The obstruction in his throat was cold, hard and pressingly unyielding. His eyes twitched feebly as he put a mammoth effort into opening them. There was something inorganic in his nose, something that didn't belong. He tried to move his arms, tried to feel something, anything. But he couldn't. There were murmurings around him, but they sounded so far away. A sterile stench of forced cleanliness hung in the air as his brain slowly began to register his new consciousness. He tried as hard as he'd ever tried to come up for air from the dark pool he was drowning in, but he couldn't make it. He got close to the surface, before falling back down again.

He gave in. He gave into the crushing tiredness and the wearied emptiness. He faded back to sleep.

It was hours and hours before his consciousness stirred feebly again, like a timid mouse peeking around a dangerous corner. It was a new day, filled with new murmurings. All the things that were shoved into this throat and nose were still there, pressing down on him. Beeping, shuffling and mumbling thundered around him, oblivious to his slow awakening. No-one knew he was alert; he still couldn't open his eyes. He tried, and he tried, but they wouldn't budge. Everything hurt; he wished he could tell them that. Every part of him that could feel pain, burned. Machines continued to force oxygen into his lungs as he battled to open his eyes, even just a little.

He heard a familiar voice. It was far, far away, but he knew it.

His heart leapt.

He scrabbled desperately for the surface once more, clawing his way to the surface. But he failed, again and again, he failed. His heart began to hammer painfully in his chest as raw panic gripped him. No matter what he did, he couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't move a muscle, twitch an arm, nothing. Tiredness engulfed him, and the familiar voice faded away. He knew he knew the voice, but he couldn't identify its owner. This irritated him, caused him ire. Agitation was the last thing he felt before his drugged mind once again melted into unconsciousness.

Two days had passed when he came up for air once more.

His eyes were more responsive this time; they jumped feebly instead of twitching limply. He tentatively jerked an arm, but it still didn't move. He refocused on his eyes, trying desperately to ignore the cold plastic that was offensively placed within him. His eye lids keened under the pressure he placed upon them, they weren't ready. But he needed to see, he needed to know. He didn't remember much, but he was scared. Something bad had happened, something seriously bad. His mind was too drenched in drugs to think without visual aids. He needed to see, needed to physically view where he was, who was talking.

Their voices were so close; he could almost reach out and touch their owners.

But yet, they were so far away.

Frustration welled up within him.

He refused to give in this time, he refused to go back to sleep. Fatigue crushed him as he pleaded with his eyes to open, begged them to see. The lids fluttered and fell, never fully opening. It was exhausting, but it was progress. He was getting stronger; he could nearly peel the lids back all the way. A silent unseen battle raged as he wrestled with himself. An eternity seemed to pass as he lay immobile, blinded, and desperate. Just as he was about to abandon all hope, his final twitch yielded some fruit.

Some poisonous fruit.

It took everything he had, but he kept his eyes open. Not much, they were more serpentine than human, but they were open nonetheless. His body revolted against the tube in his throat as awareness flooded through him, and he gagged noisily. Silence thundered around the room for a moment, before a cacophony of noise flooded through. Suddenly they were small pinpricks of light being shone fiercely in his eyes, cold hands on his forehead. Struggling with a new vigour, he pulled away from the intrusion, spluttering painfully over the artificial pipe.

His eyes stung with pain as fresh air suddenly sailed down his windpipe.

His breathing was once again his own.

Voices he didn't recognise spoke urgently to him, but he ignored them. His eyes were racking the room, his ears straining for something else. Someone else. The light was removed from his face as his coughing came back under control. His breathing was laboured but measured as he struggled to sit up in the bed, blood suddenly flowing back to his extremities. Hands attempted to hold him down, before giving up, and helping him to sit back. Tubes hung from him at various points in his body as he looked around once more.

Finally, he saw them, and his eyes grew wide.

Abby and Tim stood there, speechless as they gazed down at him. McGee's arm was draped tightly around Abby's shoulder as they watched the doctors melt away from the patient, scribbling furiously on their clipboards. Silence mocked them all for a moment, as words failed both patient and visitors. However, as with all things, it was transitional. Ending with the dry clearing of a throat, words were suddenly croaked around the room. The voice was a shadow of its usual self. It was weak, trembling and croaky.

"What happened?"

The pivotal question had been asked, and it couldn't be ignored. Exchanging worried looks, tinged with pain, Abby and Tim chewed their lips in anxiety. For words to fail Abigail Sciuto was an instant alarm bell for the patient, causing him to scrub agitatedly at his face. He was growing tired once more, and he knew his bout of alertness was coming to an abrupt end. He was running out of time, and he didn't have any answers. He didn't know what happened, or why he was here. All he knew was something had gone wrong, and then all he had experienced was unspeakable pain. The black cloud hovered in the peripherals of his mind, threatening to take him back to sleep at any moment. The dry, wretched cough spluttered through the room once more as he struggled to take breath.

"What happened?"

Tim glanced at Abby, and knew it was too much. Removing his arm slowly, he approached the bedside with a mixture of determination, pain and worry etched into his face. Resting his hands on the metal bars, he filled his lungs with air. The patient needed rest, and he knew the words he was about speak were far from restful. But he knew he had to speak them, knew they had to be heard. For all concerned, they had to be heard. There was something in his eyes that was hard to define in the present, but the patient would later realise it was a burning rage.

"What happened?" Tim murmured, his voice much lower than usual.

The man nodded with as much energy as his drugged figure could allow for.

The look in McGee's eyes would have undoubtedly smouldered cold and spent ashes.

"Let's just say Tony DiNozzo is more of a man than you've ever been, and currently isn't half as lucky as you are, Agent Gibbs."

…

TBC

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