A/N: Google is my best friend when I do my research. Please take into consideration that I have absolutely zero knowledge when it comes to medical situations or aviation. I did the best I could, and if there are any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Of course, I don't own anything, which is a pity. If I had, I would have made Tomchel canon by now, and you'd all be notified of the fact that Dr. Scott lives.
What was meant to be a night of relaxation and festivities for the crew of the USS Nathan James, ended in a night of total disaster and chaos. After Tex and the crew had finished their chantey, the group fell silent for a short time, each of them lost in their thoughts. Some of them had the hint of a smile angled across their mouths, others had a determined, almost stoic look on their faces, but all of them had a faraway look in their eyes.
Expect for Lt. Green and Lt. Foster, who were oblivious to their surroundings, completely smitten with each other and the resent turn of events in their relationship. Finally, Bertrise's gasp could be heard, as she had turned and had taken in the sight before her; the two lovers entwined in a tight embrace, Kara's chin resting on Danny's shoulder, as she held out her hand, examining the sparkling silver engagement ring on her finger, silent tears of unprecedented joy streaming down her face.
A short time after that, the crowd erupted in applause and roars of joy, as various crewmembers stepped forward to congratulate the young couple. Reluctantly, Danny and Kara disentangled, accepting their fellow shipmate's and officer's congratulations, along with an occasional kiss on the cheek and a pat on the back. Another round of champagne (and one water) was ordered, and two hundred and three sailors of the Nathan James, along with their civilian friends, decided to elongate the festivities; tomorrow, along with its many obligations – and the inevitable headaches – could wait a little longer.
They were all oblivious to the fact that the CO was no longer among them, along with Dr. Scott. They were also unaware of the fact that, in the meantime, the President had decided to pardon Dr. Scott for her crimes at sea, and that she would be leaving tomorrow, for a grand tour so to say, in order to spread the cure further inland.
Moments later, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot being fired startled them, and the ballroom immediately fell silent. In a matter of seconds, XO Mike Slattery took control, ordering various teams to swipe the corridors and secure all the exits, because no matter what was going on, no one was getting in or out without questioning and identification checks. Miller, Wolf and Cruz were assigned to assure POTUS was safe, and they were to guard the Presidential Suite at all times. The children, along with Bertrise and Kathleen, were to be escorted to the storage rooms.
After a rapid mental counting of heads, Slattery came to the conclusion that at least two people were absent from the ballroom when the gunshot had rung out. And those two were basically in potential danger at all times, Slattery thought bitterly.
A sick feeling of intuition stirred, and as he turned around towards the open doors of the ballroom, he realized one of his biggest fears had actually come true. Blood drained from his face as he took in the sight before him. His CO and best friend, whose usual handsome, erect military bearing was all gone, practically stormed down the corridor towards him. His fitted undershirt was stained with the life's blood of his precious cargo, which he carefully pressed against his chest in a protective manner. Dr. Rachel Scott lay in his arms like a wet rag doll, her head resting in the crook between his shoulder and neck, her right arm hung slack across her abdomen, while her other arm swung loosely back and forth against the rhythm of Tom's pace. Her eyes were closed, and her face was ghastly pale, covered in a fine layer of sweat.
As he entered the ballroom, Tom quickly scanned the spacious room, making sure there were only familiar faces around. He felt he was more than ready to take the person on who did this. From what he registered from the bustle around him, Tom deduced his XO had already given orders to most of the room's occupants. He saw the President being hastily escorted up the stairs by Miller, Wolf and Cruz. At least that was one thing less to worry about, he thought bitterly, as he quickly made his way towards the sofa near the bar.
"Doc, I need you here!" Tom bellowed, and both Rios and Milowsky were at his side instantly, medical bags in hand, pushing him out of the way to get better access to their patient. Rachel was still unconscious, but reacted nonetheless when her body lost contact with his; her brow furrowed, she turned her head to the side, her mouth opening and closing as if she were trying to speak, but no sound could be heard. Tom turned and moved to stand against the back of the sofa, leaning down to touch her cheek lightly, to which she immediately responded. A soft moan escaped her lips as Rios and Milowsky examined her wound, but Rachel kept her head turned in Tom's direction, her labored breathing filling his ears along with the sound of his blood rushing through his veins.
Tom wasn't paying attention to the doctors doing their jobs. He saw their worried pale faces, their open medical bags, her blood covering their capable hands, but none of it actually came through. "The bleeding has stopped. There's not much more we can do here, sir," Rios' voice came from far away, and at first, Tom didn't realize the man was talking to him. Mike's hand landed firmly on his shoulder, but it was the soft, almost apologetic squeeze of his fingers that brought Tom back to the present. "Tom, they stooped the bleeding, we need to move her."
"She's already lost a lot of blood, sir. We have stopped the bleeding as best as we can, but we don't have the proper facilities at hand here to determine how much damage has been done internally. We need to get her to the nearest district hospital to perform surgery."
Tom nodded, and turned his attention to his XO and best friend. "Is the James in dry dock yet?"
Mike nodded. "She is, Tom. But–"
"With all due respect, sir," Milowsky interrupted, aware of what the Captain was hinting at. His voice was stern, knowing he needed to have the upper hand now that Rachel's life was at stake, "she's lost a lot of blood, and she'll need a transfusion as quickly as possible, but there's only so much left of our supply on the James. Plus, we need a large medical team standby, so there is no way that we can successfully operate Dr Scott on the ship."
Tom sighed, and turned his head towards his best friend. "I suppose the hotel has a helipad?"
Mike nodded, his face grim. "There is. Seahawk has been refueled and is standby. I thought it best to ensure we have a possibility to safely evacuate POTUS in case of acute emergencies. Or medical emergencies, in this case..."
Tom let that sink in for a second, as he turned his gaze to Rios. Rios answered Tom's unspoken question, "The flight to the nearest hospital will take about fifteen minutes, sir," Tom's eyes lit up at the news. It was efficient and only logical to transport Rachel to the nearest hospital by helicopter. They had no idea how the road conditions would be, and they couldn't afford wasting any more precious minutes. But did Rachel have that much time?
"Is there a way to give her a transfusion in the helicopter?"
Dr. Rios glanced into his medical bag, before sticking his hand in to scramble around its contents to check. A triumphant smile lit up his face as he pulled out a set of needles and a plastic tube. "I believe we can. Does anyone know Dr. Scott's blood type?"
"She's A-positive," Tom answered without hesitation. He hadn't needed to think about that – he remembered from reading her file all those months ago.
All three men with him looked at him, surprised, but didn't ask how he was so sure, and how he had come to know this information when no one else knew. "So… Does any one of us share the same blood type as she does?"
Mike shook his head, "I'm A-negative," he answered ruefully, as if he'd gladly switch blood types if it were possible. Tom could still feel his blood rush through his veins, faster than before, or so it seemed, as if his own blood cells understood the meaning of this; he was, in fact, O-negative. He could give Rachel his blood, in order to safe her life. Tom opened his mouth to give voice to his thoughts, but Mike beat him to it. "Tom, you're O-negative. That means your blood can directly be transfused to her, isn't that right, Doc?"
Rios and Milowsky both turned their heads to look at Tom once again, who nodded. "That's fantastic, Captain! We'll set up the transfusion once we've safely reached the aircraft. But now, we need to move."
As if on cue, Tom, Mike, Milowsky and Rios moved to transport Rachel quickly and safely towards the helicopter. Because they had no gurney at their disposal, Tom lifted Rachel's body carefully off the sofa and into his arms, with both doctors at his side to be of help, should he need it. Mike led the way towards the east wing, where four large folding doors separated them from the chilly open air.
"Does anyone know how to fly this thing?" Milowsky's question had Tom and Mike exchanging a glance, before Mike reached to open the helicopter's sliding door. "I do, doctor," he replied, as he stood to the side to allow both doctors to get in first.
When Rios and Milowsky had both climbed in, they turned around to take Rachel from Tom, so he could climb in after them with use of both of his arms and hands. In the meantime, Mike had taken a few steps to his left to open the cabin door. After taking his seat, he reached for the headset and motioned his passengers to follow his example. Mike then mentally repeated all the necessary steps to get the helicopter ready for takeoff. Within minutes, they were all ready, and Mike pulled up slowly on the collective. His jaw clenched in concentration, as he then pushed the left pedal with his foot, while he kept pulling the collective with his left hand. While slowly rising off the ground, Mike made his next move by pushing the cylic forward. After that, the aircraft began to shudder, which resulted in a complaining moan escaping from Rachel's lips. Tom immediately reacted by leaning forward to place a hand on her uninjured shoulder. Rachel's eyes fluttered open, and closed again without actually seeing anything.
Taking some pressure off the collective, Mike increased the pressure on the cyclic. Seeing the airspeed indicator jump up, Mike then gently released some of the forward cyclic pressure, while the aircraft proceeded to climb and gained more speed.
Milowsky gently but expertly took Rachel's hand, placing his index and middle finger on her wrist. His brow furrowed, he rubbed her skin before placing both his fingers down again, with a bit more strength than before.
"Her pulse is weak, she's lost too much blood. If we don't act now, we will certainly lose her before touchdown."
Tom lifted his head rapidly when he heard those fatal words leaving the doctor's lips. "Start the transfusion. Now," he said quietly, while carefully moving a bit into the doctor's direction, extending his arm. Rios nodded, and started working on the direct transfusion between the stubborn captain and the unconscious doctor.
The helicopter flight lasted minutes that seemed like hours, or so Tom thought. He couldn't deny that Mike was an expert pilot, and that he was secretly glad he had his best friend by his side right now. Rachel's condition seemed to deteriorate by the minute; her breathing became shallow, and she felt cold to the touch. She was still unconscious, and it was clear that she was in a lot of pain. It seemed as if her body had shrunk, her skin looked ashen and felt damp to the touch. Rios expertly injected a syringe needle in the crook of their elbows, which were attached to an intravenous line.
Making sure he was as close to her as possible to ensure the blood flow kept going steadily from his arm to hers, but even more so to try and warm her with his body heat. He welt a bit relieved when he gradually saw a bit of color return to Rachel's cheeks, at least her body reacted well to his blood.
"How are you feeling, sir?" Milowsky inquired, but Tom shook his head. He was fine; all that mattered now was Rachel. He would be less tense, he told himself, if they made it to the hospital and Rachel was placed into the care of the best medical team St. Louis had to offer. He knew it was a lie; but telling lies to himself to distract him somewhat was better than to think of the worst possible scenarios. He had never been a pessimist; he had always believed positive outcomes were possible if he worked hard enough to achieve it. He wasn't a man given to pouting when things didn't go his way; Thomas Chandler was more of a man who, through strong will and determination, came against a problem again and again until he either ran roughshod over it or plowed his way through. Knowing there was nothing more he could do for her, other than stay by her side and give her his life's blood, made him feel helpless and useless. He wanted to blame himself for this so badly.
"Don't blame yourself for this, Tom."
Rachel's voice rang in his head. Her voice, though weak, had sounded so reassuring in that deserted corridor. And through her voice, she had showed him her trust. She trusted him, despite everything he had put her through. After everything he had put the both of them through.
Tears stung as he took a shaky breath. Rachel was strong, she would pull through, she had to! And when – not if, when – she woke up, he would make sure to make it up to her. Because he was absolutely sure she would survive this – and there was no way in hell he was going to let her go away. And most certainly not now. Never before in all his life had he met such a woman. Headstrong, intelligent, sweet, passionate, mysterious. These were only a few adjectives he could think of to describe Dr. Rachel Alice Scott. Those months they had spent in close proximity had made him fancy himself a rather good judge of character, hers in particular. Still, he knew that there was still a lot to learn about this woman. And he was eager to do so.
He was denied the opportunity to stand by Darien's side during her sickness and ultimate passing, and he would always hate himself for that, even though he was fully aware that it was useless. Darien was gone, and there was no force on earth he could use to bring her back, no matter how desperately he longed for her. And he always would, there was no doubt of that.
But he refused to let history repeat itself and take another person he held dear away from him. In a normal life, falling for another woman so shortly after his wife's death would be next to impossible, unthinkable and not to mention disrespectful to Darien and their love. But he couldn't help it. He had come to respect Rachel, to admire her. And trust and admiration had flowed into friendship, and friendship had turned into… Into what? Was it love? Affection? He wasn't sure. He wasn't exactly sure of anything at the moment, but he knew one thing: seeing Rachel lying lifeless on the floor, her life's blood trickling from her wounds, her skin ashen, her eyes devoid of the usual joie de vivre they usually held in them… It had turned his whole world upside down. And right then, as he relived that awful moment, it seemed as if he was a spectator to a very, very bad play. He saw himself leaping towards her, as he stood there, a specter in the corner of the corridor. He heard himself calling out for her, his hands grasping, his breath hitching. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could have done, and it angered him. It just wasn't fair.
"Don't blame yourself for this, Tom. I could never blame you – for anything."
I will try, darling. I will try.