Summary — emery is one to get shaken up often until she sees a patient who looks like you.
Warnings— I didn’t edit this, blood, mentions of death hospital settings surgeries and greys anatomy type shit
Word count 3.k
Requested — YES
The first time Dr.Walsh saw the patient’s face, her stomach dropped so violently she almost missed the diagnosis entirely.
“Thirty-two-year-old female,” the paramedic rattled off while they rushed beside the stretcher. “MVC. Driver-side impact. Hypotensive en route, possible splenic rupture—”
Emery barely heard him because the woman on the gurney looked exactly like you. Not remotely similar. She had the same soft mouth. Same nose. Same eyelashes resting against pale cheeks. Even the same little crease between the brows you got when you were annoyed at her.
For one impossible, horrifying second, Emery thought someone had dragged you into her ER and that made her heart stop.
“Dr.Walsh?” Nurse Ramirez says sharply, snapping Emery out of her trance blinking hard and shaking her head as the trauma bay comes back into focus.
‘It’s not you’ she thought and repeated it in her mind like a mantra but even though that wasn’t you it was still close enough to make her chest hurt.
“Pressure’s tanking” someone called out getting away at the patient’s clothes to get them out of the way.
Emery stepped forward taking over “we need to do a FAST ultrasound to see if there’s any internal bleeding.”
“What happens if there’s any internal bleeding?” One of the surgical residents asks.” As they wheel the ultrasound machine over to the side of the patient’s bed?”
Emery turned on the machine and squirted gel onto Jane Doe's stomach and used the wand “well if there’s internal bleeding then we need to prep for surgery and the OR for surgery” she explains checking the computer looking for any signs of bleeding.
The second the image appeared on the screen, Emery’s expression changed. Dark fluid bloomed across the ultrasound like spilled ink.
“There,” she said quietly, jaw tightening. “Positive FAST. She’s bleeding into her abdomen.”
The resident beside her went pale. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that if we stand here talking about it, she dies.” Emery handed the probe off sharply. “Page trauma surgery. Prep OR two now. Massive transfusion protocol.”
Nurses rushed around the room, someone hanging blood while another pushed meds. The cardiac monitor screamed with every drop in the woman’s pressure, the frantic beeping drilling straight into Emery’s skull.
“Looks like we’re scrubbing in.” Emery says taking her gloves off, tossing them into the trash can and following the patient to the OR and all she could see was you, not the Jane Doe.
You laughing in her kitchen while stealing fries off her plate. You half asleep in one of her sweatshirts. You rolling your eyes whenever she came home after a thirty-hour shift and insisted she was “fine.”
It made her sick.
“Pressure’s seventy over forty,” Ramirez called.
“Starting another unit.”
“Move,” Emery ordered, already pushing the stretcher toward the elevator herself. “Come on, stay with me.”
The patient didn’t respond. Her face stayed limp and pale beneath the fluorescent lights and Emery hated how much it looked like you were unconscious.
By the time they burst into the OR, Emery’s hands were already regloved. One of the attendings looked over. “Walsh, you’ve been on shift for twelve hours already. I can take this.”
“I’m fine.”
It came out too fast and too dismissive because she wasn’t fine. The attending paused but didn’t argue when Emery stepped up to the table. Because this was what she did. She saved people. She cut them open and fixed what the world had broken.
Except two hours later, the monitor flatlined.
The sound hollowed the room out.
“No pulse.”
“Start compressions.”
Blood coated Emery’s gloves to the wrists as she searched desperately through the cavity, trying to clamp the bleeding vessel she couldn’t seem to control.
“Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Come on…”
Another round of epi.
Another rhythm check.
Nothing.
The trauma surgeon across from her looked at the clock first.
Emery already knew.
She could feel it.
“Time of death, 3:17 AM.”
Silence.
The words hit her like a physical blow. For a second, nobody moved. Then the room shifted into practiced aftermath machines shutting off, instruments counted, nurses speaking softly but Emery just stared at the woman’s face.
The surgical mask suddenly felt too tight against Emery’s face. Everyone else moved first. The scrub nurse began quietly covering the body. Someone shut off the monitor, finally silencing the flatline that still echoed inside Emery’s skull. The residents drifted toward cleanup, subdued in the way doctors became after losing someone young.
Emery didn’t move because all she could see was you.
This woman had your face.
And now she was dead.
“Walsh.”
The trauma attending’s voice came carefully this time.
Emery blinked once.
“You okay?”
No she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even close to being okay , but she nodded automatically anyway because that was what doctors did. They compartmentalized. Buried it. Moved onto the next patient.
“I’m fine,” she said again, quieter this time.
The attending looked unconvinced but didn’t push. “Go take ten.”
Emery stripped off her gloves with more force than necessary. Blood smeared across the stainless steel edge of the table before she tossed them away.
Her hands were shaking but none of the other attending’s said anything. She stepped out of the OR and the hallway lights hit her like a freight train.
A nurse rushed past with labs. Someone laughed down the corridor. A monitor alarmed from another room. Life continued around her like someone hadn’t just died under her hands but that was the thing with hospital’s everything must go on.
Emery made her way to the locker room she needed to hear your voice
Emery made her way to the locker room because she needed to hear your voice.
Needed it in the same way people needed oxygen.
The second the door shut behind her, the silence crashed over her all at once. The adrenaline that had kept her moving through surgery drained from her body so fast it made her dizzy.
Her hands were still shaking.
She stared at them for a second like they belonged to someone else.
Those same hands had cracked open a chest thirty minutes ago. Had tried to save a woman who looked so much like you it made her feel haunted.
And they’d failed.
Emery braced both palms against the metal lockers and lowered her head.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Her phone was already in her hand before she consciously decided to grab it. She opened your contact immediately.
A photo of you smiled back at her.
You were sitting on the kitchen counter in one of her hoodies, grinning at whoever had taken the picture probably her. There was flour on your cheek from the disastrous attempt the two of you had made at baking cookies after one of her overnight shifts.
Emery felt her throat tighten painfully.
“Come on,” she whispered to herself.
She hit the call button The phone rang four times before it went straight to voicemail and her stomach dropped.
“Hey, you’ve reached Y/N. I’m probably asleep or ignoring my phone again—”
Emery hung up before the message finished. You probably were asleep. That was all. It was almost four in the morning. Normal people slept at four in the morning.
But the unease in her chest only got worse.
She texted you immediately.
baby call me when you wake up
A second later:
please
Emery stared at the screen.
Nothing.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. Somewhere down the hallway a trauma pager went off again followed by hurried footsteps.
Usually those sounds grounded her.
Tonight they just made her feel sick.
The image of that woman’s face kept flashing behind her eyes.
Dead on the table.
Looking like you.
Her phone remained silent.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face.
You were fine.
You had to be fine.
Maybe your phone died. Maybe you fell asleep on the couch again with one of your comfort movies playing too loud.
A knock sounded against the locker room door bringing her back to the present.
“Walsh?”
Ramirez poked her head inside carefully.
Emery straightened automatically, shoving every emotion back down where it belonged.
“What?”
“There’s coffee in the lounge.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Ramirez studied her for a moment. “Nobody said anything about food.”
Emery exhaled sharply through her nose.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that four times in the last hour.”
“Because I am.”
It wasn’t convincing Not with the dark circles under her eyes or the blood still smeared faintly near the cuff of her scrub top.
Ramirez leaned against the doorway. “That patient got to you.”
“No,” Emery answered too quickly.
The nurse raised an eyebrow.
Emery looked away first.
“She looked like someone,” she admitted quietly.
Ramirez’s expression softened immediately. “Y/N?” Pop
Emery didn’t answer she didn't need to because Ramirez has been on the job long enough to know the signs.
“Oh.”
The silence stretched between them. Neither of them knew what to say. The only saving grace was Emery’s phone buzzing violently in her hand. Both of them looked down instantly. Relief hit so fast Emery almost felt weak.
“See?” Ramirez said gently. “Probably just—”
But the second Emery looked at the screen, every ounce of relief vanished.
Unknown Number.
Her stomach twisted.
She answered immediately. “Hello?”
Static crackled through the speaker followed by chaos in the background.
“Is this Dr. Emery Walsh?”
Every muscle in her body locked.
“Yes.”
“This is Pittsburgh EMS. We have your number listed as emergency contact for Y/N Y/L/N.”
The world stopped. Ramirez’s face changed instantly at whatever she saw in Emery’s expression.
“What happened?” Emery demanded.
Her voice no longer sounded like hers.
“Motor vehicle collision occurred approximately ten minutes ago,” the paramedic said quickly. “She was found unconscious at the scene and—”
“No.”
The word tore itself out of her.
No.
Not you.
Not after tonight.
“We’re en route to County General now—”
“I’m already here,” Emery snapped.
The paramedic paused briefly. “She’s critical, Doctor.”
Emery’s knees nearly buckled
Around her, the hospital suddenly felt too suffocating. The exact same words from earlier echoed through her skull.
Driver-side impact.
Hypotensive.
Possible internal bleeding.
Like something cruel had decided to repeat itself.
“ETA two minutes,” the paramedic continued. “Possible abdominal hemorrhage and chest trauma. BP is unstable.”
Emery was already moving before the call ended.
Locker room door slamming open.
Ramirez immediately followed behind her. “Emery—”
“That’s my girlfriend.”
The words cracked apart on the way out.
It stopped Ramirez cold for half a second because Dr. Emery Walsh never sounded afraid. The Emery she knew was cocky and confident but this Emery looked terrified.
They burst into the ER just as the ambulance bay doors flew open.
“Move!”
The stretcher came barreling through the doors surrounded by paramedics and there you were.Blood in your hair. Skin pale beneath the trauma room lights and Motionless.
Emery physically stumbled when she saw you. For one horrible second she couldn’t breathe. Because suddenly the dead woman from earlier was gone and this was real.
This was not some Jane Doe who looks like you.
“Y/N,” she whispered.
Nobody heard her over the noise.
“BP dropping!”
“She was cardiac arrested once in transport!”
“Possible splenic rupture!”
The words hit Emery like punches to the ribs Like the universe had decided to torture her personally.
“Dr. Walsh?” one of the residents asked nervously.
Emery snapped back to life instantly.
“Trauma one. NOW.”
The team moved.
You didn’t.
Your head rolled weakly with the movement of the stretcher and Emery reached for you automatically, blood immediately smearing across her hands.
You were cold.
“Baby,” she breathed shakily, brushing damp hair away from your face. “Hey, look at me.”
Nothing.
The monitor screamed again.
“Pressure’s crashing!”
Fear unlike anything Emery had ever experienced ripped through her chest.
Not this. Please not this. she thought
“Get blood ready,” she barked. “Call OR two. Move!”
Someone hesitated.
Hospital policy.
No treating family.
No operating on people you loved.
Emery looked at them with tears already gathering in her eyes and something in her expression made the entire room go silent.
“She is dying,” Emery said.
Not Dr. Walsh.
Not the brilliant trauma surgeon everybody feared and respected.
Just Emery.
Just a woman watching the love of her life bleed out in front of her.
“Somebody help me save her.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the sheets. It was tiny and barely noticeable but Emery caught it immediately.
“There you are,” she whispered desperately, gripping your hand. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Stay with me.”
Your eyelashes fluttered faintly and a broken sound left your throat.
Thank God.
Emery bent forward until her forehead rested shakily against yours for half a second despite the chaos exploding around her.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, voice breaking completely. “I’ve got you, baby. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”
“Walsh, you know that you can’t operate on a loved one right?” Dr.Espinoza the head of surgery (bare with me I can’t remember who is head of surgery in the Pitt) says softly.
Emery sniffles and nods her head “I know I know” she admits looking back at the doctor.
“She’ll be in good hands so why don’t you clock out and we’ll let you know when she’s out of surgery.” Dr.Espinoza says as you begin to get wheeled up into the OR.
Emery’s entire body moved on instinct.
“No.”
It came out harsher than she intended, cracking apart under the weight of panic clawing up her throat. She followed the stretcher automatically as they pushed you toward the elevators.
“I’m going with her.”
“Emery—” Dr. Espinoza started carefully.
“I said I’m going with her.”
The doors to the elevator opened with a sharp ding and the surgical team rolled you inside. Emery walked in beside the stretcher before anyone could stop her. Ramirez squeezed in behind her at the last second, probably because she knew Emery was one bad sentence away from completely unraveling.
The elevator doors shut. Silence.Or at least silence compared to the chaos downstairs. Your hand looked so small wrapped in oxygen tubing and dried blood. Emery reached for it anyway. Your skin was freezing.
“Baby,” she whispered shakily, thumb brushing weakly over your knuckles. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Your eyelids fluttered faintly again.
Not fully conscious.
Not really there.
But enough that Emery saw the tiny movement and nearly broke apart from relief.
“There she is,” Ramirez murmured quietly from the corner.
Emery swallowed hard.
Your lips parted around a strained little breath and Emery leaned closer immediately, desperate enough to hear anything.
“…Em…”
The sound barely existed.
But it destroyed her.
“Oh God.”
Her eyes burned instantly.
“I’m right here,” she said quickly, voice trembling now. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Don’t try to talk, okay? Just breathe for me.”
Your face pinched faintly like you were trying to focus on her voice through the pain.
Then the monitor shrieked.
“Pressure’s dropping again,” one of the nurses warned.
Emery’s head snapped up immediately. “How much?”
“Sixty systolic.”
“Shit.”
The elevator couldn’t move fast enough.
Every second felt stolen.
Emery looked back down at you and suddenly all she could see was every ordinary moment she might lose.
You stealing her hoodies.
You dancing barefoot in the kitchen at two in the morning.
You asleep against her chest after she came home from impossible shifts.
The way you always mumbled, “you’re late,” even when you were half unconscious.
All of it threatened to disappear in one terrible night.
The elevator doors finally opened onto the surgical floor.
“Move!”
The team rushed forward again.
OR staff shoved open double doors while another nurse rattled off your vitals to anesthesia. Emery stayed glued to your side until the bright lights of the operating room hit her square in the face.
And then she stopped because this was it. The line. The one line she couldn’t cross.
Dr. Espinoza turned toward her gently. “Emery.”
Her chest heaved once.
You looked so pale on that table.
Too still.
Too much like the woman from earlier.
Except this time Emery loved you.
This time it was your blood covering her hands.
“She needs surgery now,” the attending surgeon said firmly while scrubbing in. “We’re losing time.”
Emery nodded automatically but her feet wouldn’t move.
You made another weak sound somewhere beneath the oxygen mask.
Her composure shattered completely.
She crossed the room in two steps and grabbed your hand again before they could wheel you fully beneath the surgical lights.
“Hey,” she whispered frantically. “Hey, look at me.”
Your eyes opened barely a sliver.
Confused.
Glassy with pain.
But they found hers.
And Emery almost collapsed from the sheer relief of it.
“There you are,” she breathed.
A tear slipped down before she could stop it.
You looked terrified.
That hurt worse than anything.
“Em…” you slurred weakly.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Your fingers twitched against hers, trying to hold on. Emery bent down fast, pressing a trembling kiss against your forehead despite the blood and the noise and the people moving around you.
“I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “You hear me? I love you so much.”
Your lashes fluttered again.
Then your eyes started slipping shut.
“No, no, no— stay awake for me.”
“Emery.” Dr. Espinoza’s voice was firmer now.
She looked up.
The entire OR had gone quiet around them.
Because every person in that room could see it.
The terror in Emery’s face.
The way her hand shook holding yours.
The way she looked less like a surgeon and more like someone standing on the edge of losing everything.
“You need to let us work,” Dr. Espinoza said softly.
Emery’s breathing turned uneven.
For the first time in years, she felt completely helpless. Ramirez stepped closer carefully. “I’ll stay with her,” she promised quietly.
Emery looked back at you one last time. Your heartbeat stuttered across the monitor. Her thumb brushed across your cheek gently, wiping away a streak of blood near your temple.
“Please,” she whispered so quietly nobody else could hear it. “Please don’t leave me.”
Then she finally let go.
And the second they pulled your stretcher away from her, Emery felt like someone had ripped her heart directly out of her chest.
One hour passed.
Then two.
Emery stayed exactly where she was outside the OR.
Someone brought her coffee at some point. It went cold untouched beside her chair.
Residents and nurses drifted quietly around the surgical floor, speaking in hushed voices whenever they looked her way. Nobody had ever seen Emery Walsh like this before.
Not cold.
Not composed.
Not untouchable.
Just terrified.
Every time the OR doors moved, her head snapped up instantly.
Every single time.
At one point Ramirez tried to convince her to change out of her bloodstained scrubs.
Emery looked down at them blankly like she hadn’t even noticed.
Your blood.
Still on her hands.
Still on her clothes.
She couldn’t bring herself to take them off.
At 6:12 AM, the doors finally opened again.
Everyone in the hallway seemed to freeze simultaneously.
Dr. Espinoza stepped out first, removing his surgical cap slowly.
Emery was on her feet before he even spoke.
The expression on his face nearly stopped her heart.
No no no—
“She’s alive.”
The breath Emery let out sounded almost painful.
Espinoza held up a hand quickly before she collapsed from relief completely.
“She’s critical,” he continued carefully. “Massive blood loss. We repaired the splenic rupture and controlled the liver bleed, but the next twenty-four hours are going to matter.”
