavy to keep them open for long. He still shivers, goose bumps raised along his skin.

Gentle fingers probe the inside of Bond's left arm, and his hand jerks up to repel them before Bond checks his actions. Blue eyes open to see the woman raise a slight eyebrow. She doesn't say anything, but waits for him to relax again.

He does. Before Bond can say anything in protest, she inserts a needle into his vein. He doesn't seem to notice the small stab of pain. She frowns and hooks the IV up to a plastic bag filled with clear liquid.

"I am just going to take your temperature," she says and runs a thermometer across Bond's forehead. Sighing, his eyes close halfway. The thermometer beeps, finished. She looks at the result and scribbles it down on a form.

Whispering too low to hear, she shows it to her partner. Concerned, he whispers back to her. The second medic pulls out a small bag and squeezes it around the middle. Liquid splashes inside as he shakes the bag. He pulls out another and repeats the process.

"Are your muscles a bit tight?" The woman questions Bond, taking the compresses and tucking them under the blanket, on Bond's chest. Surprised, but pleased with the unexpected warmth, the double-oh nods his head.

"Richard, get the mask prepared. Put the oxygen at 41˚Celcius," (105.8˚F, for us Americans) orders the woman, kneeling next to the double-oh. She replaces the intravenous fluid for another bag as Richard pulls out a plastic half-mask with two tubes attached to the front.

"What's going on?" Bond demands, his gaze locked onto the woman. She turns to him, resting a hand on the agent's shoulder, discouraging him from getting up again. Warmth creeps up from the needle.

"Your body temperature has dropped. I've heated the IV fluid to help you warm up. The mask has heated, moist oxygen to help as well," She explains, "Do not talk or move anymore. Breathe normally."

Richard places the mask over Bond's mouth and nose, securing it in place. Resisting the urge to hold his breath, Bond breathes in the warm air, almost hot. The combined warmth from the IV and the mask makes trails of heat through Bond.

And his shivering stops even as all the strength in the double-oh's limbs disappear.

The woman pulls a phone off the wall, speaking into it, "Drive carefully, the patient is in critical condition. Notify the hospital ahead that he is suffering from N991."

Bond struggles to keep alert, but finds he fights another losing battle. Richard jumps into action, turning the temperature on the IV and the mask up. He unfolds another blanket and folds it over Bond.

"His heart rate is slowing. IV and mask temperature has been increased by one degree each," reports the medic, and checks the double-oh's temperature. Bond's eyes lock onto the man, filled with shock. Richard takes his temperature again.

"Don't jostle him!" She warns, sharp. Richard looks at the thermometer after a few seconds, "I know, Ash. Temperature at 31˚C and still dropping. " (87.8˚F)

Ash replies to Richard and vanishes from Bond's field of vision, but the double-oh can't understand anymore. Black slithers in on the edges. The last thing Bond sees is Ash's face over his, telling him words whose meaning pass over, silent.

Aw, thank you guys so much! I love getting reviews and now I can't stop this silly grin across my face. Can't you tell I've done my medical research?

(And thanks for the reviews, makes my birthday that much more awesome!)

Prosper-the-XVIII: Thanks! And yes, I have plans for M…. :D You are one of my favorite James Bond fan-fic writers, so excuse the fan girl squeal.

LilyLunaPotter142: Can't you tell I love being mean to my characters? :3

RebaForever15: Bwahaha! Dear, you left a loop-hole…