The days passed and wounds healed. Both friends began to improve. It took about another week before Mark was allowed to go home. His back was fused, as was his chest. The doctors had removed the stitches. John's stitches were also removed and so both of them went home. By home, I mean John's apartment. The bassist was convinced that the guitarist should not be alone. And above all, he wanted to practice speaking with him as much as possible so that the stuttering would stop as soon as possible. Marks hands were shaking slightly, but not as badly as his friends had expected. Two more days had passed. John had slept on the sofa. He went to the bathroom and got ready before preparing breakfast on the table. John went to his bedroom in a good mood and carefully opened the door. He wanted to wake Mark and then ask him to breakfast. But when he opened the door, his smile disappeared.

Mark was sitting on the edge of the bed. His back was facing the door, so he didn't notice the bassist's presence. His head hung in defeat, as did his shoulders. He stared out the window, sighing. Mark was not wearing a shirt, only pants, and John's eyes widened as he took a closer look at Mark's back. His back was scarred. Badly scarred. Because the stitches had been torn open twice, the skin had not had a chance to grow back together nicely. The scars were still very fresh and therefore glowed a bright pink. It was not a pretty sight and John felt tears tingling in his eyes. Shit. The bassist gently tapped his knuckles on the door frame so that the younger man noticed that he was there. Mark turned his head and looked at him before jumping up and immediately trying to put on his shirt. John walked over to him and stopped him.

"Stop that." He said gently. "You don't have to be ashamed." John gently ran his fingers over the fresh scars. Mark winced a little and then looked at the floor. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Mark. You fought. Fought for your life. For a long time it looked like you were going to come out of this fight as a loser. But you're not. You're still alive. These scars... they're unimportant." Mark raised his head and looked at him with sad eyes. John smiled encouragingly. "I think it's better for the wounds if you don't wrap them in fabric, but leave them on air." John took the shirt away from him. "At least for half an hour." The guitarist nodded a little and slowly stood up. "Come on. I made breakfast." The two made their way to the kitchen. John noticed that the scars on Mark's chest had been sewn up so well that they were barely visible. The bassist smiled. At least his chest didn't look too bad. Mark sat down at the kitchen table and slowly began to eat the croissant on his plate. John didn't rush him. He ate his own in silence. When they were both finished, John put the dishes in the dishwasher.

"Mark?" He asked quietly. The guitarist was now sitting on the sofa in the living room and staring at the switched off TV. "You've been out of the hospital for 4 days now. We need to start getting rid of your stuttering soon." The guitarist remained silent. John sat down next to him. "I know this will be hard, but I'll help you, okay? We'll get through this together." He took Mark's hand and held it gently in his. The guitarist didn't react again. John sighed and took a deep breath. "Come on, Mark. You're a singer. A performer. Your voice is important. You have to speak. Talk to me, please. How are you? You haven't said a single word for days. You don't have to be ashamed of stuttering. It's completely normal and okay. We'll get through this together, okay? I won't laugh at you or anything like that if that's what you think." Mark remained silent and still looked at the floor. The bassist sighed. He was tired and was starting to get angry. He had been going on the same monologue for days. For days he had been telling Mark that it was okay to stutter and that it was nothing to be ashamed of, but the younger man had stopped speaking anyway. He hadn't said a word since his fever broke. And that had been almost two weeks ago.

"Mark." John said, barely managing to keep his anger out of his voice. "Stop being a big baby and talk to me!" Towards the end of the sentence his voice rose and became louder. "I want to help you, don't you understand!? But if you keep being an asshole, then I can't! Open your bloody mouth and talk to me, damn it!" Mark lowered his head a little lower. He felt tears in his eyes. John raised his head angrily. He noticed the tears. They were flowing from the corners of Mark's eyes and rolled silently down his cheek. Mark's lips trembled slightly, but he was crying silently. "Stop crying. There is absolutely no reason to." John said, still a little angry. "Nobody did anything to you. The accident was fate, just like the stroke. But if you're Mark fucking Knopfler, then stop sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. Start working on your problems, like you always did." Mark pulled himself away from him, stood up and disappeared into the bedroom. He closed the door quietly behind him. John slumped back against the arm of the sofa with a loud sigh. He wiped his face with his hands and pulled at his hair with an annoyed cry. "Fucking hell!" He shouted angrily. He sat on the sofa for quite a while before getting up and going to the phone. If Mark didn't want to talk to him, maybe he would talk to someone else. His finger turned the dial and he waited. It rang for a while before he could hear another voice.

"Clapton." John smiled.

"Hello Eric, this is John."

"John? John Illsley?" John nodded silently until he realized Eric couldn't see him.

"Yes! It's me, John."

"Hey, John. How are you? I heard you were injured and in hospital." John bit his lip.

"Yes. I was. But I'm doing very well now."

"I'm glad, buddy." John smiled. "How's Mark? I haven't heard much from him other than that he had a very high fever." John sighed in frustration.

"He's fine. The fever's broken, the wounds are healed. He's in my apartment. But... you know people stutter after strokes, right?" Eric sighed through the phone.

"He stutters? Damn, I expected something like this. Are you doing speech exercises with him?"

"That's the problem. He hasn't spoken for almost two weeks. He refuses to say anything. I think he's afraid of hearing himself stutter. But I can't help him if he doesn't talk to me. I was hoping that you...that you could maybe come over and talk to him. Maybe it's because of me." John bit his lower lip sadly. "Maybe he just doesn't want to talk to me." There was silence on the line for a while.

"Do you think he would talk to me?" Asked the guitarist.

"I don't know, Eric. I don't know." John mumbled. "But you're one of his best friends."

"I'll come over, give me your address, I'm on my way."

*

45 minutes later, the doorbell rang at John's apartment. John let Eric in with a smile and talked to him in more detail about the problem. Then he led Eric to the bedroom. He knocked on the door again and then opened it carefully. Mark was sitting on the floor next to the balcony door and looked out. His legs were pulled up to his chest, his back leaning against the wall. He raised his head slightly and looked at the door.

"Hey, Mark." John smiled gently. "You have a visitor." Eric peeked through the door and Mark couldn't help but grin when he saw his friend. John felt a little pain when he saw the joy on Mark's face.

"Hi, Mark!" Eric called and put on a bright smile before entering the room. John closed the door with a sigh and went back into the living room. Meanwhile, Eric had sat down on the floor next to Mark. They sat next to each other in silence for a while. Eric tried to find something in his head to start with. "So, I... I was wondering if you were okay." Mark nodded silently. Eric bit his lip. "You know... I think you should talk to John." Mark turned his head and looked at him. "He's really worried about you and only wants the best for you. I'll be honest with you, I'm here because he thought you might want to talk to me." Eric was silent for a while. "Will you talk to me?" Mark lowered his blue eyes to the floor and remained silent. "Is it because you're ashamed of stuttering? Or does something hurt when you speak?" Mark remained silent again. Eric sighed and stroked his short beard. No wonder John had become angry. He had been trying to get the other man to talk for two weeks. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, you know that, right?" Mark remained silent again. "Knopfler, look at me." Eric said firmly. He lifted Mark's head and looked him straight in the eyes. "You're a good friend of mine. I'm worried about you too. Not as much as John, I know that, but I'm worried about you. And if you keep sitting here in this dark room, looking out the window, without speaking to anyone... shit, Mark, that's not healthy. Not for you and not for other people. You'll go insane if you keep doing this." While he spoke, he was holding Mark's head firmly in his hands. "Please talk to someone. It doesn't matter to whom. But talk, damn it. Nobody will laugh at you if you stutter. Absolutely nobody. We're all just glad that you're still here. We're just so glad that you're still here with us and that you haven't gone to heaven by now." Mark remained silent, even though he didn't believe in heaven, he knew Eric did. The older guitarist sighed and slowly stood up. "Please, talk to someone. It doesn't matter to whom, but do it soon." With that, he quietly left the room.

"And?" John called out expectantly and ran towards him as Eric came into the living room. The guitarist shook his head silently.

"I couldn't get through to him. He doesn't let anyone get to him."

"I know." John sighed quietly.

"I'm sorry, John. I was hoping I could help." John smiled gently at him.

"You did. The fact that you came helped a lot. I think he will think about your words, no matter what you told him." Eric smiled sadly.

*

The next morning, John called Sting. Just as he had told Eric to come, he did the same with him. It took a little longer before the singer rang his doorbell. John also gave Sting his time with Mark, but when the singer came back to him in the kitchen, his head dropped in resignation. John sighed.

"No luck?" Sting shook his head.

"No matter what I asked him, no matter what I told him, he didn't answer." Sting bit his lower lip. "Shit, John, we're losing him. He's completely tuned out from the world around him. If we don't do something soon, his psyche will develop in such a way that he won't be able to perceive anything anymore."

"I don't know what to do!" John shouted in frustration, pulling at his hair. Sting looked at him with pity. He knew that the bassist was suffering from Mark's condition.

"Talk to him?"

"Do you think I didn't do that!?" John shouted. "I've been trying to talk to him for two weeks, but that stubborn bastard won't open his mouth. No matter what I say, no matter how I tease or insult him, he won't make a single sound." Suddenly John started to cry. Sting immediately took him in his arms and pulled him to his chest. "I don't know what to do." John sobbed. "I'm so worried about him, but he won't let me help."

"Sh." The singer whispered, gently stroking the bassist's back. "Maybe he needs more time?"

"You said it yourself. We have to act now. He's turning off his perception."

"But maybe he just needs more time."

"He had two weeks!" John sobbed. He just couldn't take it anymore. All the anger, frustration and rage that had been building up inside him over the last few weeks came to the surface as he sobbed and clung tightly to Sting's shoulders.

"I know but maybe it wasn't enough time for him." Sting mumbled.

"Tell me what to do." John sobbed and looked at him with desperate brown eyes. "I tried everything which came to my mind. I don't know what to do anymore. My best friend is fading before my eyes and there's nothing I can do except from talking to him?" John sobbed into Stings chest. The singer sighed and gently held him to himself, which was an achievement, since John was way taller than him.

"I know how you're feeling. I know that you're worried but...hell, John...I don't know what else we could do then talk to him." John sobbed quietly.

"I miss him. I miss him so much. Fuck I hate Live Aid. We weren't even supposed to be there. Everyone in the band said we should cancel it and just do our own gig, but Mark wanted to do Live Aid at all costs. He really wanted to play there. Fuck we shouldn't have been there that night." Sting sighed.

"I know what you mean." He said sadly.

"I just want my friend back, Sting." Cried John brokenly. Suddenly they heard a soft creak of a floorboard and both turned around. Mark Freuder Knopfler was standing in the doorway. His eyes looked sad, just as they had for the last few days. He held on to the doorframe and looked at John with concern.

"J...Joh...n." He croaked quietly. His voice had become rough from lack of use. Sting and John looked at each other in shock before looking back at the guitarist. "I...I'm so s...sor...ry." Mark croaked again. John jumped up and pulled Mark tightly into his arms. The guitarist gasped as he was pulled so violently towards the larger body.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, you idiot." John laughed as more tears ran down his cheeks and he clung to the blond man as if the smaller one was his lifeline.