AN: So, I noticed that there was a date discrepancy in the last chapter. The very last February 6th should be a February 7th. Sorry! My goof. Anyway, I hope I am glad to be updating again. I have really taken a renewed interest in this story, and I hope to finish it within the next month or so. So far, it doesn't seem like it's ever going to end, even though I have the ending in mind. It's just making the jump from the middle to there that's going to be a problem...Anyway, enjoy this next chapter!
Chapter Three:
One Week Later—February 15th 2009
Sam leaves. Well, more accurately, Sam is forced to leave. A client calls with a request for a face-to-face conference. The client is too big to lose, and Sam's job is not important enough to keep if he botches this sale. So Sam leaves.
Several hours later, Dan receives the call. Sam Dorian has died on the turnpike of some no-account little highway, having veered into a ditch. Discovered some hours later, he is found to have had a heart attack—most likely the cause of the crash.
Dan finds solace in his family and friends. John refuses any offered comfort, claiming he's been through it before and that it isn't his father that's died, anyway.
His attempts to hide away at the hospital and grieve in peace—because, yes, it is in fact his father, no matter the universe, and it hits him harder the second time around—are interrupted when Perry finds him balled up in a corner of the third floor mens bathroom.
John can't stop the sobs, even when the older man sits beside him and hesitantly pulls him into an awkward hug. John does not want awkward hugs or forced sympathy. He doesn't want these strangers thinking he cares what happens in some God-forsaken alternate universe that's screwed up and wrong and can't sympathize with him because they don't know—they can't know—the things he's done and seen.
They can't.
And that's when John realizes what he has to do.
0 o 0 o 0
February 15, 2016
Sammy Dorian Cox does not like the stranger who looks disturbingly like his father. There are subtle differences, such as the color of his hair and the lack of crows feet around his eyes. And then there are the not-so-subtle differences, such as the way he and Perry fight and the lack of bedtime story before lights out.
Sammy does not like the stranger at all, and the more days that pass, the angrier he becomes until he decides his inner fuming can no longer be kept silent. Unfortunately, this moment presents itself when he least expects it—in a very crowded mess hall.
JD helpfully pours him a glass of juice and gives him a smile. But it is not his father's smile, and it is not the right kind of juice. Sammy knocks the cup to the ground, and juice splatters across the concrete floor.
"Sam!" Perry chides, standing to find something to clean the mess with.
"It was an accident," JD says, though he knows otherwise. "I got it." He stands, and Sammy stands with him, pushing him away from the spilled juice.
"It's my mess," he says stubbornly. "I've got it."
"Okay." JD shrugs and turns back to the table. Sammy pushes him again, causing the stranger to lose his balance and catch himself on a chair before he falls to the ground.
"Sam!" Perry growls, placing a hand on JD's shoulder to steady him, which only serves to enrage the child more.
"Stop it!" Sammy yells, stomping his foot and glaring at the both of them. A quiet settles over the table. "What is he doing here, Perry?"
The Irishman gives the boy an aggravated look. He's been dreading this conversation for some time. He expected it sooner, and somehow this is exactly how he pictured it starting. "Kid, don't do this here."
"I want to know where my dad is!" Sammy demands loudly, his eyes welling with tears and his tone on the verge of hysterical. "I want to know what he did with him!" He points an accusing finger at the not-dad, backing away when Perry takes a step toward him. "Why? Why is he here and my dad's not?"
Perry leans down on one knee imploringly. "Sammy, you know he has nothing to do with your dad being gone."
"You said you loved him! You said you wouldn't let bad things happen to him!"
The Irishman closes his eyes and winces. He'd made that promise to Sammy the day of his and John's wedding almost five years ago. And he intends to keep it . . . but how he intends to keep it is an altogether different problem.
"You lied," Sammy whispers, tears spilling down his cheeks. "You love him more than my dad." He gestures half-heartedly to JD behind the older man.
Sammy turns to leave, but Perry grabs the boy's arm and draws him into a hug. "That is not true," he forces past a closing throat, squeezing the child—his child—to his chest. "That is not true."
And Sammy knows it isn't as tears fall down both their faces.
0 o 0 o 0
February 17th 2009
"You have to what?"
It is two days before the funeral. Dan is supposed to leave to help his mother with arrangements, but John has held him back from his flight to discuss "the plan."
"I have to stop this. I think . . . I'm supposed to stop the war from happening. Why else would I be here?"
Dan doesn't have an answer. He also has a plane ticket to trade in for another flight. "I have to go," he responds absently, standing and heading toward the door.
"Dan—"
The eldest of the Dorian sons whirls around, a strange look on his face. "My father just died," he says bluntly. "Our father just died. I can't . . . I can't do this right now." He leans down and picks up the luggage at his feet. "And if you value your reputation here in this universe, you'll be at the funeral."
And then he's gone, leaving John with a country-wide crisis to handle by himself.
0 o 0 o 0
John attends the funeral, however briefly, then returns to Sacred Heart. He receives sympathetic looks from staff he recognizes—and some he doesn't even know.
"Doctor Dorian, I'm obligated to give you personal leave, so I suggest you take it and stay out of this facility before your grief is the cause of a patient's death and the hospital is sued." Doctor Kelso's words are inspiring as ever. And John has to stop to appreciate the man's presence for a moment—the man who risked everything to get the rebels the supplies they needed and was killed for his charity.
"I'm fine, Doctor Keslo," he says quietly. "I think I'll just work in the clinic, if that's all right. It'll keep my mind occupied."
Kelso frowns and studies the man skeptically. He doesn't remember hiring this young man. Or maybe he does, but he's different somehow. Though his words show respect and his tone is quiet, there is a certain amount of resilience in his eyes—something that the chief of medicine recognizes.
"Fine," he says reluctantly. "I'll assign someone to observe you for the day." Turning his head sharply, he spots his victim. "Perry!"
The Irishman's shoulders hunch. He's heard everything, and his attempt to sneak away has been thwarted by the all-knowing devil himself.
Kelso points his clipboard to the younger man. "Meet your new charge." And then the evil-doer is gone.
Doctor Cox and John stare at one another with growing disdain.
"Listen, Newbie—" the older man starts but is immediately interrupted.
"I don't care if you watch me or not. I'll make a report, and you can sign it when I'm finished."
"Hold on a second—"
"Or not. I don't really care." The younger man starts to walk away.
"Hey! Kendra! What do you think you're—"
A wailing flatline echoes from a nearby room, and both men freeze, the medical switches in their brains flipping to total control.
"Need a crash cart!" the older man yells just as John shouts, "Code!"
John is closer—he reaches the room first.
0 o 0 o 0
Doctor Cox has never seen anyone work so fast or so efficiently (outside himself, of course). John has the patient prepped and ready before the older man even makes it into the room. Vitals are checked, compressions are started, and the look on the young man's face is determined.
John is used to faster response times. Had the hospital always been this slow?
"Where the fuck is that crash cart?" he seethes as Doctor Cox places a manual air pump over the patient's mouth and nose.
"It's coming, Newbie," he says calmly. As he pumps air into the patient's lungs, John notices a frothy foam bubbling around the dying person's mouth.
He stops, suddenly, and turns away, searching the drawers around the room.
"Hey!" Doctor Cox yells. "What the hell are you—"
John returns to the hospital bed with a scalpel and a long, slender tube. "Fluid in his lungs," he explains breathlessly and with just a touch of annoyance. At home, no one questions him—not even Perry. If he leaves a man to die on the table—not that he ever does—the others follow suit without a second's hesitation.
He grabs the stethoscope dangling around Doctor Cox's neck and shoves the ear pieces into his own ears, placing the chest piece on the patient's torso and listening intently for a good three seconds on each side. Removing the stethoscope, he makes a decision.
Quickly, and with little effort, John makes a small incision in the patient's side and slides the tube into the incision between two ribs, forcefully penetrating the right lung. Doctor Cox watches with bated breath as a clear, red-tinged fluid flows from the tube onto the floor. Several nurses enter the room with the crash cart. John holds up a hand, stopping them before they start to unload. His gaze is glued to the heart monitor.
"Newbie—"
"Just wait," the younger doctor demands, one hand still raised. After another ten seconds, Doctor Cox growls and grabs the crash cart himself, wheeling it over.
John frowns. "I said—" He's cut off by the Irishman's order to charge the paddles. "Doctor Cox—" The cart emits a high, keening pitch. "Perry!" John practically throws himself over the patient to stop the other man.
"Clear!" Doctor Cox says in a warning tone. He starts to lower the paddles. John grabs a hold of them, pressing the older man's fingers down on the trigger buttons.
John jerks with a painful grunt and collapses to the ground just as the wailing flatline stutters into a steady rhythm.
0 o 0 o 0
February 20th 2016
Melissa Sanchez, a young CNA who helps stock supplies every now and again, is the only witness to JD's collapse. He's standing at the counter one second, filling out a recent patient's chart, and the next, he's on the floor, fingers entangled in his scrubs top just over his heart.
"Doctor Cox!" she screeches, leaning down and placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. JD grunts and curls in on himself, gasping as if the wind was just suddenly knocked out of him.
Perry bursts through the curtain opening, searching the room wildly before his gaze lands on the two of them. "What happened?" he demands, hurrying toward them and bending to one knee to examine the other man.
"I-I don't know!" Melissa stammers, shaking her head. "He just . . . went down!"
Perry carefully rolls JD onto his back, fighting the young man the whole time. "Did he say anything? Did he look like he was in any pain?"
"Not before he fell," the young woman says. "He hasn't said anything."
"JD," Perry says loudly over the other's groaning. "I need you to calm down! What's going on?"
"My chest," JD manages. "H-Hurts! God!" He squints his eyes shut . . . then goes limp.
0 o 0 o 0
"What's wrong with him?" Dan asks, determinedly striding towards the Irishman. This is one hell of a welcoming party. He and Turk have been gone for near a week, scouting possible new locations. Elliot had suggested one up north so that she and her band could enjoy a little "southern comfort" for once. Dan hadn't imagined things would get so out of hand while he was away. "Coxie, talk to me," he demands.
For once, Perry doesn't know what to say. They've run tests, taken blood, asked questions. There isn't much else they can do but wait.
"I don't know," the doctor says, his voice husky as he runs a hand over his face. "He . . . I don't know."
An incredulous look takes Dan's face. "What do you mean you don't know?"
Perry scowls. "I mean I. Don't. Know. He collapsed. We're monitoring him. There isn't anything more we can do, Dan."
The younger man deflates, looking past the doctor to the curtain shielding his not-brother from the rest of the compound.
/Dan pushes through the crowd of people, searching frantically for familiar faces. The containment camp is packed and humid, full of sweating men and women, wailing children. People fight to remain standing—get knocked to the ground, and you're as good as dead.
"Johnny! Coxie!" he calls, ignoring the odd looks he receives from strangers.
"Dan!" someone shouts across the crowd, and he whips around, his heart fluttering and his breath seizing in his throat. A pair of waving arms catch his attention, and he almost sobs at the sight of Perry's filthy face. They fight through the crowd to get to one another, frantic hysteria causing them to embrace.
Pulling apart, Dan leaves his hands on the other's shoulders, fingers entangled in the tattered shirt. "Is he here?" he breathes huskily.
Perry looks remorseful as he shakes his head. "They took him to a different camp. I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . ." He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth.
Dan squeezes his shoulders. "Do you think they know who he is?"
The older man swallows hard. "I don't think so . . . But I'm not sure. They didn't act like they knew who he was."
Dan nods. "Okay." He glances around, eyes searching warily. "So what's the game plan, here?"
Perry's face sets grimly. "We find the others—as many as we can." His gaze shifts over the crowd surrounding them. "We're going to need some help."
"I can do that," the elder of the Dorian brothers promises. "And then?"
The Irishman growls low in his throat. "We go and get my fucking husband."/
Three days and two nights without food or water. And, finally, they'd rebelled, screaming John Michael Dorian's name as they faced gunfire and bloodshed. It took a week to find their leader, the one who had started it all, and when they'd stormed the camp, taken up arms against the captors, and freed the young man, he was ready to fight with them—for them. John had stopped being "JD" in that moment, and no one looked at him without an awed respect from that day forward.
Dan remembers every damn second of this war, every pointless death, every action taken and word said. Years from now, unbeknownst to Daniel Dorian, he will write a book about his brother and the war and the pain and suffering they were forced to endure. His memories will be the start of a new history—one without violence and rage and corrupt government and military officials.
Daniel Dorian will not live to see his work, his memoir, published. He will barely live to see the end of the war. But he will see a new beginning, and it will be worth it.
So, with all of this unknown to him, he slides back the curtain of JD's hospital room, sits beside his not-brother on the bed, and falls asleep next to the young man who temporarily holds the title of the great John Michael Dorian.
0 o 0 o 0
February 20st 2009
/John remembers the day that he is caught and separated from Perry and the others. The young man is wearing the Irishman's lab coat. Doctors are being rounded up and taken to separate camps. He finds several people from Sacred Heart, including Bob Kelso and that creepy guy who works in the lab. Many doctors are taken, interviewed, and released. A few are executed, their bodies left outside the camp as a warning.
John stays quiet and bides his time, keeping his head low as doctor after doctor is taken and either released or killed. As the week continues, more doctors are killed than released. And, finally, he's brought to the room.
They frown and demand his name, where he works, what kind of doctor he is.
"My name is Jimmy Miller," he lies easily enough. "I'm a veterinarian at the animal shelter." They check his story. There is a Jimmy Miller at the animal shelter. He's thirty years old with a wife and two sons. He pays his taxes, gives to charity, attends local sporting events, and is an all-around upstanding citizen.
What their records don't show, however, is that Jimmy was killed days ago in the chaos, and that Jimmy and his wife, Amy, and John had all gone to high school together, and that Amy had tearfully offered her deceased husband's identity to John so that he might live.
John has all the proper identification—social security card, altered drivers license, even a passport with his picture and Jimmy's name.
They seem convinced, enough to release him, anyway. But then the trouble starts. Riots in the camp—fires and fights. They have no time to process him now, so back in the camp he goes. But the riots are a distraction, and before he knows what is happening, he is grabbed, tugged, and lugged by familiar faces—and some not-so-familiar—until the most familiar of them all is there, and John breathes his last easy breath for a long time./
John wakes with a start, unfamiliar hands gripping his shoulders and his arms. His eyes search frantically, shapes blurring and moving too fast for him to focus.
"Johnny!" Dan's voice calls, his tone holding worry and fear.
"Newbie, come on! Snap out of it!" Doctor Cox's angry voice growls from his other side.
Almost immediately, John stops struggling, closing his eyes against the nausea churning in his stomach.
"What—" he tries, but the word is like grating sandpaper, his tongue covered in a thick paste that gunks in the back of his throat. Something cold is pressed to his lips, and he allows his mouth to be filled with ice chips.
He tries again. "What's going on? What happened?"
"You d-fibbed yourself, is what happened!" the Irishman snarls, though the anger in his voice does little to mask the fear. "You've been out almost all day."
Dan jumps into the conversation. "You were holding the paddles!" he protests. He'd seen it happen, had been looking for his not-brother to apologize about the way he had been acting.
"He pushed the damn buttons himself!"
John raises a hand, silencing the two men and drawing their attention back towards himself. "How is Mr. Sypes?"
Doctor Cox's eyebrows draw together, and he frowns. "Who?"
"The patient," John says calmly, blinking tiredly as his vision slowly starts to adjust to the light and the two men standing on either side of his hospital bed. "The one that coded."
The older man purses his lips. "He's alive," he replies quietly, "thanks to you." He considers his next words carefully. "The lab says that if we had tried to shock his heart, he would have died instantly. Apparently there were some blockages that would have caused heart failure. It was the infection in his lungs that made him crash."
John nods as if he's heard the information before. In his universe, Harold Jameson Sypes is the man who was a key component in finding a cure for the disease. Without him, this universe has no chance.
"You knew about him," Doctor Cox states matter-of-factly.
John nods again. "I told you where I'm from."
"The future," the older man spits, but there is a hint of uncertainty in his tone. He stares at the young man warily. "The future," he repeats with a little more conviction.
"It's true," Dan confirms. "He isn't from here."
Doctor Cox almost snorts at the way Dan words his not-brother's difference. It makes John seem like an alien, someone who doesn't belong—which isn't entirely far from the truth. With another glance at the young man, who doesn't seem all that young anymore, he grabs a chair beside the bed and sits down determinedly.
"Okay," he says, settling in for the long haul.
AN: Well, there you have it. I actually did manage to squeeze out a few tears while I was writing this! Dan's story really got to me. I'm even in the process of commissioning someone to write Dan's book! Any takers? *shifty eyes* Eh, may have to take on that job me-self. ;) Let me know how I'm doing! What are YOUR thoughts on what should be happening?
Oh, and a huge side note. I'm contemplating having an affair...Not ME personally, but an affair between John and Doctor Cox. What do you think? It'd make me write a little faster, I think...and it's be grounds for a third part ('cause no way will John or Perry address it in this part; uh-uh!). THOUGHTS! NEED THEM! Please?
Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side. :D