Hey guys, I'm really sorry about the delay again. I was really busy with coursework at university and then before I knew it it was exam time so I wasn't able to update as quickly as I would have liked. You shouldn't have to wait so long for the next chapter.

This chapter is all about Sam, even though I hadn't intended it to be, but I got carried away with writing from Sam's perspective for the first time since chapter one. There's also some really nice moments between Sam and Greg. Once again thanks for all your reviews and to those of you who were asking me to update. Keep them coming!


Consciousness came to Sam in waves, ebbing and flowing ceaselessly without warning or control, leaving him confused and annoyed and altogether exhausted. He knew that there was some bitter irony in the fact that the act of waking itself was what made him too tired to keep his eyes open for longer than thirty seconds, but he didn't have the energy to consider it. What it did mean was that he heard only parts of conversations going on around him and directed towards him, but was too tired to reply to anything. It didn't help that his eyes still wouldn't adjust to his surroundings, and all he saw were vague, blurry figures flitting around his bed nauseatingly, increasing the intensity of his constant headache.

First, there was a blurry figure hovering over him, bending into his sightline so that he didn't have to move his head. He was at least grateful for that small mercy. "Sam, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me." He wanted to try, he really did, but he was too tired and his limbs were so unresponsive that before he could muster the strength he was dragged back down into unconsciousness.

The next thing he knew, another voice was in his ear, and this time he could discern a figure in white above him. "Sam, I need you to look at me, can you do that?" That one sounded more authoritative, but it did nothing to make the tendrils of darkness release their hold on him, and the world faded away.

Later, as he found himself drifting in and out, he thought he heard a frustrated female voice ask, "why is it taking so long for him to wake up?" He would have liked the answer to that one himself, but he was asleep again too soon to hear it.

The cycle continued for an indeterminate amount of time. Sam awoke each time to the voices, sometimes asking him to squeeze their hands and sometimes just talking in the background. He was sick of their commands, asking him to use his weakened muscles and focus his non-existent attention on them when all he wanted to do was sleep. And why was everyone asking if he could hear them? That was clearly not the problem. The problem was that he wasn't able to reply to the question because it felt like his body was disconnected from his brain, which only wanted to send him back into unconsciousness again and again. It was like he was stuck in an endless limbo, being sucked in and out of darkness without any say about it.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing for Sam was his lack of control over his situation. His time in the army and in the SRU meant that he was used to dictating and solving situations, always actively working towards a solution. This problem didn't seem to have a solution. This time his body was working against him and not with him and it was endlessly and maddeningly annoying. Even worse was the fact that he couldn't work out why it was all happening. He couldn't place himself in time, each of his memories blurring together until he wasn't sure at what point he had ended up in this limbo. The part of his brain that was capable of logical thought told him that something bad must have happened, but for the life of him he couldn't work out what it was.

Unaware of how much time was passing, Sam came to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do but sit back and wait for things to become clearer, as confusing as things seemed at the moment. Gradually, he felt the fog around his brain lessening, and he was able to stay awake for longer periods of time. He could make out the shape of a white room, and the chairs beside him from which the mysterious figures would come and go.

His body seemed more obedient too, and Sam luxuriated in the ability to move his fingers over the fabric they were lying on. There was an aching pain too, centring on his chest and radiating outwards towards said fingers. It was not unbearable, but it was uncomfortable. For the first time he was happy that he was not fully aware of his body as he knew that the ache would become a stabbing pain if he were capable of feeling its true strength. For now, he was able to drift in relative comfort while he waited for his body to get back on track.


Stretching out his fingers and swallowing harshly against the dryness of his throat, Sam opened his eyes to see a darkened room, but a room that he could nonetheless make out with his previously disobedient eyes. There was someone sitting in the chair next to him and, mustering the energy, he turned his head gingerly to see Greg sitting there, concentrating on an open newspaper sitting in his lap.

Swallowing again and licking his dry lips, Sam closed his eyes in concentration before he tried to speak. "Sarge?" His voice came out weak and gravelly with disuse and he screwed his eyes shut tightly with a wince of pain, but it was enough for the person sitting next to him to look up from the newspaper in surprise at the sudden noise.

Greg's face was a picture of first shock and then relief, and he threw the newspaper down on the seat as he stood up and moved to Sam's side. Close up, Sam could see his tiredness behind the glowing smile that lit up his boss's face. Greg's eyes quickly flitted up and down Sam's body as though he were trying to make sure that he was really Sam and that he was really talking to him.

"Hey buddy," he said, leaning on the rail of Sam's bed, "you have no idea how great it is to hear your voice. How are you feeling?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably at the question, feeling the ache in his chest more acutely than ever. He considered lying to Greg about his pain, but was too exhausted to care about admitting weakness in front of his boss.

"A little sore," he told him, wincing again at the pain in his throat.

Greg seemed to realise what the problem was and disappeared briefly from Sam's sight before reappearing with a plastic cup. "Ice chips," Greg told him, rattling the plastic spoon around the contents of the cup before raising it towards Sam's mouth. Desperate for the moisture, Sam didn't care that he was being fed like a baby by his boss and gratefully accepted the mouthful, sighing in pleasure as he felt the cold moisture soothe his burning throat.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he pulled his scrambled thoughts together and reopened them to see his boss gazing at him with a look of both anticipation and concern. Greg seemed to sense that Sam needed a moment to pull himself together and waited patiently for him to do so.

Confused as he was, Sam asked the first question that he could think of, which was also most important one in his mind at the moment: "What happened?" His voice was somewhat stronger this time but Sam was still frustrated to hear how quietly the question had come out.

Greg nodded minutely as though he had been expecting this and set the cup containing the ice chips down quietly on the table next to Sam's bed. "You don't remember?" he asked.

Sam considered this for a minute, concentrating as hard as he could but unable to come up with anything concrete to explain his current situation. "No," he replied curtly, his frustration evident in his clipped tone.

Greg put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "That's okay Sam, the doctor said you might not remember everything. Just give yourself some time." Sam heard a scraping noise and realised that Greg had dragged the chair closer to the bed and tilted his head to the right to accommodate the new angle. Squinting his eyes, Sam waited for Greg's explanation, wondering if he was going to like what he had to tell him.

"We were out on a call," Greg started, and Sam would have rolled his eyes at the statement if he'd had enough energy. Considering their line of work it seemed almost certain that he had been injured on the job. "We were called to city hall after a security guard was shot by a sniper." Sam's eyes widened at Greg's words but he said nothing, wanting to hear the rest. "He'd pinned down multiple officer in the square before we got there, but we were able to pinpoint his location to the rooftop of a hotel. You and Jules went up to contain him."

At the mention of Jules, Sam felt a rush of fear go through him. How could he forget about Jules? If Jules had been with him, it was possible that she had been hurt too. With an energy he didn't know he had, Sam shifted his upper body and tried to sit up, not knowing what he was trying to do by it but subconsciously attempting to seek out Jules to find out for himself if she was alright. The movement sent a bolt of pain through his entire body and he fell the few inches he had managed to move to flop back onto the bed, gasping as the feeling overtook all his senses and curling his arms around his chest as though that could stem the pain.

As the pain receded he was aware of Greg's hands on his shoulders, holding him down and preventing him from doing any more damage. "Hey," Greg said urgently, "take it easy Sam, you're going to pop your stitches."

Gasping from the aftershock of the pain, Sam's eyes looked wildly to his boss. "Jules," he whispered frantically, desperate to know what had happened to her, "is she ok?"

Greg's eyes softened as he realised Sam's concern and he was quick to reassure him. "Jules is fine," Greg told him, and Sam felt his body relax at the words as his eyes squeezed themselves shut against the panic he had felt. "No one else was hurt. In fact, Jules has been here with you every day since you got here. We could barely get her to leave your side."

Sam's brow furrowed at Greg's words. Just how long had he been here then? If Jules wasn't here now, that meant a great deal of time must have passed since Sam was hurt, otherwise she would have been glued to his side just as he would have been if their positions had been reversed. Sam almost shuddered at the thought. It didn't bear thinking about. Voicing his concerns, Sam turned to Greg again, "How long?"

Sam thought he saw Greg stiffen at the question, and he braced himself for what he knew was going to be a harsh reality. "You've been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last couple of days," Greg told him, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, obviously building up to his next statement, "but before that you were unconscious for about three weeks."

Sam stared at Greg in shock. Three weeks? There was no way he could have missed three weeks. To him, it felt like yesterday that he had been at work, laughing and joking with the team and keeping the peace. He closed his eyes against the realisation, shaking his head in denial. "No way," he whispered, "three weeks?" He looked to Greg in question, unable to comprehend what he had just been told.

Solemnly, Greg nodded back. "I'm afraid so," he said quietly, aware of Sam's shock. "Believe me, it was a long three weeks," he told him, shifting his gaze downwards as though he was trying to come to terms with it himself.

Huffing in frustration at his disjointed memory, Sam let everything sink in. As SRU officers, everyone on the team went out to every call aware of the fact that they could be seriously injured or killed, but when it actually happened it was less easy to accept. It was a fact they were aware of but not one they ever wanted to see happen to themselves or their teammates. The only redeeming thing about this situation was that it was Sam who was injured and not one of his teammates, as he didn't know if he could have kept sane if he had been on their side of things.

Feeling the ache in his chest again, Sam gritted his teeth against the pain. "What happened to me?" The question came out weaker than he intended it to, and he sounded like a lost and confused child instead of an ex-army police officer.

His mouth set in a hard line, Greg sighed at the question. "The subject had set up a decoy on the hotel roof. When Jules went to approach him at the edge of the roof you both unknowingly revealed yourselves to him. Jules had the shield, so you were the perfect target." Greg's face was awash with sadness as he recalled the events of the hot call, and Sam felt a rush of sympathy for his boss, who he knew had to lead the team through the whole thing.

"He shot me?" Sam asked. The answer might have been obvious but to Sam it was difficult to comprehend that he had been the target of a sniper, in Toronto no less, especially considering that he was an expert sniper himself. It seemed somewhat ironic.

"Yeah Sam, he shot you," Greg whispered, and then added, "Twice. You nearly died."

Sam's eyebrows raised at the revelation. "Guess that's why I feel like shit then, huh?" he joked, trying to make light of a situation in which it was difficult to find any humour.

Greg cracked a smile at Sam's response but it didn't reach his eyes. Instead, Sam's joke had only made him worry even more. "Are you in pain?" he asked, concerned by Sam's admission of discomfort. "Should I get a nurse?"

Sam had to consider that for a moment. He was glad to be awake and aware after such a long time spend struggling to keep his eyes open and he knew that pain medication would send him back to sleep, but the pain in his chest was steadily increasing with every breath he took and it was gradually becoming unbearable. That guy must have really done a number on him.

Sighing in defeat, Sam nodded minutely, sending Greg hurrying out of the room to find someone who could ease his pain. Screwing his eyes shut, Sam drifted for a moment before a doctor appeared in his room, checking the monitors surrounding him quickly and seeming to be satisfied with what he saw.

"Hello Sam," the doctor said, "it's great to finally see those eyes of yours. We were starting to wonder if we'd ever find out what colour they were," he joked, grabbing the chart from the box mounted on the wall and flicking through it before writing something down.

Putting the pen back in the pocket of his white lab coat and replacing the chart, he leaned over the side of Sam's bed so that he was in his eye line. "How's your pain?" he asked, eyes appraising but sympathetic.

Sam could sense Greg hovering at the end of his bed, listening intently for his answer. Sam might be inclined to hide his pain from his boss but Greg knew he wouldn't do so with his doctor. "Pretty bad," he admitted weakly, suddenly feeling bone-tired and altogether in pain, but the ache in his chest wouldn't allow him the respite of sleep.

The doctor nodded as though he had expected that answer. "Okay," he said, reaching over to the bedside table where he had placed some plastic packaging containing what Sam was assumed was pain medication. "We'll see what we can do about that."

Unwrapping the packaging, he took out a syringe and set about preparing Sam's medication. Turning his head weakly, Sam looked to Greg who smiled at his reassuringly from where he was leaning by Sam's feet. Before he realised what had happened, Sam felt the warmth of the pain medication entering his system from the IV attached to the back of his hand and sighed contentedly as it dulled the pain in his chest.

With the medication, Sam felt an overwhelming sense of drowsiness, and before he knew it his eyes were sliding closed. As he felt himself drifting off, he felt a gentle hand on his forehead, a thumb stroking reassuringly across the skin. Greg obviously believed that Sam wasn't aware of his actions. Just before all conscious thought escaped him, Sam managed a smile at his boss's display of affection, feeling comfortable and content that he was being safely looked after.