It was the worst thing Simon had ever been forced to witness. In a matter of seconds, Makarov had shot Johnny, not once, but twice. And in the head.

Simon had thought Johnny was dead, thought he'd lost his boyfriend, thought he'd have to break the news to you, and listen to you cry. Simon thought everything had crashed around him, and Makarov escaping wasn't even in his mind.

But Johnny, by some miracle that Simon wasn't about to second guess, had lived. The bastard survived, albeit on the brink, and made it to the hospital for surgery. Almost six hours later, Simon was in a room while Johnny slept, not awake yet after surgery. In Simon's hand was two bullet casings, one from Johnny's shoulder and the other from Johnny's head.

It was the worst news you'd ever gotten. A simple phone call from Simon who tried to reassure you that Johnny was alive and well, but in surgery.

You'd never driven so fast, taking back roads as much as possible to avoid police. Johnny and Simon were your everything, your boyfriends, you're haven. And to hear that Johnny had almost died?

The receptionist at the hospital didn't hand time to stop you. Simon had already given you the floor and room number, and you wouldn't stop until you were with them.

Simon was in the plastic chair beside Johnny's bed, holding his hand, when he heard a commotion in the hall. He could already tell it was you, probably frantic.

You had time to open the door and see Johnny laying in that bed, all the wires and tubes running from him. Before you could scream at the sight, Simon had snagged you around the waist and rushed you to the hall, closing the door room behind him.

Simon held your face to his chest, his coat muffling your pained and horrified scream, "Get it out, luv. Get it all out."