I am not Doctor Strange and I do not own Marvel, oh, or the other way around!
Also slight warning for this chapter: there be heartbreaking. (And also the writer's incomprehensible use of language, but that's only in the author's note. I hope.) The "feels" is the reason this chapter is so much shorter than the rest of them - I couldn't take any more!
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As Mordo became a retreating back, leaving them for an unknown amount of time, the Ancient One started to retreat too, no doubt starting to get drawn back to her own body. She would not wake, either, until her spirit was back, and if she was out of surgery yet, that would eventually become a concern. As such, Stephen said his temporary goodbyes to her, charged Wong with organising everyone at the Hong Kong Sanctum after the near-crisis, and returned to his own charged Sanctum in New York.
He stepped through his portal moments later, and mechanically checked over his domain, making sure all was well there. He did not, upon finishing that to his satisfaction, go to the hospital to see anybody. Not to talk to Christine or watch over the Ancient One. He would, but not just yet.
Stephen Strange felt exhausted. He stood still in the middle of the New York Sanctum, the place the Ancient One - who was only barely alive, thanks to his mistake with the mirror dimension - had charged him with protecting.
Well, standing might be stretching the truth rather far. He had indeed been standing, then he'd been slumped against the wall, and now he was sitting against it, knees drawn up, resting his head on the soft folds of his cloak and not even feeling ashamed of crying.
He would pull himself together in moments. Mordo had left, the Ancient one was only half alive and he knew that he would be sorely needed in the days to come. He would be strong, lead in her stead just as he had done only hours previously, as he was the reason she could not. Not only that, but because he... it was as alien to him as magic had once been, but because he believed in this.
He had believed in it enough to die for it, not only one time but many. Dying again and again painfully and with humiliatingly little to do to protect himself. He had no regrets at using this tactic, but even with all his famous pride, he was not ashamed to sob in relief and in pain. It was over, and like with any severe adrenaline reaction, its price came after it wore out. The Doctor in him took comfort in this knowledge.
His cloak had enveloped him as he'd started sobbing, overloaded by all the events of the last few hours, and he clutched at the fabric as he cried, almost afraid to let go. In responce, it curled in closer around him, where he sat on the floor, slumped against the wall.
As he finally stopped crying, the cloak slithered into place around his shoulders, the high collar wiping his cheeks free of the last of the painful, but cathargic, tears. He let it. While embarassed, he did not feel ashamed at his reaction, though he was not sure why. He did not feel alone, either, but that was not a mystery. He was not alone, he was with his best friend: the only one he truly trusted to see him this vulnerable. As he rose, slowly and almost clumsily, he whispered to it, "Thank you." For a reply, it tightened slightly around him in a protective embrace.