A/N Okay, so I know I haven't finished my other story yet, but this plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone. It's a bit awkward and rushed and short, but it was just one of those obsessive ideas that wouldn't go away until I put it down on paper (khm, screen). So I hope you like it.

Also, I must issue a spoiler warning, since this story deals with the episode that some of you may not have seen yet.

A horn blared loudly, slamming into his consciousness, and he jerked his head up just in time to see himself sailing into the oncoming traffic. Heart hammering wildly against his ribcage, he wrenched the steering wheel to the right, swerving back into his own lane. The sharp movement echoed in his torn abdomen, bringing with it an explosion of pain that threatened to pull him under. His vision darkened dangerously, and he gritted his teeth, blinking furiously to clear away the encroaching blackness. This isn't good.

The hands holding the wheel trembled with the effort of keeping the car straight, and Steve knew his body well enough to know that in a very short while that effort will prove to be too much. He needed a plan. And fast. Because in a few more minutes exhaustion and blood loss will have the upper hand, and Victor's clever little scheme will be smashed into bits like this squad car against an oncoming truck.

"Focus, McGarrett," he hissed, as his grip slipped again, making the car lurch sideways. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and he risked pulling one hand away to wipe it off.

First things first - the bleeding had to be stopped. Otherwise he was as good as dead. He needed some gauze and bandages and maybe something to stitch up that hole in his belly. Those items were readily available in any local pharmacy. The problem was that his "borrowed" uniform was now completely soaked in blood from the waist down, and he couldn't exactly walk into a pharmacy looking like that. So where to then?

The ex-SEAL thought feverishly, running through his meager options in his mind. And then suddenly a familiar street name came into view and he almost laughed in relief. His decision made, he turned into the nearest side street, nearly crashing the car into an overfilled dumpster that blocked almost half the alley. Beside being a dangerous obstacle, however, the dumpster also provided him with a perfect hiding place for his stolen vehicle, and Steve counted his blessings.

Using the wall as much (if not more) for support as for cover, he stumbled along the shaded alleyways toward a small grey building that, if his memory served him correctly, housed the apartment of one Max Bergman, the city's medical examiner. It wasn't so much Max himself that Steve was hoping to find, though. In fact, he was kind of counting on the fact that Max wouldn't even be there. What he did hope for was an ample supply of those much needed items that would help get him patched up and back on his feet. With any luck, he'd be gone before Max even gets home.

That was the plan. And it was a good one. At least that's what he kept telling himself when his feet nearly gave out twice and only sheer force of will kept him from face-diving into the ground. And it worked, too. All the way up until he broke into the apartment through a side window and his hand, slick with blood, slipped on the table that he leaned on for support. His arms flailed, knocking down a table lamp, as he scrambled desperately for purchase. But it was all in vain, as nothing but empty air met his awkward attempts, and he crashed hard onto the unforgiving floor.

A deluge of pain swept over him, robbing him of breath, as he lay rigid and unmoving, clinging to the faint shreds of consciousness. "Nice going there, Rambo. Real smooth," a familiar voice taunted in his mind, and Steve growled weakly in frustration. "Get out of my head, Danno."

Pushing himself up on his elbows - a task that cost him more time and effort than he would have liked, Steve looked around, his hazy gaze falling on a partially open bathroom door. Bingo.

He moved to stand, instantly regretting that decision, as the room spun violently, nearly toppling him back onto the floor. "Okay, okay. Crawling it is."

And so he dragged himself painfully forward, perfectly aware of the bloody trail he was leaving behind in Max's living room but no longer finding the energy to care. By the time he reached the bathroom, black stars danced in his vision, and he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his head upright. Digging his teeth viciously into his bottom lip, he squinted up at the fuzzy contours of a medicine cabinet. It hung there above the sink, hopelessly out of reach, taunting him with its unattainability.

Steve closed his eyes in defeat, letting his head drop bonelessly onto the floor. How could he hope to reach it, when he didn't even have the strength to get up on his knees? But what other choice did he have? He sighed deeply, allowing his exhausted body this brief moment of respite.

A moment later, the dark blue eyes opened, blazing with desperate resolve. Using the sink cabinet for support, the former SEAL slowly began to pull himself up, ignoring the protests of his weakened body. Jaws clenched with enough force to shatter the teeth, limbs trembling with weakness and effort, he inched closer and closer to his goal, until his legs gave out, and his strength was suddenly no more.

Limp fingers slid off the edge of the sink, and he toppled backwards, landing in an awkward heap against the wall. His last conscious thought was that Max was gonna be pretty pissed when he finds that lamp.

That's that. Let me know what you think. Please?