Author's Note:
Okay, you guys. Originally I thought this would be a one-shot, but I gotta hand it to everyone who reviewed the first part of the story and asked for more. It was your encouragement that made me go on, so thanks go out to each and every one who left a comment. I'm gonna have to see where they take the actual show to decide what I'm gonna do with my story, but for now this is where I personally imagine this is going to go.

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Chapter 2

The uninviting neon lamp above cast a cold, blue light onto the drab tiles of the women's bathroom. Its low hum was only just audible and nervously scraped at the edge of her perception. She suddenly felt ill at ease. She wasn't supposed to do this.

Sara tightened the latex glove around Michael's biceps she was using as a makeshift tourniquet, then took the cap off the needle that was fastened to an adapter for the vacutainer blood tube. It was a routine movement she hadn't performed for a long time, to gently rub the alcohol swab over the skin in the crook of his right arm. Seeing the scars on his skin close up like this, touching them, still made chills run down her spine. It didn't matter that she was wearing latex gloves.

She knew he could feel her discomfort when he softly but teasingly said, "It's not gonna hurt, right?"

She smiled a small smile. "Not if you hold still. I hope you have good veins."

"Shouldn't you know? This isn't the first time you've drawn my blood, remember?"

Involuntarily her mind wandered back to the Fox River infirmary, and somehow that didn't make it any better. There were few good memories she had of that place. She looked at his arm again. "Michael... the scars, I'm not sure if this'll—"

His voice was steady, confident. "Just do it."

She suddenly remembered that he had sat through most of his laser tattoo removal without sedatives, though it was still beyond her why he would subject himself to such torture. She breathed out a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding.

"Okay," she muttered. "This might sting a bit." The moment it was out of her mouth, she realized it was a stupid thing to say. But it was one of these automated little doctor phrases that she didn't even know were still readily available in her brain.

He didn't flinch when the needle broke his skin. She waited for the crimson liquid to pour into it, but it wasn't coming. She swore under her breath. "I'm sorry," she told him.

He gave her an encouraging smile. "It's okay."

She nervously tightened the latex glove around his arm a bit more. "Let me try again."

After the third unsuccessful try, she put the needle and tube away and got up. Agitatedly she ran her hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, Michael, I can't do this."

His gentle voice drew her eyes back to him. "You're the only one here who can do it."

She wanted to cry. Every time the needle penetrated his skin, it hurt her more than it hurt him.

"Sara. You can do this," he said again. He took the makeshift latex cuff off his arm and handed it to her. "Let's try the left arm."

She drew in a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

It was a relief to finally see his blood seep into the plastic tube. There had not been one indication that he had actually felt any pain, and she didn't know if she should be grateful for that or not. Somehow it bothered her that he was able to hide his pain so well—both physical and emotional. But who was she kidding?

When he was bending his arm, pressing a piece of gauze onto the spot of the needle puncture, she pointed to his other elbow. "You're gonna have a nice bruise there tomorrow, where I used you as a pin cushion."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "I'll live."

She smiled back. "You better."

It was all part of the game. The light banter, the smiles. They were both nervous, both on edge about what the blood results would be telling them. And both were trying to hide it as best as they could.

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Lincoln couldn't help looking at his watch. Again. It had only been five minutes since he'd last done it. Time was crawling at snail speed.

He shook his head, a futile attempt at getting his mind off Sara and the news she'd bring. Why did his brother appear like the perfect picture of calmness, and he was sitting here, going crazy? They said it would take two days to analyze the blood sample, and it had already been three days. Sara had left for Venice Beach over an hour ago. How long could it take for her to come back with Michael's blood test results?

Every time he heard a metallic clang, he automatically looked at the warehouse door, expecting it to open and Sara to enter with a smile on her face. Or a relieved expression, at least.

Lincoln's heart sank when the door finally did open and Sara walked through. He didn't care that everyone else was staring at him. They could all feel the tension in the air, but no one had yet dared ask the question. They all realized something wasn't quite right, Michael's headaches had gotten more frequent—and worse in intensity.

He concentrated on her face. Sara's expression wasn't happy or relieved. He could see she so desperately wanted to smile, but he already knew she wasn't bringing the news he wanted to hear. The brown manila envelope she was holding was the bearer of news—good or bad. It could be Michael's salvation or his death sentence.

Lincoln got up and walked towards her, meeting her halfway. Michael joined them with a few quick strides from across the room.

Bellick was the first one to pay attention to Sara's return and Lincoln's tense demeanor. He turned around to Sucre and touched his arm. "Hey," he said in an almost-whisper. "What's up with the happy family? Trouble in paradise?"

Sucre shrugged and in his Puerto Rican lilt replied, "I don't know."

"You think they're planning something?"

Always the paranoid one, Sucre thought. "Look, if it was important, I'm sure they'd tell us, right?"

"I'm telling ya, something's up. Have you noticed that Scofield isn't doing so good? Seems to have an awful lot of headaches lately, you think it's about that?"

Sucre was losing his temper. He had other things to worry about right now. "I don't know, man. Why don't you go and ask them if you wanna know so badly?"

Bellick gave him a disdainful look that seemed to spell, Yeah, right. There were an awful lot of things he wanted to say, like that they would all be doomed if they lost Scofield to this operation. As much as he hated to admit it, the man was crucial to their success and their subsequent freedom. But he bit his tongue and just snorted out a breath. Maybe Sucre was right. If something was wrong, they'd tell them. This would have to be need-to-know, wouldn't it?

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Inside the S.S. Minnow, Sara sat down on the bed, Michael and Lincoln on either side of her at a careful distance. She fingered the brown envelope she was holding and pulled out the lab results.

"It's..." she didn't quite know how to break the news.

Lincoln interrupted her. "Come on, Sara, say it. We know it's not good news. Is it the pheochromo—whatever-you-call-it thing?"

"I can't say for sure until we run more tests, but the bloodwork showed that Michael has elevated levels of epinephrine, norepinephrine and metanephrines. His urine also tested positive for noradrenaline and—"

"In English, please?" Lincoln interrupted her.

It was Michael whose soft voice cut in, "They're indications of pheochromocytoma."

Lincoln looked at Sara, who just nodded. He got up and ran a hand over his head from the back to the front, letting out a long breath, pacing in front of them. His eyes were wide and questioning, he looked from Michael to Sara. "And what now?"

She let the envelope and the papers sink into her lap. "He needs a CT so we can find out where the tumor is."

"So this is like cancer?"

"Yes and no. Pheochromocytoma can be malignant but is often benign."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that the tumor doesn't spread, it stays in one place," she tried to explain.

"So you have to take it out?"

"Not necessarily. I really can't say before we run a CT scan. I need to know where it is and how big it is. And... I'm not even a surgeon, so I can't really—" She stopped, then looked at Michael. "First thing we need to do is get your blood pressure down. There's drugs that can do that, alpha or beta blockers."

"And how do we get them?" Lincoln asked.

"That's a good question," Sara answered.

"Can't your friend prescribe them?"

She met his eyes. "She'll have to see Michael as a patient. She's already gone out on a limb, doing his bloodwork for me. I don't want to drag her into this, and... She's a pediatrician. You don't usually prescribe alpha or beta blockers to kids. People might start asking questions."

"Agent Self?" Lincoln suggested.

Sara just shrugged. They both looked at Michael, who had gone quiet, the way he did when he was thinking, trying to come up with a solution. Seeing the wheels turning in his head made them both uneasy. Why did Sara have the feeling he'd suggest breaking into a pharmacy?

They both waited with baited breath for his answer. The silence stretched on into awkwardness.

"Michael?" Sara finally inquired.

He met her gaze. The look in his eyes was unsettling because it didn't speak of the determination and confidence she had hoped to find. "Let me think about this for a while, okay?"

She nodded. He didn't have a clue either. And that scared her.

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