A/N: Thanks all, but it's not over; the brothers are still in danger...

Chapter 21

Once the improvement began, the recovery was dramatic. As the antibiotics did their work and beat back the infection, Charlie's blood pressure continued to rise. By late in the day, it had gotten high enough that the cuffs could be removed from his arms, but the doctors left the ones on his legs – they were standard for all surgery patients, to help prevent blood clots. An EEG was run to evaluate brain function; one of the concerns was organ damage from the lack of oxygen, including damage to the brain. The oxygen-rich mixture coming through the respirator and the added circulatory help from the cuffs had apparently done what they were intended to do; the EEG and blood work indicators showed normal brain function and no evidence of organ damage.

Oddly, as Charlie's pulse became stronger and the circulation increased, he seemed to become more feverish. He'd had one all along, but it had been masked by the low blood flow. His face and extremities went from pale and cool to slightly flushed, and Don started to notice eye movement beneath his lids. Even though he was still unconscious, he seemed greatly improved, and an exhausted Alan and Amita had finally gone back to the Eppes house to get some rest. David had gone with them, as a precaution, intending to take Colby's position on the sofa, and to rest himself.

Colby stayed at the hospital with Don, although he could now leave Don alone with Charlie – Megan had gotten a protective detail set up for Charlie, and there was an officer present outside the room. She had joined them that morning an hour into the vigil, Larry had called her, but by the time she'd gotten there, Charlie had already turned the corner. Once it became apparent that his progress was real, she'd pulled Colby and David out for a quiet caucus, letting them know the search was still on for Moran, but they'd had no luck.

It was now close to dinnertime, and Colby's stomach was telling him so. Megan had gone back to the office hours ago, and David, Alan, Amita, and Larry had gone also, in the late afternoon. Colby shifted in his chair, looking up from his magazine, taking in Don's profile. None of the doctors or nurses had asked them to leave, to go back to the standard 10-minute visiting periods, and Don had taken advantage of it. He had been sitting there for most of the day, his eyes glued to Charlie, as if he was afraid if he didn't watch him, he would vanish somehow. After two kidnappings and Charlie's near brush with death, Colby didn't blame Don. He kept sneaking peeks at the professor himself, for the same reason.

Still, his growling digestive tract prompted the question. "Want to take a break and get something to eat? We can hit the cafeteria."

Don came out of his reverie, looked at him as if he was surprised to see him there, and then rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was actually hungry, for the first time in days, but he didn't want to leave. "No – I think I'll just stay here." He reached in his back pocket, fishing for his wallet. "Maybe you could bring me a sandwich?"

Colby stood waving him off, as Don produced a bill. "Yeah – don't worry about it – I've got it." His eye caught movement at the doorway, and he swiveled quickly. He knew there was an officer outside, but the recent events had put everyone on edge, and instinct had taken over. The two doctors in the doorway eyed him, startled, and Colby rubbed the back of his head with a bit of embarrassment. Don grinned at him slightly; his first smile since the video had been delivered, and Colby smiled back ruefully, his heart lightening at the sight. "I'll just head out then," he said unnecessarily, and slipped past the doctors as they entered.

Don recognized Samuels, but not the other doctor, and rose as the man extended a hand. "Dr. Fisher," he said. "I operated on Dr. Eppes' shoulder."

Dr. Samuels had moved over to Charlie's bedside, scanning the monitors and reviewing his charts. "He put us through quite a scare." He turned to face Don. "I have to admit, we really thought he wasn't going to make it. It was very close. Infection of this magnitude can be a touchy thing; there is still a possibility of reversal, but the signs look very encouraging. In fact, his respirations have risen to the point that we have been able to dial back the oxygen levels, and I'm considering taking him off the respirator, and putting him on an oxygen mask in its place. Has he woken at all?"

Don shook his head. "No."

Samuels pursed his lips and gave him a nod. "That's not unusual. He's still very sick, and will be extremely weak and tired when he does wake. He's dealing with the infection, some blood loss, and malnutrition. I've set the respirator on 'assist' – it will only kick on when his own respirations aren't adequate, but I think I'll hold off on removing it until he becomes conscious. If you're in the room when he does, simply press the call button, and we'll get someone in here right away. I'm going to schedule removal of the heart catheter tomorrow morning. If he does well tomorrow, we can move him to a regular room."

Dr. Fisher had stepped around him, and was gently manipulating Charlie's bandaged shoulder, his brow creased slightly. He looked up at Don. "As he heals, we need to talk about therapy for his shoulder. The bullet lodged against the top of the acromion, which is the bone forming the tip of the shoulder. There was some damage to the tendons that connect to the supraspinatus muscle, which raises and lowers the arm at the shoulder. The resulting infection caused swelling in the entire joint, which may affect some other areas, notably the tendons that connect to his bicep. I was able to remove the bullet, and did some reconstructive work on the supraspinatus tendon. He is facing extensive physical therapy, and possibly more surgery. We will know more once he begins therapy, but there is a good chance he won't regain full function of his shoulder. It is important to work it until he can begin exercises, so it doesn't freeze, so during the next few days you will see therapists come in to manipulate it. Unfortunately, it will be painful, but it is necessary. As he comes around, we'll put him on some pain medication." He paused. "Do you have any questions for us?"

"No," Don replied. He actually did – the thought that Charlie might be permanently disabled from this hadn't entered his mind until now, but he knew from what the doctor was saying those questions couldn't be answered, not at the present.

Samuels nodded. "You can stay in the room for the next few hours, but at ten tonight, we're going to ask that you go back to the regular 10-minute visiting cycle." He smiled. "He's doing well. You can relax a little."

Don nodded. Something, a tight knot, released inside, and it was suddenly hard to speak through the wave of gratitude. He managed to find his voice, and held out his hand, shaking the doctors' hands warmly. "Thank you. Thanks – for everything."

After they had gone, he stood next to Charlie's bedside and reached to touch his forehead with the back of his hand, unconsciously echoing what he'd seen his father and mother doing as they'd grown up, checking for fever. As he did, Charlie's eyes moved, and Don bent closer, watching intently. The lids fluttered, then opened, the dark eyes looked into his just for a moment, before they closed again. Don smiled. "Welcome back, Buddy," he said softly.

Charlie's eyes fluttered open again. He watched as an arm reached across to push a button; it was badly bruised, and he wondered groggily if it was his. The thought floated in his mind for a moment, and he decided it wasn't; it looked too muscular, too strong, and his own arms seemed far too heavy to lift. He tried to track the arm as it withdrew, and lost it, but his eyes kept moving that direction, and eventually found a face. A pair of warm dark eyes greeted him, and he heard the soft voice. Donnie. He felt a hand take his, and somewhere in his distant consciousness, a bubble of tension broke, and he floated back into sleep, clinging weakly to his brother's hand.

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During the ensuing week, Sean hid. Ramon was his tether to the outside world, and his provider. He set Sean up in his own apartment; it was seedy, but it was shelter. He took some of Sean's precious reserves of cash and scored him some meth; he fed him, got him a change of clothes. Most importantly, he got information on the Eppes brothers.

It had become apparent, much to Sean's anger and chagrin, that the professor had somehow made it. Ramon had staked out the Eppes house until Don Eppes had shown up, and when he followed him, he found that the agent had gone to a hospital in Loma Linda. It was where he spent most of the week, although he had gone in to the FBI offices once or twice as the week wore on. There was always another agent with him, and often his father. Ramon, at Sean's direction, actually went to the hospital, looking for information, for the professor's condition. The first time he went, the professor was in the ICU, but later in the week, they'd moved him out to a regular room, always under guard.

It was clear that no one had written Sean off yet - and Sean thought to himself that it was smart on their part, because he wasn't going to rest until they both were dead. He just needed to make sure it happened before his pitiful stash of money and his meth ran out - or before Ramon realized Sean had no way to pay him for his services. Either way, at that point, Sean figured himself for a dead man, and dead men had nothing to lose. So he hunkered down in the apartment, getting high, getting plans together; getting ready for a final assault. He knew Dillon had always been disappointed in him; Sean had always viewed himself as a failure. His last act would be suicide, but he'd go out in a blaze of glory. He'd finally make Dillon proud.

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As Charlie regained consciousness, it became apparent how sick he'd really been. For the first two days after waking, he drifted in and out of sleep; fever, weakness and painkillers combined to submerge him, and he'd only wake for a few minutes at a time. By the second day he managed to find the strength to utter a word or two while he was awake; it wasn't much, but it was a huge relief to Alan to know that his son recognized them, that his mind seemed to be working.

As the week wore on, a few things became apparent. First, and most alarming to Alan, was that Charlie was in significant pain from his shoulder, and that it didn't appear to be functioning very well at all. He could flex his arm at the elbow, and although it wasn't up to full strength, Dr. Fisher believed that his bicep function would come back fully with therapy. Charlie had a great deal of difficulty moving his arm at the shoulder however, and couldn't lift it at all. Here, the doctor was concerned, and told Alan privately that he could not predict the outcome. He stated that function would improve as Charlie healed and went through physical therapy, but Fisher was not sure he would regain the full ability to lift his arm. As disturbing as that news was, Alan was profoundly grateful it wasn't Charlie's dominant arm – it at least wouldn't affect his ability to write on a chalkboard.

Dr. Fisher kept his doubts to himself when talking to Charlie, and advised Alan to do the same. Often, he said, if patients expected to gain back full function, they actually did, or came closer to it than if they believed attaining that function might be impossible, so Fisher didn't want Charlie to know that he might be permanently disabled. Instead, he emphasized the importance of manipulating the shoulder, and was very clear on how hard Charlie would have to work in therapy. He told his patient that the road back would be painful, and require a lot of effort on Charlie's part. Charlie had taken the news quietly, and endured the shoulder manipulations without protest.

Alan could tell those manipulations were excruciating, even with the painkillers. They were necessary; if the shoulder wasn't moved, Fisher told them, it could 'freeze,' the tendons and ligaments could heal and toughen in position, and no amount of therapy would get them to loosen again. Charlie couldn't move his arm by himself, but several times a day a therapist would come in, remove his sling, and gently stretch the arm, rotating it, lifting it over Charlie's head in a variety of positions. Try as Charlie might, he couldn't choke back the cries of pain. Alan found he had to leave the room after the first few sessions; it was unbearable to listen to, unbearable to see Charlie's face pale and to watch the agony creep into his expression.

Don stayed, though. Charlie had been moved to a regular room by then, and the restrictions on visitors were greatly relaxed. He was almost constantly at Charlie's side, leaving late at night, returning early in the morning. He went into the office a few times the first two days to submit reports, but after that, he'd applied for leave, and had set himself up at the hospital. The only time he left was when Amita showed up, each day after classes, to give her and Charlie some time alone, but after an hour or so, he'd return.

After their recent arguments, Alan was heartened by their reaction. Neither of them was comfortable unless they were together; Alan surmised they were still concerned about each other. The knowledge that Sean Moran was still out there made both of them anxious when Don wasn't there – Alan could see them visibly relax as soon as they caught sight of each other. It was almost enough to offset the fact that they didn't talk.

After Charlie's shoulder, that was the second most disturbing thing to Alan. Don stayed for hours in the room, but their conversation was minimal; or mundane when it did occur. Alan had thought to himself they would use the opportunity to talk out some of the things they'd been arguing about, but both of them studiously avoided any volatile subjects. They were comfortable enough together, but when it came to conversation, it was almost as if they had an unspoken pact to let any upsetting topics be. Alan knew they couldn't ignore it – the question over Charlie's consulting was the two-ton elephant in the room – but they refused to address it.

To be honest, Alan thought to himself that maybe it was a good thing – to leave it alone until Charlie was stronger. His recent ordeal had seemed to completely deflate him – not only physically but also emotionally. He was quiet, withdrawn, not just with Don, but with everyone. Psychologically overwhelmed by the mental trauma of the kidnapping, and the unthinkable horror of being buried alive, he'd retreated into himself; it was an effort for him to interact with anyone, even Alan or Amita. That would take time, Alan knew; and psychological therapy, something that Charlie hadn't agreed to yet.

When it came to that, Alan was almost as worried about Don. Although he tried to hide it, to appear strong in front of Charlie, Alan could tell the recent events had severely shaken his older son. He'd pushed himself hard when Charlie was missing, when he'd been fresh out of the hospital himself, and should have been home recuperating. The stress of the last few weeks had put lines of fatigue in his face, and had robbed him of several pounds. Not as many as Charlie, who looked emaciated, but enough to be noticeable. Alan couldn't wait to get both of them to the Craftsman, and get some good home-cooked meals in them. It would be something at least, even if he couldn't erase the haunted look in their eyes.

In the meantime, he let them be, let them tentatively reconnect, and watched with a full heart when their eyes met as Don walked in the room. The mere act of being together was starting to heal them both, and for now, it was enough. It would get even better when they got home, Alan told himself, and he waited patiently, and dreamed of the Craftsman.

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The house on the corner of the Eppes' street was surrounded by lush bushes, and one week and one day after his escape from the construction site, Sean waited among them early one morning. He watched Agent Eppes and his father drive by on their way to the hospital, followed by the sandy-haired agent in his own vehicle. He'd spent the last two days monitoring their routine, and he had Ramon stake out the hospital. Sean knew the professor was due to be released soon; Ramon had picked up that comment while lurking in a hallway near the nurses' station, overhearing Eppes' doctor. Unfortunately, they did not know the exact date, but Sean knew he had to move. When the Eppes men were not home, the house was unguarded; once they were there, it would be nearly impossible to gain access. So Sean had loaded his backpack with meth, food, and bottled water, and had gotten Ramon to drop him off a few blocks away, and waited.

As soon as they drove by, he made his way down the block. It was around six a.m., and although he could see lights in the houses, and signs of people stirring, no one was outside yet. No one saw him make his way down the street, and no one saw him turn up the Eppes' driveway, and head for the back of the house.

He went to the same window he'd jimmied before. It had been locked, but it was locked the first time he'd broken in, and he'd managed to get it open. For some reason, it took a little longer this time, but he was finally successful, and pulled himself over the sill and quietly inside. He stood for a minute, listening, just to be sure the house was empty, and then shut the window and locked it again. It took him a minute or two to find the basement door, but he did, and crept downstairs, looking for a place to hide. He found a corner stacked to the rafters with boxes, and managed to shift a few aside, enough to worm through and make a small space behind them at the wall, rearranging them behind him as he squeezed between them. There he tossed down a hit, and crouched like a spider in the corner, waiting.

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End Chapter 21