Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review.

As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason.

Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.

ONLY HUMAN.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Amanda didn't know exactly what it was that made her leave Mark's bedside. If she'd been asked – even just a few minutes before she left – she would have sworn wild horses wouldn't have dragged her away.

But Steve was sitting as motionless as a statue; his terror etched on his face – a clear sign of how much he was hurting, because he wasn't even trying to hide it from her any more.

And Mark...

Mark's stillness was more like death; with the blankets enshrouding him making it hard to discern the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The fleeting thought involuntarily crossed Amanda's mind that it was only because she spent her professional life working with corpses, she could see the difference.

And then she had found herself out in the corridor – maybe looking to find some brief respite; to escape from her pessimism. Maybe thinking about tracking down Kirk – in going one step further than her impromptu pep-talk and finding some way to instil real confidence back into the young doctor; so she could have confidence in his decision making.

Whatever the reason – and maybe it was simple fate – she was there and she saw Jesse; and after that she couldn't help her reaction.

She tried to hold onto her precautionary feelings – those which she had tried to make Steve understand: just because Jesse was home again wouldn't magically make everything alright. Whilst their young friend was an excellent doctor, he wasn't a miracle worker – and Mark was still desperately ill.

But, in spite of the effort, her pessimism was pushed to one side and she felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her smile was unrestrained and the tears in her eyes were born of genuine joy.

Amanda barely even noticed Jesse's own somewhat stunned reaction; the shell-shocked expression on his face – putting it all down to exhaustion, or stress, or his inevitably intense emotions at being home again.

She didn't mean to pile further pressure on him; didn't intend to weigh him down with her fear and desperation – but the words came out almost of their own accord.

To his credit – and to her utter relief – Jesse didn't shy away from her plea; but strode purposefully down the corridor, almost as though he'd never been away.


It wasn't far to Mark's hospital room.

Not far enough for Jesse to really start thinking straight; not far enough for him to fully adjust to the fact that Mark was still alive, after truly believing he'd got there mere seconds too late to save him; not far enough to think about options and treatments – and what Mark's chances really were.

But it was far enough for trepidation to start flapping butterfly wings in his stomach.

It wasn't about Mark; wasn't about any fear of failure.

But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Steve would be camped out at his dad's bedside – and he didn't have a clue as to what he might say to Steve. Or how he would be received.

Their telephone conversation had been stilted, awkward and – most importantly – interrupted. Jesse could understand the angry words. They were fully justifiable, given the circumstances. But he couldn't understand how Steve had, ultimately, exploded into violence.

And he couldn't understand how much he was to blame for it.

So his heart began to pound and his gut began to crawl – and he felt saliva flood into his mouth, which still managed to somehow feel too dry.

But his steps never faltered – not even when Amanda's hand quested against, and then clutched, his fingers. He responded with a reassuring squeeze – and tried to inject confidence into the smile he offered her.

Then the door loomed large in his vision and his smile faded, even as his hand fell free of hers.

Confidence fled and he realised it wasn't just Steve he feared seeing again. He remembered how he'd last seen Mark: looking in at him through the window of a Recovery Room; despairing over how grey and old and sick he looked.

Jesse didn't want to open that door and see Mark looking even worse.

Amanda took the decision away from him. Offering a small smile – and with hope in her eyes – she reached for the door handle.

Jesse twitched a nervous smile back at her even as he realised – with terror starting to pulse through his veins – he wasn't at all ready for this. His confidence was misplaced: born of a friend at his side and his now surreal-feeling experience with Millie Logan. He wasn't ready for potential conflict or confrontation; wasn't prepared to face the monumental responsibility of taking over Mark's care; of saving his life.

But, in the next second, it didn't matter what he was feeling. And it was too late to shy away.

Amanda opened the door and Jesse, almost involuntarily, stepped into the room. He saw Steve turn his head – and then, with an almost double-take, shoot to his feet.

It took everything Jesse had not to take a step back.

But then Steve looked at him and his eyes were desperate, pleading. And he said just two words:

"Jesse, please."


Jesse could only stare at Steve. Maybe he was expecting an apology or an explanation. Maybe he was still expecting some sort of atonement.

And maybe Steve was expecting something from him in return.

There was so much that needed to be said, by both of them, but now was not the time for either of them to say it.

He nodded at Steve, offered him a small smile – and then, without waiting to see how his greeting was received, he scooped Mark's chart from the foot of his bed.

His brow furrowed as he read the notations; but the frown wasn't brought about by any mistakes that had been made. It was because Mark's treatment had followed almost the exact same course he would have taken.

And it clearly hadn't worked.

He looked at the doses and levels of antibiotics; looked at the samples taken and the tests run – and he saw nothing untoward.

What he did see was the dangerously high temperature which refused to yield; he saw the need for a further operation to find out what had caused the infection; he saw himself trying o explain how dangerous such a procedure would be – and how high Mark's mortality risk would be.

His shoulders sagged and he wondered how he could find the strength to lift his head and turn to face Amanda and Steve.

Seeking to delay that unenviable task, he looked instead at Mark.

Mark Sloan who rollerbladed through the corridors of Community General; who dressed up as a clown and made teddy bear pancakes; who saved lives and solved murders; who defied the odds and achieved the impossible seemingly on a daily basis.

Mark had previously saved Jesse's career, his sanity and his very life – and now Jesse was floundering to find any way to reciprocate.

His eyes fell to the bandages around his chest – behind which the infection raged; unaffected by antibiotics and taking a devastating toll on his very life. The dressings were white and perfect and gave no clue as to the potential death they concealed.

His eyes narrowed and his heart began to race. The memory of Mark in Recovery was imprinted into his brain and...

His arm was definitely different: re-bandaged, he knew, because his had been the hands to apply the original dressing; his pallor was different: no longer merely pale, but with an unhealthy flush painting rouge on his cheekbones; his hair was different: pushed up and unruly, when a fresh bandage had been applied with less than perfect care.

But the chest wound looked the same.

Jesse's eyes narrowed further. There was the same curl of bandage underneath his right armpit, the same fray just below his breastbone. The crisscrossed dressing swathed exactly as it did in his mind's eye.

Just to be sure, he picked up the chart again – but it did little to enlighten him. Drugs and treatments were listed, but something as routine as changing a dressing wasn't worthy of a notation.

Instead, he looked to Amanda for enlightenment.

"Did Kirk check the wound?" he asked; almost feeling foolish for asking it. Surely the site of the infection would be the first check made. But his eyes and his memory were telling him otherwise.

"No." Amanda answered instantly and emphatically. "Kirk didn't want to risk exposing the wound to further possible contamination. The dressing looked clean and he saw no need to risk further trauma to the wound."

Jesse nodded, somewhat distractedly. The explanation made perfect sense – and the reasons were even justifiable; but they were also, potentially, a dangerous mistake. Maybe it would have been Kirk's next move – but maybe the other doctor was still feeling insecure and so was second-guessing himself. It was somewhat understandable; but his indecision had the potential for deadly consequences.

And, most importantly, maybe they had delayed too long already.

"Amanda, we need gloves and masks," he said, recognising the risks Kirk had identified. "And Steve..." He glanced back over his shoulder – and the words that the detective needed to leave died on his lips. He had never seen his friend looking so terrified and helpless. He didn't have the heart to try and make him wait outside: "Steve, you'll need a mask and a gown. And you'll need to stay out of the way."

Supplies were on hand within minutes and Jesse didn't even wait to see if everyone else was kitted up properly. He needed to do this quickly – whilst he still had control of the trembling that had so recently besieged his hands.

"Scissors," he ordered tersely and a split-second later, their weight was in his palm. He cut assuredly through the dressings and then carefully eased the bandages away.

"God," he hissed.


Steve watched the latest turn of events with an indescribable sense of horror and incomprehension.

He'd got to his feet when Jesse had entered the room; a million thoughts ricocheting around his head; and a million and one words needing to be said. But only two escaped:

"Jesse, please."

And the next thing he knew, Amanda was pushing his arms through the sleeves of a paper gown and fixing a sterile mask to his face. He was pushed to the back of the room and, when Amanda's slight form threatened to obscure his vision, he shifted constantly from one foot to the other.

Panicked prayers were a consistent litany running through his brain and his own breathing was harsh and shallow as he watched Jesse take a pair of scissors and cut through the bandages swathing his dad's chest.

His palms pressed firmly against the coolness of the wall – but it didn't prevent his heart from pounding and the blood beginning to roar in his ears.

Now he was starting to understand why he wasn't allowed to wait in the room at times such as these. It was too much – too much to see the bandages fall away, exposing the red raw wound; too much to see the intense and focussed activity that followed. It looked like chaos to his untrained eye, but they kept on working in spite of him – and his barely repressed panic.

Steve's eyes locked on Jesse's back and he knew why, on this occasion, he hadn't been forced back out into the corridor. Their eyes had met for the briefest of instances – and what Steve had seen had been impossible to decipher. There had been hope warring with despair; doubt fighting against optimism; purgatory battling with the need for forgiveness.

But he knew, without a doubt, that Jesse simply couldn't turn him away; not after everything they had gone through.

It was one more thing he owed to Jesse: his business partner, his best friend... The man he'd treated unforgivably and had yet still returned to try and save his dad's life.

Some of those million and one words suddenly sprung to the forefront of Steve's mind:

He tried to speak from the heart, knowing that no apology could ever be enough: "Jesse, you can't possibly know..."

The last thing he expected was a tight and dismissive response of: "Not now, Steve!"

It spoke volumes of the seriousness of his dad's condition, because Jesse never even turned his head when he spoke.

Steve collapsed back against the wall and tried to calm the pounding of his heart.

"I'm sorry. I was out of line. I was scared. No, I was terrified. I lashed out. I was wrong. I thought he was going to die."

The words were all there, but now was not the time to say them. Jesse had made that abundantly clear – even as he battled again to save his dad's life. Of course Jesse was right and his timing was all wrong – but he was almost desperate to make some sort of amends.

Especially now because, in spite of everything, Jesse had come through for them. He was there, where he was needed and – more importantly – when he was needed.

And Steve still hadn't found the way to apologise – or to say thank you. But, for now, the words had to remain locked in his throat threatening to choke him as the feverish work continued around his dad's bed.

And he was left only with his own fears which held a paralysing grip around his heart – and he almost, almost, wished he'd been made to wait outside.

TBC