Warning: Some mild language and violence. Rated T.

A/N: As promised Q&A from your reviews! Thank you for taking the time to review and think of what you might like to see.

MG – So far you have Owen, Meredith, Jackson, and Lexie from the hospital. As of right now…one other female doctor will make an appearance. Maybe more in the future. As far as couples…there will be 2 outside of Mark and Lexie but I don't want to give it away just yet…you will see in next few chapters. I will give you a hint that if you have read my previous stories…I tend to stick with the couples I've always liked together ;)

Bookworm6879 – Good question. I never tend to know. Part of it is how much you all love it and want me to keep going, and partly if I feel from a creative standpoint, it's not dragging on without a real purpose to keep going. I can tell you right now, I am planning double digits. Whether I will get to ABY count…remains to be seen. You all get to help decide that.

Thanks for the feedback! :)

Chapter 3

Mark

In the scheme of things, his plan had seemed like a good one in his head. In fact, it still was a good one, even if he had to take hit after hit like he was getting now.

Sergei was nothing if not predictable. Mark had figured out the young Russian's game plan and love for theatrics as if he was a profiler himself. Sergei wouldn't be stupid enough to take him back within his own organization, giving any evidence that this beating was taking place right under his roof. At least he wasn't that much of an idiot.

Sergei wasted no time in having his wrists bound with rope, using a fish hook to hoist him in the air as if he was a butcher getting ready to take apart a cow or a pig. All of the dramatics of stripping him down—to confirm no wire—and moving him to the SUV, only to go on the opposite side of the warehouse compound to begin his torturing process.

In a life of illegal crime, there were always two things that were certain: torture and death. Something, Mark had mentally prepared for from a young age. Losing a mother as horrifying as he did, showed him that nothing—even physical—could ever bring him more pain than that alone. When it came to pain, it would be mind over matter. Wasn't that what they trained spies and military men as they prepared for war for?

He grunted, gritting his teeth, as Sergei delivered another blow right on his back side. That was a direct hit to his kidney's pulling him out of his attempt to mentally shut down.

Sergei stepped back, taking a white towel that now had more red stains on it since the beating began, and again wiped at his knuckles. More of his theatrics. "I must say, Mark—can I call you Mark," he said sarcastically, his lack of respect making him angrier then the beating itself, "I expected you to beg me to stop at this point."

Mark met his gaze head on, turning his head to spit his own blood from his mouth to the concreate floor. He knew the act would only ensure him more pain, but weakness was not an option he would ever consider or give to a man like Sergei Anatoly.

"As I said before, no respect or understanding of how things work," Mark replied, his words coming out pained no matter how hard he tried to steady his voice.

He did a mental checklist of his current injuries. His ribs were severely bruised—on the verge of being broken in some places—the last shot to his kidney's causing a pain up his back, his right eye now swollen shut. There was a gash just above his left eyebrow dripping blood down the side of his face, neck, and chest, and he tasted blood from both the split lip he had just been given, as well as the fact that he was sure he might start experiencing internal bleeding with how many hits he had taken to his abdomen.

Mark knew that Sergei and his second in command—Dimitri—were slightly holding back on their punches. Partly, so the party of his torturing wasn't over too quickly, and partly so Sergei could boast about what he planned on doing with his organizations and rackets once he assumed the leadership role over them.

This is where the cockiness and youngness of the Russian would be his downfall. The need to stroke his own ego instead of worrying about covering his tracks and following through on his plan—would end up getting him killed. Mark had respected Yuri Anatoly, and had the man still been alive he might have afforded a sliver of leniency, but now his son would end up on a plane home in the luggage compartment.

Sergei's men lowered the hook holding him bound up, low enough so that Sergei could now take a fistful of his hair. "There's a new way of leadership now," he hissed, Sergei's hand coming down with full force against his cheek and head.

He gritted his teeth to keep from making any sound, his head staying in place as Sergei maintained his hold, landing a couple more blows before he finally let go of his hair. His head fell forward, his chin dipping to his chest, as he spit out another mouthful of blood.

He was starting to see spots in the back of his eyes. Derek and his men would have already made it to the docks by now, found his clothes and tracking device. He just had to hope that he could stay holding on a little longer until Derek could find his breadcrumbs and locate his whereabouts.

If the unthinkable were to happen—his death starting to become more and more imminent—at least his organization would have everything they need to take care of Sergei, and Derek would take over. In some ways, Derek Shepherd would be a better leader of his men then him. He could die knowing that his work would continue on and be in good hands.

"You…you w—ill never be a leader," Mark panted out, straining against the pain radiating all throughout his body.

"Are those your last words?" he asked.

Mark managed to grin through the pain in his split lip. "Fuck you."

The additional blow left him semiconscious. He head still dipped to his chest, but he was aware that the images in his mind now, his childhood with his mother before she had been taken away, the times with Derek, mixing with the physical agony spreading across his body.

His head throbbed, a crippling pounding in the back of his head transmitting from the back to the front. He had taken several blows to the head, that he figured were one too many to not bring forth some sort of trauma.

Then, a white-hot pain surged through his body, exploding behind his eyeballs causing them to snap open when he felt the tip of the blade in his forearm enter, remove, and enter his skin over and over again. The Russian was carving his arm like some sort of art piece. Mark was barely able to make out the jig saw like puzzle he had been creating before the affliction caused him to pass out.

When he came too again, he blinked, his eyes unsteady opening and closing in and out of consciousness. "Mark, can you hear me?"

He tried to nod, but any sudden movement, made pain course through his body wanting him to pass back out. He also knew that voice. It was his best friend and second in command.

"You're going to be ok, Mark. Help is here," Derek said.

He blinked again his head dipping to the side, seeing half of Sergei's men down on the ground. The last thing he had remembered was the excruciating pain in his arm, and the moment he thought about it, the moment he grimaced, his arm throbbing full force.

He felt more hands around him, a prick of what he assumed was a needle in is good arm, as he heard question after question herald at him from voices he did not recognize.

"Mr. Sloan, are you allergic to anything?" one paramedic asked.

"Mr. Sloan, I need you to stay with me," the other paramedic said.

He tuned them out, his glance alternating between his friend and the area around him. He had obviously been unconscious when Derek and his men had arrived. Something Derek would have to fill him in on later, once he received the necessary medical treatment.

"Mr. Sloan, I am going to give you a little morphine now to help with the pain," the male paramedic said.

He didn't care what they did at this point, he just wanted to go back to the memories of his childhood with his mother and Derek. To a time when none of this had to exist and he could be a different man—a boy that had dreams that were different then the life he was leading now.

It was fitting as his injuries were being tended too, his body loaded onto a stretcher and pushed into an ambulance, that right before his mother had died—a month after his fifth birthday—she had bought him a play surgery kit for his birthday. She had asked what he had wanted to be when he grew up, and it was a toss up between a cop or a doctor.

When she had gotten him the pretend surgery kit that came with a medical headband, lab coat, stethoscope, plastic needle, medicine, chart of the human body and more…that he could have led a very different life then the one he was leading now. It wasn't lost on him that both professions he had wanted at the time were about helping or saving people…and how very different his life was now.

The morphine had kicked in, the agonizing pain turned more into a dull ache. The pressure to the head was hard to ignore, making it difficult to even attempt to close his eyes. Every time he did, he felt like there was someone taking residence there with a nail and a hammer and just incessantly pounding away every couple of seconds.

The ambulance finally came to a stop, Derek's hand still on his shoulder offering his words of comfort and promises that vengeance would be had. He tried to open his mouth, knowing that his best friend was no doubt beating himself up internally for not getting there quicker than he had.

Mark knew that Derek was the smartest man he had ever met, and that whenever he had gotten there, was putting the clues together at his absolute best. Mark just needed to live now, so he could ease the guilt his friend was feeling, and assure him later that he had nothing to be sorry for. It was him that had left Derek and even the men he trusted on his team in the dark about his plan. He just hoped that when he survived—if he did—and his plan worked perfectly as he intended it too…they would all understand why he had done what he had done.

And then his life changed forever as he knew it.

Derek now became the second smartest person he had ever known.

She was now the first.

When he opened his eyes again, this time he fought against the drugs, the pain, the injuries…just to see her again. Her warm chestnut brown hair that he knew even from being tied back into a knot behind her head, it was long and probably fell past her shoulders—just the way he liked it. Her eyes were just as pleasant that same brown—reminding him of decadent chocolate. Who didn't like chocolate? He sure as hell did. Even if he didn't, even if he were allergic, he would learn to love it because of her.

It was her voice that captured him from the start. It was sweet like honey, holding a note of confidence and vulnerability mixed into one. In was strange how such a placid moment in his life could stir up such an emotional response that he had never experienced before. It was as if she had easily just broken through all of carefully placed barriers for the last thirty years in the matter of seconds.

Who was this intoxicating female?

Even though it hurt like hell to force his head so he could be looking at her instead of his second in command, he was rewarded with the opportunity in the midst of the craziness to take in her small feminine features. Her small nose, oval face shape, perfect teeth, and even though she wasn't smiling, he was sure she had the best smile he would ever meet.

She was starring at him intently. He could only imagine what she must be thinking knowing most of his face was bloodied and swollen after the many hits he had taken to the face. She wasn't exactly meeting him on his best day.

Mark wasn't unaware of his extremely good looks, and his ability to attract the opposite sex. Those that actually knew him and what he did for a living, thought of him as the thing he truly was: a monster. How could you be anything else when you were a mobster for a living. It was dealing with illegal activity, and doing the unthinkable when the time called for it.

Even with all of that out in the open, he was the bad boy that woman still wanted to have. It didn't help matters that he was damn good in the sheets. He never left a woman who wasn't completely satisfied. Most times they were coming back and begging him for more, but he would never see a woman more than five times before he had to cut them loose.

No personal attachments.

The woman could hate him as they did. Think he was a selfish and a rotten bastard. Call him the monster he was even though they most likely went home and used him as their personal vision when they no doubt used their toy or even their hand to bring themselves back to pleasure when he no longer was willing to do so. They thought he was just doing it because he was a bastard, but he was doing it to also protect them from his world. Maybe he tried to convince himself that protecting them was all it was…but maybe it was a mixture of both.

One look at the doctor in front of him, and he was completely transfixed. He suddenly wanted to beat the ever-living crap out of Sergei Anatoly for what he must look like in having to meet this beauty of a creature for the first time looking like he was.

"Doctor?" that male paramedic—he thought his name was Matthew—said, breaking the trance between him and her.

She blinked, taking what he assumed was his chart from Matthew. "Sir, can you tell me your name?" she asked.

He was right that her voice was like honey. It was the only calming thing right now in his throbbing head. "Mark Sloan," he answered.

"Well, Mr. Sloan, I am going to take good care of you," she replied. She turned back to the paramedic, "Let's get him inside."

The paramedics were the ones to lead the charge in pushing his gurney inside, while she stayed at his side, her eyes roaming him up and down, her fingers grazing against his good arm as she kept her hands on the side of his bed. She kept doing this thing where she would bite her lip, and even through his anguish, it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

He also had time to appreciate her legs in spite of her baggy navy-blue scrubs. He only caught small glimpses due to the white lab coat that kept hiding her exceptional body. I want to tear that damn coat from her body. He felt his jaw hardening at the intensity of that thought, only making him strain against the pain to his face.

The movements came to a stop, as a flurry of medical staff started moving all around him. He still caught Derek standing in the background of the room, and he thought he had already seen the damn feds had taken the opportunity to swarm the hospital like bees to honey.

That thought alone sobered him. Sobered him to remembering that whatever thoughts he was having for the immensely attractive doctor, that she too would look at him with the disgust he knew she would feel, when she found out who he was and what he did for a living. For now, in this moment, he wanted it to last a little longer—even through the pain—for the innocence, before the truth would slam into him, bringing him back to the reality of the way the world had to be.

His doctor moved with grace, as she tended to him, barking out orders to the rest of the medical staff. She was definitely the doctor in charge, and damnit if that didn't turn him on even more. What was happening to him? Another man entered the room, his voice not very pleasant as he started yapping questions out left and right.

Doctor graceful, finally gave a rundown of his injuries. "Multiple contusions to the face and body," she said. "He's got a brain bleed that I need to get him up to surgery right now," she informed.

Doctor—wannabe badass—was less tactful reminding everyone in the room exactly what he had endured this evening. He had been tortured again and again—for how long he didn't know. He had guessed that he had at least endured a straight hour before he would then go in and out of consciousness when the new round of heightened torture would begin.

Derek put wannabe in place, before he then turned his attention to wanting to know why there was such a large audience for his arrival. Because I'm scary.

Mark wondered in the moment at how easily both doctor graceful and doctor wannabe worked together if they were an item. He moved his head again to get a better look at both of their hands, making the waves of sharp pain worth it when neither of them had been sporting rings.

Doctor wannabe demanded that everyone clear the room, only the feds being the ones to leave. They wouldn't be able to see his grin under the dried blood and split lip, but even doctor wannabe—or now Dr. Avery as he just learned—couldn't get his friend to budge from his spot.

Doctor graceful took swift action of the situation—making his heart beat that much faster for her—insisting that she had to get him to surgery. Boy, was he glad these paramedics took him to whatever hospital they had taken him too, so he could set his sights on her?

His gurney was moving again, his eyes constantly looking for doctor graceful as they moved. He was Mark "The Protector" Sloan, so wanting to protect those he cared about was kind of his thing—but the sudden urge to want to keep her around him at all times was a funny and a strange new sensation.

He almost protested and groaned when he was moved through a double set of doors, watching as doctor graceful stopped and turned back to his brother. He saw her hand extend up to Derek—no doubt stopping him from following—before he could not longer keep any of them in sight.

He was brought into what he figured was the operating room, nurses moving all around him, quickly shifting his body from the gurney to the operating table. The pain was getting worse in his head, and he felt his eyes starting to get heavy.

There was a man in similar pair of navy-blue scrubs stand above his head, coming at his mouth with what he figured was the gas to put him unconscious. Mark knew his injuries were bad, and he wasn't sure if when he closed his eyes, this could be the last time he ever did. If that were the case, he wanted doctor graceful to be the last thing he ever saw.

He turned his head, fighting against the man from trying to put the mask to his face. "Sir, I need you to stay still. Just relax for us, we got you," the man reassured.

He growled—or did his best to attempt a growl, but now another nurse was coming to the anesthesiologist's aid to help hold his head. His mouth opened to fight against it and utter something, the words on the tip of his tongue, but nothing come out.

Then…then doctor graceful was there. Her hand was on his shoulder, her chocolatey eyes holding his gaze. He didn't fight the man or the nurse any longer as the mask came down over his mouth, sucking in gulps of the gas.

Her lips curved upwards into a reassuring smile. "You're going to be just fine," she said. "I'm going to take good care of you," her words a promise.

He lifted his hand, trying to fight through the fog, it feeling like his hand weighed hundreds of pounds. Her eyes immediately saw what he was trying to do.

"Remove the mask," she said, looking at the man above him.

He felt the cold gas leave his mouth, everything spinning all around him. He had taken enough in to know he only had seconds before he would fade into nothingness.

"What is it?" she asked, obviously seeing the urgency he assumed was in his gaze.

"Y—your n—ame," he slurred.

She smiled. "I'm Dr. Lexie Grey."

His eyes closed, and he faded into nothingness.

The drugs they must've given him were good. At first, he was floating into a void of nothingness. It wasn't a bad place to be, if you wanted to be alone with your thoughts. It was odd…it was as if he was in space, just floating as he looked at his arms and legs drifting. His conscious was still connected with his body, but yet if they were already cutting into him and starting surgery, he hadn't felt anything.

He could hear muffled distant voices, almost what he pictured what it would sound like for a baby to be inside it's mother's womb as it listened to the conversations on the outside. Then, he started to get more and more drowsy, the heaviness of darkness starting to pull at him.

He wanted to fight against the darkness, he had to be in control. Mark Sloan always had to be in control. Knowing every moment, and everything that was going on around him. He couldn't take a break or a night off from what he did. If he did, things would slip and he could lose everything. It was the pitfalls of being the big, bad, boss.

What, if here, he didn't have too. What if…for one moment, his life could be different? He had picked the career he had wanted when he was five years old. That was the last thought, before the blackness rolled over him in waves, taking all his thoughts along with him.

Mark's eyes opened groggily, his arm reaching out to stop the incessant sounding of the alarm. He must've smacked the hard surface to his left four or five times before he finally reached his mark and stopped the beeping.

He turned onto his back, his forearm coming to cover his eyes, just as the sunlight from the window peeked in. He yawned, not sure why he was feeling so tired. He didn't even remember going to bed last night. Had he been drinking and passed out? It felt as if he had just laid down, closed his eyes, and the damn alarm was now waking him up.

His hands rubbed at his face and eyes, until he was sure he was awake enough to get moving. He rose to a sitting position, his forehead scrunching together as he took in the bedroom.

This isn't my bedroom.

He threw the covers off his legs, not even remembering going to bed in the black pair of silk boxers from last night. Nothing about the room was his. He didn't live in this smaller modern industrial like apartment. He lived in a much bigger mansion…not this small place.

He went through the opened door in his bedroom, seeing the massive bathroom, with large walk-in shower. It was nice, but not as nice as the eight bathrooms in his mansion. Where the hell was he?

His thoughts were momentarily interrupted, when another beeping sound came from the room he had just left. He turned on heel and went back into the room, seeing a small black phone on his nightstand buzzing around on the surface.

He picked up the phone and flipped it open. What the heck was he doing with an outdated flip phone like this. "Hello?"

"Dr. Sloan," a male's voice answered.

"I'm sorry, who?" he asked.

The man laughed. Mark squinted his eyes, as he turned to look in the mirror in the room. Dr. Sloan?

"How much did you drink last night?" the male asked.

Somewhere deep in this subconscious, Mark recognized the voice on the other end, but he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint how. The more he tried to call to the memory, the more it was pulling away from him.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Wow…I knew I should not have left you at the bar. Mark, it's Jackson Avery. Your resident. You need to get here now. We have incoming trauma's and quite a few coming in are plastics related. Chief Webber needs you here. Now."

What the hell is going on…

"Mark!"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, Jackson's voice gritting on his nerves. "I'll be there in a few."

He ended the call. The name, Jackson Avery…he recognized that name. He had met a Jackson before. Hadn't he? This Jackson fellow seemed to need him in a rush, and even though everything was fuzzy and he couldn't understand what the heck was going on…the only way he was going to find out was getting to this hospital. Which one did he work at?

He showered and dressed quickly. One thing he did know about the Mark Sloan in this life, was that he had just as impeccable and expensive taste as he did back in his real life. Had what some scientists said about other dimensions being true? Had he somehow stepped out of the dimension that he was in and somehow step into this one?

He did a quick search engine with his name as Dr. Mark Sloan, finding his profile pull up at a hospital here named Seattle Grace. He was the Chief of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace. Why hadn't even remembered ever going to medical school, or being here at Seattle Grace? According to his profile, his accolades and cited accomplishments of cases were extensive and impressive, yet he didn't remember any of it.

When he got to the hospital, it was odd to him that even though he still didn't seem to recall anything, his own body moved on autopilot as if he was the Mark Sloan from this dimension knowing exactly where to go and do. He ended up in the attending locker room, changing into a clean neatly pair of folded navy-blue scrubs that were set out on the cube with his name on it.

Something about the navy-blue material had sparked a recognition in him that hadn't happened all morning. He had been in hospitals before, seen many doctors and even nurses, but something about this rich navy color left him with a warm sensation all throughout his body.

The sound of the door behind him let him know he was no longer alone. "Nice of you to show up," a familiar voice said.

Mark's eyes went wide, his hands tightening on the cotton material in his hands. "Derek?"

Derek arched a brow at him, shaking his head. "You know, when Jackson asked me to come check on you…that he said you seemed a little off, I told him he was overreacting. That you didn't seem to know him." Derek let his hip hold the door open, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "But now you seem to be looking at me like you don't even know who I am."

"You're Derek Shepherd. We're best friends. Brothers," he supplied.

"Ok, so maybe you weren't as drunk as Jackson claims to think you were. You, ok?" Derek asked, concern noted in his voice.

"I'm a doctor," Mark replied as a statement.

Derek snorted. "Yes, you are. A damn good plastics doctor. I mean, that would be why you are in a hospital, and holding a pair of scrubs."

"And you're a doctor?"

Derek's brows furrowed together, that concern deepening. "Yes. I am the Chief of Neurosurgery. Are you sure you are, ok?" he asked.

"Neurosurgery?"

"Ok, I clearly don't have time for this. We have fifteen in coming trauma patients. All hands are needed on deck. You are going to at least have five burn patients. Whatever is going on with you…table it. Get some damn coffee, finish getting dressed and meet us out there," he said, in that demand that sounded just like what he figured a father would sound like.

Mark cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, sorry, be there in a sec."

Derek studied him for another minute, before shaking his head and then turning to leave the room. Mark quickly changed out of his clothes he had dressed in, and into those comfortable navy-blue scrubs. He located the white lab coat with his name, Mark Sloan, M.D. F.A.C.S. ENT listed on the right lapel of his coat and slipped it on over his shoulders.

Just like he did with getting to the locker room, his body moved as if from memory, taking him directly towards the path to which he knew was the ER wing.

Before he could reach the destination, he stopped as if he had just walked into an invisible forcefield. His breath caught in his throat. Two other doctors were walking towards him, and he instantly recognized the two. The one on the left was a darker male complexion with green eyes. That he knew to be Jackson Avery. It was as if five years of memories just hit him in a wave looking at the man.

To his right, was the most beautiful feminine woman he had ever seen. Even in the light blue scrubs, with her hair down to her shoulders, part of her hair clipped back to keep out of her face, her brown eyes flashed with recognition as she looked at him. There was a purpose set to those eyes, and he was mesmerized with every step she had taken bringing her closer to him.

Her skin was a milky white, almost like the princess he recalled from a movie long ago when he was a kid. Something about falling into a sleep before her prince woke her up with a kiss. He could tell she was someone that spent more time indoors that outside.

His eyes moved down to her lips, and he had to fight to keep his hands at his side. He wished he had something to busy himself to keep from wanting to reach out—some of the reddest, luscious, and kissable pair of lips he had ever seen. She licked her lips as they closed the distance, and he thought it was the most sexual thing he had ever seen. And he had seen plenty of sexual things in his lifetime. He had bedded many of woman with many of different tastes, and none of them compared to what the small act she had just done—did to him downstairs.

As he took in the rest of her appearance—that wasn't meant to be flattering with these scrubs—she could very well be a damn princess. She was magnificent, beautiful—she was damn near perfect. Unlike the doctor to her right, when he gazed at her, no memories came to him. Nothing. Not a damn thing. He cursed.

Was there a magic phrase he had to utter to get the memories of her to come to his forefront. Her demeanor, the recognition on her face told him that she very much knew who he was…but yet even though her face seemed familiar, he didn't know a single thing about her.

When Jackson and mystery magnificent princess stood right in front of him, he didn't care if he didn't remember a single thing about her…he wanted to know everything about her—right now.

"Dr. Sloan, I am on your service today as well," she informed.

"Uh, mph?"

He wanted to put a bullet though his head. Uh, mph. That was the best he could do? He sounded like a damn teenager who was just about to have his first freaking wet dream.

"Oh no. You aren't hung over, are you?" Jackson whispered harshly. "Derek said you were just fine."

Mark regretfully looked away from his beautiful princess to Jackson who was very much getting on his last nerve. They were both dressed in light blue scrubs, which if his memory served him right—he was their boss. He didn't do well with anyone talking to him in that way.

"How about you focus more on our incoming patients and stop worrying about me," he snapped.

Jackson flinched back, and he realized his words and tone had been too aggressive. Apparently, his time as a mobster issuing orders and demands wasn't appreciated in this setting. Jackson looked at him like he was a mentor and a friend, and he had just apparently wounded him.

The beautiful princess next to him frowned, looking over at Jackson with sympathy. Ah, hell, now he just looked like a freaking monster right in front of her. Only one minute and he already probably ruined his chances.

He was distracted again. He couldn't focus on anything but those lips of hers. They were pulling him in again, and suddenly, it wasn't just the lips it was all of her. He wanted to not only feel those lips on him, but he wanted to feel what it would be like with her pliant and willing body underneath him as well. He had to stifle the groan inside.

She cleared her throat. "We have five incoming trauma patients that will need your attention," she said, attempting to get the situation back on track. "All of them have various stages of burns, and some had serious wounds that might need to be looked at."

He attempted to soften his voice when he asked, "What happened?"

He turned his gaze to her, her lips opening, her bottom lip hesitating for a second as if she was either one of two things: one: extremely intimidated by him, or two: extremely turned on by his presence. He was hoping for himself; it was the latter.

"A stage collapsed at an indie concert," she answered. These were the fans in the first two rows. Everyone else managed to get off before it fully collapsed."

He did a quick glimpse of her face again before, he looked down to her lab coat to catch her name. He scrunched up his face reading the name. He knew that name. "Thank you, Dr. Grey," he replied, letting her name linger there.

For the next several hours, Jackson, Lexie, and him worked hand in hand. Outside of his rocky start with Jackson at their first meeting, they had all worked well together. Once everyone had been cared for, and orders had been given, he managed to finagle so that the last patient he was working on with was just he and Lexie.

He had worried that at first, he wouldn't know what the hell he was doing, but his hands just moved and his mind just spit out what needed to be done without even needing to be prompted.

"You did great work today, Dr. Grey," he said, treating the last and worst of the burns.

They were just working on laying strips over the burned skin, he taking up the left side of their patient who they had given enough morphine to take down a horse, while she worked on the opposite side.

She smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Sloan."

He should be focusing on the patient and what his hands were doing, but for some reason he couldn't stop looking at her. Wanting to freeze every moment like a picture, because deep in his subconscious he knew this was not his life, and he wondered when he would be forced to leave.

He didn't want to leave. He liked who he was here, and he liked her being here. Her being someone that he could get to know and not have to worry about anything going wrong, or being in any kind of danger. Here, he saved lives and had a profession that anyone could be proud of him for having.

She down casted here eyes after a few seconds, a light pink flush creeping to her cheeks. She seemed to be nervous around him, and he thought it was cute. She was everything that was warm and soft, contrasting to his coldness and hardness.

"Can I speak freely?" she asked, looking at the last strip she just placed.

"That's an order," he replied, his tone a mixture of teasing and playfulness.

"I actually didn't know what to expect when I was assigned to your service today," she admitted. "The interns all say that normally you are grouchy and never want to teach anything, only just ordering them to get you coffee and take your insults."

He grimaced. Apparently, in this world he wasn't much better than where he'd come from. "And now?"

He shouldn't care about what anyone thought of him, even in this world, but suddenly whatever her next words would be…he didn't want them to seal the door shut, that someone as beautiful and graceful as her wouldn't give a monster like him a chance.

"My mother always told me not to judge a book by it's cover, Dr. Sloan. So, I'm glad I didn't listen to the other interns," she said, placing another bandage over their patient.

She was the epitome of perfection. God, she was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. Everything about her just made him ache both in good and bad ways. It unnerved him that was the case. He was a man of control. Pure un-tempted control.

His voice turned rough and raspy. "Me too, Little Grey."

She grinned arching her brow. "Little Grey?"

He leaned forward, with his height almost stretching completely over the burn victim and near her face. "You're dangerous, Little Grey. Dangerous and perfect all wrapped into one."

Her eyes widen, and he could see the rise and fall of her chest coming quicker. She licked her lips again, and he was damn close to losing his control and grabbing a hold of her scrub top and taking what he had wanted ever since he had first laid eyes on her.

He was freaking spellbound. It was the only way to put it. Everything she did had him wanting more from her.

She opened her mouth to say something…but he didn't hear anything. Seconds later…it all started to fade away the only thing left was the echoing of his "no" that reverberated around him.

He was back in the darkness.

A/N: Don't forget - Q&A opportunity with reviews.