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It took a few weeks to internalise that Mist had finally gone home with his mum and aunt. Adam kept starting, panicked, whenever he passed the neonatal ward and saw the incubator empty, before remembering that that extended nightmare—GMC complaints, truth-twisted statements, the too-tiny baby panting painfully for breath—was finally over. Adam's day-to-day existence was too hazy with exhaustion and stress to really let every victory sink in, but this one somehow managed, despite his cynicism and guilt. It felt good, to know he still could smile over even a belatedly successful delivery, after so much of his professional life had blurred together meaninglessly.
Someone had rescued the mugs Erika had given him and stored them in the communal cupboard above the staff room sink. During his midday break one day, Adam took one out and cupped it in his palm. World's Best Doctor. One for him. One for Shruti.
He hadn't let himself think about her much. Not since the memorial. Not since the hearing. If he did, all he could see was the way she'd stared at him, the last time he'd seen her without truly seeing her—intense and poised and so unspeakably tired, ground down to a point where even his kindest words (too little, too late) didn't matter.
Adam put the mug on the counter and poured himself some lukewarm coffee. After a moment, he impulsively pulled the matching mug from the cupboard and filled it with water. Then he made his way out of the staff room, gripping both handles in one hand, fluids sloshing over the sides of the two mugs (definitely not the worst the hospital floor had seen). He blinked as he emerged into the gusty but sunny mid-morning and made his way down the sloping drive, wondering blearily if he'd become some sort of medical vampire.
Shruti's oak tree was fittingly scrawny and scrappy, and the water that Adam poured around its base sank quickly into the dry soil. He sat down on the grass next to it and raised his own mug.
"To make up for all the times I made you fetch my beverage," he explained haltingly. "Erm. Also, because Mist finally went home. Mist Van Hegen, of the GMC complaint Van Hegens? Yeah. Lucky kid somehow survived, even though his mum's doctor royally bollocksed things up. Anyway, I've lost my only source of talking therapy, now he's gone. Not exactly in a position to schedule predictable, weekly sessions, as you know. Which I guess is why I'm here. Shit, not to say that you're only a replacement for Mist, Shruts, you know I'm fucking awful at saying what I actually mean. Which is that... I miss you. And I'm so, so sorry, for being such a shit boss, and such a shit friend."
Adam brushed his hand over his damp cheek and took another swig of coffee. He sat there until his break was up, then collected both empty mugs and steeled himself to return to the unending chaos.
It became something of a ritual, venturing outside on his daily break with his two mugs, sitting there with Shruti's tree, talking to her about that day's oddities on the ward, or the latest insensitive comment his mum had made, or how he and Harry were carefully navigating whatever their relationship currently was. Vicky Houghton caught him at it one day, as she wandered from the bus into the car park, and rather than burst into song or do anything else typically barmy, she simply placed a hand on Adam's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, before she continued on towards the hospital. After that, everyone stopped trying to buzz Adam when he was on his break and heading outside. Julian—who could be a prat, but might secretly be a good person—even held the door open whenever he saw Adam approaching with his hands occupied by a mug apiece.
Sometimes, Adam wondered if his colleagues thought he'd gone absolutely mad. But then he'd realise he'd passed that threshold long ago, and if he was being overt about it now, then maybe that was what the profession needed.
Coming off a night shift in the dim pre-dawn light, Adam stopped to sit silently with Shruti's tree, slowly shedding the frantic pace of the past 12 hours. When he looked up, Tracy was standing there, an NHS-branded metal water bottle clutched in her hand.
"You're not here to scold me for sitting on the green, are you?"
Tracy snorted, then unscrewed the water bottle's cap and began emptying it around the tree.
"I'm here to scold you for thinking you're the only one who cares," she replied gently. "We've all started emptying our water bottles here, on the way to and from shifts. Maybe it's our way of doing penance, for not having seen things clearly when we could have."
Adam pushed himself to feet, shaking out a leg that had gone pins and needles. The sky was gradually brightening over the imposing outline of the hospital.
"Ben's got plans to organise a plaque to put here," Tracy continued. "So the world remembers her name. Least we can do for her, besides keeping this poor thing alive."
"I..." Adam let out a choked sigh. "Thanks, Tracy."
Tracy nodded, then looked at Adam critically.
"No one's gonna tell you to stop coming out here on your breaks with your mugs, you know," she told him. "But we're all here to talk, if you need to. We all understand. Don't fall into the same trap, Adam."
She smiled at him, then headed towards the hospital entrance. A breeze rustled through the leaves of the young oak tree, making it bob slightly in seeming agreement. So many stolen minutes, Adam had sat here, wondering if handing Shruti's story to the GMC had meant anything. He'd done it not to save his own skin, but as a cry for help for all of them; and yet the NHS dragged itself wearily along same as before, underfunded and understaffed and undervalued. Not that he'd expected his outburst to change things; Vicky was right, you'd have to go to Westminster to effect those sorts of reforms. But until today, he'd still felt he kept letting Shruti down, for failing to give meaning to her life and for failing to make meaning of her death. Now, he reflected, perhaps Tracy had shown him why it did matter, because while Adam would have given anything to have Shruti back, only in her absence had he finally understood how critical it was sometimes to admit defeat and ask for help—from his colleagues, from his friends, from Harry. Shruti, who had relied on Adam to teach her the basics of the medicine they practised, had in return taught Adam the most bitter but important lesson about surviving and healing and living. An unbearably pyrrhic victory, but perhaps a victory nonetheless.
Adam brushed his fingers softly against the glossy green of the leaves.
"See you next shift, world's best doctor," he whispered, and then he wandered into the car park to locate his car, hoping it would deign to start when he put it in gear.