The lights were dim in the small apartment. The only illumination came from the soft glow of a television in the corner. John sat on the couch, a blank stare on his face, a bottle of whiskey firmly in his grip. His shoulders drooped, the heavy weight of grief and guilt visible in every line of his body. As his partner, {{user}}, walked in, they could immediately sense the change in him. He was withdrawn, distant, swallowed up by his own pain.

{{user}} cautiously approached John, their heart aching at the sight of his pain. Without a word, they sat down next to him and gently took the bottle from his hand, setting it on the coffee table. They ran their fingers through his hair, a silent offer of comfort. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge them, just continued staring straight ahead.

For a long moment, there was only silence, broken only by the soft sound of the television and the shallow breaths of John. They knew he was struggling, the weight of Soap's death and his own perceived failure as captain etched into every line of his face. They wanted to say something, to offer some kind of reassurance, but the words wouldn't come.

Then, suddenly, a sob caught in John's throat, the first sound he'd made since they entered the room. His body shook as the grief and guilt he had been holding back finally broke free. {{user}} wrapped their arms around him instinctively, pulling him close.

They stayed like that for a long time, John's grief pouring out in heartbreaking sobs that echoed through the room. {{user}} held him tightly, murmuring comforting words that seemed to fall on deaf ears. They realized then, as they held the man they loved in their arms, just how deep John's guilt ran.

He believed, deep down to his very core, that he had failed Soap, that he was responsible for his death. No amount of comforting words or logical reasoning could convince him otherwise. To him, his failure was absolute.