When they left Kakashi alone in his study it was late afternoon. Sai had already gone to see Kurenai, who hopefully would not only hand him back his copy of Shikamaru's painting, but also provide him with anything she might have found out about its nature.
Tenten had offered to continue her investigation regarding the soft-spotted cave, thus headed for the village's archive, accompanied by Neji – whose task was to keep his allseeing eyes on Kakashi, half the time at least. He shouldn't strain himself too much, Kakashi had adviced, he still had his Ninken who would alert them should anything happen.
"If Madara takes possession of me, I'd rather have you fit to fight", he had said, which seemed reasonable enough to Neji, although he suspected that Kakashi also feared for his precious privacy. (Not that he could blame him.)
They had not yet passed the Hokage's Residence's gate, when Sakura stopped.
"I, uhm, forgot my hitai-ate", she noticed not very convincingly.
"Right...", Tenten tried to exchange meaningful glances with Neji, who suddenly seemed very interested in the shape of his fingernails.
"Tenten, if you don't want the archive to be closed by the time we get there", he said pointedly "we should get going."
And off they went.

Sakura knocked, but did not wait for an invitation before she reentered the study. She went to pick up the foreheadprotector as naturally as possible. If Kakashi wanted her around he would say so. If not, he would just keep staring at the database printout and continue to ignore her.
That had been her plan anyway, but then her curiosity, or compassion, or both, got the better of her.
"Are you okay?"
She didn't get an answer, and would have left it at that had she not, as she was about to leave, felt Pakkuns head pressing against her left leg, pushing her a little in Kakashi's direction.
"Do you want me to come with you?", she had her hand hovering over his shoulder for a second, then decided that Kakashi probably wasn't someone to appreciate such comforting gestures too much.
"Hm?", Kakashi looked up from the document in his hand.
"The hospital", Sakura suggested, and then, as she realised that this offer might seem a little too foreward, quickly added that she had to go there anyway to check for any medical records of chakra-assimilation.

When they reached the girl's room, Sakura was holding his hand. Neither she, nore Kakashi knew when or how she had come to do so, but now – his other hand already on the door – he seemed a little reluctant to let her go.
"I'll wait here", Sakura gave him a reasuring smile, then let go of him and watched him as he, less carefree than his usual self, still calmer, more composed than she would have expected even of him, went inside.

Although he never had actually imagined her growing up and getting older, in his memories she had always remained about the same age as him. He had never tried to picture her as a woman, yet seeing her as a girl seemed wrong to him.
For some time he stood by her bed and just looked at her, skin pale as ashes, her cheeks sunken, her brown hair tangled and dull, tubes and wires running in and out of her body, as if she herself was some kind of machine. As if she was not supposed to be here.
Which she wasn't, Kakashi reminded himself. This was all wrong, and he knew it, as unnatural as the wheezing noise the mechanical ventilator emmited with every mechanical breath it gave her.
It occured to him that she would stay like this forever – because the dead aren't supposed to come back alive – but he had seen her medical file, had seen the words „chance of recovery" written there. He allowed his fingers to touch her, to stroke over her forehead, to trace the form of her eyebrows, the back of her nose down to where it was covered by her breathing mask. He was startled by the warmth of her body, was surprised that her hand, when he took it, did not feel like that of a corps, but like that of a breathing, living, person merely asleep.
There was a tingling sensation, somewhere around his eyes, and Kakashi wondered if he was going to cry. He couldn't remember when he had cried for the last time, if he ever had – tears always seemed to get soaked up by the same black holes that kept all the other memories of those things he knew had happened, eventhough he could not truely recollect the event itself.
He should say something, he thought, but his mouth was dry and his mind was blank and he could not really understand why it had been so much easier to talk to a photograph or a stone, than to the actual person.
"I'm sorry", he finally managed to breathe – it wasn't even so much as a whisper.
"Rin –"
Then his voice failed him completely and his vision started to blur.