Disclaimer: Now here's a surprise… I don't own NCIS: LA or any of its characters. If I did Callen would get hurt more often and would wear a thigh holster in every episode.

A/N: I have to apologize; when I said the story was complete I didn't mean that was the last of it. Only that I have all the chapters in my possession and ready to be posted but I was hoping for more reviews. On that note, there are still two more chapters after this one and from here on things are from Callen's perspective. Anyways, here you go…

Callen's return to the land of the living. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

With the job he chose, long hours of sleep weren't always part of the deal, and he was fine with it. Normally he needed but a few hours to be functional, but right then and there he didn't want to wake up.

It felt like one of those days when you know you're awake but refuse to open your eyes. Choosing to hug the covers, roll on your side and wait, hoping sleep will claim you again. It didn't happen often, which pretty much sent an alert of what was happening to him. He didn't need to smell the antiseptic in the air, hear the machines working and he definitely didn't need to feel the pull of the needles under his skin to know he was in a hospital. He really didn't want to know about other intruding objects there had to be. He felt heavy like his limbs had become lead weights; even if he tried raising a finger he wouldn't know if he succeeded. He's not entirely sure about what happened, but the world can wait until he's ready to deal with it. Darkness had been lurking, waiting for its chance to pull him back, and he let it.

He had fragments of words and distorted images as the only memories from his in and out of the battle for consciousness. This time, reality was slowly making itself known, leaving the darkness and numbness behind. Forcing his eyes open, he wasn't prepared for the brightness of the room that assaulted him. A roar of pain reverberated throughout his entire body when he attempted sitting up.

Fire burned red hot in his arm and his gut. His skin felt tighter than a drum, and his muscles could be made out of jello for all he knew. It was a slight movement, but it caused him complete and utter agony. He could feel his heart hammering out of control inside his chest, and his blood thumping frenetically in his veins.

It was becoming hard to breathe, he tried greedily to take in oxygen, but there was something in the way. That's when he realized he couldn't breathe because there was an object stuck inside his throat. He was choking on it. Alarms started blaring but he didn't care, all he wanted was someone to turn on the air and off the pain.

Suddenly a sweet voice breaks through the confusion and pain he's experiencing. The first thing he sees is a silhouette checking the machines. He's already in huge amounts of pain so he risks moving his head to the other side just a fraction and sees a nurse injecting something in the IV. She has the blackest hair he's ever seen, and when she looks at him he stares at her pleadingly, unable to form words. Make it stop!

She tells him everything is going to be fine and he wants to believe her, but he's always been the glass half-empty kind of guy. The frantic sounds begin to subside to their normal dull mode, but his breathing is still off.

"You need to slow down your breathing," she says, and he tries, but each fast breath felt like a blade shredding his lungs.

"Just breathe as you would do normally. I assure you it's there to help you," she repeats and he compiles.

"That's it… you're doing perfect." The cheering wasn't necessary but her voice has the interesting effect of calming him. He looks into her dark green eyes as he battles a wave of lightheadedness. "Don't fight it, you need your rest."

He was pleased to find out the vent was gone the next time he awoke. It had been replaced with a nasal cannula. While it was less invasive, it still annoyed the hell out of him. Although, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that breathing was a troublesome task. He couldn't take a deep breath without having to shut his eyes in response to the pain it brought.

The more time he spent conscious, which was a bit more every day; the easier it got to catalogue his aches and pains. His left arm and leg bothered him, but the most damage seemed to be centered on his torso. He wasn't all that lucid when the doctor gave him the rundown of his injuries, but it was fairly obvious his lungs among other internal organs took a hell of a beating.

He also discovered that as a consequence he was still too weak to move, even though weeks had passed by and he was healing accordingly. What happened to disturb him even worse than his sore body, were the images that penetrated his subconscious. Some were flashes of his ordeal: the sounds of gunshots and people screaming, the smell of burned rubber on asphalt and the distinct scent of blood. The worse was the terrifying cold feeling of being close to death's door.

Whenever the nightmares assaulted him, he was actually glad that the pain was there to provide him an escape. Speaking of which, it was creeping up to intolerable levels again. His heart rate always betrayed him when it happened, which meant a nurse would be stopping by soon carrying a syringe with morphine in it. It would stop the agony, but it'll drag him back to tormenting visions that branched from the shooting into all other hidden traumas of his life.

He was beginning to realize the empty darkness was but a blessing in disguise.

Things seemed less blurry than on his previous arrivals to consciousness. The pain was still there, but for the time being it didn't feel like he had fiery daggers pinning him to the bed. He was still very weak, but he could manage some basic movement. The oxygen cannula had followed the vent in its disappearing act and he was glad. He still got short of breath easily but the thing annoyed him incredibly. All in all things were looking up.

From what the doctor had told him, one bullet could do a lot of damage, two were serious, but five? The damage five bullets could cause in a human being had always been lethal until they met him. So a few weeks in a coma and another one in and out of consciousness were a rocky road, but all he had to do was lie down. Now that he had more control over his situation, the real test was about to begin. Become mobile again, endure the physical pain, get back in shape, work undercover and chase suspects. It was a difficult mountain to climb, but he was going to do it, and quicker than anyone expected. He was going to bounce back, because his job was all he had in life.

The next day, Sam stopped by to check on him. He filled him in on the things that he missed, like Macy being transferred and Hetty running the office in her place. Callen considered both women family, but a part of him was glad to work for Hetty again. She was a strong female role model whom he respected and challenged. Like he supposed a mother should be.

Apparently Eric was his usual beach boy at work, despite Hetty's dislike, and Nate was still trying to get inside everybody's head. That was someone he wasn't in a hurry to talk to. Nate the friend he had no problem with, but Nate the psychologist was different, mainly because he didn't know how to separate the two.

The chatting went on for a few more minutes before it got serious. Sam was determined to catch the people that had done this to him, and for that he needed Callen's account of the events.

"What'd you remember buddy?"

"I remember walking on the sidewalk, seeing the blonde Russian girl riding her bike and the roaring sound of an engine picking up speed. I didn't even hear the shots. One minute I'm standing, and the next I'm on the ground unable to move or breathe." He sighed in frustration.

"We're working on it. I don't know about the girl, but we pulled the surveillance tapes from the traffic cameras and matched the plates of the van. Found it torched a few days later."

"Was someone else hurt?" Callen asked alarmed suddenly remembering that drive by shootings took down not only the intended target but the unlucky bystanders that happened to be around.

"Nothing life threatening"

"Good to know"

"We're gonna catch them G" It was a promise Sam intended to keep. He didn't want to dwell on it because he could still see a bloody Callen lying lifeless in his arms whenever he closed his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"You tell me."

"You've looked better," Sam smirked

"Jeez, way to boost my ego."

"I call 'em as I see 'em. But seriously… how are you doing?"

"Not as bad as it looks," Callen answered, finding his sheet interesting all of the sudden. All he thought about was getting back to work and healing enough to reach that goal took more time than he had patience to endure. "The Doc's got me on some pretty strong stuff, but its gonna take me a while to get back on duty."

"Don't rush yourself. You'll be on your feet and out of here in a few weeks."

"You can count on that."

"Never doubted it. I gotta go back, I'm still on the clock, but I'll bring you something to pass the time later. Oh, and I called dibs on the cute brunette nurse so don't go and play the wounded hero card with her."

"I'll make no promises."

TBC