A/N: I was rewatching the episode where Otis dies, and it made me wonder what would have happened if he hadn't made it to the door in time? This was a hard story to write, and I found myself crying multiple times while writing it, but it was begging to be written. This is your warning that you may want to have a box of tissues handy as you read this story!

Battalion Chief Wallace Boden stood in front of Firehouse 51, his hands on his hips as he looked up at the building. It was draped in black bunting, as were all four of the vehicles parked on the apparatus floor. He hated the sight; it was the third time since he'd become Battalion Chief that the black bunting had adorned his firehouse, and while it was never easy, this time was especially hard.

"Chief?" a voice called from behind him.

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, even though he knew he should have been able to. He wasn't sure if it was the grief or the exhaustion or everything else that had him feeling like he was in a fog. He turned around slowly. "Peter Mills," he stated, his voice sounding empty and broken, even to himself. He walked over to the younger man, pulling him into a brief hug.

"I had to come, Chief. As soon as I heard the news…" Mills's voice broke and he paused, trying to pull himself together. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm not sure I know the answer to that question," Boden replied. "I'm not sure it's even fully sunk in yet. In some way, it feels like it was all just one bad dream."

Mills nodded, understanding. He felt the same way. He'd been at the restaurant when the breaking news had popped up on his phone. At first, he hadn't paid much attention to it; after all, breaking news headlines were constantly coming across his phone. But something had made him look at it closer. The first words of the headline were "Tragedy Strikes Chicago Firehouse." He'd immediately grabbed his phone, tapping on the notification, getting frustrated when it took longer than he would have liked for the news article to load.

His eyes had quickly skimmed the article, desperately searching for the information he was looking for. When he found it, his shoulders slumped and his phone fell out of his hand, landing with a thud on the desk. He'd sat there in shock for a few moments, trying to process what he'd read, before picking his phone back up and starting at the beginning again. This time he read more slowly, needing to know everything.

"Tragedy struck a Chicago firehouse earlier today at factory fire. The fire, at a factory that made mattresses for Arnow Furniture, took the lives of more than a dozens workers as well as ten firefighters. Fifteen additional factory workers are hospitalized, their conditions ranging from stable to critical, as well as four firefighters, all in critical condition. Two paramedics and a battalion chief were also injured but were released after being treated.

"A spokesperson for the Chicago Fire Department stated that a boiler in the factory malfunctioned in the fire and began to overheat. While the firefighters did everything they could to get those inside to safety and to cool the boiler, they were unable to keep it from exploding before they were able to get evacuate everyone. The explosion resulted in a flashover, and those still inside were unable to escape to safety. The firefighters who lost their lives today are being hailed as heroes for their valiant efforts to save everyone inside, as well as their refusal to leave while there were still people trapped inside.

"No names have been released yet, but it is believed that all of the firefighters were from Firehouse 51. One of the best and busiest houses in the city, Firehouse 51 is home to Truck 81, Engine 51, Ambulance 61, and Squad 3, one of only a handful of rescue squads in Chicago.

This article will continue to be updated as more information is released."

Once he'd finished reading the article a second time, Mills had buried his head in his hands and cried. The article hadn't given any information about what shift was working, but it didn't have to. He already knew. He couldn't explain it, but somehow he knew that today he'd lost many of those whom he'd called brothers and had worked side by side with during his time at 51.

"How's Brett?" Mills asked, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

"The doctors expect her arm to full heal," Boden replied. "But honestly, her arm isn't what I'm concerned about. Losing nearly the whole house...it's been difficult on all of us. Even Foster, who hasn't even been assigned to 51 for a year yet, is struggling."

Mills nodded, a fresh pang of grief stabbing his heart. It had been nearly five years since he'd left 51 and he was struggling; he could only imagine how much Brett, who had always been sensitive and caring, was struggling.

Boden sighed, shaking his head as he stared up at the house. "I don't know if I have it in me anymore, Mills. I don't know that I can go on after what happened. I never thought I'd say this, but I think it's time for me to hang up my hat and retire."

Mills placed a hand on the older man's shoulder and squeezed, unable to give him any other comfort. He looked so much older than when Mills had last seen him, and the man who had once carried himself with confidence and authority now looked haggard and beat down.

The two men stood there for a while longer, both lost in their own thoughts and memories, before Boden turned to Mills. "The funerals start the day after tomorrow," he informed the younger man. "Will you be staying for them?"

Mills nodded. "I won't be leaving until we say goodbye to the last one," he assured Boden. "I couldn't stay away, Chief. They were my brothers. They were my family." His voice cracked on the last word.

Boden nodded. "I was getting ready to head to Med to check on Casey, Mouch, and Severide; would you like to come along?"

When the names of the fallen and injured had been released, Mills had been at home with his mom and sister, still trying to process the news as they comforted him.

"Peter," Elise had said quietly, handing him her phone. "They've released the names."

He'd grabbed the phone from her, his eyes scanning the list.

"These are the names of the fallen firefighters:

Lieutenant Christopher Herrmann, Engine 51

Firefighter Darren Ritter – Engine 51

Firefighter Clarence Norwood – Engine 51

Firefighter Mike Doherty – Engine 51

Firefighter Adam Kaufman – Engine 51

Firefighter Isaac Jesse – Engine 51

Firefighter Brian "Otis" Zvonecek – Truck 81

Firefighter Stella Kidd – Truck 81

Firefighter Harold Capp – Squad 3

Firefighter Tony Ferraris – Squad 3

"And here are the names of the injured firefighters. All of them remain in critical condition:

Captain Matthew "Matt" Casey – Truck 81

Firefighter Randall "Mouch" McHolland – Truck 81

Lieutenant Kelly Severide – Squad 3

Firefighter Joe Cruz – Squad 3"

"Yes," Mills replied without hesitation. It hit him then, that Boden hadn't mentioned Cruz. "Chief, Cruz? Did he…?"

Boden nodded sadly. "This morning," he confirmed. "He…of the four of them, his injuries were the least severe, and we were hopeful…but I received the call this morning. That's why I came here." He nodded towards the front of the firehouse, just to the side of the overhead doors.

Mills hadn't noticed it before, but he saw it now. There were 11 pairs of boots lined up against the wall there. They were nearly hidden by all of the flowers, stuffed animals, notes, and other items that Mills assumed had been left there by the community, which is likely why he hadn't spotted them at first, but the eleventh pair was still fairly visible, obviously a recent addition to the makeshift memorial. "I'm sorry, Chief," Mills said softly.

The news about Cruz's death must have broken while he was on his flight here. When he'd landed, he'd sent a quick text to his mom and sister, letting them know he'd arrived safely, but hadn't bothered to check any of his notifications, wanting to get to 51 as soon as possible.