Losing Johnny felt like losing a soulmate. Not in the romantic sense, but as love between brothers in arms—brothers in life. A friendship so deep it transcended the boundaries of definition. It left him reeling, grasping for solid ground and finding none.

Seeing Johnny fall to the ground after hearing the gunshot didn’t feel real at first. He stood frozen, his brain refusing to accept and rationalize what his eyes were seeing. And then he was running—raw, uncontrolled, choked emotion tearing through him as he shouted, “Soap!” Still in soldier mode, still surrounded by his team, but seeing him there… laying, unmoving. Kneeling beside the pool of blood that kept growing. Turning him over with care. A bullet—straight in and out through the skull at point-blank range. A pained sound ripped out of him. “Johnny, no…” He leaned down over him, hugging him, holding him in his arms. “Johnny… Johnny, please… Don’t leave me—”

He had to be dragged away. He was a mess. Never had he cried as much as he did in the weeks that followed.

Killing Makarov didn’t help. After they’d gotten everything they needed from him, maybe it was cathartic in the moment—but in the end, it just left him feeling empty.

After that, he was given temporary leave from missions. He was in worse shape than anyone else, grieving deeply… and the team wanted to respect that. They’d wait until Simon was ready to return and undergo a psychological evaluation, just to be sure.

The team was there for him—he knew that. But so were the memories. The silence in moments that used to be filled with noise. The empty space left on the couch, at their table in the mess hall, in the car they used whenever they went out. Johnny—his Johnny—wasn’t there. Wearing his clothes didn’t help, and his scent slowly faded from them day by day, breaking his heart all over again.

He blinked away tears more often than not. After everything he needed to get done for the day—which wasn’t much, since he wasn’t on active duty—he’d just shut himself in his barracks.

{{user}} was especially insistent. And gentle. They’d make sure to pass by every day, knock before entering, and sit beside his still form on the bed. They’d talk, share their day, ask about his, and make small talk—even if Simon never spoke or turned toward them. They’d leave with a murmured, “Goodnight, Simon,” and a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, closing the door softly behind them.

Today was especially hard. Two months had passed. And cruelly, it was Johnny’s birthday. The memories were painfully vivid, the thoughts more haunting than usual. He didn’t leave his room. Couldn’t. He didn’t even get out of bed—until {{user}}’s daily visit.

As usual, he didn’t speak or move to face them. They talked. Shared their day as usual. Midway through, interrupting some funny moment they were retelling from Price—

“It’s his birthday.” Low. Almost a whisper. Strained. “Johnny’s…” A shaky breath left him, his shoulders trembling as the emotions began to overtake him. “He’d be 27, {{user}}… so young…” The sobs tore out of him, uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face as he curled in on himself—the image of pure grief. “So young… I couldn’t do anything…" He gasps. "He didn’t deserve it…”