– I… Thank you," she says on an exhale.

– Drop it. – Harmon stands up, grunting. – I know you won't tell, and yes, you can't promise. Now get your coat on and get to work. Yes," he finishes. – Work. I'm going to sleep now…

* * *

The waiting room is so crowded you could suffocate; the smells of chlorine and blood create a hellish mixture. Doctors and nurses rushed back and forth, paramedics' blue suits flashing, sirens howling from the street. Emily huddles against the wall, missing the gurney with the bloody mess, and then someone pulls her hard and painfully against herself by the collar of her robe.

Emily flails her arms awkwardly, but she doesn't fall, and she hears a low laugh behind her. She turns around and sees Gilmore in his surgical suit, leaning against the wall, chuckling softly; his red hair looks like living fire in the light of the cold lamps.

– What's going on? – Emily spins around herself, trying to look around: gurneys everywhere, the air filled with groans, someone shouting into the phone. In the midst of this chaos, the relaxed Gilmore is a veritable island of calm and serenity.

– Southwark Bridge," explains the surgeon. – One decided to go around traffic, another was showing his lady a nighttime drift, and a third braked too sharply. Some of the cars are in nothing, a few are still swimming, the rest are here. Well, the ones who need us.

The loudspeakers explode with names and operating room numbers; Emily hears Clark's last name, and then Davis, the second surgeon, apparently called in from his day off, whizzes past.

– Go to trauma, Johnson," Gilmore says, still too calmly. – Clark's waiting for me.

Emily twitches.

– Aren't we supposed to…

– Tu." Gilmore abruptly turns around and walks toward the elevator. – It's Davis on the bones tonight. And Neil will be here soon. – He's yawning. – They didn't call everyone in for nothing.

– But didn't…

– Take it easy. – Gilmore holds the door. – Clark's a smart guy, but I don't think he and Dylan can do it alone. But who knows? Who knows?

– But there's more people in there. – Emily exclaims, trying to somehow object; Gilmore seems to her the kind of angel savior she can't do without.

The surgeon gives her a strange look: a mixture of pity, understanding, and interest; then he chuckles without answering, and Emily is ashamed: Gilmore is not the only surgeon in the hospital, there are others in other departments, and by now they must all be gathered in the waiting room. And she panics.

So when Riley hides behind the iron doors, Emily doesn't get upset – after all, she has no authority to be in the operating room, and no one has really called her there; but now she has a purpose. It comes out of nowhere, braids a web of ideas, settles in her head and heart, capturing the best places.

To prove Clark wrong.

And while Emily is endlessly bandaging, stitching, putting in IVs and filling out forms, her brain is frantically trying to think of things to do. Her hands work separately from hers, as if on autopilot, highlighting the damaged areas, and all her thoughts revolve around how to get in Clark's field of vision and – the hardest part – stay there.

But you have to stop being invisible in order to be noticed, right?

Emily puts on the last stitch and lets the victim go; she runs through her options in her head: she's not going to faint during surgeries, she doesn't have outstanding surgical skills, and she can't impress Clark with her abilities, either.

"You never know what would happen, so, you know, yeah, Johnson, that's what she thought…"

That's what she thought.

Emily starts blinking rapidly at the sudden idea, scolding herself for not figuring it out right away. Of course Clark needs a brain; and not just in the patient, but in the staff as well. And the nurse who accompanies her to the surgeries certainly must not be stupid.

About how to get into the operating room with Clark, Emily does not have time to think: everything around her is happening too fast.

A man bursts into the tiny dressing room – his body covered in blood mixed with shards of glass, his hair disheveled and soaked in gasoline, his clothes torn into a thousand scraps of scraps that are bound together.

Behind him, almost breathing down his neck and supporting him by the armpits, was Higgins. Without his customary sandy jacket, in a bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up and glasses slanted sideways, he seemed to be the end of the world.

– All the operating theatres are occupied! Let's get him in here!