Chapter 11

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The sound of hushed voices drifted in and out of John's consciousness like the swooshing waves of an ocean. With each new surge the voices grew louder and the words slowly started to make sense.

"... wants to talk with him," one of the voices - male and soft spoken - said.

"Maybe he should have thought of that before he had you and your men nearly kill him!" another voice replied, not pleased. The second voice was also male, deeper than the first one and with a throatiness that spoke of much use and too many cigarettes over the years. "Tell him I will let ..."

The voices grew distant once more, turning into a soft background hum. Feeling slowly crept back into Reese's limbs. He was laying down, with his head resting on something soft. Spikes of pain pulsed through his head along with his heart beat. He felt nauseous and each thumb of pain seemed to increase his stomach's desire to empty itself of its meager contents.

Next his ribs and left knee began to remind him all too eagerly that some parts of his body had rapidly met with unyielding materials. Sore didn't even begin to describe how he felt. Nevertheless years of training had taught him to ignore his discomforts, and to push the pain to the very back of his mind.

Where the hell was he? And what had happened?

John's efforts at raking his brain succeeded in dredging up disjointed pieces of memories - a Number, a car chase, a gun fight - but it also caused his headache to up its game as well. His eyebrows involuntarily knitted together and his breathing intensified - and he knew he had given himself away.

"I think he's actually already coming around," the second voice - the older one - said, undercurrents of surprise raising its pitch.

John expected that that realization would be followed by efforts of expediting his awakening - like yelling and/or slapping his cheeks - but nothing happened. Instead he kept on breathing deeply through the waves of pain, working on calming down his upset stomach.

Knowing from experience that opening his eyes now would be a rather unpleasant experience, Reese was tempted to just follow the darkness that still lurked around the edges of his consciousness. Yet he dismissed that thought quickly. So far he'd only managed to figure out the 'what happened'-part - well, mostly. He was still severely lacking information as to where the hell he was. The only thing he was sure of was that he was definitely not in one of Finch's safe-houses.

Blinking his eyes slowly open his optic nerves were immediately attacked by rays of light which sent in re-enforcements to the angry army of woodpeckers chipping away at his brain. He blinked a few more times, willing his eyes to stay open and eventually stared at a lazily spinning, clean, white ceiling.

Well, that ruled out rundown warehouses or damp and badly lit cellars - places he had sadly become accustomed to waking up in with a headache and sketchy memory. It wasn't a hospital either. For that it was too quiet and the telltale smell of disinfectant was also missing.

Sensing movement to his right John tensed, only to realize that his arms and legs were restrained, rendering him practically immobile. And defenseless.

His heart rate immediately sped up, pumping adrenaline-drenched blood through his system and chasing away the last remains of fog clouding his brain. As he fought against his restraints he became aware of a twinge in the crook of his left elbow. He turned his head and his eyes followed an IV-tube snaking its way from his arm towards a bag filled with a clear liquid hanging above his head. John started to really not like where this was going. He knew that there could be a very logical and harmless reason for the IV - he had been pretty banged up by that car collision and subsequent fight after all - but in his line of work the ex-op had learned to trust his paranoid side. And that side was reminding him that there was a great variety of drugs that would make him more talkative or lower his pain tolerance.

"Relax," the second voice said - closer now. A grey-haired head with a wrinkly-skinned face appeared in John's field of vision, looming over him. "I'm a doctor. I don't want to hurt you."

Not yet anyway, Reese thought, well aware that doctors and their knowledge of the human anatomy made for excellent torturers. Recognizing that burning his energy on fighting his bonds seemed to be futile at the moment, he allowed his muscles to relax and his body sank back into the mattress. He rolled his head to the side, trying to get a better sense of his surroundings.

In a way the room John found himself in reminded him of Finch's make-shift ER at one of his safe-houses. Clearly built with a different purpose in mind, it had been converted into a small hospital room, complete with a hospital grade bed, several monitors, IV-stands and what looked like a dialyses machine. Only the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with hundreds of hardcovers and the dusty fireplace belied its once intended purpose.

The blinds of the two big windows were drawn, but enough light still slipped through the slits to provide Reese with some sense of what time of day it was and how much time had passed. More than he would have liked.

There seemed to be only one exit and it was currently guarded by two muscular and no-nonsense-looking men dressed in familiar black BDU's.

"You've got a pretty nasty laceration on your left temple," the doctor said, drawing Reese's attention back to him. "It needed twelve stitches, and judging by the swelling and bruising I'd say your head got pretty knocked around. I'm going to be shining a light into your eyes. Please try not to flinch."

Armed with a pen-light the doctor raised the head of the bed and bent forward, getting close enough for John to pick up the smell of cold cigarette smoke off his clothes. The doctor stared intensely at his patient while alternately shining the light into the ex-op's eyes. Eventually he switched it off and leaned back. Reese blinked - dots of light continuing to dance in his vision for a few more seconds.

"That didn't look that bad." The doctor leaned forwards again, this time holding up a finger. "Would you please try following this?" he asked, slowly moving his digit form left to right and back again. "Good."

This was really odd. In John's experience people who chased, captured and tied him down usually weren't that concerned with his well-being. And he especially did not expect this treatment from the mob if Louis's story was to be believed. However Reese's suspicion that their Number was full of crap was more and more creeping past 'gut-feeling' and into 'certainty' territory.

"You've got a concussion," the doctor continued. "Which I think really isn't that surprising. You've also got a few bruised ribs but I did not feel any broken bones during my initial exam. So does anything else hurt besides your head and chest? Any nausea?"

Reese gave the question a few seconds of consideration. It probably would be easier to list the body parts that didn't hurt, but the aches and pains that his body seemed solely to be consisting of at the moment didn't indicate any major injury. His knee was still throbbing, but he wasn't about to admit that. Shaking his head he croaked, "No," and swallowed to lubricate his parched vocal chords. "I'm fine."

The doctor raised an eyebrow and pierced his patient with a stern glare, clearly not believing it for a second. John could only guess by the stinging of fresh cuts and bruises on his face and the persistent feeling of slight nausea that he probably looked far from fine. But when he failed to cower under the doctor's glare the man sighed and gave up.

"Well from what I've heard - and compared to the other patients I've had the pleasure of treating tonight - you were pretty damn lucky then."

The doc turned around to rummage within his black leather bag, which he'd placed on a chair beside the bed, freed a vial filled with a clear liquid and a syringe from its depths, and expertly filled the hypodermic with the liquid. Despite his best efforts to remain calm John felt himself tense. Sensing his patient's agitation the older man put his hand on Reese's shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a calming gesture. It didn't work.

The heat of the man's palm immediately and uncomfortably seeped through the thin fabric of the scrubs Reese still wore. "Relax," he said, while John's eyes never left the needle. "I'm just going to give you something for your headache and ribs." The doctor pushed up the shirt's short sleeve and wiped the exposed skin with an antiseptic.

"I don't ...," John started to say, but ignoring his patient's protest the doc injected the drug into the ex-op's bloodstream in one fluid motion.

"There. That should also ease the nausea." He gave John a pointed look that clearly said that Reese had not managed to fool the man, and dropped the syringe into a waste basket. "With rest you should be fine, but if the headache and nausea get any worse or you experience trouble breathing I want you to see a doctor right away. Understood?"

Reese stared at the man's stern expression. He was definitely missing some important piece of information. So far the fact that he was tied down to a bed - possibly being drugged and guarded by two fellas who looked like they'd enjoy slowly ripping him apart limb by limb - didn't really instill the feeling that he would get the chance to see a doctor again. He eventually nodded his agreement and the man shot him another doubtful look.

Mumbling something under his breath the medic proceeded to take the IV-needle out of John's arm. "What was that?" Reese asked, keeping his tone only mildly interested.

"Just some saline solution to boost your fluid balance. Nothing to worry about." Well, John figured he'd know soon enough if that was the truth, although he didn't really have a reason to doubt the man. He did seem genuinely concerned about his patient.

The doctor finished bandaging Reese's arm, packed his things back into his leather bag and walked over to the door, speaking to one of the guards. "Ideally he ought to rest, but if you promise to be deferential to his condition, then I don't see a reason why he couldn't talk to him."

The guard turned a pair of emotionless, icy blue eyes on the doctor. "Thank you," he said flatly, eyes cutting to the man on the bed. "We'll take it from here."

Oh yes. This is where the fun begins.

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To be continued...