AN: Well, hello, Kats and Kittens. How's things, eh? This is my first ever delve into the Scrubs fandom, so go easy on a poor gal, yea? I'm not sure where this one came from, but once I had the idea, it just sort of flowed from my brain, through my fingers, and onto my laptop. Love Love Love those kinds of stories. Anyway, I'll stop gabbing and allow you to go on to the actual story. Enjoy, yea?

Disclaimer: I do not own Scrubs. I do not own the characters of Scrubs . . . Oi . . . Why not?

Nothing's Wrong:


Oh no. He never calls me "JD." Ever. Something's wrong . . . No, it can't be wrong. Nothing's wrong. He's just staring at me like that because . . . He's just using that tone of voice because . . . He's just . . .

"I'm sorry."

Don't say that. He can't be sorry. Nothing's wrong. Why is he so God damn sorry if nothing's wrong? He places a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off, backing away and shaking my head. My vision blurs, and I realize that thick, hot tears are rolling down my cheeks.

No, I'm not crying. I'm not crying because nothing's wrong. I haven't fallen to my knees and strung my fingers through my hair. I haven't allowed the sobs to wrack my body so violently that I'm trembling beyond my control and nearly hyperventilating. I haven't done these things because nothing's wrong.

And now I'm pleading. No, I'm not. I'm not pleading some higher power to take me instead or cursing them for taking my family in the first place. I'm not huddled in Doctor Cox's arms, clenching his white coat with whitened knuckles and waning strength. I'm not because there's nothing wrong.

There's nothing wrong because any moment now, she's going to come walking out of those double doors, our three-year-old son in her arms and a silly smile on her face as she tells me that I'm getting my pants dirty and that we'll never get to the babysitter's if we don't get a move on. It's our fifth anniversary, and we're going to her favorite restaurant, where we'll order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu, and right in the middle of dessert, I'll gently nudge a rectangular black box across the table. She'll wrinkle her nose and cock her head to one side, complaining that we promised not to get each other gifts this year, and I'll smirk and say something that will make her laugh or blush or both, and she'll pick up the box and gasp as she finds the diamond necklace she's been eyeing in the jewelry store window for months. She'll look at me with watery eyes as I stand and carefully remove the gleaming object, stringing it around her neck and connecting it in the back, and I'll sit back down and admire it. She'll finger it softly and tell me it's beautiful, and I'll say that it's so much more beautiful because she's wearing it, and we'll dance the night away until she laughs and says that those damn heels are hurting her feet.

There's nothing wrong because none of this has taken place yet. And it has to. It's going to.

But Doctor Cox is still murmuring apologies into my ear, and my tux is still stained with crimson spatters -- probably both of our blood, but mostly hers. And my mind is trying to accept that they're gone -- really it is -- but it keeps thinking about her clothes on her side of the closet, our son's toys still scattered about his nursery, our bed that she had made only this morning, the laundry in front of the washer that she had scolded me about earlier, the dishes still in the sink from our late lunch. Turk is by the doors, his scrubs still soaked in her blood and a tired, sad look on his face as he wipes tears from his cheeks and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, unable to decide whether to approach me or leave me to the man currently rocking me back and forth on the floor. And, suddenly, the memories are assaulting me, reminding me of why I'm here pretending that nothing is wrong . . . because it seems that something -- just maybe -- is out of place.

//I remember the green shimmer of the traffic light. She's making faces at the squealing, giggling little boy in the back seat, turning to me with a smile and a laugh of her own as I start to pull into the intersection. And then that smile is gone, replaced by a look of utter horror as she fills her lungs to scream but never gets the chance as the other car speeds through a red light, slamming into the driver's side of our little car at nearly sixty miles an hour in a forty-mile-per-hour zone. Through the blood pounding in my ears and the muffled sounds of people outside screaming or calling 911 or attempting to ask us if we're all right, I hear my son wailing in the back seat. He's scared, so I crane my neck, and, despite the agony spreading through my ribcage, I turn to comfort him. But he's, suddenly, gone very quiet . . . She's not moving at all, half her face coated in a thick, red liquid that ebbs from her scalp and drips down the curve of her pale neck and onto her gown. And my only thought before my vision begins to fade is that she won't be able to wear it to the restaurant.//

And now I realize that something is most definitely wrong. Because she's not the one here comforting me, and our son isn't here telling me not to cry because everything will be okay. Because my best friend is now kneeling beside me, telling me there was nothing that could be done for either of them. Because our son had died of suffocation from being pinned against his car seat by a protruding something or other before the ambulance had even arrived, and she had died of blood loss or heart failure or a combination of both. I don't retain any of the information that I'm being told. My face is blank now, my entire body nearly numb, and I can't imagine feeling any other way for the rest of my life. They're trying to get my attention, trying to get me to stand, but I just can't seem to find the energy.

And there's a prickling sensation in my back that wasn't there before, starting near the bottom and working it's way up towards the shoulder blades. I shiver and reach behind me to scratch at the tickling, and my hand comes back red, startling both men beside me. But I stare at my crimson-coated fingers without interest, looking past them to my shoes and frowning. They were shiny this morning, but they're scuffed now, covered in dirt and dry blood. My coat is ripped from my arms, and there are gentle, prodding fingers at my back, causing me to hiss as it stings. Someone curses -- maybe me, maybe one of the two now shouting for a gurney, maybe all three of us.

"JD, you hang in there, all right?" Turk's words are desperate as I'm pressed back against the floor, my jacket currently acting as a make-shift pillow. I stare at him with confusion and drowsiness, wanting to say something along the lines of "What the fuck are you talking about?" But the words are stuck in my throat, and a bitter liquid is rising up, coasting along the curve of my tongue and spilling past my lips.

"Newbie! Damn it!" Doctor Cox is looking around frantically for that gurney. It sure is taking a long time to get here ... Then again, it is the graveyard shift. Have we really been here that long? "JD, look at me." I can't focus. "Look at me!" I want to tell him that shouting isn't going to make my vision any less blurry, but things are, suddenly, getting very . . . far away. Things are fading. But I'm not afraid. Because she has my hand in hers, and our son is giggling and squirming, reaching for me with those arms still plump with baby fat. Because she's whispering assurances in my ear, telling me that everything is better now and that it's going to be all right.

Because nothing is wrong anymore.

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard to any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?

Yea, notice how I made his wife sort of . . . vague. I'll leave the imagining up to you. Well, that was my first Scrubs one-shot. What'd ya think? Yes? No? Boil it? Mash it? Stick it in a stew? . . . Christ . . . God-forsaken Lord of the Rings marathons . . . Later, Gators! Have a good one, yea?