OOOPS!!!  I forgot to include 'The Last Resort' in my list of spoilers at the beginning of this story.  The whole solution to the mystery of that episode is summarized in this chapter.  Sorry!

Chapter 8:  More Nightmares

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0800 hours.)

Steve did not so much wake up as drift back into the world.  One moment, he was dozing lightly, aware of the beat of his own heart and the sound of his own breathing, and the next, he was staring at the barren white ceiling, with no recollection of having opened his eyes.  It was as if his eyelids had slowly become transparent, and he might have almost believed that to be the case, except that things went dark when he blinked.

He was resting comfortably, and wearing his favorite soft, blue flannel pajamas.  A thin white cotton blanket covered him right up to the chin, and there was a soft pillow under his head.  He couldn't remember the last time he had woken up with the feeling of having slept so well.

He knew he was in a hospital or something like it, judging by the stark white walls and the feel of the bed beneath him, but he could tell from the ceiling that it wasn't Community General.  In the jumble of weird memories that tormented him, he couldn't recall anything that had happened that would require medical treatment.  He turned his head to look around, and was puzzled to find that there was no furniture, no windows or pictures, not even a door as far as he could see.  The lights were fluorescent tubes, their cover set flush in the ceiling, but he couldn't find a switch to turn them off and on.  The only breaks in the absolute whiteness of the room were himself, his pajamas, the IV bag on the chrome stand that snaked a tube down and under the blanket, and the dark shadows in the air vent set high in the wall at the other end of the room.

He yawned and tried to stretch, and suddenly, he panicked.  Twisting and writhing beneath the covers, he struggled to free himself from the restraints he had just discovered.  As he thrashed and fought without success, memories started floating back, snatches of darkness and light, pain and noise, and a warm, weakening wetness, and a Voice, no two Voices, one bringing pain and fear, the other making him feel safe.  Finally, he called out for help.

"JESSE!"

"I'm here, Steve," his friend's reassuring voice came to him seemingly from all sides.

"Oh, God, Jess, why am I in restraints?  Did I do something wrong?  Jesse please, please come let me loose."  He could feel his heart pounding and hear the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but thankfully, whatever had amplified the sounds before was gone.  Still, it did little to ameliorate the panic.  "Jess, you promised you wouldn't leave me.  Why am I here?  Please, come let me loose."

"Listen to me, Steve, I want you to take deep breaths."

"Jesse, PLEASE!"

"Deep slow breaths, Steve."  Jesse continued in the same singsong he used for his frightened pediatric patients until Steve finally obeyed.  "You didn't do anything wrong, Steve," he assured his friend, "we were just concerned that, because of the drugs you are being given, you might have become a danger to yourself.  They have some pretty weird side effects."

"Jesse, can you come in and let me loose?"

"Soon, Steve, very soon.  First, can you tell me how you feel?"

"I felt good when I woke up, like I'd had enough sleep for the first time in ages.  Then I realized I was tied down, and I got scared.  Now, I'm tired."  There was a short pause, and Steve added, "And hungry."

"We'll get you some breakfast soon," Jesse said, and Steve felt just a tiny bit better to hear the warmth and amusement in his friend's voice.  "Now, Steve, you remembered that I said I wouldn't leave you.  Do you remember when that was?"

"I . . . I'm not sure.  I guess it was yesterday.  I don't know how long I was out, so I'm not sure."

"It was yesterday," Jesse confirmed.  "What else do you remember from yesterday?"

"I woke up, and I was in the Water again.  I was scared, but you left me there anyway, and you made me look at pictures.  Why did you do that to me, Jesse?"

"I was trying to help you get your memory back.  Was it any different from the first time you were in the water?"

"Why can't I see you Jesse?"

"I'm speaking to you through an intercom, Steve.  I'm in another room, but I can see you.  Was yesterday any different from the first time you were in the water?"

"Where are the speaker and the camera?  How can you see me?"

"That doesn't matter, Steve.  Please answer my question.  Was yesterday any different from the first time you were in the water?"

Steve sighed.  "There weren't any bad pictures, I didn't see the Face, and there wasn't any Pain."

"What do you mean, the Face, Steve?"

"Jesse, can you please come undo the restraints?"

"Once you have answered all of my questions.  What do you mean when you say the Face, Steve?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"You have to.  What is the Face, Steve?"

There was another big sigh, and Steve explained, "Whenever I saw the bad pictures, I would feel the Pain, and then see the Face.  The Voice, the other Voice, not you Jesse, would tell me it was his fault."

"Who was the Face?"

"A man.  He looked mean.  He caused the Pain."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what the Voice told me."

"Did you believe it?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . I guess."  Steve began to tear up, but he had no idea why.  He just really didn't like to talk about the Voice and the Face and the Pain.  "Jesse, I'm hungry, and I don't like being restrained.  Please let me go."

"Not just yet, Steve.  I'm sorry.  Why did you believe the Voice, Steve?"

"Because it was so real.  It was everywhere.  It was more real than the memories, the pictures.  It was everything, Jess, or at least it felt like it."

"What about now, Steve?  Is the Voice real now?"

"I . . . I don't know.  I don't know what's real now, Jess."

"Am I real?"

"Yes."

"You sound awfully sure.  How can you know?"

"Because you're my friend.  You always have been.  I haven't forgotten that.  Can you please let me loose?"

"I have just a few more questions, Steve, about this weekend with Elaine.  What do you remember from that?"

"The cabin was great, Jess!" Steve said with sudden enthusiasm.  "Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  He sighed happily at the memory.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

"Are you sure?"

"What?  Yes, I'm sure.  Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"Steve, I want you to start from the time Elaine got in your truck and tell me everything you can about what happened this past weekend."

There was a long pause as Steve worked his way back, then he started to speak slowly, organizing his thoughts as he went.  "Well, she looked fantastic, and she said she felt bad that you, Dad, and Amanda couldn't come with us . . . " 

". . . and she admitted it was instant coffee, which for some reason really impressed me.  Maybe because she was being honest, even though it was unflattering to her."  Steve had gone on for several minutes telling what he and Elaine spoke about on the way up to the cabin, but now he stopped as if her were finished with his story.

"That's it?" Jesse asked.  "Steve you haven't even gotten to the cabin yet."

Steve frowned pensively.  The more he thought about it, the more it troubled him.  "I got real sleepy, Jess.  I had to stop the truck and let Elaine drive because there was something wrong with me.  I told her to get me to a hospital and to call Dad."

"Then what?"

"That's all I remember."

"Come on, Steve, think!"

Steve tried hard, but there was nothing.  He couldn't recall anything more of the weekend.  It seemed to him he had spent a lot of time in the hot tub with Elaine, and he thought he'd had some wine to drink, but he couldn't really remember it.  It was more like a story someone else had told him.

"Steve, what do you remember next about the weekend?"

"Coming home.  Walking into the house and seeing Dad."  Being confronted with a hole in his mind had shaken Steve, and his breathing had speeded up.  "Jesse, I don't remember the rest.  Why don't I remember?"

"I'm sorry, Steve, but I can't tell you.  You know what happened.  You just need to work it out and put it all together.  Think about it, Steve."

There was a very long silence then while Steve worked through in his head all of the things that he remembered.  It was as if he had too many memories for the weekend, and still, they were too few.  It was like there were two worlds for him, and he couldn't get them to match up.  Finally, he felt he had reached some sort of conclusion.

"Jess?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't go to the cabin, did I?"

"I can't tell you that, Steve.  You have to decided for yourself."

"I don't think I went.  I think, when I was in the Water, and the Voice and the Face and the Pain were there, I think that's when I was supposed to be at the cabin."

"But you said you and Elaine had a great time.  That you stayed in the hot tub."

"I know I said that, but I don't know if I remember it.  It's like I remember White Fang or Treasure Island, books I read as a kid.  They weren't real, but I remember them."

"So, what happened this past weekend?"

"I . . . I fell asleep in the truck . . . and I woke up . . . in the Water."  Suddenly, Steve panicked again.  "Elaine!  Jesse, what happened to Elaine?  Did they get her, too?  Where is she?  I need to see her!"

"Elaine is fine, Steve," Jesse reassured him as he tried to hide his contempt for the woman who had helped try to destroy his best friend.  "She's safe and unharmed, but you can't see her until you have your memories back, buddy."

"Please, Jess, I have to see her!"

"I'm sorry, Steve, you can't."

"But, Jesse . . . "

"Steve, do you trust me?"

"Yes." 

Jesse was gratified to hear the answer come with no hesitation.  "Then believe me when I tell you, seeing her now could jeopardize your recovery.  Let's just work on getting you better, then, when you are ready, you can see her, ok?"

"She is all right?  You promise?"

"I promise, Steve."

Steve nodded, "Ok, then I will wait, but Jess, if you're lying to protect me, when I find out, I will hurt you."

Jesse smiled.  He despised Elaine, but the protective threat sounded more like his best friend than anything Steve had said since he'd first come to after shooting at Chief Masters.  "I'm not lying, Steve.  She's fine.  Now, I'm going to come release the restraints for you.  It will take me a couple of minutes to get there, but I promise I am coming straight to you, ok?"

"Ok.  Will I be able to talk to you?"

"Not until I get there, but I promise it really is only a couple of minutes away.  Why don't you think about what you want for breakfast while you wait for me?"

"Um, ok, but please, don't be long, Jess."

"I won't buddy.  You just hang in there."

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0830 hours.)

Steve lay alone in his barren little room, trying very hard to stay calm until Jesse arrived.  He couldn't help but think that if he just knew where he was, it wouldn't be so hard.  This place wasn't Community General, he'd known that since the moment he'd woken up.  It's more like a cell than a hospital room.  Suddenly, pure panic took over again.

Oh, God, have I broken some law?  Did I hurt someone?  I'd be in jail if I had, wouldn't I?  Maybe I've had some kind of breakdown.

He'd seen it happen before.  His old training partner, Reggie had fallen apart right before his eyes.  His wife and six-year-old daughter had been killed when Reggie had come home to find his wife in bed with a man Reggie had arrested a few years before.  His wife had hit her head on the nightstand when she was pushed out of the way, and his daughter had been shot when the man pulled a gun and he and Reggie fought for it.  Reggie had killed the man, emptying the entire clip into him.  Then he had sealed the man, his wife, and his daughter up in a wall.

"I didn't do something like that," Steve said aloud, but his own voice sounded much too desperate to give him any kind of reassurance.  "I couldn't have, he insisted."

Steve heard a soft click followed by a creak, and his heart started pounding.  As he looked around the room, he saw a part of the wall begin to shift.  Maybe I am going mad.  He stared in horror as the wall slid open and a bright golden light flooded in from the outside.  Only when his best friend came in, smiling and saying, "Hi, buddy," did he realize it was not the wall, but a door with no handle on his side.

Steve let his head drop back onto the pillow, surprised to find himself shaking.  "Oh, God, Jess, it's good to see you."  He shut his eyes, but that didn't keep the tears of relief from falling.  He lay still and quiet as Jesse undid the restraints on his wrists and the wide strap across his chest.  Then he sat up and engulfed the younger man in a hug, just to be sure he was really there.

"Shhh, it's ok, Steve," a startled Jesse reassured his friend who clung to him for dear life.  "You're safe, I promise."

"Why am I here, Jess?  What did I do?"

"I can't tell you that, Steve, but I will help you remember," Jesse vowed.  "Everything will be all right again, you'll see."

For several minutes, Jesse sat there, holding his friend, speaking to him in soft, soothing tones.  Then, when Steve's grip relaxed, Jesse moved to undo the restraints that still held his feet.

"Am I going insane, Jess?" Steve asked as Jesse pressed the button that elevated the head of the bed.

Jesse suppressed a smile.  Under other circumstances, he might have said, 'Yes, but we love you anyway,' but he knew this was no rhetorical question.  His friend really did doubt his own sanity.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed a gentle hand on the frightened man's arm and said, "Look at me, Steve."

It took a few moments, but eventually, Steve complied.

"You are not losing your mind," he said firmly.  "You haven't done anything wrong, and you didn't harm anyone.  That's all I am allowed to tell you.  Things have happened to you, things I can't tell you about, but I will help you remember them.  The medication you are on," he said looking toward the IV bag, "is to help you remember, too.  It's some pretty powerful stuff, and it has some wicked side effects, including paranoia, confusion, and fear.  It also makes you highly suggestible, which is why I can't just tell you anything you want to know.  You have to work things out for yourself.  You have to know things, and believe them, and remember them all by yourself, in your own head.  It's going to be hard, Steve, and sometimes it's going to be frightening, but I will be here the whole time, so, whatever happens, you'll know you're not all alone.  Do you understand?"

After a brief pause, Steve nodded. 

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Jesse smiled.  The last two answers had come without any hesitation.  "Ok, then what do you want for breakfast?"

"French toast," Steve replied.

"That's it?"

"And . . . apple juice?"

"You heard the man," Jesse called to whomever was monitoring their conversation.  "He wants French toast and apple juice for breakfast.  And make it for two.  I haven't eaten yet either."

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0900 hours.)

Breakfast was a quiet affair.  Jesse used the time while they were waiting to check Steve's vital signs, all of which were good except for an elevated blood pressure easily attributed to stress.  Then he brought in an over-the-bed table for Steve to eat from, and a small folding table and chair for himself.

They ate in silence until Jesse could stand it no more.  When they were nearly finished, he asked, "Why French toast and apple juice?"

Steve shrugged.  "No reason.  That's just what I felt like eating."

Jesse eyed his friend shrewdly for a moment and then said, "I don't believe you.  This stuff isn't your usual fare.  Come on, tell me the truth."

Steve smiled slightly.  It was a sad smile.  "It's a little embarrassing."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Jesse assured him.  "I'm not allowed to tell anyone."

Steve smiled again, amused this time.  "When I was a little kid, three or four years old, for some reason I used to have really bad nightmares.  I'd wake up screaming my lungs out."

"I see," Jesse commented thoughtfully.  "Usually kids outgrow that kind of thing fairly quickly."

"I did, too," Steve said, "but for a couple of years there, at least two or three times a week I would wake the whole house.  One time, the neighbors were up late and heard it, and they actually called the police."

Jesse laughed.  "Man, I would have liked to see your dad explaining that."

Steve laughed, too, but a shadow crossed his face.  "Well, they didn't take him to jail or put me in foster care, so I guess whatever he said worked."  Steve took another bite of his French toast.  "Anyway, sometimes, I would be way to scared to go back to sleep, and Dad would carry me out to the kitchen in his arms and sit me on the counter so I could watch while he fixed French toast.  He'd let me pour the apple juice because it came in a bottle with a small neck, and my hands weren't so big then, so I could handle it easier than the OJ or milk.  Then we'd sit at the table and talk and eat, and he'd take me back to bed and tuck me in with him and Mom.  I don't think I ever had a second bad dream on the nights that he'd fix me French toast and apple juice."

Jesse smiled.  "That's a nice story, Steve.  Thanks for sharing.  I guess you'd say it was the ultimate comfort food, huh?"

"I guess so," Steve agreed.  "It's one of the first foods I ever learned to make, just from watching him all those nights when it was just the two of us.  Mom would stay in bed because I was always embarrassed to have her see me when I was scared.  It was ok when dad took me to their bedroom, though, because by then, I wasn't all that scared anymore."

"You were born a tough guy, weren't you?"

Steve smiled, a little embarrassed, and shrugged, but didn't deny it.

"Well, I'll tell you, this French toast must be at least as good as Mark's, don't you think?" Jesse said, knowing Mark, who had spent the night watching his son sleep on a black and white monitor, had cooked it himself.

Steve shrugged.  "I wouldn't go quite that far."

Jesse frowned, concerned that even after the whole conversation, the mention of the elder Sloan's name had not provoked questions about his absence.  He was about to make another observation, about Mark's cooking when Steve cut him off.

"Jesse, how did my dad die?"

Jesse would never know how he had managed not to choke on the mouthful of food he had been chewing when Steve asked his question.  Perhaps the shock of hearing Steve's words had prevented him from doing anything before his brain engaged.  As he chewed and swallowed, he remembered that he couldn't tell his best friend anything and had to let Steve go on believing Mark was dead until Steve figured out the truth for himself.

"You know I can't tell you anything, Steve," Jesse said as calmly as he could.  The fact that Steve didn't notice his surprise must have had more to do with the medication, though, than with his own acting ability.

"Please, Jesse," Steve begged, his eyes reflecting his anguish.  "I know he is gone.  Isn't that enough?"

"I'm sorry, Steve, I know this must be very difficult for you, but I simply can't tell you anything."

"He was my father, Jess, don't I have a right to know how he died?"

"Yeah, you do," Jesse agreed, "but the meds you're on . . . make it easy for you to . . . believe things.  If I tell you instead of making you remember it, they won't be your memories."

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes, Steve, oh yes . . . "

"But why?"

At first Jesse was hard pressed to explain, but then he remembered Steve's own words from earlier.  "You want memories of a life, buddy, not a story like White Fang or Treasure Island."

Steve struggled for a minute, both with the pain of the loss and with the urge to plead once again to be told how his father had passed so he could have the painful business done with.  Finally, he regained command of himself and said, "Ok, help me remember.  What should I do?"

"Tell me how you think he died."

Steve rubbed his eyes and thought for a moment.  "It was an explosion, I think.  Caitlin Sweeney blew up the hospital."

After a moment, Jesse encouraged Steve, "Keep going.  How do you know she did it?"

"Dad told me, when we were trying to get out.  He'd seen her in the elevator."

Jesse nodded.  "Ok, then what?"

"We were . . . running out of the building and all of a sudden it just ripped apart."  The memories were coming fast now, almost faster than Steve could describe them.  He spoke quickly, trying to make the words keep up with his brain.  "You and I were trapped together.  We got out by moving some rubble.  Then we found Susan trapped in an elevator with some kids and some other personnel and a guy whose leg had been pinned, you amputated his leg while I led the others out.  The three of you got out of the elevator just before it fell.  Ron was outside.  He'd been thrown through a window or something.  We went back in to look for my dad and Amanda and  . . . and . . . "

Steve looked up in shock.  "We found them.  He'd saved her life.  She'd had trouble breathing, and he managed to fix it so she could breathe.  Jess, my dad didn't die when the hospital blew up."

"Just a couple minutes ago, you thought he had, Steve," Jesse pointed out.  "Why have you changed your mind?"

"Because he helped rebuild the hospital, and when Carter Sweeney escaped, he kidnapped my dad and made him help steal a Federal Reserve shipment of old bills to be incinerated.  There was that whole business with R.O.A.R. and everything.  I remember all of that, Jesse.  That's not how he died."

"Ok," Jesse agreed.  "As long as you're sure."

"I am, Jess, I'm positive."

Nodding, Jesse said, "Then try again."

Steve thought a moment, and Jesse could see by the pain in his face when he'd found another unpleasant memory.  "It was when his car blew up.  A guy I had put away was out of jail and he came after Dad.  First a package bomb was misdirected to Norman . . . Wait, that can't be when it happened.  Norman had left by the time the Sweeneys blew up the hospital."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I remember all of that.  It was some lady lawyer who was had power of attorney for one of his patients.  She wanted her inheritance a little early.  I remember all of it.  He smelled gas from where she had punctured the tank and he blew it up himself to stop the bombings."

"Try again," Jesse suggested.

"I know he came close when my house closed up on him, but I know that wasn't it, because he told me I couldn't bring my puce sofa home."

Jesse smiled, and Steve smiled back.  It had been a humorous moment, and typical of his father.  Then Steve frowned.  "I can't remember, Jess."  Steve closed his eyes, but in spite of his best efforts to be strong, the tears came again.  "My own father and I can't remember.  I ought to remember."

Jesse got up and came to sit on the edge of the bed.  He put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder and told him, "Steve, with what you have been through, he wouldn't blame you."

Steve looked up, his eyes filled with anguish.  "That doesn't matter, Jess," he insisted.  "There are things you should always remember about the people you love, and one of them is how you lost them."

Not knowing what else to say or do, Jesse just sat there and waited for his friend to calm down.  After several minutes, Steve finally regained control and said, "This isn't working, Jess.  I could go back over one bad memory after another, and never find the right one."

"I agree, so let's try something different.  Start with your most recent memory and work backward.  When's the last time you remember talking with your dad?"

"We were going to go away for the weekend, the four of us, you, me, him, and Amanda, but a bunch of people at the hospital were sick, and all three of you had to cancel so you could stay around and take up the slack."

Jesse hid a smile, they had to be on the right track now.  "Keep going, Steve, then what?"

Suddenly, Steve's eyes opened wide and his breathing grew fast and shallow.  "Oh, my God, Jess, that was just this past weekend.  Did it just happen?  Did he just die?"  Grabbing the smaller man by his shirt, Steve began to shake him.  "How did it happen, Jesse?  Dammit, tell me, how did it happen?"

Two burly orderlies who had been watching the proceedings from a closed circuit television in the hall came into the room then, their concern for the doctor's safety outweighing their concern for the patient's peace of mind, but Jesse shouted, "No!" to call them off.  Then, looking into his friend's eyes, he said, "I can't tell you, Steve.  You have to remember.  Think about it, buddy.  Think!"

Steve closed his eyes again and concentrated hard on gathering up loose ends and half thoughts to form them into some meaningful sequence if ideas.  As he thought, he gradually released his hold on Jesse, and Jesse dismissed the orderlies with a jerk of his head.

"I came back . . . " Steve said, slowly putting his words together.  " . . . from the weekend.  Dad made me dinner . . . stuffed chicken breast and pasta . . . We joked about my wanting a beer instead of the appropriate wine . . ."

"Then what?" Jesse urged his friend on when he paused for too long.

"He told me the sickness was giardia . . . from the water coolers . . . I thought it was suspicious, but he said it was lucky for the company that delivers the bottled water."  Words started tumbling over themselves as reality clicked into place.

"The next day, I was off, you, Dad, and Amanda were working.  I brought you guys lunch from Bob's and you got all weird because I wouldn't tell you what I did on the weekend.  Then the next day I went to work and we all had dinner at the beach house, and the day after that, I went to work and . . . I woke up here.  Jesse, my dad's alive!  Why did I think he was dead?  Oh, God, where is he?  Can I see him?  Why did I think he was dead?"

Hating to do it, but knowing he had to, Jesse asked, "What makes you think he's alive, Steve?"

"I don't think it, Jess.  I know it, just like I knew who you were."  Steve was suddenly fighting down sobs again.  He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed the tears from his eyes.  "Please, let me see him.  Please, Jesse, can I see him?"

"Yeah, buddy, as soon as he can get here."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the door opened and Mark walked in.  As Jesse stood up and moved aside, Mark took his place and pulled his son into his arms.  "It's going to be all right, my boy.  It will all be ok, Son.  I'm here.  I have been all along, and I will be until you're home with me.  It's ok, Steve."

As Mark held his son and whispered reassurances, Jesse slipped out for a few minutes to compose himself.  He could only hope Mark wouldn't say something he shouldn't while he was alone with Steve.  He wondered how he would feel if he thought his dad had died, and decided, while he would be sad and feel the loss deeply, it could never devastate him as much as losing Mark would hurt Steve.