Six days later…

Bishop's POV

It's your fault…

The blonde agent's eyes snapped open, a scream caught in her throat, as she looked frantically around her at the unfamiliar setting. Where was she? The vestiges of the nightmare rip away at the semblance of safety she'd managed to gather. As her vision adjusted she realized she was still in the hospital room. She was still curled up back against the wall facing the door. She was still wrapped up in the countless bandages. Keller snored softly from the chair in corner. Before him it had been Abby. Good. This was good. She was still here. The nightmare hadn't been real, she hadn't been dragged back. She was still here. Bishop relaxed slightly and her injured ribs flared up in pain. Still raw, like someone had torn apart her insides. She clutched her injured cast-wrapped arm to her chest, trying to alleviate some of the pain. It did next to nothing. Per usual. So she shifted her empty gaze towards the patterns on the stained hospital walls and focused on Keller's soft snores; concentrating on the steady in and out, willing her rapidly beating heartbeat to follow the same pace. In and out. The clock read a quarter past four. In and out. She was still here.

Torture screwed with the psyche; screwed with the essence that makes a person human; screwed with a person's sense of morality. She'd worked with the government, both with the NSA and NCIS, long enough to see it with her own eyes. Long enough to witness the fair share of broken criminals in those damning case files that started out as good men, but then turned around and destroyed the very morals they were raised upon. She'd seen the men either become the monsters, lost in the struggle between what was real and what was not; or become the casualties and crack and break like fine china hitting a tiled floor. She'd sworn in the beginning, when they were taken, she wasn't going to let herself become those things—weak, inhuman… fragile. The only girl in family full of men, she'd sworn she wouldn't be a damsel in distress. She wouldn't need anyone to save her. Then she'd learnt quickly that saying and doing were two different things. Yet it was the damsel mentality that had gotten her held hostage and it was the damsel mentality that had taken Tony with her. And now, she's been through more than enough to live what she had learned. And ironically, Ellie now felt she was all of those things— weak, inhuman… fragile. Trembling on the hospital bed, she could barely hold herself together. She was weak. She weak and she knew it, but she couldn't let them see. She couldn't go back. There was no going back to what used to be. So she stopped talking, as if that would hide the pain.

It helped when Abby was here because Abby talked a lot. She talked about work and gossip and even Bert. She talked about everything except what had happened and she didn't expect Bishop to talk back. And Abby distracted her, made her feel almost normal. Almost. But then Abby would eventually have to leave and the blonde would be left to her deprecating thoughts. And the time ebbed by while Bishop remained in place; she had come to the horrific realization that she never meant to survive it. Somewhere along the way she expected to disappear, vanish or succumb like so many others undoubtedly had before her. In a burst of bloody spray. With the oxygen ripped away from her by the hand pushing her in the water. By the crowbar... But she didn't. Somehow she survived the ordeal and didn't give anything up to Alakaso in his men. Even when they grew stimulated and impatient. She had survived and she was safe. That's what everyone kept saying. She had survived. But for the former NSA analyst, it didn't really feel like there was a degree of truth to what they were saying. Safe, after all, was the word the men used when they were first 'rescued'. They had told her that she would be safe, that everything was going to be okay. Then a wiry man with thick glasses had asked her a bunch of questions, took a couple of photographs, wrote fine notes with nifty forms that boxed her into one frame and left. Left her alone. Caged like an animal, strapped to a bed staring at the water stained ceiling with glazed eyes that wouldn't focus on anything and a body that wouldn't cooperate. Completely alone. Except when Alakaso began making his nightly… his nightly visits. Even then, the screams that escaped her throat always fell on deaf ears. The screams that still rang in her ear, even when they'd ceased long ago. And now she felt more alone then ever.

You deserved it… a voice whispered. Ellie wringed her hands together, she deserved everything she had coming toward her. It was her fault after all. The dark pit of guilt and grief that rested in her gut felt like a nest of vipers, sinking their poisoned teeth into her flesh with every electronic beep of the medical machines that determined her degree of liveliness. Had she not run ahead in the first place, they wouldn't have been put in this situation. Had she just given them the information, Tony wouldn't have been so critically injured and decrepit in the room down the hall from her. Had she just listened to what Alakaso said, Jake would have still been alive. It's all your fault…

They have her on a cocktail of drugs, having upped the dose since they found her trembling and unresponsive a couple of days ago. Bishop's not entirely sure what they're supposed to do, but she despised them. The morphine made Bishop's brain fuzzy and uncooperative, which by default made the rest of her battered body feel numb and disobliging. She felt constantly stuck with this floating sensation. It felt like she was trapped in the peaceful abyss of unconsciousness that she had longed achingly for when she had been locked up in the cell, but at the same time she was wide awake. This abyss that took away all the pain, all the worries, and all the fear, but it also took away her control. And she needed that control, no matter how little. The only thing abyss the floating sensation was good for was the prolonged disassociation from herself. The abyss separated her from reality, like a brain with no body and forced her to drift back into the world she had become used too. The one where she's supposed to be quiet. The one where she wasn't supposed to be saying anything.

But even then, the abyss, that she had now realized since she entered days ago, was nowhere near as comfortable and welcoming as she had expected it to be. Because the drugs only worked so much. They only hid the pain, never vanquished it. Because the words were easy to keep in, but the memories were impossible to keep at bay. They built up in her mind, bombarded her, making everything feel more frenzied and erratic. So in the moments of lucidness, when she remembered that everything that happened was real, it was terrifying. She can hear Tony's hoarse screams echo off the confines of the hospital room. She can smell the searing, burnt skin that bubbled underneath the crowbar. She can feel Alakaso's meaty hand at the base of her neck forcing her down against the duvet. Bishop sat in her hospital bed quaking in silence, trying to convince herself that while this had happened, it was not happening. She would focus on the parking lot and remind herself that she was home, but even that word felt foreign and it was almost always to no avail. Then, more often than not, a nurse would help her remember with some medical motivation.

In World War One, they called it shell shock. Second time around, they called it battle fatigue. After Vietnam, it was post-traumatic stress disorder. Somewhere deep within the vestiges of her mind she remembered reading about that in her university library over a bowl of ramen. She probably had it. It was why those who knew about the circumstance that had gotten them here wouldn't go away. Those people, one by one, entering, poking, prodding, asked her if she felt safe. Bishop hadn't responded to any of them, only continued to stare out the window forlornly, not even bothering to wipe the tears streaming down her face. They had her in a room with a starched bed with a single starched blanket, a faded blue armchair with the cushion sewn down, open cubbies for storage, thick glass windows overlooking the parking lot, water stained wallpaper, and a tiny television screen bolted in behind a Plexiglas shield. To her it's just a different kind of prison.

"So my question is how did both of you survive? You aren't a field agent Bishop, you never were. Your job was behind a computer. An analyst. And nothing else. There really isn't a reason he would have kept the both of you alive…."

Marlens's words rang loudly in her mind and she can't stop thinking about it. How right he was… A wave of unsettling anxiety swept over her; unwarranted and unwanted, but she was unable to push it away. Bringing with it memories she didn't want to remember. It was wearisome. She was always the one who was able to remember things. They praised her for her memory, prided her for it. Her entire career had revolved around her ability to remember and connect. Now nothing made sense. Tim had brought in her laptop the other day, but she couldn't find it within herself to even look at the keys. She couldn't connect the dots to anything. She couldn't figure out the why, only the what. Bishop couldn't feel what she was like before that room. She remembered them. On occasions she dreamed, the only time he could catch glimpses of the life she'd lived before this. The days when mud wrestling was innocent trouble-making with her brothers and the kids of the neighborhood; the days when exchanging banter was toward her teammates and not herself; the days when her smile was real and not forced. Only she couldn't connect the feelings and emotions that she knew were supposed to be there, instead she relived the ones from that room. Over and over again. She knew what she had to do. Reset. Start over, but she can't. It's not working.

Do you know how much blood is on you hands? Her former boss had questioned. Two police officers are dead. Three more agents with families. Tony. Shinyee, Jonathan, Devon. J-Jake! Tears sprang to her eyes and she had to bite her knuckles to keep them from falling. The room felt suffocating and the walls closed in as Bishop battled with her mind. The analog clock ticked loudly like a pipe bomb; the sound of Keller's snores droned loudly like jet engines. Suddenly everything was too loud and too close. She bit down harder. "You were ready to sacrifice the security of this nation. No one's going to believe you." And no one was. Not Gibbs. Not Tony. Not General Mathyk. She had so much blood on her hands. So much that couldn't even begin to fathom how she would wipe them all clean. She couldn't even tell Marlens, her former boss, the truth. Why had she lied? It made no sense, but she had done it. Out of instinct, out of trust… Why? Now the only person who claimed wouldn't be mad at her, surely would be now. Why had she lied? It's all your fault. The taste of copper, no blood, filled her mouth and Bishop realized she'd bitten through flesh by biting so hard.

They said she could watch TV, but she never really watched it. They said she could see Tony, but she was certain he didn't actually want to see her anymore. No one should want to see her. When she's this weak, this dirty… She's a murderer and a liar. Why couldn't she stop lying? Bishop was trembling now; her composure was shattering before her very eyes. It felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest as she struggled to breathe normally. Breathe. Breathe. The anxiety swirled within her like a hurricane. A loud screech of metal, interrupted her crowded thoughts, and sent her scrambling for the corner again even when the pain of everything protested against it. It was only Joseph, slowly blinking himself awake in the armchair. Bishop shoved her bloodied knuckle underneath the sheet and set her face in a purposefully neutral expression, even when the emotions ripped away at her on the inside. She can't let Alakaso; no… she can't let Keller see her hands. Because then he's going to put his hands on her. He's going to… He's going to… No. No! The tears threaten to fall as she remembered.

It was morning now. Half past six. The purple dawn had already been pushed apart by the yellow rising sun, but Bishop doesn't feel the warmth. Instead she wanted to shy away from it. She winced as Keller stretched in his chair, admitting a loud yawn. He was fully awake now as he briefly looked down at his phone to check the time. The blonde man cast a furtive glance up at her and when he did Bishop saw Alakaso's beady eyes. She blinked again and suddenly he was holding a knife. Another blink and it was all gone. Gah. Nothing was making sense.

"I'm going to the restroom. I'll be right back okay?" Keller said tautly as he lumbered up from the guest seat. He paused for a moment, but since she hadn't said anything voluntarily in the last few days, he quickly turned and hastily made an exit. Bishop stared forlornly at the door closing behind him, and the room quieted again. But it was still so loud, even as she sat alone with her thoughts. The clock sounded like a bell tower. The electronic beeps of the machine are deafening. She saw Jake's quirky grin. Tony's bloodied face. Sahud's milky eye. The pent up feelings were brimming at the surface, packed so tightly and threatening to explode. Breathe. Breathe.

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine. Bishop repeated the mantra incessantly in her mind, forcing herself to take deep steady breaths, but the thumping of her heart refused to slow down. Fine. Fine. Fine. Her brain felt as if it were shutting down. She felt clammy and could feel the glisten of cold sweat inching down her back. Her eyes were wide, but everything was blurry. Trapped in her own psychosis, a living nightmare, for one, tailor-made by her own brain to remind her of her deepest fears. Yet what she saw, what she felt, no one else could see.

Her arms were throbbing and she could see a blurred red, but she can't think straight enough to consider where it came from. It was all her fault.

McGee's POV

Prior events considered, somewhere along the lines, things had definitely taken a turn for the worst. Timothy McGee could not precisely pinpoint when things started going wrong. He hadn't been in the thick of things not nearly enough. Juggling the time between the hospital, the office, and the phone with Delilah had become increasingly difficult. He had found out quickly that concentration on the one meant the certain suffering of the others. The lack of control Tim had over everything was very frustrating. Before… Before all of this, Tim had prided himself in being the most responsible member, Gibbs exempt, amongst the group. At the desk early each morning. Work turned in on time at the end of each night. While Tony had occasionally rushed to finish the files he'd saved for the last minute and Bishop had made the usual rookie mistakes, Tim had always managed to avoid his boss's head slaps and keep everything running like clockwork. Not to say everyone's inevitable faults slowed the group down. Because even on the tough cases, somehow, as a team, they'd made everything work. Like a pseudo-family, they had managed to keep everything went smoothly, except for the occasional case that went overtime. Except the occasional case like this one. In the last three months, all of that seemed to go to hell. Now everything was flipped on its side and McGee had zero control over anything.

The MIT educated NCIS agent ran a hand through his slightly greasy, uncut hair. He needed a haircut… and a proper shave; both rituals had become sporadic in recent events. He'd never had the time. Tim stifled a yawn as he gazed disdainfully at the cordless phone in front of him, almost hidden amongst the mounds of casework and coffee stained paper cups, with bloodshot eyes. No longer was he to go out into the field, not even as a consultant. Now it was strictly paperwork. Paperwork and whatever Eric Beñet sent him. It was Director Leon Vance's doing. Vance had withdrawn most of Tim's work responsibilities, under the pretense of reorganizing staff obligations, knowing McGee wouldn't have sat back and admitted he wasn't at 100%. Vance also knew McGee wasn't the type to have someone else do the job for him. It seemed to be a McGee thing; Sarah had been the exact same way. Admittedly, Tim had thrown himself at the work. Anything to keep his mind off of his two friends in the hospital. Anything to bring these perpetrators to justice. But Tim was just a man and exhaustion always caught up to a man. But that phone call was not the break that McGee so desperately needed.

Tim didn't understand. He wasn't stupid. Bishop and Tony were in the hospital and they would most likely be in there for a while. An ordeal like that was guaranteed to keep anyone down for the count. The physical scars ran deep; the emotional ones ran even deeper. McGee still felt sick thinking about the sheer amount of crimson that had swathed the medical room in Colombia. Both of his friends still wore the pain and trauma like blankets, and would probably carry the fear with them for the rest of their lives. Yet, they had been healing. He'd seen it with his own eyes. Tony had been in physical therapy, slowly getting mobility of his stab wound inflicted leg. Bishop's seizures had mellowed out. Even the doctors had become increasingly optimistic. Though both agents were jumpy, agitated, and irritable on a good day, both had been making the broadest definition of progress. Then somewhere along the line, something happened. He didn't know what. He hadn't been there, but something must have happened. Because now Bishop wasn't speaking at all nor was she cooperating with anything the doctors and nurses said. The therapist, something Jaspers, suggested it was some kind of self induced psychosis. Her way of trying to compensate or atone... That defense mechanism or something… But as far as McGee knew, there was nothing Ellie needed to defend herself from Whatever it was, she wouldn't do anything or even look anyone in the eye and it was negatively impacting her recovering. Her psychosis ended up throwing Tony into a bender as well. After days of asking to see Bishop, Dinozzo couldn't seem to understand why Bishop wouldn't talk to him. Tony being Tony, had seemingly convinced himself that whatever was going on with Bishop was somehow his fault. Then proceeded to lash out at anyone who tried to convince him otherwise. No matter how much they tried.

Now the hospital had called, threatening to send Bishop to the psychiatric ward and have Tony forcibly restrained. And although NCIS and Gibbs had tried to preserve the details of what had landed the two agents in the hospital in the first place by only telling a select few doctors of the ordeal. For the first time, it had become abundantly clear that that was not the right decision because it meant that the rest of the hospital would not be able to adequately help. And although Tim knew it wasn't in anyone's best interest to restrain Tony against his bed no matter how soft the restraints were or send Bishop to some godforsaken isolation room. He had absolutely no control over what the medical professionals thought was right for his friends whose minds weren't working well enough to differentiate what was for their own good and what was there to harm them. So McGee, in better interest, had told Keller on the other end of the phone to tell the medics the details and demanded that they not do anything until either he or Gibbs arrived. That phone call had ended twenty minutes ago and he still hadn't worked up the courage to get up from his desk.

NCIS agents milled about the office area, oblivious to McGee's internal struggle. They laughed over cooling cups of coffee, tapped away on keyboards, and answered the cordless phones on their desks as if it were just another workday. Just another nine to five job. He caught Alex Clevenger's eyes across the room, the redhead quirking her brow in acknowledgement with just a glimmer of sympathy visible in her striking green irises, and he knew that she had heard everything and was probably judging him for not leaving immediately. How did you help people who didn't want to be helped? Of course Delilah had been understanding, even when their relationship had become strained over the ordeal, and for that he was grateful, but it wasn't nearly enough.

He shifted his gaze back towards the files. Now that the Colombian military had actually been looking for inaccuracies and shiftiness among its ranks, information was sprouting like weeds. Information was piling up; further exposing the web of lies and deceit Alakaso had conjured up. Yet the more he looked at it, the more evidence pointed away from Alakaso being the mastermind, but there was no other feasible individuals that could adequately carry out this plan either. NCIS had yet to figure out who was bankrolling this entire operation and until then, it meant they had no paper trail. No one to trace evidence back towards. Which meant they had nothing and that bothered him more than he would like to admit. The frustratingly slow pace exemplified how bad they'd all been at their jobs lately. Right now, it was Colombia, spoon-feeding NCIS information about Alakaso and his buddies. It was Colombia who was preparing to put these traitors on trial. It was Colombia who was making the United States look like the village idiot. They hadn't even found Tony and Bishop on their own, two massive governmental organizations and nationwide media coverage, yet Colombia was the one that had 'found' them. Gibbs was gone. After he'd come back from Maryland after finding out more about Project Dual EC BRB Sha-3, the file that Tony and Bishop had been ruthlessly tortured for, he was talking with some connections. Mentions of the name were starting to appear within these files and it left a heavy feeling in his heart knowing that he would eventually have to question Tony and Ellie about the events that happened in Colombia concerning the project. Tim pushed himself numbly from the desk grabbing his car keys.

McGee didn't know what he was expecting when he pulled into the parking lot of Inova Fairfax Hospital. From the frantic stammering of Keller, he'd expected chaos, but as he exited his car and made for the floor Tony and Bishop were residing on, he was struck by the normalcy of it all. The long stretching hallways of white, antiseptic smelling walls. The usual patients. The sullen kids with broken arms. The elderly man inching along with his IV drip. The doctors in blue scrubs congregating next to a chart. An unconscious man being wheeled to some surgery, with his wife, or sister, or whoever she was, following anxiously behind. A bored looking receptionist smacking on gum as she clicked in patient information. It was the receptionist who waved him on through.

McGee rushed towards Bishop's hospital room, taking the lesser of two evils, only to find out it was empty. For a second, he thought he'd gotten the wrong room. There were no signs of anyone having ever been there. No sheets were on the bed. None of the daunting machines were turned on. A young African American man in yellow scrubs, an orderly, he presumed, stooped over in the center mopping something reddish on the floor. McGee started for the door, checking the room number, but already assuming the worst. He swallowed the lump of denial, knowing he was already in the right place. The flowers Ducky had brought in the other day, the magnolias or the daffodils or whatever they were, were still there. Wilting, but still there.

"You looking for the chick?" the orderly asked in a rough, smoker's drawl. The dark skinned grinned wildly at McGee who could only nod dumbly in response, revealing a set of rotting, golden spotted teeth

"You missed it man. The girl went batshit insane!" the man snickered as if it witnessing patients breakdown in the hospital was the funniest thing in the world, but McGee was to focused on finding out what happened to get angry at the man.

"What happe- Where did they take her?" McGee stuttered out, words tripping over each other, unable to decide which was the more important question. Inwardly, Tim wished Gibbs, who was able to exude much more power and authority, was here to get answers. It would have been much more efficient. Where the hell was Keller? The dark-skinned orderly shrugged.

"How the fuck should I know? I'm just the orderly. They don't tell us shit. Best guess is they dragged her to psych. That's where they take the crazy ones." The orderly turned back to the reddish puddle, conversation apparently over, and began mopping once more. As if whatever had happened was a daily occurrence.

Frustrated and nervous, Tim turned back into the hallway anxious to find a nurse or a doctor or someone who actually knew something, and ran straight into Joseph Keller. And now the strapping, forty-something year old man with beach blonde hair, overly attentive blue eyes, and the looks and exuberance of someone in his twenties appears to McGee in exactly the opposite way. Keller looked haggard and frazzled, two qualities that did not fit the usual self-assured, but serious man. His black tie was loosened, his eyes were wide, a sheen of sweat visible just above his brow.

"Tim." Keller started, jumping back in surprise. He shoved his sweaty palms into his pockets, and then quickly pulled them out again, fiddling his thumbs anxiously. "Tim! Where were you! I called you an hour ago!"

"What happened?" McGee demanded.

"I… I… I only walked away from a minute I swear." Keller began, immediately jumping to the defensive. McGee's eyes narrowed, knowing that people immediately jumped to the defensive when trying to justify a wrong-doing.

"What happened?" McGee questioned again.

"I don't know man. She… Something must have triggered something." Keller stumbled over his words, becoming more and more flustered. "I swear I only went away for a second!"

"God damn it Keller! Will you just tell me what happened?" McGee's voice rose in time with his temper.

"She tried to hurt herself. It was bad McGee," Keller's final response was strained and McGee knew that whatever happened leading up to these events hadn't been intentional. Keller sounded genuinely remorseful for his actions. His stomach dropped. He had thought… He had thought they were making progress… McGee knew he would have to call Gibbs to inform him of the news. But not yet… Not yet…

"They transported her to the emergency psychiatric ward, something about an evaluation. I told them everything… I told them! They're insisting that this way is the right way."

Tony's Point of View

Dark. It's dark. An inky dark, like a shade had been dropped down on everything. The darkness doesn't fade and he realized that he couldn't see. It's strange because he did not remember going to sleep and it's still too dark. He hadn't been doing a lot of that lately. The furniture, the normal things he would have seen, are invisible, he can't make out the outlines in this inky dark. He didn't hear anything either. Just a high pitch ringing tone. Like the one he'd heard when the car bomb went off, but he's too busy floating to care. He remembered the room spinning. Someone yelling. A whole lot of fast moving lights. But then what? It was puzzling. He blinked.

There was still something wrong with his vision. It was not inky dark anymore now, there's light, and shadows, and colors, but they jumbled together and don't make any sense. Tony tried to lift his arm, clear the murkiness, and he had to fight to lift it. It's futile, and he just... it's no use. There's a murmuring now. Like voices speaking in slow motion, but he did not see anyone. He blinked again.

Artificial light flooded his vision and suddenly he had spectacular of view of white ceiling tiles, then a shadow of a person over takes his vision. Wait what? Tony's memories suddenly snap back. Alakaso. Sahud. Marlens. Bishop. A split second later the pain hit him. It seared up his spine, across his back, tore at his appendages. Tensing only amplified the sensation. Tears sprang to his eyes, as he tried to pinpoint its exact location. Where, where, where? Where is it coming from? Focus. Where?

Tony heard a groan. Maybe it was his own, but he could not be sure. The ringing in his ears was too loud. He blinked again, to block out the light and there's... something. He wanted to reach for his eyes, but there's something there. Something was wrong. Something was stopping him from moving his arms. Something's holding him down. A wave a panic and clarity spikes him and he doesn't feel like he's in abyss any longer. Tony desperately rocked against the bed trying to free himself from the binds that hold him there. Either he's too weak or he's not supposed to be struggling because the ghostly hands push against him further. Bishop. Where was Bishop? He couldn't see her.

"Anthony?"

The voice is distant, unfamiliar and it confused him. The hands press him down further and his unease rose. Why can't he move his hands? Tony struggled against whatever was holding him down, he needed— he needed to figure out what was going on, he needed to be in control, but what? What did he need to be in control of? He felt confused and disoriented, and confusion- the not knowing- wasn't something he did well. Not since Alakaso and his torture chamber.

"Anthony, please hold still." It's the doctor, Tony realized. Somehow in the struggle, connecting the name to the face. The tall one with the startling red hair and dark green eyes. Dr. Stedman. Why was Dr. Stedman trying to force him down? Let go of me, he wanted to say, but his mouth doesn't move. What does come out, is garbled and incorrigible. The hands don't move either. If anything they push him down further. Tony heard another groan, this time he was sure it was his own. He sucked in a breath, wheezing in pain against the pressure, as he struggled to try again.

"L-let go of me." He stuttered, feebly bucking against the restraints again.

"Anthony. I will let you go when you calm down. You're going to hurt yourself if you continue. Do you understand?" Dr. Stedman was calm, but to Tony it sounded calculating, because he doesn't understand. He just wanted out of these restraints.

"Where is she?" His voice sounded strangely ragged.

"Anthony. We've been over this. She's right down the hall. Please stop struggling, you're making it worse." Dr. Stedman repeated with a forced composure.

Down the hall? Tony relaxed slightly, that makes sense, in a certain kind of way. Down the hall. So far away… But she doesn't want to see you. He remembered the nurses telling him that. And he hadn't understood them either. That bastard had gone in to talk to her and suddenly she didn't want to talk. What had that bastard done. No. They were at fault too. They just him to talk to her. They don't….

"Let me go!" he bellowed. A sharp, acute pain shortly followed.

"Shit." Dr. Stedman muttered, and then there's another hand. "The stiches tore."

It would explain the pain. Everywhere, still everywhere, but... his torso. That's where it seems to focus, ever radiating. His eyes are shut tightly again.

Dr. Stedman applied more pressure and the pain skyrocketed, there is pressure on his abdomen, and he just— "Anthony," Dr. Stedman called, his voice not even rising a decibel, "Anthony. Listen to me."

"Rachel?" the red-haired man called. "Give me a hand, will you?"

Something, no… someone, touched him, pressed down on his arms, keeps them still, but he doesn't— He doesn't want that. In fact, Tony's trying to do the exact opposite, but he's momentarily distracted by the hot liquid pouring down his chest. Blood?

"Ten of morphine?" a female voice questioned. Probably Rachel; the deduction isn't difficult.

Morphine. No he doesn't want morphine. He couldn't think straight with morphine, but he has no control. A pinprick in the crook of his arm, but he still doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to see. The pain lessened. Just a fraction. The pressure decreased too, but he knew Dr. Stedman was still there, poking and prodding the reopened wound.

Why did they tie him up in the first place? His memory is hazy, he doesn't remember. There was... there was a nurse there. Not Rachel. Some other one. Where was he now? Tony summoned within him the last bit of energy, and tried to free himself, but the fogginess has already taken its hold. He called out Bishop's name again. Maybe she can't hear him; maybe he needed to raise his voice. Then he remembered for the second time she wasn't in the room with him.

Suddenly there's a palm on his forehead, it's gloved—probably nitrile, light blue, maybe purple, he guessed as he drifted further—applying pressure gently. "I'll see if I can find her," Rachel said and disappeared, somehow that reassured him.

Tony drifted; he was back in the abyss. Still awake, still conscious, but floating. At some time he must have drifted to sleep because when he opened his eyes again, another familiar voice was arguing in a hushed whisper with the medic. A very distinct voice that was usually accompanied with a glare. Gibbs.

Gibbs POV

"What I want to know is why the hell you've got my agent restrained! Against his will!" The silver-haired marine demanded with a glare that could make even the strongest of individuals cower at their feet. He hadn't been in the office when he received the formal phone call from the hospital, informing them in their matter of fact way that there was an emergency concerning his agents and what they were going to do. He'd been at another government facility chasing down the people that were connected to this Project Dual EC BRB Sha-3, leaving McGee and a couple of analysts to work on deciphering the information from Colombia. The call had been disconcerting, since neither man had received any calls about their health conditions before. Though in hindsight, that was usually because one of the NCIS agents was at the hospital at all times.

The worry had only festered when he stepped out onto the hospital floor, briskly walked to the nurses' station, and informed that the younger man had been sedated and was now resting in his hospital room. Gibbs had checked his watch, which had read barely past nine. From previous visits, Gibbs had known that Tony was usually awake at time of morning. Although traumatized agent never mentioned it, the dark circle under his eyes told Gibbs all he needed to know. Tony wasn't sleeping enough. Rarely at all. And it was a little to good to be true for him to be resting now. His worry had turned to anger, when he had entered Tony's hospital room and seen the bruised and battered man's forearms tied tightly to the guardrails of the hospital bed. Since the beginning, the marine had vetoed the idea of restraints, having seen the traumatized states his agents had been in. But when he entered the hospital room it was obvious they hadn't listened.

"These restraints are necessary, Agent Gibbs! Your agent attacked one of our nurses, Jake Holladay, last night. He was admitted to the emergency room with a broken nose. Now I understand the predicament your agents are in and that the post traumatic stress may have been a factor, but you must understand that I take the safety of the hospital and those in it very seriously. Until I can be sure he won't be a threat to others the restraints have to remain in place." Dr. Stedman informed him.

Attacked a nurse? Why wasn't he informed of this sooner? Just behind Dr. Stedman, Gibbs could see Tony begin to stir and almost immediately begin pulling at the restraints again. It pained Gibbs to see Tony, someone who was like a son to him, this way. The retired marine forced himself to take a steady calming breath. As unwilling as he was, Gibbs now saw the doctor's precarious position through his careful reasoning. Yet Gibbs still felt the urge to protest, to somehow release Tony from those bonds.

"If I stay with him and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone or himself. Will you take the restraints off?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I can't take the restraints off. Anthony's on code grey. He's dangerous towards himself and towards others, Agent Gibbs. As qualified as you are, I can't risk it." Dr. Stedman rebuffed the retired marine's request easily, obviously used to patients and their families trying to argue with him. Tony started to become more vocal in the background, but his slurred speech made it evident that he was still very much under the influence of the morphine or whatever drug they had him on.

"Are you kidding with me? He's drugged out of his mind. He can barely form a coherent sentence. Restraining a man who's spent weeks being tortured in the exact same way is idiotic. Any psychiatrist will tell you that. The only way to make sure he stays calm is to make sure he is calm. Restraints aren't going to do that." Gibbs protested. He watched Dr. Stedman reconsider the prospects then, after realizing that Gibbs wasn't taking no for an answer, comply.

"You have an hour before you have to leave. Anthony needs rest to recuperate and he hasn't been sleeping as much as we'd like. If anything violent happens, the restraints go back on. " Dr. Stedman informed as he loosened the restraints and then quietly and grudgingly leaves the room. Gibbs realized a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. After the restraints were released, Tony had quieted almost immediately.

The retired marine slowly made his way over to Tony's bedside. His agent still looked small. Though the stubble that had returned to Tony's face made him look older, it failed to hide the damage that had been inflicted by the cruelty of others. Gibbs could still make out the yellowing bruises and the scars that were surely there to stay. It was obvious he was slightly malnourished, weighing in on the skinny side, but he appeared much healthier than the skeleton of a person that had been admitted some three weeks before. Gibbs sat down beside the younger man, wanting to say something but not knowing what to say. He hadn't told Tony that there was most likely more to this case than Alakaso. Nor had he told Bishop. They both would need some time to heal and he couldn't have them worrying about things they couldn't control. Especially not in this condition. There also was also the presence of a one-sided animosity between the too. Having had experience with war veterans, Gibbs knew that Tony was trying to push people away, but it made conversation much more difficult. So he was surprised when Tony said the first word.

"T-thank you." Tony whispered haggardly. Gibbs had to strain to hear his whisper. His eyes were still shut and he hadn't moved his arms from where they'd been strapped in, but Gibbs could tell he was relieved. Gibbs nodded in affirmation, and paused to see if Dinozzo would continue, but neither man said anything further. A few minutes pass in silence and the marine is content to sit in solitude as Dinozzo returned the feeling to his hands, knowing that the morphine was most likely going to prevent any serious conversation from occurring.

"Marlens!" Tony's sudden drugged, drunken sounding slur, snapped Gibbs back to present. The younger agent jerked upwards, as if he suddenly remembered something really important.

"What about Marlens's, Dinozzo?" Gibbs questioned, mostly just to keep him talking, to keep him lucid.

"Marlens… It's his f-fault she w-won't talk to me." Tony slurred. Gibbs frowned he's not following Tony's string of thought.

"Who Tony?"

"B- Bis- Bishop!" he gritted out, as if it's the most obvious thing the world. "Ever… Ever since he t-talked to her, she won't talk t-to me.

Gibbs frowned. When in the hell had Marlens's spoke to Bishop?