A/N: Things should start to pick up here. Reality, morphine, and PT.

Ch3: Day 1, Stay with me son

I return to the only life I know that night. The nightmares. This time I'm crawling through sand. A black knife twists out of my chest, I can feel the serrated edge sawing against my ribs. It's a strange feeling, having a knife –or for that matter, any foreign object that doesn't belong- in your body. It's invasive, in a way you can only experience and not describe. The sand gets coarser, turning to glass, but I keep dragging myself, I need to get over there. I don't know why but I know I NEED to be there. The shards cut every inch of me open, a swath of blood mopping across the ground behind me. I don't care. I need to be there. Somebody needs my help.

The dark knoll on the horizon gets closer. I dig deeper, push harder. There's a thundering in my head, crashing like boulders in the ocean. One. Two. Three. Four… they keep falling. That dark knoll writhes, it's alive, a monster, crushing in a skull. It collapses in like a soft melon. I scream and yell, and the black monster twists its head around. Embers smolder where its eyes should be. It makes a sound, like twisting steel, deafening above all else. It starts to lumber toward me, the sand swirling up in its wake. It's only seconds before it'll be on me.

Reality greets me like a slap in the face. I'm suddenly so aware of everything –all at once. The air is so cold it's like inhaling clusters of ice. Every pin and plate fastened to my bones. Every fissure and fracture, splinter by splinter. Every inch of me that had been poked and prodded. This god damn brace lodged under my goddamn chin.

I can hear myself breathing over everything else, shallow, rapid, the adrenaline dump giving me tremors. They're not bad, but I can feel the buzzy shaking all the way down to my toes. I'm anxious, edgy. I start to fumble around for that tiny detonator but it's lost somewhere in the sheets. Before I can find it, a person dressed in grey walks in, towing a cart behind them.

"Good morning John." It's the female with the yellowish hair and dark eyes. She sounds happy. The cart looks piled to the brim with a whole assortment of tools

"I hope you slept well." She's hovering over me now, her eyes darting back and forth, making a quick assessment. It's only now I realize her eyes aren't brown –they're kind of slate grey.

I roll my eyes, feeling my blood pressure rise a little. What a ridiculous statement.

But she laughs, and the humanness of her emotion catches me off guard. It tends to happen when you learn to be a callous asshole.

"Don't sass me. I've dealt with your kind before." She smiles before she returns to harassing me, pulling the covers down my chest. Her face becomes serious as she gives me a once over. A laminated card is clipped from the pocket of her scrubs, and I try to make out the words but she moves too fast.

Satisfied, she makes her way lower. I draw the line there, and make a grab for her wrist before she can rob me of what dignity I have left. She halts her examination long enough to acknowledge that I've got a lot more to say to her than just an eye roll.

"There's nothing here I haven't seen before. In fact, I've probably seen more of you in the past few months than you've seen yourself in the past 5 years." She pulls from my grip like it was a wet towel, and I feel the covers roll back over my legs. Her hands shouldn't be there, and my breath catches in my throat.

Yep, there goes my dignity.

"And there, we're done!" She rolls the sheet back over almost as quickly as she had taken it off, tossing a few items in the waste bin. I can hear the latex gloves peel off with a snap.

"All goes well and you'll be one step closer to taking a piss by yourself."

A damn catheter –maybe I was better off not knowing what she was doing. Let the experts do their thing behind the shrouds. I ask the only question guy would after any lass has had her hands down your nether regions.

"Whufts yur naem?"

"My name's Elle. You've been in my ward since you've arrived here, back in mid October."

October, October. The guy said yesterday was December 17th. I start to count out the days while Elle continues her work in silence. About 64 days. 9 weeks. 9 weeks I've been away from the world and I don't remember a thing.

"Take my hands. I'm going to sit you up." It's like a slow dance, awkward, but she inclines the bed and helps reposition me. Finally I feel like I regain some mobility in my neck. Without me having to ask, she starts to loosen the neck brace, but only enough so I can actually stretch my jaw.

"Thanks." For the first time my words feel normal, save for the horrible cotton mouth. I swear my tongue is sandpaper. She lifts a plastic cup to my face, equip with the periscope straw. My reflexes are slow, but I manage to reach from under to take the beverage out of her hand. I wasn't about to be patronized any more than I had in the past 10 minutes.

"You think you got this?"

I shoot her with what I hope was a death glare. It deflects clean off of her.

"I think I've been through worse."

"I know you have. I'm sure you've got a lot of questions going on through your head right now, and I want you to know we're here to help answer them – when you're ready for it."

I only heard half of the last part because I was so focused on not dropping this cup of water, which was feeling more like a brick in my hand with the passing seconds. I'm shaking and I can't control it. Since when did I become so weak? Was it always like this? Elle cups a hand under mine to help steady.

Water never tasted so good. It wasn't even the taste, it was simply the sensation. Refreshing. And I felt like I couldn't get enough. Elle was kind enough to offer a refill. When I went for a third, she withheld the cup and placed it out of reach.

"Easy there. Small sips. You don't want to shock your body."

On the contrary, I don't think much of anything could surprise this body after everything it's been through. At this rate, I'd probably go into shock from this powerless lifestyle I was currently stuck in compared to reliving the last conscious hour of my past life that put me here in the first place. She's pulling on another pair of gloves and opens up a square package into a metal tray that's sitting on top of the cart.

"Where am I?"

"You are at the Steinn Aflinn," the last two words came out so fluently, I had almost disregarded the undertones of an accent. It was a start. Barely Day 2 and my dormant instincts were coming back. Elle knew I wasn't quite following, perhaps it was the dumb look on my face. She starts wiping some cold against a knot under my collar bone, just out of my peripherals. It stinks of alcohol and chemicals.

"Welcome to Iceland John."

Iceland? What the fuck was in Iceland?

"You were killed in action. At least, that's what everyone believes. You have a lot friends -in all the right places. That's how you ended up here."

Hm. Maybe that was the point then...

I feel a small pinch as she works the area over.

"Consider yourself a ghost John."

I started to feel nauseous. And cold. Washy. Lightheaded. There's a muffled clicking sound in the distance. Elle's looking at me and waving a hand over her head. The clicking is getting louder, and crisper. I squeeze me eyes shut, fighting the fading feeling. Everything gets quiet, except for that clicking.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. It must be the clock on the far end of the room.

Or the snap of fingers. Something is squeezing my hand.

'C'mon, stay with me son!'

"Stay with me John."

Finally I can breath. As if someone hit the play button.

"John?"

"I'm fine." The lie is bold faced. When I force my eyes open, Elle is poised. She doesn't look scared, but determined. Focused. I've seen that expression somewhere before.

"I find it hard to believe the sight of blood bothers you." She carefully goes back to work, scarcely breaking eye contact. I glance down to try to get a view of what she's doing.

"It never has." I observe for a little longer.

"What are you doing." It's more of an order than a question.

"Flushing your central venous port. With your cognitive functional the rebound, we'll want to be working on your motor skills next. It's not your first time with rehab if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah." I try to sound convincing but it falls flat. I'll take her word on it. Right now she knows more about what the hell is going on around here. Instead I try to focus on what she's doing.

"We'll be pulling this out in no time."

"That's a good thing?" She's tending to the area again.

"It's a good start. You've got a long road ahead of you."

"Why do I have wear this thing?" I make reference to the bulky collar brace.

"We've been worried about the swelling in some of your cervical vertebrae. We were on the right track until a few mishaps."

"Mishaps, huh?"

Elle starts adjust some of the IV lines like the guy had last night.

"For someone so near death as many times as you, you always put up a fight. Every time we thought you were in the clear, you'd be up, screaming and yelling, ripping everything out and end up on the floor. Even under heavy sedation. Since the restraints, this is the most stable we've had you in the past few weeks." Elle grabs my hand again, her thumb running along my knuckles. 1, 2, 3, 4 and back. Her mouth presses into some sort of half smile.

"How's the pain?"

"Could use a little more." It's an all encompassing feeling of shit. A constant, but I convince myself it's better than being able to feel nothing at all. Except my right hand. The fact I've been barely able to will any movement out of is a growing concern.

"I'll get you settled back in when we're done here."

"We're not done?"

"You're morning has just begun, my friend. I know it's going to feel a little overwhelming at first, but the longer you stay in this bed on the morphine, the longer you'll be stuck in here. I'm here to get you back up on your feet, quite literally."

Her words sounded foreboding. She grabs a small tool from the tray, and makes her way to the end of my bed.

"Are you ticklish?"

I attempt at a shrug, "I couldn't tell you."

"I'm going to conduct a neurological examination of your foot, then your legs. This will be done with a series of pin pricks and push-pull exercises." Elle rolls back the sheet again, grabbing a foot this time. I feel her thumbs work through my arch. For the first time in my life I finally take notice of what a military career and avid sport has done to my toes –and it's not pretty.

"Try not to kick me."

By mid morning Elle's conducted a battery of tests to determine my baseline capacity, and I've been convinced my name is John MacTavish. I'll take it for now. It's better than being a John Doe. My worst fear is confirmed when she tells me there's nerve damage throughout my right arm. By Noon I'm dining on ice chips and granted TV privileges before I'm put through the gauntlet again. Phase II involves a formal introduction to 'Anna' and 'Jakob' –the guy who dropped in when I found that nifty detonator switch. When I'm relinquished back to my bed I'm within an inch of my life from the pain. It's debilitating. Blinding. I remember crying. Anger. Fear. Frustration. I don't know, pick one. The morphine doesn't hit hard or fast enough. Was it this bad last time? I wish I knew.

Sleep never came. It's the slathering of exhaustion in its rawest form that finally takes me under. I don't even dream, which is a welcomed relief.

A/N: A big jump in size. Hope you enjoyed. Please review and critique, any advice or ideas is appreciated.