A/N: So well before the extended cut (and when I screwed up myself by going into the final moments of ME3 with an insanely low galactic readiness score), I started jotting down a little story about Femshep's survival and struggle to get past the loss of Garrus... it's been sitting on my computer for awhile, and so I finally decided to start fleshing it out. Reviews are appreciated as they may be the kick in the rear I need to actually finish something I start LOL.

Disclaimer: All rights to the Mass Effect series belong to Bioware, not me. I just like playing with their characters.

Waking Up

Chapter 1

Ghosts of her companions floated in her memory as she tried to make out the muffled voices that were reaching her ears.

"Comatose… 72 hours… morphine… penicillin…" The words began to trigger some recognition in the neural pathways of Commander Shepard's brain. But where were the voices coming from? They had no faces and didn't seem to form complete sentences, and all she could see was pure blackness. Then she felt it – a piercing pain in her abdomen. The sensation was so overwhelming that she heard herself groan.

"Was that…?" she heard the voices ask, followed by some shuffling around her. "Shepard?" she heard. She tried to respond, but she couldn't feel anything other than the pain enveloping her. She let out another moan and tried to focus on controlling different parts of her body. Fingers first.

"Shepard?" 'Oh shut it, I'm focusing!' she wanted to yell, but her vocal chords weren't something she had regained control over yet. As she focused more intently on her body, she could barely feel the stiffness that was her arms. She mentally moved down her arms and into her hands, finding her fingers. She pushed to move them, but she couldn't feel any movement. She tried harder, this time letting out another groan, and she felt her knuckles break free as if having been set in stone.

"Can you open your eyes, Shepard?" 'I'm working on it!' she exclaimed in her head. Groaning again, she forced movement in what she had decided was her eyelids. She could see violent streams of white light cutting through the darkness she was in, and the pain intensified causing her to immediately squeeze her eyes shut on reflex. "Someone dim those lights!" the voice demanded. "Try again," it requested a moment later.

Shepard forced her eyelids to cooperate once again, and this time, her sight was met by soft yellow light and shadows of three different figures. She blinked, but the mere shadows remained. She blinked a third and a fourth time, and slowly, the shadowy figures turned into blurred images of medical personnel.

"Commander Shepard, can you hear me?" the human doctor closest to her questioned. She cleared her throat to attempt to speak, but again, all that she could get to come out was a brief groan. Another human doctor, this one a female, stood near the door while a Salarian doctor stood at the foot of her bed. "My name is Dr. Zavala, and I'm here with Dr. Blackburn and Dr. Lillix."

Shepard made noises at the back of her throat, attempting to warm her vocal chords to use them. "Where…" she choked out.

"You're at a hospital outside of London. We're tending to the wounded soldiers from the Reaper War." Shepard stared blankly, trying to recollect the pieces. Why was it that she couldn't remember anything after rushing toward that beam to board the Citadel? Wait, yes. She remembered the Citadel. Remembered the scattered piles of human remains. Remembered the stench of death that was forever burned into her memory. But what else? Only blankness remained.

"I…" Shepard moaned.

"You've suffered extensive injuries," Dr. Zavala continued. "You're recovering from broken ribs, a fractured femur, a dislocated shoulder, and multiple flesh wounds. You nearly lost an eye as well. You lost an immense amount of blood, but we were able to perform an emergency transfusion. We weren't sure if it would be successful considering you've been comatose for several days."

"Where," Shepard tried again.

"I told you. London."

"Where's Garrus?" In her mind it was a full-fledged growl, verging on a threat, but in reality it only came out as a mumble. Regardless, the doctors seemed taken aback as they exchanged anxious glances.

"Commander," the Salarian began, "I'm sorry, but all of your squad mates perished in battle."

"No," she breathed. She briefly choked on her air supply, holding back a dry sob, but the pain in her middle returned with a vengeance making any rapid movement of the diaphragm almost unbearable.

"Commander Shepard, I suggest you relax," said the female doctor.

"Dr. Blackburn is right," chimed in the Salarian, who by deduction appeared to be Dr. Lillix. "After all, the healing of your ribs is what we have found most challenging… aside from your concerning comatose state, of course. We'll give you some morphine for the pain, but try to refrain from excessive movement." Dr. Lillix injected a syringe full of what must have been the painkiller into Shepard's forearm, and the three doctors proceeded to leave the room single file.

"You shouldn't have told her," Shepard heard Dr. Blackburn say after they had reached the doorway.

"I couldn't lie to her," Dr. Lillix defended. And then the voices faded down the hallway.

It didn't take long for the potent pharmaceutical to take effect as it raced through Shepard's bloodstream, and consequently, she drifted in and out of consciousness over the next several hours. In fact, due to the high level of different drugs in her body to help mend and ease the pain of her multiple injuries as well as fight off any infection that may have developed, she drifted in and out of consciousness over the next several days. She had the occasional visitor, Admiral Hackett and the like to thank the Commander for her bravery and dedication, but she refrained from saying much during those meetings. She mainly stuck to the "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," statement formalities. When asked how she was holding up, she would deflect with a simple "thank you for taking the time to stop by" or an "I appreciate your concern" and just leaving it at that. She didn't want to talk about the gaping hole inside of her. Much less, she didn't even want to acknowledge it to herself. She was numb, and that's how she preferred to be.

After she was released from medical care, Admiral Hackett requested a meeting with the Commander.

"Shepard," he began, motioning for her to take a seat.

"Admiral," she addressed with a nod as she followed his request.

"I have realized that after such an extensive and colorful military career, many in your position would be ready to retire right about now."

"Is this just a realization or a suggestion, Admiral?" Shepard questioned. He failed to respond directly to the question. Instead, he shifted his facial expression into one of sympathy. "You can't possibly ask me to leave the Normandy. That place is my home."

"Commander, with all due respect, your home is here on Earth. I feel the Normandy is too emotional of a place for you right now. Without your crew…" he trailed off. "If you don't plan on retiring, I must insist on personal leave."

"What?" While Admiral Hackett was indeed looking out for her best interests, it sure didn't feel that way to Shepard. He was the closest thing she had had to a father in many years, and him asking her to walk away from her last remaining sense of stability dumbfounded her.

"And as a condition of your possible return, you must commit to 12 sequential weeks of psychotherapy."

"A shrink? Doesn't that seem excessive?"

"To be frank, no," he told her without reserve. "You need to talk to someone. As your body has healed from this war, you've been dying little by little." Commander Shepard broke eye contact and stared at the wall, clenching her teeth. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. From Hackett!

"Fine, fine. I do this therapy crap, and I can have my job back?"

"You do this 'therapy crap,' and you will be subject to consideration of reinstatement. I'm sorry, Commander, but I'm afraid this is necessary."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," Shepard said as she stood. "May I leave now?"

"Yes. Take care of yourself," he requested. No, more like pleaded.

Step one was to find a place to live. Shepard settled on a small studio apartment with one window, which she ended up keeping the blinds closed on anyway. She didn't like the apartment. She didn't like the carpet or the drywall or the way the kitchen floor creaked when she stood in front of the sink; it was all too different from the solidarity and steel walls of the Normandy. It seemed that the apartment's only saving grace was the stainless steel refrigerator, where Shepard often found herself running her fingers along the surface just to feel the cool shell.

After unpacking her second, and last, box of personal and necessary belongings, Shepard checked her messages to find a list of recommended mental health professionals from the Alliance. She scoffed, for it was the only reaction she knew how to implement at this point. It was then that she heard an odd noise coming from her door.

Shepard made her way to the front door and opened it, allowing the stale air inside the apartment to uncomfortably stir. She saw no one and no movement.

"Hello?" she questioned to the empty hall. She heard the sound again, a small mew at the end of the hall, and this caused her to redirect her attention downwind. A small gray cat sat at the end of the hall. It didn't seem injured, or even unhealthy for that matter. It was just… alone.

"Hey, cat," she said. It just looked at her expectantly – no fear. "Why don't you head home?" she suggested. Still that wide, blue-eyed stare. "Go on," she encouraged. The cat stood, shook itself off ever so slightly, and then disappeared down the hall and out of sight. After a shrug, Shepard returned to her living quarters, securing the door behind her.