Author's Note: Thank you for your continuing support! Please enjoy and offer feedback!

Also - FFN had some strange and frustrating issues over the weekend that coincided with the last installment. Because of that, I checked on my other NCIS story, called, "You Know, Inferno is Italian for Hell." I discovered that chapter 2 (the scariest chapter) had been replaced by a duplicate of a later chapter, and that chapters 3 and 4 had reversed! So, if you had read it recently and saw a duplicated chapter, please go back and take another look!

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Chapter 8: That's DiNozzo

"Come on, Ducky," McGee begged from his hospital bed, "isn't there something you can do to get me out of here sooner? I was here all last night! I've got my cast, my pills, my tetanus shot, my hands are all patched up, and aside from them, well, and my knees, I feel fine."

The medical examiner firmly held his ground. "I am sorry Timothy, but I must agree with Dr. Prichard." Ducky nodded to the dark-haired doctor at his side. "Not only is he a pulmonologist but he has experience with blast lung injury. It is nothing to toy with and can take time to manifest. This is where you need to be."

McGee turned from Ducky to the lung specialist. "But didn't you say my chest x-rays were normal and those blood . . . gas . . . things were normal?"

"Arterial blood gases. Yes, that's true, Agent McGee," Dr. Pritchard agreed. "And that is why you're not being monitored more carefully yourself. We need to keep you under observation for another several hours, and if everything still checks out, then I'm sure we'll be able to discharge you this afternoon or evening."

"Shouldn't you both be helping Tony? He's the one who got hurt, not me," McGee argued.

Ducky shook his head. "Anthony apparently had a bit of a difficult time coming out of the anesthesia—"

"What?" McGee blurted out. "Why didn't anybody tell me? Is he going to be okay? You said the surgery went well!"

"Calm down, Timothy," Ducky soothed. "The surgery did go well. I can assure you that once he is out of recovery, we will most definitely be checking up on him. For now, he is surrounded by the people who can care for him best. Now do try to relax."

"Good advice," the lung specialist agreed. "I need to return to my office, but I'll check on you later when I come back to take a look at Agent DiNozzo's next set of lung x-rays. Fingers crossed."

"Thanks, Doctor. Sorry, I can't really shake your hand." Tim looked down at his bulky cast and bandages. "Or cross my fingers."

Dr. Prichard smiled in understanding and left the room.

McGee blew out a long, slow breath of air. "Ducky, has anyone called Tony's dad? I mean, I know they haven't been that close, but it's been better lately, and Tony's not just going to bounce right back from this one overnight."

"No, he most certainly is not. Jethro made the call this very morning, Timothy. Not to worry. Anthony's father will be coming, or I am quite sure Jethro will drive north to drag him down here. Now, are you sure you wouldn't like someone to call your family?"

"Not yet, Ducky. I'll probably call my sister or my grandmother when we know more about Tony. My family has a way of, you know, getting in the way."

"I do believe you have a visitor."

"I do? Who is it? Abby?"

"The one and only. I'll let her know she may join us."

Tim brightened up considerably when Abby hurried to his bed, boot buckles jingling, and enveloped him in an airtight hug. "I've been so worried, Timmy! You're a hero! You saved Tony's life!"

"He saved mine first, Abby." McGee found it hard to hug back with his cast on one arm and the annoying—and in Tim's mind, completely unnecessary—Heparin Lock on the other. Even so, the hug felt good, and for the first time in his memory, Abby released her hold before he did.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was pretty bad, Abby. Tony—his voice—he was in such pain, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. He tried to joke a couple times, but he just kept getting colder and weaker—and shaking all over. And the, uh, the blood . . . . He might not really want me to talk about it. I'm not sure I want me to talk about it."

Abby took his hand, tears welling in her eyes. "Poor Tony. You did everything you could, McGee."

Tim took a shaky breath. "I . . . I . . . when I came back, Abby, from calling Gibbs . . . I couldn't feel a pulse." McGee's voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought he was dead." McGee blinked quickly.

Abby wiped away a tear of her own. "Oh, Tim . . . ." She leaned forward and hugged him again. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Ducky stepped forward from his silent vigil near the door. He cleared his throat lightly to remind the two of his presence. "Timothy, I've spoken to two of the surgeons who worked on Tony's leg injury. You see, Anthony's being in the slightly cooler basement actually helped lessen the muscle damage from the tourniquet. It's been determined that even a two to three degree reduction in muscle temperature makes a difference."

He moved closer to the bed. "Indeed, the practice of taking advantage of environmental cooling was employed by medics during the Second World War—they would expose the limb, thus cooling it, as opposed to keeping it under the blanket. Of course, it had the added benefit of reducing the possibility that the medical staff might overlook the tourniquet upon transfer. It reminds me of a time when I was in Normandy, and a young fellow on an outlying farm had chanced upon—but I'm getting off track, aren't I? It's been a long night for us all. What I'm trying to say is that, all things considered, it appears that the muscular damage to Anthony's leg at the tourniquet site is, itself, minimal."

Tim picked up on the medical examiner's tone and knew the real story—the Tony story—had only begun. "But . . . ?"

Ducky nodded, affirming McGee's suspicions. "The puncture and fracture site has proven to be quite a different story. However, Anthony has an entire team of vascular specialists, osteopaths, and nerve specialists—all working together for the best possible outcome. We just don't know what the ultimate outcome will be yet. But Anthony is alive, Timothy, thanks to your swift and bold actions."

"When will we be able to see him, Ducky?" Abby asked, swiping at another tear.

"I'm afraid that although Anthony is doing well, all things considered, his body is still in the very acute injury phase. His body has undergone a tremendous amount stress and will continue to respond with hormones and fluid retention to combat shock and use what little energy he has efficiently. He shall be quite ill and needing IV support, and although he's on broad-spectrum antibiotics, he still runs the risk of developing an infection in his leg. They'll be trying to keep him comfortable with painkillers and some mild sedation due to the combination of injuries."

Ducky paused and looked Tim in the eyes. "You're fortunate that the nearest bomb exerted more of its force upward, destroying the body, rather than outward towards you, or I'm afraid you'd both have more bodily injuries with which to contend."

McGee finally asked the unspoken question. "I know I'm breathing okay, but how about his lungs, Ducky?"

"That is what I hope to find out very soon, my dear boy."

"Ziva must be going crazy, you know, not being able to be here," Abby commented. "She's not as tough as she pretends to be. She really cares about Tony, you know, more than she lets on."

A nurse entered McGee's room. "Excuse me, you're Dr. Mallard?" she asked Ducky.

"That is correct."

"I was asked to let you know that Mr. DiNozzo will be moved from Recovery to Intensive Care before noon."

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*****NCIS*****

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Ducky watched Tony from behind the window in the intensive care arena. It was an improvement over seeing Tony quarantined at Bethesda under those germicidal blue lights. Even so, Tony looked small, weak, and ill; although he was dozing lightly for the time being.

Ducky sighed heavily. At least McGee had been cleared for release in the early evening hours. Not that he would go home, of course. Neither he nor Abby had seen Tony with their own eyes yet, and until they did, they had refused to leave the hospital.

Ducky started when Gibbs appeared at his elbow. "Jethro—how did you get past the nurse's—oh, I see." Gibbs had on a set of scrubs and booties, along with the identification badge of some doctor that had similar hair.

"Didn't ask. Why isn't his leg in a cast?"

"Since both lower leg bones were broken by impalement from a nonsterile object, his treatment began with thorough irrigation. They surgically removed the dead tissue before they fixed the bones with what are called intramedullary rods within the shafts of the bones themselves. The surgical incision was stitched, but both it and the puncture wound itself must drain."

Ducky looked back through the window at Tony, who had moved slightly and then settled back down. "Wound technology has come a long way, even since your very own close encounter with an explosive device, and those dressings you see will actually eat up some of the dead tissue and allow the wound to heal more effectively. Fortunately, Anthony did not require any bone or muscle grafts. The surgeons are quite optimistic, all things considered."

"How is the rest of him, Duck? Cuz he looks like hell."

"A bit unstable, I'm afraid, which is why they're keeping him here and not allowing visitors."

"Because of his lungs?" Gibbs asked.

"In part, yes. It is the combination of injuries that complicates his treatment options. You see, Jethro, there is a delicate balance between the risks and benefits of sedatives and pain control with the lung injuries that Anthony has sustained. The treatment team needs to carefully monitor his overall hemodynamics, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and so forth, while also trying to manage his pain without depressing his system too far. We do not want him to end up on a ventilator, if at all possible."

"And?" Gibbs urged, knowing his friend all too well.

"And even with careful monitoring, there's no prediction as to exactly when his lungs will show the full effects of the blast. We simply don't know. Young Timothy was also at risk, but as all signs suggest that he is doing well, he was released a short time ago. However, Anthony's x-rays reveal some of the 'butterfly pattern' that indicates blast lung injury, probably due to both proximity and, of course, his history with lung disease."

Gibbs bowed his head in thought. "Yeah, this is probably a first for this hospital."

Ducky raised his eyebrows. "It's a first anywhere, Jethro. To survive both pneumonic plague and such as serious blast injury, not to mention the nearly fatal impalement, is truly unique."

Gibbs looked up and formed his trademark lopsided smile. "That's DiNozzo."

A doctor approached the two men and held out his hand for Gibbs to shake. "Agent Gibbs," he acknowledged.

"Jethro, surely you remember Dr. Pitt, the infectious disease specialist who treated Anthony when he had his bout with Y. pestis."

Gibbs nodded.

"At my request, Dr. Pitt has been called in for a consultation due to his experience with Anthony's post-plague rehabilitation. In addition, the Fairfax team has a pulmonologist who has field experience with blast lung injury. A Dr. Pritchard. Together, they'll be able to settle on the best course of treatment. We're rather lucky to have access to such experts, but this is a chance no doctor would willingly pass up, what with the journal articles they'll be able to write . . . . Why, I remember a time—"

"Any chance I can get in there for a minute?" Gibbs interrupted.

Pitt nodded, remembering Gibbs' ability to get Tony to rally when he was critically ill before. He handed Gibbs a paper mask. "This time the mask is for his protection, not yours. Just don't tell anyone I said you could go in there. I don't technically work here." He smiled. "Go in with me, make it quick, and act like you belong."

Gibbs slipped up to Tony's bed while Pitt reviewed the newest numbers on Tony's chart.

"Hey, DiNozzo," he said softly.

Tony's eyes opened and searched the room. His gaze first settled on Dr. Pitt, then on Gibbs. He blinked and squinted against the fluorescent lights, the whites of his eyes still pink with irritation from the grit of the first explosion. "Gibbs? Brad?" He paused and licked his dry lips under the mask. "Kate died . . . right?" he rasped under the oxygen mask. "I . . . I feel strange. What happened?"

"You were in an accident, Tony, but you're getting better."

"Oh, wow . . . ." Realization washed over Tony's features. "Bomb, right? In . . . in the barn."

Gibbs nodded. "That's right."

"McGee?" he asked, his concern evident.

"He's fine, Tony. And Abby wants to see you. Ziva sent a message. She said you better beat this or she'll kick your ass." Gibbs saw Tony's mask fog up as he tried to respond, but it triggered a deep cough that left Tony nearly breathless.

"This sucks, Boss," he wheezed. He launched into another bout of coughing until he collapsed back into the pillow in exhaustion.

Dr. Pitt gestured that it was time for Gibbs to leave.

"You keep fighting, Tony. You've got people depending on you. People who care."

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*****NCIS*****

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Gibbs and Ducky found Abby and McGee in the cafeteria. They looked up expectantly.

Gibbs slid into the booth next to Abby and addressed his injured agent. "You look better than the last time I saw you."

"Thanks, Boss—how's Tony?" he asked anxiously.

"He's holding his own," Gibbs assured. "Won't be up for visitors until he's out of intensive care, which will most likely be a few days. Time for you two to go home."

"Home?" McGee asked. "What about the case? We need to catch the bastard that did this."

"You need to rest, McGee, like it or not."

"Hear, hear!" Ducky chimed in from his seat across from Gibbs. "And so should you, Jethro, and you, Abigail. We are all operating on reserves."

"I'm going out to the crime scene to check on the relief teams that are processing the evidence. This has turned into alphabet soup: FBI, ATF, EOD. Ziva got a real mess out there, and I'm going to go clean some of it up. But we get the first crack at Turner. I get the first crack at Turner."

"Do you think we'll ever catch him, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Already on his tail, McGee. I got a call before I came here," Gibbs continued. "Airport security spotted Danielle's BMW at Ronald Regan. They pulled footage from their cameras and tracked Turner to Southwest Airline flight 442 to Mexico. U.S. Marshal's office is sending a team across the border. They'll bring him to us once they have him in custody."

Gibbs turned to Abby and pointed across the table to McGee. "Will you please take this guy home?"