Closet - Jo Wilson x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
summary: There's a shooter in the hospital and you're forced into a closet to hide. Maybe it's too late.
Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Eighteen, alt 5 shoved into a tight space @may-lancholy
The first shot rings out like a car backfiring - loud but distant, almost unreal. But when the second one echoes through the emergency department, way too close, followed by the unmistakable bark of a security officer yelling "Shooter in the building!", chaos unfurls like wildfire.
Jo barely has time to process before she’s grabbing your wrist.
You’ve been working together all afternoon, triaging patients from a pileup off the freeway.
As she drags you behind a nearby trauma cart, she notices that you’re pale, quiet, but she thinks you’re just tired. That is until she catches the way your other hand is clamped awkwardly against your side, the growing red bloom beneath your scrubs.
"Wait-" she starts, but a nurse barrels past, wild-eyed, shouting, "Closet, get in, now!" before she shoves you both into the nearest supply room and slams the door behind you. There's a horrible clunk from the other side.
You're sure she means for the best but it's not ideal. You reach for the handle. It doesn’t budge.
"Shit," Jo mutters, jiggling it. "Shit, it’s jammed. It locked behind us."
The closet is barely big enough for two people. Shelves of gauze and gloves press in on all sides. There’s no window, just the hum of a flickering overhead bulb, and your ragged breathing echoing in the stale air.
Jo finally turns to you, really looks at you, and sees the blood soaked through your scrubs.
"Oh my God."
You try to laugh but it comes out wrong. "Guess I should’ve said something sooner."
She doesn’t waste time in yelling, there's no point to it. She’s already yanking supplies off shelves, digging for gauze, gloves, anything. "How bad is it? Let me see."
You’re too weak to argue. When you move your hand away, blood seeps faster. Jo presses gauze to your side with trembling fingers.
"Bullet went through," you mumble. "Side. Maybe hit a rib."
"Through-and-through is good," Jo says quickly, like if she says it fast enough it’ll make it true. But your skin is clammy, your body leaning heavier against the wall.
You’re both crouched awkwardly on the ground, your legs folded beside hers in a tangle that the tight space refuses to accommodate. She has to press close to get any kind of angle, her knees bumping yours, her breath hot against your cheek.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay."
But you’re not. Not really.
The heat starts to build quickly. No ventilation. The air is thick and stifling. Sweat beads on your forehead. Your eyelids flutter, body slumping sideways.
"Hey. Hey- no. Stay with me." Jo’s voice is sharper now, cracking at the edges. "Don’t you dare go anywhere."
You blink, trying to focus on her face. It’s hard with the room spinning. "Sorry," you rasp. "Not many places to go... not here."
"You're not funny," She grumbled, "And don’t apologize. Just... don’t close your eyes." Her hands press harder into your side. "You’re losing a lot of blood."
"Feels like it."
Jo exhales sharply. "I hate you."
You try to smirk. "You love me."
She swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Which is why you don’t get to die like this. Not in a damn closet. Not with me holding your hand and shouting at a locked door."
Your head slumps forward. She catches you, guiding you to lean fully against her. You curl into the space between her neck and shoulder as she continues to hold pressure and whisper frantic reassurances.
The heat is unbearable now. Your skin is hot and damp, your breathing shallow. You can feel Jo’s heart racing where your head rests against her.
"I can’t-" she whispers, tears burning in her throat. "I can’t lose you... I should- I'm a doctor. I should be able to do something."
You can’t answer. She feels your weight shift, limp now.
"Hey!" she shouts. "No. No, no, no, wake up!"
She adjusts your body in the cramped space, pulling you fully into her lap despite the awkward angle. Her hands shake as she fumbles for more gauze, more pressure. Your blood is everywhere, it's on her hands, on her scrubs, smeared across the floor.
You groan faintly, head rolling back.
"There you are." Her voice breaks. "Okay. Stay with me, just like that. Just breathe. I’m right here."
Outside, distant footsteps. A voice over the intercom, too muffled to make out.
But the door doesn’t open.
Jo leans back against the shelves, one hand cradling your head, the other pressed to your wound.
"You’re going to be fine," she whispers, like a prayer. "I’m not letting you go. Not like this."
Minutes stretch. Sweat drips from Jo’s hairline. You fade in and out. Sometimes your eyes open and lock on hers. Sometimes your lips twitch like you want to speak.
And sometimes, terrifyingly, there’s nothing.
Jo leans down, forehead pressed to yours.
"You are not dying in a closet."
The silence swells again, broken only by your rattling breaths and Jo’s quiet sobs. But then-
A clang. Metal-on-metal.
Voices. Real ones this time. Closer.
Jo yells. Screams.
"WE’RE IN HERE! SHE’S SHOT!" Another second. Then the lock jiggles. Clicks.
The door bursts open. Light floods the closet. There's a few blurry moments where nothing happens, eyes just stare in as they survey the scene. Eventually, security and trauma staff surge in, radios buzzing, stretchers waiting.
Jo doesn’t move at first, arms locked around you. Paralyzed.
One of the nurses crouches beside her. "Jo. Let go. We’ve got her."
She does... barely. She follows you out on shaking legs, hand still smeared with your blood, jaw clenched against a scream.
You’re wheeled down the hallway, team swarming. But Jo stays right beside you, gripping the edge of the gurney like she might fall without it.
And even now, she doesn’t stop whispering.
"I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere."
And all she can do now is hope that you've heard her.
