Disclaimer: I don't own the Reeds.

AN: Well, it's like five in the morning… I'm sick. Today I'm missing my fencing lesson, a lit test and an oral report I have to give to my Heritage in Faith class and I'm pissed. Luckily, it's nothing serious and I should be back at school when it re-opens Tuesday (to make up my test-joy of all joys!). But I figured as long as I have to stay awake and suffer, I might as well do something productive like make Malcolm suffer too! Yeah!

Also, one quick thing: I know that Girl Scout counterparts in England are 'Girl Guides', but are the boys 'Boy Guides'? I didn't know, so I just put 'Scout'.

Fear of Drowning

Part I

He was underwater. Dimly, he acknowledged that, and opened his eyes to see why. Everything was blue-green and distorted, but he was still in his own room, now somehow filled as if it was a lake.

He kicked his legs out to the sides, just like he was taught, trying to swim for the door, and hopefully air. And that's when it hit him.

He couldn't breath. He didn't know what he expected, fully submersed in water, but the reality hadn't come to him until now. He kicked out wildly, flailing, all of his Scout emergency training leaving him in an instant. He opened his mouth to scream and the last of the air escaped his lungs.

He could barely keep his eyes open. His chest felt like fire, his vision swirling both with pain and oxygen deprivation. He raised his hand, groping for purchase on the wall, feeling himself being pulled down, deeper, where the water was colder and darker and there was nothing else to see.

His eyes closed.

Then Malcolm Reed awoke, limbs flailing wildly, his hand hitting the wall as he struggled out of his sheet cocoon, desperately choking on nothing. He couldn't breath; he still couldn't breath. He tried to scream but no sound came out.

He struggled into a sitting position, trembling, and managed to calm down for long enough to force himself to cough. This backfired and soon he was coughing violently, doubled over, a bitter taste in his mouth, one hand groping for the light switch on the wall while the other desperately clutched at his chest.

He managed to get a breath in, shakily, and forced himself to stand a little straighter. This, as it turned out, was a bad idea.

He ran to the bathroom and knelt down beside the toilet, retching and coughing and sobbing very slightly until he finally managed to stop a minute later. At last he sat back, leaning hard on the wall.

All he could think to do was breath, slowly, in and out, in and out. In and out.

Malcolm sat there, shaking, until he felt it safe to move.

~

"Pneumonia!" His father roared. "This is the year of Our Lord two-thousand, one-hundred and thirty-three, and you're telling me my son has pneumonia?" The doctor shrunk back, something for which he couldn't be blamed.

"Besides," Stuart continued when the doctor was sufficiently intimidated, "Reeds don't get pneumonia."

"I don't know what to tell you, sir," Dr. Klartz- a young-looking, nervous man who actually had almost six inches on Stuart Reed- said apologetically. "But your son does have pneumonia. I assure you, it's nothing he won't get over with a few days rest…"

Malcolm sat dejectedly on the doctor's cot, trying his best to keep his mind on breathing rather than his father's angry voice. He was terrified, hiding it well but still terrified nonetheless, both of his father's reaction to his illness and of the pneumonia itself. He wasn't a child anymore; he knew what pneumonia was. There was fluid in his lungs. It was just like drowning.

"He doesn't have 'a few days'," Stuart was saying. "He'll miss his meet tomorrow!"

At the mention of the swim team, Malcolm's stomach turned further. His father had had the brilliant idea of pulling strings to get him onto the swim team a few months ago, in an almost desperate attempt to force him to overcome his fear of the water. It hadn't worked, obviously.

"You swim, Malcolm?" Klartz asked politely.

Malcolm nodded slightly.

"The doctor asked you a question, son," Stuart said quietly, anger raging beneath his temporary mask of calm.

"Yessir," Malcolm said to the doctor. His throat was raw from all the coughing; it hurt to talk. But if it placated his father, even briefly, he'd do it.

"That could be an issue of sorts." Klartz consulted the chart, still a safe distance away from his patient's father. "I see here that Malcolm has been ill five times this year, and it's only October…

"Are you calling my boy weak?" Stuart demanded.

So now I'm 'his boy', Malcolm thought dryly.

"No, sir," Klartz said quickly. "All I'm saying is… if his immune system isn't at one-hundred percent, for whatever reason… well, swimming can be harmful… practice is rigorous, I'm sure… it can wear you down… then with all those people in one pool…"

"Are you quite through, Doctor?" Stuart asked, enunciating every word and spitting the last one like a curse.

"Yes, Mr. Reed. I apologize. I-I'll give you a prescription for some antibiotics…" Klartz stuttered, looking over at Malcolm probably so he wouldn't have to speak to his father instead.

"Why not a hypospray? I heard they have those to take care of everything," Stuart growled pleasantly. It was a talent of his- his voice demanded that the doctor address him directly.

"I wouldn't suggest it," Klartz told a spot on the wall near Stuart's head. "It's an experimental technology… if Malcolm is indeed immune-deficient in any way…"

"I don't want suggestions. Would it work?" Malcolm sensed his father's anger rising once more.

"Yes," Dr. Klartz admitted miserably.

"He'd be able to swim tomorrow," Stuart prompted, coming to stand next to Malcolm.

"Yes." The doctor hung his head slightly. "But…"

"Now, Doctor," Stuart said, putting a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "You wouldn't want to make me shuttle this poor boy all over the greater London area to find a second opinion, would you?"

Klartz sighed, pressing a button on the wall. "Nurse, I need a hypospray set for pneumonia," he said into the speaker. A minute later, a pretty red-haired woman came into the room with what looked like a palm-held metal rod.

Klartz accepted it hesitantly and thanked her, turning back to Malcolm and his father when he was through. "There should be no side-effects," he began. "But if you experience anything out of the ordinary…"

"Please get on with it, Doctor," Stuart said. "I'm sure Malcolm will be fine, won't you, Malcolm?"

"Yessir," Malcolm replied, not meeting his father's steel-colored eyes. The next thing he felt was the cold touch of an instrument on his neck, accompanied by a small his from this 'hypospray' thing.

He had to admit: he felt better. Air went into his lungs with every shallow breath; he inhaled deeper and didn't begin to cough. He tried not to grin.

"There, you see?" Stuart clapped Klartz on the shoulder, and the poor man swayed slightly. "Good as new! Thank you, my good man." He made to stride through the door, turning at the last minute.

"Come, Malcolm. And thank the good doctor!" Then he left.

Malcolm looked over at the doctor, leaning against a wall, and every trace of his temporary euphoria disintegrated. "Thank you, sir," he recited, trying to look as if he were still feeling wonderful.

The doctor nodded, then smiled sympathetically.

Malcolm left, frowning as he did so. His father had taught him that Reeds did not accept sympathy.