A/N: Thank you so much for reviewing, following, favouriting, and sticking with this story.

This chapter is set around 3x11 Lethe. That episode keeps baffling me on some level, so I tried to delve a little deeper into the complexities of John's existential crisis. This is the result; you don't have to agree with my take on this, but I'd love to hear your thoughts.

No real spoilers and warnings but a few references to previous chapters of my story, and still AU. Passages in italics are flashbacks.

Disclaimer: I only own my little family of OCs; the rest belongs to the writers of this fantastic show and the respective copyright owners. Direct quotes from the episode are indicated such.

Chapter 26: Proximity and Distance

Ben woke up in the middle of the night, not sure what had roused him. The alarm clock on his bedside table read 3:18 a.m. He turned his head to make sure he hadn't disturbed Hannah but found the space next to him empty. There was no light in the bathroom, so he assumed she had got up to check on John as usual. It had become their nightly routine over the past five days since they had brought him over from the hospital wing of the therapy centre.

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the nebuliser in John's room. While his lungs were definitely on the mend, the injured man still suffered from nasty bouts of coughing that often left him breathless. Thinking that maybe he could do something to help, Ben ran both hands through his sleep-tousled hair before sitting up and taking a sip of water from the bottle beside his bed. Then he rose, padding down the hall to look after the rest of his family.

John's room was dimly lit by a small lamp on his bedside table and smelt faintly of thyme from the tea mug that sat next to the lamp. The nebuliser was running, the mask dangling idly from John's hand. It took Ben a moment to understand why his brother-in-law wasn't using the device when it was evident that he had a hard time catching his breath. Then he saw his wife, her face pressed into her brother's shoulder, his arm curled protectively around her.

Ben felt a rush of both relief and sadness at the sight. Things had been tense between the siblings these past few days. As John slowly regained his physical health, he became increasingly restless and withdrawn at the same time. He'd been building walls while Hannah kept trying to knock them down, repeatedly banging her head in the process. Ben himself had been caught in the middle, not knowing how to reach either of them.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, unwilling to disturb them and drinking in the tender scene in front of him. Whatever had transpired between the siblings before he had entered the room, this was progress.

After a few minutes Ben knew he had to move, whether he liked it or not. John's breathing was getting worse, and a setback was the last thing they needed right now. The ill man didn't seem to notice him until he sat down beside him, taking the nebuliser mask from his hand and holding it over John's nose and mouth. "It's okay," he whispered when his best friend's free hand flew up in a defensive move. "Just keep breathing." He put a grounding hand between John's shoulder blades, reassuring the former soldier that the situation was under control.

Grateful for the support, John allowed his eyes to close and his mind to wander back to the moment Hannah had entered his room an hour ago ...

If he'd had the breath to do so, John would have cursed his weakened state that had him alternately gasping for air and coughing up the remains of his lungs while trying not to cry out in pain as the violent spasms aggravated the numerous still-healing bullet wounds around his body. On top of everything, Hannah's voice echoed through his head, calling him an idiot for refusing to take his pain medication and telling him to suit himself. He reached for the inhaler on the bedside table but only managed to knock it down to the floor when the next round of coughing had him double over in agony.

The sound of the door to his room opening barely registered with him and he jumped slightly when slender fingers gently but firmly pressed the mouthpiece of the inhaler to his lips. Next there was a cool, damp sensation on his upper arm as Hannah sprayed on an antiseptic. A slight prick, then the hypodermic needle effortlessly slid into his deltoid muscle, and out again after the contents of the syringe had been emptied. He felt his sister sit down next to him, holding him in place and running her hand up and down his back while they waited for the medication to work. Slowly both the vicious pain and the urge to cough subsided and John started to relax.

"You're an idiot." This time Hannah's voice was not in his head, but it sounded sad, not angry or disappointed. "Why do you keep trying to hurt yourself?"

John was about to repeat what he had said earlier about his aversion to pain medication, but something about her words, or rather the way she had said them, gave him pause. While he mulled this over, Hannah pressed a mug of tea into his hands that smelled strongly of thyme and faintly of honey. "Small sips, slowly," she instructed softly, keeping one hand on the mug just in case.

"Thyme tea," he said upon tasting the hot liquid. "Mum used to make that whenever we had a cold," he added with a small smile. "I used to hate that stuff, but now I kinda love it."

For a moment the siblings just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the fond memory. Then, after a long moment, John said: "I'm not trying to hurt myself, Hannie. I just–"

Hannah stiffened beside him. "What?" With the distinct feeling of having missed something, John started to sift through what he remembered of the past few days. Scraps of images flashed through his mind, most of them foggy. Suddenly what little colour he had drained from his face and his heart slammed painfully against his ribcage. "What did I do?" he whispered, horrified. "Did I really–?"

Stalling for time, Hannah extracted the tea mug from his limp fingers, replacing it with the nebuliser mask. Then she looked up, straight into his eyes. "Yes, you did. But you were so out of it from the fever and the pain, I think you didn't realise what you were doing."

John closed his eyes, only to be confronted with one more memory. With a hoarse gasp he gathered his sister into his arms, burying his face in her hair. "I'm so sorry, Hannah," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I did that to you, and I am sorry you had to do that."

Her arms came around him and she squeezed as tightly as she dared. "Just promise me you won't try again. Ever."

For the longest time, the hum of the nebuliser and their combined breathing was all that could be heard in the stillness of the room. Then the timer on the machine beeped and Ben quietly moved about, putting away the equipment and giving John a quick once-over without disturbing the siblings in their embrace. He was loath to break them up, but he could see that his best friend's limited energy reserves were depleted. "Come on," he finally said in a low voice, "let's make you a little more comfortable, shall we?"

Hannah raised her head slowly, like waking from a long sleep, and wiped her tear-stained face with her right hand. "Sorry," she mouthed, moving away a little so Ben had space to work as he settled John back into bed.

"Wait," John whispered hoarsely when the two doctors took a step away from the bed, obviously intending to let him go back to sleep.

"What is it?" Ben asked softly. "Do you need anything?"

John shook his head. "No. I just ... I'm ... Thank you ... for not giving up on me. I don't know where I'd be without you."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The tension lessened, the restlessness increased. Being able to move about and do more every day helped a little, but it became painfully clear to John that he had reached a dead end. He would start trying to figure out where to go from here, only to find himself paralysed, mainly with fear and pain, unable to think past taking the next breath. Everything hurt. Everything was numb.

Ben and Hannah didn't seem alarmed; they called it grief. John knew they were right; he also realised that he didn't know how to grieve. He never had. His default reaction to loss was anger – anger, action, and escape, to be precise. Fight, then flight. It was paradoxical, really, but he didn't know anything else.

Something was different this time around, though. He wasn't alone. And in this, he discovered another paradox: a need for proximity and distance at the same time. As much as the discovery surprised and puzzled him, he found that Hannah and Ben seemed to sense his need and had no trouble at all giving him both. They were always there, always approachable but never putting him centre stage – taking care of him when needed, freely giving affection and providing comfort but not smothering him. Amidst all the pain and confusion of losing Joss, he still found it in himself to admit that with his sister and brother-in-law, he felt safe and loved.

Despite all that, he was still struggling to get through each day, hour by hour. The nights were the worst. The memory of Joss dying in his arms kept replaying in his mind in hauntingly vivid detail until his body succumbed to sheer exhaustion and he fell asleep – only to be forced to relive the same scene in his nightmares which inevitably ended with him waking up drenched in sweat and tears. Without fail, Ben or Hannah were by his side when he did, wordlessly helping him through the aftermath, sometimes staying long enough to fall asleep by his bedside. He hated to be such a disruption to their lives while at the same time he was insanely grateful for them just being there.

Three weeks after The Night found John venturing outside to the stables for the first time. Winter was in the air, had been for a few days now, which was why the two doctors had insisted he wait for a relatively dry day for his outing, so as not to overtax his still-healing lungs. Though his legs still felt like rubber, John enjoyed being outdoors. He slowly walked across the yard, past the paddocks and into the stable, straight to the box that held his horse Sunny. "Hey there," he greeted the chocolate Rocky Mountain mare. "Remember me?"

The mild-mannered animal gave a soft snort in response and proceeded to rub her head against his shoulder. John smiled, stroking her warm neck with one hand and digging into his pocket with the other. "Here you go," he said, pulling out some carrots and holding them out for her to grasp with nimble lips. The mare gently nudged his arm to see if he would produce some more treats, as he often did. "Sorry," he apologised. "I already had to nick these from Hannah's pantry. She's not gonna be happy if I take her apples, too."

Sunny nodded her head as if understanding what he was talking about and nuzzled his coat. "Sorry I've been away for so long," he continued, his voice much quieter now. "It's been a rough few weeks." The mare snorted again, swinging her head over his shoulder and pulling him in. He'd seen the move many times before, mostly in mares with their foals, but he'd never been on the receiving end of it. It was strangely comforting. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around his horse's neck and resting his face against the soft fur there. "Joss is gone," he whispered, for the first time actually saying the words. "She's dead, and I don't know what to do without her."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

In retrospect, Harold knew he only had himself to blame for John up and leaving. He should have waited until he was ready to come back, or at least talk to him – but Sameen Shaw and Samantha Groves were driving him up the wall and he was desperate to have his friend back. Still, turning up at the therapy centre unannounced was clearly not one of his most brilliant ideas. Because when John saw him, he went into a full-blown panic attack. The whole episode ended with Ben bodily dragging his best friend from the room while Hannah told Harold in no uncertain terms to leave and wait for any of them to contact him when and only when they saw fit.

Harold made a hasty retreat, but not without leaving a large nondescript manila envelope on their kitchen table. He would wait. He owed that much to John.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The kitchen table was exactly where Ben found Hannah early the next morning when he got home from his night shift. She had been crying, but she looked more sad than upset. There were two empty tea mugs on the table, and her hands rested on the envelope from Harold. It didn't take long for Ben to put two and two together.

"He's gone then?" he asked, sitting down next to his wife and taking her hand.

Hannah nodded in reply. "Yeah. Left at the break of dawn." She stifled a sob. "At least he said good-bye this time."

Ben put an arm around her shoulders. "Did he talk to you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then you know he'll come back."

John was just about to pour the tea when Hannah padded into the kitchen, a little bleary-eyed and cheeks still slightly flushed from sleep. "You're up early," she yawned and gave him a sideways hug. "Couldn't sleep again?"

"Mmh." That was all she got for an answer, but a mug of hot, aromatic tea materialised in her hands.

Hannah took a sip and leant back against the sink. Only then did she notice that John was wearing street clothes, including coat and boots. Within seconds she was wide awake. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

She blinked, and blinked again. "You're not talking about your apartment, are you?"

Her brother had the decency not to look surprised. "No."

Hannah nodded, taking another sip of her tea. Then she asked quietly, "Why now?"

"Gotta figure out a few things."

"This have anything to do with yesterday?"

John didn't reply, and in a way that was all the answer she needed. "I get that you're not ready to go back to work, but–"

"It's more than that," her brother cut in, not unkindly. He reached for the envelope on the table and handed it to Hannah. It was heavier than it looked and contained a plain but elegant photo album. "Go on. Have a look," he encouraged her quietly.

Even the first picture brought tears to her eyes. It was a snapshot of Joss and John sitting at a table in a café, smiling fondly at each other. They looked at ease ... even happy.

She turned page after page, a documentation of a friendship too deep for words, a beautiful but painful reminder of what might have been.

"Do you know what her last words were?" John's question was barely audible, but his voice was steady.

Hannah looked up, still fighting tears, shaking her head no.

"'Don't let this change you.'"

For a few moments it was perfectly quiet in the room. Hannah's eyes went back to the last picture in the album, a photograph of Joss and John dancing at the wedding, and the cruelty of it all came crashing down on her.

She was about to slam the album shut when John's fingers slid onto the page, tenderly tracing Joss' face in the picture. "I really want to honour her last wish, but I don't know how to be that man without her."