UPDATED A/N: Thank you, Guest, for bringing the file screw-up to my attention. That was really not the version I meant to post. Sorry to all my readers – this is the correct one!

A/N: Thank you, everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, or favourited this story so far. I really appreciate that.

This chapter is set between 3x10 The Devil's Share and 3x11 Lethe.

Disclaimer: I only own my little family of OCs; the rest belongs to the writers of this fantastic show and the respective copyright owners.

Chapter 25: Carry You

... continued from chapter 24:

Hannah pulled John impossibly closer and buried her tear-stained face in his hair. "It's okay," she whispered. "You don't need to fight anymore."

Harold couldn't believe his ears. What is she doing? How can she be telling him to give up?

"She's not, you know," Ben's hoarse voice came from a few inches away and Harold realised that he must have spoken his thoughts out loud. "She's just giving him permission to stand down."

"What's the difference? He needs to be fighting for his life!" Harold argued, his voice unconsciously rising in volume.

Ben didn't seem to take offence, nor did he offer an explanation. He just said: "Watch."

So Harold watched.

The change didn't come right away, but after a few more minutes John weakly moved his arm, curling his fingers around Hannah's shoulder. In a heart-breaking display of total trust, the tall man let himself sag bonelessly against his sister, resting his aching head in the crook of her neck. Hannah gently cupped the back of his neck, running her thumb soothingly down the tense muscles there. As agitated as John had been just a few minutes ago, pure exhaustion was now quickly catching up with him. The breathless sobbing ceased, giving way to a quiet flow of tears. His breathing evened out, unconsciously falling into the same rhythm as his sister's, and the trembling all but stopped in her tender yet firm embrace.

Just as John appeared to be falling asleep, Hannah raised her head to give her husband and her father a meaningful look. Both knew immediately what she was trying to signal and stepped forward to help.

Suddenly the small group outside the room felt like intruders and started to withdraw, Shaw pulling Harold along with a gentleness that surprised them both. Ethan closed the door, and everything was quiet again.

Ben knelt down next to his best friend. He put a hand on his back and waited for a moment before he spoke in a very soft voice: "John, Ethan and I are going to help you back to bed, okay? You don't have to do a thing, just let us do all the work."

There was no indication that John had even heard Ben. He just kept weakly holding on to his sister, eyes open, blinking now and then, but otherwise completely still. It was as if he had shut out everything and everyone but Hannah ... maybe he had.

"All right," Ben continued in the same calm tone while he worked. "I'm going to pull you a little backwards and to the side now. Don't worry, I'll support you." John winced at the loss of contact with his sister, but she kept firm hold of his hands while manoeuvring a little to give the two other doctors room to work.

With efficient movements, so as to not jostle the severely injured man about unnecessarily, Ben and Ethan scooped John up and settled him into bed. Monitor lines, IV and oxygen back in place, the older doctor gave John's shoulder a last gentle squeeze and left.

Ben glanced at his watch. "I've got to do evening rounds, but I'll be back after that. Will you be all right on your own until then?" he quietly asked his wife when she left her brother's side for a moment to dig a pillow and blanket out of the wardrobe.

"I think so. I think he's far too exhausted to try anything else", Hannah replied with a worried look at John.

"That's actually not what I was asking." Her husband pulled her into a firm embrace, "You did an incredible thing there, taking the gun from him, stopping him from taking his own life. How are you holding up, after all of this?"

Hannah rested her head against Ben's chest and sighed deeply. "Ask me again when it's over."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

One minute he was dozing in a half-aware state, the next minute he was choking on the thick mucus that had built up in his lungs and was now forcing its way out. His body started to panic with a survival instinct kicking in, even though his mind didn't care whether he lived or died. He struggled to sit up, but his fever-muddled brain and his weakened limbs failed to coordinate properly so he ended up getting tangled in the sheets. The pitiful attempt at coughing and drawing a breath came out as a distressed gurgle that brought Hannah and Ben scrambling to his bedside.

A moment later, the ECG monitor started blaring an alarm when his heart rate and blood pressure spiked. Some distant part of his brain registered that his sister repeatedly told him to focus on her voice. He tried, he really did, valiantly struggling to remember how he had been trained to stay calm under extreme physical distress. Ben systematically pounded on his back with a cupped hand in order to loosen the mucus and at the same time remind his lungs how to breathe. The passing seconds felt like hours, but after a while his body found a rhythm of coughing, gagging and wheezing that worked well enough to expel some of the offending mucus.

The episode left him even more exhausted than before, and if it hadn't been for Hannah holding him up while Ben gave him a quick once-over to make sure all of the stitches were still in place, he would have toppled over in bed.

The worst part, though, was that the whole thing went on a repeat cycle that lasted all through the night and for most of the next day. It was so draining and painful and generally overwhelming that he found himself reduced to tears at one point. He would have been mortified, had he been able to muster the strength to care. His body was at war with his mind, and his heart was defencelessly caught in the middle.

Sitting on his bed slumped over, face buried in Hannah's shoulder, trying to control the gagging and dry-heaving that had taken over during this latest coughing fit, any capacity for rational thought had left him. "Make it stop," he begged in a choked whisper. "Please make it stop!"

Hannah sat down on the side of his bed and started running her hands along the sore muscles of his back and ribcage. "I know it doesn't feel that way, but you're almost through the worst part," she said quietly, soothingly. "Your fever's slowly starting to go down, your lungs sound a lot better than they did yesterday, and your blood tests show that the antibiotics are doing their job."

John said nothing in response, not that Hannah expected him to, but she knew he was listening. "We're doing everything we can. Just give us a little more time. Please."

Hannah continued her ministrations until Ben returned with fresh linens. Together they quickly changed the sheets and put fresh clothes on John so he could lie down again and hopefully get some much-needed rest. He seemed to have a hard time calming down, though, so Hannah sat down on the edge of his bed again, close enough for him to lean into her side, and put her arm around his shoulders.

Studying her brother's pale face, Hannah took note of every distressed line, every drop of perspiration, every dark shadow and fever-flushed patch of skin. The way he leaned into her every touch – every time she ran gentle fingers through his hair, every time she put a cool cloth on his forehead, every time her hand lingered soothingly on his dry, hot face – made painfully clear how deprived of human kindness he must have been for the past thirty years. How many times had his pain, physical or emotional, gone unacknowledged? While she had found love and warmth, safety and healing with her new parents, who had been there for him?

As if reading his wife's desolate thoughts, Ben sat down on the other side of John's bed. Reaching across to take her hand, he squeezed it for a long moment before gently placing their joint hands on John's chest right above his heart. In an embrace of sorts they framed John's head and shoulders with their free arms, carefully boxing him in. And while the injured man didn't open his eyes, he sighed softly and relaxed a little, turning his head towards his sister and curling his fingers around his best friend's arm.

It was another wordless conversation.

"You are not alone."

"Thank you."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Things calmed down a bit after that. John was able to sleep for longer stretches of time, so Hannah and Ben were able to take turns catching up on some much-needed sleep, too.

Sometime during the night, John's fever finally broke. The two doctors changed him into dry clothing and the sheets on his bed for the umpteenth time, glad to see his vital signs improved enough for him to sit in a chair while they worked.

They settled him back into bed, tucking him in and making him as comfortable as his condition and injuries allowed. Then Hannah rested her hand on the top of his head and leaned forward to place a tender kiss on his brow. "Go back to sleep," she said in a soothing voice. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Again, John didn't reply, so Hannah turned around with a quiet sigh and left, taking the dirty laundry with her.

Ben looked at John for a long moment, searching for the right words to say. In the end, he simply asked: "What is it?"

John turned to his side, towards his best friend, curling in on himself and pulling his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. "I don't know if I can do it," he said, his words so quiet that Ben strained to hear them.

"Do what?" he asked carefully, stepping closer and sitting down on the edge of John's bed.

"Pick myself up and go on."

Ben frowned. "Who says you have to?"

"Isn't that what everybody's expecting of me, now that I'm obviously not dying?" It sounded a little bitter, but most of all very, very tired.

Ben rested a hand on his best friend's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Well, I'm not everybody, but neither Hannah nor I do."

"She keeps telling me I'm gonna feel better soon. I don't even know if I want that," John admitted.

"She's talking about your physical condition, you know that, right?"

John just sighed and closed his eyes.

"John? Look at me, please."

When his brother-in-law didn't react, Ben slid off the bed, crouching down beside it so he was approximately on eye level with the other man, and put a hand on his wrist. "John? Please."

Reluctantly John opened his eyes, a little surprised to see his best friend hover so close.

"Thank you. Now please listen to me. I don't care what anyone expects of you. I don't. We don't. John, you've suffered a terrible, terrible loss and extensive physical trauma. It's gonna take time. It's gonna take time to grieve. It's gonna take time to even process what happened and to figure out how you feel. You can't put a rush on that, nor should you. Take your time. Take all the time you need. We'll be here, right beside you, even if it means sitting on the ground with you until you're ready to get up again."

John seemed to ponder that for a moment before whispering, "I don't think I could move, even if I had to."

Ben smiled sadly and gathered his best friend into a brotherly hug. "Then we'll carry you."