| i. Revelations Bester crouched by the seated form of his captive audience. “I’m going to release you, Mr Garibaldi. Little by little, piece by piece.” Very carefully, the Bester stepped into Michael’s mind, a mind he knew now better than any other. Holding Garibaldi quiet with a simple direct command, that would remain until he was done, the Psi Cop starting undoing the maze of blocks in the complex human mind. He unlocked the first door, allowing Garibaldi to once again realise his past. His past as it had been before the Psi Corp had coloured it to fit their own requirements. Smiling into the eyes of
Jeff Sinclair as the man’s lips touched his own….
“You were doing so well, Mr Garibaldi. We were so proud of how you wormed your way in to William Edgars’ life, into his… inner sanctum as it were.” With a small shove, Bester broke the barriers he himself had erected around the personality traits of his very special victim, the traits they had needed to bury. Love, desire pulsing
through him like gentle flames…. “You did exactly what we’d
expected… you turned your back on every friend you
had. That was never the plan… but you were
perfect.” Glancing away for a moment, Bester took a deep breath before he removed his glove and placed his bare hand against this side of Michael’s face, the man’s stubble of beard rough on the palm of his hand. “Remember, Mr Garibaldi…. Remember what we did to you when you were taken from Babylon 5, after Sheridan died at Z’Ha’Dum….” …grey clouds and muffled words gave way to images and sensations…. A concrete, circular room. A metal chair. Gas…. The sickening sweet smell that always followed, that hung in the air almost as intoxicating as the gas itself. …A hard surface. Restraining leather straps. Psi Cops standing around him. Telling him things. Burrowing into his mind like some warren. Making it impossible to think, to breathe…. …Shadows everywhere, surrounding the station. Starfurys launching into an impossible battle. The black of the ships against the bright stars of space. …John… handing him a data pad. Instructions that were surely the last he would ever give. The sadness in his eyes, the desperate need to live…. Bester smiled, his eyes slipping closed. “Good, Mr Garibaldi. That’s good. Now… come forward, remember everything in the context of how you used to be. Break the programming we put in place and come back to me.” The memories came fast, one on the heel of the next. …John returning from Z’Ha’Dum alive! Arguments, rows. Lorien being everywhere. In the Zocalo – the fight. Hitting John. Stupid, with all the Security men around. Quitting, the hurt in his captain’s eyes. …Lise. Edgars. A drug for telepaths. …A sting. A dark bar. Lies. John sitting… pressing his hand firmly onto the other man’s. Seeing the tranq there… working quickly. John standing. Men surrounding him. The fight that ensued… John’s struggle to win despite the sedative… John falling under the blows… lying unconscious as the beating continued. Laughter. He could hear laughter. And he realised that it was his own. ‘Nooooooo!’ The scream drove through Bester’s mind. “Mr Garibaldi!” He withdrew his hand, keeping the firm command in Michael’s mind. “If you’re going to scream, please… do it out loud.” He chuckled at his own joke. “You remember the bar on Mars. You remember betraying John Sheridan.” Bester felt his victim’s struggles, his pain and desperation. It was almost turning him on. “Do you want to know what happened after you left him unconscious on the floor of that bar?” No. Garibaldi definitely didn’t want to. A smile curled Bester’s lips. “They dragged him out to a transport and threw him in the back. I doubt he’s been that comfortable since.” Michael’s eyes were alive with the cries of his mind. Bester ignored them. “When they got him to the interrogation centre, they waited until he regained consciousness. He was cuffed and blindfolded, thrown in a cold, dark room and left. And then he woke up. They went in, a group of them, and started to beat him and kick him. The tranq that you gave him had weakened him considerably and he was… easily subdued.” //You bastard!// Bester was momentarily startled by the voice speaking directly in to his mind. //Subdued? He was subdued in that bar you bastard!// Shock aside, Bester smiled. “So… connected like this, you can speak to me. Good…. I can hear your pain, your screams….” He took a deep breath. “Subdued, then, is the wrong word. Beaten to the edge of consciousness. There, that’s better. More accurate too.” //You’re a dead man.// Bester chuckled. “No. You’re mistaking me for someone else… John Sheridan, perhaps. Although, I doubt he’s dead yet. They are… quite skilled, Clarke’s agents. I imagine they can keep a man alive for months, maybe even years. In agony, screaming in silence. They’ve done many things to your captain since his capture. Now and again, I sit and watch. Once, they let me be there during one of the interrogation cycles. Not that he knew I was there.” Bester closed his eyes, savouring the memory, passing it to Michael in glorious Technicolor. “He was made to think I was you.” Michael’s fury burned into his mind, causing him to wince. “You chose well. He’s a strong man, I’ve always thought. They’ve deprived him of sleep, playing loud noises into his cell or shining a light into his eyes. They’ve battered him senseless, cut his feet and broken his fingers. They interrogate him and when he doesn’t give them what he wants, they send in a group of men to attack him. One – ‘Banger’ – had to be stopped because he liked to grab the prisoner by the hair on his head,” Bester reached around to the back of his own head, as if to demonstrate, “and smash his face against the floor.” //Shut the FUCK up!// “Mr Garibaldi! Language! I’m talking here.” Bester frowned for a moment. “Now, where was I?…. Ah yes. You know, I heard your ISN reported that he was being treated well. Astounding, the lies reporters tell. There are very few people who I know have been treated worse. They have such crude methods, yet so entertaining. They starved him, then poisoned what little food they gave him.” Bester stroked Michael’s cheek with his fingertips. “It was… touching to see a once great soldier throwing up all over himself. If only his followers, those who believed in him, could see him now. I believe they’d broadcast it if they weren’t so worried that it would be against their own best interests.” It was becoming difficult now to keep Michael from tearing through his mind with his murderous thoughts. “Three days ago, Mr Garibaldi, they added a new tactic.” Bester stopped talking then. Instead of describing Sheridan’s rape, he slammed the scene into Michael’s mind. He had to push passed the screams and shouts of his prisoner, but in the end Garibaldi couldn’t close his eyes against the images of his lover, bound and gagged on the floor of his cell. With the hands of one of Clarke’s agents around his throat and the cock of another pounding into his ass. Michael was suddenly an impossible pressure in Bester’s mind, like a timebomb on the brink of explosion. He’d run out of time.
Bester dropped his hand and released the command from
Michael’s mind. In a moment, he’d let go. Michael was lightening fast. Bester had barely picked up the thought as Garibaldi grabbed the PPG from his holster and stood, barrelling into Bester and hurling them both back against the stone wall some four feet behind the Psi Cop. In the next instant, he had the PPG pressed hard against Bester’s temple. The dark eyes didn’t even blink. “Mr Garibaldi… Michael….” He moved his head side to side minutely. “You don’t want to shoot me.” “Why not, you son-of-a-bitch?” Michael’s voice was rough, every word scraping the raw wounds in his mind. “You betrayed your best friend, your… lover.” A small smile touched Bester’s lips. “He’s in the hands of Clarke’s men now. He doesn’t have much time left but I’m sure he’ll be thinking of you when the toxins they’ve been feeding him finally destroy his internal organs… and he drowns in his own blood.” Anger, rage, and the worst sorrow he’d ever felt cascaded up from Michael’s heart and seeing that, Bester continued. “He has you to thank for his current situation. The last time I saw him, they were putting images into his mind, making him believe he was safe aboard Babylon 5, trying to get him to give up names of people high in the resistance. When they pulled the images from his mind, when he realised he was still in custody, he made a sound… like a cross between a scream, and a sob. And it didn’t stop. It peeled out into the dank room until they pushed a ball-gag down his throat.” Bester heard the whine of the PPG powering up. Playtime was over for now.~ ii. Just Breathe Blood pressure too low, temperature too high. He’d been anaesthetised during the eight-hour surgery. And usually, in case of such terrible injury, Stephen would have kept his patient under for some time, for days. But he didn’t want to pump any more drugs than utterly necessary into an already stressed out body. The patient had partial liver failure. His intestines were badly infected. His stomach lining had been almost decimated. There were burns at the back of his throat and all the way down his oesophagus that matched injuries to the roof of his mouth. Six of his fingers had been smashed, obviously near the start of his ordeal for they had begun to mend in the disfigured mess they were in. The bones in his left arm, just below his wrist, had been snapped and twisted. Seventy percent of his body was covered by bruising, some telling of deep, internal bleeding. His skin had been cut then the wounds torn by further abuse. The lack of hygiene he’d
been subjected to had caused infections in his wounds,
external and internal. Stephen had set up IV lines, blood transfusions, cardiac and neurological monitors. They’d had applied as many regen packs as he dare but there was so much damage. It was late now. The station was quiet, had been since Sheridan had been brought aboard. Almost as if… it knew. They’d worked for almost ten hours, putting John back together piece by piece. Reaching out, Stephen stroked his fingertips over the dark skin on the back of John’s right hand, avoiding the IV valve and the braces and regen packs around his shattered fingers. Ten hours, and they hadn’t yet had time to rebuild the digits. The doctor more than needed the physical contact. At least feeling the warmth of John’s skin he knew the man was still alive, beyond the simple readings being taken by the medical equipment all around them. Technically, realistically, John was free. But mentally, emotionally, physically, Stephen didn’t want to begin to imagine how long he’d be locked in his personal prison for. The EKG spiked suddenly, and Stephen watched carefully as John’s eyes flickered. He was coming around from the anaesthetic. The doctor hoped, for a moment, that he was doing the right thing. Very carefully, Stephen took John’s right thumb in his own fingers and stroked gently. He waited, let John come around in his own time. A few minutes later, grey eyes circled by black rings swept over Stephen’s face. Fear and suspicion were clearly framed in those pools. “You’re all right, John, you’re safe. You’re on Babylon 5.” John looked about him, moving only his eyes. Each time he glanced at Stephen, he looked… sad. And a minute or so after, he closed his eyes again. Stephen wasn’t sure what had just happened. There had been evidence that probes had been inserted into John’s mind through tiny holes drilled through his skull. Stephen hoped to the Gods that Sheridan had been out of it when that had been done. Those probes may well have been used to deliver false images to the brain. To convince John that he was somewhere different, perhaps free and back on the station. It was a particularly cruel and demoralising technique, in Stephen’s opinion. But he’d known it used, and knew the probes often used memories to construct the scenes. Maybe… they’d used his face to lull John into a false sense of security. Stephen couldn’t even begin
to analyse his feelings about that. Reaching back, Franklin pulled up a chair and down at John’s side, still loosely holding his thumb – one of the only parts of his body that was uninjured. After a few minutes, John opened his eyes again. This time, he met Stephen’s and held it. “Hey, John. You’re okay, you’re on Babylon 5.” Sheridan remained silent and still. “Do you want some water?” A long hesitation, and then John’s lips moved. But the only sound to come out was a rough grunt. Stephen got to his feet, leaning over John. “You have a badly injured throat, John. Do you want some water?” John’s head moved, up and down once, slightly. The doctor took a glass from the table along with the straw he’d left there. Carefully, he placed the straw between John’s lips. With some effort, John sipped the water, still wary but in such desperate need. When he began to cough, Stephen put the glass back on the table and very gently lifted John’s head. “Easy, now. Just relax. You’re okay.” John calmed and Stephen lowered his head back to the pillow, sitting down and again taking John’s thumb into his fingers. “You were rescued,” he started simply. “You were… on Mars for two weeks.” He watched the grey eyes studying him. “I know you think I’m lying, that I’m not me, I’m some… image placed in your head. And I don’t know how to convince you. I think time will do that.” Those eyes flicked away from him for a moment to again take in his surroundings. “You’re in an IC unit in MedLab One on Babylon Five. You’ve been badly hurt and you’re very ill. But I won’t let you die and I promise, I’ll do everything I can to make your recovery as painless as possible.” Stephen wasn’t sure what
else he could say. That terrible fear hadn’t left
John’s eyes. A bleep interrupted his train of thought and he pressed the comm button on his link. “Franklin, go ahead.” “Stephen, you wanted to be informed when the Cortez docked.” “Yeah. Thanks.” “No problems, and the White Star fleet isn’t too far behind her. Susan should be back aboard any time now.” * “Dr Franklin.” Captain Jack Maynard shook Stephen’s offered hand before his eyes wondered over to the observation window into the IC unit. “Jeez… how is he?” Stephen opened his mouth, but he didn’t know where to start. In the end, he just shrugged. “It’s bad.” Jack’s brow furrowed. “He’s gonna make it, though, right?” “Yeah. He’s gonna make it because I’m not gonna let him go. But it isn’t going to be easy.” Gowning up, Jack followed the doctor into the isolated unit. “He’s in quarantine?” Stephen shook his head. “He needs to be kept calm and quiet. All the rushing about that goes on around here would just panic him. As well as that, we think he’s been denied… silence. There’s damage to his eardrums.” Jack stopped next to the bed. “Oh, God, Johnny….” Every physical injury was mapped as a crease in his face. He’d lost more weight than he could spare. His lips were dry and cracked. Black rings surrounded his eyes. Stephen had him in one of the special beds. They were used for coma patients usually. They were softer and wider than the usual MedLab beds. And instead of a sheet, John had been given a light, warm quilt that he had pulled up under his chin. His disfigured left fist clenched in the soft material at his shoulder. Jack reached down and surrounded John’s right thumb with his hand, as Stephen had done. He took a deep breath. “If this is your idea of taking care of yourself, Swampy, you are so off the mark.” John opened his eyes and stared straight up at Jack. For a long time, he seemed to be trying to work something out. And then, eyelids slipped closed. Stephen glanced from his patient to Jack and saw the gentle smile touch the man’s lips. “What?” Franklin let his gaze travel down to Jack’s hand. John’s thumb had tightened against the fingers holding it. * By o-nine-hundred-hours, John had two guardians. Jack hadn’t left John’s side since the night before. He was sitting in a chair by the bed, numb fingers still clasped between John’s thumb and the side of his hand. Susan had arrived back on the White Star and despite Marcus’ urging that she needed rest, she’d taken up residence in two chairs in the corner of the IC unit and had fallen asleep there. Stephen had also slept in a chair, with his feet on his desk. When the shift change occurred at o-six-hundred-hours, Stephen was woken but the other two weren’t. He went in quietly to check on his illest patient. There were so many tubes running into and out of John’s body, so many medical monitors hooked to him, ready to raise alarms at the slightest change… Stephen hated that there was so much need for invasion into John’s already overshocked system. Physically there was no change. Blood pressure still too low, temperature too high. Stephen wished that were the
worst of his worries. At nine that morning, Marcus arrived to extricate Susan and Jack and take them for breakfast. Neither complained too loudly and it gave Stephen a chance to do a more thorough investigation into his patient’s progress. His very personal examination disturbed John’s sleep and when he looked up, he saw grey eyes watching him in barely disguised fear. “I’m sorry, John. It’ll be over in a minute, I promise.” He glanced over John’s half-covered body and saw his patient’s thumb tapping lightly, shakily on the mattress. “Jack’s gone for some food. He’ll be back soon.” Stephen finished his examination and covered Sheridan back up, tucking the edges of the large quilt around him to keep him warm. “You want some water?” John nodded once, not trying to speak this time around. Stephen helped him with the water the same way he had done the previous night. When John had had enough, he eased himself down to sit on the edge of the bed. “This is real, John, you do believe me, don’t you?” Those haunting grey eyes watched him steadily. “I know they had needles in you in the cell. The IV line is feeding you saline, nutrients, trying to replace what you’ve lost, as well as counteragents to the toxins they’ve fed you. We’re transfusing your blood because of all the drugs they’ve pumped into you.” John blinked once and closed his eyes. “The tube in your wrist is draining fluid from a very bad break, we’ll take that out as soon as possible. I’m pumping antibiotics into you as fast as I dare, you just have to trust me. You will get better, it’s just gonna take time.” It was enough for now, Stephen decided. He sat with his patient for a while before going back to his desk. * “Don’t. Even. Breathe.” Stephen heard Garibaldi catch his breath as he pressed the thick metal of a PPG barrel into the back of the man’s head. “Stephen,” Michael swallowed hard. “Just tell me he’s alive.” “Why the hell should you care?” “Stephen, it wasn’t my fault. You have to believe me. Just… tell me he’s alive! Please!” Franklin paused. “He’s alive,” he murmured reluctantly. “Thank Gods….” Michael let out a deep, trembling breath. “You have to hear me out, Stephen.” “Give me one good reason.” Emotion filled the so-familiar voice, sending a painful shudder down Garibaldi’s spine. “And don’t you dare suggest it should have anything to do with friendship.” “Because I’m the reason John’s lying there now.” “Oh, I know that. You betrayed him to Clarke’s agents.” “I didn’t mean….” Michael realised he was shaking. “I got him out of there, Stephen. I rescued him and got him on board a Centauri shuttle from Mars.” Stephen snorted. “Tell me why I should believe a word that you say.” Michael hesitated. “I know he’s got… a ring of electrical burns around his neck from the collar they had on him. His skin’s raw around his wrists and ankles where they had him shackled into that chair. He can’t talk because of the burns at the back of his throat from the pain-stick they rammed in his mouth every time he screamed. And when he looks at you… there’s a fear in his eyes that tells you he doesn’t believe that any of this is real.” Stephen’s hand shook in anger. “The only way you could know all that was if you’d been there.” “Or if I’d rescued him from it. Please, Stephen! You have to believe me!” Stephen drew his PPG away, stepping around the man he’d once called friend to face him. Michael lowered his hands from where he’d instinctively raised them. From where they were standing, several feet inside MedLab, they couldn’t see John, just the frame of the observation window into the IC unit. “You’re the reason he’s in the state he’s in,” Stephen hissed. “He’s alive, but only just.” Michael looked into Stephen’s eyes and saw a look he recognised. The doctor was caring for a critically ill patient and now he was face to face with the one who might as well have inflicted the damage. “Stephen… please. We were friends once….” “Don’t! Don’t push it, Michael.” “Please!!! You know how I felt about John, you know… you must know something was wrong for me to do that to him!” “So who are you blaming?” “Bester…. That… fucking bastard reprogrammed me, made me turn against Sheridan, against you all!…. Lyta. Get Lyta to scan me!” “Michael….” “Stephen, please! It’s the only way you’ll believe me! Let her scan me. She’ll tell you the truth, you know she will.” * Lyta hadn’t seen Sheridan since he’d been brought aboard. She wasn’t as emotionally involved with what Stephen had referred to several times as his betrayal by his best friend. She agreed to scan Garibaldi. It was a mess, and she had to push. But suddenly the truth hidden in his head flashed into her consciousness like a bad movie. She bit back a cry, but allowed the images to flood her. It was only a matter of seconds, but it felt like forever and when she pulled out as gently as she could, there were tears in her eyes mirrored in Michael’s. “He’s telling the truth.” Michael opened his eyes through the pounding headache and glanced at Stephen, an ironic smile twisting his lips. “He doesn’t believe you.” Stephen sighed, head tipping to one side where he sat on the sofa. He looked from one to the other. And caught Lyta’s cold smile. “You don’t have to believe me,” she murmured. “Believe yourself.” In the next moment, she broadcast a scene from the godawful movie in Michael’s mind into Stephen’s. Suddenly the doctor was standing in a dingy bar, eyes frozen open, forced to watch as Captain Sheridan fought a useless battle against a group of Clarke’s agents. In the background, the soundtrack to the scene was Bester’s voice calmly explaining to Michael what had been done to him and why. And underlying it all was a silent scream that Stephen could only feel. In the next moment, the scene switched. Stephen caught his own moan in his throat. He was standing in a dark cell. He knew, without knowing, that the man curled on his side in the dark corner of the cold room was John Sheridan. The only sounds now were those of quiet vomiting. John vomiting. Stephen spun when the door of the cell came crashing open and Michael was standing breathless in the rectangle of light. Stephen blinked. They were sitting in Lyta’s quarters aboard Babylon 5. Michael had his head in his hands and Lyta was watching Franklin carefully. “Now do you believe him?” Stephen nodded once. “Yes. I….” The station was rocked by an explosion. Then another. And another. Franklin’s link blipped
once. He didn’t have to answer it to know he was
needed. He was only aware that Michael had
followed him when he got back to MedLab. MedLab One went from peaceful quiet to chaos in a matter of seconds. Stephen started issuing orders, supervising other doctors and nurses, assessing patients as they were brought in. The place started to fill up, and as it did, Hobbs opened the IC unit doors in a desperate effort to find more space. John awoke to the havoc surrounding him. Patients moaning, calling out. Medical staff moving quickly from one gurney to the next, prioritising, field dressing minor wounds. To the staff of the station’s MedLab facility, this was business as usual. Sabotage had been expected in the weeks proceeding the rebellion and the war. They were ready for this. John was slammed back into hell. Stephen caught his patient’s movements as he looked up. Activating his link, he paged Susan, asking her to send Jack Maynard back to MedLab. In the next moment, Stephen saw Michael move out of the corner of his eye. He moved quickly around three gurneys to place himself in the man’s path. “You go near him and I swear, I’ll space you.” “Stephen, he’s probably flashing back, probably thinks they’re playing their fucking mindgames again! He’s freaking out, damnit!” “I know!” Stephen dropped the volume of his voice a little. “I know. But you will scare him even more!” “I rescued him!” “Do you think he remembers that? He was in their hands for two weeks, Michael! Fourteen days to spend wondering where the hell he’d gone wrong, why his best friend had betrayed him. What do you think stuck in his mind the most, Michael? The months you spent putting him in there or the minutes you spent getting him out?” Franklin drew in a deep breath, watching while Michael processed what he’d said. He watched the man’s face fall, and he knew he’d been too harsh. Hadn’t Lyta just shown him whose fault it had really been? “Look, I’m sorry.” But Michael shook his head, once, side to side. “No,” he stated steadily. “You’re not. And the shouldn’t be. You’re right. Seeing me would probably send him on a one-way course straight into cuckoo land.” Stephen let the smile touch his lips. “Jack Maynard’s aboard, I’ve paged him. I don’t think they used his image in their games because last night, John seemed to trust him out of any of us.” The whine of a PPG powering up caused both of them to turn. “Susan!” “Garibaldi, I swore if I ever saw you again, I’d blow your brains all over space.” She aimed the weapon, expression deadly serious. “MedLab will do.” Stephen stepped between Michael and the bad end of the PPG. “Susan, listen to me.” “No! Get out of the way, Stephen.” Michael, instead, stepped out from behind the doctor, and she swung the weapon to point directly at her target. “Susan, there are a million reasons why you shouldn’t listen to me, but please, you have to trust me this one time.” “Trust you?! Have you seen him?” A tear formed in the corner of her eye. “Have you any idea of the damage you’ve caused?” “It wasn’t me. Susan… it was Bester. He used me. He took me and reprogrammed me. I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing. You have to believe me!” “Ha!” Her eyes flashed. “Why the hell should I believe anything you say to me? You told John you knew where his father was being kept…” “I did know!” “…and that you would take him to him, help get him out. Instead, you drug your own friend – the man who used to share your bed, Michael, for Christ’s sake!!! You stand back and let Clarke’s agents beat the crap out of him, and then watch as they drag him away to be tortured and interrogated.” Mirroring tears slid from the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t know what I was doing!” He raised his voice, trying desperately to push the point across. Not because he was frightened that she would shoot him, that didn’t matter one iota. Because he was terrified that he’d lose her forever. She was the closest thing to family that he still had left. Her and Stephen. And John. He thought about his captain for a fleeting moment. What state must he be in to have caused such hysteria amongst the command staff now? And then Susan started up again, having taken his momentary silence as acknowledgement of the truths she was spurting. Despite the death and injury all around him, Stephen thought for an insane moment that he might laugh. He covered his mouth in case any humour escaped him. In the midst of the gurneys
and the medical staff, Susan and Michael stood yelling
at one another. Jack had crossed the chaos in silence and stopped beside John’s bed. Slowly, he placed his fingers over the fretting patient’s thumb and lowered his hand. “Ssh, Johnny. You’re safe. You’re on Babylon 5.” Sheridan’s crumpled, terrified expression relaxed slightly. His lips moved, and Jack would have sworn he heard a murmur of his nickname. ‘Stinky’. “Yeah, John, it’s me. You’re on Babylon 5. There’s been an explosion, several explosions,” he smiled as he corrected himself. “Business as usual, ay, Johnny?” Dark, grey eyes flitted back and forth, from Jack’s face to the chaos around him. Jack perched himself up on the edge of the wide bed. Very gently, Jack touched his other hand to John’s temple, stroking his thumb over the greying hair there. “Relax, Swampy. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” He kept up the light strokes
of his thumb over John’s hair, giving him something to
concentrate on. And slowly, John’s eyes closed. Susan and Michael paused for breath. They looked around. Chaos was subsiding. All casualties had been brought in from the three explosions and Stephen had everything under control. As usual. As Garibaldi glanced at him, he saw Stephen look up from his patient across the lab through the open door into the IC unit. Michael followed that gaze and saw Jack sitting up on a bed, leaning slightly over their calmed ward. Susan sucked in a deep breath and turned her attention back to Garibaldi, ready to restart their furious argument. He had his back to her now and she’d totally lost him to whatever else had grabbed him. In a moment, she’d weighed up whether or not to just shoot him and decided against it. Instead, she grabbed his arm. He looked at her, but the anger and desperation was gone from his face. A second later, he had pulled his limb out of her grasp and was walking through the now organized chaos to the IC unit observation window. As he walked around, John came into view from where he’d been obscured by Jack’s seated form. Michael bit back a sound from his heart. “Oh, John….” In amongst a host of monitors, wires and tubes, Sheridan lay back, head on the grey and white pillow, covered by a matching grey and white quilt. He looked more vulnerable now than he’d ever looked, even when he’d been shackled into that damn chair in the cell on Mars. Jack’s hold of his hand and touch at the side of his head was infinitely gentle. Garibaldi rubbed his face. He stood, mind working a million times a minute. He started when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Stephen….” But there was no anger or threat in the doctor’s expression. “He’s very ill, Michael.” “I know. And I’m to blame.” “Don’t. I remember John telling me once… there’s enough guilt in the universe already. He was carrying most of it. Don’t take any more.” He sighed softly. “I’m sorry – about before. But he… he’s been through hell. I can’t bare to see him go through any more.” “I understand. Really.” Raising a trembling hand, Michael pressed his palm against the glass. “I think about the two years I spent protecting him…. In the end, it was me he needed protection from.” Stephen squeezed Garibaldi’s shoulder. “It’s gonna take time, Michael. For him, and for you. For now… let’s just all take a step back and… just breathe.”~ iii. I Am John's Mind So confused. So very tired…. How does it help them? Making me believe I’ve been rescued? It felt so real…. Usually when they played these games, they overloaded my nervous system first. It’s not pleasant. Like fire in my blood, flaming down my spine, reaching out like tendrils of scorching heat to every part of me, every inch of me. And then, just as it becomes unbearable. Just as I’m close to being overwhelmed by the blackness at the edge of my mind… it stops. Everything stops. And I feel… oddly euphoric. Why does that sound like a good thing when it’s so far from it…? When they make me think I’m aboard Babylon 5, I feel no pain. It’s not a good thing. When the images start to fade, the pain returns and the shock of it tears me apart a little more. This thinking to myself helps. I need to keep my mind in order, need to keep my thoughts away from… freedom. Away from defeat. I need to stay sane. It’s all I have left. So I think about… the aroma of fresh coffee. I used to love fresh coffee, so much better than the café that’s available. Michael could always get… Michael…. Why does his name – the mere thought of his name – hurt so much? Why is the stab of that memory worse than anything they’ve dreamt up yet. Including… when they did that. Coffee… it’s a memory of sorts that’s stuck in my mind from the scenes they’ve played in my head. It’s a smell I used to love, a taste…. Now, they’ve taken that from me too. I want to be sick when I think about it. My interrogators… that sounds a little strange doesn’t it? My interrogators…. They’re not mine. It’s nothing personal, they’re just doing a job. I wish they didn’t seem to enjoy it so much. What was I thinking about? I lose track sometimes and that scares me. I have to hold on to my mind! Now what…. Coffee. Sometimes my interrogators bring a coffee in to the cell with them. I assume when they do that that it’s morning. I always used to enjoy a coffee in the morning, couldn’t get through the day without that… coffee. They really don’t need to poison me any longer. They can make me nauseous with just a scent and it doesn’t take much more to push me to retching. Not that there’s anything left inside me anymore. The last time, there was nothing to come up except blood and acid from my stomach. That frightens me too…. I don’t think they know about the coffee thing…. Do I sound… obsessed with this? Oh Gods… probably. Anything… anything is better than thinking about the nightmare I’m being held in. This is their nightmare, they put me here! So why do they get angry with me when I start to retch without the aid of their poisons or toxins? They did this…. That’s what happened this morning – I say morning, it could be midnight for all I know. But if I can hold on to something, real or not…. A new interrogator came in with a large, sweet coffee. They’d already shackled me to the chair, ready for the start of the never-ending cycle of torture. The scent of the coffee wafted to me and my stomach started to heave. The interrogator became agitated, stood suddenly and shouted at me. What the hell does he think that’s going to accomplish? I want to die. I’m so tired…. I don’t want to hear the accusations and insults, the humiliations that have wormed their way into their lines of questioning. I hate the tone of voice that they’ve started to use. It’s harsh and I’m confused. It’s loud, and my ears ache. I wish they would just leave me alone… just for an hour. But they won’t. There are sounds outside, voices, shouting. And then… shots being fired. The cell door suddenly bursts open. Usually I close my eyes, turn away, shield myself from that rectangle of bright light that assaults me when the door opens. But I squint into the light this time, wanting to see what was going on despite myself. A familiar form appeared in that light, looked into the cell and then came inside. The shock of recognising the man who crouched by the chair almost makes me laugh. How do they expect me to believe this?! Why would I ever believe that the man who put me here would come to my rescue? I’d even seen him sitting in the dark corner during one or two of my interrogations. At least… I think I had. It’s an odd memory, like trying to look directly at those black bits that float in front of your eyes when you haven’t had enough to drink. I have a lot of black things floating in front of my eyes. He looks up at me, so sincere and I’m amused. I want to share my amusement, but I don’t. What would the punishment be for that?! But it had been so long…. He’s undone the shackles around my wrists and ankles. Now he’s standing, looking closely at me. And he puts his hand on my chin, looking into my mouth? Suddenly, I think I know what he’s doing! No!!! They won’t do that again! I can’t go through that again!!! Once, I screamed when my interrogator electrocuted me. And he had stood, and without warning had pressed the painstick to the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat. I stopped screaming then. Gods, that had hurt, more than I could have believed possible. It won’t happen again, I won’t let it!!! If I close my mouth, bite down, clamp my mouth shut then you’ll have to break my teeth before I’ll let you do that, Michael, I swear… I swear…! He’s standing now, backing off. Thank Gods…. Now… now he’s putting an arm under my own, easing me up out of the chair. What is this? What’s…. I don’t know, don’t understand…. This has never happened, I’ve never been allowed to move before, not until they’re finished. They can’t be finished with me. Not so soon. But I can’t fight… I don’t have enough strength.. I try to keep the shock, the surprise and fright from my face (like I know what I look like). What choice do I have other than to go along with this game? I don’t even know if I can
move, if I can still walk. When I’ve
had my times of freedom from that chair I’ve
crawled. Not exactly holding my pride and dignity
together but I hurt too much for anything more. But…I wish I hadn’t. The next few minutes… are terrifying. Some of the most terrifying I’ve had here. There seems to be a hurry. And rightly or wrongly I find myself helping, walking on my own as best I can. Maybe I just don’t want to lean on Garibaldi any more than I have to. Maybe I don’t want to feel his body any more… remembering the images I’ve pushed far, far away. All around us, there’s shouting, and gunfire. Gods… are they going to kill me? Is this their version of a firing squad?! This imaginary Garibaldi is killing guard after guard, one-handedly dropping caps from the PPG and clicking in new ones from his pocket. He’s unreal. And I’m…
getting more and more frightened, more afraid. I
want to die, but not like this, never like this.
Catching some stray bullet…. No! We’ve cleared the cells! We’re in some… underground tunnels. And we’ve slowed. We don’t seem to be being chased now and there has been no gunfire for a short time. I wish I knew what was happening, why they were doing this? I’m so tired, exhausted
almost. I don’t know how much further I can
go on. Suddenly, a series of loud explosions. The ground has begun to shake. Even Michael’s doppelganger next to me seems surprised by what’s happening around us. Should I be scared by that? Because I am… oh Gods… I’ve never been so scared. I can’t go on much further. There’s too much pain. My stomach, my chest, every part of me hurts. Debris is starting to fall from the ceiling of the tunnels, but Garibaldi’s keeping us moving. My body is… screaming. How else do I put it? I don’t think that there’s a part of me that doesn’t hurt. I want to stop. I want to sit down on the cold ground and die. But I know I won’t be allowed to. I can’t help but wonder how
long they’re going to keep this charade up. We’ve reached the end of the tunnel and Garibaldi has stopped. He’s eased me down onto a flat rock and reached between the rock and the stone wall. He’s got some sort of black bag. For a moment, I have to close my eyes. I have to will my body to give me just a moment’s peace. It refuses me even that. He’s putting something over my face! I try to get away, to get it away from me, but he’s holding it over my face and I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I’m so weak! Gods, I hadn’t realized… I’m pathetic! Trying to fight him, trying to get it off! Trying to breathe!!! …to breathe…. I can breathe. Instead of trying to fight him, I open my eyes and feel what he’s put on my face. It’s a breathing mask. I can breathe… better than I have done since… since they got their hands on me. I stop fighting and glance up at Garibaldi. I try to smile weakly. I hope the message gets across. It seems to. He smiles back at me. When he eases me back to my feet, and we start off again, I realise why I need that mask. Why he needs his. We leave the tunnels and step out onto the surface. I can feel the wind, feel the heat, and I know that if we have to go too far I wouldn’t make it. But we only have to go a couple of yards. In front of us, there’s a shuttle, door open. Gods… could this honestly be real? I want to ask Michael, want to know because I’m holding now onto a thread of hope that’s winding itself around my mind… and I don’t know if I could bare for that to be taken from me now. I try to ask. But I don’t seem to be making much sense. Michael’s talking to me. His tone of voice seems to be gentle and reassuring. He’s helping me into the shuttle. Where am I going, Michael? When will this be over? I haven’t got much choice but to go with it. I still don’t understand what this is meant to accomplish. I can’t understand what’s happening. Why am I still in so much pain? Why aren’t they asking the usual questions? What could they possibly accomplish with this? Or… could it be real? I again wipe that thought harshly from my tired mind. Michael’s leaving now, is it over? There are two… Centari insisting that I lie down on a bunk against the hull of the shuttle. Okay. Whatever. After everything they’ve done, asking me to lie on a bunk is so very easy. I just do as they ask. And I’m surprised at the comfort of the bunk. Maybe… I was dying on them, and they’ve found a way to heal me without me actually knowing that it’s what they’re doing. Restraints! More restraints! They’re strapping me down! I knew it! Knew that hope was too fragile. Why did I let myself believe it? I know I’m panicking, but I can’t stop myself. There are two straps, one across my chest and one across my hips. They’re pressing against wounds, inside and outside. I let the pained groan out. I can’t keep it in, despite the usual threat of further, new pain. None came. The restraints aren’t too tight. And suddenly, I can hear and feel the burst of the shuttle engines firing. I must have started because one of the Centari has put a gentle hand against the crown of my head and is speaking reassuringly to me. It sounds reassuring. I think the shuttle has taken off now. I’m being told to rest, and I think that’s a good idea. * Where the hell am I? Did I fall asleep? No… couldn’t have. They didn’t allow sleep. I can hear voices that sound far away, and the shuttle lurches slightly before seeming to come to a shuddering halt on a flat surface. The sounds all around me sound familiar, but I can’t remember. More noises, more rocking, and now… the restraints are being undone. I think… I’ll risk trying to move. I lift my head to see what’s happening. And then there’s another familiar face looking over me. Stephen. I know Stephen’s face. I can smell… coffee. I can barely believe the choking sorrow, the agony of the death of hope when I hadn’t believed any hope remained. Stephen was the one they used to get answers from me when they played their mind games. Stephen’s the one who gives me the coffee. But… it’s never really him. It’s them. And the coffee is always drugged or poisoned. This is just another game. Longer, more real, but nevertheless a game. And I can’t put into words,
even in my own mind, how… heartbroken am I to realise
that. I must have blacked out for a while – it’s the only explanation for the loss of time that my confused mind is telling me has occurred. They’re moving me again. On to a gurney this time. Hands are lifting me. I’m being wheeled along familiar corridors. I have to admit, they are good. They’ve even recreated the ‘scent’ of Babylon 5, the ‘feeling’ of the station. It feels so real. Voices, concerned tones of people hurrying along at my side. I can almost believe… but I won’t, not again. I know I’m in MedLab when we
came to a halt. And suddenly it all becomes a lot more frightening. And I stop thinking for a
little while. It’s stopped for a while. Oh Gods… I wish I could understand. My clothes were removed, what remained of them. They must have stunk. In the whole time I’d been a prisoner I hadn’t been given a change of clothing. I’d pissed, shit, vomited and bled in those clothes. They were torn by the agents who’d beaten me, who’d… raped me. I think that’s the first time I’ve managed to actually form that word in my mind! Is that a good sign or not? I was touched, invaded, examined more closely than I could ever remember being. There were more voices, commands spoken over me, like I wasn’t even there. Sharp needles pressed into me, bringing with them excruciating points of heat that seared deep under my skin. My struggles were useless, my pleas ignored. My breathing became laboured as a sudden, razor-sharp pain paralysed my right hand. Then the world began to fade into a whirl of darkness and nausea. I fought, tried to remain conscious, scared to death of what would happen if I let himself fall. A silent scream was
swallowed by the darkness of my mind as I drowned
in the flood that slowly overwhelmed me. I remember coming up through the thick, sickening black. At first, I couldn’t open my eyes, feeling like they were glued shut. Once again, hands took me and my stomach threatened to betray me as I was rolled from the gurney to another bed. I was held in place on my side just on the edge of the bed. And then my right leg was pushed up and fingers touched my ass. I screamed. At least in my mind. I couldn’t help it. Whatever managed to come out into the room must have been terrible, because the probing stopped and I was eased onto my back. I lay still. The bed was soft under me. Softer than the bunk on the shuttle. The pillow was flattened slightly under my head. Like… they were trying to make me comfortable. Stephen was still around me, still pushing things into my hand and arms. And worse. A sharp pain stung me and I realised that it had come from the tip of my cock Once again, the blackness that had taken me before swirled at the edges of my consciousness, threatening once again to suffocate me. Before I could go under
again, the pain eased, and I was covered with
something soft and warm. I feel safe. It’s wrong and it’s terrifying but I do feel safe. I slowly come closer to real consciousness. The harsh lights in the ceiling feel like they’re burning through my lids and begin to drill impossibly into my head. Mercifully, the bright lights are being dimmed! Did they know? Why are they suddenly being so nice to me? A gentle hand touches my
hair and I think I flinch, but I don’t know if I do or
not. I’m now alone. I’m afraid of the black in my mind. But I’m more afraid of what awaits me if I open my eyes. I’m not yet ready to let go of the relative safety I’ve found in the dark. I’m letting myself float in it for some time. Waiting for the pain to return.~ iv. Small Steps A slight hissing noise, followed by a myriad of alarms sounding throughout MedLab. Blood splattered the grey and white quilt, marking a fast path across the soft material from left to right. Three nurses ran into the IC unit, followed closely by Franklin. Stephen stopped in his tracks when he laid eyes on his patient. Stephen shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s done it again…. How many times is this?” Nurse Marl’Ne’Lea smiled gently and leaned over their patient, John Sheridan, to take up the IV valve lying on the quilt. The tiny hole in Sheridan’s hand was bleeding a little. She set the valve again, this time into the back of his left hand, and placed a small plaster over the wound in his right. “Maybe a longer tube?” she suggested. Stephen chuckled. Sheridan kept doing this, turning over onto his side in his sleep and yanking the IV line out. Not that John had noticed. He just continued to sleep, his body finally finding some peace as the worst of his injuries began to heal. Once the nurse had finished, Stephen stepped up. He routinely checked John’s temperature and blood pressure. He took samples of his patient’s blood and urine for analysis. Then, for a short time, he just sat at John’s side and watched him sleep. * President. Stephen watched Delenn’s retreating back as she walked happily out of MedLab 1. The new Interstellar Alliance had voted John Sheridan to be its president. Stephen glanced over at where John was sleeping restlessly. It looked as if yet another nightmare was about to disturb his hard-won sleep. He didn’t look like he’d be taking up his new role anytime soon. Stephen wasn’t sure that John would ever be ready. A sudden anger flared through him. Why wouldn’t everyone just leave Sheridan alone? Why wouldn’t the universe give him a break and just let him rest? Let him live…. The anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The nightmare took hold. “John…. It’s okay.” Stephen tried to calm his patient but Sheridan’s breathing was becoming harsher, faster and deeper. His movements became more erratic, his struggle against his imaginary enemy more desperate. “John!” Reaching down, Stephen pinched a little of skin on the back of John’s hand between two finger nails, hoping to rouse him. What might or might not have been a “no” issued from John’s throat before he woke, sitting up, once again ripping the tubes from the IV valve, at least leaving the body of the valve in his hand this time. Stephen perched on the edge of the bed, taking a firm but gentle hold of Sheridan’s shoulders. “John, ssh. It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s just a nightmare.” John’s hands came to rest on Stephen’s arms. The sides of his hands gripped those arms, his fingers all but useless at the moment as they healed. Franklin had managed to rebuild five of the six damaged digits, but one – the third finger of his left hand – was too badly shattered. Stephen had left it in a small, narrow brace, the pieces of bone pinned together. The nerves through and around the finger were dead already, it wasn’t causing John any further pain. “Breathe slowly,” Stephen instructed. “Relax.” Sheridan seemed to respond, following Stephen’s suggestion. “That’s it.” Franklin took up the dripping IV line and carefully plugged it back into the valve, taking care not to startle his patient any further. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what you were dreaming about, um?” He knew John wouldn’t respond. The treatments for the burns at the back of John’s throat and down his oesophagus had worked minor miracles but still John hadn’t spoken to them properly. He simply watched the doctor, the nurses, any visitors he was allowed, with large, distrusting grey eyes. “Okay, well, how about I tell you where you are?” Stephen had been doing this – holding these conversations with himself – since John had regained consciousness. “You’re aboard Babylon 5. Michael got you out of that prison. Now, I know you don’t believe that Michael would have come to your rescue,” he picked up the pad from bedside table and started to write on it, recording Sheridan’s condition. “But he did, and now I’m looking after you, see?” He angled the pad so that Sheridan could see what he was writing. In one unexpected and violent move, John backhanded the pad and sent it spinning gracefully through the air to crack when it hit the far wall. Surprised, Stephen stepped forward, a questioning frown on his face. Sheridan shrank back, lowering his head, glancing up once then averting his eyes, wincing as if expecting a strike in retaliation. Horror filled Stephen as he realised John still imagined himself to be a captive. Even now. After two weeks. “Captain, John, I am Doctor Franklin. You are on Babylon 5.” Slowly, he sat down on the edge of the bed, sliding his hands down John’s trembling arms, feeling the tension in the weak body as he lightly took his patient’s hands into his own. “You were rescued, John. Try to remember. Michael Garibaldi got you out. He put you on board a Centauri ship that brought you here. That was thirteen days ago. You’ve been here, in MedLab, ever since.” John was watching him with a new expression, eyes now and again glancing away to take in his surroundings. Stephen hoped he was getting through. “I know they messed with your mind, John. I know they made you believe that you were free when you weren’t. But… those scenes can’t have lasted long, and… there must have been things about them that you questioned?” John nodded once. Quickly, as if unsure what the correct answer was or even if he was supposed to answer. “You’ve been here almost two weeks. Not even Clarke’s best people could keep that going without making some mistake, without losing you in the charade.” Franklin watched carefully, looking out for signs that Sheridan was starting to accept that this was real. “Do you remember Jack being here?” It was as if a light had come on in John’s eyes. Another quick nod. “He’s here, aboard Babylon 5. He’ll be here later. He’s worried about you, like everyone else.” John pulled his left hand from Stephen’s loose grip. The doctor let him go immediately. “I wish there was something I could do to convince you this was all real.” Sighing softly, he satisfied himself with just sitting for a while, watching John staring out into medlab, maybe trying to work everything out in his confused and hurting mind. An idea struck him. He held up his finger, “One minute,” and got up. When he returned, he was carrying a bowl of warm water and a bottle of shaving foam. “You want to sit up for me? I’ll prove you’re safe.” The ghost of a smile broke through the fear for a fraction of a moment, but John allowed himself to be helped into half-sitting, half lying against the pillows that Stephen stacked up behind him. The doctor was infinitely gentle, applying the shaving foam and removing it and a month’s worth of beard growth in short strokes. John remained motionless, but the fear was starting to fade from his eyes, and the quick glances up at Stephen’s face were getting longer and braver each time. It took a long half-hour. When he was finished, the whiskers were gone. John was so still he might have been asleep. But he wasn’t. Stephen got rid of the bowl and razor before sitting himself back on the edge of the bed. Very gently, he took John’s right hand and lifted it, touching it to John’s smooth right cheek. “How’s that for proof?” he murmured, keeping his own touch light and unthreatening. John drew in a shaking breath, and in a moment his eyes filled with tears. Stephen lowered John’s hand again and held it within his own. And he sat in silence, letting John weep. * The corners of Jack’s lips came up into a small smile. He’d searched everywhere for Michael, finally finding him in the observation bay staring out into space. Knowing he was intruding, Jack stepped up to Michael’s side, looking out at the stars. They stood in silence together for some time, until Michael turned his head. “How is he?” Jack was only slightly surprised. “He’s…. There are small steps, according to Stephen, and he’s making them.” He tilted his head to study the other man. “You rescued him.” Michael nodded. He didn’t speak. “Can I ask you something painful?” Another nod. “What did he do to make you hate him so much?” Michael actually chuckled. Then he sighed. And he told his story. All of it, making sure he missed nothing because he had a feeling that this man would be vitally important in getting close to Sheridan again. If that could ever be possible. Jack listened in silence until Michael finished. “I’m sorry. No one deserves that.” Garibaldi looked properly at Jack Maynard, perhaps for the first time. “You believe me?” It was Jack’s turn to smile. “John’s got a well-honed sense of character judgement. He once told me that he trusted you more than anyone he’d ever met, anywhere he’d ever been.” Michael looked away. “That wasn’t accusation.” “I know.” Garibaldi sighed and turned, sitting down on the seating that ran the length of the 180 degree window out into space. Jack copied his move, seating himself, one arm across the back, letting his gaze wonder over the magnificent sight of the Cortez. His ship docked at the station indefinitely. Long enough for some loved ones to travel from Earth to Babylon 5. It had been too long since his crew had seen their families and friends. “You’re blaming yourself, despite knowing it wasn’t your fault.” Michael nodded, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “All Bester did was… alter characteristics that were already there.” He pressed his fingers into his eyes. “It terrifies me, that I had it within me to do that… to John.” “You wouldn’t have done it without their intervention.” Michael snorted, turned his head. “You don’t know me.” Jack hesitated. “John used to… send messages sometimes. Data crystals that he’d recorded late at night when he’d had too much on his mind to sleep. He’d just sit and talk at me. And I’d listen to them when I had difficulty sleeping.” He smiled to himself. “He was always happy to be able to send me to sleep, whatever else was happening.” Jack sighed softly. That had been a long time ago, when the universe had at least appeared sane. “He told me all that he could in those messages. He couldn’t talk much about… work. So he told me about his friends. About Susan and Stephen, Marcus, the great G’Kar and Londo double-act. About you.” Michael lifted his head. “He loved you, Michael.” He sighed, and nodded. “I know. I just wish that I feel I deserve that love.” Shrugging, he stood and with a little smile, he left Jack sitting there. ~ v. Watching Cautiously, Michael took a seat at John’s bedside. Stephen had warned him that any change in John’s condition would warrant Michael being thrown out on his ass. No one was sure if this was a good idea, including Garibaldi. He needed to explain to John, to tell him what had happened, what Bester had done, what he now knew to be the truth. But Sheridan was in no state to hear it, let alone understand or forgive. No one knew what seeing Michael would do to him or what his reaction would be. Pulling the chair closer to the bed, trying to be as quiet as he could, trying not to disturb the restlessly sleeping man, Michael reached out with a trembling hand. Nervously, he covered John’s with his own. He touched the metal of the brace on one finger and the warm sterile bandage holding the draining tube in John’s wrist in place. Lying his fingers over John’s, he felt the clammy, cold hear of the infected skin. Stretching out his other hand, Michael touched the greying hair at John’s temple, stroked it carefully. “John….” He couldn’t help but remember some of the things Bester had told him when he’d released him from his mental prison. He thought about ‘Banger’ – the one name he had – smashing John’s beautiful face against the concrete floor of the cell. To Bester it had been entertainment, amusement. The reality was a broken nose, skin bruised to black over his cheek bones, lips split, tongue pierced by his eye tooth. Watching John’s eyeballs moving fitfully behind the lids, Michael ghosted his gaze and fingers over the white dressings hiding the butterfly stitches in John’s face, head and neck. The rest of the man was covered by a light comforter. The fingers of John’s other hand were curled loosely in the soft, warm material. There was a four-way IV port in the back of that hand, held in place by snowy-white bandages. Tubes snaked from the port, to four separate IV bags hanging from a stand next to the bed. More counteragents had been added to the slowly draining concoction. More toxins had been isolated in John’s bloodstream. Under that comforter, Michael knew the unseen injuries were a lot worse. “John… I am so sorry.” A quiet whimper passed John’s Vaseline whetted lips. Michael froze, hands hovering above John’s head and hand. He waited, breath held, until the man settled again. “His hand’s badly injured – internal bruising.” Michael started at the sound of the low voice at his side. He glanced up at Stephen. “We just… hold his thumb.” Michael let his fingertips touch that single digit. John didn’t stir. “How is he? Really?” Stephen tilted his head to one side. “Physically, he’s very sick. He had partial liver failure when he arrived. His stomach and intestines are shot to hell – we’ve got more tubes going in and out of him than the station’s main reactor. He has myriad broken bones. His wrist’s been badly smashed, that’s going to need reconstruction when we think he can cope with the surgery. There’s deep bruising over most of his body and I lost count of the number of infected cuts and burns we treated.” Stephen let his eyes caress Sheridan’s temporarily peaceful face. “Mentally…. It’s bad, Michael. I think he’s accepted that he’s safe. But… everything he’s been through isn’t going to fade in a hurry.” He glanced at the readout on the monitor that was recording every detail of John’s physical state. “They’ve made him President of the new Alliance.” Michael’s eyes widened. He looked from Stephen to John, lying small and vulnerable under the comforter, the tubes and wires and dressings. “You’re kidding?” A shake of his head. “Nope.” Stroking John’s thumb again, Michael remained while Stephen checked his patient before wondering off again. More of Bester’s words echoed in Garibaldi’s mind. ‘Three days ago, Mr Garibaldi, they added a new tactic.’ Michael closed his eyes against the terrible images that flooded back. Images Bester had planted in his mind. He could see the bruises around John’s neck, merged in with the burns caused by the collar. The metal had cut deep into the sensitive, soft flesh where John’s rapists had forced it into his throat as they held him down. It was little wonder John didn’t want to talk to them. He obviously settled with Maynard, but even his ‘Stinky’ hadn’t elicited speech. Just thinking must be so very painful, fraught with dangers, a minefield of his own agonising memories. Memories he'd been the cause of. How could John ever forgive him for that? ~ vi. I Am John's Mind (Reprise) I believe it now. I've been rescued. Michael rescued me. It explains the hurry, the firefights, the shuttle. It explains everything and yet it took me this long to believe it. Stephen... he shaved my beard off. He did it to convince me I was safe. And Jack's here - they couldn't know about Jack. Opening my eyes carefully, looking into the dim light of this room they're keeping me in, I see Stephen sitting next to me. I knew someone was there - they hold my thumb on my left hand. I think it must be the only bit of me that isn't damaged in some way. Susan and Jack sit in the exact same place. And I think... Michael's been here too. I can't be sure, I haven't seen him but I've... smelt him. I don't mean that in a bad way! But I know his scent better than the others'. A long time ago it seems, I used to fall asleep next to him and wake up with my head on his shoulder. He loved to hold me like that... Huh. More tears. I can't seem to stop them at the moment. They come without warning and although Stephen's told me it's a neurological thing, I hate being this weak. Those men didn't break me. I was strong enough to hold on, at least... I think I was. Still, I don't feel as if I could fight a child right now, never mind Clarke's goons. Never mind legends. Blinking away the tears I try for a smile for my doctor, the man I know has fought against everything they did to keep me alive. I can feel my lips crack with the movement and I watch as he reaches for the small tube on one of the trays. He asks me - since those first terrible hours when I arrived, he's always asked me - if I want to put the Vaseline on myself. I can't. I can't lift my hands to my face and if I could... all my fingers are either bandaged or in braces. But I appreciate the sentiment, Doc. When he applies it, his finger is so light and he's quick, like he's worried about touching me like this. I know it's all for my sake. I've seen him do this for patients unable to do it for themselves. I think he knows most of what they did to me and he's worried about the effect it's had on me. You and me both, Stephen. Scared shitless, my friend. Now he's offering me the straw in the ever-present beaker of water beside the bed. I can lift my head enough to take small sips and he gives me all the time I need and waits for me to lie back down again before he replaces the beaker. "John, I have to tell you something." Uhho. "It's not going to be easy to hear but you need to know." Oh, God. What? I think he's going to tell me something's missing, that he's had to remove something... a kidney? Anything else and I wouldn't be here, would I? Not a limb, certainly. I've checked and everything's still.... "It's about Garibaldi." Michael. I feel my heart start to pound, my pulse racing. And almost immediately the machines all around me start to beep their warnings. "Hey, hey, it's okay." Stephen's leaning in now, holding my thumb tightly. "He got you out and he's still aboard. He's going anywhere. It's about why. About the last year and everything he's done." Shaking his head, he says, "It's about Bester." Bester? What the hell has that psycho psi-cop got to do with anything? But Stephen's answering that question, telling me everything. And he's right, it's so fucking hard to listen to. Because I know now who's to blame for me ending up in Clarke's hands, ending up in this state. I am. I can feel more tears springing up in my eyes as he says, "I'm so sorry. I had to tell you, I need you to know because he's spent time sitting here with you when you've been sleeping. He wanted to be here now but I thought it best if I told you. I know how much you're hurting right now, I know what they did to you and I know how difficult it's going to be for you to forgive him." Oh, God, Stephen. It won't be hard to forgive him. It's myself I can't forgive! Those damned tears are sliding over my cheek, itching and hot. But they're for Michael, not for me. That bastard, Bester. If I ever - ever - see him again and I'm in reach of a PPG, I am going to blow his telepath brain inside out. Stephen's still speaking softly. "I'm here for you, along with Susan and Jack, and whether you want him or not, Michael is too." I want him! I've wanted him every second of every minute of every hour of every shitty day of this last year and he hasn't been there. Now I know why. We were so close! I loved him so much! I thought - no, I know - he loved me back. I take a deep breath to try to stem the tide of this sickening guilt. I can't look at Stephen anymore and I close my eyes. I feel him rest his hand on the crown of my head and for a time I concentrate on that, on his thumb moving slowly, back and forth through my hair. It's incredibly comforting and I think he knows that. He's the only one that does it but I like it. After the beatings, the torture, the... the rapes... it's just good to have someone touch me gently, almost lovingly. I won't deny I need the contact. He is the most patient man I've ever met. He keeps up the stroking of my hair for a long, long time, not saying any more. I can't hear anything more right now. I know the stress of what's he's told me on my system is too much. I can feel the exhaustion like it's touching my very soul. And eventually I have to give in to it and sleep because as much as I want to ask him to find Michael, I can't. I can't speak. I don't know how to. ~ vii. First Words - Part 1 Stephen looked up and saw Michael standing in the doorway. "Took it badly, huh?" Stroking his hand lightly over John's hair one last time, standing and moving to join Michael out in Medlab. "I honestly don't know. He was upset but he still hasn't spoken." Michael sighed softly. "Can I sit with him?" Stephen nodded, he didn't have to warn him about John waking. Sitting in the chair the doctor had vacated, Michael crossed his arms on the edge of the mattress, not touching John yet. His eyes rested on the battered face for as long as he could bare before he had to look away. "God, John, I'm sorry." He sat for a long time, staring passed the still form on the bed, not really focusing on anything outside the trauma in his mind. So it was a while before he became aware of John's thumb tapping insistently on the sheet just an inch from his arms. He glanced up and saw grey eyes watching him with a silent plea. Slowly, Michael let out the breath he'd been holding and moved his hand to rest his fingers cautiously over the bouncing thumb. Immediately he felt the pressure of it curving around his index finger, holding onto him with an unexpected strength. John smiled at him, dark skin around bruised eyes wrinkling, one small crack in his lips opening and releasing a drop of blood. For Michael, it was like the sun coming out on a stormy day. His chest heaved in a dry sob and he rested his other hand on John's arm, a feather-light touch over the clean bandages. "'Sorry' doesn't come close," he managed roughly, "I know that. It's a million miles from how I feel and it... it could never be enough to make up for this." The pressure on his finger increased and he returned the strong contact. John's eyes had once sparkled like stars against the dark of space, now they shone now with unshed tears. Again, his cracked lips moved but no sound came. Only this time Michael saw the frustration in his expression that the others had missed. And he remembered the burns at the back of his throat. "John? Say something." Another attempt, and Garibaldi was close to calling Stephen when he heard his own name. It was nothing more than a painful whisper but it was enough. Leaning down, Michael touched his mouth to John's thumb, tasting the sterile echo of bandages, only to be surprised when it moved and shakily caressed his lips. He lifted his head, blinking back tears. "Nothing to forgive," John whispered, firmer this time. "How can you say that?" But the battered head moved once, side to side. "I betrayed you. You can't tell me you didn't hate me in there, can't tell me you sat and imagined tearing me limb from limb as long as you could think straight." Michael's voice rose in volume and although that didn't attract the busy doctor's attention, the warning alarms of the monitors around them did. Stephen was with them in a second, angry expression aimed squarely at Michael. "I told you -" "- Stephen -" "- he's not strong enough for -" "- Stephen!" Michael looked pointedly from the doctor to his patient and Stephen followed his direction even as he carried on explaining that John wasn't in a fit state to hear anything Garibaldi had to say. "- and if I'm going to allow you to stay...." He trailed off, needing to shut up to listen. "It's okay, Stephen." Still only a whisper but as powerful as a scream. "He needs to talk and I need to hear it." Stephen stared at him. "Speaking of talking...." "I think... I stopped myself." It made so much sense. "So that you wouldn't talk, wouldn't tell them anything, wouldn't say... whatever it was they wanted you to say." John nodded once. "Not ever." 'Not even if they broke you.' But Michael kept that thought to himself. Stephen glanced from one to the other. "Just keep it down?" Sometime later, Michael sat with his hand tucked under John's sleeping head. His fingertips moved restfully in the thick hair, stroking the warm scalp. Many more tears would fall between them he knew but at least he was certain that one day they would be sure of one another again. Even if it was the day they died. ~ viii. First Words - Part 2 I feel ridiculously like a puppy dog, but Stephen's fingers in my hair are the most comforting thing I've known in a while and I wish he'd just leave them there when he goes off to do whatever it is he has to do. I know he's a busy man and I'm well over the age of being this needy but everything hurts so much and it's nice.... Damnit. I can hear voices - Stephen's and Michael's - and I know when Michael comes to sit with me. I know I need to face him, to apologise. I failed him. After everything we'd been to one another I never thought to ask why he was so angry with me, never thought to question his behaviour with Stephen or Lyta. Was too caught up in my own problems, my own war. With Delenn. If I'm honest with myself, I don't know what I was thinking. When I returned from Z'Ha'Dum I was drawn to her in a different way than before. She stood for the power I wanted, the strength I needed. And all I could see was Michael fucking it up for us. How the hell do I ask him to forgive me that? He hasn't touched me, he's just sitting there. Looking at him, I know how much he's blaming himself. That's partly why he hasn't stayed around when I'm awake, I think. He can't face me. Oh, Mike. What have they done to us? How hard must it be for you to sit there? *"God, John, I'm sorry."* No, Michael. You have nothing to be sorry for. I have to tell him. I have to speak to him. I wish I could remember Kosh's lesson. But as hard as I try, I can't. They fried my brain in that cell and although Stephen's assured me there's no permanent damage, it's all confused. Like a thief's gone through my mind and messed it all up. I'm worried Michael's going to walk away again and I can't understand why he's not touching me. Childish, I know, but I hate being isolated. So I start tapping my thumb on the bed. It reminds me of an impertinent kid but after what I've been through I figure this little dent in my dignity's not going to make much difference. When you've had countless men's cocks up your ass it really leaves your dignity in tatters. It worked - the thumb tapping I mean. He's looking at me and all I can do is gaze back. Come on, Mike, you need this as badly as I do - don't let that bastard Bester destroy us. It's amazing what a difference that one touch makes, even if it's the tenuous cover of his hand. The best I can do is squeeze his finger and smile. Ow. That's opened up one of the cracks in my lips - I can taste the blood. But hey, it was worth it because if you believe the look on his face, all his Christmas' have come at once. It's not that that great, Mike, it's only me. *"'Sorry' doesn't come close, I know that."* Oh, Mike. *"It's a million miles from how I feel and it... it could never be enough to make up for this."* You don't have to make up for this! You didn't do this! Bester did, Clarke did. Not you. All I can do is hold on to his finger. I keep trying to speak but there's no sound, no words. Not even a whisper because that would have been enough to hang me. Best not to think about that. I need to remember. Kosh taught me to put blocks in my own mind, real ones, ones that hid memories or knowledge not only from others but from myself too. I used that in the cell. I blocked my own ability to speak. But now... I can't remember how and I can't remember the password. Password - there's a password, a key to the block. What the hell would I have been thinking of? I can see the tears in his eyes and want to wipe away the answering moisture in mine, but I don't. I just keep trying to remember. Through the whole ordeal on Mars, Michael was at the forefront of my mind. I used him to focus my anger, hatred, self-loathing, every feeling, every emotion. Deliberately saying his name in my head doesn't have the slightest affect. It wouldn't. I wouldn't have used anything so obvious, anything I might have accidentally sent in times of stress. But it must be linked. Must be. *"John? Say something."* Looking at him I try again to speak but I can't - it won't come! He's going to call Stephen, I can see it in his eyes. They haven't realised that I can't speak rather than won't - but Michael knows. He knows now like he's always known me, inside and out. Inside.... Daffy! It's Daffy! "Michael." Was that me? Oh, God, my throat hurts. It was me. Michael's leaning down and I can feel him drop a gentle kiss to my thumb. I did it! Think I'll stick to whispering though. Wonder why my throat hurts? Doesn't matter. I can't return the kiss, not with him down there anyway and I know he's not coming any closer yet. But I can acknowledge it at least, touch those incredibly soft lips. He's looking at me now and I try again, keeping it to a whisper. "Nothing to forgive," seems to sum it up quite well. *"How can you say that?"* How do I answer that one? The words won't form themselves quickly enough and it's frustrating. I shake my head once, wishing I could launch into one of my famous speeches. *"I betrayed you."* No, Mike.... *"You can't tell me you didn't hate me in there, can't tell me you sat and imagined tearing me limb from limb as long as you could think straight."* I did. God forgive me, that's exactly what I did. It helped. There was so much violence and the only place I could fight back was in my head. Michael, I'm so sorry.... The alarms are going again - too damn sensitive. Stephen's going to go mental at this little scene.... Thought so. But it gives me a second to take a couple of deep breaths. And if he'll just listen to his patient.... "It's okay, Stephen. He needs to talk and I need to hear it." He's staring at me and the expression on his face is actually vaguely amusing. I haven't laughed in... I can't remember how long. *"Speaking of talking...."* How do I put this? "I think... I stopped myself." He understands, I knew he would. *"So that you wouldn't talk, wouldn't tell them anything, wouldn't say... whatever it was they wanted you to say."* "Not ever." Glancing at Michael I can see the cogs turning but he's not saying a word. We so need to talk but I don't know how much strength I have for this right now. Stephen's leaving us alone again. He's so protective now, it's going to be months before he lets me out of his sight at this rate. Mind you, given that most of me is broken, bruised, stitched and bandaged, and there seems to be more tubes coming out of me than I can count, I'm grateful for it right now. My thoughts are wondering again - means I'm close to dropping off to sleep. I have to say something that will hold us, just for now until we can really talk. "Mike." He's come closer, my thumb tucked into his palm, his thumb rubbing my hand gently. It's very relaxing and it's definitely not helping me fight the need to sleep. It must be obvious my eyelids are drooping because he's talking softly. *"It's okay, John. Sleep, I'm not going anywhere."* Maybe not, Mike, but to be honest, I don't know if I am. Stephen's glossed over enough details of my condition that I know things aren't good. Still, best not to think about that right now. Think about his hand on my head, fingers in my hair. Has Stephen been passing this on? Whatever. It's nice. Think I've said that before. What was I going to say to him? That's it. "Mike... don't let Bester win. Please. Stay with me." *"You have my word. Whatever it takes, John, whatever you need."* You, Mike. I need you. But I can't summon the strength to say it. |