Disclaimer: Blind Justice and its characters do not belong to me. I just wanted to take 'em out and play with them for a bit. I promise not to sell 'em.

A/N: A quick blurb on Jim's experience on awakening in the hospital. Enjoy.

The pain is a cloud enveloping him. It undulates and mounts as his mind slowly returns from the vast emptiness where it has lain for the past forty-eight hours. His throat is like parchment, dry and cracking. He doesn't try to move. The pain is too intense. He hears a hoarse moan and wonders passingly who it is. He doesn't recognize his own voice through the throbbing orchestra sounding off in his head. Nausea surges upward like a rogue wave and sweat stands out on his brow. He turns his head to the side, vomiting copiously, retching painfully. The orchestra in his head is thundering. He hears ragged gasps and feels hot breath assaulting his dry lips. He hears another raspy cry and then there is silence again as he tumbles into the painless abyss of unconsciousness.

Hours later, there are voices. They are female, and distant. They are high pitched. Grating against the pain that continues to throb inside his skull. His mind is dulled—cotton wrapped and muted. He tries to swallow. Moisture is applied to fractured lips. He sucks hungrily at it, craving more. His tongue darts out, exploring the rough terrain of his lips. He tastes dried blood. Blood. His eyes flash open. It is dark. He widens them. It is dark. He is waking now. His heart is pounding. He hears himself gasp. His hands fly outward, clutching for purchase in the darkness. They close around cold metal on each side. Bedrails?

"What…?" He struggles to formulate a thought. He hears his breathing quickening. Nausea threatens. The voices are beside him. How are they beside him? How can he not see someone beside him?

"The lights," he manages. He is rolling on unseen waves and can't find equilibrium.

"Turn on the lights." He screams the words this time and the sound is jarring inside his throbbing head.

Firm hands are on his shoulders now. He feels one on his right, stroking, trying to soothe. The one on his left is shaking him slightly.

"Mr. Dunbar?"

"Mr. Dunbar, can you hear me?"

He turns his head in the direction of the voice. He grabs the hand shaking him, jarring him, and throws it off his shoulder forcibly.

"Turn on the goddamned lights! What is this?" he rasps. His hands scuttle out to the sides again, groping for the cold rails. He pulls himself up, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"What is this?" He demands again.

"Mr. Dunbar, please calm down. You're safe."

The voice is on his left he turns his head. Eyes wide.

"What?"

"I'm Dr. Sims, Mr. Dunbar. You are at Mt. Sinai on the trauma ward."

His hands come up to his face, clawing at his eyes. He is right they are open. Nausea rolls in his stomach. He shakes his head. Blinks. Once, twice, three times. It is dark.

"Mr. Dunbar? Can you hear me?"

He turns to the voice again. "Yes."

"Do you remember how you came to be here?"

His mind rolls over the moments. The bank. Terry. A shooter.

"The bank," he rasps.

"That's right. You were shot, Mr. Dunbar."

Blinking. Open. Close. Open. Close. It is dark. Why is it dark?

"I can't see. Why can't I see?"

He hears a quick in-drawing of breath to his right. He has forgotten someone was there. He turns his head that way. His hands rub his eyes fiercely. Still nothing. Seconds slide by and he lists back against the pillows, wilting with fear. He feels a rivulet of sweat slip down the back of his neck.

Sims is speaking again. His voice is distant; beyond the throbbing drum beat of his heart and the pain blooming anew inside his head.

"Mr. Dunbar? You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"Can you see this, sir?"

A click and then silence. He blinks again. His fingers touch his eyeballs. They are open. It is dark.

"This?" A rustle of fabric near his face. He flinches away from the sudden touch of a latex-gloved hand on his right eye.

"Easy. Let me have a look."

He tries to control his breathing. Fingers lift his lids. He feels a hand on his chin, pushing his head to the left. Turning his head to the right. His brain swims. Another wave of nausea catches up with him.

"I'm gonna be sick," he gasps.

"Hang on, I'll get a kidney basin." He starts at the sound of another voice—this one beyond his feet, at the end of his bed. It is a woman. A nurse? Vomit is rising in his throat. He searches fruitlessly for somewhere to let it up. A cold hand gripping his right arm startles him again. Something plastic is thrust into his hand. He clutches at it, his fingers probing it frantically. He brings it to his chin and is sick again. He settles his throbbing head on the pillow behind him. He holds the bin in shaking hands, hoping he doesn't spill. A gentle hand flutters against his.

"I'll take it," comes the female voice again. He relinquishes the basin. He looks around trying to locate the doctor again. He swipes at his eyes once more.

"I'm giving you something for the pain and nausea, Mr. Dunbar," He feels a gentle tug at an IV he hadn't noticed in his left hand and a slight burning as something washes into him.

He says nothing for a moment. He squeezes his eyes shut momentarily and then opens them again. Checks to see that they are open with his fingers. He closes them again, and keeps them closed now. He can still hear someone breathing to his left. He doesn't think this person has spoken yet. Another nurse?

"Mr. Dunbar, I'm afraid the gunshot may have damaged your optic nerves."

"I'm can't be sure to what extent. We couldn't determine what the damage was at all until you woke up. We're going to need to do some more tests now that you're awake."

"How long?" he rasps.

"Sir?"

"How long 'til I know?"

"We'll do the tests this afternoon. Try and get some rest now while I make the arrangements."

Rubber soles squeak on the floor as the man moves away from him. He hears a door swing open and closed. It sounds like it's at the end of his bed.

"Mr. Dunbar?" It is the woman again.

He looks toward her voice. It sounds like it is on his left now.

"My name is Julie. I'm your nurse for this shift."

"Oh."

"I have some water here, would you like something to drink?"

Something touches the back of his left hand, startling him, even though she warned him.

"Here it is, Mr. Dunbar."

He raises his hand a little and feels a cup being pressed into it. He lifts it up. His hand is shaking. He goes to sip from the cup. Something pokes his cheek. His other hand comes up, rubbing his cheek gingerly and settles on the edge of the cup, discovering the straw there. He puts it between his lips and sips hungrily at the cold water. When he has slaked his thirst he lowers the cup slowly. He feels it being lifted gently from his hands.

"I'm putting this on your table. It's right here." A hand takes his, and he tries not to flinch away in surprise.

"It's alright. I'm just going to show you where the table is." She lifts his hand to the left and settles it on the table. Then she tugs it over a little further until his fingers encounter the base of the cup.

"Thanks."

He doesn't move his hand, afraid, as he is that he might strike something else on the table and knock it down. He feels her cold fingers on his wrist again as she lifts his hand again and lowers it to his side. She presses the back of his fingers against the rail and slowly lowers them down onto a small plastic device. He turns his hand over to feel it. She gently lifts his thumb and places it onto a button.

"This is your call button," she says softly, "Just press it and I'll be right in, okay?"

"Right," is the best he can muster. Drowsiness is settling heavily upon him. He struggles to open his eyes again, but finds nothing. It is still dark. He hears soft footsteps moving away from him and the swish and click of the door opening and closing again.

He thinks he hears a soft breath again to his right. It is soft, quavering. He wasn't imagining it. Was he? He cocks his ear that way, listening intently. The sound is gone.

"Hello?" he whispers. He wonders vaguely whether he is in a private room.

He sighs and settles back into his pillow. His exhaustion is crushing. For a moment he drifts toward sleep, but then a single shard of the broken crystal of his concussed memory lodges in his consciousness, forcing him back to wakefulness.

The fight. She was leaving him. Panic rises like a wall of water inside of him. He raises a shaking hand and claws at his eyes again. He pushes on his eyeballs with his fingers. A choked sob shudders out of his throat. His breath catches. Did he hear something to his right again? Would she have come? He tosses his head back and forth desperately trying to pick up any clue about who else might be in the room with him.

"Christie?" he ventures, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears.

He hears a soft gasp. There is a grating metallic noise. A chair being pushed back from the bedside? The sharp click of heels moves away from him. Swish. Click. The door is closed again.