Writing the last chapter and the beginning of this one, I kept thinking of the song "How to Save a Life." And now you probably have it stuck in your head. You're welcome.

Chapter title might sound steamy, but prepare to be disappointed. xD That's what you get for not commenting.

Wyatt hated leaving Doc like that, but it couldn't be helped. He fetched his toothbrush and hurried to the washroom down the hall. A couple of minutes later, he returned to his and James's room. His brother had turned the lamp so low, it was barely still burning. He took off his boots and waistcoat and turned down the bedclothes. Then he made sure his things were in order for packing up the next day. He blew out the lamp and was about to get out of his trousers when he heard an all-too-familiar sound: distant coughing.

I can't go barging back in there... he'll probably shoot me.

But the coughing sounded rough and wasn't letting up.

I guess I can say I went back for the map, Wyatt decided. Mind made up, he carefully let himself out of the room and crossed over to Doc's.

Doc was leaning over the side of his bed, still coughing as he retrieved his whiskey flask. When he tipped his head back to take a drink, he spied Wyatt and started. He set the flask aside before sitting up.

"I thought you were going to bed," Doc said flatly, glaring at Wyatt.

"I left my map," said Wyatt. Now that he said it out loud, it sounded like a silly excuse.

Doc didn't look fooled in the slightest. "Well, as you're here, just collect it and go."

Wyatt walked across the room, took up his map, and carefully folded it. He turned away, leaving his pencil behind. Maybe it could provide another excuse later on, or in the morning.

"Don't forget your pencil," Doc said, looking suspicious.

So much for that idea. "Right." Wyatt fetched the pencil, then came back toward the door, slowly passing Doc's bed.

"Wyatt, you need to start pretending harder or just go ahead and say what you're thinking."

Shit. Why can he see right through me? "What... what do you..."

"You're worried about me, but you don't want to say so because you agreed not to speak of my illness."

Wyatt looked away.

"You sure played poker better than this."

You don't have to rub it in. Wyatt sighed and came around the side of Doc's bed. "I'm sorry. I can't help being a little concerned. And I feel responsible."

"That is ridiculous. I had consumption before I ever met you."

Maybe it was because he was getting sleepy, but Wyatt didn't understand Doc's joke at first.

Doc smirked. "I'm bein' facetious, my friend. You mean you feel responsible for my current state because you convinced me to come along on this trip."

"That's about it."

"Well, you remember things wrong. I decided to go of my own free will. Made up my mind if you were going, I would too. So, stop being so conceited as to think you're responsible for everything."

Conceited? I'm just worried about you...

"I'll be better in the morning. You'll see."

"It's my fault Kate wasn't around to tell you not to go," Wyatt pointed out.

"Let's not argue what might have been, or neither one of us will get any rest. I told you, I'll be better in the morning."

If you live that long... Wyatt took a step closer to the head of the bed. "But tonight..."

"I'm fine, damn it." Ironically, it was then that Doc coughed again, though this time it lasted only a couple of seconds.

"Doc, just let me..."

"What? What exactly are you going to do that I'm not already doing for myself?"

Wyatt looked around, searching for something he could do to help. Eventually, he met Doc's gaze again. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'll stay here all night if you'll let me." Shit. Why did I say that out loud? He willed himself not to look embarrassed. Couldn't I have said "if I have to" or something else less...

Doc shook his head. "At least one of us needs to get a good night's sleep."

Wyatt tried to think of an argument. It was true, he really needed sleep too. And maybe there wasn't much he could do for his friend. But he couldn't bring himself to leave again. "James is asleep. Either I'll wake him up going back in there, or his snoring will keep me awake."

"Oh, for land's sake, son."

Quit calling me son.

Doc sighed. "Did you clean your teeth? I'm a dentist, you recall. I can't abide the thought of someone not taking care of their teeth."

Wyatt half-smiled. You're worried about me now? "Yes, I did."

"All right. I'm too tired to argue with you anymore. Do what you want. But put the lamp out, would you?"

Tension left Wyatt's body as relief washed over him. "Sure, Doc."

He put his map back on the table and pulled the one wooden chair over by the bed.

Doc tossed a pillow onto the chair.

Wyatt glanced at him. He didn't want to take any comfort away from Doc, but he didn't seem to have been using the second pillow. He settled into the chair, adjusting the pillow behind his back. Then he leaned over to put out the lamp.

They sat in silence while Wyatt's eyes slowly adjusted to the scanty amount of light coming from the window. He could make out Doc's vague form on the bed, still sitting up.

"Talk to me, Wyatt."

Wyatt hadn't been expecting anything else to be said. "...What?"

"Tell me some long, pointless story without a moral. Your voice is like a creek."

"A creek?" What am I, a parrot?

"Water falling over rocks and tree roots... It's... It will help me sleep."

Wyatt had never given much thought to the quality of his own voice. For some reason it pleased him that Doc found it a comforting sound. What should I tell him? He thought about the stories his mother used to tell him when he was a boy, but those would probably seem a bit silly to Doc right now. He could choose a well-known fable... if it was something Doc already knew, maybe it would be boring enough to put him to sleep. But something made him to decide to go back to his own family history.

"Back in Iowa, a long, long time ago, there was a boy who dreamed of being a soldier like his older brothers," he began. Images of the Iowa farm filled his mind.

The bedclothes rustled as Doc settled down on the bed.

Wyatt described a typical day on the farm, the kind of breakfast his mother had waiting for them every morning, how he would assign Morgan and Warren to do the least pleasant chores, and how they would fight over who had to do which ones.

Before long, Wyatt could hear the raspy, but steady breathing of a sick man sleeping. He kept talking a little longer, wanting to be sure that Doc would stay asleep. Then he carefully and quietly went back to the table where he lit a candlestick. The sudden light seemed harsh, but it was dimmer than the lamp. The bobbing flame sent Wyatt's shadow dancing as he found Doc's waistcoat and took the folded handkerchief from the pocket.

When he took it close to the candle, Wyatt could see that the cloth was spotted with bloodstains, some old and some new. The grim reality of Doc's illness finally took hold. He's going to die. He'll die young. I don't know how long I'll get to have him as my friend. Maybe a couple of years, maybe just months... God, what if this trip kills him?

He hadn't made an honest prayer in years, but pride wasn't going to stop him tonight. He leaned over the table and silently begged his Maker to give his friend more time. Use me to keep him alive if You want. Just don't take him yet. Please. I'll go to those church services like I promised the reverend. I'll try to clean up my act. I'll do my best.

He continued along those lines until Doc shifted in his sleep. After a quick amen, Wyatt went to the wash stand to rinse out the handkerchief. Then he returned to Doc's side. Fearing he might wake him, Wyatt gingerly brushed the backs of his fingers against Doc's face. It was warm and damp with sweat. Carefully, he dabbed Doc's face with the handkerchief. He tugged the neck of Doc's undershirt open and dabbed at his throat. Doc remained asleep.

"You hold on, Doc," Wyatt said in a low voice. "The Lord and I have an arrangement."

As it was getting light the next morning, Wyatt gently felt Doc's forehead again.

Doc's eyelids fluttered. He looked up at Wyatt blankly.

Glad to see him awake again, Wyatt smiled a little. "I guess you were right. You do seem better."

Doc looked him over. He coughed once and cleared his throat. "Tell me you didn't really sit there all night."

"I didn't," Wyatt assured him. "Once you were sleeping well, I went to bed for a few hours. Even managed to sleep through James snoring."

"Good. At least you've some sense."

"Want me to bring you breakfast?"

"Don't be absurd. I'll go down with you."

His indignation assured Wyatt that Doc was indeed feeling better. "All right, but you'd better hurry. James is up and dressed already."

"On the double, Marshal."

Wyatt didn't bother to correct him with the "assistant" part. He stood and headed for the door.

"Wyatt."

He paused. "Yeah?"

Doc stared at him inscrutably for a moment and then said, "Tell James I'll be right out."

Wyatt nodded and went back across the hall.

"Is he up?" James asked. Their bags were all packed and ready.

"He's awake. He said he'll be right out."

"He'd better. The stagecoach driver won't want to wait on us."

"He won't want to leave without us either - not with what he's carrying," Wyatt pointed out. "Don't worry so much."

A few minutes later, Doc came to join them and they went down to breakfast together. They saw the soldier detail in the dining room, still supervising the ill-tempered Jackson.

"I'm not eager for that bear to be our responsibility," James muttered.

"I'll keep him in line," said Wyatt. He wasn't overly confident, merely determined. He was going to see this job through, and nothing Jackson said or did was going to stop him.

After breakfast, they loaded their belongings into the buckboard and met the stagecoach at the post office.

"We have to give the locals another twenty minutes or so to make up their minds if they're going to Syracuse or need to send any last-minute mail," the driver told them.

"I highly doubt anyone will presume to take up space in the coach with the esteemed Mister Jackson," Doc said. "But I'll take these few minutes to see the local general store."

"Don't take long," James said.

Wyatt stood in the back of the buckboard and looked out toward the railroad. He could see men loading heaps of bones into a freight car. "Buffalo bones," he murmured.

James turned around to look. "Where are they sending them?"

"Back east for fertilizer. All they can do with 'em now, I guess. Let's hope the herds north of the Santa Fe don't die out too."

"Only if fools like you don't keep shooting them for the hides."

"I quit, didn't I?"

Wyatt turned in the direction Doc had gone and saw the false front of the dugout store. "O'Loughlin's General Store," it said. He wondered what Doc might be looking for, if anything. He started to wish he'd gone with him. "Think we oughtta pick up a pack horse in Granada? That way we could just change tack and hit the trail if needed."

"If you think it's worth the expense. You're the one bankrolling this expedition," James answered.

After another minute, Wyatt said, "I'm going to go hurry Doc along."

"Don't end up dawdling, yourself."

Wyatt vaulted out of the wagon and went to the store. He had barely set foot inside, when he saw Doc coming toward the door.

"Need something, Wyatt?" Doc asked. "The man has just about everything."

It appeared to be true. Every shelf was packed full, and even the walls were covered with items hung up for viewing. Everything from ox shoes to a crosscut saw.

"I can't think of a thing I need," Wyatt said.

A bearded man, who looked a little older than himself, joined the two of them. "I take it you're one of the lawmen traveling with Doctor Holliday?" he asked.

"I am. Wyatt Earp." Wyatt shook the man's hand.

"John O'Loughlin," the other said. "You be careful out there. Cheyennes might come after you for your spare horses."

"I appreciate the warning, but I've had a few run-in's with Cheyenne. We're more concerned about Jackson's gang ambushing us."

"Just the same. They burned out my brother Tom's store in Pierceville a few years back. They're nothing to sneeze at."

"We'll be careful." Wyatt looked at Doc. "You ready?"

"I am now." Doc smiled at the proprietor. "Thank you kindly, Mister O'Loughlin. You dig in deep here and don't give anyone an inch. Give 'em hell."

"I aim to," O'Loughlin said, smiling in return. "Good luck."

Lakin really was known for sending freight cars of buffalo bones back east for fertilizer. I have learned some very interesting things by making the boys take this trip. ^_^

John O'Loughlin and his store are seriously underrated. Look up some info on it. It's fascinating.

If you're reading, please say something. It's been a lonely writing process.