A/N: Quick oneshot telling EitB from a nurse's POV. I own nothing except the nurse and this story. He and she are not mine, they belong to someone who I hope will treat them better in future. R&R please :)

I could tell they were in love from the moment she brought him in. In my profession you learn to pick up on these things, it helps you help the patient and their family. I took the patient's medical history while simultaneously taking in their relationship. They were close, and loved each other more deeply than some married couples I had seen. But something about their hesitance told me it was a professional relationship that was dying to be consummated and acknowledged, but never had been.

She never left him, not that I saw. The neurosurgeon allowed her into his surgery, and she was never away from his side. I went home to my husband and children. I dealt with my normal life, where people were healthy and not dealing with life-altering diseases. I dealt with crises such as 'Tamara doesn't like me any more' and 'Mrs Scrivener is gonna fail me for my last project', and was quite able to forget the agony some of my charges. The worst thing I had to deal with at home was a bed wet through a nightmare, while back at work she was still there. When I took the hand over from the night staff, they told me. Friends had come and gone, giving her food and changes of clothes, but she never left him except to visit the bathroom. She had changed in his room, eaten in his room, dozed in his room. But she had never left him without her company for more than a couple of minutes.

She barely spoke to we staff members. Her anguish was all too plain and I could understand her lack of communication. When we came in to check his sutures, dressings and bed linen, she acknowledged us out of politeness, but stayed in her chair, staring at him, willing him to wake and see her.

At some point, someone brought her a laptop. She never let anyone see what she was writing, but speculation was rife. Some thought she was just catching up with paperwork, some thought she kept a computerised diary, some thought she was writing her latest novel. My personal feeling was that she was writing her confession. She didn't strike me as someone who could or would express their love easily, but rather as someone who needed the odd prompt and written reassurance. There was, of course, the possibility that he would never wake. I'd seen it before. Someone who reacted badly to anaesthesia had no guarantee of ever regaining consciousness, and we had tried to talk to her. We had tried to soften the blow, to prepare her as much as someone can be prepared for losing their heart and soul. I had tried. All I got in response were a few non-committal 'okays'. I knew none of what I'd said had been absorbed or believed. That I had also seen before.

Every family of a person in jeopardy goes through the same feelings. Absolute belief at the outset that they're heading for the worse possible outcome, followed by absolute belief that they're heading for the best: normality and a complete return to their previous existence. The lucky few return to the thoughts of the worst, so they are to some extent prepared for what lies ahead. Some of them even get a good surprise when things are not as bad as they were prepared to believe. But I have never seen, in all my years as an ICU nurse, someone so resolutely fixed on the best outcome. I knew she was setting herself up for a fall, much as I wanted to believe she'd get her happily ever after.

I was on duty when he woke. I was sat behind the desk, catching up on the paperwork of an unfortunate from earlier in the shift, when the nurse-call buzzed. I glanced up at the light deck. Mr Booth's room. "So her fall has come" was my first thought, before I chastised myself and put on my work face. I hurried to his room, and she was outside. She grabbed me and wrapped herself into me so tight, it felt like my daughter post-nightmare.

"He doesn't know me."

She was sobbing, her tears soaking through my uniform and her body racked enough to make mine ache. She was hyperventilating, so I took her through to the staff break area to calm her down.

"He doesn't know you? He's awake then?"

She sat, her head almost between her knees trying to catch her breath. After a moment she slowly shook her head.

"He asked who I was. We were days away from him fathering my child, I pushed him into the surgery, and now…"

She bowed her head again, the tears flowing hard and free.

"The memory loss may just be post-operative bleeding. He may get his memories back."

She looked up at me, her eyes red and raw.

"And if he doesn't?"

I looked back at her. We get trained in heartbreak. Told how to soften blows, told how to make the worst part of someone's life as bearable as possible. All that training left me at that moment. As I looked at her, I knew that all my training, all my experience counted for nothing.