CHAPTER 3

Moving down the back streets with the four grocery buggies carrying Reese was not easy. Pushing around all the debris in the road was hard. They were getting nowhere...slowly. The obvious jostling of the unconscious Reese was rough. Joan knew the bumps and dips and turns had to be painful but she never heard a sound. Checking to make sure he was still alive, she was grateful that he was unconscious.

After a block they all stopped to rest. They'd never make it to the clinic if they kept having to fight keeping the buggies together, each one wanted to go off in its own direction. Joan finally sent one of her friends to see if they could get a gurney from the clinic and meet them halfway. Thanking her friends for their help, she got up and was ready to start moving again.

At the end of the 2nd block Joan spotted her friend coming toward her with the gurney...and helping to steer the gurney was Dr Tilman. Joan smiled. Megan Tilman had been a friend ever since John had introduced them when Joan had fallen and cut her leg three years ago. Many of Joan's friends on the street had found their way to Dr Tilman's clinic for help. They all knew she could be trusted not to judge them and to ask even fewer questions.

Dr Tilman reached out to Joan with a warm hug, "Joan! I am so glad you are ok! You were the first person I thought of when news talked about the huge explosion."

Looking over toward the man on the makeshift gurney of grocery buggies Megan was caught by surprise. The man covered in a fine white dust, ripped black suit and gray...no, white shirt...looked vaguely familiar. Walking closer, she leaned over to get a better look and gasped.

"John?" she whispered, eyes widening with shock. He was the last person she'd expected to see. Quickly glancing over at Joan she saw the concern that she felt, mirrored in Joan's eyes.

"I don't know how or why he was there. We found him in the rubble of that building that came down." Joan said looking at John. "He's been unconscious since we found him." Reaching out to lay her hand on Megan's arm, "and I think he's been shot. More than a couple of times."

Megan looked back at the unconscious man in front of her. Checking for a pulse she was glad to feel one, even if it was faint. Pulling back the jacket she could see blood on the once white shirt. Pulling back the part that Joan had already unbuttoned she was not surprised to see a kevlar vest. Seeing the dents where bullets had hit but not penetrated made her realize he was one very lucky man. Doing a quick triage she counted five bullets that hit home. One in the shoulder, one in the lower abdomen, two in one leg and one in the other. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out how the man was still alive.

"Come on, it's going to take all of us to get him on this gurney".

It did take all five of them to get Reese moved over to the gurney and strapped on. The whole time not a sound escaped him. That was good and bad as far as Tilman was concerned. That gash on his head, with the very noticeable swelling concerned her the most. She felt she could fix what she could see...but a concussion or worse, a subdural hematoma? That was a major concern. If he had that and his brain stem started to swell...she knew there would be nothing she in her small clinic could do for him.

Moving down the street proved much easier and faster with the gurney. Joan thanked her friends for their help. They faded back into the darkened side streets and Joan began pushing her buggie with all her worldly belongings down the street next to the gurney. She wasn't leaving John.

Meg helped steer the gurney with Reese on it into the clinic. Pointing in the direction of the back, she let her nurse's aide move him to an examination room.

Turning to Joan she gently guided the older woman into a rickety chair in the waiting room. Because of the time of day, there weren't many patients waiting to be seen. Most of her patients came in after dark, some looking for a warm place to sleep almost as much as needing to see a doctor.

"Joan, I'll do what I can for him. You know that. His injuries look severe but he IS still alive so that's a good thing."

Joan looked up at Meg with fear in her eyes. "You're gonna fix him, right? He's gonna be ok?" she whispered.

"Let me go do a thorough exam on him and I'll let you know." Squeezing Joan's hands tight, she walked into the back of the clinic.

Peeling off her jacket, Meg immediately donned a disposable scrub and walked over to the sink. Scrubbing her hands and arms, all the way up to her elbows was second nature and she did a thorough job without having to think about it. Which was good because her mind was going in a thousand different directions. What would be the best way to get started? Her cursory glance in the street didn't tell her much except that he was gravely injured. That kevlar vest had saved his life...at least momentarily.

Rinsing her hands, she turned toward her surgical nurse who had gloves ready for her. Slipping her hands into the gloves and hearing the resounding snap of the gloves in place, she took a deep breath and backed her way into the exam room.

The nurse's aide had done as much as possible to get him ready for her. His suit jacket, or what was left of it, had been cut off, the pants had been cut from the ankle to his waist. The white kevlar vest was in full display while the white shirt was in bloodstained tatters. The aide had tried her best to clean the dirt and powdery substances off him as much as possible.

Leaning over John she tried to take a mental inventory of the injuries she could see without touching him. The kevlar vest had absorbed at least two bullets that would have torn through his chest cavity and into his heart if not for the vest. There was also a wound in his right shoulder, another one in his lower abdomen and it looked like at least one bullet in each leg. He was a mess, and bleeding sluggishly. Running her eyes up again to his face, she was surprised to see how relaxed and calm his facial expression was almost like he was...at peace? She'd never seen that look on his face when he was conscious and seeing it now gave her pause. Looking a little higher she saw the deep gash on his head, right at the hairline. She could see the bruising already spreading as the lump got larger. That was her greatest concern...concussion. She could treat the bullet wounds easily. She'd had too much practice at that due to the location of her clinic and the type of patients that came to her, or were brought to her, every week. She knew that they came because she didn't ask too many questions and she was ok with that. At least they came. And she had this man, lying on the gurney in front of her, to thank for the second chance she had to do good for those who most needed a break. She knew her sister would be proud of her.

But first things first, she had to take care of the bullet wounds and stop the bleeding. The easiest to get to were the ones in his legs. The femoral artery wasn't severed in either leg or he would have long since bled out. That meant they could wait. Checking the one in his right shoulder, she was relieved to see that the bullet had not hit the bone or the clavicle artery and was already clotting. That one could also wait. It was the one in his lower abdomen that caused the most worry. She asked her nurse to bring type O blood and set up a transfusion. He needed blood and he needed it fast.

She needed to get the vest off of him to get to the abdomen wound. The vest had done its job and prevented the bullets from actually hitting him but even so, they pack a powerful punch when the force of the bullet is stopped. The result of all that protection was severe bruising and in some cases, broken ribs. Leaning over, she inspected the bullet holes in the vest. It was obvious that he'd been shot at close range. Why the shooter didn't aim for a head shot she would never know but she was eternally thankful they did not. Pulling up on the velcro straps over his shoulder and the ones on each side, she was able to lift off the front of the vest.

Reese's bare chest was exposed and the lividity of bruising was already well advanced. Tilman had treated him many times in the past for injuries he sustained in his 'job'. A job he never gave her much detail about. Every time she'd tried to ask about it, he switched the direction of the conversation away from her question. She thought he might be 'working' with someone but she never got him to give a name or address or any info at all really. But if he had been working with or for someone, they should be notified of his injuries. Someone out there had to be worried about the man in front of her. Even now might be trying frantically to get ahold of him after they tuned on the news and saw the destruction. But if he worked alone, then there was no one. And while she didn't accept that fact, she needed to focus on fixing him. Shaking her head as she worked, she berated herself mentally for not finding out more information about him when they'd last had lunch together or during their weekly cup of coffee. John always wanted to hear about her, her job, her patients and the clinic itself. He'd helped her set up this free clinic in a desperate part of town that needed medical help with no questions asked. She never knew how he got the money or how the bills were paid or even who paid the bills. She just had a suspicion there was someone else in the picture.

As she cleaned the wound in the abdomen she again was in awe that this man was alive and walking, and talking or at least that he had been. The scars on his torso told a very different story than what she had been able to get from him. She counted no less than 11 bullet wounds, 4 stabbing scars and 2 burn marks. There were even more on his legs! He looked like a patchwork quilt. His body told the story of someone who had put themselves in harm's way for others over and over again.

Working quickly, she retrieved the bullet and tied off the bleeders. How he could be hit with so many bullets at once and none hit anything vital was beyond her. Shaking her head at the miracle that was John Reese, she packed it and stitched him up. She prided herself on the fact that her small stitches wouldn't leave a scar. Not that it would matter to John, but it mattered to HER. She would not be responsible for adding to this man's scarring, not even a little. Moving onto his legs she again retrieved the bullets and cleaned the wounds & stitched him up. The shoulder wound took a little more time but finally got it closed.

Looking down at her handy work she wondered once again 'how did he survive'? The bullets she'd dug out of him had come from automatic weapons, at least from what she'd been learning of gunshot wounds from her years down at the clinic. The angle of entry was different for each one. There must have been multiple shooters. Where had he been that caused him to be shot that many times? He'd come to her with injuries before but nothing of this magnitude.

He was an amazing man. His will to live was obviously very strong. Lesser men would have succumbed to half of these wounds. She hoped she had done a good enough job that he would not have to go to a hospital. He'd told her years ago that he could never go to an emergency room. Never told her why, just that he couldn't. She knew better than to pry further.

John was as close to death as she'd seen anyone. But his heart still beat. He had been mortally wounded but survived somehow. She held onto that fact with desperation. There was much more to John Reese than anyone probably knew and he seemed to prefer it that way. She just hoped she'd done a good enough job.

Finch had withdrawn into himself. He felt the loss of Root was his fault. The loss of the Machine hurt like the loss of his child. And the loss of John Reese was almost the killing blow. HE was supposed to be the one to die. He was going to die with his Machine; they would take out SAM together. John was supposed to be able to have that normal life they both dreamed of...

Further down the hall, Lionel, was just grateful to be talking to his son. He had to make sure Lee was safe and that he knew he was safe. After talking to him at some length and reassuring himself that Lee was fine, Lionel he was once again glad that Lee lived with his mother. They were far removed from all of this crazy ugliness. Once that need was satisfied he allowed himself to start to feel the loss of his partner, his friend, the man who had been the first to throw out a life-ring to him, the first that helped him to save him from himself.

With Finch and Fusco taken care of medically, Shaw wandered around the hospital, keeping an eye out for enemy agents of course, but mostly just walking aimlessly, her thoughts in chaos. Finally making her way up some stairs to the roof, she walked to the edge and stared at the smoke still hanging in the air from the explosion many blocks away. How the three of them got away from there was still amazing to her.

Watching the smoke slowly drift upwards she realized she was looking at Reese's funeral pyre. There would be nothing left of him to identify or even bury. Shaking her head side to side she turned her back on the gray, smoky haze. Walking to the opposite corner of the roof she looked out on a clear blue sky, looking like any other day. Except for the sirens still blaring from below. She was too good an operative to be able to completely tune those out.

Turning around, she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the rooftop with her back to the corner, She was still trying to deal with losing Root. They had only been together such a short time after her escape. Their conversations had just started getting a little deeper than the overt teasing/flirting they did with each other. Root had finally been honest with her about how she felt. Shaw herself, was still trying to put her own feelings into words when she lost Root. She didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to her...that seemed to be the worst part...so much more should have been said, but now never would.

Shaw pulled her knees up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Resting her chin on them she could still see the smoky haze lingering in the air. Reese. He was gone. Larger than life, BAMF from Hell and he was...gone. Seemed impossible that he could die. But Finch said he had and from Finch's reaction, she had no reason to doubt him. Hell her own eyes were telling her what her heart didn't want to accept. No one, not even Reese, could have survived that amount of destruction.

Reese had filled her world after losing Cole. He understood her on a level that even Cole had not. They were two kindred spirits with shared backgrounds even though they'd never worked together in the military. Their training, their experiences complemented each other from the moment they began working together. They were in each other's minds, with little to no words necessary to carry out a mission. They had each other's backs, unquestionably.

Shaw's breath caught in the back of her throat, making her feel uncomfortable...making it difficult to breathe, to take a breath.

Reese had been the one to help her deal with losing Root. He never had to say anything to her, he just knew. He was just knew he was watching her closer than normal, trying to protect her. Normally should would have given him hell about that but he did it so well, so casually and so 'hands off' that she accepted it for what it was, his way of dealing with the loss of Root and knowing how it was affecting her. It was his way of looking out for…..a friend.

Now there was no one to help her deal with losing him. Root had named them the Mayhem Twins and that was a perfect name. They were twins...opposite sides of the same coin. But now there was no one to ease this loss. Her twin had been ripped away from her, just when she needed him there the most...and yeah, alright, she had needed him. There was nothing wrong with that right?

She had lost the two people who mattered the most to her in the world ...in a matter of days. Maybe it was a good thing that she didn't feel things like other people did. That the pain was a distant thing to be observed but not really felt or experienced. Maybe she was lucky that those feelings were turned way down low, like Genrika, the little Russian girl had said.

But suddenly it didn't feel like those feelings were turned down low...they were louder than normal…..trying to give voice to what had happened. Finch seemed lost, Fusco was a pit of despair, Root was gone before she could tell her how she felt and Reese's strong, solid presence was gone. She felt like she was maybe the only one who was truly dealing with all that had happened...and she was having to do so by herself. Not used to dealing with any emotional response within herself, she was shaken to her core about how to handle things. She'd always been the one in control but now there was no reason to BE in control.

Slowly, one tear welled up in her left eye, and then her right. Two single solitary tears slowly made their way down her cheeks. That catch in her throat got worse. A feeling of stark loneliness overtook her. She had no back up. She was EVERYBODY's backup...but for what? No Machine, no numbers and no SAM if everything worked out. But where to go next, what to do next was beyond her at the moment.

At this moment it was finally time to grieve. REALLY grieve. Grieve for all the lost moments that were missed and now would never happen with her and Root. Grieve for the relationship she had been looking for all her life and never knew til it was too late. Grieve over losing the one person she felt equal to on the battlefield, who always had her back and who liked to tease her quietly when she'd get too serious. Grieve over the brother who had read her mind and was up for any type of plan they might come up with...no matter how crazy. Grieve for someone who trusted her explicitly, no questions asked. For all these people who had become the family she didn't know she wanted.