Therapy ("Clark"/Dr. Tomlin)

[SA Dr. John Clark]

>PARKING LOT, OFFICE OF DR. EMERSON TOMLIN, PHYSICAL THERAPIST

A long, sleek black-and-silver Firebird pulled into the lot, but somehow this Firebird was different from any other: nose extended a foot ahead of normal and recontoured, a top spoiler above the nose, two small wings projecting out of each side, a raised top-line at the rear and spoiler further extended above that, and a new lower spoiler below the rear bumper. As the big Pontiac came to a stop, the rear "bubble" lowered to the normal position, the spoilers and fins retracted, and the nose and spoiler collapsed together and pulled back into a nice blended contour, what looked like an amber light sweeping from side to side between the vehicle's hood and nose, along with the driver's-side door opening to reveal an odd fellow in a black suit...

The suit spoke: "Good morning, Dr. Tomlin--I'm that patient that Dr. Mallard sent you the sealed file about. It's complicated, but I'll explain inside... Apologies for startling you, we"--and here he paused to pat the vehicle's hood--"didn't know the neighborhood very well and thought it best to be here a bit early. Besides, you know how things go with signing in, and waiting, and waiting some more, and I figured the sooner I got on the list the sooner the wait would be over," he said with a chuckle.

[emerson]

Emerson’s coffee ran down her throat, giving her a jolt of energy for the day. She had to get to her office early for a therapy appointment that morning at seven. Since she lived so far away and wasn’t much of a morning girl, she had to wake at an ugly time of morning. Em took another swig of coffee and tossed her keys on her desk after unlocking the door to the Physical Therapy practice. The hours sucked but the pay was pretty amazing. Em had only been working as a physical therapist for a year and a half and she already had her dream home. Plus she was still working for the doctor that ran the facility; imagine her life once she could run a place of her own. That brought a smile to her pretty face. Emerson signed her name on the file and went into one of twelve rooms that had many items neatly stacked in a closet or against the wall.
Sighing, Em began reading the injury file of her new client. He had been shot, badly.

“Poor dear…”

It wasn’t a very specific explanation so she had no idea how to prepare herself for this guy. What a day this would turn out to be. She looked at her wrist watch, 6:45am. She still had about fifteen minutes until he arrived there.

Em went into the restroom and found herself French braiding her long, blonde hair. She was a beautiful woman; she didn’t like flaunting it too much though. It made her look cocky and stuck up, which she wasn’t. Her outfit consisted of snug fitting yoga pants and a white tank top covered by a light jacket. Why dress up if you were only going to be getting on the floor showing people how to stretch themselves to heal? Her practice never required any kind of special dress code anyway. Red painted nails tied the final band into her hair and secured any loose hair with a pin before walking out into the room again.

She saw a different looking car pull up and walked up to the door to unlock it for the client. She usually kept herself locked in when she was alone for security reasons. She met the man at the door as he greeted her. Looking down at her clipboard, she read the name Clark (I'm not sure what his last name is, sorry!). Em let out a chuckle as he commented on not knowing the neighborhood very well.

"Ah well Mr. Clark, I've lived here most of my adult life and I still have many issues with finding my way around. Please, come in."

[SA Dr. John Clark]

The patient went slack-jawed for a moment, awestruck by the stunner who answered the door. "Actually, it's just 'Clark'--force of habit, most of us who've done time with Gibbs at NCIS go by last names only," he replied as he followed her in. "Sorry about that, while I had some idea of what you looked like from your website--I always like to make sure I at least know the faces of whoever I'm dealing with so I can recognize them--you're even more beautiful in person," he apologized, flashing a shy smile.

Once inside, he continued: "Before we get this started, you do need to know that I am an armed Federal agent, and I need to know where you'd like me to store my weapons. These are old-school single-action Colt .45s that were issued in WWI and WWII--actually, the older of mine was General MacArthur's personal sidearm. Good news, they have two independent safeties that both have to disengage to fire, bad news is once they're off all it takes is three to five pounds of pressure to drop the hammer."

"Also, if these," and he tapped his near-opaque Ray-Bans, "need to come off, I'll need to ask you to either dim the lights or act as my guide since I'm extremely light-sensitive--normal daylight to me is like staring into KARR out there's ultra-high-beams would be to you."

The man then pulled a box out of his briefcase. "This contains a cast of the wound cavity when I was shot--unofficially, I felt chunks of rib and heart leaving through my back and actually Bit The Big One--one minute I'm bleeding out all over a close friend who unfortunately had to be the shooter and actually feel the life leave my body and knowing that I'm dying in her arms and the baggage I'm sticking her with, and the next thing I know I'm looking up at Dr. Mallard getting ready to commence autopsy and somehow tissue has regenerated to plug the hole and put my heart back together. Don't ask me how, I'm as confused as anybody and don't really understand it myself, but over the years I've seen many things that science couldn't explain and I've learned to accept that some questions just can't be answered. To tell the truth, I don't know if this second chance I've been given is a blessing or a curse..."

"As for all the secrecy, I've become a football between some very powerful players in Washington. Some want me alive, some want me dead, when you're black ops friends become foes and vice versa faster than anyone can believe; as I once told a journalist while on an op in Iraq, 'alliances shift like desert sands.' Even with my new bosses at the FBI, they only refer to me officially by a codename, the strategy is to make those who want me gone think I am, at least for a while."

[emerson]

As he commented on her beauty, Em glanced downward and gave a flustered chuckle. She wasn't used to being greeted like so. Her cheeks flushed red for the slightest moment before she turned and walked further into the office.

"Oh well... thank you."

"Before we get this started, you do need to know that I am an armed Federal agent, and I need to know where you'd like me to store my weapons. These are old-school single-action Colt .45s that were issued in WWI and WWII--actually, the older of mine was General MacArthur's personal sidearm. Good news, they have two independent safeties that both have to disengage to fire, bad news is once they're off all it takes is three to five pounds of pressure to drop the hammer."


He mentioned he was armed. She nodded and was rather confused. Em didn't know fire arms very well... She extended her arms to take the weapons from him. She was going to put them in a safe she had in the back room. She offered to take them in her sweet Australian accent.

"Here, let me take those from you. I have a safe I can put them in around back. Feel free to get them once the session is finished. And for the Ray-Bans, I'll take them too. Dimming the lights can be done if that's what you need."

She smiled and stifled a yawn before she dimmed the lights. She felt awfully tired this morning. No amount of caffeine was going to make up for lack of sleep.

"This contains a cast of the wound cavity when I was shot--unofficially, I felt chunks of rib and heart leaving through my back and actually Bit The Big One--one minute I'm bleeding out all over a close friend who unfortunately had to be the shooter and actually feel the life leave my body, and the next thing I know I'm looking up at Dr. Mallard getting ready to commence autopsy and somehow tissue has regenerated to plug the hole and put my heart back together. Don't ask me how, I'm as confused as anybody and don't really understand it myself, but over the years I've seen many things that science couldn't explain and I've learned to accept that some questions just can't be answered. To tell the truth, I don't know if this second chance I've been given is a blessing or a curse..."

Emerson had never even heard of that kind of story before. She had heard some crazy ones in her day but this topped them all. She was questioning this guys sanity now... If you were given a second chance, wouldn't it be a blessing? Especially if you were about to get cut open for examination. She widened her blue eyes and shook her head at the morbid thought.

"I'd for certain call it a blessing Clark. Not everyone is given a second chance at life!"

[SA Dr. John Clark]

As she mentioned her safe, the suit removed first his jacket and then his shoulder rig, then his forearm magazine-holders and finally the pair of small .45s on his ankles. "Thank you, Doctor; I know not everyone's comfortable with these things, even among we who have to carry them, and the only reason I make it work is I've designed the load so that instead of my body having to do all the work, it actually balances itself and even helps hold me up. By the way, has anyone ever told you that your accent is as beautiful as you are? I could listen to the sound of your voice all day..."

"My apologies for the early morning and the iron, but I'm on my way to Hostage Rescue Class--if it helps, I had a three-hour drive in from Norfolk this morning myself, after spending part of yesterday helping with restoration work on the Wisconsin." And sure enough, close inspection revealed tiny flecks of battleship-gray paint on his hands. "Suppose I need to find somewhere better than my desk or a cot in my hangar on the Marine base's airfield to crash during the week, too, if we're gonna make this work..." he said, looking up to let his eyes reveal a haunted, thoroughly traumatized, but still rational mind behind them as he passed her a folder containing 'before" and "after" photos. "Dr. Mallard sent these--he said disbelief is understandable, he wouldn't believe it himself if he hadn't loaded me into a locker in Autopsy and then locked the facility down for a three-day weekend, and to be honest I wouldn't believe me if I didn't have the scars--and still feel where the bullet had passed through. Let me tell you, I will never underestimate a gun smaller than a .45 again," he said with a chuckle after the last.

"True, not everyone gets a second chance, especially with where I went after Round One," he said as he pointed downward. "On the other hand, I now have to face the people who put me down, people who're about the only family I've ever had aside from Dr. Mallard and SSA Gibbs's team at NCIS, and not only explain all this to them but win their trust all over again, especially since what got me Burned was trying to protect a member of their team from a group of rogue agents. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't outside of a secured facility..." and here he dropped his voice to whisper, "though if you have any interest in aviation or history, you might find having me give you a tour of the Marine Air-Ground Museum most enlightening," with a wink. And then he passed a handwritten note: "I used to be a spy--it's easy to bounce a laser mike off a window, and for the moment it's best that certain parties don't know I'm back."

Speaking again, he mentioned, "I know a little about Anatomy and Physiology thanks to a copy of Gray's Anatomy that came from the great-uncle who gave me one of those .45s, at least enough to know that my left pectoral and latissimus dorsi are gonna need a lot of work, and I'm gonna be shooting right-handed for a while. So, where do we start, and what do you need me to do? I should also note that if there's anything I need to read or sign, I'm dreadfully nearsighted--my ophthalmologist figured it would be best to combine corrective and protective features onto one set of lenses, hence the Ray-Bans."

[emerson]

Em took his weaponry in her arms and quickly made her way to the back room and put them away in the safe. She had stumbled a bit on the way to the safe under the weight of the guns. She was a strong girl, just she hadn't expected them to be quite so heavy.

She made her way back quickly to Clark, who had waited patently for her return. So far, she liked him quite a bit. He was a gentleman, that's for sure.

"Thank you, Doctor; I know not everyone's comfortable with these things, even among we who have to carry them, and the only reason I make it work is I've designed the load so that instead of my body having to do all the work, it actually balances itself and even helps hold me up. By the way, has anyone ever told you that your accent is as beautiful as you are? I could listen to the sound of your voice all day..."


Em smiled and replied, "It's no problem Clark, I'm not too bothered by firearms."

Her face turned red again as he shot her another complement. He was a real sweetheart it seemed.

"Well glad you like it because you'll be hearing plenty of it these next few months!"

"I know a little about Anatomy and Physiology thanks to a copy of Gray's Anatomy that came from the great-uncle who gave me one of those .45s, at least enough to know that my left pectoral and latissimus dorsi are gonna need a lot of work, and I'm gonna be shooting right-handed for a while. So, where do we start, and what do you need me to do?



Emerson ran through certain exercises for the upper body. Since he had gotten shot in his left pectoral, he'd have to strengthen his shoulder rotators tissue again since the bullet went through that area.

"Well, firstly you need to strengthen up the tissue and muscles in your left shoulder since your pectoral is affected by that part of the body."

She moved gracefully across the room and got out some elastic thera-bands for him to work with. She demonstrated how to do the quick exercise and then gave them to him to do. Afterwards, she figured if she was going to be seeing him on a regular basis, maybe she needed to get to know him a little better.

"So Clark, I understand your line of work is very secretive and dangerous, jah?"

[SA Dr. John Clark]

After running through her recommended exercises, Clark asked if he could put a little music on, then lowered his voice before responding: "Extremely--there are some agencies who are none too happy that I've left the covert services to join the FBI, but my little vacation on the Other Side caused me to realize a few things about my line of work, like that while it's unavoidable that sometimes I must take lives I'd much rather be saving them when I can. I'm lucky to have some power players backing me up, though--I may no longer have the agency's official protection and blessing, but a lot of NCIS's top agents have gone to bat for me, and the Marines consider me one of them despite never even passing the physical let alone joining up, ditto a quiet little unit that officially doesn't exist out in Little Creek. Homeland Security doesn't like me because I've been politically active against some initiatives of theirs I found damn scary and even Unconstitutional, and the boys at Fort Meade... Ever see the film Enemy of the State with Will Smith and Gene Hackman? It could almost be a documentary about how my ex-colleagues roll on a daily basis... and there are rumors that one of the anonymous sources who consulted on it and his whole family paid with their lives for talking out of turn. Then there's DARPA backing me for all the gadgets I've created for them, and one of the two Artificial Intelligences that are my 'children' has offered to reply to my Burn with a cruise missile through somebody's office window. Blackout can sometimes be a little excessive, though, guess it's hard to do anything small when your body is the second-biggest but most powerful rotorcraft in the world." At this last the odd little man let out a small chuckle, appreciating the irony of such a small person having such huge "offspring".

"Just a trivial note, while I may look like one of the bad guys in an Indiana Jones movie the resemblance is only skin-deep except when I'm doing an impression of him on Halloween--I've had my share of run-ins with neo-Nazis, and my college girlfriend was Jewish; we didn't work out as a couple, but we stayed friends until I had myself sheep-dipped to bury my past for all concerned's protection. Not offended, just trying to say that sometimes references in German can be a little awkward, which is part of why despite a slice of my heritage being 1700s-era Sauerkraut I took Japanese for my Foreign Language credits. Came in handy in my career, but that's another story... other than to note that with the allies I have in Tokyo, those who want me gone could light up an international incident and I had to fire off a personal note to Emperor Akihito asking him to keep his people low-key until I can clear this all up."

"Speaking of clearing things up, once this last job is done I'm thinking about getting out entirely, maybe going fulltime engineer or making a career out of restoration and preservation on the old battleship I call 'home' or finding some nice college to teach WWII History at somewhere, I don't know but something to develop the 'constructive' side of my nature. Maybe try running a diner like the quiet little place that let me work out of their back dining-room during my college years."