It's amazing, how much you notice about your work colleagues when they're absent. You recognise how effortless it is to ask them to help you with something, how they can almost read your mind in resus – how reliant upon them you are. Until, suddenly, they're gone, and you realise that the glue which holds the Emergency Department together is gone – at least temporarily.

It's even more interesting, as that missing member observes from afar, all but four floors above the start of many people's hospital experience, how sometimes you need to take a step back to recognise that something – or someone – is broken. That they're struggling, and they need someone to recognise it, before it's too late.

Blinking slightly, Connie sits up, gently holding her chest; it's a reflex move now. Nothing hurts, even if it is strange to be experiencing all of the discomfort she routinely warned her patients about, back when she was a cardiothoracic surgeon. She needs to force herself out of this mindset; nothing's different with her team, not really.

Except it is. She barely saw the other consultants when she visited for Ethan's consultancy interview the previous week, but Dylan was a mess. He looked as broken as she had felt when Sam took Grace back to America, all those months ago. Probably almost as bad as she had when Grace rejected her fourteenth phone call in a row after she had woken up from surgery, desperate to speak to her only living relative.

"Alright, Mrs B?" The far too cheery – and familiar – nurse says as she passes by, noticing Connie's upright position. "Need the doc?"

"I'm perfectly fine without the doctor, thank you," Connie replies curtly. Staff training for nurses has clearly gone downhill since she was last upstairs. "However, I'm going to be gone for a while. If someone could call me when Mr Gregson returns to do the ward round?"

The smile slides off of the nurse's face as she stops in front of Connie's bed. "We aren't a reception, you know."

"Perfectly aware of that, Staff Nurse…?" Connie deliberately trails off, highlighting the nurse's lack of name badge. "Now, you may not be a receptionist. However, I work in this hospital, and I have some…administrative tasks to take care of. I'll be downstairs for an hour or so, therefore if the round takes place before I return…"

"I'll ring downstairs and let you know," the nurse replies, sullenly. "However, Mrs Beauchamp, this isn't…"

"Usual hospital practice," Connie finishes, sighing slightly. "Yes, Mr Hanssen hasn't changed since I worked with him the first time."

~x~

Downstairs, Connie deliberately avoids reception, keen to delay the conversations with her department. There's still a keen sense of embarrassment: that Elle Gardner of all people was the one to save her life horrifies her slightly. After everything with Grace…

Instead, Connie heads slowly outside, deciding to follow her gut feeling for once. Of all the people in the Emergency Department, the only person who was ever truly close to Dylan was Zoe Hanna. After her brief interlude the week before – and a bouquet of flowers sent discreetly to Connie's bedside – it's clear that she won't be returning to Holby for a while. So it's up to Connie to find the next closest person to the most elusive Consultant in the department.

Sam Nicholls.

"Mrs Beauchamp?" Iain Dean's voice comes from behind her, confused. "Shouldn't you be, er…?"

Mustering as much of a smile as possible, Connie shrugs as she turns around. "Ah, Iain. How are you?"

Clearly noting Connie's evasive tactics, Iain stares her down. Of all the people in the department, Iain Dean has never been one who has been scared of her. Probably the army experience – Connie Beauchamp has never held a gun to anyone's head, after all.

"How come you're downstairs, Mrs B?"

Tightening her crossed arms, Connie shrugs a little again. "Just needed some fresh air." When it becomes clear Iain's on the verge of challenging her again, she concedes and adds, "plus, I was hoping for a word with Sam Nicholls, if she's in today?"

Iain's brow furrows, and Connie's secretly pleased to see that she can still provide some surprises. After all the heartache of the preceding four years, when the department has seen more of her emotions than anyone else in history, it's nice to be in a position to have something up her sleeve.

"Sam? Er…yeah, she's just coming back through now," Iain replies slowly. "Should be out in a minute. Why?"

"Nothing in particular," Connie lies, adding a touch of nonchalance to her tone. "I just need to ask her about something, that's all."

Iain doesn't look convinced, however, to Connie's great delight, he doesn't protest. "Right, well, if you let her know that I'm in the ambo when you're done?"

"Of course," Connie promises, before hesitating. "And, Iain?"

"Yes?" Iain replies, turning back to face her again.

Feeling her face flush slightly, Connie bites her lip. "Thank you."

She doesn't, thankfully, need to say what this expression of gratitude is for. Iain Dean is many things, but an emotional manipulator, he is not.

"No problem, Mrs B," he says gently, his tone genuine. "Glad to see you're looking better. See you later."

Connie paces for a couple of moments, aware that she has to keep her heartrate and core body temperature up, as she waits for Sam. It takes the junior paramedic less than a minute to exit the E.D, though it takes her almost five seconds to recognise Connie standing in front of her.

"Sam," Connie says, by means of greeting. "Have you a minute?"

Much like her partner's, Sam's brow furrows, and a slightly defensive expression slides onto her face. Not that Connie can blame her: their last prolonged interaction was when she was berating the new member of the team for performing a medical procedure out in the field.

"Er, yeah, I guess," Sam replies, folding her arms. "Have you seen Iain?"

"He said to let you know that he's in the ambulance," Connie replies bluntly. Despite asking for this conversation, she can't deny that she isn't a fan of being someone else's messenger. "I just wanted to ask you about…well…about Dylan."

A concerned yet curious expression flashes across Sam's face for a moment, before it is replaced with a carefully neutral expression. "And why's that?"

A surge of irrational rage flares in Connie; she breathes deeply once, then twice, before she replies. "Well, I'm fairly certain I recall hearing that you used to be married…"

"And you used to date Sam Strachan," Sam replies shortly. "I've definitely heard that."

Gritting her teeth slightly, Connie begins to regret her overactive thought process for driving her to actively seek out this conversation. "That's besides the point," Connie replies shortly, folding her arms more tightly. "I've seen the way you look at him from across the department. You clearly still care about him – unless of course it's simply because he covered for you on your first day…" She tails off slyly, hoping to get a reaction from the paramedic. It's a time-old Connie Beauchamp classic: insult someone into revealing their true emotions and thoughts.

"It's not that," Sam replies instantly, confirming Connie's thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Sam continues, "yeah, we used to be married. But that's about it. I certainly don't think we're about to, you know…"

"Yes, well, I'm not speaking to you because I want to get involved in your drama," Connie retorts, internally wincing at the use of the term drama. After all, the only drama queen in her department is, unfortunately, herself. "I'm simply wanting to ask if you've noticed anything different about him recently?"

"Different?"

"It's taken me a few weeks to recognise," Connie admits, "but he hasn't seemed himself for weeks. Certainly since before Christmas. I don't want to say he's looked hungover – but he's certainly not been on his best form."

There's a curiously thoughtful expression on Sam's face. "He's not made any clinical errors," Sam says slowly, before her eyes snap back onto Connie's. "Unless you're trying to say that he has?"

"No, no, not at all," she replies hurriedly. "I just care about his welfare. You may think I'm a monster, but my team is my ultimate priority." That's a slight lie, but Sam doesn't need to know about the convoluted nature of Connie's home life.

Sam snorts. "I don't think that," she replies, gently. "But I would agree…now that I'm thinking about it, things haven't added up with Dylan for a few weeks."

"Would you like me to speak to him?" Connie asks, her curiosity piqued. This has been the most exciting conversation she's had in a fortnight, and she can't help but take advantage of this tiny role she might have in matchmaking. Even though it didn't work out for herself and Sam, second time round, perhaps it'll work out for this Sam.

"No, it's fine," Sam replies hurriedly – too hurriedly. So hurriedly that, to Connie, it seems for a moment as if Sam came to her with concerns about Dylan, not the other way around. "I mean, I'll see him. You can't leave the hospital anyway, can you?"

"Good point," Connie appears to concede, though a small smile slips onto her lips. "I appreciate it, Sam. Have a lovely rest of your shift."

~x~

For the rest of her shift, Sam stews over Connie's words. Now that she's put things together, she can't not notice the fact that Dylan's been different recently. And now he's just…disappeared. It's a worry – and, as the shift goes on, it seems to eat away at her more and more.

"You alright?" Iain asks, and Sam realises that she's not replied to his last question. Thankfully, they're on the way back to the depot, so she doesn't have to try and hide her internal consideration of Dylan Keogh much longer.

"Yeah, fine," Sam replies with a smile – or as much of an approximation of one as she can manage.

"What did Connie want to see you about earlier, anyway?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," Sam evades. "I guess it must be difficult to be a bedridden Clinical Lead."

"Thankfully, that's a situation we'll never be in," Iain replies, and Sam laughs.

She doesn't bother to correct him that, in her original ten year plan, she would have been Clinical Lead.

~x~

Declining an invitation to the Hope and Anchor, Sam gets straight off after her shift finishes, her mind dealing with the dilemma of whether she should hunt Dylan down. Theoretically, it should be relatively easy: for some strange reason, he's made his home on a houseboat with a dog, so she can just wander up and down the marina until she finds a boat that seems like it could be his.

But should she? Is it her place, particularly as she was the one to break his heart all those years ago, not the other way around? And even without their history, would he want someone poking their nose in his business?

Her feet make the decision for her, and she finds herself driving towards the marina, her eyes focused on the paths around it, on the off chance that she happens to see a figure approximating Dylan's experience on the way.

She doesn't, however, and within ten minutes she's walking up and down the marina dockings, straining to find something that screams Dylan Keogh to her. That's easier said than done, as Sam comes to realise; unfortunately, there's no form of 'standard' boat type, let alone anything that could give off hints to her ex-husband's unique personality.

So, instead, she starts to look at the names of the boats, and the type. It must be a long houseboat, which immediately narrows it down to five. The first three are dead ends, so it must be one of two: a gaudy black and white, clearly well-kempt boat, or a dull, slightly dreary, green-coated boat lying low in the water.

She decides immediately that the latter must be Dylan's.

Slowly, hesitantly, Sam approaches the boat, and knocks loud, long and hard on one of the boat's lower windows. Her heart in her mouth, she has to wait a good ten seconds before she hears his voice.

"The door's open."

He doesn't slur the words, which is good, but he's also clearly expecting someone.

Perhaps he's not drinking again, Sam thinks suddenly. Perhaps he's fine, and just has an extended period of annual leave. Perhaps…perhaps she doesn't need to be here, and the only reason she is is to try and assuage some of her own guilt.

(And, secretly, to see if he could even hint at reciprocating her residual feelings.)

Frozen to the spot with fear, Sam waits long enough that Dylan approaches the door, and pokes his head out.

Then he too freezes.

"Sam," he says slowly, the one word laced with innumerable emotions. "I…How did you know where I lived?"

Of course he would start with the logical question.

Swallowing, Sam shrugs before she makes herself answer. "The boat screams Dylan Keogh," she lies, though now that she knows it's his, she couldn't imagine him living anywhere else. "I…do you mind if I come in?"

"Come in?" Dylan repeats, looking shocked. It takes him a couple of seconds to think about it, before he nods. "Yes, feel free. Just be careful…Dervla's slightly hyper today…"

Deciding that Dervla must be the dog, Sam smiles slightly as she makes her legs move one step, then two steps, closer to the entry to the houseboat. In all her years, she never expected to be back here, with Dylan, alone.

Or perhaps she did. Perhaps, despite all of those mistakes, this was the situation they were always destined to end up in: fixing one another's mistakes.

"Drink?" Dylan asks casually as she descends into the boat, though she can hear the strain in his voice. He's as confused as to why she's here as she is.

"Er, no it's fine thanks," she replies without thinking. "I…how long have you had Dervla?"

Blinking, Dylan clearly wasn't expecting the question. "About three or four years…yeah, about that. She's certainly been a good companion." Implicit in his words is the fact that Sam wasn't, and she flinches. Or, maybe, she imagined it. Guilt has been her initial emotion when it comes to Dylan Keogh for the last eight years, after all.

"Good," Sam replies through numb lips. "Erm, do you mind if I sit down?"

"Do what you like," Dylan replies, though Sam notices his careful positioning so that she can't see something on the table. "Why are you here?" He's as blunt as he ever was, and Sam has to admit that she relishes the honesty. There's no bullshit with Dylan – there's just also no flowery extras, which she always thought she wanted.

Unfortunately for her, it turned out that she didn't.

"I'm worried about you," she blurts out, looking away from him. "I mean…we're worried about you."

Dylan snorts. "Well I don't see a battalion of doctors and nurses battering down the door, Sam."

Sam rolls her eyes and makes eye contact with Dylan for the first time since her arrival. His eyes are just as she remembered, and it feels like home. For a split second, anyway, until she has to return to the business of pretending to not care.

"That doesn't mean they don't care, Dylan," she argues back. "Please be honest…are you drinking again?"

"No," Dylan replies quickly. Too quickly, for Sam's mind. "It's been ye—"

"Nine years, six months," Sam replies quietly. "An impressive amount of time to be sober, despite everything."

Dylan laughs, a long, brittle laugh which hurts Sam more than any word ever could. "Despite the affair, and then the divorce, and then flaunting him around in front of me, do you mean?" He replies, though his voice is uncharacteristically flat. "Respectfully, you're not the only thing in my life."

"I know," Sam whispers, her voice barely audible. "So tell me what I've missed."

"Shall we start with the mundane, or the shocking?" Now, Dylan's voice is almost sarcastic. "Should we start with the fact that I almost got struck off for sexual misconduct, or the fact that I smuggled a pre-teen Sudanese orphan into the country?"

"I…what?"

"Exactly," Dylan shoots back. "You've been gone far too long, Sam. And even when you were here before, you didn't exactly notice anything that wasn't going to help you with your ten year plan."

This time, it's Sam's turn to laugh. "Dylan, in fairness, that plan's well and truly shot to pieces," she points out, before her tone turns serious once again. "I'm worried about you."

"Why?" He's petty, now, in a way that he hasn't been for more than a decade. If it's not a symptom of being drunk, it's certainly a sign of withdrawal. "Why do you suddenly care, Sam?"

"Because I've always cared!" Sam explodes. Without realising, she's on her feet, towering over him for once. "I never stopped caring, despite what I told you. And I'm concerned, Dylan, in a way that I haven't been since you almost died."

"Which time?" Dylan's tone is flat, though there's an element of irony within it. "You missed another near-death experience, when you were off playing happy families. How did that turn out, by the way? Better or worse than the first time around?"

Sam blushes. "Well, you've answered my question for me," she snaps back, unable to resist. She cares for him, truly she does, but he's always known how to press her buttons – especially when he's like this. "You're in withdrawal. Which can only be a good thing."

"And that is because…?"

"Because it means that you've quit. It means that you want to stop. And that's half the battle."

Taking a deep breath, Dylan shrugs; with the movement, all of the tension and anger and snarkiness seems to drain out of him.

"I'd like to," he admits, closing his eyes and dropping his head into his hands. "But I don't think I can do it this time, Sam. It isn't the same as it was before."

"Hey," Sam murmurs, "look at me."

He obliges, his eyes providing a window into a soul which Sam had started to wonder had been buried under the pain and heartache of the last decade.

"You're not alone. You'll never be alone."

Apologies for the slightly strange turn of events of this story; it's been a while since I've had more than three minutes to write something, and this is the slightly poor result!

Please let me know what you think.