Hi! *waves wildly* Okay, so I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, but I hated how the finale ended and basically, Rebecca needs to live. So this fic is my way of fixing my own problem :P Admittedly, I'm never good at predicting what writers will come up with next, so this is the plain, logical solution, which I'm sure everyone else has predicted :) If people are interested, I'll continue - this first chappie is only short! Please let me know what you think, it's much appreciated :)

Doctor Diego Soto's fists clenched nervously as he stood uncomfortably in the hospital's emergency waiting room. His head jerked up, gaze fixing on the clock as his mind sluggishly realised that ten entire minutes has passed since Emerson and Lucy had left. Glancing around, Ray was nowhere in sight.

Not good.

Looking back to the clock, a deep, consuming feeling of heaviness settled ominously in the pit of his stomach – if anyone had asked, he would have said he felt physically ill. The thick bleak doors branded 'Trauma Room One' continued to glare at him from across the room and worsened that feeling tenfold.

His cell had been pretty quiet, too. Doc had been expecting an unworldly phone call from Emerson, detailing his grand discovery via the three keys – but as of yet, no news there.

No news was good news? What a load of crap.

And Ray was still AWOL. Where the hell was he? Rebecca's life was hanging in the balance!

His heart ached. She was young and strong – one of those unmistakably genuine and just pure good people that you dreamed of meeting and knowing.

He had been so alone, and he owed her so much…

Blinking himself out of his reverie, Doc pushed himself off the bland hospital wall and marched through the trauma room doors, before anyone could grab him and tell him otherwise.

Nothing could have braced him for witnessing his best friend like that.

Lying grey and prone on those white sheets spattered with blood, whilst being shocked back to life.

Emerson stared. Openly. Stared with a mix of confusion, alarm and repulsion at the man. The man who was laughing uncontrollably and verging on hysteria – his cackle so disturbing that Emerson thought it was imprinting his soul for life.

This should not be happening.

And who was he?

"Emerson, your phone." Lucy's voice came from nowhere, but easily cut through his thoughts with an ever-present clarity. He snatched up the device and held it to his ear, barely glimpsing the screen.

"What is it, Soto?" he snapped irritably, only remembering half a second later that Rebecca was in hospital and fighting for he life.

And probably losing.

"It's Rebecca!" came the comic store owner's voice: wild with panic and distress, confirming Emerson's dark thoughts. "She's dying!"

The spoken words still shocked Emerson to his core and his eyes bolted open in realisation; it appeared they had all felt Detective Madsen was stronger than she was. He struggled to decipher the cacophony across the phone. The muffled 'sir!', 'you can't be in here!' and 'get him out!" helped him to deduce the situation. It was only years of practice that enabled him to swallow back his reaction to the urgent 'she's flat-lining!'

The old Alcatraz guard closed his eyes and composed himself with difficulty. "Soto," he began quietly, voice uncharacteristically gentle and empathic. "There's nothing you can do."

"No," Doc responded angrily, startling Emerson. "There is something – we can't let her die."

Emerson heard him take a huge, shuddering breath.

"You gave Lucy blood from Webb Porter and it healed her – because of the silver," said Doc meaningfully. "We can do the same for Rebecca."

Emerson was getting it. "Tommy Madsen."

"Will be a familial match," Doc finished. "We have to find him, we don't have much time."

Emerson's sharp gaze settled on the large map of America, on which the location of Tommy Madsen was shining brightly. "I'm on it – " he started to say, but Doc suddenly cut him off.

"Rebecca!" he cried. "No! Rebecca, please!"

"Soto, what's happening?" Emerson ordered, Lucy frowning at him in confusion and stepping forward to get answers.

"They're calling it!" Soto was distraught. Another nurse's attempt to guide him out of the ER was wholly unsuccessful. "They're calling her – her time of death." He sounded small and defeated.

Across the line, Emerson felt a fierce surge of resentment; Soto was the last person who should be sounding defeated. "We know Madsen's location, we'll find him," he barked out. "Soto, keep her alive."