Authors Notes: It's late and I can't really think of much to say, so just a big thank you to those whose reviewed – Brookestar, Sloans-interrogator and Brandon Collins. Your comments were as always very, very appreciated :)

Brandon, thank you for your honesty. I'm sorry you find the story disappointing, I've re-written parts of the last chapter, so maybe it will be a bit clearer now, and that twist was only the beginning. It happened for a reason I can assure you. More twists to come :)

And so onto the third part:

~*~

Chapter 3 ~ Seeing is Believing

John Carter sits alone, his isolated form casting cold shadows on the ground in the ambulance bay. A white coat flaps loosely in the wind as his eyes search the contours of his hands. One sleeve, rolled up reveals a piece of cotton wool, dirty and blood-stained in the crook of his elbow.

He looks tired.

Tired, dejected, lost – all the dismal adjectives that spring to mind.

His eyes are rimmed with dark circles that only countless sleepless nights could have painted, feet planted firmly on the ground – he's too weary to draw them up on the bench beside him. He has the look of someone who needs to talk.

But not to me.

"C'mon, it'll be fun!"

I spin around at the sound of Susan's voice. Sighing with the knowledge of exactly where she's headed I reply if somewhat reluctantly:

"Knowing that I'm destined to be a lonely spinster for the rest of my life hardly fits my definition of fun."

Susan rolls her eyes pointedly.

I roll mine back, and for the coup-de-grace I give her one of my most defiant pouts.

Victorious as always – at least when it comes to giving withering looks, but however this is one battle I've lost. I've already yielded to her latest whim.

Fortune telling. Or what ever it's proper name might be.

"What'll be fun?"

I stiffen as his soft tones reach my ear, and without turning around I know that the bench is now empty and he's somewhere behind my right shoulder. John Carter makes an appearance. But Abigail Lockhart does not sit alone.

I bite my lip, not daring to speak until the awkward silence becomes too overbearing and I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mouth in a desperate bid to extinguish the thoughts in my head.

"Susan has booked us an appointment with a chiropodist."

A loud snort gives a certain sweetness to my previously annoyed tones.

"Umm – and by that she means clairvoyant, Carter!"

Susan looks through me, towards him, a small smile playing on her lips. I feel them exchange glances and laugh forcibly as my cheeks redden. Damn. I knew that wasn't the right word.

I focus on them just long enough to realise that I still have my back turned to him.

Avoidance at it's most obvious.

I don't want to face him, to look into those mesmerizing brown eyes. Even the fact that he's standing so close to me that I can almost hear him breathe is enough to make those tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention...

 I swallow to break my train of thought.

We haven't talked. Not in months. At first it was a relief. I'd nothing to say to him, well nothing good anyway, and I didn't want to hear what he had to say – if he had anything to say. Now, it just seems so juvenile, so stupid. How can years of friendship just dwindle away to nothing?

Stupid question.

It's happened to me before, but I'd swore I'd never let it happen with him, we had too much to lose. We were close, so close that there was almost an instinctive connection between us. I'd open my mouth to call him, but before the words would have left my mouth he'd be there two arms holding me close, pressing my head against his chest. We had that kind of relationship. I was swept off my feet, like something out of a fairytale. And yes, he was my Prince Charming, silly as that might sound.

For a time at least, nothing else appeared to matter as much because he was always there for me, a quiet rescuer, chivalrous with a devilish sense of humour.

It's funny how things work out.

Stranger still I'd made up my mind to break the ice a while back. I'd already misplaced him, but I didn't want to lose him entirely. That was before. Now, I'm not quite so confident. Somehow I don't think the line 'I dreamt I was visiting your grave last night' would make a good conversation starter and I know I won't be able to look him in the eye without telling him the truth.

Catch-22 situation. Thank you, Joseph Heller.

~*~

The room is small and stuffy. A long purple sari hangs, it's thick silken material occluding the window, blocking the path of the sunlight. The walls are veiled in thick, woollen tapestries of crimson, azure and orange, illuminated by the light of dozens of candles poking out from every nook and cranny, each crevasse where wall meets cloth.

A pair of cats eyes stare out glassy and bright from the darkened corner where she sits eyes closed in anticipation, her tail, sleek and black waving eerily, claws drawn, pointed and at the ready. The floor is bare stone and in my anxious state it's coldness seems to seep through the rubber soles of my shoes to strike cold upon my heel. I twitch nervously in the seat, waiting.

Scarlet talons appear clutching the door jam authoritatively. I sit up as she glides into the room, her foreboding presence easily commanding attention. She's younger than I expected, around my own age, but her features are remarkably chiselled, exotic but yet ordinary. She's striking. Her skin is a honeyed mix of olive and brown, and her hair, black as midnight falls around her face in easy curls from beneath a bright red scarf.

I open my mouth to speak, but she looks directly at me. Her icy green eyes catch mine and I close my mouth, momentarily subdued.

She grabs my hand and looks into it. Hard. Then she leans back and closes her eyes, gently running her fingers along the creases on my palm.

"You're upset, ill at ease, afraid."

I nod, but her eyes are still closed. She's silent, too lost in her thoughts to notice or even care.

She clears her throat.

"Wow.."

"What's wrong?"

"You have an interesting love line... complicated, secretive. Times of great happiness followed by overwhelming hurt and loss...."

She opens her eyes and gazes at me. Instinctively I look away, but with her free hand she gently lifts my face, forcing me to look her squarely in the eye.

"You care a lot about those around you, dear. Don't ever stop, but don't put your life on hold either. This – she points to a wrinkle – is your life, see how it branches as you make decisions and then change your mind to suit others?"

She raises her eyebrows, as if waiting for a reaction, but I've none to give. She rubs my palm again as though stalling before her next sentence.

"Someone close to you is ill. Someone who you have not spoken to in a while, but who deep down you value, though you may not always admit it."

Her voice fades away until it is a whisper.

"Someone close to you is preparing to leave this life behind."

Silence. Our eyes meet. Deadlock.

A rush of blood to the head, fast, furious, almost deafening. My knuckles whiten as I consciously feel my grip tighten, and that desperate feeling, that sickening gut wrenching feeling of someone who has just had a barium meal sets in. My stomach sinks in its heaviness, dragging my blood towards my feet and my neck, yielding under the pressure place my head firmly in my hands.

"Are you okay?" She asks the question casually, as I stagger to my feet, my aim to run before I start to cry, to make a dignified exit while I can.

"Sure."

But I'm not.

I've it all figured out now. Everything, every last detail has suddenly slotted neatly into place, but the final picture is far from what I wanted it to be. Far from what I even imagined it could be. And I hate it.

Hate. That word again. But this time I mean it. With each and every fibre of my body.

So I run until I'm outside.

There's no-where else to go so I collapse against the wall and hold my breath so that I won't cry.

It's no use. My resolve is weak. The tears come slowly at first, then fast, furious and hot. They bring no relief, just convulsion after convulsion as I struggle for control. I curl my legs up and cry into my knees, one hand gripping a tuft of grass for comfort – there's not enough to lie down on.

I should have known. I should have seen it coming. He's looked tired for weeks, run down, unwell. The signs were there. If I had looked for them.

His brother had leukaemia too.

Bobby.

He doesn't speak about him a lot, but when he does it's always in hushed tones, as though with each word he re-lives a memory, with each breath he's picturing an adventure they had together. His eyes water, and he always smiles this funny little smile, a smile of fondness, the sort of smile that appears when someone wants so badly to cry, but the tears won't come.

It's at those times, when I see him so vulnerable, raw, that I just want to throw my arms around him and hold him tightly, while we both cry.

He should have told me. You can't hold something this big inside. Why would he keep news as horrible as this from me?

Sure, we haven't talked, but surely he should have said something. I've been a part of his life for so long now. Maybe he wanted to protect me. Or even worse, maybe we're so far apart now that he didn't even think to tell me.

I should have asked him about that bandage. That dirty grubby piece of cotton wool. I should have pulled him aside and asked him what had happened. A blood test isn't only a blood test. There's the waiting around, the agony of not knowing and hoping...

Dammit Carter.

You should have told me.

I rip up the tuft of grass, roots and all.

Does he just think that we can carry on as normal, until one day when he won't be at work and I'll find out what's wrong by word of mouth? How could he care so little? I mightn't be the pie to his coffee anymore, but it doesn't mean I've no feelings for him whatsoever. It doesn't mean my heart won't drop, that I won't cry when I find out. It doesn't mean that I won't be there for him when he needs me.

I guess what hurts most of all is that he's willing to go without a goodbye. I wonder if he would have told me in time or would he just have waited until whatever flicker of life he has left is snuffed out and he's gone, leaving my words unspoken.

Maybe he has nothing to say to me.

Maybe I haven't really that much to say to him.

But sometimes we don't have to say anything.

Catching his eye, losing ourselves in a stolen gaze. It was always then that I realised the depth of our relationship, how much he meant to me. I don't think I could live with myself if he leaves without a final glance. I need to know we're okay.

~*~

I'm running again, but this time I know where I'm going. There's an urgency in my steps. My face is red, my eyes are puffy and swollen, but I don't care. How I look is a trivial matter compared to how I feel.

I've left Susan behind, staring after me, confused. I didn't have time explain. She wouldn't have understood anyway. Maybe she would have laughed, or applauded me for finally working up the courage to call around to talk to Carter.

It's not courage.

It's fear, anger, pain all mixed up in a mash of conflicting emotions. It's something real, something I'm not entirely familiar with, but whatever it is, it's leading me to his door.

I stumble blindly, but I'm headed in the right direction - when the head fails the heart takes over. Nothing makes sense, but yet it does, it's crystal clear to me – for the first time in months I know where I stand.

I know where I stand.

Must be why I'm running.

~*~

Comments: I stole some lines from 'The Letter' and 'Lockdown and Carby in general. I don't own them, but I had fun using them :)

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review to let me know what you think.