Epilogue

Morning found Mark watching his sleeping son, his elbows resting on his knees, swinging a tattered piece of paper contemplatively between his fingers. After Steve's new wound had been patched and some of the old ones restitched the night before, they had both slept well. Mark had stayed the night in his son's room, more by default than intent, as sleep had claimed him in a comfortable chair as he sat, reluctant to leave his son after the scare he'd just received.

He remembered the many photographs he'd taken of Steve asleep as a baby, and thought that perhaps the fascination of watching him sleep now was that it was easier to trace the child he had been in the relaxation of slumber.

He reached over a gentle hand and rested it on his son's forehead and, with the ease of long practice, assessed his temperature with the accuracy of a thermometer. He noted with satisfaction that the fever was reduced and, shifting his evaluation to his son's pulse, he was satisfied with the results there too. He relaxed back into his chair and returned to his appraisal of the letter which was as yet still unread.

He wasn't too sure about the reason for his reluctance to read it. It was addressed to him, intended for him, and he knew that his besetting sin of curiosity would not allow him to leave it unopened. However, he was a private man himself for all his joviality, and, with an innate sense of fairness, tried to permit his son an equal amount of privacy. He wasn't sure that words written as a farewell in a moment of vulnerability were still supposed to be read in the event of survival.

However, a few minutes later, with a sense of inevitability and a mixture of anticipation and a curious feeling of sorrow, he started to read.

Dear Dad

Be careful! MacKay killed Gilman. The pen was his, matching set on his desk. you're the only one left who's seen it. It's likely he'll come after you. Be careful.

The writing seemed to change a little here, becoming a little more tentative, although it may only have been in Mark's imagination.

Dad, I promise I won't give up, but if I don't make it, I want you to know I have no regrets, except possibly not giving you the grandchildren you wanted so much. Life with you was never dull. I've never known anyone who's brought so much laughter into the world. Don't let that change when I'm gone. I'm proud that you're my Dad. You've always been there for me, Dad, teacher and guide when I was young and my best friend and support now I'm older. Give my best to Jesse and Amanda and let them help you. I love you, Dad.

The style was characteristically blunt throughout but with unexpected flashes of eloquence, punctuated throughout with smears of blood. It was scarcely a model of epistological art, but Mark was in no mood to judge it for technique, his eyes almost too blurry to read the end.

He bowed his head, his heart filled to overflowing with the love of his son, the knowledge of a close call and the gratitude that he still had Steve. In his long lifetime, he had experienced the loss of death all too many times - patients, friends and, more devastatingly, his wife and daughter, but the loss of his son was too terrible to contemplate. His life and Steve's were woven so tightly together that to remove the thread that was his son's would unravel the fabric of his own existence beyond repair. He took a deep breath to refresh and relax a chest tight with emotion, then looked up to see Steve watching him steadily.

For a moment he felt abashed as if caught in a voyeuristic act. However, the closeness of their bond soon reasserted itself.

"I thought I'd lost you." It wasn't what he'd intended to say, and his throat closed tightly after the utterance as if to prevent other painful confessions from escaping. However, it was the right thing to say, and Steve's eyes lost their vulnerable look and darkened with empathy.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and reached out to grasp his father's knee. For several minutes nothing more was said but it was a comfortable silence. Mark knew he should call the nurse, but he wasn't ready to relinquish his son to anyone right then. Eventually, Steve spoke again. "The babies?"

Mark recognised it as both a request for information and an oblique explanation for the worry he had caused.

"They're fine...thanks to you." The last past of the sentence was emphasised, indicating that Mark understood the circumstances and was proud of him. "Their mother was badly hurt, but her progress is encouraging."

"And Carlos?" It was easy to tell from the anxiety in Steve' voice that the affection the boy had shown for his son was reciprocated, and Mark hastened to reassure him.

"He's fine, and he'll be very happy to see you. The poor kid thought you were dead and blamed himself. But, if it wasn't for him, I'd probably never have found you."

Steve's eyes dropped to the note that Mark was still holding. "I knew you'd find me, I never doubted that," he said with a note of apology in his voice. "I just didn't know if it would be in time."

Mark was touched by his son's faith, though when he thought of the two long days his son had been buried alive, he wasn't sure that trust was warranted.

Something of his guilt must have shown in his face, or maybe Steve was just too adept at reading his mind, because after throwing him a concerned look, he tried to lighten the conversation.

"I was right; you did find me. See, boundless sagacity must run in the family." He tried to look infinitely wise but stalled at smug. It took Mark a moment to place the reference, but then he remember their earlier conversation. It was hard to believe it was only a few days ago; it seemed more like five months. He wasn't ready to talk to anyone yet about the intervening time - the horror of the morgue and the desperation of his search. He knew from experience that the price of suppression would be the reemergence of the memories as nightmares, but, for now, he was happy to focus on the joy of reunion with his son.

He looked for a last time at the letter in his hand before folding it carefully and replacing it in his pocket. "I'm glad you wrote it," he admitted.

The sense of connection between them was almost palpable and, as Steve relaxed into the pillows behind him, it inspired him to ask - "What were you going to write?"

Mark had no difficulty following his train of thought to his own aborted letter. "Probably much the same," he admitted. "To be honest, I don't think I ever got as far as composing. My recollection of the last few minutes is a bit woozy. I knew the air was about to run out and I'd exhausted all my options, and I just remember wanting...needing to say something... to say goodbye. I grabbed the first materials to hand, but it was already too late and I passed out."

Steve nodded, understanding the impulse and satisfied with the answer.

Mark continued. "It can't have been easy to write with just one arm." It was a gentle invitation to talk, and one that Steve could decline without it seeming like a rejection. However, he knew his father was motivated more by concern than curiosity, and that Mark's imagination was quite capable of supplying the worst details, so a somewhat sanitised version might help give him peace of mind. With a strong eye to the absurd and automatically downplaying the danger and his own heroism, Steve told his story. By the end, although he had spotted the occasional glint of humour in Mark's eyes, he felt that his father had read between the lines and hadn't been fooled at all.

Slightly abashed by the open look of pride in Mark's face, he changed the subject with a gesture at his right arm. "So, how bad is it?"

"You managed to make quite a mess of it, but hopefully you'll regain full strength and use. However, you're looking at considerable therapy first and you won't be going back to work for a while."

Steve accepted the news philosophically, relieved that the news wasn't worse. "Maybe we could go away on vacation again," he suggested hopefully.

"I think that's a great idea," Mark replied sincerely. "What did you have in mind?"

"I suppose white water rafting again is out of the question," Steve said wistfully. The forbidding look on his father's face quashed that notion.

"How about sailing? With your help, I'd only need one hand and...OK, maybe not." He tried to think of something that held some appeal but wouldn't earn him an expression that made him feel like a five-year-old again, and not an overly bright one at that.

His thinking was interrupted by a knock on the door, and it was with more than usual eagerness that he called out an invitation to enter. "Saved by the knock," he muttered sotto voce, but just loud enough for his father to hear.

Steve's relief at the distraction turned to genuine pleasure at the sight of his partner, and he greeted her warmly.

Cheryl, in return, looked him over in mock disgust. "Seven days, Sloan. I leave you alone for seven days and look what happens. You need a babysitter."

A snort that could have been amusement or agreement emanated from beside him, but Steve studiously ignored both his father and his partner's speech and continued with elaborate and pointed courtesy. "It's nice to see you too, Cheryl. How are your sister and the baby?"

Cheryl grinned at her partner unrepentantly. "They're fine. The baby did ... well, all those baby things a newborn is supposed to do, I guess. I'm no expert. Anyway, the captain sent me over to bring you up to date on the Gilman case. You sure do find original ways to bring in a murderer. A bowling ball?"

"That was him, not me." Steve gestured towards his father. "I was just an innocent bystander."

"However," Mark countered. "You did solve the murder while buried under a building. I think that gets points for originality."

"Yes, I had it all under control." There was a slight edge of self-disparagement in the comment that ended the teasing.

"Well, it's all over now," Cheryl asserted briskly. "Lisa Gilman rolled over on her lover and is singing like a bird. Talking of which, how is our ten-pin friend?" She quirked an eyebrow at Mark.

"Last I heard, he had rather a severe concussion but is expected to recover."

Steve snuck a surreptitious glance at his father to check that he wasn't bothered by the role reversal of putting a patient into hospital instead of healing one, but Mark had no trouble keeping that in perspective. He was glad that MacKay hadn't died, but when it came down to a decision between the killer's life and his son's, there was no contest and no hesitation.

Another knock on the door announced the arrival of Jesse and Amanda. Amanda took the other chair and Jesse perched himself opposite Cheryl on the end of Steve's bed.

"How's my patient?" he asked cheerily.

"I'm fine, Jesse. I was just wondering when..." As Steve tried to continue a chorus of voices drowned him out, all singing, "When can I get out of here"

Steve cursed himself for his predictability as he looked round at the delight on the grinning faces around him as he tried to explain. "It's not that I'm in such a hurry to leave such wonderful accommodation, but Dad and I are planning to go on vacation, so I need some idea of dates."

"Oh, that's nice. Where are you going?" Jesse asked with a polite note of interest in his voice that boded ill for the patient.

"Steve was just trying to decide that," Mark chimed in with nefarious intent.

The expectant faces surrounding him panicked Steve into an over hasty suggestion. "How about skiing?"

The identical expressions of disgust from the doctors and his partner rejected that idea.

"Besides," Jesse added. "There'd be an avalanche, bound to be."

Steve searched around for something to pass muster. "Caribbean beaches, some sunbathing, a little surfing and scuba diving."

Jesse looked dubious. "With one arm? Shark bait."

Inspiration struck Steve. "How about a dude ranch. Beautiful mountains, gentle riding."

Jesse shook his head. "Stampede," was all he said.

Steve scraped the bottom of the barrel for ideas. "A cruise?"

That got a slightly better reception, but Jesse and Amanda turned to each other and chorused "Tsunami!"

Steve gave up and subsided into his pillows, but his friends were enjoying this new game too much to stop.

"Skydiving,"

"Parachute wouldn't open."

"Camping?"

"Lightning strike."

"Or bear attack."

"Lightning strike and bear attack."

Although Steve had a long-suffering look on his face, he was privately enjoying the creativity his friends displayed. But, before long, his eyelids began to droop, and Mark quietly ushered the others out of the room, returning to settle his son back to sleep. With a slight smile of apology, he also answered Steve's original question. "You're going to be here for a few days. Sepsis and multiple organ system failure can be a danger for several days after severe blood loss. I don't think for a minute that's going to happen, but we need to keep you here as a precaution. I'm sorry, I know you don't like hospital stays."

Steve yawned. "Better here than the morgue, right?" It was a casual comment, a standing joke between them, and Steve was unprepared for the stricken look that crossed his father's face. All thought of sleep was banished.

"Dad?"

Mark turned away, automatically adjusting the IV line to give himself time to control his reaction, but it was too late. Steve knew his father too well to assume that the depth of shock he'd seen had been engendered simply by his thoughtless comment. He reached out his good hand and grasped his father's arm.

"Dad, what is it? What happened? Please tell me."

It was impossible to reject the gentle concern and understanding in his son's voice, and Mark sat down again. Taking a deep breath, he haltingly started to tell the full story of the last few days, the words flowing easier as he progressed. Steve maintained his grip on his father's arm, trying to transmit his support and empathy through the contact, but he didn't interrupt, allowing Mark to narrate at his own speed and comfort level.

It soon became apparent to Steve that he wasn't the only one who had to heal. It was going to take time for both of them, but it would happen. They had taken the first steps in this room with the support of their friends, and even if it was a long journey, they would finish as they had started, together.

Author's note: A big thank you to all the people who've taken time to leave a review. It is immensely encouraging to receive feedback for a story and can inspire a writer to new heights of insanity - such as starting a new story!

Thank you also to those ladies, you know who you are, who provide support and motivation through e-mail. I value our correspondence tremendously.

Lastly, thank you again to Nonny who not only single-handedly edited this story, but also bolstered my resolve during the arduous process of writing enabling me to reach

The End