Tammy winces as I place the stethoscope on her back.

"Sorry, it's a bit cold," I murmur as soothingly as possible. The 5-year-old is struggling to breathe, her chest heaving as her terrified mother holds her. I tune out the noise in the room as I listen intently to her lungs. Just as I'd feared, there's a rattling sound beneath the wheezing as she struggles to breathe. The obvious diagnosis is pneumonia, but my gut tells me that something else is going on.

Flipping through her medical history, I shake my head. 

"Just to be on the safe side, let's order a bronchoscopy," I say to the nurse standing next to me. "If they can't do it within the next few hours, come find me."

Scribbling notes on the medical chart, I hand the clipboard to the nurse and walk over to the parents, who, rightfully so, look petrified. Ten minutes later, satisfied that they understand the proposed course of treatment, I run a hand over their daughter's forehead and promise to check on her again before I leave for the day.

From there, it's a never-ending stream of coughs, sore throats, and, for one unlucky teenager, a fractured femur that requires surgery. I'm nearing the end of my shift when the supervising doctor calls my name in his authoritative drawl. I inwardly cringe, wondering if I did something wrong. I've seen so many patients today, it honestly wouldn't surprise me.

But his next sentence does, in fact, surprise me. "The little girl you sent down for the bronchoscopy--"

"Tammy Jacobson?"

"Yes, Miss Jacobson. Turns out she had a severe infection in her lungs. Most doctors wouldn't have caught it. So, uh, well done, Dr. Evans."

Dr. Kennedy says the last bit somewhat begrudgingly as if any sort of praise might encourage me to lower my standard of care. With a curt nod, he pivots and strides down the hall, his footsteps echoing off the walls. I stand frozen for a moment, a little smile on my face. But I'm only allowed to bask in the moment briefly, as I'm called to another patient's bedside.

It isn't until an hour later when I'm sitting in the locker room staring at my street clothes, that I allow reality to filter back into my consciousness. I wonder idly if this tunnel vision is what Roger experiences when he's on stage--pure focus on the task at hand, all other thoughts leaving the mind. Or maybe this is what he experiences the whole time he's on tour, as I haven't heard from him since I phoned him over a week ago.

I mentally shake off my annoyance and quickly change into my street clothes. Treading softly down the hall, I'm halfway out the door when a colleague calls my name. For the life of me, I can't remember his name even though we've been introduced on multiple occasions.

"Heard you had a good save today, Evans," he says, flashing a friendly smile. We walk outside, and the unseasonably cold air blasts us unexpectedly; it definitely wasn't this cold when I left home this morning.

"Just got lucky," I reply with what I hope is a modest shrug.

We part ways, and I set off towards the Tube. I'm tired and hungry, both sensations that I've become too accustomed to. Halfway down the block, a deep voice calls my name.

Stopping in my tracks, I turn with trepidation. Just as I expect, my ex-boyfriend stands a few feet away, dressed like a prep school poster boy. His blonde hair is perfectly styled, an expensive-looking pea coat protecting him from the wind.

"What're you doing here, Luke?" How does he even know where I work? I cautiously approach him, wishing that I could escape back to the hospital and bunker down there until he fucks off.

"Well, you won't return my phone calls, so you didn't leave me with much choice, sweetheart."

I wince as Luke says the last word, wondering why he thinks he has the right to use any term of endearment with me. God, he's like a particularly virulent case of VD that just won't go away. Why can't he get it through his thick skull that it's over?

"I didn't return your phone calls because I don't want to talk to you," I respond icily, shaking my head to emphasize the last few words.

"Skylar," he says, taking a step towards me. I instinctively move backward to maintain the distance between us, but he reaches out to grasp my forearm. "Enough is enough. Stop playing games and let's just move on."

I look down at the hand that's grasping my forearm, effectively holding me in place. Then I stare up into Luke's face, noting that I had once loved every inch of him so dearly, whereas now I only feel contempt.

A horn blares nearby, and, for a brief moment, I swear that I hear Roger calling my name. But he's in America, where he'll stay for the next six weeks, so clearly I'm going mad. Still, I turn my head towards the noise, hoping against hope that I'll magically see my boyfriend standing there. Before my eyes can even focus on the commotion across the street, Luke grabs my face and turns it towards him, forcing my eyes to meet his.

"Talk to me, Skylar," he says harshly. Something about the tone of his voice shakes me out of my reverie, and my eyes narrow.

"Okay, I'll talk to you. How about this: Why don't you fuck off?" I angrily pull his hands away from my face and take a step back. 

"Oh, like you can do no wrong? Like you're so high and mighty? God, you're such a cunt sometimes." His hands dart out and, unexpectedly, push my shoulders. I stumble backward, and my ankle twists, sending me crashing to the ground. My handbag hits the pavement first, followed by my head.

"Shit, Skylar—" Luke mutters as he starts towards me. Before he can say more, there's a whirl of motion from behind us.

"Get the fuck away from her," a familiar voice shouts murderously. For a moment, I wonder if I'm concussed and hallucinating. But as I see Roger hurtle himself towards Luke, I realize that, no, he's actually here.

Roger's fist flies through the air, making audible contact with Luke's jaw. His eyes widen in surprise just before he shoves Roger away and, seconds later, his fist crashes into Roger's abdomen. The drummer doubles over in pain, cursing loudly.

My ankle wobbles as I force myself to stand, which Roger must see out of the corner of his eye because he turns towards me. Luke uses that moment to throw a punch, his fist grazing the side of Roger's head.

A crowd has started to gather around us as I finally get my bearings. Roger and Luke are in a stand-off, each of them panting and looking like wrestlers who have no fucking clue what they're doing.

"I'd put money on the toff," an elderly woman says from behind me.

"My money's on the pretty blonde," another woman announces.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter.

As much as I love the fact that Roger is here, I know that he needs both hands intact so he can play his drums. Determined to end this, I shove myself in between them, praying that I won't get punched accidentally.

"Guys, break it up. Break it up!"

Roger tries to sidestep me to get to Luke, so I push him back in the hopes that distance will help. "Walk away, Roger."

Roger looks at me with pupils dilated in anger. His gaze turns to Luke, and then swivels back to me, a look of mild disbelief on his face.

"Fuck this," he mutters, whirling around and stomping off down the sidewalk, shoving his way through the small crowd that has assembled to witness the impromptu brawl. Belatedly, I realize that he thinks I'm trying to protect Luke.

"Who the bloody hell was that?" Luke asks, wiping a hand across his face.

Instead of answering, I draw my palm back and put all my weight into it as I swing it towards his face. It hurts like a bitch, and I may have sprained a finger, but the shocked look on my ex-boyfriend's face makes it all worth it.

The elderly woman gives a little cheer as I weave through the small crowd to run after Roger. He's already half a block away, his long strides radiating anger. He doesn't look back when I call his name, instead redoubling his efforts to get away.

"You stubborn bastard," I mutter softly as I break into a jog and quickly overtake him. As soon as I'm able to, I jump in his path, forcing him to stop. He tries to brush past me, his blue eyes angry and frustrated.

"Rog," I say, putting my hands on his shoulders to steady him. "Hey."

"Who the fuck was that?" he says, finally stopping. His hands rake through his long hair, and he looks as if he wants to break something.

"My ex."

"Luke?" He spits out the words angrily.

I nod, and his face darkens. For a moment, I think he's going to go back to finish the bollocking that he started.

"Rog--"

Cautiously, I approach him, gingerly putting my arms around him. He's vibrating with anger but, after a few moments, he relaxes and raises his arms to encircle me. We hold each other tightly for a long while, ignoring the rush hour pedestrians streaming past us. Despite the harrowing circumstances, and ignoring the fact that I have no idea why he's even here, it's the first time in weeks that I've felt at peace.

After a long while, I lean back and place my palm on his cheek, wincing at the large bruise that has already started to form.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in America."

For the first time since he miraculously appeared, a slight grin appears on his face. "Well, how am I supposed to defend your honor from 3,000 miles away?"

"That's a fair point, I suppose," I reply, a huge grin spreading across my face. Stepping back, I take in every inch of his face. Before I know it, his arms are around me once again, his lips next to my ear.

"I missed you, Sky," he says softly. I nuzzle his neck before pulling his face towards mine, indulging in a long kiss that's highly inappropriate for such a public setting. We don't stop until we hear a catcall from a passing stranger, our foreheads meeting as we grin at one another.

"Are you alright?" His voice is gruffer than usual. I nod and offer him my hand.

"Want to come back to my flat and explain why you're on the wrong continent?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

The next five weeks fly by. We're both aware that this is stolen time made possible only because of Brian's shitty luck, and we take full advantage of our silver lining. Roger spends his days working on songs at his flat or holed up at John's strategizing about Queen's future. They're broke, pissed off at their management, and under extreme pressure to finish their new album by the end of the summer, even though Brian still isn't well.

As for me, whenever I'm not at the hospital, I'm with Roger, even if it means stumbling home to fall into bed next to him. We're at each other's apartments so often that, after a few weeks, he jokes that maybe we should just save money and move in together.

One night in late June, I take the bus from work to his flat. Even before opening the front door, I can hear the echo of his drums. I quickly take off my shoes and walk to his room, cracking the door to see him perched behind the kit, wearing a half-buttoned denim shirt and jeans.

He's gazing intently at the ground as he tries out a variation of a beat. The door creaks as I open it, and he looks up, his eyes brightening.

"There she is!" he cries, motioning me over. "Come listen."

He settles me on the stool in front of him, his thighs bracketing mine. Leaning forward, his long hair brushing against my back, he resumes playing. Ooooooh, give me a good guitar, he sings under his breath as his arms fly across the drums.

"Ugh, that's as far as I've gotten," he says, placing the drumsticks on the snare, and encircling me with his arms. "How was your day?"

Leaning back into him, I turn to kiss his jaw. "It was alright. What about you? Did Freddie talk to Trident?"

Roger's face darkens as he places his chin on top of my head. "John did," he replied, his voice vibrating against my hair. "They're giving us two weeks to write the album, and then we have to go to Wales to bang it out in the studio."

My face falls at the prospect of him leaving, even though we both knew it was coming and that we've been living on borrowed time.

"What about Brian?"

"He'll come when he can. He's already written two tracks that we think will work."

I turn towards Roger, the sudden movement nearly toppling us both over. With a laugh, I stand and try to take a step away, but he traps me between his legs and leans forward to place a kiss on my hip. With a cheeky grin on his face, he leans his chin on my abdomen and gazes up at me expectantly.

"Two weeks, huh?" My voice has a hint of sadness in it, which Roger picks up on. His eyes dart between mine for a moment before he replies.

"Two weeks."

"And when do you leave for the next tour?"

"September, I think," he replies, his eyes darkening.

"Then we better enjoy it while we can," I say, pulling away and reaching for his hands. After a brief pause, he slowly smiles and hops up to join me.