A/N: So...when I get writer's block I write stream of consciousness stories to loosen myself up. Usually these stories all end up dumped in a file that if any one ever read they would have me committed. But this one stars Jim, and makes some sort of sense, so it gets to be part of The Drabbles...don't judge me! lol

Everything is red, red and fuzzy. No, not everything, that's just his hand. His hand is red. How interesting. It didn't used to be, it was skin coloured once, but who knows how long ago that was. It might be cold here, or maybe it's warm and he's lost the knack for telling the difference. Somehow he thinks that both might be true – it might be cold and he can't tell anyway. He doesn't know why he thinks that.

He can hear dripping.

His nose feels strange; so does his leg; and his chest. His head doesn't feel at all – it might not be there any more. That would have made him laugh once, but he doesn't feel like it right now. Maybe that's because he can't feel his head – or maybe it's his chest.

He's lying down, on his back with his face to one side and his arm stretched out.

There's more red around his hand now, though it looks like it's coming towards his hand, from him. It's bright; and wet; and red.

He can still hear dripping. And a bang as well. It sounds far off, like it's coming from behind a stone wall. And there does seem to be a stone wall across from him. It hurts to look that far away though, so he goes back to his hand. It's getting redder, his sleeve is soaking it up. He can't feel the wetness though.

Bang bang bang. Is someone shouting? Are there other people in the world? Is he on a world? Is he dead? Foolish thought.

He blinks but it takes so long for his eyes to open again he thinks he may have fallen asleep. He can feel vibrations under him. A gust of air swirls around him. It isn't hot or cold. It comes with a shout and more thumping – boots? He only thinks that's what it might be because that's what's just appeared beside his hand. The boots are attached to legs and knees that hit the ground beside him. Another hand – not red; not his – lands on his chest. He idly turns his head to look down at it. It's pushing down but it doesn't hurt. Shouldn't it hurt? Another hand has joined it – they're both turning red, just like his. He does laugh at that – it's not even funny. And the laugh comes out as a wild sort of gurgling giggle. Something pops into his field of vision. It's a face, and it's attached to the hands by long, muscled arms in blue cloth.

Bones.

He blinks and again it takes an age to open his eyes. The face is there still, the mouth moving. The words (that's what the face would be saying, right, words?) don't seem to be making it all the way to his brain, they're stopping at his ears. Just noise. The face is frowning, talking to him.

Bones.

He thinks there might be other people around. Who really cares anyway. His body moves – he isn't telling it too, he can feel pushes and pulls directing his body to the left, onto something both hard and soft. 'Stretcher' floats around inside his brain, he doesn't pay too much attention. Other things are happening. Something is dribbling out of his mouth – interesting. There's movement, lots of it and far too fast for him. But he can tell he's been shoved onto his side. The words are still garbled but one or two are getting through.

Jim! Jim!...fine...swear...stay...me...Jim!

He blinks again – is it still blinking if your eyes don't open again? The black is soft – can a colour be soft? Who cares. It's soft, and it's not red, and it isn't garbled and confusing.

He doesn't blink again.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

He's lying on something both hard and soft. Medical Bay bed – he's been in enough of them to know. His chest feels numb, so does his leg. His head hurts, but it's bearable. He's warm but he knows he needs to open his eyes.

He blinks – reverse blinks as his eyes open and then close again. A warm pressure appears on his arm.

"Jim"

Bones.

Bones.

"Bones?"

"Right here, idiot, you gonna open your eyes?" The words don't have any menace in them.

The hand moves from his arm to his shoulder, squeezes slightly, then disappears.

He opens his eyes, blinks and opens them again. Bones' face is hovering over him, the white walls of the Medical Bay are around him, the bed, both hard and soft, ia beneath him. He is where he is meant to be...

A/N: And thanks to everyone out there who is reviewing, faving or just reading – it's an awesome feeling knowing your work is being enjoyed my people!