AN: Hey everyone, sorry about the wait on this, but here it finally is! I want to thank you all for the reviews, fav's and follows and, of course, for reading! Also, I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I feel I should go ahead and do it again. I am not a doctor, my medical knowledge is very limited. I've tried to be as accurate as I can, I feel it makes the story more worthwhile the more believable the scenario, but I'm sure there's some giant medical blunder hidden in this story somewhere, so my apologies. Hopefully I've made it believable enough that you can just run with suspension of disbelief for the stories sake.

As always,

Enjoy! :)

"How's he doing?" Rick asked Hershel as he set two bags stuffed with supplies down on the floor in front of the vet for him to go through. He was relieved to be back, supplies in tow with minimal trouble in getting them, but looking at Daryl he felt the anxiety he'd been trying so hard to ignore flare up again.

"Not well, Rick." Hershel responded, digging hurriedly through the bags. "He developed a fever earlier in the day and it's been slowly rising. Infection has set into his wound and he's yet to wake. Ah. You managed to find some antibiotics. Good." Hershel straightened in his seat, producing a vial and syringe from the duffel. He injected the medication into Daryl's IV line before pinning Rick with a serious look that almost belied his next words. "Hope's not lost yet."

Rick turned his gaze from Hershel back onto Daryl, taking in the man's countenance. The sheen of sweat, pallid skin, hollow cheeks. The vast array of minor cuts and heavy bruising that littered his skin, only interrupted by the thick bandaging covering his torso and wrapped around his head. He looked like he stood at death's door.

"Yeah." Rick replied numbly, wishing he could believe his own words. "We still have that."

His muscles were made of stone. Concrete. Cement. He was a living statue. He couldn't move. Couldn't lift his head. If he did he'd have to see it. And he simply couldn't bear to see this innocent little girl as a walker. Again.

"You could have saved me, Daryl."

"I tried." He murmured to the floor.

"I should be with my mommy. Not here."

Slowly, he willed his body to work again, and raised his head. He had to.

He couldn't.

But he had to.

She deserved for him to face her. So he lifted his eyes to meet hers, and was shocked by what he saw. Sophia wasn't a walker at all. She looked exactly as she had on that fateful day back on the road leaving Atlanta. So innocent, so young, too sweet for the fate she'd met. She was right. She should be with her mamma. And it was his fault that she wasn't. If he'd been faster, better, whatever. If he'd just done it right, then maybe she'd still be alive.

"I'm so sorry, Sophia." Daryl whispered, knowing his apologies were worthless, she wouldn't care, it wouldn't make a difference. She was still dead. But he had to tell her.

"It's ok, Daryl." Sophia said, looking him in the eye serenely. "I know you tried."

Daryl couldn't hold her gaze, and turned his eyes back to the floor. It didn't make sense. He'd fully expected her to lash out at him like all the rest had. Why wasn't she damning him to the ends of the earth? She was just a child. A life cut short brutally and pointlessly, full of promise, just to be snuffed out before she'd really even begun to live. And she was ok with this? He had tried, but it didn't matter. He'd failed. He'd failed her, Carol, the whole group. Finding Sophia had meant so much. And he'd failed them all. How could she let him off so easily?

Sophia's voice rang out sweetly again. "The others, they all want you to go back. My mom, she wants you to go back. But you don't have to. You can join us."

What the hell was this girl going on about? Everybody today, talking in riddles.

Daryl glanced up at her again, gasping in dismay. Her skin only moments ago healthy and unblemished was now mottled and gray, rotting on her bones, a chunk of flesh missing from her shoulder, eyes filmed over, unfocused.

"No." He found himself standing now, when he'd moved to do that was beyond him, his legs began backing away from her without his consent until his back met a wall and he pressed into it, like he could somehow escape this living nightmare by passing through it, if he only just pushed hard enough.

He was feeling lightheaded again.

"No!" He screamed. "No, this isn't happening!"

"But it is happening, Daryl." Sophia said calmly, tilting her head, bringing his attention to yet another cell, right beside hers. This one empty, the door wide open. "It's okay. You can join us. All you have to do is take a few more steps."

"What's she talking about, Merle?" Daryl asked his brother, who'd been silent throughout the exchange, but he had a sinking feeling that he knew. He'd finally figured it out. Maybe he'd known all along and just didn't want to believe it. Acknowledgement would make it too real.

Because maybe this wasn't exactly real, but it was real enough. Somehow he'd ended up here, and if he had to take a guess he'd say he was trapped in his own head, which meant something had happened to him, something bad, and the real him was out there, likely struggling, likely dying.

Oh god. He was dying.

The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable. His heart felt like it was trying to rip itself right out of his body. But, no. That wasn't right. It wasn't really his chest that hurt. Never had been. It was a little lower, a little to the side. He pressed his hand over the spot, feeling a warm wetness and when he lifted his hand to his eyes, it came away covered in blood. Looking down in horror he found a gaping wound in his side, covering him in blood.

How had this happened? When had this happened?

His legs were turning to jelly beneath him, barely able to support him even as he leaned heavily against the wall, his head swimming with dizziness and pounding relentlessly, for a moment he actually entertained the thought that his skull may just split in two from the force of it. He was panicking, he knew, his breathing coming in harsh, shallow gasps. And then Merle was there, right in front of him, telling him to calm down, that he may have had a choice at the start, but his options had run out. All that was left was stepping inside. Join them.

Merle said he was out of time, out of choices.

And ya know what, fuck that!

Struggling through the pain, Daryl managed to push himself away from the wall, standing unsteadily. "No choice, huh? The hell I don't!" He rasped defiantly.

He took a step.

Rick found himself alone in Daryl's cell once again, holding the still man's hand and just staring down at him, willing him to wake up, to be okay. Holding the hand of another grown man wasn't exactly something he'd usually do, but he figured the situation warranted such behavior. Daryl was like a brother to him, and if maybe there was a chance, however small, that holding his hand would somehow let him know that Rick was there, rooting for him, giving him a tie to the world outside of wherever he was trapped right now, then Rick would do it. He had no words at the moment, so physical reassurance seemed like the next best thing.

It'd been nearly half an hour since Hershel had administered the antibiotics to Daryl before excusing himself, needing to get something to eat and rest a bit should Daryl need him. Rick had been sitting there this whole time, trying to come up with something to say, but looking at the broken man before him and feeling it deep in his gut, like a reflection of his own broken soul, and he was at a loss. Words failed him. Just like he'd failed Daryl. If he'd been more vigilant, more prepared, more something, then maybe his best friend wouldn't be laying here on the precipice of death. Daryl'd had close calls before, but this time, Rick wasn't sure if he could pull him back. So he sat there, silent; just watching, waiting, hoping for some sign of life. Some sign that Daryl might wake up.

It happened so suddenly, Rick literally felt his heart stop beating for a moment. Because just a second before Daryl had been utterly still, and in the blink of an eye, he was thrashing on the bed, a low keening moan erupting from his throat.

For a moment, Rick was frozen, but just for a moment; then he was erupting into motion himself, frantically trying to hold Daryl down, turning his head toward the entryway of the cell and shouting. "Hershel! Hershel! Get in here now!"

He turned back to Daryl, the other man continued to writhe in pain and distress, eyes tightly closed, sweat running in rivulets down his face. "Daryl, you have to calm down. It's okay, you're okay. It's me. It's Rick. You have to calm down!" Rick pled desperately, to no avail. Keeping Daryl's shoulders pinned, he turned his head once more, bellowing as loudly as he could. "HERSHEL!"

Glenn burst into the room, chest heaving, panicked eyes taking in the scene and he bolted to the bed clamping his hands down over Daryl's ankles in an attempt to help Rick keep the man still. "He's coming! What happened?"

"I don't know!" Rick shouted knowing he shouldn't, it would only add to the chaos, but he couldn't seem to control his volume levels, he was nearly beside himself with worry. Besides, Glenn had been shouting too.

Finally Hershel limped into the cell, as quickly as he could manage. Rick scooted closer to Daryl's head to make room for the veterinarian, but didn't dare take his hands off the other man, afraid if he did, he'd fly right off the bed onto the floor.

"What caused this?" Hershel demanded, pulling back one of Daryl's eye lids, shining a light into it.

"Nothing!" Rick told him, distraught. "He was fine one second, then the next he just started flailing."

"Well keep him still!" Hershel ordered as he continued examining the ailing hunter. "He's going to injure himself further if he keeps this up."

Rick and Glenn tightened their grips, doing their best to hold him down.

"His pupils are reacting to the light better, but he's still under. His fever's spiking, along with his pulse and respirations, and his blood pressure is plunging. He wasn't this bad off just an hour ago. The infection must be getting worse." Hershel rattled off grimly.

Rick cringed when Hershel ripped back Daryl's bandage, not even bothering to feign being gentle about it, surely such an injury necessitated a lighter touch, but time didn't exactly seem to be on their side either. There was a collective gasp from all three men in the room when they saw what had been hidden beneath the gauze. It looked bad. Terrible. Daryl's skin had swollen completely around the stitches, and was red and puffy, pus oozing from it, terrifying red lines streaking out from around it.

"My god." Rick uttered under his breath, shocked. He was no doctor, but it didn't take a genius to see that this was bad.

"What is it?" Carol's voice drifted fearfully through the cotton that seemed to have formed in his ears. With everything, Rick hadn't even noticed her arrival, and not just her, but everyone in their makeshift family stood gathered at the cell door.

"He's going into septic shock! He needs stronger antibiotics!" Hershel was a flurry of movement, reaching for the bag of supplies that'd been slid underneath Daryl's bunk. He didn't even bother digging through it, just dumped it out right onto the floor, hastily looking through bottles and vials, tossing them to the side when they weren't what he was looking for. "Maggie! Come help me look through this! We need Meropenem or Cefepime, just something!"

Maggie rushed forward to rifle through the items littered across the floor; she lifted up a vial of liquid for her father to inspect. "Polymyxin B?"

Hershel snatched it from her hand and began preparing it for injection. "This should do. Okay, now once I've got this administered I'm going to need to remove these stiches and irrigate the wound."

"Okay, Daddy." Maggie promptly began gathering all the materials he'd need for the procedure. She poured some alcohol over his hands while he watched Daryl intently for any changes in his condition. The thrashing had weakened substantially in the last few minutes, allowing Rick and Glenn to back off, and by now he'd mostly stilled. Pained whimpers and moans still escaped him, and he kept shifting about restlessly, rocking his head back and forth minutely from side to side, violent tremors and shivers coursing through his body occasionally. Hershel feared deeply for the man and the state of distress he was in. He'd do everything he could to save him, but even then, it just might not be enough. Even back on the farm, when Carl had been shot, he hadn't felt this far in over his head. And saving Carl had been nothing short of a miracle.

Saving Daryl… well… it was looking to be another matter entirely.

The group watched in open concern as Hershel made quick work of cutting away the stitches and began flushing the wound out with a saline solution. Daryl tensed as soon as the fluid touched the inflamed tissue, letting out a moan that sounded like it was made of pure agony. Rick felt terrible about all the witnesses to that sound, knowing if Daryl were himself he'd never allow such a noise to breach his lips, but he couldn't bring himself to usher the others away. They were family. Daryl's family. And if… if this was the end, then they should be here with him at his side. He didn't want to think like that, and was hoping against hope that wasn't what this was, but it was looking worse and worse every minute. Daryl's skin was an ashen gray by the time Hershel was through cleaning out his injury.

Almost as suddenly as it had all begun, Daryl went still. Absolutely still. Rick's heart skipped a beat again, but even so, he managed to choke out the question on everyone's minds. "Is he breathing?"

Leaning over, Hershel put his cheek just in front of the hunter's lips. "Barely."

There was a collective sigh of relief in the room. Too soon.

The vet touched two fingers over Daryl's carotid artery, and then, "His heart is slowing. Damnit! We're losing him!"

For what seemed like the hundredth time in just a few minutes, Rick watched helplessly as Hershel began ripping through the medical supplies again. His throat constricting dangerously as the elderly man grabbed something up off the floor, shouting "Epinephrine, thank god! There's still a chance!" And then Hershel was slamming a needle down into Daryl's chest.