Title:  “The Disappeared – Part One”
Author:  uberaeryn
Fandom:  Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer, among a cast of many.
Genre:  Future Fic
Warning:  Full of Spoilers
Rating:  Adults Only
Summary: It’s never really over.

Now

***

The voices resounding in his nightmares were familiar; full of fear and fragmented and playing on a loop over and over, some of those speaking now dead, some not, but all of them alive and terrified in his dreams and reaching out to him for help, for protection, for salvation.

“Jack! Jack! Sawyer is gone, sometime in the night, I think. Jack!”

“. . . a search . . .”

“No way he made it out here, not like this, not for this long; goddammit, just like Walt . . .”

“. . . keep looking . . .”

“No trail, nothing, like he never even existed, God, Jack . . .”

“Disappeared, just like everyone else, Jesus . . .”

“Jack, you must listen to me. Time and resources are a factor; you cannot deny that. It has been two weeks. There are too few of us now and far too many of Them. We cannot keep this up for much longer, it is simply too dangerous . . .”

***

Jack bolted upright suddenly, head and heart pounding, his skin and the sheets soaked in his sweat; and in that twilight terror between sleep and wakefulness he flung himself to the floor and slid underneath the bed, his hands curling so tightly around the bed rails that his fingers bled and he lay there, tense and trembling, muttering the same thing under his breath repeatedly.

. . . Sawyer’s gone . . .

The pain in his hands finally brought him fully awake and he looked around for a moment, confused, before realizing where he was. He grimaced, closed his eyes tightly, and the back of his head struck the hardwood floor over and over and over again.

It was the tenth time in as many days that he’d found himself like this, under the bed, trying to hide from it, hide from his dreams

He could never really remember what it was that he was hiding from. There were no monsters he could put a face or a name to, nothing he could identify exactly. And he didn’t want to know, he thought, shuddering, the relentless thud of his head against the floor ceasing.

Or, more truthfully, he didn’t want to admit that he did know, despite the hazy images that dissipated upon waking. He knew, because although the images disappeared, the fear did not, and Jack had felt that fear too often and for far too long not to recognize it.

It was chasing him in his dreams, dragging him back.

The island.

It had been awake once, had been alive. They’d all thought, foolishly, that after rescue, after discovery, after making it home that they’d be safe; that there was no possible way for the essence of the island to resurrect itself, drag itself from its grave and find them, track them down, bring them back.

They’d been wrong, Jack thought frantically, breathing hard and fighting to keep from weeping.

Once, the island had been awake, alive.

And now it was awake again, he was certain.

He spent the rest of the night where he was, hands clutching tightly at the bedrails until the pale, milky light of early morning started flowing softly and slowly through the windows of his bedroom. Then he dragged himself out, body sore and head aching and mind and soul completely exhausted.

He put on a pot of coffee, gritted his teeth and made a reluctant phone call.

***

“Jack, I understand that these dreams must be a terrible experience for you; I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through out there, and for over four years . . .”

Jack sighed and sank back in the cushions of the too-soft sofa, everything seemed too soft to him now, and rubbed one hand roughly across tired eyes. “You’re going to tell me this is post-traumatic stress, aren’t you?” He eyed Dr. Lindsey tiredly, who leaned forward and stared at Jack intently.

Lindsey had been the psychiatrist assigned to him immediately upon his return to the States, despite Jack’s protests. The last thing Jack had wanted to do was rehash everything that had happened, dig up graves and bring forth ghosts, but before he would be allowed by the medical board to resume practice he would have to be given clearance by Lindsey, whom he was seeing no less than three times a week. And then Jack would have to jump through more psychological hoops, pass dozens of evaluations and tests before being given back his license on a probationary basis.

It had been over two years now and Jack still wasn’t practicing. He’d thought initially that he could play the game; say the right things and do the right things, regain his license and slide quietly back into his life.

But the island, the things that had happened . . . he had tried, fought it harder than anything he’d fought while he’d been stranded but there had been too many moments when the memories and the fear and the sheer, terrifying awe at the things he had seen had forced their way out of his mouth and right into Lindsey’s immaculately kept notes. As the months had worn slowly on it had become easier tell Lindsey that Jack was simply tired, that reacclimating was difficult and that his imagination was on overdrive.

Lindsey was starting to trust Jack, to believe him, and things had gotten better recently, but Lindsey was a good psychiatrist and a hard sell and Jack wasn’t that much closer to clearance than he had been when he and the rest had first been rescued.

Jack sighed, gave up and closed his eyes. “That’s probably what it is, Lindsey. I don’t know what else it could be.”

Jack knew from depths inside him that he hadn’t even realized existed before that what was stalking him in the night now was not simple memory but he’d be damned if he’d admit that now. He had enough strikes against him already; there was no way he’d be able to take back his life, or at least the bits and pieces that were left of it, if he began claiming that the island now was, for lack of a better term, after him.

“Of course it’s stress, Jack. You’ve made remarkable progress over the past several months; this is just a temporary setback but nothing you can’t recover from,” Lindsey said. He paused for a moment. “Have you spoken to any of the other survivors recently?” he asked.

“No,” Jack said, staring at the floor and trying to ignore the images that flashed through his mind, some bloodied and broken and others, ecstatic and golden and fewer and that much more painful because they were so few.

“No,” he said again, sighing. “Just Sayid, about a year ago, I told you about that.”

It had been a short and awkward conversation over a static-laden phone line when Jack had called Sayid at his new home in Iraq where, after months of working and talking and appeasing whoever was in authority at the time Sayid had become a vocal member of the new government and, unfortunately, often a target of assassination attempts. An easier life than on the island, he had told Jack once during a brief visit to the States, and it had been one of the few times they had laughed together since being rescued.

Months after that last meeting Jack, desperately lonely and unaccountably frightened and feeling a compulsive need to talk to someone who knew, who understood, had picked up the phone, forgetting about the time difference. He had woken Sayid and after they had spoken briefly Jack had hung up as quickly as he could when he heard the same ghosts in Sayid’s voice that Jack often heard echoing in his own head.

Their conversation had done nothing to ease his fear; it had only served to remind him that the island still had its claws in all of them, somehow, across the years and tens of thousands of miles.

“Sawyer?” Lindsey asked quietly and Jack was jerked roughly back to the present. Lindsey was fully aware of Sawyer’s real name but Jack, when he rarely and reluctantly discussed him, had insisted on calling him Sawyer because that was what Sawyer had wanted, and Lindsey had finally acquiesced.

Jack stared at him. “What about Sawyer?”

“These dreams, does he have any part in them?” Lindsey asked.

. . . Sawyer’s gone . . .

Jack leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, running one hand through hair that was much longer than it had been in years. “Not that I remember,” he said.

Lindsey nodded, not really believing him, Jack could tell, but deciding for some reason not to press Jack on it right now. Then Lindsey reached across his desk for his prescription pad, the signal Jack had quickly come to realize that meant the session was over. Jack sighed in a combination of relief and distaste. He had been prescribed a ridiculous amount of medication over the past two years, anti-depressants and sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medications.

He diligently got every prescription filled as soon as it was given to him, but dozens of bottles of pills, still full, languished in his medicine cabinet, the drawers in the bathroom, and the cabinets in the kitchen.

He’d never taken any of them.

He was afraid to be caught sleeping an unnatural sleep, drugged and vulnerable and unable to fight when it finally happened, whatever it was.

“Jack,” Lindsey said just as Jack got up to leave, a prescription for a new sleeping medication clutched in his hand.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, looking back at him.

“Have you been drinking?”

Jack looked at Lindsey full on.

“No,” he said. “Not a drop.”

For some reason this lie was easier than the others.

***

He jumped when the phone rang and then frowned, looking blearily at the clock. The only calls he received these days were from various doctors’ offices and it was well past nine o’clock. It rang several times and it was with a heavy sense of dread that he finally reached out and answered it.

“Yeah?”

“Jack.”

Jack’s shoulders tensed and his fingers tightened around the receiver. “Sayid?”

“Yes. Jack, I . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, jaw clenched, his mind flashing back to the time when he had been the one they had come to when something was wrong. He could feel it, over thousands of miles of analog phone line, something had happened. He heard Sayid sigh heavily.

“I just got a telephone call from Claire,” Sayid said. “Charlie is missing.”

Jack tried to process this. “Missing? I thought they were both fine, in Sydney . . . Aaron? Is he all right?”

“Aaron is fine, from what I could understand. Claire was a bit hysterical, understandably.”

“Then what . . .”

“I have no idea, Jack. She just said that she woke up yesterday morning and that he was simply gone.”

“Gone,” Jack repeated, stunned. Of all of them, he’d been sure that Charlie and Claire and Aaron might actually make it, really survive, thrive, live happily ever after . . .

“He took nothing with him; no clothing, no money, no credit cards . . .”

Jack closed his eyes. “Disappeared.”

“Yes,” Sayid said, sighing again. “Disappeared.”

Jack gripped the edge of the kitchen counter tightly as the floor began to tilt.

“Jack?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” Jack said, cradling the receiver as he reached for the half-finished beer sitting on the counter, ignoring the noise the bottle made as it clinked against the more than half-dozen empties beside it and then he sank slowly on to one of the barstools.

“Jack, this may sound odd but . . .” Sayid said softly and then paused for a long moment, and something about the tone of his voice made the hair on Jack’s neck rise.

“What, Sayid?” he whispered.

“Jack,” Sayid said again, slowly and carefully as if the words were difficult to form. “Have you been dreaming?”

Title:  “The Disappeared – Part Two”

Now

Jack rubbed at his face and neck roughly with one hand, phone held tightly in the other. The rush of adrenaline at Sayid’s news hadn’t completely evaporated the deep alcoholic haze he’d plunged himself into earlier in the evening and he struggled to think clearly, to try to understand what was happening, to answer Sayid’s question.

“Jack?” Sayid prompted, and Jack heard a tinny echo of Sayid’s voice thrum along the phone line.

“Yeah,” Jack said, sighing. “I have been. Dreaming, I mean.”

“Not just dreams. Nightmares,” Sayid said.

“Yes, but . . .”

“But something more than that,” Sayid said with certainty, echoing words Jack had said to him long ago.

Jack sighed and took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. More. You?”

“Yes, for the past two weeks. Jack, Claire said that Charlie had been having nightmares for over a month before he disappeared.”

“Fuck,” Jack muttered, swaying slightly on the barstool and grabbing at the kitchen counter for support.

“Jack, on the island, after Sawyer disappeared you told me that he had been dreaming. Nightmares but something more, something tangible, those were your words. You said that he was afraid, afraid of being taken by . . . something, something he couldn’t describe, do you remember?”

Jack winced and closed his eyes against the memories but they came anyway, a vicious onslaught of images and scent memory, of Sawyer in Jack’s arms, soaked in sweat and wide-eyed in terror and clutching at Jack tightly in the night and whispering ‘don’t let go, don’t you fuckin’ let me go’ over and over again, and the fear in his voice had felt like it had crept into Jack’s very veins and surged through his blood even now.

And Jack had promised that he wouldn’t, that he would never let go. But he had, in the end. Let go. He’d had to, hadn’t had a choice.

And then Sawyer was gone.

“Of course I remember,” he said softly and across thousands of miles he heard Sayid sigh sympathetically.

“My friend, I have told you this many times, there was nothing you could have done that night, on any of those nights, there was too much happening . . .”

Jack interrupted him, feeling as if he would break mind, body and soul if he thought any further of what had happened that night. Part of his mind shut down, blocking the flood of memories and he fought to stand straighter and tried to work with what was in front of him, the facts. This despite the facts had failed him before, several times; he knew that there were things in this world and beyond it that cared nothing for facts or reality.

But Jack was drunk; Jack was exhausted; and Jack was terrified. And so he reverted to what he knew best, to what he was good at, or at least what he had once been good at, a long time ago. He had been, and in some fractured sense still was, a doctor, a scientist, a leader – a believer in facts.

“So we’re dreaming. Me, you. Charlie. And now Charlie’s gone,” Jack said. The facts, solid, somewhere to start.

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to anyone else?”

“No. I wanted to speak with you first, make sure this was more than mere coincidence.”

“Okay, then . . .” Jack said, rubbing again at his face and trying to think. “Okay, then, you call Sun, and talk to Claire again as soon as you can; I’ll call Michael and Hurley, all right? Then we’ll . . . hell, I don’t know what we’ll do but I’ll call you as soon as I talk to them, okay?”

“Fine. And then?” Sayid asked.

Jack sighed. “I have no fucking idea, Sayid. Can it be that the island is taking us? Or . . . calling us, whatever you want to call it, after all this time? It’s just not fucking possible, Sayid, it’s fucking over!” He didn’t realize he was shouting now.

“We saw many things out there, Jack, I know I don’t have to remind you of that,” Sayid said quietly. “Nothing is beyond the realm of possibility. Nothing.”

Jack shuddered. Too many memories, too many ghosts. He was close, so fucking close to . . . Again he breathed deeply and ran the chill of the beer bottle across his forehead before speaking. “I suppose not,” he agreed reluctantly, although mentally he still clutched at that which was tangible even though it was quickly being pulled from his grasp. “Rousseau?”

“Still institutionalized, the last that I heard.”

“Will you see if you can talk to her, see her, maybe?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Sayid said. He paused for a moment and Jack tensed in dread, knowing what he was about to ask. “Jack, what about . . .”

“I know, I know,” Jack muttered, cutting Sayid off before he could finish the thought. “No point. That road is a dead-end.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Jack said with finality, the back of his hand swiping across his mouth as he nodded emphatically to an empty room.

“How can you be sure? You told me you never looked, that the authorities said -”

Again Jack’s eyes closed and something surged within him, and after a moment of white-hot blindness he came back to reality to hear Sayid asking him if he was all right. Jack ignored the question and instead stared at the remnants of the beer bottle he’d apparently broken against the side of the sink.

“I just know, Sayid,” he whispered, staring at the blood flowing freely from his hand and mixing delicately with the beer swirling slowly down the drain. “I don’t need to see the body.”

Then

As the sun had risen the smoke had disappeared; one minute Jack had been watching it closely and the next it was simply gone. After an absurdly long shouting match during which he became more and more wary of the fanatical look in Locke’s eyes, Jack had pulled Locke out of the hatch physically and ordered a temporary halt to the evacuation, putting Kate on watch at the opening of the hatch, gun in her hand. Jack then ran for the caves and had stumbled across Sayid halfway and after hurriedly discussing what had happened with Aaron and Rousseau it was agreed that whatever the Others had been pursuing, they must have found it.

Later they realized, to their horror, what the Others had been after.

Sayid had discovered Sawyer and Michael washed ashore about three miles from the beach encampment. Sayid had carried an unconscious Sawyer back himself because of the gunshot wound and had then sent Kate, Hurley and Charlie to retrieve Michael, who was dehydrated and grief-stricken and muttering Walt’s name repeatedly.

There had been no sign of Jin, not then and never again in the years that they remained on the island.

They had been gone five days. One day out and four days drifting, just him and Sawyer, Michael figured when he had calmed somewhat and had been able to relate the story between demands that they start searching for Walt immediately.

“Wait, Michael, just wait, all right?” Jack said, trying to calm Michael while tending to a still-unconscious Sawyer.

Jack took a deep breath and focused on Sawyer’s wound which, he thought absently, wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. He was more concerned with the sunburn and dehydration; Sawyer’s skin had darkened during their time on the island but he’d been drifting in the ocean for four days, the sun pounding down from above and reflecting from the water below, and his face and lower arms were an angry, blistering red. At some point he’d managed to strip off his shirt, Michael said, mumbling something about being too hot, but Michael had had the sense to keep most of him covered after Sawyer had slipped back into unconsciousness.

“We need to get a better idea of what’s happening here, Michael, then we’ll find out about Walt, okay?” Jack said, nodding at Sun when she held up a bowl of ointment for his inspection. Jack stopped for a moment and looked at her closely, noting that her eyes were too dark and her expression was one of elegant, deeply hidden grief. His heart tightened and he grasped her by the shoulders gently. “You don’t need to do this, Sun, somebody else –“

“No,” she said quietly. “I would prefer to keep myself occupied. This, this I know.” She avoided Jack’s eyes, pulled herself carefully from his grasp and began smoothing the ointment on Sawyer’s face with a gentle touch.

Jack sighed and turned again to Michael, who glared at him.

“Jack, come on! We don’t have time-“

“He’s right, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes closed and his jaw clenched at the sound of Locke behind him. He took a deep breath before turning. “We don’t have enough information, Locke . . .”

“The boy’s dangerous. We can’t let Them keep him.”

“What?” Michael barked. “Dangerous how? Just what in the fuck are you tryin’ to say?” Jack reached out and grasped Michael by the arm when he started to stagger in Locke’s direction.

“Do you want your son back or not?” Locke asked mildly, hands on hips, the smug smile so subtle and so brief that Jack would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it. Jack made a point to keep his own expression perfectly blank. “We can find him, save him and ourselves, or we can let Them have him.” He cocked his head and looked at Jack pointedly. “And fail yet another test, Jack.”

Another shouting match ensued, Jack, Michael and Locke with their voices raised in a dizzying merry-go-round of conflict as well as agreement. Soon Sayid and Shannon, with Vincent close at hand, were there, and then Charlie and Kate had joined them, each one having a valid point to make.

But in the end it had come down to exhaustion and to a picture that Jack had in his head of Walt, Vincent at his side, following an exaggeratedly irritated Sawyer the length of the beach and asking question upon question. Jack had watched for a while from the cover of the jungle, hiding a grin with one hand, and then Walt had asked the question to end all questions.

“Dad says you’re a hillbilly. What do hillbillies eat?”

Sawyer had stared at the boy with a look so full of rage, amusement and confusion that Jack had nearly fallen over laughing.

“Hillbillies eat,” Sawyer had said through clenched teeth, “little boys who ask too many questions. And their damned dogs, for dessert.” Vincent simply sat and raised one paw to shake hands, which seemed to infuriate Sawyer even further.

If Sawyer had expected his answer to Walt’s question to end the interrogation, he’d been woefully mistaken, Jack thought now as the discussion of a search raged around him. Walt’s eyes had lit up and he had laughed, looking at Sawyer with something akin to idol worship, and had remained at Sawyer’s heels for the rest of the day despite Sawyer’s best efforts to shake him off.

It had been that laugh, Jack thought. Walt’s laugh. Nice to hear, out here where there was so little of it, of laughter.

“Jack?” Michael said, and Jack had sighed and turned to face the rest of them.

“Fine. Go, then. I’m staying here with Sawyer, just in case. Sayid, you go; Kate, I’d rather you stay here. The rest of you decide among yourselves what you’re going to do, but there is no way in hell that all of you are going, am I clear on that? We can’t afford to lose all of you if something goes wrong.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Am I understood?”

All of them nodded except for Locke, who locked eyes with Jack for a long moment before turning and leaving, those composing his search party following while the rest scattered.

Jack sighed heavily and leaned against Sawyer’s makeshift cot, rubbing at his eyes wearily with one hand, and then jumped when he felt a warm, rough hand grasp his wrist.

“Won’t work,” came the whisper, hoarse and cracked.

Jack whirled and leaned over Sawyer, face close to Sawyer’s mouth. “You awake, Sawyer? How do you feel?” he asked, grabbing Sawyer’s wrist and checking his pulse.

“Like shit, you dumbass,” Sawyer muttered, his eyes still closed, and Jack fought the urge to smile. “Won’t work.”

Jack frowned. “What? What won’t work?”

“Won’t find him. The kid. Only one way . . .”

“Only one way to do what? Sawyer? Sawyer!” Jack whispered, but Sawyer had slid back into unconsciousness.

Jack sighed and sat next to him, watching and waiting, thinking of his father and Sawyer and Walt and Jin and Sarah and a bottle of Absolut and Boone and Kate and the Locke problem.

Jack hadn’t thought it possible to feel a fear more profound than that he’d already experienced since being stranded.

But yet, here it was.

He tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking.

***

Now

Sayid’s voice was sharp as a knife, cutting cleanly across the miles. “Jack? Jack! Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, I’m fine,” Jack said, scowling in irritation and running his hand under the faucet before wrapping it sloppily in a wad of paper towels.

“You sounded . . . odd,” Sayid said diplomatically, and Jack could picture the look on Sayid’s face from the tone of his voice.

“Well, Sayid, I feel just a little odd, don’t you?” Jack said in a tone much sharper than he’d intended. He sighed again in regret. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just tired and this is a lot to take –“ He stopped suddenly, head jerking up at the sound of something thudding against the front door.

“I understand, Jack. Why don’t you try to rest and then we’ll-“

“Hang on,” Jack whispered, the receiver already sliding from his grasp and clattering to the counter as he started moving slowly in the direction of the front hallway, flicking off the kitchen light as he went, vaguely aware of the tinny sound of Sayid’s voice coming from the earpiece of the phone. Jack halted for a moment and waited, and then the sound came again, a muffled thud, and instinctively he went into a crouch.

He crept silently into the front hallway, edging up to one of the narrow windows that framed the door and tugging the dusty curtain back. He peered into the gloom and saw nothing, then the sound came again, repeatedly, and he ducked just as a shadow brushed softly against the filmy glass of the window.

Heart pounding and breathing heavily, he rose on his haunches and looked again.

Time stopped. Thought stopped, his breath stopped, his heart stopped.

And then started again, with a sickening thud that slammed through Jack’s body.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed when he could finally breathe and then he was moving, faster than he ever had, fumbling with the locks on the door for an eternity before finally swinging it open and then staring in pained shock at the figure sprawled drunkenly on his front porch, a figure who struggled to his feet, listing slightly, and then gave Jack a haunted parody of the all-too familiar smile that still appeared in Jack’s dreams, sleeping and waking.

Jack waited silently, not knowing what else to do.

“Hey, Doc,” Sawyer slurred. “Long time, no see.”

Title:  “The Disappeared – Part Three”

Now

They stared at one another for a long time before Jack finally surfaced from the depths of shock and disbelief to actually bring himself to speak.

“Sawyer,” he whispered, bracing himself against the doorframe, legs unsteady, body finally giving out from the effects of the beer and lack of sleep and shock after shock after shock.

“Yep. Bingo. Give the man a fuckin’ prize,” Sawyer said, shoving past Jack into the house. Jack reached out to grab him or even just to touch him but he was much too slow, and he watched blankly as Sawyer headed unsteadily but unerringly in the direction of the kitchen. And then Jack could smell him, the scent of him lingering in his wake; it was Sawyer, yes, the familiar essence of him of him but overlaid now with something much more unpleasant; alcohol and unwashed clothes and stale cigarette smoke and sour sweat. Not the brisk, astringent smell that had clung to him on the island, of sea and the clean, purifying sweat of hard work, the scent that Jack had fallen asleep to and woken up with for so long.

Sawyer flicked the light on in the kitchen and then disappeared from view, and it wasn’t until Jack heard the door of the refrigerator slam loudly against the cabinet that he was able to shake himself out of his daze and move, following Sawyer into the kitchen.

“Sawyer,” he said again, still stunned, staring at Sawyer as he leaned back against the counter and downed a beer in one go.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out. Small vocabulary for such an educated man,” Sawyer said mockingly, and then tilted his head, lanky hair that was darker than when Jack had last seen him falling into his eyes as he regarded Jack closely. “You look like shit, Doc.”

Jack didn’t remember moving but he must have, because suddenly he had Sawyer by the shirt collar and bent backward over the kitchen counter, raging. “Where in the fuck have you been, you son of a bitch?” he shouted.

Sawyer laughed bitterly, a sound empty and ugly and far too reminiscent of the Sawyer that Jack had first met and Jack, scared and angry, shook him once, hard. “I said, where in the fuck have you been? Do you know, do you have any idea –“

“Fuck off,” Sawyer muttered, shoving Jack away clumsily and heading again for the refrigerator as Jack watched in a helpless and confusing combination of rage and joy, fists clenching at his sides.

“Where’ve I been?” Sawyer said, glaring at Jack and ripping the cap off the beer bottle and flicking it across the kitchen where it bounced off the wall inches from Jack’s head and then rattled against the tile of the floor. “Well, that’s the million dollar question, ain’t it, Doc? And one I’d like to know the answer to, myself.”

He took a long swig of beer, his eyes never leaving Jack’s, and Jack was startled to see how much they’d changed, deep-set and shadowed in a face that was far too thin. Jack started to speak but Sawyer interrupted him.

“Actually, to tell the truth, which is somethin’ I have been known to do on occasion, I do know where I’ve been,” Sawyer said, head cocked and arms crossed as he leaned against the refrigerator, beer bottle dangling in erratic circles from one hand. “For the most part, anyway. It’s up here, all that shit rattlin’ around, that’s been givin’ me all the trouble.”

He tapped at his temple with an index finger and grinned nastily and Jack shuddered, a jolt of guilt and fear skittering along his spine. Sawyer, here, after everything that had happened and with what was happening now – wrong, something was obviously very wrong, Jack thought, but he was here . . .

“Jesus,” Jack whispered, eyes rubbing at his temples, anger gone now as he finally shook off his own hurt and grief and took the time to wonder what it must have been like for Sawyer since he’d disappeared.

“Now there, Doc, that’s where you’re wrong. Jesus doesn’t have a fuckin’ thing to do with any of this, of that I’m pretty goddamned sure,” Sawyer said. Then he sighed heavily, swaying slightly as he closed his eyes and ran one hand across his mouth. “Well, hell, then again maybe he does. Maybe he has everything to do with it, it’d make sense, I suppose.”

“Has everything to do with what, Sawyer? With what?” Jack asked softly, dreading the answer, dreading what it might mean for Sawyer, for all of them, if Sawyer actually knew after all this time what was happening.

“All of it,” Sawyer said, and then everything about him changed. He was suddenly quiet and still, all posturing gone now as he watched Jack carefully, open and vulnerable and, Jack could tell, scared as he’d ever been and asking Jack, without words, for help.

Jack found himself moving again but more slowly this time, tentatively, and then he was across the kitchen and old habits awoke along with the rise of his blood and his arms were sliding around Sawyer’s waist. He paused when he felt Sawyer tense and Jack waited, trembling, for what seemed like an eternity before Sawyer finally relaxed into him, warm and familiar and inviting and Jack sighed in relief and rested his head on Sawyer’s shoulder.

“Don’t let go,” Sawyer whispered, mouth close to Jack’s ear and voice shaking. “Don’t you fuckin’ let me go.”

Jack winced, remembering. “No,” he murmured, his jaw tightening with regret but also with resolve. “Never again, Sawyer, I swear to God . . .”

“Said that before, Doc.”

Jack’s head jerked up and he studied Sawyer’s face closely, so different now, lost and broken and pain, sharp and cold, sliced through him. “I know. I know. I’m sorry, Sawyer, so fucking sorry, but I’ll . . .” He stopped speaking when Sawyer gave a quick shake of his head.

“No. You made a promise, yeah; and then I made a choice, you made a choice, and all bets were off after that,” he said quietly and slowly and carefully, and Jack knew he was struggling to speak, to say the words. Conversations like this between them had been rare and always difficult for Sawyer, who preferred to let his actions and his eyes and his body speak for him.

“But now, Jack . . . you’d best think on it long and hard before you make that promise again,” Sawyer whispered, and Jack could feel him shaking within Jack’s tightening embrace. “‘Cause if you do I’m gonna damn well hold you to it this time, you got that? No matter how bad it gets, you don’t fuckin’ let go, understand me?”

Jack’s hands came up to frame Sawyer’s face. “I got it, Sawyer. I got it. And I promise.” The promises Jack had made before, to Sawyer and others and had then broken for a myriad of reasons were brushed away. He meant this, was determined to follow through on it, just as much for himself as for Sawyer. There was no way in hell he was losing Sawyer again, not now.

Tension that Jack hadn’t even realized was still there flowed from Sawyer’s face and body and his head fell forward as he buried his face in Jack’s neck.

“Sawyer,” Jack whispered, one hand coming up to slide into Sawyer’s hair. “Where have you been?”

Sawyer’s shoulders heaved as he sighed. “Later, all right? I’m just so fuckin’ tired right now, Jesus, Jack, please . . .”

“Yeah,” Jack said softly, nudging Sawyer in the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah, so am I. We’ll talk about it later.”

Sawyer collapsed on to Jack’s bed fully clothed and was fast asleep before Jack could crawl in the other side. Jack wrapped himself around Sawyer the way he always had, noting vaguely that it felt somewhat odd to do this in an actual bed, and then he watched Sawyer in wonder and in no little fear for a long while before finally falling asleep himself.

***

Then

The numerous searches for Walt, which stretched over a period of weeks due to the stresses on their resources, proved fruitless. Locke and Kate had decided to split up in order to cover more ground, and Sayid had gone out several times as well, but all without success, finding absolutely no sign of the Others anywhere. Michael retreated to a solitary spot down the length of the beach, speaking to no one, and Jack finally confronted Locke and ordered that the searches be stopped.

“Whatever you say, Jack,” Locke said, smiling amiably at Jack before striding off toward the jungle. Jack sighed and stared after him, arms crossed, knowing full well that Locke would keep looking in order to pass whatever insane test of faith he felt he was being given, and that it would be just a matter of time before he took someone with him. Visions of Boone flashed through his mind and he found himself flailing mentally, at a complete and total loss as to how to deal with the situation.

“I do not trust him,” came a quiet voice near his shoulder and Jack was startled to look and see Sun standing beside him, also watching Locke as he headed for the tree line.

“You don’t?” Jack asked in surprise. “Why?”

“Not for the reasons you may think. Not because I think he is evil or a bad man. The opposite, in fact, I think that in different circumstances he would likely be a much different man, a good man,” she said, turning slightly so she could meet Jack’s eyes.

“Then why don’t you trust him?”

Her eyes darted back to where Locke had disappeared into the trees.

“Because,” she said, “here he has become a zealot. And zealots are dangerous, both to themselves and to those who choose to follow them.” She turned on her heel and headed in the direction of the caves and Jack watched her as she left, cursing silently and wondering what in the hell he was going to do.

***

It had become a ritual, something that Jack watched in silence every night. Sawyer would make his way up to the caves for a cursory exam by Jack, complaining the entire time but healing rapidly, and then Sawyer would seek out Sun.

Every night they sat cross-legged opposite one another on the ground, Sun covering Sawyer’s face and arms with the ointment she mixed for his burns with slow and rhythmic strokes against his skin. Sawyer’s eyes would close and his posture would change. He would relax under her touch and he looked younger, vibrant.

Sometimes they were silent but now more often, as Sawyer began to feel better, their time together was much different; Sawyer grinning at her on occasion and teasing her, saying things that Jack couldn’t hear but that had initially made Sun blush until one night she had answered him with something that made Sawyer’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open in shock. Jack hadn’t heard what she’d said but he knew full well what it had been.

She cast a quick glance at Jack and he’d grinned at her and winked and she’d smiled very slightly before returning her attention to Sawyer. Sawyer, on the other hand, had given Jack a look full of such spite that Jack faked a coughing fit and suddenly found that he had something to do elsewhere.

But still every night Jack watched them as they sat in profile in the torchlight, there was something soothing about it, especially considering the chaos going on around them every day. Sawyer didn’t really need the ointment now, he needed the contact, the touch of skin on and skin, and Sun needed someone to take care of. It was an unusual friendship, to say the least, but it was working, for both of them and for some odd reason it also worked for Jack, just watching it.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, Sawyer stopped Sun as she reached for the ointment. She looked at him in surprise, eyes wide, and Jack had watched as Sawyer started talking, holding Sun’s wrist loosely, the look on his face much different than before. Jack watched, frowning, because the more Sawyer spoke the more Sun’s expression darkened. She murmured something occasionally and Sawyer would nod, still talking, and then to Jack’s surprise she buried her face in Sawyer’s chest, obviously weeping. Jack’s eyes widened as Sawyer’s hand slid gently into the hair on the back of Sun’s head and he ducked his head, still whispering as she nodded against his chest.

Jack stepped forward, concerned and confused, but as if reading Jack’s mind Sawyer raised his head and met Jack’s eyes and something in his gaze made Jack step back again, frowning and watching and waiting.

Sun finally pulled herself upright and looked at Sawyer for a long moment before saying something. Sawyer shook his head and looked at the ground but she’d grabbed his jaw, quite uncharacteristically, and forced him to look at her. Then she’d smiled, subtle and sad but genuine. Sawyer sighed and reached out to brush away her tears with the back of his hand and she allowed him to do so for the briefest of moments, then she’d gotten to her feet and after a quick and gentle slide of her fingers against his uninjured shoulder she’d disappeared into the night.

Jack moved forward without hesitation and took Sun’s place in front of Sawyer, picking up the bowl of ointment and dipping his fingers in it and then soothing it into Sawyer’s right forearm, ignoring Sawyer’s quick intake of breath.

“Jin?” Jack asked quietly, keeping his eyes on Sawyer’s arm.

Sawyer sighed. “Yeah. Not that it’s any of your damned business.”

“What’d you tell her?” Jack asked, fingers sliding slickly along Sawyer’s skin.

“That he was some kind of dumb son of a bitch hero, savin’ my life like that,” Sawyer muttered, his eyes following the movement of Jack’s hand. “The man was an idiot.”

“That wasn’t exactly how you phrased it, I hope,” Jack said, looking at Sawyer pointedly.

Sawyer glowered. “Don’t be a dumbass, Doc. Just shut the fuck up and keep doin’ what you’re doin’,” he said, head jerking in the direction of the ointment.

Jack smiled slightly and finished Sawyer’s right arm in silence and then began working on his left, becoming acutely aware that Sawyer’s hands were now resting high on Jack’s thighs and inching their way underneath the legs of his shorts as Jack continued stroking Sawyer’s arm.

It had been there all along, Jack thought, repressing a shudder as Sawyer’s fingers slid higher. This thing, this odd sparkage between Sawyer and himself, long looks heavy with meaning, brief touches brushed off as being accidental. But he’d never expected to act on it; there’d been conflict, there’d been Kate, then the raft . . .

After Sawyer had told him about his conversation with Jack’s father, Jack had found that he’d regretted not saying something, something more, and after the raft had sailed the opportunity had been lost, or so he’d thought at the time.

But now . . .

“Sawyer,” he began, but Sawyer cut him off.

“Shut up. Do my face,” Sawyer ordered, closing his eyes and flinging his legs over Jack’s and scooting forward between Jack’s thighs until his crotch was barely brushing Jack’s. Jack shuddered and his breath came faster, and slowly he reached up to push Sawyer’s hair out of his face and Sawyer tilted his head back, eyes still closed.

But instead of reaching for the ointment Jack found that his fingers were trailing lightly across Sawyer’s face, brushing against Sawyer’s mouth, and Jack sighed and the whole of his body tightened when Sawyer’s lips parted and his tongue darted out to slide wetly along the length of Jack’s index finger. Sawyer’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded and dark and he watched Jack closely as he took Jack’s finger into his mouth, working languorously with lips and tongue and then that which was smoldering flared, blazed, and they both moved at once, Jack yanking his hand away and thrusting it into Sawyer’s hair as Sawyer rose to his knees, grinding against Jack’s crotch hard as Jack pulled him tight, capturing Sawyer’s mouth with his own and forcing his way inside, tongue delving and plunging and tasting, Sawyer groaning roughly and rocking more and more frantically against him before tearing his mouth away, his gaze catching Jack’s as he leaned back slightly to unfasten Jack shorts.

“Jesus, Sawyer,” Jack muttered, moving as much as he could against the tight, rough, warm grip Sawyer had on him.

“No fuckin’ kiddin’,” Sawyer panted, still rubbing against Jack’s thighs. “Touch me, fuck, Doc, you taste good, feel good, God. . .” He pulled back suddenly and Jack closed his eyes and groaned.

“What?” Jack muttered, body shifting restlessly and aching in protest.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Jack opened one eye and regarded Sawyer in aroused and amused disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” Jack mumbled.

“Nope,” Sawyer said, grinning slyly, and Jack followed his gaze to the bowl of ointment. Both Jack’s eyes opened and then widened, and then he smiled lazily at Sawyer.

“You’re a fucking genius,” Jack said and Sawyer slid back atop him, favoring his injured shoulder and kissed Jack again before pulling away.

“‘Course I am. Don’t let that get around, though, I might have to actually do some fuckin’ work around here,” Sawyer whispered and Jack snorted and then glared.

“Now,” Jack demanded, both hands yanking hard at Sawyer’s hair. “Now!

“Ow! Jesus, ain’t been gettin’ any lately, Doc? That been your problem this whole time?” Sawyer said, hands and mouth moving slowly, much too slowly for Jack’s liking.

“Sawyer . . .” Jack said warningly and then took Sawyer in hand, stroking firmly and expertly.

“God,” Sawyer muttered, back arching. “Fine, fine. Just one problem, though.”

Jack sighed and tried to figure out the easiest way to get Sawyer pinned without hurting his injured shoulder. “What?” he asked distractedly.

Sawyer pulled himself up haughtily. “I don’t put out for guys who teach proper young ladies like Sun to say things like ‘GO FUCK YOURSELF, SAWYER!’” Sawyer bellowed, the very picture of fake outrage.

Jack blinked several times in surprise. And then he started laughing, laughing so hard he fell over on to his back, and he was dimly aware that Sawyer was glaring, and then Sawyer was also laughing, and then Sawyer was crawling all over him and it was a battle of mouths and hands and bodies and muffled noises of pleasure, a battle they both fought and won almost every night from that moment on.

***

Now

Jack woke in a panic, his arms empty, the bed empty, the room empty, and he stumbled out of bed and down the hallway, sinking to his knees outside the bathroom in relief when he heard the shower running and smelled coffee brewing.

Still here. He was still here.

Jack sighed and staggered back to the bedroom, grabbing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt out of his dresser and opening the bathroom door and tossing them on the counter, looking for a long time at Sawyer’s filmy silhouette through the door of the shower stall, reassuring himself over and over again that Sawyer was indeed still here, and then he headed for the kitchen.

He poured a cup of coffee and headed for the back porch, pausing again to listen at the bathroom door and was satisfied enough with the sound of drawers being opened and then slammed shut as Sawyer looked for something, and then Jack made his way out on to the back porch and sank slowly on to the top step, sipping carefully at his coffee and staring blearily at the sun as it rose and thinking, thinking, thinking.

Finally the screen door opened behind him. “Mornin’, Doc,” Sawyer said quietly.

Jack stood and sighed, still staring out at the sunrise. “Sawyer,” he said finally. “I realize you probably know this already but something . . . something is coming.”

“Coming?”

Jack stiffened, a fear so primal, so ancient slamming through him that it made it impossible to move, to breathe, to think.

The voice coming from behind him was amused, was old as time, and was not Sawyer’s.

He whipped around and stared. The face and the body were Sawyer’s, but the eyes were not, they were black and enormous and spangled with stars, a reflection of the universe.

“Coming?” the voice repeated, at once mocking and soothing. “Jack. It’s already here.”

Jack’s body hit the floor at the same time Sawyer’s did.
 

Title:  “The Disappeared – Part Four”

Now

Sayid’s fingers tightened around the receiver and he closed his eyes against the pounding of his head.

“Please,” he began again for the third time during this particular call, his voice quiet and heavy. He’d been having slightly varied versions of this conversation with different members of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department ever since he’d lost contact with Jack during the middle of their discussion almost two days ago.

“Please. Please. It’s important that you, that someone, go to his residence immediately,” Sayid said, knowing now that there was no point but feeling he still had to try. Something was wrong, very wrong with Jack, and being thousands of miles away only added to his already tremendous sense of frustration.

“I’m sorry, sir,” came the impersonal voice on the other end of the line. “From what you’ve told me, there’s absolutely no reason for me to waste the manpower to send anyone out to Jack Sheppard’s house. Not just because you were cut off in the middle of a phone call. There are other, actual crimes going on here 24-7 that my personnel have to take deal with, things much more important than disconnected phone calls . . .”

“We weren’t disconnected, sergeant, something happened, do you understand me?” Sayid bit out, rubbing at his forehead. “And now I cannot get through, the line has been busy for over 24 hours and I have been calling you for . . .”

“I understand that, sir. But from what you’ve told me, it sounds like the man was drunk and probably just passed out in the middle of your conversation. You said that there was no indication of a disturbance, no sounds of a struggle, no calls for help, that he just stopped talking.”

Close enough, Sayid thought, grimacing. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth and decided, as difficult as it was, to add to the story, just enough to get somebody to move, to do something. “But he might have hurt himself, he has been depressed, and perhaps he was drunk, became ill, somebody must go –“

“I’m sorry, sir, but you just haven’t given me enough to go on. I know all you folks have had a difficult time but until I hear a valid reason to do so, I am not sending any of my officers to Mr. Sheppard’s residence.” Sayid winced at hearing Jack referred to as anything other than ‘doctor.’ He knew how important it had been to Jack to get his medical license back; but after all this time he was still referred to as ‘mister’ and Sayid hurt on Jack’s behalf. “If something more happens, let me know, and then I’ll see what I can do,” the sergeant continued. “Otherwise, in 48 hours, we’ll go by the residence and if he’s there, we’ll ask that he call you and if he’s not, and we feel there’s cause, he’ll be added to an already very long list of other people who’ve been reported missing.”

“But-“ Sayid began, but it was too late, the sergeant had hung up.

Sayid sighed and slammed the receiver down, wiped the sweat from his eyes and ran one hand through hair that was now much shorter than it had been for a very long time. He grabbed his glass of water and took a quick sip, thinking frantically, knowing that something had happened to Jack, and then he stilled suddenly when a thought struck him.

He remembered the sergeant’s words – “I know all you folks have had a difficult time . . .”

Again he sighed and reached for the phone, thumbing through his address book at the same time. He had been going about this all wrong. Minor officials in the Iraqui government were one thing; but celebrity was quite another. And in the United States, celebrity could open doors that nothing else could.

And of all the survivors, one had won the heart of the American public like no other, for a myriad of reasons.

He dialed.

“Hugo Reyes, please,” he said to the young woman who answered. He listened for a long moment as the woman gasped and then babbled enthusiastically, casting his gaze skyward in exasperation as he realized that he himself, after all this time, still held his own small measure of celebrity.

“Yes, yes, miss, this is . . .” he hesitated for a moment, cringing at what he was about to say, “this is the Sayid. Please, I need to speak Hurley . . .”

Hurley was suddenly on the line. “Sayid! How’ve you been? You caught me at just the right time, dude, I’ve been so damned busy . . . long time, no chat! How’s Iraq?” Hurley asked cheerfully. Then his tone changed, suddenly serious and concerned. “Hey, nobody’s tried to blow you up or shoot you or nothin’, have they? You all right?”

Sayid was surprised to find himself smiling. “No, Hurley, not lately . . .”

“Well, thank God for that, right? Or Allah or whatever? Same thing. Well, pretty much, I guess, religion’s really not my bag, no offense, but I know you know what I mean . . . what’s goin’ on?”

Again Sayid sighed and collapsed into a nearby chair. “Quite a lot, actually. Hurley, have you spoken with Claire?”

***

. . . black, a living black, so alive that he could actually feel it, feel the darkness sliding against his skin like oily water, and he struggled against it but it wrapped itself around him like the warm, fetid embrace of death and then he could hear and feel Sawyer, miles away and right beside him at the same time, snarling and cursing and fighting desperately as he always did when he was cornered, and Jack fought, tried to reach out, to call Sawyer’s name but as he opened his mouth the blackness slid inside, filling his mouth and throat and lungs and eyes and then he was drowning, behind his eyes there was a head-splitting explosion of filth-tinted golden light and he stiffened in pain, and then he started falling, and he could feel Sawyer sinking as well and he would have wept but that which held him wouldn’t let him and so, helpless to move or speak or breathe he fell, and Sawyer fell, for so far and for so long that it seemed it would never end, deeper and darker and then pain, so much pain . . .

***

Then

Jack fell back, his entire body throbbing with gratification, gasping for breath and eyes closed, enjoying the feel of Sawyer’s sweat-slick skin sliding against his own as Sawyer spread the length of his body along Jack’s, whispering, licking, stretching, moaning gruffly as he did so.

“Jesus,” Jack whispered, eyes still closed.

“Nope,” Sawyer murmured. “Sawyer. Say it.”

Jack snorted and smiled lazily, eyes still closed. “Sawyer,” he whispered, his fingers drifting lightly along Sawyer’s spine, enjoying the way Sawyer arched against his hand. He rubbed more roughly against Sawyer’s back and Sawyer sighed in satisfaction.

“And don’t you fuckin’ forget it,” Sawyer whispered, and Jack groaned at the feel of Sawyer’s tongue sliding across his chest and up his neck and finally to his mouth, and Jack slid his hand into the hair on the back of Sawyer’s head and opened his mouth to him, shivering as Sawyer’s tongue thrust inside slowly, deep and wet and torturously delicate movements of his tongue against Jack’s, and Jack groaned softly as he tasted himself, and also Sawyer, and whatever it was they had created together; something tasting of sea and earth and salt and some combination of the two of them, heady and potent.

“Now what?” Jack whispered against Sawyer’s mouth.

“Get cleaned up,” Sawyer said. “Then I’m gonna fuck you again.”

“Right,” Jack said, opening his eyes and rolling suddenly, pinning Sawyer to the ground, careful of his shoulder. “But I’ve told you a million times, you can’t go in the water with that shoulder, too big a risk of infection-“

Sawyer looked up at him through half-closed eyes. “Once a doctor, always a damned doctor? Fine, then. Guess you’ll have to take care of it for me, sponge bath and or whatever.” He smirked and his eyes glinted in the dying light of the torches.

Jack grinned. “Yeah. Sure. And then I’ll fuck you.”

Sawyer’s eyes widened slightly and then he grinned. He slid his arms around Jack’s neck and pulled him closer. “Whatever you say,” he obediently. “You’re the doc.”

Jack rolled his eyes, not believing a word of it, and slid his hand between them, touching Sawyer lightly and then grinning when Sawyer grunted and arched up against him. “That’s what it takes to get you to follow doctor’s orders?”

“Promise me that and I’ll follow any orders,” Sawyer whispered, tongue swiping against Jack’s lips. Then he stopped suddenly and pulled back, glaring. “Almost any orders, just let us be clear on that.”

Jack laughed and slid out of Sawyer’s arms and leapt to his feet, dressing quickly. “Let’s go, then,” he said, holding out one hand to Sawyer and watching with amusement as Sawyer remained where he was, kicked back and completely relaxed, nude, hands behind his head and skin glistening golden in the firelight.

“This don’t change nothin’,” Sawyer said defiantly, pointing one finger. “I still hate your fuckin’ guts.”

“That wasn’t what you were saying a few minutes ago,” Jack said, eyes still traveling up and down the length of Sawyer’s body and he found himself suddenly eager to get Sawyer to his feet and down to the nearest pool.

“I was drunk,” Sawyer said, glaring. Jack raised his eyebrows in disbelief and Sawyer sighed and thought for a moment before his eyes brightened.

“Or delirious, maybe, what with bein’ shot and all this heat. Delirious, that’s it, must’ve been,” Sawyer stated emphatically, but he smiled a very slight and brief smile and reached out one hand to let Jack pull him to his feet.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jack said as he watched Sawyer pulled on his jeans. “I must’ve been, too. Drunk and delirious, why else would I have let you, of all people, touch me?” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

Sawyer glowered, arms crossed. “You were beggin’ for it and you damn well know it,” he growled.

Jack shrugged. “I was drunk. Not to mention delirious,” he said, his tone completely serious while he held one hand over his mouth to hide the beginnings of a smile.

Sawyer’s glower darkened and Jack grinned and then shoved Sawyer hard in the small of the back in the direction of the path to the pool, laughing as Sawyer cursed and tripped and shoved back, and it was again a battle but one of a competitive nature, man against man, strength against strength, but a battle that soon changed the more that they touched each other, stumbling down the path, mouth upon mouth and hands upon bodies.

***

Afterwards, clean and tired and more relaxed than either had been since the crash, they were walking slowly and sleepily toward the beach, having come to an unspoken agreement that Jack would stay with Sawyer that night when Sawyer pulled up suddenly, eyes dark and expression angry, body coiled tightly and tension rolling off him in waves.

“What?” Jack whispered in surprise and Sawyer jerked his head. Jack turned, squinting through the curtain of the jungle and saw Locke at the hatch with torch in hand, Kate at his side, Locke gesturing expansively and both of them speaking in muted tones.

Jack’s blood pounded in his veins and he was overcome with fury; he’d expected this from Locke but not from Kate, and he shoved past Sawyer, enraged. “What in the hell are you doing?” he demanded, feeling Sawyer right behind him at his back. “I said this thing is off-limits; what part of that did you not understand?” he said sharply, looking at Locke pointedly.

Locke ignored the question. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said, smiling a friendly smile.

“I said, what in the hell are you doing?” Jack shouted and started to move forward, stumbling slightly when Sawyer grabbed his arm. Jack turned to glare at him but Sawyer just gave a quick shake of his head and Jack stared at him for a moment, reading the warning in Sawyer’s eyes, then he slowly and reluctantly backed off. He stood, arms crossed, eyes jumping from Locke to Kate as he waited for an answer. He watched them closely, and saw that suddenly Kate was slightly behind Locke and she was staring at Jack intently, also giving a barely perceptible shake of her head, her eyes speaking volumes.

“Just having a conversation,” Locke said finally, still smiling.

“Right,” Kate said, looking briefly at Locke before turning her eyes again to Jack. “We’re just talking, we thought there might be something useful here. That’s okay, isn’t it, Jack? I’ll see you in the morning, all right?” Her head bent forward slightly and her eyes darkened and Jack could tell she was urging both him and Sawyer on and away.

Jack stared at them both, relaxing only slightly at the fact that Kate was apparently seeking information and not taking sides, and although he wasn’t surprised he was enraged at the very idea that there had to be sides, out here; out here it was strength in numbers, not fucking sides, Jack thought bitterly.

“When you’re done, I want that fucking thing closed and guarded, do you hear me?” he bit out. “For now, anyway, can you deal with that much at least, Locke? Stay away from the damned thing until we all discuss it? Is that fucking acceptable to you?”

Locke was still smiling while behind him Kate ran one hand nervously through her hair.

“Of course, Jack,” Locke said. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jack turned on his heel and again shoved past Sawyer and out into the night, Sawyer right behind him.

“You, gotta watch him, Doc,” Sawyer muttered as they tramped toward the beach. “He’s one crazy motherfucker.”

“No fucking kidding,” Jack snarled, and started to move again when Sawyer caught him by the arm.

“No, Doc, not just crazy, he’s . . .” Sawyer started to say, voice quiet and eyes darting back in Locke’s direction.

“He’s what?” Jack hissed, glaring. “He’s what, Sawyer?”

Sawyer shoved his hands through his hair. “Locke is . . .” Sawyer hesitated, fighting to find the words. “He’s part of it, he is it now.” He stared at Jack helplessly. “Does that make any fuckin’ sense?” he asked, scowling in frustration, the words having come from somewhere deep inside, from someplace he didn’t know and they meant things he couldn’t really explain.

Jack stared at him for a long moment, eyes black with rage. “Yeah,” Jack muttered finally, hating the fact that he was shaking. “I think I have an idea of what you mean.”

He paused, rubbing one hand over his mouth. “Listen. I’m going back to the caves, all right?” he said, avoiding Sawyer’s eyes. “I’ve got to think. Then in the morning, you, me, Sayid and Kate are going to have a discussion. This can’t go on, it just can’t.”

He turned then, stalking off toward the caves, and Sawyer stood for a moment and sighed, looking after him and then back in the direction of Locke and Kate. Then he shook his head and followed Jack in spite of the fact that he obviously now was not welcome, scrubbing tiredly at his face as he did so.

***

Now

“So,” Hurley said, voice trembling slightly. “Charlie’s gone. Disappeared.”

“Yes,” Sayid said softly, feeling Hurley’s grief and fear as if it were his own, which in essence, he supposed, it was.

“And Jack . . . Sayid, are you sure? I mean, how . . . after all this time, how?”

Sayid sighed. “Hurley . . .”

“Listen, I’ll call the cops as soon as we get done here, but one more time, dude. Please. Gotta have some time to process all this, you know?”

“Fine,” Sayid said and prepared himself to tell the story again. “Jack and I were speaking, about Charlie and about the dreams. Jack sounded strange, because of the shock or because he had been drinking or both, I’m not sure. And then suddenly he was gone, but the phone line was still open and I heard-“ Sayid paused and gritted his teeth, the hair on the back of his neck rising yet again as he remembered.

“I heard him say ‘Sawyer,’” Sayid finished. “As if he were speaking to Sawyer. And then the line went dead.”

Hurley was quiet for a long time.

“Hurley?” Sayid prompted.

Hurley sighed heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’m gonna call the cops, see what I can do. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something, okay? Gotta call Claire, too, Jesus, I knew something was wrong when I saw their number on the caller I.D. but I’ve been so busy, shit, I shoulda . . .”

“Stop, Hurley. It’s not your fault. Let’s find out about Jack first and go from there, all right? Call the authorities,” Sayid said quietly. “I will speak with you later.”

“Right,” Hurley sighed. “Take care, Sayid, okay?”

“Of course,” Sayid said.

Hurley hung up and then dialed the number Sayid had given him, spoke with whomever he had to and threw his name around more than he ever had before and hated every minute of it, and was finally reassured that someone would go by Jack’s house and call him back as soon as possible.

And then he collapsed into bed, dozing fitfully, waiting for the phone to ring.

And then, that night, Hurley had his first nightmare.
 

Title:  “The Disappeared – Part Five”