The cold light from the fluorescent lamps bathed the intensive care room where Steve McGarrett lay, still unconscious but in relatively stable constant hum of the machines monitoring his vital signs was the only sound perceptible in the quiet room, aside from the faint breath of the ventilator keeping him . Sheridan, the head of the intensive care unit at Queens Hospital, entered the room with methodical precision, his eyes fixed on the machine screens.
Sheridan was a man in his forties, calm and professional, with the gaze of a veteran in extreme situations. Steve's condition was complex, but he was confident in the treatments he had administered so far. He took a moment to check the constants on the machines' screens. Steve's heart rate had decreased, stabilizing at a much more reasonable level than it had been in the last few hours. His blood pressure, which had been erratic, had returned to normal levels, and his oxygen saturation, though still relatively low, had improved thanks to the ventilator.
Sheridan approached Steve's bed and examined the two large IV lines running through his arm, connected to syringes containing fluids and medications. One administered a light sedative to prevent any agitation, while the other delivered a saline solution to maintain his hydration. He checked the liver support machine, a device specialized in temporarily supporting the liver while waiting for a transplant. The screen flickered briefly, indicating the machine was functioning properly. Steve's body, although weakened, was responding to the care.
Sheridan then examined the bandages covering Steve's chest wound. The incision was clean, and the bandage had become dry and clean again. He gently touched the area, ensuring that no infection had developed. He knew Steve's medical history, with the many injuries he had accumulated throughout his career. Any complication could become catastrophic.
He decided it was time for a more in-depth assessment of Steve's lungs. He instructed the nurse to prepare the chest scan. Recent X-rays had shown worrying signs of lung damage, but the medications administered over the hours seemed to have allowed some recovery. As Steve was moved for the scan, Sheridan made sure his condition remained stable. The machines monitoring his constants flickered, indicating that the situation was still critical but under control.
/
The scan revealed that the lungs had indeed regained proper function, a favorable result. The left lung, which had been more affected by the bullet's trajectory, now showed signs of normal oxygenation. The doctor relaxed his shoulders a little. It wasn't a victory yet, but it was a good sign.
Sheridan stepped back from the monitor, his fingers briefly brushing the edge of Steve's bed. Not everything was won, but the signs were positive. He approached the ventilator, listening to its deep and steady breath, a mechanical breath that kept Steve alive but also served as a brutal reminder of the situation's fragility. The ventilator had been invaluable, but he knew the time was approaching when it could be removed. He decided to begin reducing it gradually to observe the patient's reaction. If the lungs followed the rhythm, he could transfer him to a room and put him on an oxygen mask. He wasn't yet ready to disconnect it completely, but the transition had to be slow.
With one last look at Steve, Sheridan noted the final details in the medical chart before leaving the room. The ventilator might be removed soon, and Steve would be moved to a room.
The situation was slowly stabilizing, but the reality remained relentless: waiting for the transplant was now the key point for Steve to survive. The next hours, maybe even the next days, would be critical. Sheridan knew that, although there were signs of improvement, the urgency of a transplant remained a major challenge. Hope, fragile but present, slowly crept into Sheridan's mind as he continued to monitor this patient whose life was hanging by a thread, every minute counting for the transplant miracle to occur in time.
/
The regular beeps of the machines echoed in the enclosed space of the room, filling his ears like a strange, irregular symphony. A sound that seemed both reassuring and distant, a constant in the thick fog that enveloped his mind. Each pulse of the machine blended with his own heartbeat, creating a melody that seemed to speak to him from a world between life and death. The sensation of being suspended somewhere, between two worlds, lingered, as if his body no longer fully belonged to that moment.
Steve tried to blink, but the light in the room struck him painfully, a pale glow that made him retreat into himself. He closed his eyelids once again, searching for an escape from this suffocating feeling. His body was heavy, numb. Every movement felt like a superhuman effort, but he knew he had to try. Slowly, he tried to focus on his breathing. The air was fresh, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat that had overtaken him earlier. His thoughts were confused, fragmented, like puzzle pieces scattered around him. He felt trapped in a dense fog, and had to force himself to push away the stupor that kept him suspended in the void.
When he opened his eyes again, the contours of the room began to take shape, though everything around him was still blurry. He was in a hospital room, the walls white, a faint halo of light streaming through the drawn curtains. He tried to move, but a dull, insidious pain made itself felt in his body, forcing him to freeze. It felt like every movement was pulling him into a sea of pain. His arms were suspended by cables, attached to syringes containing liquids and medications.
A flash of an explosion suddenly shot through him, followed by a blurry image of a violent impact, then darkness. A shiver of anxiety ran down his back as the memory of the pain and the loss of consciousness resurfaced. Gradually, he realized he was connected to several machines, the sounds and beeps filling the space around him. His hands moved slowly, trying to understand the source of his pain. The intravenous drip was in his arm, and he felt his heart pounding against his chest, each beat seeming harder than the last. He tried to breathe more deeply, but an invisible weight on his chest made it painful, making each breath a laborious effort.
In the distance, voices reached his ears, but they were far away, like an echo through a tunnel. He tried to focus on them, his fractured mind seeking an anchor. He could make out blurry figures. It was a strange, almost suffocating sensation, one that intensified his inability to fully grasp the situation.
But then, a voice rose near him. Danny's voice. "Steve?" That single word made him shiver, pulling him a little further out of the fog. He felt a wave of emotion wash over him, and his heart beat harder. Danny... he was there. He had survived. He was not alone.
Danny moved closer. Steve sensed the outline of his friend leaning near him. The light in the room became clearer around him, a little less blurry, as his mind struggled to stabilize. He wanted to speak, say something, but his throat hurt, as though every word was an insurmountable effort. His eyes closed for a moment under the fatigue, and he felt his breathing becoming more irregular.
Danny, his eyes filled with worry, gently placed a hand on the edge of the bed, his voice soft but firm. "Hey, Steve, can you hear me? It's Danny." His hand then moved to Steve's arm, trying to get his attention. "Come on, Steve, I know you can do it. Focus on me. Breathe slowly, okay?"
Steve felt his heart tighten. He wanted to respond, but every attempt to speak was met with pain that seemed to intensify in his throat. His fingers clenched slightly, a desperate attempt to reconnect with reality. "Steve, look at me. I'm here, we're all here. Kono's here too, okay?" Danny's voice was soft but filled with almost tangible insistence. He leaned closer to him. "Breathe slowly, Steve."
Steve felt another wave of emotion wash over him. He knew Danny was right. He was here. He was alive. He just needed to breathe, that's it, breathe deeply. He tried to follow his friend's instructions, his blurry mind trying to focus. The air was fresh in the room, and he forced himself to inhale slowly, though each movement took considerable effort. Little by little, he felt the air filling his lungs, a breath of comfort, though the pain still lingered.
"That's it, Steve, that's it." Danny's voice rose again, encouraging. "Come on, just a little more."
Steve was in a state of confusion, struggling to regain his bearings. Every minute seemed to stretch on, but deep down, he knew he had to hold on. Battling the heavy fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him at every moment, he forced himself to breathe more slowly, to focus on each small movement, each little sign that he was still there, alive. Danny was here, beside him, and that was enough to give him the strength to keep going.
The sound of a door opening was heard. Lou and Chin entered the room, carrying cups of coffee. Their presence, despite the evident fatigue on their faces, brought some comfort to the cold, clinical environment. Chin's eyes shone with a glimmer of relief, as though he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Lou, on the other hand, was clearly happy to see Steve react, even if only in the smallest way.
"Don't worry, buddy, we've got what you need!" Lou said with a big smile, placing a steaming cup on the small table beside Steve's bed. He gave Danny a knowing look before glancing at Steve, as if he couldn't quite believe he was finally seeing him awake. "No time limits on coffee, huh?" He let out a light laugh, full of his signature contagious energy. "We all know you're the type to wake up whenever you feel like it, but... you had to make us work a little to impress us, right?" He winked at Kono and Danny, clearly delighted to see Steve back with them.
Lou's words had an immediate effect. Steve tried to smile, his lips moving weakly. He wanted to raise his hand, wave to them, tell them he was okay. But all he managed was a tired expression, a smile hard to hold on his lips. His muscles were numb, his whole body still felt foreign to him. It was as if he had just reappeared in a world that wasn't quite his. He tried to open his eyes wider, focusing on their faces. Every detail, every movement seemed so slow, but so precious.
/
It had been over 30 hours since the plane had crashed, a span of time that felt like an eternity. The entire team was now gathered around Steve's bed, each of them filled with a mix of emotions—hope intertwined with fear.
Chin watched Steve with palpable intensity. His brows were furrowed, but his eyes shone with a hope he hadn't dared to nurture during the first few hours, those of total uncertainty. The day before had been chaotic, one of the worst of his life since the day Malia died, but Steve was here, breathing heavily but alive, fighting to come back to life.
Lou stood next to Chin, his presence still as reassuring as ever despite the gravity of the situation. He glanced at Steve before turning to Danny and Kono, a smile hard to hide. "We can say he's tough, that one," he murmured, but the emotion in his voice betrayed his relief. He had seen tough situations, but this one felt different. Steve hadn't just survived; he was fighting.
Moments later, Lou discreetly stepped away and grabbed his phone. He knew how important it was to keep everyone informed, especially when things were as uncertain as this. He moved to a quieter corner and dialed a number. The wait felt endless, but finally, the line connected.
"Governor, this is Lou." His voice was deeper than usual, marked by fatigue and concern. "We have news about Steve. He's slowly waking up, but he's not out of danger yet. He's fighting, but the next few days will be crucial."A pause. Lou listened, nodding slowly. "Thank you for your support. We're doing everything we can to help him."He continued, his voice steady with quiet determination. "We won't be able to function as an effective team until we know how he's doing. You're right; he needs time." Lou waited a few more moments before responding. "Understood. A week's respite, that works."
He hung up and, with a purposeful step, returned to the team. "Alright, you heard him," he said, turning to Chin, Danny, and Kono. "The governor is giving us a week's respite. A week to make sure Steve stabilizes, to be there for him, and to take care of one of our own. He knows we won't be operational if we don't know the outcome of Steve's health."
He paused, his eyes once again on Steve, whose breathing was still labored. "A week, guys. That's all we have. But we're going to use it to make sure he pulls through."
The room filled with heavy silence, but this time, it wasn't fear that dominated. It was a sense of relief, of unity. They had a little time, but they knew the situation remained fragile. And during that week, everything they did, every decision they made, would be focused on Steve's recovery.
Danny, at the other end of the bed, stayed vigilant, his eyes fixed on Steve, measuring every movement, every breath. He couldn't shake the anxiety tightening in his chest, but he couldn't afford to let it overwhelm him. Not now. Not when Steve needed him more than ever. He glanced toward Kono, who had stayed calm beside him, monitoring the machines.
"He'll make it, Danny. He's tougher than we think," she said softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder before turning her gaze back to Steve, her look full of tenderness.
Steve seemed to have noticed their presence, his eyes half-open, as if he was fighting against exhaustion and pain to stay awake. Every movement of his chest, every breath seemed to require a great effort, but he was there, and that was all that mattered to them.
Chin crossed his arms, watching the scene with a small, subtle smile. "It's not over, but he's in the fight."
Lou nodded, adding with a wry smile, "A miracle, but also a whole lot of stubbornness. This guy never lets us down." He turned to the team, his smile widening. "And who says Hawaiians aren't resilient?"
Danny couldn't help but smile, but that smile, though sincere, felt suspended in the air. He briefly looked toward Lou and Chin, who exchanged a knowing glance. It was a rare moment, a fragile victory after hours of uncertainty, but the relief of seeing Steve awake didn't mean the battle was over. No, this was just the beginning.
He looked at Steve, his eyes barely open, struggling against pain and fatigue. He was there, he was breathing, but everything else remained a mystery. How long before he was fully alert? How long before he could understand the extent of his injuries? And most importantly, how long before a compatible liver would be available for him, if Danny couldn't be the donor?
Danny felt a weight in his chest. He hadn't dared to speak it aloud, but he couldn't ignore the truth hanging over them all: Steve was not out of the woods yet. The hardest part was still to come. They were there, together, in this room, but the wait for the transplant was another trial they would have to face. It was only a matter of time, but that time was what scared them the most.
He moved closer to Steve's bed, leaned slightly forward, and whispered, almost to himself, "Don't worry, buddy. We're going to get you out of here." He gently stroked Steve's hand, trying to offer some comfort. But the uncertainty remained.
Kono, still by his side, observed Steve with unwavering attention. "He's strong, Danny. He's here, he's fighting, and that's already a good thing." She paused before turning her gaze to him, her features drawn with exhaustion. "But you're right, the hardest part is far from over."
Danny nodded, feeling a bit drained but determined not to falter. He took a deep breath, straightened slightly. "I'm going to call Sheridan. He needs to come." He knew the doctor needed to be informed immediately about Steve's awakening. If Steve had regained consciousness, it would be essential for him to be supervised by a professional, especially given the critical state he was still in.
He stepped back slightly, took out his phone to call Dr. Sheridan. He waited a few seconds before the doctor's voice answered. "Danny, what's going on?"
"He woke up." Danny's voice betrayed a hint of emotion, but also a sense of urgency. "He's here, alive, but... he's still far from fully alert. He needs your assessment, to know exactly where he stands."He waited a moment before continuing. "We know he's stable, but this is when things start to get complicated, right?"
Dr. Sheridan answered calmly, "I'm on my way. Give me five minutes, Danny."
He quickly hung up and returned to Steve, where Lou and Chin were observing, trying to find the right balance, not intruding on their teammate's fragile awakening.
/
A few minutes later, the door opened, and Dr. Sheridan entered the room. He scanned the team gathered around the bed with a quick glance before focusing on Steve. "So, here's our hero, huh?" he said, a touch of lightness in his voice, but the tension behind his words was palpable. He approached the bed, adjusted the settings on the machines around Steve, while glancing at the results displayed on the screen.
Dr. Sheridan slowly approached Steve's bed, his eyes methodically moving over the machines, the beeping and pulsing rhythms indicating the precarious stability of his patient. A heavy silence followed his examination. Then, he turned to the team, his voice calm but authoritative.
"All is well. Steve is stable. He's breathing, his heart is functioning properly." He paused, as if giving everyone time to digest the information. "He made it through the ordeal. But…" He glanced at Steve. "He's still too fragile, too drowsy to fully understand what he's going through."
A silence settled in the room, only broken by the soft hum of the machines. Danny, still by Steve's bed, stared at the doctor, a silent question in his eyes. "But… can he really stay in this state for a long time?"
Dr. Sheridan sighed, then turned toward Steve. He knelt by the bed, trying to catch his gaze. "Steve…" he called gently, his tone reassuring. "You're in good hands. You've held on, and you're stable. But you need a little more time."
Steve blinked, his mind still clouded, but a shiver of worry crossed his face. Dr. Sheridan continued, his voice calm: "Before I talk to you about your condition and what comes next, you need to be fully alert. You're going to recover, we'll talk about it later, rest now."
Steve made an effort to blink in acknowledgment, struggling against the heaviness of his body. "Is it… is it serious?" His voice was barely audible, but the doctor, from experience, understood.
Dr. Sheridan gave him a small smile, though his eyes remained serious. "It's not easy, Steve. But you're here, and that's already a victory."
The words hung in the air like a silent alert. Danny felt an added weight to the situation. Steve would have to face the truth of his condition, but not yet. Not until he was ready to hear it all.
"And the transplant?" Danny asked, stepping away from Steve so he wouldn't overhear. He turned to Dr. Sheridan, impatience and worry mixing in his eyes.
The doctor briefly lowered his gaze before responding, his expression grave. "We should have the results on whether you're a match soon. We're expecting them this evening. But… for now, we don't have any livers on the list." He continued, "It could take time. It could be days, even weeks, before we have one that's potentially compatible and accepted by Steve's body…"
The tension in the room became palpable. The exchanged glances, the heavy silences—everything echoed an uncertainty that had yet to find an answer. Steve was still far from being out of danger, and the battle awaiting him, even once awake, was just beginning.