When John woke next, he wasn't in the haze of the aftermath of anaesthetic and painkillers. The ventilator was gone. He felt like he swallowed gravel, mined by diamond- tipped drills with razors embedded in it, which is what he would have said if he could talk.

He turned his head and then shook it, smiling slightly through the pain. Roy was still there. John tapped his friend's hand, which hung over the rail of his bed like a call button. He saw and felt his bandaged hands for the first time. He made the mistake of swallowing hard and retracted his hand from waking his friend.

Oh God, I wonder how bad… Grimacing, he concentrated and flexed his fingers beneath the bandages. His breathing sped up from the pain and accelerated the monitors.

Roy stood up from a dead sleep, instantly regretting the dizziness it caused and sinking back into the chair. Now eye level with his very much awake friend, he realized what had happened.

"You're okay, Johnny. Your hands are gonna be fine, Doc says so."

John's eyes closed in momentary relief, hiding the still slightly enlarged pupils. The hands were everything to the job he loved.

"R … oy," he rasped, grabbing his throat in pain.

Roy gently but firmly took John's hands and held them down to his chest.

"Don't try to talk yet. Doc said you did a number on your vocal chords so you won't be singing while you come around the mountain for awhile and no drivin' six white horses for a bit either while we're on the subject." Or diving into broken waterslides again. Ever.

John nodded but Roy's hands remained in place until the pain subsided a bit.

The monitors slowed again as the ICU nurse took vitals. She nodded approvingly and went to call Dr. Brackett.

XXXX

Brackett's practiced hands palpated just under John's chin and gently traced down his throat to his collarbones. John withdrew into the pillows harder in reaction to the pain. He took a few ragged breaths and scrunched up his eyes.

"Almost done, sorry. We have to monitor the swelling. Okay, I know this hurts but you have to swallow for me," Brackett instructed, his index finger and thumb on either side of John's burning throat.

John opened his eyes and stared up at the doctor incredulously. Swallowing was hard enough without pressure on his windpipe. He took a deep breath and did as he was told, grimacing again, his head sinking impossibly further into his pillows.

Roy's hand squeezed his partner's shoulder when a gasp of pain escaped him.

"Okay, you did real good. We're done. Roy, can you get him some ice please?" Brackett asked, checking John's oxygen saturation levels.

Sweat stood on John's brow as Roy spooned him some ice and he swiped quickly at some moisture that gathered at the corners of his eyes with his pristine white gauze hands. He worked to control his breathing.

Brackett took his time, waiting for his patient go get some relief and some composure back from the ice. This was the part of the job he hated but as his professors had told him countless times when he'd felt like throwing up back in med school, sometimes it has to hurt before it will heal. And it was always harder when the patient was a friend.

"Better?" Roy asked, sounding very much like Brackett felt inside.

John nodded in the affirmative. It was a lie but no one called him on it.

"I just need to get a look down your throat and then I believe it's time for your pain meds."

Brackett gently cupped his patient's chin and poised the light. "Okay, say ahhh."

"Ahhh … ow!" John rasped involuntarily, trying to stop the painful coughing the prompt had caused.

Brackett's jaw twitched, never a good sign, and accompanied by the famous sigh and slight headshake almost always meant bad news. He spoke to the nurse who returned with an inhaler as Roy slipped in behind his friend to support his back as he sat up.

John wheezed in the medicine from the mask Brackett held to his face until he slumped back exhausted and panting.

"I'm going to order a humidity tent for the night. You have some swelling of the vocal chords and soft tissues. It's imperative that you don't speak and we have to get that coughing under control. We don't want to build scar tissue."

XXXX

Tired eyes stared miserably out of the plastic tent that encased John's torso.

"Don't worry, I'll tell Chet no boy in the plastic bubble jokes. Now just try to relax and let the meds work, okay?" Roy coached tiredly. John opened his mouth to reply but was glared into silence.

"You're not supposed to talk. And you know that Brackett said whispering actually puts more strain on the vocal chords than talking so none of that either."

A nod and a shrug with a slight head bob cocked to the left a little.

"How long in the tent?"

A nod in the affirmative, brow raised in query.

"About a day. Brackett says the moisture will help with the coughing and the inhaled meds will help reduce swelling."

John's face took on a resigned look until Joanne arrived. She kissed Roy and sat on the arm of his chair, slipping her hand under the tent to gently touch John's bandaged hands.

"They told me you were awake and hitting on nurses already," Joanne said fondly.

John blushed. The coloring in his cheeks lasted only seconds but it was so good to see something to chase away the pallor even fleetingly.

Jo had a knack for calming the young paramedic. She easily carried on a one-sided conversation and though not nearly as adept as Roy in deciphering his gestures soon persuaded him to go to sleep.

"Wow, you made him sleep. They gave him some meds awhile ago that should have knocked him for a loop," Roy said quietly as he gently tucked in blankets around his friend.

"Are you calling me boring, Mr. Desoto?"

"I'm calling you a sight for sore eyes. How did you manage to get away?"

"Mrs. Clark will look after Jen and Chris for a few hours and I figured you needed some home cooking."

Roy forced himself to eat a bit. Joanne coaxed him to go home for a little while and get some sleep. She endured twenty instructions with a patient smile she usually reserved for her children.

"Call the nurse if …"

"He's in the ICU. The nurse is right there," Joanne reminded him as she pointed to a booth right outside the door from which several nurses monitored patients.

"Right … Okay then I'll just…"

"Roy, I talked to Mike's wife on the phone. Surely you're not feeling the same way he and the guys are all feeling? How would John feel if he knew you guys were blaming yourselves for what happened? It was an accident and as much as I hate to admit, part of the risks of your job."

"I know … it was just so hard. The guys … they were holding the rope. They could feel everything and there was nothing they could do about it. There was nothing I could do…"

"Exactly."

Roy did his best to believe his wife's logic. It had never failed him before. Bone deep weariness set in and with one last look and ten more instructions that earned him an eye roll from his wife, he finally left.

Joanne smoothed the blankets around their friend unnecessarily. She took her knitting from her bag and the clacking of the needles melded with the monitors for a few hours. She looked up often, studying John's face, remembering the first time she truly got to know what was in her husband's partner's heart and that she could trust him to see him home.

At first, she was annoyed; how dare her husband speak about private matters between them with his partner? She flung the leftover spaghetti noodles into the trash, angry about how limp they truly were. And then the phone rang.

"… Yes, John, thanks for calling. I'll be sure to drain the fresh-not-dried noodles when they're aldente like your engineer does," she said sweetly seething. "And dice the green peppers smaller so they're there but not really there … M'hm, and simmer it all uncovered."

The next few calls from John were much the same but some were queries as to how to impress a woman on certain dates; not that he ever took the advice. And then came the call that would change things forever."Listen, Jo, I never took the money from our victim but the cops are questioning me harder than Roy. I might as well just confess and save Roy from being sacked with me. It'll be easy for them to believe it was me. It's – expected."

Deep brown eyes opened and looked up into her tear filled ones. John's bandaged hand came up automatically to wipe her tears away but stopped at the plastic barrier.

"You're awake," Jo said with much surprise in her voice and a sense that somehow, John Gage knew exactly what she'd been thinking about. She quickly changed course to a new topic, a happy one.

"Well, you always did love camping, so I see they had to give you your own tent here." Jo reached her hand under the folds of plastic to gently touch John's hand. "When you get out of here I think we should take a family camping trip. Chris and Jen send their love and school's out in two days. They've already made sure Roy unpacked the gear from the attic."

For as long as John had known Joanne and Roy he still couldn't quite figure out why the word family included him. The tears in Joanne's eyes weren't foreign to him but the fact that they were for him was. It was both a blessing and an awesome responsibility. He would repay this inclusion with his life if necessary and he'd proven it time after time. He could only look at her. Even opening his mouth hurt and he didn't want to risk another coughing attack.

Dr. Early peeked in.

"I see you finally convinced Roy to go get some sleep," he said kindly.

"It was a hard sell. I told Roy if he got sick too I'd have to call my mother to come stay with us so I could look after Johnny and him."

Dr. Early felt the internal tap dance begin in the pit of his stomach. Joanne's mother was legendarily nasty but it wouldn't do to agree with that out loud in any case.

"They don't get along?" Early asked innocently.

Jo laughed softly looking down at Johnny who was gesturing to Early with his bright white hands as if he was guiding a flaming plane to safety on a runway.

"Easy air traffic control, the broomstick's not going to land any time soon," Joanne told the young paramedic good-naturedly. Turning to Dr. Early she said. "Yes, I know my mom can be a bit of a handful. Roy ran away from home when she came to 'help' when he fell down that ladder when you two got hurt when a room flashed. He came and stayed with you for the remainder of mother's visit. What was it … two or three days?"

John managed to separate two fingers from the bulky gauze. The air outside the tent as Early lifted it to listen to John's chest felt good, lighter without the forced humidity. He tensed at the touch of the cold stethoscope on his bare chest. Early reminded him to breathe.

"Deep breaths, Johnny. Sounds good so far. I think you lucked out this time. The water you took in was clean and I don't hear any more rattling. I think we can free you from your bubble," Early said, tapping the clear, plastic tent. "In the morning if there's no additional swelling of your airway, I think we can move you from the ICU. No talking or whispering though. That's a must. You need to give the soft tissues time to heal."

John nodded, an unspoken query on his face.

"Yes, we think your throat will heal. You won't be singing opera any time soon but if you take it easy and rest your voice for two weeks it should come back just fine. You'll be a little raspy at first but that'll go away eventually."

"And the nurses will find it sexy, movie star good looks with the voice to match." Joanne pointed out.

A blush crept up John's pale features. He grinned shyly. The smile was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain however and Early asked the nurse to bring some ice chips.

"I'm off at seven. Kel will be up to check on you then." With a pat to John's knees, Early took his leave.

John fell asleep dreaming of being in a plastic bubble, anthropologists and scientists gathered around muttering and taking notes, their breath fogging the plastic obscuring them from view, but he knew they were still there. They would always be there.

XXXX

Roy returned to Rampart after a night of dreams of his friend hanging, falling out of the end of the slide with the rope taut around his neck. It was almost seven o'clock. He avoided the crowded elevators for the stairs. He paused at the door of John's room. Jo's knitting needles clacked away quietly and the scarf she started last night would stretch across the room if it weren't tucked up in neat piles on Johnny's bedside table. Roy smiled at the sight as she looked up and took stock of the young man in bed before noticing his silhouette in the doorway. Jo looked at Roy, then back to Johnny and then to the huge scarf.

"Guess I got carried away," she whispered sheepishly.

"It's okay, I know you're addicted," he teased, trying to force the terrible images from the nightmare out of his mind.

"Roy Desoto, I'm not addicted to knitting," she scolded in a friendly tone watching Roy lose his fight to be casual about his need to see his friend. Roy's hand patted John's, pausing just long enough for him to glance at his watch as the pat stilled on his pulse point.

"He's been stable through the night," Jo told him, watching his lips move silently as he counted the precious heartbeats. "And I told you I would call you."

Her words carried no animosity, only worry. The sun rose just a little higher, the pinkish orange casting very little blush onto Roy's pale features.

"Wanna tell me about it?" Jo asked.

"Bad dream. That's all …"

Joanne sighed.

"Are you still trying to figure out a way that this was your fault?"

"No … It's just that there was nothing I could do. He was just hanging there. One more minute Jo and …"

Joanne stood up and put her arms around Roy's neck. He was head and shoulders taller than her but he seemed to melt down until his head was on her shoulder. He'd kept it together while treating his best friend, got him to the hospital alive. He made happy face pancakes that morning for Chris and Jen, greeted his neighbour with the good news that Johnny was holding his own. But the dream undid him.

Joanne rubbed small circles on Roy's back. The tension in his shoulders told the tale even though she couldn't see his face. Roy's breathing was very deliberate, very in control, in through the nose, out through the mouth and she knew his eyes were squinted shut. He wouldn't cry. The breath was held for a moment and released ever slower as Roy straightened. He cleared his throat and she didn't pursue an explanation. She knew.

"Oh! Almost forgot. Here." Roy handed her a travel mug of cinnamon vanilla coffee. "Thanks Jo. For everything."

"He's going to be okay, Roy. I told him he had to be," she said, shrugging her shoulders as if that was the end of it. She kissed him and gathered up seemingly miles of alternating colours of brown and cream yarn. "But you'll call me … you know if anything…"

"Promise," Roy vowed taking up her spot minus the miles of knitting.

Jo slipped from the room, nodding at the two nurses changing shifts. Looking back she knew what she would find. Roy stood back up and studied John's peaceful features once more before really settling into the chair at his bedside.

XXXX

"Oh hey, Roy. You just get here? Joe told me Joanne was here."

"Yeah, about ten minutes ago."

Brackett took the chart from the end of the bed. The edge of the metal was warm. He knew Roy had just read it and put it back.

"…So, how's our boy doing?" the doctor smirked knowingly.

Roy looked at his own shoes and rattled off the latest vitals in only a slightly guilty manner.

"Actually I'm glad you're here. I need to check him out and I don't want him startled awake in strange surroundings. It's imperative we keep him quiet."

Roy instinctively moved to the head of the bed and leaned over his friend.

"Johnny? Dr. Brackett's gonna have a look at you. Everything's okay, remember?"

Roy waited for the brown eyes to open and focus. It would be easy for John to forget not to try to speak when waking in strange surroundings, especially if someone was touching him before he was fully aware. And sure enough, John's mouth opened.

"Sh-sh, remember, no talking okay? Everything's okay," Roy soothed.

John's mouth closed and with the soft collar on now he could turn his head slightly. He nodded his understanding to Roy and Brackett, looking like he'd fall back to sleep at any moment.

"He's really groggy," Roy said, voice tinged with concern.

"It's normal, Roy. He's coming down from all the meds we had to force into his system over the past day and a half, steroids, epinephrine. He's bound to be a little less alert today. He really just needs to sleep and heal, but that means we really need to watch him, particularly when he wakes that he doesn't try to speak. I'm inclined to keep in the ICU for one more day."

While this wasn't necessarily good news, Roy took it as such. It just made sense.

Johnny sleepily submitted to the poking and prodding, forcing himself to pay attention when Brackett looked at his throat. The young paramedic watched the famous Brackett frowny face appear and listened for the inevitable accompanying sigh.

"Well, we still have some minor bleeding, John," Brackett told the young paramedic, but that should clear up in a day or two. I'm still concerned about scar tissue but the anti inflammatory drugs are starting to work."

John nodded and looked hopefully toward the cup of ice perched on his bedside table. Brackett looked at his watch and John's eyes widened as the doctor sat down on the edge of his bed and spooned him an ice chip himself. Johnny shifted in the bed, his eyes closing as the movement lessened the stress on his back.

It was good to see the paramedic move; a still John Gage was never a good thing.

"Roy, I think we can let him sit up a little more," Brackett said and Roy moved to the end of the bed cranking it slowly to a semi-seated position. John smiled slightly and crunched the ice with his teeth, which earned him a glare from both doctor and senior paramedic.

"Slowly, John," Brackett reminded.

Within minutes, John was asleep, chin supported by the soft collar. His breathing seemed easier in his new position and Roy sighed audibly.

Brackett patted Roy on the back. "We have to stay on top the swelling but I really think he's out of the woods."

"That's great!" came Chet's entirely-too-loud-for-the-ICU exclamation.

"Sh!" came the angry retort from three nearby sources.

"I'm sorry," Chet whispered. I was just so … Sorry. He's really gonna be okay?"

"We think so, Chet," Roy whispered, astonished that Johnny hadn't woken up and that Chet had made it past the one visitor rule.

They almost forgave Chet for his happy outburst upon seeing the evident relief in his moustached face. "I really thought … and then with the way he was acting yesterday morning over those damned letters … you know, that it was a jinx … and to top it off he hadn't written anything and if he had … I can't even say it."

"I know, Chet. I know," Roy said sympathetically. "I was gonna call you guys after Dr. Brackett was finished here."

"No need, Mike, Marco and Cap are all in reception. They wanted to stop by on their way home to check on you and Johnny."

"Roy, let's say we leave our friend in capable hands and head downstairs for a quick cup of coffee?" Brackett said.

Most people would have laughed at the very thought of Chet being the capable hands to which Brackett referred, but those were people who failed to see the intricate workings of the Phantom/Pigeon relationship.

"Watch him close, Kelly. If he starts to stir, make sure he wakes knowing where he is and what's going on. Don't let him talk. It's imperative, got me?" Roy asked. "Dr. Brackett said it's good if he wakes to a familiar face, someone who can remind him not to speak."

"I got it," Chet said solemnly. Each man at fifty one knew how well John woke to the sound of the klaxons calling him out to duty, but they also knew his sleep could be thrown off by the least disturbance and that he was prone to the occasional nightmare or bout of insomnia.

"I know you do," Roy said, remembering that Chet had never poked fun of John's nightmares, sleep deprivation yes, but serious things, no.

Chet took the seat next to John's bed while Roy and Brackett made their way downstairs to talk with the crew.

XXXX

"I wasn't notified of any new program of this nature," Brackett said in fascination as he perused the glossy brochure Marco handed him as they sat discussing Johnny's prognosis in the cafeteria.

"What do you think, doc?" Mike asked, leaning forward on his elbows looking wearily at the stuff that passed for coffee at Rampart.

"I think I might be the wrong person to ask. I mean, you guys perform very dangerous jobs but from where I stand a person can slip on a banana peel and die and a person can fall from a three-story balcony and live. I'm not sure any letter written in case could ever explain an accidental death to the satisfaction of the family. I think perhaps a diary or a journal written purposely to be read by others and kept as a memoir would be better. Certainly personal information could be thrown in but I think the spirit of this initiative might be just a tad off. A journal could be updated, there's more time for thought, not just a quickly scrawled macabre note, if you're reading this I'm dead… I mean, talk about pressure."

Brackett looked up at the astonished faces.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I guess I had a huge opinion on this…"

"Don't be sorry, Doc," Captain Stanley said. "You've stated in a nutshell what we were trying to figure out was wrong with this whole thing all day. I'm not too proud to tell you that it unnerved us frankly, especially John."

"Yeah, Roy told me John was really upset about it. What do you intend to do about the program?"

"Well, it's of course voluntary and I won't discourage anyone from participating but I think we're going to take your advice and take things slow. I mean, the program did point out some things that we should think about in this profession but it wasn't well planned or thought out. I'd still like to find out why it affected John so deeply though …" Cap said tiredly.

"He never told me before he … and now he's not allowed to speak for two weeks," Roy sighed. It's a good thing I'm a fireman, John's gonna spontaneously combust not being able to communicate for two whole weeks. And even if he could, now's not the time to ask him.

XXXX

Chet spent the first five minutes of his visit watching the natural rise and fall of his friend's chest. After manually pumping air into the paramedic's non-moving lungs for almost ten minutes at the water park it was a beautiful thing to behold.

"You know, yesterday, when you were givin' Cap a hard time I was gonna jump in with both feet and help you dig yourself in deeper but as it turned out, you brought your own shovel and it was your own personal sandbox. I don't know what's going on, man, but I hope you remember, the Phantom knows when to let the drawbridge down so you don't drown in the moat … Gawd, now I'm getting poetic. Look, just get better so I can go back to picking on you, okay? I mean, look, the guys and I put out a small fire in a garage an hour or so ago and I haven't even had time to shower yet. There are pretty nurses downstairs and I can't even ask 'em out because I smell of smoke still.

John shifted suddenly and Chet was ashamed of himself for startling from that. He'd been staring so intently at his friend that the sudden movement just seemed unnatural. Chet got himself together and leaned in a little closer, ready to soothe his friend gently into wakefulness. Chet tried talking in soothing tones, losing heart as John's eyes starting roving rapidly beneath their heavy lids.

XXXX

The distinct smell of smoke from Chet's coat pulled John toward fitful wakefulness. His heavy eyelids warred with the medications and physical exhaustion and lost their struggle to open.

But there's smoke … I should … I should wake up … I should…

Angry tears dried quickly against his tanned skin pulling and itching uncomfortably. New ones followed the well worn path down the twelve year old's cheeks. Only now there was no one to wipe them away or to tell him it was going to be okay.

The skeleton of the barn stood stark against a glowing yellow wheat field. The full moon hung low, coaxing the tides of the world to cry with the boy crouched below. The barn boards were ash, blown away in the wind but the barn would rise again on the huge beams and stone foundation that had survived that which human flesh could not. The roughly hewn timbers stood proud, scarred and blackened but ready to bear another century, a new beginning. The same could not be said for John who stood, hands still bandaged raging against the barn's structure for its mockery. The round windowpane near the triangular roof bared teeth of broken glass, staring out from its empty socket in judgement. You didn't save her.

Marcus Parkham stepped out of the shadows.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, blowing out a ring of smoke.

John leapt on the man, punching every part of him he could reach. Blisters beneath his bandages burst and oozed but he didn't feel them. Not yet. He just wanted to hurt Marcus Parkham as much as he hurt right now.

John was no match for Parkham who was of course much larger than the slight child. John got in a few good hits before being grabbed by his longish dark hair and practically dangled off the ground.

"I was right, you are nothing but a little savage," Parkham said with some satisfaction. "A perfect study."

John was tossed mercilessly aside and Marcus Parkham massaged his considerable stomach a moment before turning on his heel and walking away, flicking his cigar nub at John over his shoulder without so much as looking back,

John got up valiantly, leapt onto Parkham's back but was easily flung off. Parkham's fist shot out, softening into an open palm at the last possible second but not losing any of its velocity and cracking against the already weakened child's face. Stars swam before his eyes as he went down, small fists finding only air to retaliate upon.

"Johnny, hey man, easy, everything's alright. Everything's okay. You're at Rampart and you're safe. Come on, open your eyes."

The nurse entered the room hearing Chet's pleas and watching John begin to thrash around. The young paramedic's hands were balled into fists and he struggled against Chet's restraining hands to punch anything he could reach. The nurse paged Dr. Brackett and helped Chet keep Johnny from hurting himself but short of practically holding a hand over John's mouth, no one could stop what happened next.

"Parkham … nononono … killed her…" John moaned in whisper-quiet screams that what they lacked in volume made up for in an all compelling need to make them stop.

"God, Johnny, please stop. Wake up. You're safe. You're at Rampart and you're here with me, Chet. Roy's on his way back up and all the guys are here."

The body in the bed stilled, head cocked to one side as if struggling for the truth. The heart monitor trilled shrilly as bleary dark eyes opened to the sight of his friend.

"Chet?" John rasped, forgetting entirely that he'd promised not to speak, forgetting the pain that would follow. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he tasted salt as they fell over his nose. Confusion enveloped him. The smoke lingered. His eyes fell upon Chet's uniform shirt.

Oh …Oh God! John's chest heaved despite the pain and effort it took. A haze of confusion and humiliation shrouded him.

Chet trusted that John was awake, his hold on his friend's hands gentling to comfort rather than restrain, his other hand placed on John's chest. The nurse mercifully quieted the monitor but didn't take her eyes off it as she recorded the peak number and set about getting a new set of vitals.

Chet tried to get Johnny to look at him but the downcast eyes spoke of something that made the linesman wholly uncomfortable, like he himself had been a part of something awful that took place on the other side of wakefulness.

Dr. Brackett tried to motion for the guys to wait in the reception area. Cap managed to get Mike and Marco to wait but Roy passed Brackett in the hall. Roy's first instinct was to demand of Chet what he'd done but he knew that was unfair. Still, when he'd left, John understood not to speak and seemed to be stabilizing. Brackett's page had indicated that his patient had woken disoriented and spoke.

Chet looked stricken.

"I'm sorry, Roy. I couldn't stop him. I tried. I spoke to him just the way you told me to but he was in too deep … It must have been awful whatever it was, he was shaking and crying and muttering … names and … I'm just so sorry, Roy. I tried."

Roy clapped Chet on the back as Brackett and the nurse stooped over the now passed out paramedic.

"It's not your fault, Chet. We all know he has the occasional nightmares, just he hides them better when he's not sick or he sleeps in the dayroom when he's really troubled. This rescue isn't like the others that gave him nightmares though … he usually only gets those after a really bad one."

"He … well, he wasn't dreaming about this rescue. It must have been another one. It was so quiet I barely made out any of it but … did you guys recently respond to a murder?"

Roy searched his memory as he stared at the steadily evening out numbers of the heart monitor. He and John had responded to a lot of crime victims but none of them had died, at least not while under their direct care.

"No … why?"

Chet got shivers up his back. "Well, it was real low and weak but he said something about someone being murdered. He said her, so I'm assuming it was a woman. He said Parkham killed her, at least that's what it sounded like. Poor kid's probably watched too much Adam-12 again or something … right?"

Roy wanted to agree about too much T.V. but something stopped him from grabbing that quick comfort. John was deeply troubled about something before he'd been injured.

Brackett straightened up after looking at John's throat.

"I didn't think this would work. It's just instinct to talk when you wake up, especially if you wake up in the middle of a nightmare in a strange place. If this continues, he's going to end up needing surgery on his vocal chords to remove scar tissue."

Brackett wracked his brain for a solution. He could potentially put in an oral airway and sedate his patient for a couple of days but that wouldn't be good in the long run.

"When I was in the army, we sometimes had to put in oral mouth guards to keep the injured guys from grinding their teeth in pain. It had the side effect of keeping them from screaming much from nightmares too until we could calm them…" Roy shuddered at the memory, hating himself for suggesting they basically gag his partner.

"That's not a bad idea, Roy," said Brackett enthusiastically. "Carol, please call the dental lab and have someone sent up."

XXXX

Chet sat in a corner, watching as the dental specialist manipulated his young friend's jaw forward just a bit, fitting gum-like material around his upper and lower teeth.

"This will actually help his breathing too, Kel. We make these for people with sleep apnoea and a different style for athletes and teeth grinders. I've never made one specifically for this purpose, though," Dr. Hedge said, looking down in sympathy at his patient. "I'm in new territory here; you're going to have to let me know how this works in this application. When he wakes, it's gonna feel strange in his mouth, he won't know why it's there. Someone will have to help him get it out once he's fully aware with his hands being bandaged. These will be ready in about an hour and I'll come back down for a final fitting. And by the way, good idea."

"Oh, it wasn't my idea. I'd like you to meet John's partner, Roy Desoto. He was in Korea and they used athletic mouth guards as best they could in situations like this."

"Hell of a good idea, son," said Dr. Hedge said sounding very impressed.

Roy just looked at the floor. His partner was not a wounded soldier but something told him he'd suffered as much in life.

XXXX

John slept through the fitting, his jaw jutted slightly forward when it was inserted. He wouldn't be happy about it when he awoke.

"Well, I'd suggest you all go home for some rest but I know that's not going to happen," Brackett said. "John will be well looked after in the ICU but I think it would be a good idea for him to have a familiar face here as much as possible until we sort things out."

Cap, Mike and Marco heard this from the open doorway and couldn't help but surge forward just a bit. Brackett didn't say much, for once; the ICU had only one patient besides the young paramedic.

"Uh, guys, Cap, I gotta split," Chet said suddenly looking very uncomfortable. Something about the way John had glared into his very soul with a mixture of hurt and fear when he was trying to sooth him unnerved the linesman – and in truth hurt. Chet knew he'd antagonized John at times in the past but they were friends, at least until this whole letter writing thing had started when John cooled just a bit toward him.

"Get better, Johnny," Chet whispered, taking his leave quickly before he could be included in the schedule to sit with Johnny that the others eagerly took part in.

Roy fought anger for a minute before he recognized sadness on Chet's face. No one said anything about the man's quick departure. Things had been strained around the station ever since this whole black letter thing started and they all wished things would go back to normal.

Cap was great at scheduling. He knew Roy and Joanne would take the majority of time but deliberately divided things up so they could be together as a family as well until John was well enough to be alone.

Marco, Mike and Cap took a few minutes to sit with John, entirely too many visitors for the ICU so they took their leave with promises to come back for their allotted shifts to care for their friend. John was a grown man, a firefighter but a familiar face couldn't hurt to ensure absolute silence.

Roy sat wearily back into the plastic chair as Dr. Brackett took another set of vitals. The doctor uncharacteristically brushed a long strand of hair away from his patient's forehead.

XXXX

Ideally John was to remain absolutely silent but they had to take what they could get. The soft moans that escaped him as he woke ten hours later would impede a successful recovery but not prevent it.

Once again it wasn't a peaceful return to consciousness and the intrusive mouthpiece caused John's hands to fly to his face to get it out.

"Easy, Johnny. It's just a mouth guard. Give it a minute. Wake up okay? Open your eyes," Roy soothed the shaking young man.

Johnny opened his eyes and his heart monitor slowed. He gagged slightly as Roy helped him spit the contraption out and place it into a jar of cleaning solution beside the bed. The nurse brought a warmed cloth and Roy gently dabbed it over John's chin and face.

John asked a silent why? pointing his bandaged hands toward the offensive object in the glass.

"You don't remember?"

John shook his head in the negative.

"You woke up in a bad way when Chet was here," Roy began as John's eyes roved the room searching for Chet.

"He said you'd had a nightmare. You woke screaming. Dr. Brackett had you fitted for a mouth guard for while you sleep just until you can wake remembering where you are and not to talk, okay?"

It wasn't okay, but what choice did he have? John nodded sadly. He did remember the dream now and with it came all of Chet's barbs about his background. Only twice in his whole time as a fireman had he shared his lineage willingly; once when one of the female anthropologists, Darcy Paquette tracked him down and called the station wanting to interview him and once when he and Chet had an argument about conditions on reservations and a certain Marcus Parkham after watching a ridiculous cowboy movie. Both times were painful and frustrating and both times John never felt safe telling Chet or even Roy what had happened to him all those years ago.

Roy watched his partner's face. "Don't you dare," he warned in a low, worried growl as John's mouth opened. John's head hung down again as far as the soft collar would allow. Roy reached for his large Adidas gym bag pulling out an old manual typewriter.

"Dix sent it. Oh and by the way she says hi and that she knows you can't keep your mouth shut but if you don't use the typewriter to communicate instead of shredding your throat she's gonna come up and then you'll be sorry."

John tried to smile but it didn't reach his eyes. Roy gently placed a capped pen in a fold in John's gauzed hands and heaved the typewriter onto John's bedside table, wheeling it to face his friend.

"Now talk, I'll listen, promise," Roy said.

A painfully slow process started but it wasn't like either one of them had anywhere to go.

Sorry, John typed first.

"Okay, let's save ourselves time and skip that, okay? You have nothing to be sorry for. And I know these nightmares have nothing to do with this rescue … hell if we were called to another identical one you'd be up that scaffold and leaping - well not without looking … but without even thinking about yourself."

Johnny shrugged. It was true.

"Can you tell me what's been bothering you before we went out on that one?"

John's pen poised over the keys. His hand shook and he paled.

Can't yet … haven't figured out what to say … feel stupid. Where's Chet?

Roy was disappointed to say the least but did his best not to show it.

"Uh, Chet had to go. Had some stuff to do…"

Johnny nodded, swiping white strips of gauze over his forehead. He vaguely remembered the freaked out expression on his friend's face, his pleading tone in trying to wake him from his nightmare, and the way he couldn't look Chet in the eyes when he finally did wake.

Sure, Chet had been an insufferable jerk in the past with an imaginary Indian princess on his mother's side, had performed almost every conceivable stereotype of life on a reservation, up to and including suggesting that he and Roy smoke a peace pipe to get over their differences that he himself had created. But in the end, Chet relented and John had watched the incredulity, morbid curiosity and disgust cross the moustached features more than once as he read Marcus Parkham's book. In the end, Chet dropped the book into the garbage can and John thought Chet might have learned something, had actually listened to him because from then on, the phantom's routine contained no racial undertones.

But Chet had only read the first edition of Parkham's book, something for which John was eternally grateful. If anyone was going to learn of what happened to his mother, it would be from him, not some damn swindling murderer.

But not now, maybe not ever.

The silence was so much more noticeable than when the two of them simply didn't speak. The absence of clacking away of keys meant that Roy wouldn't get the information he hoped for, the clue to how he could help his hurting friend. And speaking of hurting, John's forehead beaded in sweat and his brow furrowed.

"Lot of pain, where?"

I'm okay.

"Look, I'll let you off the hook … for now in not telling me what's going on with you since the other day but I know you well enough to know when you're hurting. I'm gonna check and see what you can have. Brackett's going off shift and Early's coming on so I'm not sure who we'll get."

A/N So ... the anthropologist stuff will start to be revealed in the next chapter. This story was longer than I thought when I found it on my computer and I thought about cutting a large part of John's recovery out because let's face it, most of it's been done. On the other hand, I am a story teller, and stories have back plots and need to unveiled in order to be a whole story so I decided not to do that. Again, with full recognition that John is a grown man, I stand by my position that a person in hospital needs, as Mad Eye Moody of HP would put it, "Constant vigilance!" until they're out of the woods. Although that sentiment is probably mine because of the way a lot of hospitals run nowadays as opposed to the sixties when we didn't have so many funding cuts and staff shortages etc. I assure you, no one will blow John's nose for him, LOL! And I'll get more to the actual plot in the next chapter. If I'd written this story recently, it wouldn't be so long but alas this is a blast from the past. Have a great day and be excellent to each other!