Author's Note: This is me, grovelling at your feet, pleading and begging for your forgiveness. Writer's block is a mean, evil creature, and had me at its mercy. Procrastination is a product of the devil as well… I hope you'll all forgive me, and like this new chapter. There are only a few left after this one, but remember I am planning a sequel. Regarding certain parts of this chapter, I had to guess about religion… they never make that too clear with each character, so I guessed.

Oh, and as of now, if you have any questions about my work that you really want answered, make sure I can contact you via email. I don't think we're really allowed to do review feedback/responses in-chapter anymore…

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FADE

Taking the chart in her hand, and pulling her pen from the pocket of her white coat, Neela sighed, face seemingly blank of emotion. Inwardly, she was panicking, but didn't want to show it. One of the women in that room was a friend; roommate even. Granted, it was Abby's place, but it wasn't only that Neela was worried about losing her residence in this chaos. She liked Abby… pretty much always had. In fact, if Neela was going to sound extreme, Abby was one of the only people she could call 'friend' in the hospital and beyond. With Michael off in Iraq, there weren't many others she spent time with socially.

While she wouldn't count Ray as a friend — in fact, he drove her crazy — she still didn't want him to die; she didn't want anyone to die. She just wished they knew more; like where he'd been shot and how serious it was.

Swallowing her doubts and questions, she moved across the corridor to a woman who was sitting on a gurney, looking towards admin at all the activity. Her pale skin was lined to show her years, and her white-grey hair was tied back in a lazy but efficient ponytail out of her face. Beside her sat a hat and a scarf, and Neela wondered if it had started snowing… as was the norm in Chicago.

"Hello," she began automatically, and somehow managing a smile, even as she heard Morris start up the same routine down from her, "I'm Dr. Rasgotra. Mrs. Murphy, is that correct?"

The woman glanced to her with light eyes, and nodded. "That's right, dear." She wore two intricate rings on her wedding finger, Neela noticed, but there was no sign of a husband. And she wouldn't ask. The woman seemed quite old; in her sixties at least. It was very likely her husband had passed away.

"So, Mrs. Murphy, it says here that you've had problems with headaches and chest pains?"

The woman nodded. "That's right." Every now and again, her eyes flickered to the business in admin, all the while Neela trying not to notice it at all lest she get distracted. She went about listening to the woman's heart and breathing; doing all the routine checks that she had long since memorised. She jotted things down on her chart frequently to keep track.

"So, Mrs. Murphy, have you—"

"Please, call me Evelyn."

Neela looked up from her chart.

"Only salesmen call me Mrs. Murphy." She smiled, wanly but honestly.

"All right," Neela agreed. There was a pause. Neela had forgotten what she'd wanted to ask. The noises of the activity down in admin overtook Neela, and she didn't even realise how long she had been quiet until her patient spoke to her; voice soft and inquisitive.

"Do you know them?"

The young doctor looked back. "Pardon?"

Evelyn Murphy glanced towards the security and police, and the senior doctors, before turning her eyes back on Neela. "The ones in the room. Do you know them?" She paused, and when she received no response, she continued, "Are they friends of yours?"

A little thrown, it took her a moment to realise the patients had probably overheard what was going on. Unfortunate, but not unlikely; it had been inevitable really. From the moment that gun had first been fired, everyone had been distracted by the things going on down that corridor, even if they were nowhere near it. "Yes," she responded after a moment. "I know them." She wasn't sure if she should say much else. This woman may have seemed sweet enough, but Neela didn't really know her.

Evelyn took Neela's free hand, taking the younger woman a little by surprise, but she didn't pull away, even when something was put in her hand. "I've been praying for them," she confided quietly, looking Neela in the eye firmly and sincerely.

Neela almost frowned, looking at her hand when it was released. Of all things, it was a rosary. She nearly smiled; she didn't know what to do with this, and found herself saying, "I'm not even Christian."

"It doesn't matter who you pray to, dear," Evelyn told her. "Someone's always listening."

Neela lifted her eyes, met the old woman's, and smiled her thanks.

Praying… it had never even crossed her mind.

If Sam had been a particularly religious person, she would have been praying right at that moment. But as it was, she had lost her faith some years ago, and as such, didn't have much belief in any of it paying off. She could pray, but nothing would come of it; it would only be coincidence, if anything.

She debated asking Ray if he'd counted the tiles yet, but glancing to him made her realise just how unlikely it was that he would be concentrating on something so futile as how many tiles were still on the ceiling. He was probably focusing on staying awake; even if the meaningless task would help take his mind off the situation… it wouldn't take his mind off the pain he undoubtedly felt. It was all over his face.

Abby was silently changing the dressing, trying not to look at the soaked one she was removing, and just how bad the wound was; it was almost as if she had come to realise how hopeless it was… but Sam was determined to not let that happen.

"Abby," she murmured, catching her attention from where she stood. She didn't want to leave Ray's side in case he started to drift off, or felt sick again. "How is it?"

The other doctor looked up from fixing the dressing in place, and just stared, as if confused. She was exhausted. Her hair was falling from its ponytail, and she hadn't even bothered correcting it or fixing it back in place.

"How is it?" Sam repeated, a little clearer this time in the hopes that the delay was a result of her not asking plainly enough.

Abby sighed visibly, rubbing a hand over her neck. She didn't seem to notice that the action left blood on her own skin from her tending to the wound. Sam chose not to tell her. "I can't…" Her eyes flickered to Atkin. "This room is…"

Sam knew the feeling. She was seriously starting to despise this room; she hadn't realised how useless it was before.

Risking leaving Ray alone for a moment after touching a hand to the top of his head, Sam moved closer to Abby. "Just focus," she said pointedly but not harshly. "Don't let it get to you. Concentrate on the patient, okay?" She glanced to Ray, as if to assure herself he was still breathing. "We can't lose it now."

Abby looked to her, and stared for a while. After a while, she nodded, drawing in a deep breath.

"So how is it?"

He could hear everything going on behind him. He had taken his eyes off the three numerous times; increasingly in the last half an hour or so as he lost himself frequently in his own thoughts and doubts. Seeing Barnett react so much to the injury was starting to get to him, no matter how much he tried to deny it; that small voice in the back of his head was getting louder. But he heard their discussions all the same.

"If we don't replace the blood he's losing, and soon, he'll have lost too much. We won't be able to catch up." Lockhart. She sounded tired.

I know the feeling…

"Then we keep up the saline," the nurse responded. She seemed to be the strongest one now, despite being the lowest in seniority… if Atkin understood how these things worked.

And I don't.

"The saline can only do so much. He needs the blood."

Sighing, Atkin looked to the hole in the glass; the one that he had made with the gun he still held in his now-sweaty hand. He glanced to it without moving it, and let out a slow, shaky breath. Clearly and painfully in his mind, he remembered seeing his wife for the first time after she had been shot. He remembered the agony of the delay. He remembered how much pain she had been in; the blood and the crying.

And then he remembered how focused and busy it had been once they'd arrived at the hospital. The name Carter had rang a bell in the back of his mind the moment he'd heard it… and he wondered if he had been one of the doctors to work on his wife. It was all blurring together now, and he glanced over his shoulder.

Barnett was, somehow, still awake, even though it obviously pained him to keep it that way. Taggart and Lockhart spoke in quiet tones, but not secretly… he knew that now. They weren't the types to plot against him, even if he had hurt their friend. No matter what he did to them, they were still, first and foremost, doctors and nurses.

What have I done? He did move the gun then, and he noticed how the two women went instantly silent; he felt their eyes on him as his own fixed on the weapon in his hands. What have I done?

His vision blurred as his eyes welled. Shame and disgust filled him, but it didn't seem to be his own, while at the same time it was. It seemed to mingle with that of someone else; someone he could feel. He knew who it was, but denied it to himself as long as humanly possible, mainly because it was too painful to admit it.

He knew how much Celia would hate him now, if she knew what he had done. He inhaled shakily, and glanced to the three 'hostages'.

What have you done?

The voice was not his own anymore; it was hers. It was his beloved wife's. The disgust and shame… he never should have even touched this damn gun. He hated it now… hated it with every fibre of his being. He hated himself, especially when he heard Barnett's laboured breathing from across the room. His eyes found the three young staff members again, and he knew he must have looked almost apologetic.

What have you done?

It was over… no matter what happened now, it was over. He looked to the ring on his left hand. His wedding ring. After what he had done, it meant nothing now… he had betrayed his wife by coming here. He had changed; he was a different man. The Steve Atkin she had married had always changed the channel when such horrific stories came on the news. The Steve Atkin she married would never have touched a gun, or even thought of such disgusting, inhumane actions, especially towards another person.

Barnett hadn't done anything to him… if anything, Barnett had been trying to help him. He recalled, with crystal clarity, what the young doctor had said; what had spurred him into pulling the trigger. Irrational, and hasty, and filled with hate… spurred by such wrong, powerful, negative emotions. And now, because of him, that young man could die.

But if he left this room, he would either be shot, or arrested; he would never see the outside world again. He would spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars. And if Barnett died…?

He didn't have much choice left… he didn't have much left in the way of a life, either. He had cut it all horribly short, and stupidly so, by leaving that waiting room.

What have I done?

Moving across the room slowly but surely, he noticed how all three of them seemed to tense, even if the subconscious action made Barnett's face twist with pain. That, in turn, sent a jolt of horror through Steve… he had done this. When he was no more than four feet from the bed, he looked to Lockhart, and then to Taggart.

"How is it?" he asked, needing to hear for himself. His own voice was far from steady; it had lost its strength and malice.

It was Lockhart who answered, watching him with confusion, "He's losing blood too fast. If we don't start replacing it soon, then he'll lose too much for us to catch up. He'll bleed out. The saline is slowing the process down, but…"

"He's losing too much," Steve repeated, in a kind of haunted tone. His eyes met Barnett's. He saw the fear there, and it sent a shock through him. Barnett was afraid of him… they all were. Afraid of him… and the gun.

There was nothing left… he had nothing left. He had ruined it all. Everything he had had left, he had destroyed for himself. He had ruined everything, and for what? This wasn't even revenge… revenge had never satisfied him. Even if he hadn't killed that young doctor lying on that bed, then he had killed himself.

Steve glanced towards the door, and then individually to the three others in the room. He felt cowardly now; weak and stupid.

This had to end.

His thumb moved and cocked the gun.

Barnett's eyes closed, and Lockhart and Taggart moved closer to him, almost instinctively as if to protect him.

Steve looked to the three of them, and lifted the gun.

"I'm so… so sorry…"

To Be Continued…