Author's Note: Yo, peeps! Thanks, as always, to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, and following this story. You always make my day. I'm really tired and quite possibly fried some brain cells doing a self-imposed sprint workout in the high heat of the day, so I'll end this right here.

I don't own or have rights to Flashpoint, The Wizard of Oz, or Golden Girls

Glasgow

Chapter 10: The Time Keeps Slipping Away

Day 3

2:29 pm, St. Patrick's Hospital

It had been approximately eight hours since Greg had looked over his subordinate officer's shoulder to see a doctor he knew was treating Jules turn swiftly on his heel and begin to sprint in the direction from which he had come. Approximately eight hours since he had over-looked this fact, stared straight into Spike's face and told him he'd see him at 3 this afternoon. Approximately eight hours since he'd basically flat out lied to one of the officers under his leadership in the hopes of protecting him, from himself, from the world, from the truth that would set no one free.

And he didn't know what this made him. An angel of mercy protecting the innocent from aspects of the world and of life that they simply were not equipped to handle, or a devil, thinking in and motivated by nothing but falsehoods, speaking only in lies. He did not know if his actions, or rather, failure of actions made him a good cop or a bad cop, a good commander or a bad commander, leader of troops, today or at any point in the last week, the last year, the entire portion of his life as a commanding officer.

That question had been nagging him since he watched the ambulance pull away with the broken body and mind of his fallen sniper, negotiator, partner, friend, surrogate daughter. Was he a good sergeant, a good leader? In his decisions and the motivations behind them, was he an ethical man, a good man?

And these questions had only lingered and taunted him since their inception, because he knew the one person that he would trust to answer them wasn't here, in the truest sense of the word, to answer them. The one person in the world he would trust to give him a full and truthful answer, now, in this moment, he realized, and really since he watched that doctor run, not walk, in the direction of the ICU, may never be here for him or anyone else again. The update and confirmation of his deathly speculations by an ICU nurse only solidified this fact within him.

So he continued to wonder and was haunted by the fact that if Jules was here, really here, conscious and aware of her surroundings, the world at large, the events at large, Greg's actions, she would tell him if keeping the truth from Spike was the right thing to do. She would tell him if his perceived sin of Omission was actually an act of mercy. She would tell him based on his actions, or rather, lack thereof, if he was a good leader, today, this week, during his entire career as Team One's Sergeant. She would tell him based on his thoughts and motivations if he was moral, ethical. She would tell him if he was a good man.

And he would trust her evaluation, both of him as a leader and as a human being. If this overall situation had shown him anything, it was how much he relied on her and trusted her opinions. He'd felt lost, felt like a hollow man, a man missing a moral compass, a man missing the heart of his humanity, since she had been gone in a realm he couldn't reach, couldn't touch, couldn't feel emotionally or physically. He'd once told Jules she was his right hand, his heart. Without her, he'd felt like an amputated Tin Man who was also somehow a brainless Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion, because, truth be told, he wasn't much without his heart and right hand.

And thus he was hollow.

With the information provided by the ICU nurse nearly eight hours before, he feared he would non-live the rest of his life as a hollow man, a cored apple of existence.

Sam had been 'escorted,' or rather dragged, back into the waiting room by a burly intern with a tall man who bore a striking resemblance to his fallen sniper fallowing in a daze in their wake. Sam had look inconsolable, like he was burning, cracking from the inside-out into a the million shards of glass his life had become since his other half was gravely injured. He was incoherent in his agony and only looked at Greg with tears in his eyes, shook his head once and collapsed into the same chair he'd sat with his tortured thoughts in for hours on end before. The tall man sank, with a look of defeat and guilt on his face, into the chair beside Sam and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder that Greg knew Sam just didn't have the energy, will, strength to shrug off. Greg knew none of those malignant states of being came from the fact that he'd barely eaten or slept from the time since he'd probably woken up with Jules on the beautiful and normal seeming morning that only gave birth to that dark and destructive afternoon, but from the fact that he was becoming mentally and emotionally defeated, becoming a hollow man of his own creation. Greg couldn't lend him a hand or a heart, because his was held captive in the same place Sam's was.

Minutes later, an ICU nurse appeared with traces of blood, Greg shuddered to imagine it as Jules' blood, on her scrubs. She'd explained that while she was changing Jules' bandages, a broken piece of bone had moved and ruptured a blood vessel in her brain. The doctors were in surgery with her now to stop the bleeding, and because they'd caught it so early, there was reason for hope. The nurse said all this with the shame and contrition of a guilty party, as if she was solely responsible for the inevitable strife that was caused by hard metal connecting with soft, fragile, unprotected bone. Greg had never, ever, even when she was shot or when she was bleeding out from a fracture wound to an artery, thought of Jules as fragile. Not until that bastard broke her on that rooftop. Greg had frowned to himself at the thought, because now he understood why Ed, errant son that he as a pathetic leader could not control, had done what he'd done.

XXXXX

The blood was on his hands again, her blood, Jules' blood. He couldn't see it, not this time, because it hadn't physically touched him as it turned the nurse's bandages red, but he could feel it as it haunted his soul.

He looked down at his injured hand, just now registering that it hurt. That made sense. The endorphins, dopamine, serotonin that had coursed through his brain at the thought of Jules getting better had over shadowed those pain receptors when he'd used his two hands to clap to wake her, but had ceased to work the moment he'd seen her blood. Like a crack addict with the cocaine blues, he was a Jules addict and was now suffering the effects of the over release of pleasure and pain fighting neurotransmitters. His stores were depleted. He was in agony, but somehow the mental anguish of knowing Jules had taken a bad turn was worse than any physical pain he could ever feel. It was a cursed form of overshadowing.

He promised himself that she would fight this, just like she always fought before. Just like she'd been fighting since the moment cold metal invaded the bastion of her thoughts. Just like she had when a bullet entered her ribcage, collapsing a lung and making it nearly impossible for her to breath. Just like she had when the blood had pooled out of her body before him, behind a pane of glass and wall of departmental ethical regulations while deadly spores invaded her lungs, that same lung that had collapsed twice within his viewing. Any other person would have given into the pain and darkness that encroached on them in that same situation. But Jules didn't. She headed Sarge's personal plea to her and hung on for just those few moments more before they could dissolve the situation as a team. She'd fought for and gained the right to reclaim her life.

Jules was a fighter in so many ways for so many things. He knew how hard she'd fought to just simply get into the police department, how much more she'd fought for her spot on Team One, how much she'd had to fight, even harder still because of him, to reclaim her spot on the team after she'd already fought her way to simply not die from the gunshot and its resulting effects.

Sam smiled to himself at the thought of her always fighting so hard, almost always against both the inherent and circumstance imposed limitations of her body. Here mind was always stronger than those physical limitations, and in that lied the secrete to her uncanny ability to overcome, survive.

But sometimes, Sam frowned and shook his head for a moment, sometimes that inherent ability and will to overcome made her push herself too far too soon. It was a consequence of being a bad-ass. These times caused set-backs that sometimes he wondered if she caused intentionally just for the added challenged, because she'd always managed to overcome theses as well.

He thought back to that day early on in her recover from the gunshot when her fighting spirit had pushed her a bit too far too early. He'd promised to help her in her first physical therapy session, to which she had simply rolled her eyes at him but accepted the chance to spend time with him in a setting she was hoping wouldn't send-off alarm bells to Sarge about their relationship. Sam hadn't had the heart to tell her at that point that he was afraid the cat had been completely freed from the bag during his tearful effusion of emotion over her unconscious body the night after she was shot. He'd smiled to himself at the thought of her hopeful naiveté and the thought of being able to touch her freely and in public under the guise of helping her complete a set of exercises.

So caught up in his joy of seeing the woman he had secretly come to love, he had nearly run straight into a tall dark haired man just before he entered Jules' room. Making his apologies quickly, her turned and entered her room to see her already seated in a wheel chair, waiting to be led to the physical therapy room. "Jules," he said cheerfully, but soon frowned when he caught a look of pain on her face. "Jules, are you okay?" He quickly rushed forward to make sure nothing was amiss.

The moment her eyes met his, the pain or sadness on her face was replaced by a smile, but one that did not reach her eyes. "Hey, Sam. Yeah," she shook her head and made the fake smile on her face larger, "just nervous, I guess."

Sam narrowed his eyes slightly. The only time he'd seen Jules nervous was when she was trying to talk down a damaged teenager with a gun on her while she was unarmed. He knew that nervousness had come as a result of her fear of failure, or 'screw'n up' as she called it. He supposed she had that same fear today on the first day she was cleared to use some of her damaged and recently untrained muscles. Thus, he simply smiled and took her at her word, not thinking he needed to delve any further. "You'll be fine, Jules," he assured as he reached out to chastely stroke her chin. "I know you probably want to, but you really don't HAVE to win a heptathlon today."

She chuckled softly, but the look of what she'd claimed was nervousness returned to her face minutely. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam tilted his head and continued to stare at her. "Are you sure you're okay. I mean, it hasn't been that long at all. No one would blame you if you want to take a few more days before—"

"No!" Jules cut him off, anger replacing the look on her face. "I'm fine, Sam. I just want to get back to the job, my LIFE, as soon as I can, and I'm not gonna do that by lying in bed watching re-runs of Golden Girls on TV." Her eyes smoldered in her answer, and Sam knew there was no use arguing with her.

He sighed, but tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Alright, but let me push you there. My father trained me to be a perfect gentleman, and I will take no for an answer." Sam expected to hear some snide remark from her in return, but she only shrugged, a look of dejection lining her face.

When they'd gotten to the physical therapy session, her trainer had instructed her to do up to three sets of ten elastic band exercises, depending on how she felt, which would help build back up the muscles in her chest, back, and torso that had been eviscerated by the passage of a piece of hot metal through her body nearly two weeks before.

Sam had watched her struggle through the first set, taking what seemed like three times longer than she normally would have with more resistance in her normal, undamaged state. He frowned as she began the second, a look of mixed determination and what he could only guess was pissed-off fury lining her face. "Whoa, Jules," he cautioned. He knew the numerous stitches used to bind her skin and organs back together were still fresh and liable to pop with too much exertion. "Take it easy." His words were pleading as he imagined the dire consequences that could come from her innate tenacity.

Jules merely narrowed her eyes at him, challenging him as she challenged herself, and continued the set.

By the ninth repetition in the second set, she was struggling, breathing harder than he'd ever seen her on the obstacle course at work and grimacing in pain. She seemed to do the tenth repetition on sheer grit and will power. As she sat resting, trying to calm her breath and will strength back into her muscles, he could see by the look in her eyes and expression of her face that she was preparing herself to perform the final set. He really didn't think that was such a smart idea in her current (he would never voice it to her, but) delicate state. "That was good work, Jules," he grinned at her, continuing the encouraging words he'd been feeding her throughout the entire session, which by the reactive look in her eyes he could tell only slightly pissed her off by their patronizing nature.

He reached out and began to rub her shoulder and back muscles, which he could only guess were causing her pain right now. "The therapist said up to three sets of ten. You look a little beat. Maybe it's time to throw in the towel for today."

Immediately he cringed at his words and prepared himself for a verbal onslaught. No one ever suggested Julianna Callaghan should throw in the towel, not for anything. No one ever suggested she was too weak, either in strength or will to complete any endeavor she set out to conquer.

She looked up at him as if she wanted to spit in his face, spit out her fury at him for his suggestive words and at the entire situation for the pain and doubt it had caused within her. Her eyes twitched with the adrenaline her anger had engendered. "No, Sam," she began darkly. "This is my life, and NO ONE and nothing are going to keep me from getting back to it." As she reached forward to begin the next set, Sam found himself wondering if her words hadn't had deeper meaning than what she was letting on to.

Worry lines began to etch their way onto Sam's face as he watched her continue to struggle, too worried about offending her mentally to step in like he should have and stop her from pushing herself too hard. He could tell that pure, unadulterated rage was what was fueling her efforts. He gasped when she pulled back violently for the sixth repetition as he saw a look of pain replace the anger on her face at the same time he saw a drop of blood seep through her white t-shirt. "Jules!" he shouted as she released the bands and fell sideways. "Someone get some help!" he commanded as he reached forward to stem the flow of blood.

"Damn-it, Jules, you ripped your stiches," he whispered harshly to himself more than to her. "Just stay cal—"

And then he heard it. That same gasping sound that had torn his soul to shreds on the top of that roof nearly two weeks before. She couldn't breathe. Her one intact lung was struggling for air because the other had collapsed again.

"Left," she uttered between struggles for breath.

"I'm not leaving," Sam promised, continued to keep pressure on her wound as emergency personnel began to arrive.

"Call," she gasped out.

"Shh, shh, Jules," Sam tried to sooth her. "I already called for help and they're already getting here. Don't try to talk anymore. Just save your strength, try to breathe," he pleaded.

"Call left," she struggled out over his pleadings and Sam began to think that she wasn't completely with him.

Within seconds, emergency personnel had arrived to take her. She'd needed both her external and internal stitches repaired and her lung re-inflated again, but it had only caused her a set-back of about a week and a half.

Jules was a fighter, always had been and always would be. Sometimes she worked too hard at it, but it had always been the enduring quality that had saved her and other people's lives time and time again. He had no doubt she would fight, for herself, for him, now.

As he sat and relived this memory of Jules' tenacity, he contemplated how he'd always wondered what she was trying to say, either to him or herself, what she had fought through gasping breaths of pain to communicate while she was too incapacitated to make any coherent conversation.

Left. Call. Call Left. The tall, dark haired man outside her room. Call, Col.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he violently rose from his chair and had the man sitting next to him by the scruff of his collar. He lifted him and pinned him to the wall, angry adrenaline coursing through his veins and allowing him to ignore the new pain in his fractured hand and injured arm. "You," he breathed out darkly.

"Whoa, Sam!" Greg shouted as he witnessed Sam's assault on the man he too had just recently learned was Jules' brother. "What the Hell are you doing?"

But Sam had no time to deal with his Sergeant. He reached out and pushed him away with the injured hand that refused to even attempt to hold him back in his violent endeavors. "What did you do to her," he continued in a dark tone as his hand reconnected with the scruff of Collin's shirt and he shook him in fury.

"Sam!" Greg repeated as he worked to get up from the floor Sam's broken hand had vanquished him to.

"Four years ago, when she was starting physical therapy after being shot, you did or said something to her that made her so angry she pushed herself too far, tore her stitches, re-collapsed a lung. She could have died because of you!" Sam's rage increased.

During this entire sequence of events, Collin took Sam's abuse; it was as if he felt he deserved this punishment. "I," he began, but hung his head in shame. Sam shook him once more to prompt his confession as Greg reached out to try to pull his arms off Jules' brother. "I cut her out of my life…I told her I couldn't watch her die from this job…"

Collin's dejected words compounded the agony Sam was under and he allowed Collin's feet to touch back down on the ground, but his hands still retained possession of Collin's shirt. "Neither can I," Sam nearly whispered. "But I'm not a coward like you. I would never leave her," he continued in a stronger tone, darkness returning to his voice.

"Sam!" Greg attempted to draw his attention again, knowing full well that Jules' brother was suffering in this situation as well and did not deserve Sam's physical abuse, no matter what he had said or done in the past. Everyone had already seen with Ed where that line of action led a person.

Sam jerked his head in Greg's direction, all the fury, rage, worry, fear leaking out of his eyes. "I was gonna propose to her tomorrow, Sarge!" he shouted, his seemingly non-sequitur words explaining more about his actions than anything Greg could ever guess.

"Aw, Sam," he said softly as he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as if he was attempting to compound his own suffering by transferring some of what Sam was feeling to himself through simple, non-verbal communication.

Sam turned his head back towards Collin, tears brimming his eyes. "I take back what I said before. You do deserve to feel guilty."

With that, he let go of Collin's shirt and allowed Greg to lead him away from the emotionally fraught situation, but not away from the overpowering malignant emotions that were now ruling his life.

Additional Author's Note: I'm still tired, mostly because I just wrote the first author's note approximately 30 seconds ago. I really love Greg's part in this chapter. I love exploring his guilt (not hard to find; Greg feels guilty about not tying his shoes properly) and the Wiz of Ozzie metaphor. I just coined that nick-name. Fried brain cells…I'm probably leaving something out, but, whatev…

Please leave a review and let me know what you think of this chapter : )

Peace to you all, and thanks for reading,

Eals