A/N: This is the follow up to 'Not a Very British War.' You might find it useful to read it first! If not, e-mail me and I'll send you a short plot synopsis.

Chapter One

Mulcahy found himself standing in the middle of the compound, an icy wind blowing about him. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as the ambulances rolled in once more. The doors flew open and khaki clad figures descended like worker ants, picking up bodies and scuttling them away from the freezing wind.

His eyes caught a flash of emerald, and instinctively he drew closer. But the ants swarmed round and before he knew it, the flash had passed by him. He whirled wildly in the middle of the dirt, looking for any evidence as to where it might have gone. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of it again as it went through the doors into pre-op and he followed swiftly.

In a moment he was standing in the Operating Room. There was just one table there, with everyone gathered around it. On the table lay a bolt of emerald green fabric, and again he was drawn towards it. Six faces stared at him, Hawkeye and BJ and Charles were standing over the fabric with knives in their hands. Margaret stood at the foot of the table and Klinger and Potter were standing either side like sentries guarding some ancient Egyptian Princess lying in state. Hawkeye spoke first.

"Hurry Father, we're losing her."

Mulcahy was confused, he couldn't see what it was they were doing to the emerald on the table.

"Father, you have to do something. You have to do your duty." BJ spoke now, looking at him, but through him at the same time.

Mulcahy stepped closer to the table and saw that it was, in fact, a body. A slim, perfect body encased in emerald silk. His heart began to beat faster as his feet forced him forwards.

"You don't know how hard this is, John," Margaret spoke now.

"I do!" he yelled at her. "I know because it's just as hard for me."

"But you'll always have your faith as comfort. What do I have? A broken heart and the knowledge that the man I love is beyond my reach forever. I may as well be dead."

He didn't know who spoke then, the voices became a cacophony of sound which he couldn't decipher. He caught the odd phrase, here and there.

"I can't take it anymore I have to go."

"I can't stop the bleeding."

"How can I let you go? Please, God, make me stop loving him."

"Father, do something. Father, you have to. She's dying."

He reached the head of the bed and leaned over. The emerald green contrasted sharply with the deathly pallor of the face which he was now looking down upon. The lips painted red, a deep blood red. The beautiful, peaceful countenace of Sally. His Sally. He reached to his chest to find his crucifix, but it no longer hung in its place round his neck. He tried to remember the words of the Last Rites, but his lips were frozen and he could not find the breath to speak to her. Her eyelids snapped open to reveal cold, unseeing eyes. Dark brown and hypnotising as always, but without a single spark of life. Her red lips parted in a dying prayer.

"Please, John, don't let me go. I love you." And then she stopped breathing.