From Zero To Hero by ceilidh
A/N: Thanks for the reviews - they're really encouraging for me, especially as this is my first B5 story. I hope you enjoy this next chapter too, as Stephen finds one of his patients to be a bit of a handful. There's some angst for the good doctor too - and plenty more to come for both John and Michael. Well, I'm a generous soul, I like to share the suffering around :o)
From Zero To Hero
Chapter Two - To Hell And Back
As he glanced around him, Stephen Franklin had to admit that he was impressed. For a renegade outfit, the Resistance had put together a surprisingly well equipped sickbay. The storage units were a bit shabby, perhaps, but the drugs and medical supplies inside them were both plentiful and effectively up to date - a real blessing for two sick and injured patients who now owed their lives to them, and the bravery of those who'd secured them from Clark's brutal regime.
Taking up a fresh set of vials, Stephen then crossed over to one of the cots, keeping a close eye on John Sheridan's vitals as he prepared the next dose of his treatment. He knew from bitter experience that drug withdrawal tore you physically, and mentally, apart - hence the relief he felt as the captain's face remained calm in peaceful sleep.
He'd still feel like hell when he woke up, of course, but at least this treatment would flush out the drugs that had been used on him. Then again, he had died already, so however horrific this ordeal had been - well, not to trivialise either, but if he could survive death, he'd surely survive this too.
Yes, he would survive this, thank God, but… damn, it had been close. Too close.
Especially for you, Stephen thought, glancing towards the other cot beside him – his smile fading slightly, from still raw realization of what Michael Garibaldi had been through.
Torture. Brainwashing. Brutal punishment for the betrayals that he'd been forced to commit. None of those horrors had almost killed him, though. For that, Stephen was still cursing himself. Damn it, he should have been more careful with that stab wound. Taken more time to clean it out.
More than that, though, more than anything else, he should have considered the damage beyond it – the loss of internal blood that had continued, insidiously unseen, until it was almost too late.
If Garibaldi's collapse hadn't prompted that second, advanced scan… no, he couldn't think about that. Losing a patient was never easy. Losing one so needlessly, so damn stupidly, would have been unbearable.
Instead he stood in silent vigil beside his friend, hoping this would ease a still troubled conscience. It wasn't easy. Still grey and gaunt from surgery, Michael Garibaldi's face was still a mess. Most of it was swollen, or cut, or bruised – a painful legacy of what his betrayal had cost him.
That was just part of it, though. Colleagues who'd become captors had been brutally thorough. Convinced, in misguided ignorance, that they'd caught their traitor, they'd shown him no mercy. Tied up, held down, totally powerless to protect himself, Garibaldi hadn't had a chance against them – and Stephen had never seen him so desperate, or terrified, as he'd been when he'd begged Lyta to help him.
He'd never seen fear like that in Michael's eyes before. He prayed he'd never see it again.
As his conscience relentlessly reminded him, his own emotions had contributed to that fear – his threat to kill his friend, two times over, made in the heat of a bitterly regretted moment. Maybe that's why Garibaldi still lay in a silent sleep that went beyond its expected time. He should have been awake by now, but – well, right now, reality was just too painful for him to face.
Even under sedation, the horrors of what had been done to him were still reaching him. His eyes had been flickering for several minutes, but now the nightmare was tightening its grip. A groan of pain escaped him. A foot twitched, then kicked out in weak, futile resistance.
When it kicked out again, Stephen knew he had to act quickly to stop the agony it would cause – moved by something more than a doctor's compassion to rest a gentle hand on Michael's arm. He had to know he was safe. He had to know that one friend, at least, knew what he'd been through.
"Easy, Michael, you're okay. We know the truth now, it's going to be okay-"
That remained to be seen, of course, but these quiet words of reassurance still seemed to work. Or maybe it was something else, something less comforting, that pulled his friend back to sleep. The hand that had gripped the side of his cot now relaxed, sliding back, as if guided by an unseen force, to rest flat at his side.
The movement had been unnaturally robotic. But then, Stephen bitterly remembered, that's what Michael Garibaldi had been for the last several months - a living, breathing robot, totally powerless to stop the forces that had turned him against those he cared about, and that had damn near gotten him killed.
Even as he settled again, Stephen knew that Michael Garibaldi's personal hell was still far from over. Damn, what must he have been thinking, that even his closest friend had refused to believe him?
And what would happen if the only person whose belief in him mattered refused to give it? If that forgiveness refused to come, then – well, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.
Suddenly more tired than ever, Stephen sighed, wearily pinching that tiredness from his eyes – a croaking call of his name so faint that it took several seconds for him to turn to its source. And in two sleepily puzzled eyes, Stephen Franklin found both a smile and a surge of hope – a gentle hand instinctively restraining him as John Sheridan frowned up at him and tried to sit up.
"Easy, John, you're safe now. You're going to be alright-"
Still drugged and disoriented, it took Sheridan several seconds to nod and smile back at him. Considering what he'd been through, Stephen wasn't expecting much more response than that. And it was certainly a relief when he accepted the syringe against his neck without flinching. As Stephen had found out the hard way, a drugged up and unrestrained captain had one hell of a punch on him.
Preparation and anticipation, he'd dryly chided himself as he'd rubbed the bruise out of his jaw. For this latest injection, he'd made sure that John had been lucid enough to recognize him before he'd started it.
A look of stricken panic, though? A frantic gesture towards his throat as he struggled to sit up again? Well, every doctor had seen these warning signs enough to be prepared - one arm proppinng his patient upright while the other hand grabbed the closest thing to a bucket that it could reach.
Watching someone heave their stomach up in front of you was never pleasant, of course, but at least it meant that the anti-toxins were getting to work now, clearing all that junk from John Sheridan's system. A rueful smile suggested that John knew it too and, in spite of its discomfort, was equally grateful.
But then, as his head cleared and he looked curiously around him, the captain's smile vanished – his eyes hardening, in justified fury, against the friend who'd so cruelly betrayed him. And when he finally spoke, the bitterness in John Sheridan's voice ran deep, and unforgiving.
"What… the hell… is he doing here?"
He had every right to be angry. Stephen knew that, but part of him still railed at its injustice. The forgiveness that Michael Garibaldi needed so badly was further from him than ever, and - no.
No, he'd suffered enough already. Stephen couldn't stand by, again, and let him suffer any more. Even if John refused to believe him, he had to tell him the truth. He had to set the record straight.
Pulling up his chair to the side of John's bunk, Stephen dropped wearily onto it. He'd taken an oath not to cause pain, but… yes, this was going to hurt, and hurt one hell of a lot.