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© 2016 by AJB Fan Fic - Writing When The Muse Allows

AFTER EFFECT

Author's Note: A 'Freefall' What Happened Next

 

'Shit, what a stupid move.'

 

Adrenalin still burned hot in his veins. Martin could feel the effects now that there was no other physical release - his hands shook and his knees felt like water. He glanced at Danny again to assure himself that the dealer was still in handcuffs. Appeased, he paced again and waited for the zing coursing though his veins to recede. His knuckles began to throb from hitting the dirtbag.  

 

"Martin, you okay?" Danny's voice sounded far away.  

 

"I'm fine," he heard himself reply. A few seconds later, the first wash of pain hit him, finally able to be registered by his hyper-stimulated system.  

 

The first thrust of it came from his hip as weight settled on his right leg; his hand immediately pressed on the area, knuckles forgotten.  

 

'Must have bruised it in the fall,' he reasoned as he paced. Then his head began to throb as his mind's eye relived the swing of the board in his peripheral vision. 'The bastard hit me with a board!' he raged to himself. After that, the tumble down the stairs was a spotty memory but he clearly recalled hitting the bottom and hearing his gun skitter away in the darkness. 'Shit!' he thought again when he realized the simplicity of the ambush; 'Shit!'  he spat yet again to himself.  

 

It was incredibley stupid to go up those stairs alone. The bad guy had taken full advantage and caught him flat footed. Jack would be furious . . . again. Martin still cringed at the tongue lashing he'd received the last time he'd gone it alone and was cold cocked, again flat footed, but that time with a baseball bat.  

 

 Jack had every right to reprimand him then.  

 

And he had every right to do it again.  

 

Suddenly, Martin's attention abruptly and painfully centered on his hip and he stumbled. Lurching to the side, he barely had time to slap his hand against the building to keep from falling.  

 

'Damn,' he thought woozily as an unbelievable burning pain flared, blinding him and causing him to slouch against the wall. He pressed his hand on his hip as he sank to the ground. His head throbbed, the injury there finally making itself known as the stimulant in his blood dissipated.  

 

"Martin!"  

 

The voice came from a far distance as consciousness trickled away at an alarming rate. He felt hands on his cheeks and blinked - his voice didn't seem to work. Sam's blurry face appeared before his eyes and he tried to smile but the exquisite agony that flared suddenly stole him away.  

 

"Get the medics -" he heard as darkness veiled everything.  

 

 

 

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .  

 

The noise brought forth the vision of a hospital. All those wires . . .  

 

Beep . . .beep . . . beep . . .  

 

He noticed the noise echoed the pounding in his head.  

 

Beep . . . beep . .  beep . . .  

 

"He's waking up, Doctor," he heard a feminine voice say through the buzzing in his head. Something clicked and he felt pressure on his back. "There," the voice said softly. "That should be more comfortable.  

 

Martin forced his eyes open and found fuzzy brightness. He groaned and squinted.  

 

"Martin, can you hear me?" The masculine voice sounded very close. "You'll feel pain in your head and hip. You have some injuries."  

 

The information helped to bring order to his scattered thoughts. Gunshots? No . . . a tumble down the stairs . . . losing his gun . . . 'that bastard hit me!'  

 

His eyes shot open at the realization and he paid the price with a lightning shot of agony that laced from the back of his head. He felt his body react automatically, his back arching as the pain from his head and hip merged.  

 

"Morphine . . ." a voice barked.  

 

Immediately reaching out to grab something . . .  anything . . . when he felt hands subdue his arm and soon a warm wash of comfort raced through his veins. He relaxed into the mattress as his vision cleared a little.  

 

"That should help, Martin."  

 

"Yeah," he croaked. "Where . . ."  

 

A face came into focus - a man in scrubs. "You've injured your hip and you have a concussion. We're still waiting for the x-rays to see how bad your hip is. Meanwhile, you need to stay still. You're at Memorial Hospital. We'll be taking you to a room now."  

 

Martin thought he nodded but wasn't sure. Metallic clicks and murmurs preceded the feeling of motion as the gurney was rolled out of a room and into a hallway. He noticed the march of florescent light panels in the ceiling as he was rolled along. Another face entered his line of sight.  

 

"Samantha," he whispered hoarsely.  

 

"Yeah, Martin, it's me. You get better, okay? Everything's under control. I'll see you soon."  

 

"Sure, sure," he heard himself mumble, the easy warmth of the morphine cloaking everything. There was something he needed to know . . . what was it? "My gun," he blurted with sudden realization. "Where's . . ."  

 

"We have it, Martin," Samatha's voice soothed. "You're safe. Everything's all right. Trust me."  

 

'Always,' he thought. 'I can always trust you, I know.'  With that thought, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open any longer.  

 

'Jack is going to have my head on a platter,' Agent Fitzgerald noted glumly as he gave in to sleep.  

 

The End

 

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