AN: So...How long has it been? ... That long, huh? Dang, I am the fail queen, aren't I? I apologize profusely, my friends. I haven't been up to par on my writing lately. I actually had this all written out on a piece of paper, a very important piece of paper, which I lost. Again, fail queen. I couldn't find it for months, so I finally had to convince myself to just re-write the darn chapter. But it wasn't the same. Then, I delved into some Supernatural for a while. Sniffed around Psych and White Collar for a bit. THEN, I found the stupid piece of paper in an old notebook. *sigh* Oh, what would I do without my brain, that's what I want to know. Anyway, enough of the chatter and the excuses. I do hope you enjoy this second-to-last chapter. It's bound to get interesting after this particular installment. The third is in the works! Let me know how you think things are going! Or, you know, just read and enjoy!
Chapter Eight:
March 5, 2009
John stares absently at the chart lying on the nurses station, leaning against the counter and tapping out an erratic beat with fingernails that have been bitten down over the past few days. He's been distracted. He knows why, and he knows how to fix it—but it's the actual act of fixing it that is giving him trouble.
Doctor Cox has made a largely successful effort to avoid him unless a patient's life depends on it. Not that John doesn't wholly deserve it. He's said awful things, done awful things. And, truly, he feels guilty—one emotion that, unfortunately, has not gone away despite the war. If anything, it has intensified.
But it doesn't matter. Doctor Cox will never forgive him, and that's fine. He doesn't need forgiveness.
What John needs . . . is understanding.
The older man needs to realize that John isn't a bad person. But war changes people. It morphs them until everything about them that was once bright and shiny-new is rusted and clogged and ugly.
John's eyebrows furrow, and he sighs as he decides that Doctor Cox's realization will not occur until he has experienced the war himself. Which is looking more likely as things continue, he thinks solemnly.
"Everything all right, Bambi?"
John's gaze snaps up from the chart to find Carla watching him expectantly from the opposite side of the station.
"Fine," the young man states quietly. "Just . . . thinking about a patient."
The nurse smiles sympathetically. "Turk told me about that boy. The one in San Francisco?" John's lips tighten, and he nods. "I'm sorry it didn't work out for you."
It's not me it didn't work out for, John thinks with regret. "Thank you, Carla."
"Is there anything I can do?" As the words leave her mouth, someone else approaches the nurses station and hands Carla two charts.
John stiffens as a gruff voice says, "I need a surgical consult in room 230, and some patient's kid threw up in 127."
The nurse takes the charts and nods. "Sure thing, Perry."
Silence takes hold of the small expanse, a desertedness scouring the surrounding corridors.
"Thank you, Carla," John says softly, gathering his chart and a few others. "But I think I'll be just fine."
The nurse gives him a tight smile—one that says I-don't-believe-a-word-you-just-said—and John turns to leave.
He barely makes it three steps before an anxious voice calls out, "Doctor Dorian!" Stopping short, he turns to his right, nearly dropping the charts in his hands at the sight that greets him.
"Mrs. Hollock?" he asks, not quite believing that she is there until Doctor Cox turns to her as well. "What—" And then he sees the boy at her side—the boy pressing a bloodied cloth beneath his nose and wavering on his feet.
The charts in John's hand then do clatter to the ground, and he rushes forward just as the boy collapses. Cradling Jeremy to his chest, the young doctor stares at him for a moment in wonder.
Here he is again, the boy who started it all. Patient Zero. John is surprised to find himself in this position once more. Like the age-old question goes—if you were able to travel back in time and meet Hitler before he'd started the Holocaust, would you have the courage to kill him? John hates making the comparison between a child who has absolutely no power over what is happening to him and a power-hungry dictator who had every chance to stop what he was doing—but didn't.
But the question is still the same. If saving this universe from hell-on-earth means ending one boy's life, can John take that responsibility? Should he take that responsibility?
"Perry." He breathes the name that has left his lips every time he has found himself in a desperate situation. And his husband has never failed him. Perry has always been there, always found him in the nick of time.
"Need a gurney down here!" Doctor Cox yells from above him, stooping down beside him and beginning to check the boy's vitals. "When did this start, Mrs. Hollock?"
John realizes that it should be him asking the questions, him calling for a gurney. Instead, he's contemplating the murder of a child.
"Two days ago," the woman answers hysterically. "They were just nosebleeds. He plays soccer! I thought—"
"Has he been complaining of pain anywhere else?" the older man interrupts her, his fingers moving deftly up and down the boy's throat, behind his jaw.
"Abdominal spasms," John recites breathlessly before Mrs. Hollock can say anything. "Muscle weakness in the arms and legs. Respiratory distress." He gasps when the woman leans down and places a hand on his shoulder, staring at him with a bewildered look.
"How?" she whispers, shaking her head. "How do you know? Are there others?" She looks to Doctor Cox desperately. "Are there more like him?"
The gurney arrives, and John stands, the older doctor holding tightly to both of them. "Get him upstairs for a CT. Then have him admitted to pediatrics. I want bloodwork asap."
John stays silent until the gurney is out of sight, Doctor Cox and Mrs. Hollock trailing after it hurriedly.
"He won't make it."
Carla makes her way around the nurses station, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. "Bambi? Are you all right?"
"He's brain dead," the doctor states matter-of-factly, shrugging from Carla's touch and snatching up the charts he'd dropped. "There's nothing more to do."
0 o 0 o 0
Doctor Cox slams the door to the on-call room closed, leaning back against it exhaustedly. "I've been looking for you," he states to the occupied bed. John shifts and sits up, staring at him through the dimness. "The kid's unresponsive."
"I know," the younger man says quietly.
Doctor Cox swallows hard before asking, "How long does he have?"
With a shrug, John looks down at his sneakers. The gesture is undeniably Newbie-esqe, and the older man is, suddenly, taken by the thought that his JD . . . their JD is just as trapped as this one is. "A few hours, maybe. Brain death is the final stage. It doesn't take long after that."
The older man closes his eyes and nods. "Is there . . . anything we can do?"
John takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before releasing it with a shudder. "No. It's already here. And probably anywhere from here to San Francisco." He looks up. "We're done."
"Done," Doctor Cox repeats quietly. "A war is coming. Millions are going to die. And we're done."
The younger doctor sighs, opening and closing his mouth several times as he attempts to find the right words. What exactly is he supposed to say?
Sorry.
Maybe if we had acted faster . . . .
Here's a list of people at the hospital who will be dead within a month. Better say your goodbyes while you can.
"Todd," John says softly, and Doctor Cox watches him carefully. "It will hit the hospital hard. And it will start with him."
"Who else?" the older man asks.
John shakes his head, standing and walking towards the door. "It doesn't matter. They'll be gone . . . and you'll have to move on."
"How?" Doctor Cox's voice is husky. "How do you move on from that? How do you just . . . leave that behind? Leave them behind?"
John takes a deep breath and steps up to the older man—the tips of their sneakers almost touching—taking his face in both hands. Doctor Cox's eyes are swimming with stubborn tears. The young man wishes they would fall, wishes that this man would just own up and accept who he's supposed to be.
"You look forward," John replies, his voice sturdy and calm. "You forget the past and you leap into the unknown. You don't look back."
Doctor Cox forces himself to breathe slowly. After everything this imposter has put him through—this not-JD—how can the older doctor still be affected by him? Still have these feelings rolling in his stomach and chest?
All that John has done since his arrival is ruin their happy, oblivious lives. Who told him to spoil the surprise? Who says he was even sent here to tell them? He could have kept his mouth shut, let people believe he was going through puberty. Instead, he has them running around last minute and missing their chances anyway. So what's the point? Why is he here?
"What if I can't?" he whispers, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Reaching up, his trembling fingers wrap around the young man's wrists and tug warm hands away from his face. "What if it's too much?"
John smiles. "You're not alone, Perry." He swallows, his eyes flickering to the older doctor's lips. "You'll never be alone."
Doctor Cox sees the look in John's eyes, sees the hesitancy, and surges forward before either of them can change their minds.
The kiss isn't hungry like its predecessors. It starts desperate, fast, then it morphs. John places his hands on the older man's chest, pulling back just slightly but not breaking the contact between them. It is a minute gesture, barely noticeable, but it softens the intimate moment, allows them to breathe rather than gasp.
The older doctor thinks that if this had been their first kiss, if their first moment together had been about getting to know one another, exploring the possibilities rather than quick, unthinking, and admittedly awkward lust, then things might have turned out differently between them . . . And there might be no chance for him and the JD of this time.
Is that why . . . .
John breaks the kiss abruptly, resting their foreheads together and breathing in the almost familiar aroma. "You won't be alone, Perry," he says huskily. "I'll make sure of that."
0 o 0 o 0
March 5, 2016
JD frowns at the playing cards that Russel takes out of his pocket and doles out to the small group of people sitting around them. As the teen tosses him one, he turns it over, examining it more thoroughly. They're homemade, no more than faded ink on laminated pieces of paper. Even a simple thing like playing cards are hard to come by.
"Aw, Jimmy!" Russel complains, snatching the card away from him and inserting it into the middle of the deck. "The point of the game is to keep your cards to yourself, not flash them at everyone else."
JD smirks and accepts the new card sheepishly. "Sorry, kid. I'll try to remember that."
Russel laughs and hands out the rest of the cards, a funny smile on his face as they begin the game. Four days doesn't seem like a large amount of time, but when all you have going for you is the guy sitting beside you and the next meal, four days is enough to learn a lifetime of information.
Russel is the only teen his age in the camp. All the others are either older than eighteen or younger than ten. But the kid fits in just fine with every age group. He also used to go to a private school, had skipped ahead a couple grades and had earned several scholarships to attend Princeton in a year or so.
That was before his parents were found to be slipping large amounts of money to the rebel cause. His father was killed in their home while Russel and his mother were dragged away and separated. The teen doesn't know where she is or if she's even alive. But not a day goes by that he doesn't wake cursing the name of John Michael Dorian.
JD sighs and frowns as the conversation from a few nights before sifts through his head. He's slowly been pulling it piece by piece to consciousness. The blow to the head had knocked a few marbles loose, but, thankfully, not permanently.
The young doctor has determined that Russel's account of the sickness is no more than speculation and rumor. Of course the government would come up with something like that—to keep people on their side and afraid of the resistance.
JD has done his best to keep his head low, avoid all talk of the resistance, but it's hard. One question constantly plagues his aching mind.
What would John do in this situation?
He'd be brave, unafraid to state what he believes. Unafraid of what they would do to him if they ever found out.
He swallows as the thought hits him hard. What will they do to him if they find out? If they discover that not only is he John Michael Dorian, but he's a past John Michael Dorian? And that his death will lead to the destruction of the resistance in his time?
JD doesn't really want to figure that particular detail out, so he stays quiet, keeps his head, and survives.
That is . . . until today.
The moment that everyone in the small group—except for Russel—scatters, the young doctor knows that something is wrong. And when two pairs of hands clench his upper arms painfully and force him to his feet, he finds out exactly what that something is.
"Jimmy Miller?" a stoic soldier demands gruffly. JD can do no more than swallow hard and nod his head once, wishing that his thoughts would clear long enough for him to realize what the hell is going on. "Come with us. The general wants a word."
He isn't offered the option of following; three soldiers roughly grab him and start toward the building ahead. The surrounding soldiers outside the fence tense and shift uncomfortably, whispering amongst each other and tightening their grips on their guns.
Funny how a single name can strike fear into the enemy, can carry with it so much power and doubt that grown men feel helpless and out-numbered in its presence. Like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. John Michael Dorian, even absent from this place and time, is frighteningly intimidating.
JD can't help but respect that aspect of his counterpart's life. And if he takes anything back to his time, back home, then it will be this moment right here and now.
The young doctor twists in the soldiers' holds until he is facing the way he came, stumbling backwards when the pace does not slow down.
"Russel!" he shouts, searching the spot where their card game was just shy of taking place. The teen stands apprehensively, watching the young man with a frightened look. JD smiles reassuringly, holding up his playing cards. "Gin!"
He is barely able to catch the hesitant quirk of Russel's lips before he is dragged into the dark and a metal door clanks closed.
0 o 0 o 0
March 5, 2009
Five hours and thirty-seven minutes after being admitted to Sacred Heart, Jeremy Hollock dies. His mother is in the cafeteria attempting to calm her nerves with a cup of watered-down coffee. Doctor Cox is halfway across the hospital pretending to be interested in his favorite soap opera. And John . . . is nowhere to be found.
Not that the older man has been looking. Or cares. But the young man is hard to push from his thoughts—how John handles situations and speaks his mind and pushes back when pushed. He is hard to forget, and the older man hopes that in time John Dorian will be difficult to remember.
Just as Doctor Cox allows his mind to wander to something other than John, a crazed intern bursts into the room, his chest heaving and his wide eyes searching.
"D-Doctor Cox!" he wheezes, and the older man holds up a hand.
"If this," he says, gesturing to the scruffy intern without taking his eyes off of the television screen from his spot on the couch, "is not a life or death situation, then you'd better turn that tight little kiester around and march right back the way you came."
"But—"
"It must not be life or death, because no one has bothered to page me," Doctor Cox reasons.
"We have been paging you," the intern huffs indignantly, and the older man has to give him credit for strapping on a pair.
He looks down at his pager, and growls with frustration when he finds it off. "I charged this damn thing last night," he mutters, leaning forward and shaking the object. "So, what is it? A code? Someone forget how to clean bed pans? 'Cause I'll be happy to show them—"
"It's Doctor Dorian."
The older man's stomach drops.
0 o 0 o 0
March 5, 2016
It's been hours. Maybe. Or has it been minutes? Days, perhaps?
When JD is dragged out of the building, his one good eye can see dark clouds overhead. Rain pelts his bruised and bleeding face, his broken collarbone, his dislocated shoulder. Everything burns, and the rain feels so good, so cold. He shivers, groaning when it jostles his injuries.
He's outside. The man who did this to him, the general, he's shouting angrily. From below them, there are more shouts, masses of blurred faces, gnashing mouths, eyes—hollow and angry and alone. Everything is so high up here. Are they in heaven staring down at the unfortunates? Or has hell switched places with them? It's not so bad here, really. A little chilly, but not unsatisfactory.
JD made friends at Sacred Heart—why shouldn't he be able to make them here in hell?
It's too bad that his friends can't see him one last time. Too bad that he has to die here in this hell, rather than his own—or is hell linked for all universes? Maybe he'll meet other versions of himself . . . .
The blurred faces move together as one enormous blob, their angry eyes focused on him.
One name.
That's all it takes to create so much hope and fear and hatred. Who can say if John Michael Dorian is more loved than hated? JD doubts that the real man truly cares. But he's seen enough love and faith to know that something has to be done to put him in his rightful place, to return him to the people who need him most.
Suddenly, words are bubbling past his lips, filling the anger and making those eyes—all of them—falter. Hesitance is all it takes, huh? Plant a seed of doubt and watch it grow until those eyes, this massive thing, a collection of consciences, begins to think for itself—for themselves. And then this thing is no longer singular. It's many. It's not a blob.
It's people—something that maybe the general has forgotten.
Is this how John feels? Affecting lives the way he does? No wonder . . . .
Several faces look up at him, but only one sticks out.
"Riley," he says, and his tongue is thick in his mouth. He can't tell if he's whispering or shouting, but he continues anyway, "I'll find you."
0 o 0 o 0
March 5, 2016
Doctor Cox bursts onto the roof, his chest burning and his legs trembling from running up several flights of stairs. His hair is damp within moments, a torrent of rain forcing him to squint as he skids. He bumps someone but ignores their initial, "Hey! Watch where you're—" and their eventual realization and blubbering apology.
He ignores this because John is standing on the roof's ledge, oblivious to the surrounding people and their gentle coaxing. At the head of the crowd is Dan, louder and more insistent than the rest. John turns, looking past his brother and straight to Doctor Cox with surprisingly bright and coherent eyes.
"Perry," he says, loud enough to be heard over the rain, and the small crowd turns to the older man expectantly.
He doesn't think. "Leave." The word escapes his mouth out of habit, and no one questions him. The roof is empty in less than a minute—empty except for John, Dan, and himself. "Dan—"
"No." Dan shakes his head and stomps towards him, his shoes propelling water droplets everywhere. "What the hell? What the hell have you done to him?"
"Me? I've been ignoring the little bastard. I haven't done a God-damn thing. Where the hell have you been?"
"With my family."
"Then maybe that's where you should be, huh?"
"I'm not leaving my—"
"Your what?" Doctor Cox gestures to the young man still staring at them from his perch on the ledge. "He's not your brother, Dan. He doesn't even belong in this universe."
"So that gives him the right to jump off of buildings? For you to stand by and let him commit suicide?"
"I didn't tell him to get up there and be an idiot!"
John chooses this moment to intervene. "You finished, gentlemen?" he calls, smiling genuinely when they both turn to him. "Or would you like to make out? I can leave, if you want some alone time." He inches one foot towards the edge until his toes are no longer touching concrete. Water bounces off of his sneaker and plummets to the parking lot far below, where several spectators have appeared, their faces turned upwards into the rain.
"John!"
"Newbie, cut it out!"
John brings his foot back, the soles of his shoes scraping wetly across the ledge as he turns to face them. "I'm trying to fix this."
"Fix what?" Doctor Cox demands. "What could you possibly fix by jumping off this building?"
"It could bring JD back."
"Could?" Dan asks incredulously. "What if it doesn't work? What if you're being a moron and you kill yourself?"
"Only one way to find out." Spreading his arms wide, John watches the other two men leap forward. They halt abruptly when he raises his palms towards them.
Doctor Cox takes another step forward, shaking the water from his face and spitting into the rain. "John, you can't just . . . This is crazy!"
"I can live with that," the younger man states with a smirk.
"People need you," Doctor Cox argues, licking his lips and taking yet another step forward. "This universe or yours—we need you."
"No," John denies with a shake of his head. "People are strong, Per. They know how to take care of themselves, with or without someone like me."
"You don't get it," the older doctor grinds out. "You have no idea who you are to these people."
"Of course I do. I'm John Michael Dorian. I've heard my name shouted in the heat of battle, whispered just before death. I've seen the influence of a mere name—my name."
"Then how can you say we'll be all right? Without you, we're—"
"Together. Without me . . ." He looks between the two of them. ". . . you're still together. And without me, you'll be all right."
Doctor Cox stares at him for a long moment, rain dripping down his face and disappearing into his soaked clothing. "Promise?" he asks, and Dan turns away, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging on the wet locks harshly as he starts towards the rooftop exit.
"Yes. Always."
"Johnny!" Dan calls, spinning around and taking determined strides until he is right in front of the young man. He bounces on the balls of his feet a couple of times, biting the inside of his cheek before inhaling a large amount of air and rain water. "I don't care where you're from or what the hell you do. You're still my little brother." John exhales, his shoulders slumping and his mouth quirking into a relieved smile as if a weight has been lifted from him. Having found a way in past the young man's defenses, Dan continues desperately."How am I supposed to . . . What's going to happen if you die here? If he doesn't come back?"
John frowns and looks away from his brother-from-another-universe, glancing over the roof's edge for a long moment before shrugging. "We'll see," he says.
Lightening illuminates the sky.
And then he's gone.
0 o 0 o 0
The man known as Jimmy Miller is dragged onto the roof overlooking the compound. He looks beaten and drugged, and he has to be held upright by the soldiers gingerly flanking him. What is it about this man—this silly, and somewhat stupid, veterinarian—that has these people spooked?
The general stands tall beside Jimmy, hands clasped tightly behind his back and a smug look smeared across his sweaty, wrinkled face. He shouts about the traitor John Michael Dorian, and then he points to Jimmy, saying they are the same man—saying that Jimmy is the traitor.
"Liar!" Russel shouts angrily from the crowd, faces turning to him in astonishment. "Jimmy! Tell them who you are! Tell them!"
But Jimmy doesn't speak. He stands and he wavers and he looks around at the crowd as if he hasn't heard anything. And the look on his face—Russel has seen that look before.
Hopelessness.
It plagues the eyes of so many during these times. He can't believe he is seeing it on the face of one of the only friends he has found in this ridiculous muck-hole of a world, the only person able to get close enough, make him drop his guard.
And now he is about to lose him, just like he lost his parents.
"Jimmy! Don't—"
"I am not . . . ." Jimmy starts, his voice quiet and quavering. He takes a deep breath, straightening despite the pain it must be calling him. "I am not John Michael Dorian." He shakes his head along with the words as if to confirm them. "But I am not Jimmy Miller, either."
Russel's stomach twists as he soaks the words in. Not Jimmy? But not Dorian?
"John Michael Dorian is not responsible for this," the not-Jimmy continues. "He's a doctor and a fighter, and he hasn't lost hope that people still believe in a world without all of this." His eyes scan the crowd, his tone pleading. "Who has you here? In this place?" Murmurs break out. "It's not John Dorian."
The general looks furious. He's stomping towards not-Jimmy, gun in hand.
He's gonna kill 'im! Russel thinks in horror, his voice joining the crowd's as their murmurs become protests. "He's gonna kill 'im! Someone stop 'im!"
Russel looks around, watches several people begin to surge forward, overtaking startled guards. They begin to climb the building, standing on one another's shoulders to reach. They're doing it! They're fighting back! And they're winning! . . . . But it might be too late. He looks up, and not-Jimmy's lips are moving—he says something that Russel can't hear.
Lightening crackles, brightening the sky and casting eerie shadows across the compound. The general and his men on the roof are nothing but silhouettes for an agonizing moment, spots dancing in front of the teen's eyes as he blinks furiously, tears loosing down his face.
Then the man known as Jimmy Miller leaps from the side of the building.
AN: I kept wanting to write "Russel" as "Riley." So if I didn't change any "Riley"s back to "Russel," let me know! Fo sho. :P
Later, Gators! Catch you all in the next chapter!
