"Someday I'll be a weather-beaten skull resting on a grass pillow,

Serenaded by a stray bird or two.

Kings and commoners end up the same,

No more enduring than last night's dream." -Ryokan

Beep. Beep.

You shouldn't have died this way.

Beep. Beep.

Not now, and certainly not like this.

You were young, fit, and full of life. You were successful.

You were happy.

Beep.

You were a federal agent, and this is how you die. This. Not out in the field.

Beep. Beep.

You shouldn't have died this way.

Beep.

You're not dead. Not yet.

But you're dying, slowly, so slowly.

It would have been better if you'd taken a bullet to the head.

Your body attacked you, and you were so powerless to stop it. It was a sudden, vicious attack, and no one saw it coming.

When they heard, the team blamed themselves.

You blamed yourself.

It was not quick. It was not painless. Watching you waste away in such a manner was heartbreaking. The team fell to pieces.

If only you'd known how you kept them together.

You were losing weight; everyone thought it was your new exercise and diet routine, and so did you.

But then you lost too much weight, too fast. You felt weak and tired in the field. Your performance slipped.

When the doctor told you, you didn't cry.

You never did cry.

Not long after being confined to the hospital bed, you stopped talking. It was too much effort for you; you tried when you saw how upset your team was that you could no longer respond, but no matter how much you tried, you simply couldn't.

Three days later, your eyes closed.

They have yet to open. That was two weeks ago.

They hooked you up to all sorts of machines designed to keep you alive, keep you breathing, because you couldn't do it on your own anymore.

The chances of you waking, the doctors said, were very slim.

You wouldn't wake, they said.

When the team was informed of the McGees' decision, it destroyed them.

You were in a coma; you didn't see.

You didn't see Abby curled up with Jethro on your bed; you didn't see her refusal to leave for three days straight.

You didn't see Ziva decorate her wall with fist-sized holes.

You didn't see Gibbs take a bat to his boat and smash it to pieces.

You don't see Tony, sitting here beside you.

He hasn't left your side once throughout everything that happened. He was the first to find out, and he was oddly compassionate toward you.

That's when you realized something was truly wrong.

Tony was the first by your side; he'll be the last.

Your family said their goodbyes already. Sarah was here this morning; she said she would stay, but it became too much for her, and Gibbs drove her home in silence.

They both cried.

Abby didn't go to see you when you fell into the coma; she didn't want to remember you that way. She'd convinced herself you would pull out of it, until they told her you had no chance.

She hasn't eaten in days.

Ziva came to see you last night. She held your hand and prayed in Hebrew and stayed by your side the entire night, hoping. When morning came and nothing changed, she kissed your cheek and said goodbye.

Tony is still here.

Tony is always here.

He switches between holding your hand and whispering to you, and staring at you in silence as though you were simply another body on Ducky's table.

It's morbid, but you look just like them.

Beep. Beep.

The doctor comes in, looks at Tony.

"It's time."

Beep. Beep.

Tony nods, grips your hand, studies your face.

The doctor removes your machines. Steps back, out of the way: he's giving Tony space to say his goodbye.

Tony holds your hand so tight he half expects you to complain.

You don't.

He watches you, refuses to look away.

He's the last by your side. He won't abandon you, not now.

Tony lets out a tear when you stop breathing.

"Time of death, 8:04."

A strangled sob escapes Tony's lips. He presses his face against the bed and cries.

You shouldn't have died this way.