This world keeps spinning faster into a new disaster, so I run to you. I run to you, baby. And when it all starts coming undone, baby, you're the only one I run to. I run to you

His feet barely make sounds across the sticky white hospital floor as he runs, pushing open doors, shoving past endless people in uniforms and some not. He's breathless and confused, his heart beating a hundred times a minute. he doesn't stop at reception, he doesn't ask for permission. Instead he brushes past the open doors. His eyes scouting the rooms until he sees her and suddenly, he is frozen.

His feet are rooted to the floor and everything seems to move in slow motion. He feels like part of a film for those brief few moments. Like the noises and sounds blur into one and everything surrounding him is faded and distant. All he can see is her and all she can see is darkness.

He hasn't cried a single tear. He clenches his teeth. He looks up. He tells himself that crying is weak. That he is better than that. So he swallows despite the lump in his throat, he blinks quickly, once, twice. And then he strides across to her lifeless form.

His exhausted body slumps beside her in the hard plastic chair. His eyes still haven't left her and with tender fingers he brushes a stray lock of hair from across her face. His teeth are still clenched, still forced shut while the tears threaten to fall more so by the second.

He counts the wires that surround her. He listens to the beeps of the machines.

He watches. He breathes. He lives.

All while knowing the only thing letting her do that is the wires attached to her scarred skin.

"Bloody hell, Iz.. What were you.. How could you be so bloody stupid?!" His hand bangs against the bed and the sheets flutter under his touch. He's angry. He doesn't think he's ever been so desperately, achingly angry. Why did she have to be so god damned nice? For once in her life couldn't she put herself first?

Anyone. Anyone but her.

They should have been home, drinking beer, maybe having pizza. Anything, they could have been doing anything. But now he sits beside her bed with just the sound of machines for comfort.

"Fucking hell Izzie." His voice is loud again as he pushes himself up from the chair. Pacing, walking around the bed as though this would have a different effect some how. But it doesn't. He is useless. She is falling and he cannot catch her. He cannot save her.

Now as silent tears slide across his cheeks he takes her hand in his and crouches beside her. "What are you playing at, eh?" He's soft and gentle. Loving and so, so desperate. "Not you too, Iz. Not my Izzie." He's shaking his head and using his free hand to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his rolled up shirt. "God, please not you."

And now his hand that is not entwined with hers is running through her hair, twisting it through his fingers as his lips press against her temple and his muffled whispers are lost through his sobs. Words she couldn't hear, pleas she couldn't answer.

It's late and he's tired and with every minute passing, the Doctors show less hope.

But he stays like this and he waits. He waits because she is his Izzie and she promised she would always make it better.

And he trusts her.

So he waits.