Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Contains some spoilers. But that's to be expected with a story of this nature. Anyways... read on!
They wash away his blood, mop it off the emergency room floor, scrub it out of the grooves in the back of the ambulance. That little old lady, who was probably washing floors back in World War II, comes in, wheeling her little bucket behind her, head down, doing the job she's done for longer than anyone can remember. Probably even her. Washing the blood of the good boys who died off the floor with the same mop and same dirty water, trying to keep it clean.
They'd been waiting for hours, wondering, praying, trying to convince themselves that he was strong, he'd make it. He always does, right? Right, they'd tell themselves, and stare at the phone for another hour, stuck in the vicious cycle of pulling petals off a flower, he'll make it. He won't. He'll make it.
Staring through windows, watching the nurses, watching the doctors, knowing they're doing the best they can. Knowing that they're doing all that they can do for him. Wishing they could be in there, holding his hand, just to feel his pulse, know he was alive. But when it stopped, they'd be able to feel it all the more.
They'd know it was real and there would be no denying it. They felt the pulse fade into nothing, right? No going back.
Families are only as strong as their weakest member, and he definitely wasn't it. In fact, now, none of them could think of the weakest member, though one was sure he wasn't even a member of their family. He was an outsider, on the outside looking in. Outside their hearts, outside their minds, sure he would never be let in. But in the end, he learned he was as much a part of the family as their now lost member.
They wash away his blood, mop it off the emergency room floor, scrub it out of the grooves in the back of the ambulance.
Washing away the last living traces of him.