His last tour had killed him. Physically. Emotionnally. Psychologically. He had lost not only a leg, but his spouse in line of duty. That, after pulling most everyone out and to safety before the bomb hit. He had done his medic's job to the very end. The creed was his life, he lived by it and would have died by it as well. How he had survived his injuries was a testament to the sheer will of his bretheren and the field surgeon that day. They refused to abandon him and even less to let him die.

From there on, though, Jack wished he had died that day. His covery was a living nightmare, hours of immobility, staring at a ceiling, not knowing what had happened, where Sasha was, how long this was going to last. They had put him on a flight back to the US as soon as he was stable enough.

Charlie came as often as she could, but when you were ripped apart like he was, spit out by war and forgotten in a military hospital, there were moments of utter solitude. No one. You suffered alone, you wished upon death alone, and you cried yourself to sleep because it was all too much to comprehend. The world did not stop for you. His grandmother called too, but she could not come to that state. Too far.

It took months to even get out of bed. Came then that he had to relearn everything. Hours of it. Alone. His father had come, couldn't really face the damage , called instead. His mother, ha , she suggested he come live with her after he got cleared.

His field career was over, his wife was missing, he could not stand to look at himself. The burns were the worst part, more so than any internal damage or the amputation. He could smell them , the skin that was dead and shedding, it still smelled of gasoline every time they changed the bandage, or maybe that was what his brain was thinking.

However progress was being made, and he was starting to walk, slowly, but surely. With crutches, then when his body was able to endure it, they switched to getting him a prosthetic.