Hurts, Is all James Hathaway can think. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what happened. The only thing he knows is that he hurts. And it feels like everywhere hurts.

Wait. He can hear something, some one is coming towards him fast. He panics, whatever happened before, he doesn't want more of it. He can't take more of it. The panic grows as someone touches his neck and he passes out again. He doesn't realise his superior officer is with him, doesn't feel the makeshift pillow being slid under his head.

He surfaces again. Despite trying to pretend to this person that he's dead, a quiet moan escapes his lips. When the hand touches his shoulder, he freaks out, although he doesn't move. It'll hurt too much.

"Hathaway?" James knows that voice. He's heard it before. He doesn't know who it is. Could be a colleague, could be his attacker. He can't muster up any strength to talk. His throat is on fire.

"James? James, can you hear me? Come on son. Fight it a little eh?"

He tries to talk back, tries to tell this person to piss off and leave him to die, that hand on his shoulder hurts. He can hear the noises he's making. Its not what he meant. He doesn't make any sense. He sounds like a mad man to his own ears.

Oh God, this hurts.

He tries to retreat back to the darkness, he doesn't want to feel like this any more. He wants the pain to go away and he's almost prepared to give up and die for the peace. But suddenly his chest is on fire, he's terrified and he realises he desperately needs to see the world before he dies. He forces his eyes open, it takes a few tries and it feels like his chest is trying to burst through his ribcage. He detachedly hopes that the rasping sound isn't his breathing. He may not be a medical man but he knows that's bad. The shoulder hand is back. He's being moved. NO! Stop! Please, that fucking hurts. Some twat is trying to sit him up.

He's put back down and through tears of pain he sees a man sat next to him.

"Ok. Ok We won't try that again"

The voice is comforting, he knows it and more importantly, he knows its isn't a threat. He has no idea who it is, but its not a threat.

His chest hurts more and more, his own breath is shredding his throat. He's vaguely aware that if he goes to sleep he may never wake up, but at the moment, all he wants to do is leave the pain behind.

When he comes around again he only has one thought.

Lewis!

He knows who the voice belongs to now and he knows he can trust it. He wonders what his inspector is doing out here, hopes that he isn't hurt as well. Come to think of it, the man is still talking, James is unsure if he should answer. In all fairness, he's unsure that he can.

"Will do" Hathaway is just confused, he knows he wasn't talking to him, but he's equally sure there was no one out here with them. He is also dismayed to find the pain hasn't abated one bit. It hurts to move, breathe, talk and he doesn't like it at all.

"James? Can you hear me?" Yes! I can hear you sir! I want to say thank you. Whats that sir?

"I have to go to the car. I'll be five minutes."

No! Don't leave me here. You can't go. Not now I've finally worked out who you are...I'm scared Sir. And I know even if I could, I wouldn't tell you.

"Nothing will happen to you James. You need warmth. I have a blanket in the car." James calms a little. He can see the sense in this. It is bloody cold. He thinks his inspector is holding his hand. This is absurd. Lewis is a good governor but this level of concern? He can hear the fear in Lewis' voice and he realise the older man is scared. He's lost Morse and his wife. He doesn't want to lose James. Despite the situation James is touched. He nods as well as he can, its clear Lewis won't leave him until he's sure James is ok. James is unbelievably grateful.

He hears heavy foot falls come towards him again. Too tired to worry about them, he lays there, semi-conscious as his inspector puts something heavy and warm over him. He feels something by his mouth, the screws telling him its a water bottle. He realises hoe thirsty he is and tries to get at it. He doesn't have the energy to move his head. Two hands gently grab his head and he is suddenly aware that he's resting on something that isn't grass. As the first drops of water touch his mouth, he reacts violently, his throat doesn't know how to deal with this new sense. He hasn't had a drink for a while. Right. Mouth open, fill up, mouth closed, swallow. Once he has the hang of it he's drinking the precious water like there's no tomorrow.

"You don't half guzzle it James. Slow down its all you've got." This stops Hathaway. All you've got. Not we. He is suddenly aware that Lewis probably hasn't had a drink either and he's willing to give the entire bottle to his sergeant. He stops drinking. A thought occurs to him. There's something else he hasn't had for quite a number of hours. Neither has Lewis, he guesses.

"Could...do...beer sir." Its supposed to be a weak excuse at a joke, but he isn't conscious long enough to see if Lewis laughed.

Someone is shaking him. Lewis is shaking him. Its my day off. I'm not working on anything, he wants to say, but then the pain returns and he remembers where he is.

"Hathaway? Look, James, the ambulance isn't coming, er, we're gonna have to get to my car." He opens his eyes. He desperately doesn't want to move but know its the right thing to do. He can see the apologetic look in his superiors eyes. One minor detail though;

"...how...far?"

"100 metres? 150? Not all that bad" James swallows a feeling of nausea. 150 metres? He can do that without breaking a sweat. When he's healthy. He nods, having come to a decision.

"Help...m...me...up"

"No. No James I'll pick you up." He can hear the concern and fear in Lewis' voice. But he doesn't care. He knows, he knows if he doesn't get up now, he never will. He's scared and he needs to know he can still move, walk, do what he wants. He doesn't know how to explain this to his superior though. He just hopes he can put enough determination into his voice to make his friend listen.

"Sir...please...need to ...do this..." He can see Lewis thinking it over. Almost see the decisions in his bosses head. Then the nod. If it didn't hurt so much, he'd smile.

"Come on then laddie" Sitting up didn't hurt quite so much this time. It had hurt, but only a hiss escaped. With Lewis' help, a lot of it, he stood up. He closed his eyes, the world was pitching about too much to keep them open, and hung on to his inspectors arm for dear life. His chest was burning, his leg felt like some one had tried to peel the flesh from the bone and his head was pounding so hard he thought it would explode. He felt an arm round his waist and felt some of the weight taken off his leg. He couldn't keep the hiss at bay. It was the whimper that stopped them though. Lewis stopped then, looked at him and stopped. Opening his eyes he looked at the inspector, he saw the outright concern on his face and the look of doubt at his decision. Realising what it would do to his inspector if this killed him, which he felt like it might, he gazed back.

"...Go." he said

He doesn't remember the rest of the walk. Only that it was full of pain. He passes out as soon as he is in the seat. He welcomes the darkness, and he doesn't want to come out of it again.

He half awakens. Pain. He isn't in the field, or the car, although he is moving. Someone's talking to him and he likes the voice.

"...Whatever you're experiencing, its ok."

Suddenly the pain builds into a crescendo, his chest feels like lava. He thinks he's breathing, can't think why its hurts. He wants it to stop. A friendly voice gets through to him and he is shocked by the panic.

"James! Don't you dare give up. You've made it this far. And I don't want to break in another sergeant. No one else'd put up with me. Just stay with it-"

It confuses him. He isn't giving up. He just isn't winning. He wonders where the voice has gone. Then, again, unconsciousness claims him.

Images jump at him. If it'd happened more often, he'd realise he was waking. But James Hathaway has not been beaten up this often. Playground stuff sure, but not the to-within-an-inch-of-his-life beating that he had recently experienced. Of course, he isn't thinking this now, he's still trying to deal with the images. A knife, glinting in the morning light. Red lines appearing on his skin, like small, red, rivers of lava erupting through his body. The butt of a rifle, as it moved through the air, on a crash course with his skull. And last but by no means least; the maniacal grin of a man who was just as happy to injure his captor unconscious as alert. He needs to get away from them, but he knows they are in his head. The man is back and he tries to sink into his pillow. His eyes are screwed shut and the overwhelming fear that he will still be there if he opens them keeps them that way. That knife comes towards his face, it seems to be huge, and he tries to move out of the way. His hand hits something heavy and the panic doubles.

"James? James calm down. It's ok. You're safe. You're in hospital." He hears the voice, but he can't make out the message. A hand on his shoulder and he almost delivers a left hook to his tormentor. But it hurts too much. A hand grasps his own and James finally starts to think a bit more calmly. People trying to kill you do not grasp your hand like that.

"James. Its Lewis. You're ok. Right. You're safe." Again he remembers the owner of that voice. Lewis. Inspector Robert Lewis. Robbie. His governor. He feels his breathing slow of its own accord, finally feels the calm moving through his body. Or it could be the painkillers, but he'd rather it was the calm. He cracks his eyes open, the lids heavy. He knows that Lewis won't let any madman get him. Once he feels his throat can take it;

"Wha...'pend sir?" Well almost take it anyway. That hurts more than it should.

"We were hoping you could tell us. You disappeared from the area, uniform found your car. And then I found you." His eyes slide closed again. He tries, desperately tries, to open them and keep talking to his superior. If anything he's scared of having to wake up again. He swallows and his throat starts hurting again. He feels it all keenly now. His ribs hurt. His face hurts, specially the spot above his right eye. His leg feels like its as open as the pages of a book. This is proper pain, like he hasn't felt for a long time, if ever. The drugs they are pumping him with don't seem to be working. He notices that Lewis is looking at him expectantly. He knows he can't explain what happened. Apart from a few fevered images he doesn't really know himself. He can't think of anything else to say apart from the one thing he associates with the whole event.

"...Hurts...sir...". He sees the worry in the older man's face and regrets saying it. He didn't mean it to worry the man.

"I know son, but it'll get better." He nods. He knows its true even if he can't quite believe it. Sudden, hazy memories rush to him. A pat on the shoulder when he had first come round. A warm and heavy blanket wrapped around him when the shivering worsened. Water finding its way to his mouth when he couldn't move. His throat is killing him but he has to say this.

"...Thank...you...sir."

"Don't mention it." He can see that the inspector isn't sure whether he is lucid or even knows what he's saying. He makes up his mind to readdress this when he wasn't hurting so much. And when he wasn't so damn sleepy.

James got off the bed for the last time. Grabbing the cane he was told he was going to need for a little while, he made his way to the hospital entrance. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he sighed. He hopes that when he gets to sleep in his own bed, the nightmares will go away, the images will stop. He isn't overly hopeful however, they've been plaguing him all week. As he limps out the main door, he is extremely grateful to see his bosses car waiting there. He realises that he's still got his lurking feeling of dread when he sees a patch of grass, when something glints in the corner of his eye. He see with a start that he's at the car and Lewis has opened the door for him. He tries to manoeuvre himself in as painlessly as possible but he can't help a hiss escaping. He winces and is acutely aware that his boss is looking at him with a certain degree of concern. The man's had enough worry for the past week and James truly appreciates it. He grins, unfortunately, his only way of breaking the tension is to be...for want of a better word, annoying.

"Sir, I'm a big boy now y'know. Can look after myself." He can see the worry on his superiors face disappear and he feels good about it.

"Don't be so facetious sergeant"

The rest of the journey passes without incident. The dull ache in his chest that he has grown used to is starting up again and with it come unbidden memories. He hasn't said that he remembers a fair bit of what happened. The bloke is dead, there's no justice to be done and he doesn't like the idea of revisiting it for some PC in an interview room. He doesn't remember how or why he ended up driving into a field. There must have been a reason, but it escapes him. He doesn't remember why he stopped.

"Well here y'are sonny. Home sweet home eh? Now get yourself of to bed. Beats kippin' in a field."

He remembers slicing. He is pretty sure there was some kicking too. He doesn't remember putting up much resistance, he remembers a lot of shivering and pain.

He remembers a calming voice. He remembers a blanket, refreshing water. He remembers a comforting hand on his shoulder, someone keeping him calm when he thought his chest was going explode with pain, when the images tormented him. And he knows who that person was.

"Thank you sir." He feels embarrassed and starts to get out.

"Away man, couldn't have left you to limp home on your own could I?" He knows that this is Lewis' way of acknowledging his thanks. But he feels he needs to get it out there, feels the inspector needs to know.

"...That's not what I was thanking you for sir. But its much appreciated."

"Get off with ya. Get some decent grub into your belly." Now he sees that Lewis' isn't going to say anything that constitutes acknowledgement of what he did. He's too modest. He'll never know what he did for his sergeant. So he attempts to say thanks to his friend in the only way he knows how.

"Fancy coming in for a beer sir?" he asks.

"Aye why not?" James feels his face visibly light up as Lewis pulls a six pack of beer from the bowels of his car.

"When do your pills kick in?" This is Lewis' sly way of finding out if he can drink. Well dammit, he hasn't had a drink that wasn't water for a week. Also, well he isn't a brilliant patient.

"Er, not until I actually take them sir."

"How is the pain sergeant?" This is the pivotal point. If he can convince the man that he is only hurting half as much as it really does, he's going to get a beer out of it. And anyway he's going to tell the truth about the medicine, he owes Robbie that.
"It could be beaten by a few of them I'm sure. Any way. They are more take as you find pills. There's no schedule" He points at the beautiful cans that his inspector is clutching.

"Alright Sergeant. One couldn't hurt ya.". He realises then that he is going to be ok. He may dream in the night and they may not be pleasant but it won't last forever and his wounds will heal. He grins widely at his smiling inspector and he limps up the path, aware that Lewis is nearby watching him to make sure he truly is ok. He's getting there. And he is fairly convinced that the road to recovery will start with a pint of liquid yeast and hops.