-hands out a bunch of pineapple cakes- Thanks so much for your kind comments, please keep them coming!

---------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 8

He was looking for something, something he couldn't find, and it was driving him crazy. He swept all the padds off his desk in the hope that it would turn up, but it didn't. He opened the fridge and began to tear out its contents, milk cartons bursting on the floor (Malcolm was so going to kill him), beer cans rolling towards the kitchen door. It wasn't there, and it was driving him insane. He brought his fist down on the fridge, the loud thump reverberating in his ears like the slam of a door. It wasn't there. It just wasn't-

Trip awoke with a start. He couldn't remember what his dream had been about, but it had left him with a feeling of distinct unease. He blinked and found that he was wide awake, even though the light coming through the blinds was diffuse at best. A glance at his alarm clock confirmed his guess: It was only 05:30.

Trip plopped back down on his pillow. Great.

The dream had been really weird, about... looking for something. Something that was missing. And about milk cartons being dropped on the floor. Trip chuckled. Good thing it had been a dream, Malcolm would kill him if he spilled milk all over the kitchen floor...

Malcolm. Trip looked over at the bed and sat up so quickly that his head spun. Malcolm was gone, the covers trailing onto the floor, the pillow lying on the bedside rug.

For a second or two, Trip stared at the empty bed, then rubbed a hand over the back of his head and got to his feet. Malcolm hadn't gotten up on his own for almost a week now, but maybe this time had been an emergency. Maybe he had really needed to go and hadn't wanted to wake Trip.

I bet he's stranded in the bathroom again, Trip thought and walked a little faster. If Malcolm had spent half the night sitting on the toilet lid because he couldn't get up again...

Leave it to the stubborn cuss not to call me, he thought and reached for door handle, determined to give Malcolm a piece of his mind. I told him that he's not supposed to-

The bathroom was empty; no shivering Malcolm sitting on the toilet lid, or worse, passed out on the rug in front of the sink. Trip frowned. He couldn't imagine why Malcolm would have gone anywhere else, or why he hadn't returned. Somehow, he had a feeling that Malcolm had been gone for quite a while.

Still frowning, Trip left the bathroom. The unease the dream had kindled in his mind intensified as he looked at the abandoned bed.

Where in the hell had Malcolm gone?

Trip went over to the door leading to the hallway and found it standing ajar. He knew he had closed it last night before he had gone to bed, and Malcolm had been sleeping at the time. Beginning to get seriously worried, Trip stepped into the corridor. His foot found something warm and hairy and he grabbed the door a second before he would have fallen.

"Johnny! That's not your bed!"

The dog, who was sprawled on the carpet, raised his head and smiled a benevolent dog smile, as if to say "Don't you worry yourself about it, old boy". Trip decided to postpone his lecture to a later point in time, and return to the problem at hand.

"Have you seen Malcolm, Johnny?"

At the mention of Malcolm's name, Johnson levered himself to his feet and whined, wagging his tail.

"We're not goin' for a walk, boy. I'm just lookin' for Malcolm."

The tail wagged even harder, and the dog's ears that usually drooped over his eyes perked up. Trip wasn't sure what to make of Johnson's behavior, but right now he didn't have the time to worry about it.

"Malcolm!" he called, his voice sounding strange in the quiet hallway. "Malcolm, are you downstairs?"

There was no answer, and Trip began to walk down the stairs. Johnson followed him, his tail wagging incessantly, and as they arrived in the deserted living room, he barked once. Trip ignored him and went into the kitchen, expecting to find Malcolm sitting at the table or, of all things, standing at the open fridge and having a drink of milk. He had already opened his mouth to tell his partner off for not waking him when he realized that there was no one there. Then he saw the backdoor, standing wide open.

"Oh hell."

Trip couldn't remember when he had last moved so fast this early in the morning. He practically ran for his jacket, and almost stumbled when he slipped into his old sneakers. Johnson jumped around him, barking and wagging his tail, ecstatic that Trip had gotten out of bed at the break of dawn just to take him for a walk.

"Johnny, stop it!"

Johnson was not deterred, and Trip's hurried crossing of the kitchen was accompanied by more barking and a whirlwind of a dog who seemed determined to get in the way as much as possible.

"Johnny, you go back now, or-"

Trip stopped in his tracks, looking down at the dog.

"You saw him leave, didn't you? Malcolm? You saw him?"

Johnson barked, his tail wagging like crazy.

"Okay then, let's go. Maybe you can find him."

He doubted that the dog had actually understood what he wanted, but even so, Johnson did not lack the enthusiasm of trying. He bounded out the backdoor into the cold and gray morning, Trip following him with his jacket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The planks of the porch creaked under his feet, and he wondered what the hell had prompted Malcolm to wander off into the night, and in late winter at that.

"Malcolm!" he called out again, but there was no answer, and he hadn't really expected one, either. The optimistic part of his mind that had entertained a small hope of finding Malcolm on the porch swing was disappointed, and a quick look around confirmed his suspicion. Malcolm wasn't anywhere in sight.

At the other end of the garden, Johnson barked loudly, and Trip walked down the porch steps and began to cross the lawn. There was a layer of thin fog hanging over the grass, and the cold, humid air made him shiver. If Malcolm was somewhere out here, had maybe passed out... Trip quickened his pace. Malcolm's temperature had been really high last night, and if he had woken up in the middle of the night, feverish and delirious, he could have gone anywhere without realizing where he was, or where he was going.

Walking faster still, Trip followed the small path that led from their garden towards the woods. Johnson trotted alongside him, uttering the occasional soft whine as if he was picking up on Trip's anxiety. Darkness was still lurking in between the trees, and Trip felt a new stab of worry at the sight. If Malcolm had left the path in a feverish haze, stumbling into the woods on bare feet and clad only in a pair of thin pajama bottoms and a t-shirt...

Johnson barked excitedly, and Trip raised his head. A few meters ahead, there was something dark on the path, lying half-in and half-out of a puddle of rainwater. It wasn't moving, but Trip had no doubt as to what it was. He crossed the distance in a few large strides and crouched down next to the crumpled figure of his partner, touching first his face, then his hands. Both felt icy under his fingers.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm moved slightly and moaned a little. Trip slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted him up so that he wasn't lying on the muddy ground anymore.

"Malcolm, what happened? What are you doin' out here? God, you're freezin'!"

Slowly, as if the cold were slowing them down, Malcolm's eyelids fluttered open, but only a crack.

"T-trip?"

"Yeah," Trip said, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "It's me. Why did you come out here, Malcolm?"

Malcolm blinked and raised a feeble hand to ward off Johnson, who was trying to lick his face and neck.

"I... my quarters... I had to... had to find you..."

"Find me? But I was right there with you in the bedroom, remember?"

"Had to find you," Malcolm repeated, the old stubbornness creeping into his voice, and Trip decided that the argument could wait. What could not wait, however, was getting Malcolm back inside. It was obvious that Malcolm wasn't in any condition to walk, not even if Trip supported him, and there was no way Trip would leave him here to get the flitter out of the garage.

"Malcolm, I'm gonna have to carry you," he told him, expecting angry protests and determined to ignore them. "We've got to get you back inside."

Malcolm said nothing and only blinked again, and Trip realized that the other man was more out of it than he had initially assumed; Malcolm in his right mind would never ever allow Trip or anyone else to pick him up and carry him anywhere.

I guess it's just as well, Trip thought as he got to one knee and slid his other arm under Malcolm's knees. At least he won't give me hell about this later.

His first attempt at getting to his feet failed, and he tried again, staggering as he had finally managed to straighten up with the heavy load weighing down on him. Under normal circumstances Trip doubted he would have gotten very far with Malcolm in his arms, and not only because Malcolm would have struggled out of his grip and then killed Trip for the assault on his dignity. The Englishman was naturally athletic and, in spite of his less-than-average height, certainly no "featherweight". In the past weeks, however, Malcolm had lost at least six kilos, and it was easier to carry him than it should have been.

Slowly, Johnson following closely on his heels, Trip walked down the path and past the last trees, then walked across the lawn towards the house. Malcolm's eyes had closed again, and Trip could feel him shivering in the cold wind.

"Just a few more meters," he said, not sure whether he was talking to Malcolm or himself. His arms were beginning to ache fiercely, and he swayed as he climbed the porch steps, regaining his balance a moment before he would have stumbled and fallen. Johnson had run ahead and was sitting in the kitchen, waiting with his tongue hanging out for Trip to follow him.

Trip carried Malcolm inside and shut the back door with his foot. He was no longer cold but sweating from the exertion, and thought his arms would fall off if he had to keep this up any longer. As quickly as he could with the heavy weight, he crossed the kitchen and went into the living room, where he laid Malcolm down on their large sectional couch. He would have preferred to take him straight back to bed, but there was no way he could carry him up the stairs.

Trip spread a quilt over Malcolm and quickly stroked the damp, dark hair. "Be right back, Mal. Stay, Johnny."

The dog obeyed and remained sitting next to the sofa, his nose resting on Malcolm's shoulder. Trip ran up the stairs and into their bedroom, gathering up Malolm's thick duvet and as many blankets as he could find. He was already on his way out the door when he remembered that Malcolm's pajamas were soaked with rainwater and mud from the ground he had been lying on. He deposited the duvet and blankets next to the door and returned to the bedroom, pulling Malcolm's warmest pajamas out of the closet. The bedroom he left behind was a mess, with the closet standing open and Malcolm's sleepwear strewn all over the floor, but Trip didn't even spare it a glance. He picked up the blankets and hurried back downstairs, where Johnson was still keeping a watchful eye on the sick man.

Trip walked over to the sofa and laid the pile of blankets on the floor, then sat down next to Malcolm and carefully removed the quilt so he could begin to pull off Malcolm's soaked t-shirt.

"Come on, darlin', you'll be feelin' better in no time."

Ten minutes later, Malcolm was dry and warm again, sleeping under a pile of blankets with a hot-water bottle under his feet and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Johnson had sprawled out on the carpet next to him, his tail wagging from time to time to let everybody know that he was taking good care of his human friend.

For a moment, Trip stood in front of the couch, allowing himself a moment of pure relief that he had woken up early enough, before his partner had been gone too long. The consequences of Malcolm's nightly excursion would be bad enough as it was, but maybe he had still been in time to prevent the worst. Or so he hoped.

His eyes still on the quietly snoring heap of blankets, Trip went over to the vidphone and selected a code from the directory, then punched the button to connect his call. A waiting sign appeared on the screen, and inwardly, he crossed his fingers.

Come on, be there. Please.

After a second, the image came to life, and a familiar face appeared on the screen.

"Commander?"

"Phlox," Trip said, and let out a sigh of relief. "I think we've got a problem here."

TBC...

Please let us know what you think!