Disclaimer: Still Don't own

Give, Sympathise...

Prologue

With a final, half-hearted push John sent the computer crashing to the ground, before crumpling himself, sliding to the floor from the desk. Surrounded on all side's by destruction. Destruction of his own making. Destruction he had wrought. With his own hands…

Hands that had been covered in blood…

That had been…

He was beside Virgil in an instant, hands covering the blood soaked shirt; unable to find out where it was coming from, feeling the warmth of the blood. Eye's desperately searching for some way to stop it, to push it all back inside.

But he couldn't… Hadn't been able to…

Oh God!

He pressed harder, using his own shirt, torn from him in a panic to staunch the blood flow. His heart sinking as Virgil's face just got more and more pale, and the blood continued to pool around him.

Oh god… Virgil…

The sob's began, grating, unstable… making his breath catch, making him panic when he could no longer breathe through them, only making it worse. As images tumbled past him. Of Alan, Gordon, Virgil… or Scott, sitting in that damn office, oblivious to everything outside it's walls. His father… to wrapped up to notice his other sons needed him.

John flung a book from the floor, sending it crashing into the window. Not caring that he'd cracked the glass… Not caring…

God…

Finally the sobs eased, the anger eased, the pain faded to a dull aching throb where his heart should be, and the room was silent save for his shaking breaths.

He sat there, amidst his own destruction, and wished someone would come for him.

Wished someone would tell him everything was going to be alright.

He was tired of being the one everyone turned to.

He couldn't do it anymore…

Tears came again, silently this time, desolation clear on his face, shining in his eyes. Knowing no one was going to come to him. Knowing this was the only time he would get to cry. His family needed him to be strong. Needed him to keep them together when they couldn't themselves.

So he cried, alone, in a room strewn with books, pages ripped from them, pictures, their frames scattered and broken. Every single thing he had ever treasured flung away, the room dark, cold.

Like him.

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