A/N: Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed so far. I really hope everyone enjoys this chapter. It was a bit of a challenge for me to write, but I made it through.

Warning: uses of the 'f word', thoughts of dying.

"Hey, Captain, stay with me!"

What's that? I feel sticky as I see Bill's head above me. I feel like waving, but moving my arm just isn't...appealing.

Then, I feel a searing pain along my left shoulder as I try and shift. How have I not felt it until now?

"It's okay, you'll be fine."

I wonder past the pain if it's just me, or Bill sounds more frightened than I feel. He sounds fuzzy in my ears and he doesn't look like usual, which, frankly, is terrifying.

Then, I turn my head, and I see it; an entrance wound on the left, a deep, white hole under my skin. My eyes take in the discoloration of the sand. I suddenly realize that I might not live through this.

The sand isn't supposed to be this dark. It's grainy, coarse; not sticky and rich. This is bad, that doesn't belong there; there shouldn't be a puddle of gray here...

"Watson, everything's under control. Carter!" Murray gestures to my right. "Radio Medevac; now!"

Murray sounds muffled, but I can feel his breath ghosting over my face; the feeling is unpleasant. It tickles my cheeks then trickles down my spine, and it's only making me feel colder. Wetter.

I don't like it.

I hear something through the ringing, now, something much louder than anything Bill could produce. I glance around frantically, trying not to turn because I know I'll just start burning. Then the burn will abate, and I'll feel chilled. A deep, endless cycle. A full, fiery, chilly, unpleasant circle.

"Watson! Stick it out and just look at me!"

My eyes gradually lock onto Bill, and the way he looks isn't an expression I want to see ever again. It looks like he's having his insides ripped out, but the pain is just so much that he can't feel it, doesn't mind it.

I wonder if I look the same.

"You gotta stay with me, John."

No Captain, or Watson; just John, and I realize he's scared. I am too, or I think I am.

Bill applies pressure to my shoulder and, God, it hurts like bloody hell. I writhe beneath his fingers, trying to get the burning to dissipate or do something if only so the ache will go away. His hands steady me, though, and I feel something cold bite into my flesh.

"Shhh, I'll get it out; don't you worry."

I'm not worried, but it hurts. It hurts so fucking much that my tongue is bleeding from trying to bite back a scream, or a sob, or a whimper, or a something. I clench my fists in a vain attempt to calm myself, but my fingernails dig into my palms so forcefully they bleed.

"John, don't you dare give out on me!"

My eyes flit open, and every little thing feels so huge now. I can feel the flutter of my eyelashes against my cheeks. The pulse of my heart through my pounding head. The pool of blood seeping into my uniform. The feel of grains of sand scattered in my hair. Everything is so magnified.

I'll miss it all.

"You can't fucking pass out on me!"

I'm left with the tingle of a slap, and I realize this is the first time Bill has ever cursed; maybe I should feel flattered.

Sleep sounds so good right now, so I just lay my head against the warm sand, soaking up all of the sun I can. Maybe the sun can quell the queasiness of my stomach, or my lightheadedness. Then again, all I can feel is cold clawing its way over my body.

You would think it would be overly hot when you die, all of the blood pouring from your warm and insulated body. I just feel cold, though. My blood feels frigid and it snakes under my palms and rubs itself along my back. Everything is so cold.

There the pliers are, deep in my shoulder, nipping at my skin, and then, oh, the warmth I feel when a shard is removed.

It's glorious.

"Keep your eyes open, Watson."

Were my eyes shut? How didn't I notice? I blink lazily, seeing the sun eclipsed by Murray's concentrated face. I'm glad to have Bill, otherwise I would probably already be dead. Bleeding out and letting a gray puddle soak beneath me and into the sand.

I sense another sharp sting again as the tool is lodged back in my shoulder, and I look at it this time, despite my better judgement. The metal glints in the sun, and I hear myself hiss as he yanks the pliers from inside.

Another shard dislodged.

"Please...God...," I grit through my teeth. It feels like blood is bubbling up from my throat and I'm gargling, choking on it, but then I realize it all just feels dry. "Let me...live..."

"You won't fucking die on me, John!" Another curse. "Stanley! Get your ass over here, and cover us!"

I sense the pounding boots more than hear them as I'm drowned by Stanley's shadow. I feel a sudden cold rush over me again, and the pliers being dug back into my flesh doesn't help.

Please, God, can I be accepted into heaven now? Is this hell I'm enduring? This is so fucking awful I can barely stand it, and I just want some solace, or warmth, or something solid! Just throw me a bloody bone, please-

"Carter! Get over hear, now! I need more cover!"

What's even the bloody point of covering me now? Am I such precious cargo I can't have the happiness of dying? I just want to feel warm again.

I scream as Bill pulls another shard from my skin, placing it again on the tray beside me. I squint at it, and there are so many I don't feel like counting.

I feel queasy again as my vision fades slightly. I rapidly blink, trying to keep awake.

"There should only be a few more, Captain..." (Bill's voice wrenches my eyes open, which I'm grateful for.) He says it softly, almost as if he thinks he needs my forgiveness to rationalize the pain he knows he's putting me through. I don't really care about the pain, or how it started; I just want it to stop.

I growl as the pliers bite back into my shoulder, scouring for another clip of the bullet. The tool waggles around, digging in so deep I think it might touch the bone there.

I want to throw up and just not look, but it's so difficult to turn away, so I close my eyes. But then, the complete darkness of my vision swallows me, and I'm terrified. I don't want this to be the last thing I see; I hope there's an afterlife, not just for my sake, but for all of the other deceased soldiers sprawled along the battlefield.

I try and drown out the pain, reopening my eyes. I can discern the bodies in the distance, caked with such a dark, thick-looking gray, so much so that they look drowned. They're the ones Bill and the others couldn't get to. The ones left behind.

"Nurse, the chopper is landing!"

"Oh, God, yes; we're leaving soon, John."

I try to smile, but it's interrupted as Bill wrenches another fragment from beneath my skin. Then, he quickly plunges the tool back in. My eyes sting for a moment, and I bite into my bottom lip.

Finally, the next shard pulls out. Murray smiles at me, and I suddenly feel the whole difference; the bullet is gone. All of it.

A sudden euphoria washes over me so strongly that my face breaks into a faltering grin. I refrain from moving the rest of my body, though, because I don't want that blaring ache to return just yet. I want to celebrate accordingly.

"We're leavin', Cap'n." Bill's voice is so relieved, so overtly happy as he calls,"Get the stretcher over hear! Gun shot wound to the left shoulder; shattered fragments have been removed!"

I observe the medics as they carry a gurney over to me, their clunky boots hammering against the terrain. It's an oddly reassuring sound after having such a long, loud, low ringing in your ears.

I wince slightly as they shrug me onto the soft cotton of the stretcher, my shoulder bouncing painfully. The four of them, one woman and three men, look apologetic as they continue to move my sensitive body.

Completely on the gurney, I suddenly feel dizzy as they swiftly clamor to the Black Hawk a short distance away. I register the stomp of feet as I stiffly turn my head again to look at my fallen comrades one last time.

"You'll be alright."

I turn to Bill, him showing a small smile as he trails beside the stretcher. There's still a dull ache in my shoulder, and the pain sometimes sky rockets, but I'll survive.

I lay my head down completely as I'm hulled onto the helicopter; considering what I just went through, I feel like I deserve a breather.

Splotches of gray nip at the edges of my closed eyes, licking at the darkness as if it's their sustenance. I have the awareness to register it, but I don't really mind.

The dull ache in my shoulder seems to fade away as the voices of the medics and sounds of the helicopter trail off. The last thing I register is the sound of the helicopter's blades ripping through the air, destroying the sound barrier.

Then there's nothing.

A/N: Any feedback or critism is definitely appreciated. Suggestions or questions are also welcome. (Sorry, bit of a short chapter. I thought it fitting to end it where I did, though.)