"Hello? Great Ormond Street Hospital Emergency department, how can I help you?"

"Julia? It's Nurse May. I'm bringing Roger in. He's showing signs of alcohol poisoning and I want people ready for when I arrive."

"Nurse May, you need to have aquired an amb-"

"I don't have time, Jules! Please!"

"Fine. Bring him in."

Not the smoothest conversation I've ever had in my life.

"Lulu, Im sorry." Roger mumbled, trying to hug me. His skin was verging on a blue tinge, his breathing dangerously slow and reeking of alcohol. I held him up, my arm under his and around his back, the other hand cupping his chin to keep him upwards.

"What are you sorry about, gorgeous?" I had to keep him awake and talking. Grabbing my keys with my teeth off the hook, we slowly made our way out of the studio and towards the car.

"I want our baby to be okay." He whispered as I half-dragged him across his driveway.

"Sweetheart, I need you sit down in the car. Is it okay if I take you to the hospital?"

"Will they help me?"

I eased him down and pulled his seatbelt over, checking each eye to make sure he was still awake before the stupor set in. The entire drive he stared directly ahead, completely unresponsive to everything.

"Roger, I need you to tell me what's wrong. Stay with me, gorgeous." I begged to no avail. He was a zombie and I was in hell.

"Rog, don't you dare!" I practically yelled, turning into the hospital. Pulling up, I gently lifted him out and called for help through the glass doors between us and the emergency department.

"Roger Meddows Taylor, 31 years old, born July 26, 1949. Alcohol poisoning." I did my best to keep my composure as he was carried away and out of my grip. The cold air was suffocating and searing. I was shaking like a rattlesnake's tail and there was no way to calm me.

When I had found Roger that night, I didn't want to believe it. A bottle of vodka and beer cans littered the floor and he was sprawled out in the middle of it. As soon as I rolled him into his back, I knew he wasn't sleeping. Nearing stage five of intoxication, the coma stage, his heart rate was low, he was cold and hardly breathing. I don't know how I woke him up, but I'm lucky I did.

He looked awful. I knew he had hardly been sleeping but I had no idea how tired he looked. His hands were slightly shaking, the only hint he was even still alive. I didn't want to look at him but you do what you must.

John, Freddie and Brian join me in the waiting room within half an hour, all obviously just awoken, Brian an absolute mess of a man. We didn't really talk as we waited, just occasionally shifted positions in our seats in an attempt to keep numbness out and awareness in.

The sun started rising behind me as I finally felt the adrenalin drain and my own exhaustion set in. Freddie was in the seat next to me, reading a magazine. John was fast asleep, curled up into a ball on the chair opposite me. Brian was on my other side, my right, watching John sleep. I rested my head on his shoulder, snuggling into myself.

"I'm proud of you, Luce." He whispered, kissing the top of my head as a doctor strode into the room.

"Roger Meddows Taylor?" He announced, scanning the room to see only out scraggly little crew.

Oh god.
___________

I thought the house was silent. This was a whole new level. The quiet of our home was a black hole begging to be filled. The silence here was suffocating.

I requested they keep Roger's room dark so when he woke up he wouldn't freak out. It was also to make me feel more calm. I had read the sheet of treatments he had received through the night. Stomach pumped and an IV line inserted to regulate his blood glucose and hydration levels.

I take comfort in medical files. They're something I understand.

He blinks at me. How long has he been awake?

"Luce? Where am I?"

"Great Oh hospital, Roger." I take his hand and scoot my chair to sit facing him beside the bed.

"Why?" He asked, his voice hoarse and dry.

"You got alcohol poisoning, sweets. The others wanted to see you but the doctor sent them home." I take his hand and plant a small against his knuckles.

He looked at me then looked down at my stomach.

"Can I listen?" Roger whispers, trying to squirm himself up in his bed.

I slowly will myself up and walk to the end of the bed. In a plastic basket-type compartment I find an old stethoscope and carry it back. As gently as I can, a place the ear tips in his ears and the diaphragm on my abdomen.

Roger Taylor, the lifeless one on the bed, disappears before me eyes. An over-tired yet eager child with eyes of rich blue and crisp blond hair lies before me, grinning through his cracked desert lips.