// No! Oh God... No... Please... Don't... It's me... It's me you want... Stop hitting him! Can't you fucking see he's dying? Dying for no fucking reason! Stop it! Please... He's a nobody... An innocent on holiday and loved by someone somewhere... He can't give you what you want! Me! Take it out on me! I'm the thorn in your fucking side! Listen to me you Goddamn fucking bastards! Please... Oh God... I'm going to be sick. Again. Hey! Don't you think it's rather fascinating how I can continue throwing up when I can't even remember when it was that I last ate? Oh... You're not in the slightest bit interested... Sorry. Silly me. The dredged up contents of my stomach are less fascinating than the dull grey brain matter on your baseball bat. Fair enough. Oh God... Not the knife again... It's still got Andy's blood on it. Couldn't you perhaps wash the fucking thing in between kills? Please! For God's sake, just don't! Don't do it! Oh... Now that I've finished dry retching again, I get it. You enjoy it. Fucker. I've met some sick assholes in my time, but I tell you, you're currently the reigning trophy holder. Don't smile. It makes you look insane. He's dead now! Happy? His... His blood's everywhere... and you're smiling... and I'm throwing up... and... no! Oh... Get him off me! Please... Oh God... There's blood everywhere... Blood. So... so much blood... I'm drowning in it... Drowning in the vivid red fluid... //

Oh *God*!

Consciousness rapidly slapping me across the face, I open my eyes wide and gasp pitifully. Not here... Not now... Wasn't once enough? Wasn't actually having to experience the tourist's murder in reality enough?

Obviously not.

Obviously my penance for surviving will be to re-live it over and over and over again in my sleep. Not that it's always the same take on horrific reality. Oh no. I'm spoilt for choice. The tourist's murder, Andy's murder or, if I'm *really* lucky, I get to blur fact with fiction and watch Sam being killed in front of me.

One thing's the same for every screening though. The blood. Blood seeps out of open wounds and gushes out of slit throats. It drenches me. My blood and that of the others. I feel it suffocating me. How fucking ironic is that, eh? The liquid of life killing me... I open my mouth to scream and it simply flows straight in and down my throat. I gag as dead, open eyes watch me.

"Chris... Hey Chris, it's okay. I'm here. You're safe."

Blinking away the lingering, red residue of my dream, and still wheezing in a futile attempt to control the distress I'm feeling, I turn slowly in my seat and try to focus on my partner. Sam, with lines of worry and tiredness etched around his eyes, looks at me closely. "It's okay," he repeats softly. "Everything's fine."

Yeah. Fine. Fucking peachy. I can't respond and, not feeling worthy of the concern evident in Sam's expression, I drop my gaze. Then, without even having felt it, I see it. My left hand is clutched, in a death grip, around Sam's forearm and my fingernails are digging so tightly into his flesh that they're drawing blood.

Blood...

Thin trails drip down his lightly tanned skin and onto the armrest that separates us. Nausea churns in my stomach and I stare at it, mortified. While I can see it, I still can't feel it and my hand doesn't seem to want to let Sam go.

Blood... Oh God... It taints my every movement. Sam would be better off far, far away from me.

I'd say I was losing my mind but I already feel as though it's deserted me. Maybe it flowed away on the rivers of blood...

"Come on Chris," Sam whispers. "You can let me go. I'm not going anywhere." The tone of his voice is one of untold patience and I watch numbly as he very gently unwraps my hand from his arm. I still can't feel anything. Moving his arm away from the armrest, I catch a flash of the wounds I inflicted on him and tremble in self disgust. My breath still ragg ed, I can't even find the strength to apologise. Quickly lifting the armrest up from between us, Sam tenderly takes my hand in his and squeezes it lightly. "We'll be landing in London shortly," he murmurs, "Just hang in there a little while longer. You'll soon be more comfortable."

Comfort. Comfortable. Strange concepts that I'm beginning to believe only exist in never-ending bottles of painkillers and tranquillisers. I derive pleasure from little else. If it can even be called pleasure.

Slumping back in my seat, I leave my hand in Sam's, not that I can even feel it there, and listlessly turn my head towards the aisle. An unimpressed looking middle aged woman in the seat across the aisle, peers at me over her gold rimmed glasses and scowls. I simply stare back. Turning to the man next to her, she comments, loud enough for just about the entire plane to hear, "Honestly! They'd let anyone fly first class these days. Junkies and all. It's a disgrace."

Junkie. She thinks I'm a junkie. I'd laugh if I could remember how.

'Madam, junkies welcome the drugs in their veins. They are not, as far as I'm aware, strapped into a chair and forcefully injected with anything that their captors see fit to experiment with,' my mind replies eloquently as my unwavering gaze causes her to squirm in her seat and she becomes suddenly transfixed by the inflight entertainment.

Not that I'd voiced it, but I'd wanted to wear a long sleeve shirt. Anything to hide the scars and track marks on my arms. But Sam had put a lot of effort in buying nice clothes for me, and he'd even correctly guessed my new, improved skeletal size, so there was no point in making an issue of it. He only chose what he thought I'd be most comfortable in. Baggy jeans and an oversized, short sleeved, black linen shirt. Besides, it was hot and humid in Singapore and I would have sweltered in long sleeves. I know that and I think I'm comfortable. Maybe. It's been so long since I've actually been dressed as opposed to wearing pyjamas that it's hard to tell.

She's right. I look like a junkie. And Sam probably looks like my parole officer.

Sighing silently, I slowly turn my attention back to Sam and fix my gaze on our entwined hands that are resting on his knee. While, strangely, I still can't actually feel my hand in his, something deeply entrenched in my memory tells me that it's a comforting gesture and I decide that I'll continue staring at our hands until we land.

It's not like there's much else I can do.

****

"Not too bad," Sam comments softly, "I'd give it a seven. What about you?"

Huh? What? Blinking slowly, I look blankly at Sam and wait for much needed comprehension to hit me. Sam, who has his 'I want to sigh but I'm not going to because I'm on my best behaviour and don't want to risk upsetting the emotionally unstable invalid next to me' face on, smiles wanly and shrugs. "The landing. What did you think?" he queries in the tone of voice he usually reserves for talking to members of law enforcement agents the world around.

Oh.

We've landed. Well I never. On the off chance I wanted more proof that I'm out of it then hey, I've just got it.

"Seven sounds good," I reply blandly, deciding that I don't really need to share with Sam the fact that I hadn't even been aware that the plane was on the ground. The pain, that the nice pills hidden away in Sam's carry on luggage so wonderfully obliterates, is back and all I can think about is stopping it. Time has no meaning to me except in relation to the pills. I don't know for sure what month it is, let alone the date or actual day of the week, but I can tell you, to the minute, when I'm next due a fix.

I don't even try to ride it. Surely, pain wise, I've paid my dues. Surely... Not that this pain is any where near as extreme as what it was at its worst. This is more a dull, all consuming ache. I feel it in my bones, my blood, my head and even my skin. I feel it everywhere. The slowly healing wounds pulse with a dull pain and I feel as though I can feel each and every one of them individually.

I'm not due any more pills for another hour. I hope I make it. I don't want to further let Sam down. Not after everything's he's done -- is doing -- for me. I know it's hard for him. I'm no fun at the moment. I don't even know if I'll ever be any fun again. I want Sam to know that I'm only here now because of him but, like everything else, I can't find the energy to share this with him.

All I can do is hope that he knows what he means to me and how simply being with me has, without a doubt, been the greatest cure of all. For Sam I've made it this far. Fear at what he'd do if he thought I was dead, coupled with a desperate longing to see him again -- before I died -- got me to the morgue and into his arms. Belief that he was waiting for me got me this far out of the blackness in my head. Without Sam...

Without Sam I'd be as dead as Andy, or the tourist, or our captors. Without Sam my body would be classed as yet another junkie casualty on the streets of Singapore or, and this is the best case scenario, I'd still be trapped in the claustrophobic confines of my mind and strapped to a hospital bed.

He alone has got me this far and, for his sake more than mine, I want to continue forward. Thing is though, I don't know if I can. All I can do is take each moment as it comes. I have nothing to look forward to and, barring the longed for delusion of simply 'snapping out of it', no goals that I feel the need to achieve. I'm alive and I function, but to what extent I couldn't say.

The dull ache in my body makes itself known in my very core and, without even really realising it, I manage to outsit all the plane's passengers. I don't even see, or feel, them push down the aisle past me and if not for Sam finally standing up and stooping under the overhead lockers I'd most likely still be sitting here when the cleaners come around wielding their vacuum cleaners.

"Come on, we'd better go before Backup sends out a search party," Sam mutters, bending down and undoing my seatbelt when I show no signs of moving. As he straightens up I suddenly find myself bang on eye level with him and for a second we're staring directly into each other's eyes. Feeling myself blushing at coming under such close scrutiny, I'm the first to glance away.

...Don't look at me with such concern. Please... I don't deserve it because I don't know if I can live up to what you're expecting from me...

Sam, with willpower that far exceeds mine even when I'm functioning at what passes for my best, bites back a sigh and squirms past my knees. "You're almost due your next pill, aren't you?" he queries, retrieving his laptop and carry on luggage from the locker.

"I don't know," I lie, "Maybe..."

"Hmm... Well, seeing as this is the longest you've been out of bed for quite a while I think you can have them once we're in the car," Sam states, effectively waving a carrot in front of the stubborn donkey who isn't exactly giving the impression that he's going to get up from his seat anytime soon.

"Oh... Okay then. If you think that's a good idea," I murmur dully, falling, hook, line and sinker, for the carrot -- forty-five minutes earlier is better than nothing and I so don't want to have to beg for them -- and exceptionally slowly dragging myself out of the seat.

His hands full, Sam can't help me up and a rather harried looking flight attendant materialises on the scene. She stares at me with the same contempt as the old snob who'd been seated across the aisle from me and I lack the energy required to glower back at her. A quick glance, as I lower my gaze and finally make it out into the aisle, at Sam confirms that the ice in his eyes as stares contemptuously back at her is easily enough for the two of us. Again, I both pity him for having to baby sit me and feel immense gratitude that he's bearing up while weighted down with having to have the strength for both of us.

The flight attendant offers a patently false, "Thank you for flying Qantas and I trust you have a pleasant time in London," as, no doubt not a minute too soon, we slowly make our way out of her plane. Cool Spring air hits me as I tentatively make my way down the stairs -- that were placed, to the detriment of all the other passengers who would have been expecting the ease and comfort of walking straight into a covered walkway -- and onto the tarmac. All too briefly a flash of something gloriously normal hits me and I wish that the old snob knew it was me, the despicable junkie, that had caused the all but extinct use of stairs at Heathrow. It'd be enough to make her choke on her caviar covered cracker.

Stepping fully off the steps, I hug my arms to my chest and shiver. The cool air invigorates the pain and none too gentle waves of nausea roll over me. The sun shines brightly and I can't lift my gaze up from the tarmac. The roar of a plane landing somewhere behind me nearly causes me to scream and I begin to think I'm having a panic attack.

Oh God. Won't someone put me out of my misery? It would be the kindest thing they could do. Standing here, the shell shocked remains of my former self, I slowly come to the conclusion that maybe I shouldn't have been in such a rush to get out of the hospital and leave Singapore. But... But Sam wanted to get me over here and, well, I can't say I honestly cared one way or the other where I was, so... So that's why I pushed to be on this flight. I think it made sense at the time.

Once upon a time, everything probably made sense. At some stage in the dim and distant past I probably even knew who I was and what it was that made me who I am.

*****

"Chris!" Backup's voice floats over the noise of the plane engines and I tentatively lift my gaze high enough to blink at her knees as she comes to a stop in front of me. "You look..."

Like shit? Come on. I know that's what she has to be thinking. Why beat around the bush? It's not like she'd be telling me something I didn't already know.

Backup's greeting dies on her tongue and she rapidly changes tack. "It's great to see you," she continues firmly, and part of me believes honestly, and lightly hugs me. I don't return the hug, but I do manage to look up at her and catch her, through her worried expression, communicating silently with Sam.

'My God... I had no idea he looked this bad,' her eyes tells him.

Turning around, I read a weary, 'tell me about it,' from Sam as he blinks at Backup and gently drapes a leather jacket over my slumped shoulders.

"Thank you," I whisper to Sam as he places his hand on my back and slowly herds me over to the Range Rover that's waiting on the tarmac for us. I want to thank him for everything as much as I want to tell both of them not to waste their concern on me -- surely I'm not worth it -- but, as is now the norm, can't find the words. Reaching the 4WD, Backup opens the back passenger door for me and, like a pensioner half crippled with arthritis, I clamber slowly into the back seat. Seated, and with someone's hand doing the seatbelt up around me, I feel as though I could easily go to sleep.

Exhaustion seeps over me, although I was comatose for most of the flight, not to mention the majority of the preceding weeks. Even though I'm still in pain, I don't remember that Sam conned me into moving with the offer of pills until his hand, holding a bottle of water, wafts in front of my vision. Focussing on it, I then see the two pills that are in his hand and immediately brighten. Desperate for the numb relief offered by the pills, I mange to act in an almost human manner and, taking everything from Sam's hand, quickly swallow the pain killers and chase them down with half the bottle of water. Fast acting, I begin to feel their effects within seconds -- or at least I manage to convince myself that I can feel them --and lean limply against the door after Sam has shut it.

Although my eyes remain open, I take no notice of the jumbos, petrol tankers and luggage trolleys that surround the 4WD as Backup drives us out of Heathrow.

"Yet another example of Malone's clout?" Sam asks indifferently as I lull myself into a state of dull, pain free, false contentment.

"You mean picking you up on the tarmac?" Backup responds drily. "Oh yeah. It was either that or he was going to have an ambulance waiting to pick Chris up."

"Albeit pretentious, I think I like this version better," Sam replies lightly. "An ambulance would have been a bit much."

"Mmm..." murmurs Backup before trying to draw me into the conversation. "You'll like where we're taking you, Chris. I checked it out this morning and it actually looks quite nice. Far better than the usual hospital accommodation we find ourselves forced in to."

While my mind says, 'it could be nirvana for all it matters', I don't respond.

"Yeah," she continues brightly, pushing on as though I actually managed to show some interest. "The room's nice and bright and there's even a widescreen television, which I'm sure will please you. And it's only a little over two hours out of London, so we should be able to visit you every second day at least."

'It's only a little over two hours out of London'? Huh?

Nobody told me I was going to be abandoned out in the middle of nowhere... Not that my surroundings really matter one tiny bit to me. Quite frankly I could be in a tent in the middle of the Sahara and, so long as I knew Sam was with me, I wouldn't give a rat's ass. And the key words here are, of course, 'Sam', 'with' and 'me'... I don't want to be somewhere where it's an inconvenience to visit me. I don't want to put anyone out. That's all that matters. To tire people out, as they perform what they believe their duty is, serves absolutely no purpose. I may as well have stayed in Singapore. At least there I knew that Sam honestly had nothing better to do with his time.

Backup is still in the middle of doing her best PR impression for the retreat Malone, in all his wisdom, has booked me into when I get hit by a split second bolt of clarity. "I don't want to go," I whisper to the window, my breath fogging up the glass. Please don't make me go... Don't make me anymore of a nuisance than I already am.

"What do you mean you don't want to go?" Backup asks with evident astonishment. "You have to go. Not only are you not in any fit state to go home but Malone put a lot of effort into arranging this placement for you."

"He doesn't have to go if he doesn't want to," Sam interjects softly. "He can stay..."

"He *has* to go!" Backup interrupts adamantly. "It's for the best. They're better equipped to deal with his... current state..."

"We can't make him," Sam replies calmly. "He's not sectionable and, as he still has rights, I think he's made his wishes clear."

"Malone..."

"*Fuck* Malone. If he thinks that booking him into a spiffy convalescent hospital is going to make up for his, up until this point, terminal lack of care, then he's sadly mistaken," Sam grinds out, the undercurrent of contempt that he feels for our commander all too evident in his tone of voice.

"But Sam, don't you think it would be better for him?"

Him... He... They talk about me as though I'm not even here. I wish I'd never opened my mouth. I wanted to make this simpler, I didn't want to start an argument. I'm sorry. I'll go where ever you take me. I'm not worth fighting over...

Looking, without any real interest, out of the window as the Range Rover speeds down the motorway towards where I currently know not, I watch the planes as they circle waiting for permission to land. Like giant mechanical birds they circle far above the surface, cut off from everything bar the control terminal and what they contain within them. As I stare at them I slowly come to the conclusion that that's exactly what I feel like. I feel as though I'm stuck in a holding pattern and I don't know if I'll ever get to land. I'm stuck, far above everyone, and I'm relying heavily on a small number of people to guide me to the ground. Thing is though, I think my line of contact is currently down and I'm flying blind.

"Listen Backup, I appreciate where you're coming from, but, the way I see it, he said he doesn't want to go, and that's all there is to it."

"I still think we should stick to the original plan. I mean, look at him..."

Closing my eyes, I block the planes from my sight and, as Sam and Backup debate where they're going to deposit the parcel that is my body, I manage to zone out.

****

Sam wins.

I have no idea how, but he somehow overrules Backup's concerns and, as I nearly fall straight out of the door as it is tentatively opened, my eyes fly open to the wonderfully familiar sight of the front of Sam's apartment block. Momentary relief, that I'm where I think I want to be, washes over me. Thank you. I blink slowly at Sam as he undoes my seatbelt and helps me out of the car. I want to thank him for being so kind to me as much as I want to apologise for being what can only really be described as a thorn in his side.

"Here we are," he murmurs gently. "I don't know how much of the conversation you heard, but you're going to be staying with me instead of at the hospital. I hope that's okay with you. If you'd rather stay at your place then..."

"It's fine," I mumble, feeling the world tilt and sway around me. I could have sworn I was standing straight, but Sam's hands are now on my shoulders and I think he's the only thing keeping me upright. Backup, her mouth set in a thin line of annoyance, sighs as she takes Sam's luggage from him and flounces towards to the front door. I cringe, knowing that I'm the cause of her tetchiness and, again, almost wish I'd never thrown a spanner in the works and had simply accepted my lodgings.

I thought I was doing the right thing though... Oh well. That'll teach me. I'll just accept everything else that is either planned or handed to me. It's easier that way. Hopefully that way everyone will be happy. Not wanting to upset anyone, I can play along. Who knows. In time I might become adept enough at it to pass as a functional human again. I can only hope.

With Sam shepherding me towards the entrance, I gaze at the building and can't, even if what was left of my life depended on it, remember when it was that I was last here. Frowning in concentration, I can, however, remember what took place. It was before all of this. It was a lifetime ago. It was blissfully wonderful.

Pissed off and unsure, even from the very beginning, at Malone's temporary splitting of our partnership, I'd complained and whinged to Sam as though it was my only purpose in life. After chewing his ear off in the pub on that last night, we retreated here and Sam, finally having had enough of my lament, in a way that was almost sweetly desperate, asked me to find something else to think about. So, after deciding to make the most of our last night together before our enforced separation, I did, and we made gently passionate love for hours.

All being well the night holds as special a place in Sam's memory as it does in mine. God alone knows when -- or, indeed, if -- it will happen again. Not only have I well and truly looked better, but, what with the drugs and the injuries and everything, I don't think I'll be up to much for a while. Even if I did have the inclination. It would be nice if Sam could wait for me, but I'd understand if he went in search of what I can't give him. This isn't a noble sacrifice on my behalf. It's a cold, hard fact. He deserves more than I can currently offer.

What's that stupid saying? 'If you love something, set it free. If it doesn't come back then it wasn't your's in the first place'? It's something like that anyway and it's how I feel about Sam. I love him so much that, as much as I may need him, I would never hold him to me. If he wants to go, I'll let him. I won't fight or make a scene. Maybe once, but not now. Not now that I have nothing to offer him.

By the time we make it into Sam's apartment I'm wheezing and feel as though I've ran a marathon. Pain returns to my body and I know that my next dose of pills is a long way off. Backup, after unlocking the door, smiles kindly at me before glowering at Sam. "See? He's not well," she complains, obviously still dwelling on her failure to get me to the hospital.

Sam sighs. "He'll be better once he's in bed," he states firmly, continuing to propel me along in front of him. The sight of familiar rooms, warm and welcoming as opposed to the sterile whiteness of the hospital, gives me the strength to try and allay Backup's concerns. "Please... I want to be here," I murmur, "Sam's right. I'll be fine after another sleep."

"I told you this was what he wanted," Sam says, barely hiding the triumphant tone to his voice. Reaching the bedroom door, he adds over his shoulder, "We'll talk about organising a roster of doctors and psychiatrists in a minute, yeah?"

Goody. More prodding, poking and seemingly never ending questions. Brilliant. Looks like I have something to look forward to after all.

"Yeah, I suppose," Backup sighs. "I'll just put the kettle on."

Sighing again as he lays eyes on his unmade bed -- I was the last to leave on that fateful morning -- Sam takes his hands off my shoulders and comments, "Hang on, looks like I've just got to make the bed."

I shake my head. "No... Please. It's okay. I just want to sleep," I whisper, backing my plea up by shakily undoing the buttons of my shirt.

"But..." Sam starts to reply before pausing and moving over to the chest of drawers. "Okay. I suppose it can wait until the morning," he continues, quickly pulling a pair of clean pyjamas out of a drawer and throwing them on the bed. Returning to me, and keeping up a running commentary of soothing words -- "You'll be up and at 'em in no time." "Things look better at home." "I'm glad you're here." -- Sam helps me change. Not wanting to see either my scarred skin or Sam's saddened expression that, try as he might, he still hasn't managed to disguise at the sight of my injuries, I close my eyes and simply obey the tender commands in Sam's touch. Lift your arm. Lift your leg. Turn around. I can do that. It requires no effort on my behalf and, as with most of my motions, it gives the impression that I'm actually here.

Dressed, in clean smelling cotton pyjamas, I open my eyes and clamber immediately into bed. Pain crawls through my bones and over my flesh. Although I want more pain killers, I refuse to ask Sam for them and merely blink at him as he pulls the covers up and carefully arranges them around me. "I'll just be in the living room with Backup," he murmurs, "So if you want anything, just call out. Do you want the door left open?"

"Please..." Don't like confined spaces much at the moment. Especially dark ones. The plane was only okay because it was bright.

Sam nods. "Okay then. I'll see you later."

I watch Sam until he's out of my sight and then relax completely onto the mattress. Inhaling deeply, I smell the lingering scent of our lovemaking from so long ago. Memories wage a war with the pain and, while I wouldn't go so far as to say they win, they somehow manage to anaesthetise it. Closeting myself in the warm, living scent, I close my eyes and am asleep with minutes.