Chapter Text
For a moment, Caitlin just stood there. The world around her was a blur - footsteps, voices, the screech of wheels on linoleum but it was as if she were underwater. She was a doctor. She had lost people. She knew what sterile corridors felt like, when you didn't know if a door would open again or remain closed forever. But this was different. This was Harry. Her hands trembled. She pressed them to her forehead and took a deep breath. Control, Caitlin. Facts. Pathophysiology. Treatment protocol. Myasthenic crisis. Respiratory muscle failure. Intubation. Ventilation. Plasmapheresis or IVIG. Corticosteroids. She knew every step. And yet, she had never been so afraid of a monitor. Because this time it wasn't just a patient. It was the man whose voice still echoed in her ear. I wish I could have been the husband you wanted me to be. Her chest tightened painfully.
She had left him because she couldn't fight anymore. Because work had become increasingly important to him. Because at some point they had stopped talking to each other and were simply existing side by side. She had convinced herself that distance was the right thing to do. That it would allow them both to heal. And now he lay behind those doors, fighting for every breath.
If I lose him…
The thought was impossible to finish. She leaned against the cold wall, feeling the metal through the thin fabric of her clothes. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She understood his panic all too well. That feeling of something slipping away. Of watching something precious disappear and being powerless to stop it. She had experienced it herself. But this time, she could. She sat up. Wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, and deep inside, she felt the emotion she thought she had lost years ago. She still loved him.
An hour later, Caitlin sat on a hard plastic chair outside the intensive care unit, her hands clenched together as if she could prevent something from breaking completely. Through the glass partition, she saw him. Harry lay motionless in bed, tubes and wires snaking around his body like fine lines. A breathing tube protruded from his mouth, fixed, controlled, necessary. The monitor showed steady waves, like a stranger's heartbeat, artificially accompanying him.
He's alive, she kept telling herself. He's alive.
A doctor approached her. Middle-aged, calm voice, tired eyes—someone who had spent too many nights like this.
"Dr. Snow?"
She looked up. "Yes."
"We had to intubate him," he said bluntly. "His respiratory muscles continued to weaken. You did the right thing by bringing him in immediately." Caitlin nodded silently. Her professional part heard every word, processed it. The other part wanted to scream. "We’re currently treating him for a myasthenic crisis," the doctor continued. "Plasmapheresis is planned to remove the autoantibodies from his blood. He’ll also administer immunoglobulins. It won’t be… a quick fix."
"But a possible one?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her for a moment. "Yes. Definitely."
She swallowed, holding back the tears that welled up. "Can I see him?"
The doctor hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Briefly. He's sedated, but... sometimes patients hear more than we think."
"Thank you."
The doctor disappeared, and Caitlin entered. The room was filled with the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. Every breath now came from outside, precisely timed. She approached his bed and gently placed her hand on his.
"Harry," she whispered. No reaction. Of course not. And yet she continued. "You once told me," she began softly, "that fear is just a lack of information. That you can endure anything if you understand it." Her voice trembled. "I understand this. Medically. But emotionally... I've failed." She swallowed, running her thumb over his still hand. "I left because I thought you’d made your choice. For work. Against me. And maybe… you have." She leaned closer. "You’ve worked yourself to the bone, Harry." Silence. Only the sounds of the machines could be heard. "I... I just want to tell you that I'm here, and when you wake up... I'll still be here. Even if you're not the same person who can do everything anymore. Even if you need breaks." A tear fell onto the sheet. "Maybe... this is a new beginning for you, and maybe... for us too."
Caitlin stayed for a while longer before leaving, deciding to drive to Harry's house to spend the night there. She didn't know why, but before she even asked herself the question, she was already standing in the hallway of his house, having closed the door. Slowly, she walked into the living room after turning on the light. The house still held so many memories. Beautiful memories, as well as sad and painful ones. She let her gaze wander around the living room when it fell on the table in front of the sofa, where the two whiskey bottles stood and something else laid there.
It was the book that HR had published a few weeks ago. His book: Brothers. Caitlin sat down and picked it up to open it. The pages were covered in lots of small, colorful sticky notes. With a frown, she turned to a page with a blue sticky note. On that page, he had marked a scene where he and HR had baked muffins together when they were little. On the side, he had written:
I remember. We had so much fun. I'm sorry.
Caitlin swallowed. She turned to the next sticky note. This time it was a scene where they had ended up in the river together. Again, Harry had written something on the side:
I remember. You were sick the next day, but still full of energy that filled the whole room. I'm sorry.
She flipped to the next page and the next until, tears welling in her eyes, she found a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. Frowning, she picked it up, unfolded it, and began to read. Her eyes widened as she read the lines. More tears streamed down her cheeks. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa, sobbing as she clutched the piece of paper.
"Harry..." she whispered, her voice a whisper.
Caitlin turned to his bookshelf, which stood behind the sofa and stretched along the entire back wall. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw a small gold plaque engraved with the name HR. Caitlin got up to go there. That section of the shelf held all the books HR had ever written in the last five years, neatly arranged from his first to his most recent. With a trembling hand, Caitlin took one book out, the other tucked under her arm. She opened it and saw HR's signature on the first page.
She remembered him once telling her that he always signed the first copies of books so that others would also have a chance to get a signature if they couldn't come for his autograph. Caitlin took another book from the shelf to open it and saw HR's signature again. She looked inside two more books and found his little brother's signature there as well. Her gaze swept over the books, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Harry had bought every single copy of HR's. Caitlin stood motionless in front of the shelf, the book still in her hand, the realization tearing painfully through her chest. He had bought them all. Every single one. Not out of a sense of duty, but because it was HR. Because he loved him. He was his little brother.
Her fingers slid over the spines, over the familiar titles, over the small golden plaque with HR's name. So much pride. So much silent atonement. And no one had seen it. She slowly sank to her knees, still holding the book Brothers in her hands. Her shoulders began to tremble. She didn't know how long she knelt there, but eventually she stood up, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and went back to the sofa. She picked up the letter again and read the lines once more, this time more slowly. Every word was raw. Unfiltered. Not a brilliant scientist, not a controlled strategist - just a brother. A man who had made mistakes. Who felt guilt. Who tried to atone in small gestures because he had never had the big conversations. And there was something else between the lines. Fear. Fear that it was too late. Caitlin pressed the paper to her chest and bent forward until her forehead almost touched her knees. A soft sob escaped her, unfiltered, uncontrolled.
Her gaze fell on the two whiskey bottles on the table. One was half empty. She could picture him sitting here. Alone. Surrounded by these books. Surrounded by memories. Surrounded by regret and pride. How often had he sat here while she thought he wouldn't miss her? Slowly, she got to her feet and went upstairs. Each step creaked softly under her weight. The house felt different than before. Bigger. Emptier. More vulnerable. In the bedroom, she paused in the doorway. The bed was made. She had made it while Harry was in the shower this morning. The side where she used to sleep now seemed untouched as if no one had dared to truly claim it. Had it been like this when he had slept here alone all these years? Had he always slept on his side? An open notebook lay on his nightstand, his glasses beside it. Caitlin stepped closer and stroked the pillow. It still smelled faintly of him. Of that familiar, almost indefinable scent of paper, coffee, and something that was simply Harry.
"You idiot," she murmured softly, but her voice was gentle and tender.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes. Her movements were mechanical, exhausted. The day had seared itself into her bones. The sterile light of the intensive care unit. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. The monitors. He's alive. She clung to that sentence like a life preserver. Slowly, she lay down on her old side of the bed. Hesitantly, she shifted a little toward the center, as if making room for someone who wasn't there. Her hand slid over the sheets until it reached the spot where he would have lain.
"You'll come back," she whispered into the darkness. "And then we'll talk."
Her eyes burned, but the tears had dried. What remained was a deep, lingering weariness and emotional exhaustion. In the room's dimness, the streetlight cast faint patterns on the wall. She listened. No ventilator. No monitor. Only the quiet hum of the building. She closed her eyes and instead imagined the steady beeping of the monitor. The waves. The rhythm. He's alive. Her breathing unconsciously adjusted to this imaginary beat.
"I’m here," she murmured again, barely audible. Whether for him or for herself, she didn’t know.
Her fingers gripped the sheet for a moment, as if reassuring herself that something was real. Then the tension slowly eased. Her body yielded to the day’s weight. And as night silently descended upon the house outside, Caitlin finally drifted into a restless, fragile sleep, her mind racing with thoughts of a man fighting for his life amidst the machinery.
The next morning, Caitlin stood outside room 314. She took another deep breath before knocking and opening the door to enter. HR was lying half-sitting up in bed, paler than usual, but more alert than the morning before. The oxygen tube was still under his nose. When he saw her, a smile lit up his face.
"Good morning, Caitlin," the author greeted her. "It's a surprise to see you here so early."
She sat down on the empty chair next to the bed. "Hey. How are you?"
He shrugged slightly. "I'm breathing. That seems to be the measure of fitness around here."
"HR..."
He chuckled. "Tracy went home around 9 p.m. yesterday after I told her I'd make it through the night without any problems. She'll probably arrive around noon, because since our little Wells will soon be born, she usually sleeps until 10 o'clock."
"That's good to hear," said Caitlin, smiling.
He looked at her. "What is it? You certainly didn't come just to see how I am, did you?" he asked with a cheeky grin.
"That's true, indeed." She swallowed. "It... It's about Harry."
He turned his gaze away from her and looked at the white bedspread. His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. "I don't want anything to do with him anymore."
Caitlin looked at him silently for a brief moment before speaking. "Harry collapsed in the biochemistry lab yesterday morning. Myasthenic crisis." HR stared at her, shocked. "Autoimmunity. The immune system blocks the transmission of nerve impulses to your muscles."
HR swallowed hard. He nervously fiddled with the fabric of the bedspread. "Is... Is he...?"
"He's alive. The doctors have intubated him because he's too weak to breathe on his own right now." Caitlin looked at her friend. "He's worked himself almost to death because... because he thinks he has no one left. You turned away from him, and I turned away from him. What else is there for him to do?" HR swallowed and blinked back tears. Caitlin took the book Brothers out of her handbag.
"What were you doing there?" the author asked, smiling and wiping his eyes with a hand. "Were you marking all your favorite passages?"
"The book isn't mine," Caitlin said slowly. "It's Harry's." She held it out to him, and HR took it hesitantly. "He has a bookshelf in his living room, and part of it is just for your books. Harry even has a gold plaque engraved with your name on it. Every single book you've ever published is there. Even a folder with the manuscripts you sent us back then."
"He... He kept them? I thought... I thought he'd thrown them away long ago," HR said incredulously.
"He was always there for you, even if you didn't realize it, or maybe not at the time when it mattered, but... in the end, he was always there for you... and for me too..." she added quietly. A short silence came over them until Caitlin exhaled and stood up. "I'm going back to Harry now to check on him."
HR nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Do you need anything else?"
He shook his head. His gaze was fixed on the book that lay in his lap. Caitlin turned and was about to leave the room when he stopped her. "Which room is Harry in?"
"He's in intensive care," Caitlin said before leaving the room.
The silence of the room enveloped HR, except for the beeping of the monitors. With trembling fingers, he opened the book and began to read. Tears welled in his eyes as he read the sentences at the edges of the pages. Why? Why had he treated him like that? Why hadn't he asked how he was? Why hadn't he been by his side when Caitlin left him? Why hadn't he gone to visit him? He knew how difficult it was for him to show feelings or emotions, or generally to talk about his feelings. Why? Why? Why? HR kept turning the pages until he came to a folded piece of paper in the middle of the book. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he picked up the sheet of paper to unfold it and read:
My beloved little brother HR,
If you're reading this, I will no longer be among the living. I know you're still angry with me, and rightly so. And I don't know if you'll ever read this letter, but it's worth a try.
I've made mistakes in life. So many… but losing you was the worst mistake I've ever made. I still remember the day you were born, how you looked at me with your bright eyes. From that moment on, I wanted to protect you from all the evil in the world.
And I was the one who hurt you the most. I so often thought I knew what was right for you. I wanted to be strong, wanted to be a role model for you. But instead, I was too proud, stubborn, and blind. I watched as the door between us slowly closed… without stopping it. I thought I could protect you, but I left you alone when you needed me most. I know I missed so much. I ignored your pain, your anger, your grief - thinking that a simple "I'm sorry" could heal everything. But it couldn't. I wasn't there for you when you were fighting, not there for Caitlin, not there for the loss you both had to endure. I failed, just like I failed Mom.
And now… now it's too late. I can't bring back those moments. I can't bring back the words we never said. I always wanted to be your big brother. Your shield. Your rock. But I was just a man full of pride, full of fear, full of flaws. I hope that someday you'll realize that, despite all my flaws, I was always with you - in thought, if not in action.
If you ever wonder whether I loved you: More than words could ever describe. More than I showed you. More than I had the courage to admit. I'm sorry I made you feel alone. I'm sorry our last words were filled with anger. If I could change one thing, it would be the moments where we fought with each other. I would hold you in my arms and never let go.
If you remember me, don't remember our fights, don't remember my failures. Remember the times we laughed, the days we were there for each other, even if only briefly. I never wanted to lose you. And yet, I lost you long before I had to leave.
Don't carry the anger inside. Let it go with me. Live. Fight. Laugh. For you, for Mom, for everything we lost. And never forget that you're the brother I loved more than I could ever express.
Laugh again like you used to. Pursue your dreams, even though I'm no longer here to cheer you on. And when you think of me someday, don't think of our fights… but of the summer evenings we spent lying in the grass, vowing to always be there for each other.
I wasn't the brother you deserved. But you were always the one I needed.
Live. For both of us.
With love,
Your big brother,
Harry