Falling.
He looked at her, falling. Always falling.
Falling through the air, towards the cold ground, but there was nothing that he could do. He was frozen. Frozen, holding the smoking gun in his right hand.
He flinched slightly as he heard her body hit the ground and then closed his eyes, the cool, blank darkness denying the fact his DI was dying on the ground.
Dying.
He snapped into action then.
'Bols…' escaped his lips as he ran to her side, the gun still swinging in his right hand. Still smoking.
Her eyes focused on him, as she clutched at her stomach, blood streaming over her hands. He stood, staring in fascinated horror at her pale face. So calm. So quiet.
He felt a warm presence at his side, and then two more, as they stood next to him, above her.
But no-one mattered apart from her.
The quietness continued in his head.
Her eyes closed.
And the calmness exploded, and he was shouting, shouting.
They moved her into the hospital, and he sat holding her pale, lifeless fingers, as they told him she might not wake up. He reached over and ran a curl between his fingers. He felt it's softness and moved his hand to gently stroke her cheek, the tips of his fingers fluttering over her closed eyes.
He lowered his lips to her hand, pressed them against it's cool, granite smooth skin, and cried.