It took Jack a bit to get Jaffer to get into the truck. The lab was determined to smell every inch of the track it seemed, and only then did he head back to the truck. With a promise from the police that they'd keep him informed – and after telling them that they could find him at the hospital – Jack headed for the house, trying to figure out how to tell Sam what was going on without upsetting her too much – which could be dangerous for the baby and her both, and worrying about how Ian was.

She heard the truck pull in and was waiting – and trying not to look too obvious about waiting (and failing miserably at it) at the door when Jack walked through, his face drawn and tense. Which told her immediately that not only was something wrong, but whatever it was, it was serious. And since he came in with just Jaffer, it was even more obvious.

"Where is he? Did you find him?"

He shook his head, but then nodded, and pulled her into his arms, suddenly needing to be held.

Now Sam was truly frightened, because this was not a reaction she was ready for.

"Jack?" Her arms tightened around him, and she could feel him trembling a little. "What is it?"

"Ian's been hurt, Sam."

"What?" She tried to pull away, but he held her, still, tightly. "Is he… What happened?"

"The police were at the schoolyard. They say – and they don't know much yet – but they say he was in a… an incident… with those guys they ran into the other day. He's been shot…"

"What?"

"They took him to the hospital, and we've got to get there…"

"We need to call Janet-"

Just like Jack, the first thing Sam thought of was that they needed a doctor they could trust to be working on Ian with him.

"I already did. She's on her way, and we need to get there, too."

But he didn't show any signs of being ready to release her just then, and Sam realized that he wasn't holding her because he was worried about her reaction. He was holding her because he needed comfort himself. He liked Ian – loved him, maybe, who knew? And he had to be afraid that they were going to lose him. She held him close for a moment, knowing they needed to hurry to the hospital, but giving him what little reassurance she could. He reacted by holding her even tighter – clinging to her tightly for a full minute before pulling away.

"We should get going."

She nodded, but pulled his head down and kissed him softly.

"Did they say where he was shot? Or what his condition was?"

"They said he lost a lot of blood and was in shock…"

She took his keys from him – she was worried, too, but she had a feeling she was in a better state of mind to be driving than he was – and slid her feet into her shoes and grabbed up her coat, which was hanging by the door.

"We'd better go."

He nodded, and opened the door for her, and Jaffer dashed out before they could decide to leave him home.

OOOOOOOOO

"I should have went looking for him when I got home…"

"And I shouldn't have let him go in the first place…"

"You couldn't have known-"

"And neither could you, Jack," she told him, reaching across and resting her hand on his leg, knowing he'd put his hand over hers – which he did almost immediately. "There's no blame game on this one. You couldn't have seen this coming, and I didn't see it coming, either. Understand?"

He nodded, knowing she was right, and let go of her hand – she was speeding as it was, and she needed her hands on the steering wheel. She was wrong, though, he thought to himself. There was blame to be handed out. He didn't know the whole story, of course, but he did know that Ian didn't have a weapon on him when he went running, and someone else obviously had had a gun. That put that person in the wrong – and Jack was going to make sure that he found that person, and that they paid.

Jaffer snorted, almost as if he were listening in on Jack's thoughts and was agreeing with him.

OOOOOOOOO

He'd been conscious when they'd found him. Conscious and in a lot of pain, since the shock of being shot had started to wear off. He'd heard the sirens getting close and had wondered if they were heading his direction and if he could flag whatever it was down. Of course, that meant getting up, and there was just no fucking way he was going to be able to get up. He'd tried, and there was just something wrong with his hand.

Shot his mind told him. Probably was hit in the hand with the first shot. He remembered feeling the blow there, and now his stomach and hand were both pretty much on fire. Actually, he hurt so much everywhere that he wasn't really sure what hurt the worst, but his hand was way up there on the list.

When the first cop had touched him, Ian had almost screamed in pain. Almost. He'd managed to bite it back – along with biting his lip clear through – and had settled for a grunt of pain. But he hadn't been able to tell him what had happened when he asked. Not that he couldn't remember, but he was feeling odd – tired, and dazed in a way he couldn't remember feeling before, and he couldn't get his thoughts organized enough to say anything. Which was a little scary, because he couldn't even think of a good curse when they cut open his sweatshirt to get a better look at his side and stomach. Bastards! His mother had bought him that sweatshirt…

Then all the cops were replaced by ambulance personnel; medics and the like, and Ian tried to focus on the questions they were asking him – and they were asking him easy to answer ones, like what his name was – almost as if they understood he was having trouble answering the longer ones.

He did manage to tell them his name, and where he was from, although he couldn't for the life of him figure out if it were Saturday or Wednesday, and he knew they didn't like that. He tried to ask them to call Sam and Jack – they were going to go ape shit over this, he was sure, and he wanted to be the one to tell them what had happened – but either they didn't want him to use a phone, or they didn't understand what he was asking (most likely) because it didn't happen.

They told him to stay awake – they needed him awake and talking to them – but Ian was tired. The pain was receding into a dull throb – maybe they'd given him something – and he was having even more trouble focusing his thoughts. He wondered briefly if he was dying, and hoped not, because he had some serious ass kicking to do once he found that guy with the gun. Fucking sonofabitch; pulling a gun in a fight like that.

That anger was enough to get him to the hospital awake, but the lethargy was overcoming pretty much everything else, and the lights in the ceiling of the emergency room they'd taken him to were causing his stomach to turn over, so he closed his eyes, and then couldn't open them up no matter who told him to open them. He didn't know any of them, anyways, and didn't have to do anything they said.

He drifted off, listening to them saying something about surgery, but too tired to care.