Bart slept for most of the day, not waking until near suppertime. He immediately winced and couldn't hold back a groan.

"It's about time you woke up."

Bart blearily opened his eyes, blinking at the man who was sitting in a chair next to his bed. "Doc?"

"Right on the first try," said Doc. "Look what I found."

It took a few seconds for Bart to be able to focus on what Doc was holding before his face. Obviously, Doc had been going crazy waiting for him to wake up so he could show him this. "A doubloon," he mumbled.

"Right again," said Doc. He reached over Bart's body and grabbed his right wrist, pulling it forward so he could place the coin in his hand.

Bart blinked at it, wondering why Doc was so excited. "Where?"

"In the alley. I think the real thief dropped it," said Doc.

Bart nodded his head. "Possibly." He lowered his hand and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a careful breath.

Doc frowned. "What's wrong? Besides the obvious…"

"You're going too fast for me," said Bart, eyes still closed as pain throbbed through his left side and arm. He suddenly heard water being poured into a cup, and he reopened his eyes just as it appeared before his face.

Doc helped him drink it. "Sorry," he said. He had a feeling that he would likely repeat that phrase again before morning.

Bart had fallen asleep that day still reclined upright a little, so it wasn't hard for him to drink the water without moving. "Thanks."

Doc nodded and put the cup back on the nightstand. He sat there quietly watching Bart until his friend looked a little better.

Bart eventually raised the coin again and looked at it. "Did you ask around town who it belongs to?"

Doc shook his head. "No, I thought that would make it too obvious. If the thief finds out that I'm using it to try to find him, he'll leave town—if he hasn't already—and I'll never see my money again. I…need someone else to pretend that they found it and are simply trying to find the owner to return it to him."

Bart was quiet for a minute. "Me."

Doc shrugged. "After you've recovered some…once you're back on your feet…if you want to."

Bart nodded. It made sense. "We'll see how I am in the morning."

Doc blinked. "Tomorrow?"

Bart nodded. "If possible. The longer we wait, the better the chance that you'll never get that money back."

Now Doc felt even more guilty. Bart planned to get out of bed too soon to help him find his money? After what he'd done? He didn't know what to say.

"I know that you didn't mean to shoot me," Bart said, seeing the expression on Doc's face.

Doc sighed. "That doesn't change the fact that I did."

"Well I hope this taught you not to shoot in the future until you know who you're pointing your gun at," Bart said.

Doc nodded. "Believe me, it has." He sighed again. "I still think you're taking this too well. Are you all there in the head?"

Bart smiled slightly. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll have something to say when I try to stand up for the first time."

Doc chuckled.

A short time later, he fetched supper and they ate: including Doc this time. Guilt had stopped him from eating all day, but now he was hungry.

Bart was glad. He'd never seen Doc so full of guilt before.

The night passed slowly, with Bart not sleeping very well because of the pain; it was impossible for him to shift his position. When he finally fell into a deeper sleep, it lasted hours, and he didn't open his eyes again until nearly noon the next day.

"Well, well, well," said Doc. "Finally decided to come back, eh?"

Bart was momentarily confused, and blinked groggily. "From where?" he mumbled, before saying, "Oh."

"Feeling better?" Doc asked, with a hopeful note in his voice.

Bart said nothing at first, assessing himself. He didn't feel as weak, and the pain had dimmed in both his arm and side, but he knew it was because he'd been immobile for two days, and it would definitely get worse again once he started moving. "Yeah," he said.

"Good," said Doc. "You've been giving me gray hairs this past year, you know."

Bart smiled. "I can see them."

Doc's expression became one of shock. "What? You can? Where?" He started running his hand through his hair, as if he could knock them out of his head.

Bart couldn't help it: he laughed...for one second, before realizing what a bad idea that was. The laugh turned into a groan that he couldn't hold back, and he placed his hand over the wound in his side.

Doc stopped trying to dislodge imaginary gray hairs and reached over, but he was on the side of Bart's wounded arm and didn't want to touch it. "You should know better than to laugh, Bart."

Bart almost replied, 'you should know better than to make me laugh,' but he didn't want to add more guilt to Doc's pile. "Didn't think," he mumbled, through clenched teeth.

"There's a lot of not-thinking going around," Doc said, with a sigh. They were both silent for a minute before he spoke again. "Bart?"

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That I have gray hair?"

"No, Doc."

*sigh* "Good." Doc paused. "You do, though."

"What?!"

"I'm joking too, Bart."

"Good."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the afternoon rolled around, Bart asked Doc to help him up, knowing that his friend was nervously awaiting the chance to look for the man who had stolen his money. Fifty-five hundred dollars was an insane amount to lose, and even though Bart wasn't healthy yet, he knew that time was of the essence; it might already be too late.

"Are you sure about this?" Doc asked, as he stared at his friend, who was sitting up on the edge of the bed.

Bart knew that it was too soon, but he nodded anyway.

Doc grabbed a black jacket off the nearby chair and carefully slid it up his friend's wounded arm, before holding it so Bart could slip his other arm in. Doc adjusted it in the front and looped a sling around Bart's neck before gently settling his wounded arm inside.

Bart suddenly realized something. "This isn't my jacket."

Doc shook his head. "It was ruined. I told you I'd buy you a new one."

Bart looked down at it, fingering the lapel, which had a satin piping down the outside edge. It definitely wasn't cheap. "I like it. Thank you."

"It's the least I could do," Doc said, sounding guilty again as he took Bart's good arm and carefully pulled him to his feet.

Bart winced and slid his hand under the sling, placing it over the wound and cracked rib in his side. He felt dizzy and leaned against Doc, sucking in a breath when the pain increased.

"Now's your chance to yell at me," said Doc. "Don't hold it back, Bart, I deserve it."

Bart considered it, but held his tongue. Doc did deserve it, but his immense guilt was punishment enough. Instead, Bart sighed heavily once the flare of pain died down a little, straightened up, and took a step.

Doc kept a hand on his arm, gripping it tightly as they started to walk to towards the door. "If you need to stop, you'll tell me, right?" Doc asked. "I'm not gonna find out that you pushed yourself too far by watching you suddenly pass out and fall to the dirty, dusty ground, am I?"

Bart smiled slightly. "We'll see," he joked.

Doc chuckled.

Once outside, they looked around a little as they tried to decide which way to go.

"No more obvious place than the saloon," said Bart.

Doc nodded his agreement, and they slowly headed over. Once they reached the doors, Bart stopped. "We shouldn't go in together," he said. "If the thief is in there and sees you with me while I'm looking for him..."

Doc nodded and reluctantly let go of his friend's good arm.

Bart walked into the saloon and surveyed the place. The people who looked in his direction merely had curiosity on their faces rather than apprehension, and it was obvious that everyone knew what had happened to him. He slowly made his way inside and over to a table where a poker game was in play.

The man in Bart's line of sight looked up at him. "Maverick, that's yer name, right?"

Others at the table turned to see him.

"That's right," Bart said.

"You don't stay down long, eh?" said the man, referring to his injuries.

Bart shook his head, taking the doubloon out of his pocket and tossing it up and down. "No," he said.

"Play poker?" asked someone else.

"Sure do, but not today," Bart said, indicating his sling-encased arm. He noticed that no one reacted to the doubloon, so he eventually walked off. He never saw Doc come in and head to the bar, where he ordered his usual whiskey and sat facing the room.

Bart had no luck with the customers in the bar until a man suddenly said to him, "What's that you got there?"

Bart looked at him. "It's a doubloon," he said, holding it up

The man looked at it, before saying, "You wanna sell it?"

Bart frowned; that was the last thing he expected to hear. "Not really."

The man shrugged and went back to his drink.

Bart walked away, thinking. Was that the coin owner's way of trying to get it back without revealing himself? He turned around, seeing Doc sitting there watching. Bart scratched his face nonchalantly, using his thumb to gesture towards the man without making it obvious.

Doc shook his head slightly. He wasn't the man.

Bart turned around again, seeing that no one was watching him. Apparently, the thief was not in the saloon…at the moment. Bart started walking over to an empty table, feeling worn out, his injuries paining him more than he wanted to admit.

A nearby barmaid saw him, and gave him a smile. "You look like someone who really needs a drink."

Bart was sure he did, with his arm in a sling and face looking pale. He smiled back. "Coffee will do."

She nodded and left.

Doc watched him for a second, before pouring himself another shot of whiskey. He had a feeling that the thief was gone and they were wasting their time: especially Bart, who had no obligation to help him, especially after being shot by him!

The caffeine in the coffee lent Bart the strength to get up and leave the saloon, and he sat on the first bench that he came across, waiting for Doc, who showed up a minute later.

"No luck," Bart told him.

"I saw," said Doc, sitting beside him. He looked at his friend for a few seconds, seeing how pale he looked. "I'm changing my mind," he said. "You don't have to help me find whoever owns that doubloon."

Bart looked at him. "Why not?"

Doc frowned. "Do you still have brain damage from last year's amnesia, or something? You're not healthy enough to help. It's bad enough that I shot you; I don't want to be responsible for you having a dizzy spell or fainting or something and hurting yourself worse. If you fall, your cracked rib could break all the way."

Bart knew that he was right; he was in a lot more pain than he was letting Doc see. "I'm fine," he said anyway.

Doc huffed.

They sat quietly for a while, Doc not wanting to get Bart up until he was ready.

Finally, Bart sighed—carefully, as deep breaths didn't agree much with his rib—and moved to stand.

Doc leapt to his feet and grabbed his friend's arm, pulling him up.

"Thanks," Bart said. It definitely hurt less when he didn't have to do all the work. He started to take a step, but abruptly, his vision suddenly spun.

Doc gasped when Bart's knees suddenly buckled, and he grabbed him before he could fall. "See? See? I told you!"

Bart closed his eyes against the dizziness and gasped when Doc's hand accidentally touched the wound and cracked rib. He felt himself placed back onto the bench, where he slumped bonelessly, feeling like he was floating. Lesson 3, he thought. Don't get out of bed too soon to help the man who shot you.

Doc grasped Bart's good arm, to keep him from sliding off the bench, anxiously watching as his friend tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, Bart's senses seemed cut-off; his hearing dimmed and it seemed like time was passing without his knowledge. He knew that he was seconds away from losing consciousness, and even though painless sleep was what he really needed, he fought it, and somehow opened his eyes, blearily blinking.

Doc watched him with a frown. "Bart? You with me?"

Bart took as deep a breath as he was able to with his cracked rib. "Think so," he mumbled.

"Didn't I tell you this would happen!" Doc exclaimed.

Bart was too tired to argue. "Yes, you did, Doc." He closed his eyes. Lesson 4: Especially if that man is Doc Holliday.

"Oh no you don't," said Doc, squeezing his arm. "If you pass out, you're staying right here until you wake up: you can't be carried with a cracked rib."

That was true. Bart reopened his eyes.

"Good boy," said Doc. "Can you get up without swooning like a woman again?"

"Didn't swoon," Bart mumbled.

Doc didn't understand the words. "What was that?"

"Didn't swoon," Bart said more clearly.

"What else would you call it, then?" Doc asked. "Forget it, come on, up you go." With that, he stood and carefully pulled his friend to his feet. "If you thought getting up was an opportunity to go back to your room at the hotel, think again; you're going back to the doctor's."

Doc knew him well. "Why?" Bart asked.

"The stairs, why else? I doubt you could make it up them," said Doc. He held onto Bart tightly once he was standing. "You okay?"

Bart almost nodded, but thought better of it. "Yeah."

They slowly started to walk back, and by the time they arrived, Bart couldn't stop yawning. He barely registered it when he was suddenly sitting on the bed. Hands carefully took his wounded arm out of the sling and pulled his jacket off before helping him lie down.

Bart had his eyes closed through the whole thing, and he fell asleep without reopening them.

TBC