Dear reader, there was a blip with chapter 7

Oh my goodness...

I can only apologise... some of you have been eagerly awaiting an update to this story only to find that I had accidentally re-posted a chapter from an earlier part of the House Call series... I have fixed the error (so now the correct chapter is up - go read it now!) but someone very kindly reviewed and mentioned the glitch and I can't reply to them as they are a guest - so now I have decided that this is probably the best way to deal with this mic mac. I am so sorry!

As compensation, here is an early posting of chapter 8 - a whole week early! If you read chapter 7 you may want to just read it again to make sure you had the correct version. So sorry!

I can only blame a pretty hectic week of craziness... apologies!

Spot, out.


He was bone tired. Filthy, hungry, thirsty; exhausted. He walked through the front door, the security system recognising his face, thankfully. He dropped his kit bag on the floor just on the threshold, and stumbled forward until he hit the nearest place to sit. He flopped down, his body unable to support him any longer. He was covered in dust, a fine smattering of fine blue and orange powder adorned his clothes, he couldn't get rid of it. He'd tried to wash it away, brush himself down. He was filthy. It wouldn't do. It would go on his record if he didn't pass the uniform check.

He smiled at her transfixed. After a moment, he closed his eyes, allowed himself to tune into his senses, he could hear the boys milling about, could feel the her weight next to him, the familiar scent of home. Then, before long, he could hear a tricorder working next to him, feint tones of alarm he knew would correspond to his terrible condition.

"Sir… sir… please come with me." Said a gentle voice. He didn't recognise it. He didn't know where he was. Perhaps he'd known a moment ago, but now he wasn't so sure.

His vision was blurred, he couldn't quite make out who was speaking to him. "Pardon? I was just talking to…" but he couldn't remember who had been with him just now. "Has she gone?" he asked, confused.

"It's okay sir, please." The gentle voice took hold of him under the elbow, guiding him in an unexpected direction.

"Where are you taking me?"

"We're just going to let you have a little rest." It said, placating him. "Wouldn't you like to lay down?"

"But… I was just talking to the… that woman… did you see her?" he asked forgetting who and where. "Wasn't I… somewhere…" he stopped in his tracks. "Where am I ensign?"

Then there was a hypo at his neck, the owner of the voice swam into focus briefly. "It's okay Sir, just have a seat there… that's it, lean right back."

He stared at the young woman trying to persuade him to sit down. Did he know her? He squinted, his vision blurring and fading around the edges. "Who are you? Where…"

Then he slept. Dreams assailed his rest, images of a musty room, then a bright clinical one. Dark or damp, bright, or dry… the atmosphere not right either way. A thick fecund smell was stuck in his nostrils. And his head was banging with the rhythm of his pulse.

He dropped his head into his hands. He'd been bouncing from craft to craft for weeks – a freighter crewed by some of the galaxy's least desirables, a few days on a carrier, another few stowed away in the cargo bay of a runabout of dubious origin, and then another transport… somewhere. At least, he thought he had been. That seemed like the most rational explanation… for this…

"Where have you been? I've missed you Beverly." He said and she smiled at him tenderly. She put her fingers to her lips, indicating for him to be quiet but he couldn't stop speaking. He'd missed her, had he told her that? "Where did you go?"

He woke, sitting bolt upright suddenly. He rubbed at his shoulder with one hand, and his knee with the other, trying to rid himself of the gnawing aching that had become a constant companion of late. He'd dislocated both some time back, he'd managed to pop them back in place himself but he knew neither was sitting quite right. He released a low groan, he was supposed to keep quiet, she'd said so, but his shoulder was burning at him.

Before long, he felt his eyelids drooping. It felt so good to be home, surrounded by the familiar, just comfortable, home. He gave in, closed his eyes… just a few seconds… he'd go and shower… any moment now…


They'd sent an audio-only message on the first day that had only just made it through. She listened as the doctor aboard the Phoenix had listed all the crimes enacted upon him by the Xhand. That message had been recorded four days ago and now the ship was nearer, she sat at her terminal, waiting for a real-time and visual subspace call to connect. She was trying to absorb the horrific news of the first message while she waited… Deanna had told her that only the Captain of the Phoenix and Worf, knew his identity. She wasn't to refer to him by name, nor herself. The med staff were not included in need to know protocols. It was a lot to handle, the delayed news, the catch-up, the protocol… she just wanted to see him with her own eyes.

When the call finally connected, she could do no more than stare at him. For a brief moment, she thought there had been a terrible mistake. It wasn't him… couldn't be him. He looked nothing like the man she knew so well.

He'd been aboard for four days. They had healed most of his wounds, the various injuries he'd endured without treatment for months… years. She knew from the first message that he was weak, that he had been in a precarious mental state when he'd been transferred… the counsellor they had aboard must have been treating him ferociously. Would he be now cognizant of where and when he was? There had been periods of total delirium. He hadn't know which way was up. She'd waited barely daring to breathe.

"Beverly…" he said hoarsely breaking the impasse. He sounded tired, he looked terrible, but there was no doubt, as soon as he spoke, it was him. In the back of her mind, she heard him say her name…

"Jean-Luc…" she was lost for words. She couldn't keep her eyes off him. She visually inspected every inch of him that she could see through the screen. Then she realised she had said his name aloud, as he had said hers...

He smiled at her transfixed. After a moment, he closed his eyes, barely finding the energy to contend with the fact he was talking to her for real. He allowed himself to tune into the safety of his memories, something he had given up on months ago. For a moment, he felt… happy. Reality intervened as he opened his eyes and found himself to be in sick bay of the Phoenix.

With an audible groan, he suddenly moved. He pushed his arms against the bed, heaving his exhausted body to an upright position.

"Steady…" she said through subspace, her arms flinching reflexively as though she could reach out and help him.

"I'm okay..."

"We thought… they told us…" she stammered, unable to verbalise the thousand questions she had.

He winced as he got himself into a more comfortable position. He licked the corner of his mouth and felt for the now healed split lip he'd been guarding for the last few days. "What were you told?" he asked, bracing himself for the reply he feared.

"That you and the crew of the Apollo had been killed in an explosion on Xhandria. That the Xhand forces had reacted badly to the attempt at first contact? My God, Jean-Luc… it's really you." She finished, wishing beyond anything ever before that she could touch him. He looked like he would snap if she did anything more than scan him visually from a distance.

"Huh…" he managed. He wasn't sure how to explain the last few months.

Fortunately, he didn't have to try. The call cut out and a stern adjutant reminded her of the classified status of this mission. She was to refrain from referring to any further detail. She was to stick to more immediate topics. Failure to comply would result in no further allowable contact. They were listening…

In a second, the call reconnected. Beverly watched silently as the doctor who she assumed had been treating him guided him back against the pillows then moved in front of the visual input. He didn't fight it…

"My name is Doctor Enjetti. I've been treating our friend here since his recue, I thought you might like to talk?"

She still couldn't take her eyes off him. She could see he was exhausted, even through the screen she could see his eyes were growing heavy. His body was relaxed to the point of being absorbed by the bed he was in. They'd stacked cushions around him, used what looked like an incredible comforter – they'd tried to make him as comfortable as possible. They must have felt like they owed him… like he'd shatter if they didn't try to bolster him. He looked peaceful at least...

"I would… please. I need to… I don't want…" she said.

"I'm sure we can talk now, our patient has just received further pain medication and he is now likely to sleep."

Beverly could see a medic finishing with a hypospray, trying to calm him by placing a hand on his chest. She saw him flinch and turn his head to the medic, shocked then watched as his body relaxed even further, and his eyes drew to a close.

"As you can see, the patient is now sleeping, we can talk freely."

"What have you got him on?"

"20ccs Naxontin every three hours for the pain. 50ccs relaxatrin to complement that. And 60ccs vectrin to assist with the counselling process. You are a medic I presume?"

Beverly nodded, "I see… and he's tolerating all of it?"

"He is. We started with Tracsotin but it seemed to increase his agitation. He's tolerating Naxotin much better. We're taking good care of him."

"I know… I know… Has he been up and about?"

"Yes, there has been some sleepwalking. His more physical activities have tended to be... unplanned shall we say."

"Oh..."

"And you are ready to hear about the injuries?"

She nodded, she'd been bracing herself for this moment, "Please."

"I can't sugar-coat this Doctor. I'm afraid this will not be welcome news." Beverly nodded again, she couldn't verbalise her thoughts, but she knew she couldn't wait much longer. "The patient has clearly been tortured. That much is now very obvious to us. He has endured extended periods of intense beatings with breaks to most bones that have healed without being set – sometimes several breaks to the same bone. When he was recovered, he arrived with a severely misshapen broken arm, an infected open wound to his stomach, severe mental distress, multiple areas of soft-tissue damage… his injuries were severe."

"I see…"

"I'm afraid there is one injury that we did not mention in our initial report."

"Please…"

"There is significant scarring to his back. I can only conclude that a hot instrument was used to brand some sort of symbol on him, multiple times. I'm sorry… I know this must be very hard to hear."

"It's okay…" Beverly replied with a whisper. It wasn't okay, it absolutely wasn't. She just needed to hear it all in plain English, strangely glad for the familiarity of the medical report.

"All of his physical injuries are now completely healed. Unfortunately, the scar on his back will likely take several months of treatment. In addition, due to the extended period of incarceration, and the lack of medical treatment, I think it is unlikely he will regain his previous condition and fitness. I am sorry to say that I would expect our friend will suffer the effects of his incarceration for a long time. I wish I could tell you otherwise."

She'd known… the instant the initial report had come through. They could do so much these days, but if a patient didn't receive timely care there really were some pretty tight limitations to what they could achieve. It didn't matter though… he was coming home. She could see him right there in front of her. Branding… she couldn't even process that right now… Whatever state he was in, they'd cope. He was coming home… It was really happening.