Awareness comes in fleeting intervals that only last a few seconds at a time, but to Elizabeth those moments stretch out endlessly with no respite in sight. Lights flicker and dance beneath her eyelids, which are heavy and even when she tries to open them, they stay closed. She feels like she is pinned down, a leaden weight on her chest and her limbs don't obey her instructions.

She can hear voices at times, but they are muffled, they sound as if she's underwater and she's unsure who any of them belong to. She hears other noises, odd beeps, a rushing noise that echoes insistently in her ears. At other times she is aware of touch, she can feel someone holding her hand, touching her face. At one point she felt herself lurch sideways and her stomach gave a sickening twist, as hands gripped her shoulder and hip, until just as quickly as it happened, she felt herself back on her back again.

Her lungs feel tight, she can breathe but it's like someone else is controlling her and she hears the smallest click whenever she inhales before a rush of air forces it's way in, her chest burning at the effort of expanding with it. It's not her breathing; not really, it can't be because this isn't natural.

Then there is the pain, mostly low and insistent, but at times sharp and unyielding, as if someone has wrapped her in barbed wire. Then she'll hear another click and whir and the pain will fade but her awareness goes with it for a time.

She has flashes to Iraq, to the weight of Fred pinning her to the floor, the smoke and debris whirling in the air and burning in her lungs, and there are moments where she thinks she might be back there. She had thought she'd left, but her other memories seem blurred and she can't place them in time, so maybe she's always been here; trapped.

The touch at her hand is at times is almost comforting, but it's not enough and when her awareness slips away it's almost a blessedly relief.

The ward is busy now, the sun streams in through the large square windows and the buzzing of the harsh fluorescent lighting is gone. Outside Elizabeth's room is awash with noise, the chatter of staff as they move between beds, the clunk of the linen trollies wheels when they're pushed up and down the ward and the sharp ringing of the ward phone are now layered on top of the beeps from multiple machines.

Her security has changed over, Henry could hear their low mumbles as they completed their handover in muted tones and he even managed a small smile and a wave when the night shift ducked their head in to say goodbye. Normally he takes the chance to get to know their security, he had always wanted them to feel welcome, but he's now so tired that they're just an endless parade of black suits and sombre expressions and he's not sure he can tell one from the other.

His coffee cup is abandoned next to him on Elizabeth's patient locker. The paper napkin that encased his bagel and breakfast pastry is scrunched up next to it, a light scattering of crumbs catching the light. Elizabeth's new nurse is eyeing it as she scrubs at the bedside table with a detergent wipe, the strong artificial soapy smell burning Henry's nostrils. She hesitates for a moment before she asks, "Is it ok if I throw that out? Only if you're done of course."

He scrambles to his feet. "Sorry, I'll get it," he tells her. In his haste to gather it all up, he knocks the cup over, and it clatters against the wooden surface. He can't supress the sigh of irritation, not at her, but at himself. Even simple tasks seem to be beyond his capability at the moment.

She offers a reassuring smile as she bustles around the bed, taking the rubbish from him as she tells him, "Don't worry about it, I just like to give everything a tidy up throughout the day, it's easier to clean as you go." She bins the items and wipes across the locker, catching the crumbs in her outstretched hand.

Henry watches her throw the wipe and the crumbs in the bin before she washes her hands. She pulls Elizabeth's bedsheet straight, the small creases disappearing with the movement. He drops back into his seat, checks the clock again, as he has done every few minutes, watching the hands creep towards nine-am. He feels nervous, jittery, like he's about to go into an exam that he didn't study for. "Do you think the ward round will be here soon?"

She gives a nod as she organises the paperwork, laying it neatly out across her table. "They should be starting soon, and they normally review the patients who they're considering extubating first, so you shouldn't need to wait long."

He gives a nod, his eyes drifting to the clock again, his lips thinning as it sinks in that Will isn't going to come back. He had hoped that Will would turn up for this, that he would have stalked back in here looking slightly sheepish but pretending as though nothing had happened, that he'd just needed a break. Henry's hand clenched into a fist as he fought against his welling frustration, he couldn't believe that Will could really just walk away from Elizabeth, without so much as a backward glance. As scared as he had been throughout all of this, he had never once considered running. Elizabeth needed him here.

Reaching out he stroked her cheek again and for a brief second he almost thinks he sees a shadow of a frown dancing across her features, but it's gone in a second and he tells himself it's a play of the light. Henry gives a soft sigh, his eyes drifting to all the machines that surround them. He doesn't understand most of this stuff and it would have been helpful to have Will here, at his shoulder, to explain what it all meant, what it really meant for Elizabeth. He swallowed against a lump in his throat as Will's words floated around his brain. She shouldn't have survived the surgery. He had hidden that for hours, no doubt trying to protect them from that truth. It was part of the Will Adams enigma that one moment he was determined to protect his family, whereas the next he could turn and walk away. Run away, Henry corrected himself, the last few hours had shown him that Will couldn't handle what he perceived to be his own failure and if confronted with the possibility of it, he'd run.

Henry's foot tapped against the floor as he pushed his thoughts about Will to one side, he had enough to think about right now. His knee shook as he waited on the doctors, he was afraid of what they would tell him, and he was afraid that what they will tell him will muddle in with the rest of his thoughts. He considers whether he should write it down, then he can look it up later, but then if it's bad news then it's forever there for him in black and white.

He presses down on his knee, trying to stop it from knocking against the bed, the jittering of his leg a mixture of nerves and potentially too much caffeine. He's needed the caffeine to stay awake, to keep his brain functioning through the lack of sleep but combined with the adrenaline of the night's events it's made him shaky, left him struggling to focus. He worries he'll miss something. It would have been helpful to have Will here, he thinks again.

Stevie's expression flashes across his mind, the disappointment and confusion set into her features as she watched her Uncle leave. Then later he'd seen her brow furrow in consternation when she'd come back into Elizabeth's room, the tremor of her fingers before she had furled them into her hands. He was worried for her, she was so like Elizabeth, she would take all of this onto herself, push the stress and the strain down until it burst out of her.

He hoped that she was asleep, that they all were, that they were tucked up in their beds, dreaming of something pleasant that was a million miles away from here, from what felt like a living nightmare. Henry's grip tightened on Elizabeth's hand and he brushed a kiss across her knuckles, praying that the day would bring good news.

Nadine tapped her pen agitatedly against her opposite palm, eyeing the corridor through the large glass wall that enclosed her office as she waited. She didn't wait long, could hear the hurried, irate clomp of his footsteps as he grew closer. It was funny, she mused, how sometimes you could tell exactly who was coming to speak to you based on their footfall.

She quirked her head in an expectant greeting as he flung the door open and it rattled against the opposite wall. "Ah, Russell, there you are."

He looked mildly perturbed that he hadn't caught her off guard and he hesitated for a second in her doorway, before clanging the door shut behind him. "You make it sound as though you were expecting me."

Nadine gave a small smile. "Your secretary mentioned that you had left for the State Department and I admit that I presumed that in the absence of the Secretary, you would find your way to my office."

Russell gave a snort. "If she's giving out warning calls, then I need to have a word with her."

"Not necessary, I phoned looking for you. I wanted…a word," she phrased it carefully, having had a few minutes to quell her irritation at being left in the dark. "And she merely informed me that I wouldn't need to wait long."

As he dropped heavily into the seat opposite her desk, Russel leaned back, his arms thrown outwards, a gesture of impatience as he asked, "Well, what did you want to speak to me about?"

He was trying to look relaxed, but Nadine could see the tense set of his shoulders, the small, thin blue vein standing out in stark relief against his pale forehead, the bob of his Adam's apple. She mimicked his relax pose, crossing her legs as she twirled her pen around her fingers. "I imagine the same thing you came here to harass us about. That disaster of a press conference."

The ghost of a terse but amused smile crossed Russell's lips. "Great minds really do think alike."

"Perhaps, but I'm going to guess that we are going to differ on who's to blame."

"I told your press secretary-"

"Daisy," Nadine reminded him.

"I don't care what her name is," he snapped back. "I care about how she does her job."

"I felt, given the circumstances that she did her job very well."

He ignores her, carrying on with his previous thought. "I told her that I wanted this downplayed, and what I witnessed was her making it look as though the Government, and your department in particular, doesn't have a clue what they were talking about. We looked incompetent and God only knows there's been enough of that the last twenty-four hours."

Nadine's eyes flashed dangerously, and she felt a surge of irritation that she forced herself to swallow back down. "Well, considering that neither Daisy, or myself, had a clue about most of what was thrown at us, I'm not surprised it played out poorly. Although, as I said, I felt Daisy did very well to stay so controlled. She minimised as much as she could."

"I'll admit that playing the Secretary is entitled to her privacy card might have deflected some of it in the conference, but in reality, it's only feeding the fire that she's sicker than we're letting on."

"And is she?"

Russell made an annoyed tsk sound. "She's serious but stable," he repeated.

Nadine rolled her eyes. "Well why don't you conduct a press conference and see how far you get on that remark."

He levelled a finger at her. "It's not my fault that's how the hospital describes her condition."

"People who are stable don't tend to have cardiac arrests." She raised an eyebrow. "Or is that not true?"

At that, he had the grace to look slightly abashed. "We didn't know about it. The update was brief, serious but stable, same as last night, and it was assumed that meant there had been no changes in her condition overnight. Further proof that there's merit in the old saying about assuming anything."

Nadine felt her stomach give a sickening twist at his confirmation. "But she's stable now?"

Russell gave a short nod. "She is, but still sedated and ventilated."

"Have you seen her?"

"No." Russell's eyes flickered away, looking out the window for a few seconds as he replied, "I went to the hospital, spoke to Henry, but I didn't go in to see her. It felt intrusive."

"I tell myself that's why I haven't gone," Nadine admitted. "But I think that might just be a cover, that really I don't want to see her like that." She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. "No-one likes to be reminded just how fleeting life can be, to be confronted with their own mortality." The pen twirls elegantly between her fingers again. She thinks about how less than twenty-four hours ago, Elizabeth had leaned in her doorway, a smile across her face, excited for lunch. She feels winded when she thinks about it, about how quickly the world had tilted on its axis. "So, the more I think about, the more I think that I'm just being cowardly," she concludes. Her gaze meets Russell's. "How is Dr McCord?"

His lips thin. "Hurt, angry, just what you'd expect him to be. We need to manage the press on this."

"Then you need to share information with us," Nadine pointed out. "We can't manage anything if we're flying blind. So is it true, was he a former student?"

"That's part of the investigation," he reminds her. "We can't share that with the press."

"It's not so we can share it, it's so we can prepare for it being thrown at us."

"Anything I tell you has to be limited to a small group, there can't be any leaks because there's a good chance that a lot of it is going to form a case for the prosecution and we can't be seen to trying to sway public opinion."

Nadine frowned. "He was caught red-handed, surely he'll plead guilty."

Russell shook his head. "Got word this morning that he won't plead to first degree attempted murder."

Looking perplexed, Nadine remarked, "Well that seems an odd decision."

"I don't understand his thinking, but our opportunity to convince him to plead is slipping away and all that does is extend this news cycle. This could go on for months."

"And nothing will convince him to plead?"

"The evidence is damning but he won't accept that. There's no other leverage I can use." He chooses not to mention his conversation with Henry McCord, he is tired of running through it in his own head and he sees no benefit to discussing it now. He sighs, he's exhausted already, the thought of another day of this saps him of his energy. It's on days like these he looks forward to retirement. Instead, he squares his shoulders and tells Nadine, "I'll go through what we know, but our plan, our message is the same. There's nothing to see here."

"With respect, I don't think that's going to work."

"Maybe not, but I'm not going to feed this media frenzy. The McCords deserve their privacy, speculation is just that and the press will get tired of it. We give them something and they'll run with it."

Nadine considers his words and then nods. "Ok, but I want the full story."

Jessica Mitchell pulls out her reading glasses in preparation for ward round, pushing them up her nose as she surveys the crowd of interns that are gathering around the nurse's station. She hears the doors to the unit click open and sees Dr Charles Reynolds sweep into the unit, looking slightly harangued. He's late and even though it's only by a few minutes, it isn't like him. She leans against the raised desk, folding her arms across herself as she asks, "Everything alright?"

"Fine, traffic was a goddamn nightmare," he mutters.

"You need a few minutes before we start?"

"No, I have surgery in just over an hour, so I'd like to get this done."

"Ok. Can I suggest we start with Secretary McCord." It is statement of intent rather than a question and Charles merely nods his agreement.

The interns trail them into the room and Jessica can feel the steady gaze of the security detail assessing them as they step into the room. The husband is present, which is unusual for ward round, and he jumps to his feet when they enter, his frame tense, rigid and given the night he's had, Jessica can't say she blames him for looking so wary at their arrival. She steps forward, her hand outstretched. "I'm Dr Jessica Mitchell, lead attending anaesthetist within the unit today."

His handshake is firm, his palms cool. "Henry McCord," he tells her. His gaze flickers to his wife and back again. "What's the plan for today?"

"Well I'm going to have a discussion with my colleague, review the charts from last night and then have a listen to Elizabeth's chest."

She pauses to let Charles chime in, this isn't their first rodeo and they're well practiced in letting the other proffer their opinion. He takes the cue, his smile is warm, easy, a million miles away from the harassed look he wore only a few minutes ago, his professional mask firmly in place. "Dr McCord, I'll review Elizabeth from a surgical angle, whilst Dr Mitchell will consider her ventilation and sedation levels. As this is a teaching hospital, we may ask questions of our interns. Once we have done this then we will be able to discuss any options or decisions with yourself. I understand it may be frustrating to listen to this, but I promise we will keep you updated."

Jessica picks up the ventilator observation chart in one hand, scanning it carefully. The other hand begins to sift through the slips of paper with the blood gas results on them. "Update," she instructs the interns.

One steps forward, clearing their throat nervously. "Secretary McCord is twenty hours post-surgery to repair damage to the right ventricle and left ventricular apex, cardiac tamponade also found and drained. Initial post-operative period uneventful, blood tests showed a low Hb and so two units of blood were transfused, with furosemide being given during the second unit with a good response. Although initially Secretary McCord managed well on minimal supportive settings, these gradually increased, and left lung sounds diminished. Prior to having an investigative chest x-ray, she showed signs of a tension pneumothorax, unsuccessful needle decompression carried out and there was a subsequent cardiac arrest. Finger thoracotomy carried out and spontaneous circulation returned, however there is a fracture to the 6th anterior rib on her right side caused by compressions. Chest drain now in situ in the left side. An hour post-arrest, blood gases were repeated and FiO2 was dropped to 30%, subsequent gases show she's managing well on this. Tidal volumes are good, and all breaths are being triggered spontaneously."

"And the drains?" Charles asks, studying the recording charts for them.

"Minimal output from the mediastinal drain. Both chest drains patent, bubbling and swinging," the nurse, Ruth, supplies.

"Any concerns about the surgical wound?"

"None, dressing was changed this morning, no inflammation and no strike through on the current dressing."

"Good." He glances back at the bed and remarks. "I'm happy for the mediastinal drain to come out, but I think given the volumes and the latest x-ray that both chest drains should stay in."

"I agree," Jessica tell him.

"Opinions on ventilation?" Charles asks her.

She swings the stethoscope from around her neck and steps towards the bed. "Elizabeth, I'm going to listen to your chest, this might feel a bit cold." She listens to the different pitches, assessing them based on where she is at the lungs, before she straightens, slipping her stethoscope out her ears and back down around her neck. "All lung sounds present, left lower is a bit quiet still, but that's to be expected. Chest sounds clear." She walks back to the charts, glancing over them again. "I don't think we should move straight to extubating, given the complications of last night. But given that we have bi-lateral chest drains and a rib fracture, I really don't want her on the ventilator longer than she has to be. I think we do a sedation vacation and if that's successful then we move to a spontaneous breathing trial and all being well we could extubate this afternoon."

"Good." Charles glances at the interns. "Why don't we want prolonged periods of artificial ventilation?"

"It increases the risks of ventilator acquired pneumonia," one chants back.

He nods. Considering the chart one last time before he waves his fingers at them, dismissing them from the room, sending them to wait till they move until the next patient.

Jessica scribbles down her instructions for the day and looks back at the husband. He is surveying them nervously, his arms crossed over himself, his thumb rubbing the corner of his mouth in an agitated movement.

It is Charles who speaks to him first, his tone is calm, reassuring but it does little to soothe his obvious anxiety. "Dr McCord, Elizabeth's progress from last night is encouraging and from a surgical point of view she is doing well."

"So, she can come off the machine? You can wake her up?"

Stepping forward, Jessica tells him. "Your wife is making a significant effort with her breathing and is requiring minimal support, which is encouraging. But the drains in her chest and the broken rib combined with our concerns regarding any…complications from the first arrest mean that we want to tread carefully. Our initial plan was to withdraw both sedation and extubate quickly following this, but I think there's a high chance that could fail."

His foot taps against the floor in an uneven rhythm. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm going to separate out the tasks and assess Elizabeth to ensure that when we come of the ventilator, we won't end up going back on it again. I've left instructions for the nurses to stop Elizabeth's sedation. She will still be sleepy, but if she's calm and responsive following this then we will replace the ventilator with oxygen, allowing Elizabeth the chance to breath by herself and for us to assess how she manages. If she passes that then we will remove the breathing tube. I want to be clear that we still hope to get her off the ventilator today and that doing so is our priority, but it needs to be safe and I feel this is our best option."

He looks exhausted, his mouth gives a nervous twitch as he asks, "What if she doesn't manage breathing on her own?"

"Then we return her to the ventilator but look at keeping her sedation at a reduced level, which would keep her more orientated to her surroundings and we repeat the trial tomorrow."

"So, she might not come off this today?" He gestures at the machine behind him.

Jessica hesitates for a second. "It's not a guarantee," she tells him honestly.

"The younger doctors said something about pneumonia if she's on it for too long, is that a possibility?"

Her eyes meet his. "It is. The injuries she has sustained put her at high risk even if she wasn't on a ventilator. She can't breathe as deeply and she will find clearing her chest painful, but what we know is that because of the artificial airway, the risk of pneumonia gets higher with every day of mechanical ventilation."

His eyes flicker shut for a second, his fist clenches momentarily and Jessica can see he's trying to collect himself. His brown eyes fix back onto hers again. "But this plan, it's likely to work?"

"There are no guarantees, but looking at your wife's charts, I think there's a high chance of success."

He gives a humourless laugh. "You know, just for once I'd like someone to be able to guarantee something."

"I'm sure you would, and I wish I could give you those guarantees, but I'm afraid that's not how medicine works."

"No, I'm beginning to catch onto that." He gives a sigh. "How long until she starts to wake up?"

"She should start to show signs of responsiveness within the first half-hour of us withdrawing sedation. Once the surgical drain has been removed, we'll stop the sedation and review from there."

"Ok." He nods. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

"Not a problem."

She and Charles turn to leave together. As they step out of the room, they both alcohol gel their hands and his voice lowered he asks her, "Chances?"

"I think we have a good shot, she was fit and healthy prior to this, but," she gives a shrug, "you know as well as I do that nothing is a certainty."