The sliding glass doors of Seattle Grace—still bearing the microscopic scars of forensic cleaning—hissed open to greet Christopher's return. He was two weeks post-op, his left arm no longer in a sling but still stiff beneath the bespoke wool of his overcoat.
He hadn't even reached the elevator bank before the applause started. It began with a few nurses at the admitting desk and spread like a staph infection through the lobby.
Christopher stopped, his face a mask of clinical boredom. He looked at the crowd of interns and attendings as if they were contaminated petri dishes.
"If this is a flash mob, I'm filing for an injunction," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "And if it's a celebration of my survival, I suggest you redirect that energy toward checking your patients' post-op potassium levels. Statistically, three of you have already missed a lab value while you were busy clapping."
Richard Webber stepped forward, a genuine warmth in his eyes that Christopher found deeply suspicious. "Christopher. The board has been asking about you. Gary Clark is awaiting trial, and the hospital wants to name the new trauma wing after you."
"I'm twenty-one, Richard. Naming a wing after me makes me sound like a deceased donor," Christopher snapped, adjusting his lab coat. "Tell the board to donate the funds to the surgical scholarship fund instead. I have enough statues in my own ego."
Derek Shepherd and Meredith Grey approached him, looking intact but fragile. Derek reached out a hand—the same hand Christopher had saved in a one-handed miracle surgery.
"I owe you a career, Christopher," Derek said, his voice thick.
"You owe me a decent cup of espresso and a complete lack of eye contact for the next forty-eight hours," Christopher countered, stepping into the elevator. "I'm here to work, not to be the mascot for your collective trauma."
As the doors closed, Christopher let out a long, weary breath. He pulled out his phone.
"I'm back at the circus. They tried to name a wing after me. I told them to buy books instead. I'll be home when the saints stop marching. - C"
He caught his reflection in the brushed steel. He looked like the The Wright Way—sharp, clinical, and unbreakable. But he knew Season 7 was looming, and with it, the Alzheimer's trial.