Author's Note: I have the internet! And accordingly, you have a chapter. The world's most useless broadband provider has finally stepped up and switched on the internet in my cottage (it only took five weeks, so I shouldn't really complain) so I am back in action again. This chapter is another depressing one I am afraid, but I promise things will begin to brighten up a little after this. Thank you for the reviews, and for bearing with me during my absence. I have another chapter written that all I have to do is type up, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long for it. By the way, I just have to say (because I'm rather proud of it) I've now posted over half a million words on this site.

Disclaimer: As before. The poem is W.H. Auden's 'Stop all the clocks.'

During the journey from the crematorium, the drizzle had eased and the clouds had broken to allow the sun to shine thinly through. As she stepped out of the car, Addison looked around her, taking in the scene.

A short distance from the wrought iron entrance gates, lines of chairs had been set out, most of which were already full of people. At the front, there was a small raised platform covered in some black crepe like material with a large floral arrangement – white lilies again – on a stand. And, of course, the obligatory photograph.

Instead of the smiling headshot, semi formal and overly posed, Mark had found an old candid of her that he had had blown up. It must have been a couple of years old, because she had baby sick on the shoulder of the black sweater she was wearing. She was holding a glass of red wine in one hand and was mid-dance move; she was being spun around by a strong male arm, the owner of which was out of shot but that Addison knew to be Mark. Her hair was tangled and there were the dark shadows of sleepless nights under her eyes, but she looked truly beautiful. Her eyes were shining, and it was obvious she was laughing out loud; you could actually see the happiness emanating from her.

Seeing it made tears spring to her eyes. 'Oh Mark, what a perfect picture.'

She saw that he was looking at it too, lost in the memory of the moment it portrayed. He had stopped in his tracks, unable to move, and Addison was afraid he was going to crumble right there in the makeshift aisle.

She laid a hand on his arm. 'Mark, come in, let's sit down.'

He didn't seem to hear her and she looked helplessly at Derek. He put a firm hand on his friend's shoulder and steered him forward forcefully. 'Mark, Addie's right, we have to sit.'

They made their way to the front row of seats, and as they did so, Addison felt the burn of familiar eyes watching their progress. There were a lot of staff from the hospital there – she could see Richard, with Adele, sitting near the front, and Miranda. The interns were there too, although they weren't interns anymore she realised. They would be residents now, senior residents in fact; they must be in their, what, fourth year of residency. O'Malley in particular looked pale. He was as white as a sheet, and it took Addison a second to remember that Callie had been his wife.

She took a seat, on the end of the front row, next to Mark. Derek was on his other side, and Mark was grasping each of their hands tightly, his eyes still fixed on the photograph. Addison looked across at her lover, her husband, and wondered at it for a moment. After all these years and everything that had happened, here they were. Mark, Derek and Addison. Completely changed, but somehow still the same Mark, Derek and Addison. The friendship that had been lost somewhere along the way was as strong as ever now, and she wondered what might have happened if, in New York, they had all remembered they were friends above and beyond everything else.

Things might have been very different – less devastating – but at the same time, she couldn't imagine any other outcome. It would have been good not to have caused so much pain and destruction for them all, but even now she couldn't see how else it could have ended. She had been so miserable in her marriage; living with Derek then had been like some sort of half life. He was never there, never interested in how her day had been or in anything else really. Everything was so false, and she and Mark both felt the sting of Derek's neglect. The rest had been inevitable.

In a way, she was glad it happened. Not about how it happened perhaps, but something had to give, and they were all better people, had better lives now, even though Mark's had come crashing down around his ears.

The hospital chaplain had been asked to do the service. It was a different guy than when Addison had been there, but he had a kindly looking countenance, and she felt that he was probably a good choice. Hospital chaplains were good at offering support and spirituality often outside the boundaries of organised religion, which was just what they needed this afternoon.

Music began to softly filter out from some hidden speakers, and Addison let it wash over her. Everyone seemed to be seated now, and the chaplain began.

'May I welcome you all here today to commemorate the life of our friend, Callie Torres. She was tragically taken from us, and leaves behind her daughter, Sophia, and Sophia's father, Mark. Now, as I am sure you all now, Callie wasn't the type of person who would appreciate weeping and mourning at her funeral, and given that she was one of the most vibrant people, full of life, that I have ever met, I cannot blame her.

'No doubt she would wish for us to celebrate her life, and so in the midst of our grief, we must look within ourselves, and to each other, and find the strength to do just that. Now, I understand Mark wishes to say a few words.'

Mark nodded grimly, and rose to his feet, making his way to the platform. He didn't let go of either Addison or Derek's hands until he had to. Addison watched him as he took a couple of small speechcards out of his jacket pocket. His face was blanched white, the palest she had ever seen him, and she prayed to whoever the Hell there was up there to hear her, that Mark could be given the strength to do this.

He stood by the microphone, and she could see him take a deep breath. As he held up the speechcards, his hands were visibly shaking.

'Before I start, I'd just like to thank you all for coming here today. I'm touched that you all have turned out to pay tribute to – to Callie, and I'm grateful to you all.' He managed to look out over the crowd with a tight little smile, before glancing at the photograph and looking back down at his cards.

'Callie was one of the most incredible people I've ever met. Her ability to find the best in people – me in particular – never failed to amaze me. She had a thirst for life, and never let anything get her down for long. She was a loyal friend, and most of all for me, she has given me a beautiful, wonderful daughter and a glimpse at a life I never thought I'd have.

'That she was taken from us, from all of you her friends, and especially – and I know how selfish of me this is – from Sophia and me, leaves me… I've been trying for days to think of a word to fill that gap, and I've been trying everything. Bereft. Lost. Grief stricken. I'm all of those, and more. But I'm grateful too, for the time I had with her, and doubly grateful for Sophia, in whom Callie lives on.'

He turned to the last card, and for the first time during his speech, the emotion began to bubble up in his throat, and his voice faltered, began to wobble. Addison willed him on.

'Before I finish, I've… I've found a poem,' he choked out. 'It's not celebratory, and Callie would be mad at me for reading it out, but I… I hope she'll forgive me. If she was here now, then this is what I'd want to say to her.'

He closed his eyes, and began to recite a poem, falteringly. 'S-stop all the clocks, cut off the… the telephone.'

Then Mark stopped. The tears that he had been holding at bay began to spill down his cheeks, and his shoulders fell – he just seemed to crumple. He couldn't go on, and looked at helplessly at the crowd. His eyes settled first on Addison, then Derek. 'Help me,' he mouthed at them.

Addison looked across at Derek, and he got up. She was grateful to him; she didn't think she was strong enough to go up there herself. Wordlessly, Derek took the final speechcard out of Mark's hand, and in a strong, clear voice read out the poem that was written on it while Mark stood next to him, tears streaming uncontrollably.

'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.'