Soli Deo Gloria

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Good Doctor.

That season finale, y'all. ;_;

Morgan could tell that something was off. The pain in her hands, residual from her own surgery and exacerbated by her choice to perform a surgery too soon after this, was put in the back of her mind. The ringing thoughts of never being able to perform at an operating table again, of never yielding a scalpel and making all of the necessary cuts and choices as the leader of this medical procedure, were put on a back burner. She swallowed hard and stuck those haunting, final thoughts in the back of her brain and let her analytical eyes and snoopy nature take control. Her eyes sought for something intangible yet there in the hospital as she searched beyond her hospital room. Her vantage point gave her a view of the comings and goings of one of St. Bonaventure's massive hospital floors. She saw nurses and doctors she must see every day pass by; no one stopped and said 'hello', but she didn't care. No one passing by could stop her piqued curiosity—until she saw Claire.

"Claire!" she yelled.

Claire didn't look like she heard her. She walked in a daze, her blue scrubs still neat and clean but wrinkled from working in them all night. Morgan thought her eyes were mistaken when she saw Claire with wet eyes and puffy skin over her cheekbones.

Morgan sat up, now alarmed. Claire got emotional about everything, yes, but this fact combined with her sixth sense pinging like crazy made her yell louder, "DOCTOR CLAIRE BROWNE!"

Claire turned to look at Morgan and Morgan was spooked. Claire looked like she was an actress in a play trying to keep a poker face when inside she was about to burst. "Claire," Morgan said more softly (since she already heard her) but firmly, "'come here."

Claire numbly stood in the doorway to Morgan's room. Morgan asked, "What happened?"

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her own eyes settled on the raw stitches left to air on Morgan's hands. She swallowed despite her dry mouth and said, "Your hands—they need to be wrapped up."

Morgan waved a hand and couldn't hide a wince. "Andrews already knows and beat me up for it. He's letting the pus drain before he wraps them up again. Forget about it. Claire." Morgan was indefatigable. "What happened? 'Cause your face is telling me a lot more than your mouth is, and don't even try to deflect and lie and say that nothing happened: something happened. Tell. Me. Now."

Claire stared at Morgan for a long time; she was just trying to climb back through her thoughts and the events of the last twelve hours. She thought her life was turned upside down earlier these past few months when her mother died. This was something else entirely. She stared past Morgan, not looking her in the eye, as she said automatically, "The earthquake—at the brewery—"

Just then Alex showed up. His face had aged ten years in the past twelve hours. He couldn't believe what he just lived through in the past twelve hours. He could barely keep his eyes open as he leaned against the doorway and said, "Hey, I heard what happened."

"You did?" both Morgan and Claire said in startled unison.

"Yeah. Dumb move." Alex took the chair next to Morgan's bed. Claire looked confused and Morgan cocked her head as he waved at her damaged hands. "A wreck on your nerves. But," and his voice was both serious and congratulatory, "you did what you had to do for your patient. You did everything in your power to save your patient, thinking nothing for your own health. I respect that sacrifice, Morgan." His eyes were shiny, too.

Morgan swallowed. She felt like a fool; she wrecked her hands, yes, but she didn't want to be praised for being foolhardy. The only good thing was that she did save her patient. "Well, anyone else would've done it, so it isn't that big of a deal." Her eyes narrowed. "But you know."

"Know what?" Alex just sounded tired at this point. He was spent, physically and emotionally.

"What Claire knows. You've obviously been crying. What happened?"

Alex looked between Morgan and Claire, suddenly alert. "I had to spend the last moments of a kid's life helping him fix the emotional bonds he hadn't shared with his father so he could die in peace. The poor kid—then I called Kellan and I broke down. That's what's up with me right now." Now wasn't the time to tell them that he was going to leave St. Bonaventure's Surgical Residency Program. He looked at Claire. "Claire, what happened?"

Claire breathed in deep. If Morgan and Alex asked "What happened?" one more time. . . She cocked her head and said slowly, staring intently on the unoccupied armrest of Morgan's bed, "Dr. Melendez suffered internal bleeding due to a perforated bowel during the earthquake. Lim and I performed a surgery on him in attempts to prepare it but his lactate levels were too high."

"How high?" Morgan asked.

"Eight point one."

Alex sighed and Morgan knew. From that moment on, she knew.

"There was the option of the other surgery that would land him a colostomy bag hanging out his side for the rest of his life and a spot on the liver transplant list." Claire shook her head, her eyes full of tears, and she said, "Eight point one was too damn high."

Alex hid his face behind his hand and Morgan said in a steely-cold voice, "When was time of death?"

"Six-fifty-six this morning," Claire choked.

Alex put an arm around her. Morgan sat, stunned, as Claire brokn down in sobs and Alex rubbed her back. He looked at a set point of the wall, amazed and stunned at how his horrible night suddenly became indescribably worse.

"What about a surgery going in to seal the perforated bowel followed by a course of intensive antibiotics to mitigate the infection?" Morgan wondered. "Another solution would need to be found for the spreading intestinal contents, though."

Alex looked up. "Morgan—"

"What part of the bowel? Could you go in to cut out the dead bowel and—"

"Don't you think they exhausted all their options, Morgan?" Alex said angrily. "He's already dead, Morgan. They did all they could." To Claire, "You did all you could." To Morgan, "Don't start down a trail of what ifs. They don't mean anything anymore. Melendez is dead."

Morgan snapped her lips shut and swallowed, hard. She looked at her hands and heard Claire's sobs and felt certain then that her suspicions were correct. She knew that Claire and Melendez played favorites, despite their denials. She knew Claire was going through a different kind of mourning than the rest of them would. So she shifted her pain-ridden hand until it laid on top of Claire's. She couldn't move her fingertips, so she awkwardly moved her entire hand just to rub against Claire's. But that effort was enough.

"It wasn't your fault, Claire," Morgan said firmly.

"I should've caught it sooner. I should've made him go to the hospital first thing, instead of perform surgery while he was bleeding internally—!"

"He saved that woman's life, Claire. He would've done it the same way a thousand times over, and you know it," Alex said.

"I know you're blaming yourself because that is what you always do, but, Claire," Morgan said. Claire looked up to see something she didn't often see living in Morgan's face: kindness. The three of them knew none of them had to put up a brave front or a soft bedside manner around each other: they were doctors. They were on the front lines every day. They could handle the hard blows. But they also needed their comfort dealt out kindly. "It's not your fault. Don't for one second think you could have prevented this."

"If I don't believe that I could have prevented it, then I have to accept that this was always going to be his fate: that he was going to go through medical school and become this amazing surgeon and knowledgeable teacher and great f-friend, and then that was all going to come crashing down because he dies suddenly of sepsis shock. So no, I don't want to accept that that was always going to be his inevitable fate, because that's so horrible!" Claire said miserably.

Alex thought gravely of the young man who died earlier that night and said, "Some people have inevitable, horrible fates, Claire. We're not miracle workers; we're just human doctors. We do the best we can. We can't save them every time."

Claire's face crumpled. "I know. But why couldn't we have saved him?" She buried her face in Alex's dust covered work jacket and her shoulders shook. Alex and Morgan shared a look like that of parents not knowing what to do for their poor kid. He looked like exhaustion personified and Morgan couldn't conceive what a terrible blow this was to their entire department. Not only was Melendez their leader and teacher, but he was indeed a great friend. How could they recover from this?

Glassman paced around the ER, waiting for the next ambulance to come. He'd been up for over twenty-four hours; he should get a medical exam—Melendez didn't get one until hours after the accident and he was dead—dead—dead. Glassman passed a hand over his face and shook his head. He still couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that he'd had his final conversation with a colleague he'd known for years. They used to spend hours in his office arguing over policies, procedures, and patients. Sometimes they wouldn't argue, but enjoyed discussions ranging over a variety of topics—sports, the weather, the future of the hospital. They wouldn't share a single moment over coffee and a desk in his office ever again. These were thoughts he never would have entertained yesterday, and now they were his undeniable reality.

He'd seen Lim after the fact. From an outsider's point of view, she looked normal—unless you knew her. Knew from the sadness in her eyes and the defeat in the slump of her shoulders and the exhaustion in her voice that she was grieved. It was terrible. Andrews tried to downplay how personally affected he was—he talked about making a statement to the press and contacting Melendez's family—didn't he have a sister in a special care home?—but Aaron knew. Aaron let Marcus know that he knew.

Earlier he went to check on Morgan and her messed-up hands and he saw Park and Brown there and he knew that they knew. So that only left the odd one out. Shaun, it seemed, was always the odd one out.

"Incoming! Patient with an amputated right leg just above the patella, massive blood loss and low BP of one-oh-five over sixty-two; we're going to need an open theater and a blood transfusion of O positive!" Shaun's commanding, no-nonsense voice pummeled its way into the ER as a stretcher arrived fresh from the ambulance. It bore a young, pale woman with two-thirds of her legs but a good chance at life.

"Shaun," Glassman said as Andrews swept in and took over the case with nothing more than a by-your-leave, "let Andrews take care of this."

"Vera needs me. I sawed off most of her right leg under the brewery and I need to finish properly saving the stump so she doesn't risk infection," Shaun said, going after her.

Glassman caught Shaun as Vera disappeared with Andrews commanding orders to three nurses. "Shaun, you're exhausted. You did amazing out there; get cleaned up and get some rest. Get a medical exam, too, while you're at it. There were tremors out there."

"I need to be with Vera. She needs me," Shaun said. "Some EMTs took care of her while Lea was kissing me—which was nice. But those EMTs are gone, so I need to be with her now."

Glassman blinked. "Lea did what—never mind. Shaun, you've been up for who knows how long; it's time to rest."

"I can't rest when my patient needs me. The earthquake stopped but there are still tremors left to deal with," Shaun said.

Glassman couldn't tell whether he should tell him now or wait. "Yes, there are. Shaun, let's get you washed up—"

"I need to go be in surgery with Vera. I need to tell Andrews what methods I used to cut her leg. She's experiencing major blood loss."

"Andrews is a skilled surgeon, Shaun. He'll take care of her. You need to take care of you."

"Vera needs me—"

"Damn it, Shaun, I need you to take care of yourself. I already lost one of my surgeons today; I don't need to lose another one!"

Shaun stopped and stared at Glassman, whose eyes were filled with tears as he relived the past few hours again and again. "Shaun, can we just—can we just sit and talk for a few minutes?"

"Who died, Dr. Glassman?" Shaun blinked. The only doctor he ever knew who was at risk of death was Glassman, and that was gradual, and then it grew smaller and smaller until he no longer feared for his immediate death. He gulped. "Who died?"

Glassman sighed. This wasn't right. Not here in the middle of the busy ER. "It was Melendez, Shaun. He suffered internal bleeding from an injury sustained during the earthquake. Went into sepsis shock. There was nothing we could do."

Shaun blinked again. "I just worked with him yesterday. He was talking about going to the brewery. He was looking forward to trying a new brew."

Glassman cracked a smile. "Man liked his liquor."

Shaun blinked again. "This . . . is bad."

Glassman bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, it is."

"I know I should feel sad, but I'm not sad. Lea just kissed me. I just saved Vera's life." Shaun looked at Glassman. "I believe I am running on adrenaline and am in shock. Do you think I will become sad?"

"Shaun, I believe at some point you will. It's okay that you're not sad now, though. It's okay," Glassman said.

Shaun looked past Glassman, toward the operating theater. Then he looked back. "Do the other residents know?"

"Yes. You were the last to come in."

Shaun looked down another hall. When he looked back at Glassman, he said, "I think I'd like to sit and talk for a few minutes."

Glassman wore a weak, watery smile and put an arm around Shaun briefly before leading the way to his office. Shaun didn't shy away from his comforting touch. He hoped that he wouldn't come crashing down from the shock too suddenly, because he knew this was the worst ending to a seemingly hopeful night.

"Medical, medical." I tried, *shrugs*

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