Bart woke slowly, knowing that he was awake, but at the same time, he felt like he was dreaming. He felt floaty and his mind was muddled, unsure of what had happened. Opening his eyes wasn't easy, but he felt like something was wrong and it was urgent for him to know what.

Suddenly it came back to him, in the form of pain…awful pain that pulsed up and down his left arm, as well as his upper left side.

"I wouldn't move if I were you, Bart," he heard.

Bart finally managed to open his eyes, blinking blearily at the man sitting in a chair beside the bed. "Doc?" he said.

Seeing Bart laid up brought back memories to Doc from nearly a year ago, when Bart had been attacked and ended up with amnesia as a result of a serious concussion*. Doc had given an entire month of his life taking care of his friend and trying to help him regain his memory. "That's me," Doc said, but his voice lacked its usual jovial tone.

Bart closed his eyes with a wince, his right hand straying to his injured side.

Doc reached over and grabbed his wrist. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, either."

Bart tried to control his breathing as the pain throbbed. He remembered hearing a gunshot. "Who shot me?" he asked.

Doc sighed. "You don't know?"

Bart weakly shook his head, eyes closed.

"Can you figure it out?"

That wasn't the answer that Bart was expecting. "What?" he asked.

Doc dropped his face in one hand. "You're really gonna make me say it? It's not bad enough that it happened? I did, Bart. I shot you."

Bart opened his eyes and looked at him before suddenly laughing.

Doc didn't expect that, and wondered if Bart had hit his head when he fell. That was the last thing they needed!

Bart gasped from the pain and put his hand over the wound and cracked rib in his side before Doc could stop him. He couldn't hold back a groan.

"No laughing either, Bart," Doc said. "You know what it's like to be shot, for goodness sake!"

"You…" said Bart, breathing heavily around the pain. "You said…you shot me...once before. It was...a joke then, too..."*

Doc frowned before he remembered. When Bart had amnesia, he'd joked to Bart that they met when Bart beat him at poker and they'd had a duel and both shot each other. Bart didn't know that he was joking and had choked on his dinner in shock. "I'm serious this time, Bart. In the dark, I thought you were the man who'd just robbed me."

Bart opened his eyes. "You really…shot me?"

Doc nodded, hanging his head.

Bart said nothing for a minute and Doc waited for his reaction.

"Ow, Doc," Bart justifiably whined.

"I'm sorry," Doc said, feeling terrible. "I've never been sorrier for anything in my life."

Bart was quiet again for a minute. "Well," he finally said. "At least I don't have to worry...that someone is after me." He winced again.

Doc shook his head. "You don't, unless that man pointed you out because he wants you dead."

"Huh?"

Doc explained to Bart what had happened, having to repeat himself a couple of times when Bart was too focused on the pain to hear him.

"He…must've been…the thief," Bart said, eyes closed tight against the throbbing.

Doc nodded, before remembering that Bart couldn't see him with his eyes closed. "That's what I was thinking."

Bart was trying not to voice his pain too much, not wanting Doc to feel guiltier than he already did, but a moan slipped out before he was able to stop it.

"I'm sorry," Doc said again.

Bart sighed, carefully, as it pulled on the wound in his side. He still had a hand over it and he carefully moved his hand up as if to figure out exactly where it was on his body. It was only about five or six inches away from his armpit, and he realized with shock that the bullet could've easily ended up in his lung and killed him, and it would've if it hadn't gone through his arm first. He stopped himself from saying anything.

Doc could tell what he was thinking. Bart really had been very lucky, considering. "The bullet cracked the rib that was in the way of your lung."

Bart winced, his hand over the wound again. "I can tell." But they were both relieved that his rib had stopped the bullet in the first place, so he added, "Thank God."

Doc nodded with a sigh, and they were quiet for a minute.

Bart wondered what time it was; he was exhausted, but he knew that the pain would prevent him from falling asleep.

As if he read his mind, Doc suddenly said, "It's one o'clock in the morning, Bart. You should go to sleep."

"I'm trying," Bart answered. A moment later, he thought of something. "You in trouble?" he asked.

"Me?" asked Doc. "Oh, you mean for…shooting you?" He could hardly say it.

Bart nodded.

Doc shrugged. "I dunno. The sheriff hasn't come around; maybe he didn't hear what happened yet."

"I won't…press charges…" Bart mumbled, as his wounded body finally demanded rest and he drifted off to sleep.

Doc sighed. "You should."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Bart woke the next morning, the pain hadn't abated and he groaned before he was even fully awake.

"Take it easy, son," he heard. It was obviously the doctor.

Bart heard the sound of liquid being poured and he opened his eyes to find the man standing beside the bed with a glass of water. He submitted when the doctor carefully lifted his head so he could drink, and he didn't pull the glass away until it was empty.

Bart closed his eyes. "Thanks."

"Anytime," said the doctor putting the glass down on the nightstand.

Bart reopened his eyes and looked around the room, seeing no one else. "Where'd Doc go?" he asked.

"The sheriff wanted a word with him," said the doctor.

Uh oh.

"He wanted to talk to you too, and I'm supposed to tell him when you wake up," the doctor continued.

Bart sighed—carefully. He closed his eyes with a wince, before saying, "Go get him." He wanted to make sure he got the sheriff off Doc's back before his friend ended up in jail.

"All right. Don't move while I'm gone," said the doctor, before leaving.

Bart had no intention of it. The wound in his side was throbbing, and his arm hurt so much that he couldn't shift it at all. Bart suddenly noticed something on the wall across from him which read: 'Lesson 1: Don't Get Shot'. Bart had to inwardly laugh. Lesson 2, he thought. If you must get shot, don't get shot three times with only one bullet. He sighed. Only you, Bart Maverick, he thought. Only you could get three bullet wounds from one bullet.

"Bart?" he suddenly heard.

Opening his eyes, Bart realized that he must've drifted off again. Doc, the sheriff, and the doctor were standing there, and he'd never heard them come in. The sheriff was holding Doc by one arm, as if wanting to keep him away from Bart.

"Sheriff," Bart said, trying not to wince. "Let him go."

The sheriff frowned. "You mean his story is true?"

Bart nodded. "Doc is my friend. I'm not pressing charges."

"Three wounds and a cracked rib from one bullet and you're not pressing charges?" the sheriff said. He looked at the doctor. "Is your patient all right in the head?"

The doctor nodded. "Seems like it to me."

"Blood loss stopping him from thinking straight?" the sheriff persisted.

The doctor shook his head. "Blood loss wasn't severe."

The sheriff looked at Bart again. "Are you sure about this?"

Bart nodded his head. "I'm sure."

The sheriff sighed and let go of Doc's arm. "You really have a good friend, here," he said to Doc. "You better be thinking of a way to make this up to him." The sheriff had been shot before himself, and knew well the amount of pain it caused from one wound, nevermind three.

Doc nodded, looking contrite. "I know, and I am."

The sheriff nodded and left.

Doc sat down in the chair beside the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Bart said, which was a complete lie.

Doc looked surprised and relieved.

"What about your stolen money?" Bart asked.

Doc sighed and shook his head. "Fifty-five hundred dollars, gone like that." He snapped his fingers.

"Fifty-five hundred?" Bart echoed.

Doc nodded.

Bart had no idea that it was so much. "We gotta get it back."

"How?" said Doc. "I don't know who took it, and what do you mean 'we'? You can't do anything to help in your condition."

That was true, at the moment, anyway. "There has to be some way," Bart said.

"If you think of something, I'm all ears, Bart."

Bart thought for a minute. "Ask around town if anyone saw who pointed me out to you as the thief."

Doc sighed. "It was dark, Bart, I doubt that will work."

"You should at least try," Bart said.

Doc nodded. Bart was right, of course. He sighed. "You should eat. I'll get you some breakfast." With that, he got up and left, not waiting for an answer.

Bart closed his eyes and sighed carefully. What he wanted was more sleep; he was relieved that he hadn't lost too much blood—getting to the doctor quickly was the reason for that—but the pain was exhausting. He'd tried to sound stronger as he'd spoken to Doc, but in reality, he felt weak.

It didn't take Doc long to come back, and he placed a tray on the nightstand. "You awake?" he asked.

Bart opened his eyes in answer.

Doc made a face, trying to figure out how to help Bart sit up with that wound in his side. He went around to Bart's right. "Don't move, let me do it," he said.

Bart complied.

Doc slid an arm under his friend's shoulders and pulled him upright, holding him there while he used his other hand to stand the pillows up behind him.

Bart closed his eyes with a wince, and tried to noiselessly let out his breath through his nose after Doc leaned him back, not wanting him to see how much it had hurt.

Doc watched him. "You all right?"

Bart reopened his eyes. "Fine," he said.

Doc didn't believe him. Reaching for the tray, he placed it on his friend's lap and removed the cover. It contained a plate of eggs and bacon.

It smelled delicious, and Bart started to eat it, knowing that he had to rebuild his strength. It took him a minute to realize that Doc had none for himself. "Where's yours?" he asked.

"I already ate," Doc lied.

Bart knew that it wasn't the truth; Doc's guilt had obviously robbed him of his appetite; something that Bart had never seen happen in all the years that he'd known him. "You don't have to sit here and stare at me all day," he told his friend. "You should look for your money."

Doc nodded. "I will…after I stare at you all day."

Bart smiled; glad to hear the joke. Doc was still there, under the guilt.

Doc didn't smile though, sighing instead. They were quiet for a while, and after Bart finished eating, he dozed off again.

Doc remained where he sat for a long time, still unable to believe that he'd shot Bart. Suddenly, he felt like he had to get out of there, and he might as well go now while Bart was asleep. Standing, he remembered that the doctor had gone out himself after telling them that he'd be back. Doc didn't want to leave Bart alone, so he paced until the doctor returned, and then he left.

Walking around outside, Doc took a deep breath of fresh air and let it out heavily. Out here, he could pretend that last night hadn't happened…for a minute or two, anyway. Nothing could erase what he'd done, and he found himself standing at the very alley where he'd been robbed. Looking around, he spotted something on the ground and picked it up.

It was a Spanish doubloon.

Doc frowned. Where on earth had that come from? Did it belong to the thief? It seemed like too much of a coincidence not to, but the man who'd pointed Bart out to him last night hadn't been Mexican.

Sighing, Doc put it in his pocket and took out a cigar, lighting it and leaning on a nearby post to think.

TBC

* 'If Memory Serves': story ID 11080276