dragged back, a sleepyhead

"Could be leptospirosis."

"It's not lepto, Zwingli," says Kirkland, tapping his foot against the table leg. "Did you even read the file? No rash. Anyone have any suggestions that actually make sense?"

"It could be alcoholism?" Edelstein suggests. "Alcoholic liver disease would account for—"

"We'd have seen it on the tox screen," says Kristian, peering at the papers strewn over their conference table. "Besides, he doesn't drink. Told Héderváry he's watching his weight; no red meat, cut down on carbs, no alcohol."

"Dr. Amore is right," says Kirkland. "Nice neck, by the way."

Kristian glares at Kirkland, adjusting his collar to cover the marks on his neck. From the other side of the room, Kirkland raises a mug of tea to him. Next to him, Héderváry grins.

"Do a CT," Kristian says, sighing. "He might have a tumour, which would account for all his symptoms."

"Liver cancer without chronic liver disease?" Zwingli challenges. "Have you read the file, Thomassen?"

"It's rare but possible, which I might remind you is what we tend to deal with in here."

"Children," says Kirkland, standing up. "Leave Thomassen alone, Zwingli, he had a late night. You and Edelstein can do a CT, Héderváry can talk to the patient's wife about the risks of surgery, and Thomassen — see me in my office."

Kristian raises an eyebrow as his colleagues gather their papers and scurry off, leaving the conference room. As Kirkland gathers his files to dump unceremoniously in his office adjacent to the conference room, Kristian sighs again and calls, "You know, my dates aren't actually relevant to the patient. Or anyone else, for that matter."

Through the doorway to his office, Kirkland beckons for him to come, and sits him down on the opposite side of the desk.

"But they are relevant to your performance at work," he says smugly. "I'm just looking out for you, Kristian. You and I both know that Andersen isn't the commitment type. I don't want my best friend to get hurt."

"Best friend, my arse. And I'm not the commitment type, either, as you know full well. What goes on between Andersen and I is not going to affect anything other than how much time I spend at his."

"You're the emotional type, though. And so is he. And you click. So here's my hypothesis: you'll enjoy hooking up, you'll connect on an emotional level because underneath the I'm such a cold, withdrawn genius who can't connect with others because of my messed up parents shell that you wear, you're as much of a sap as Edelstein. Then you'll both freak out because you're scared of commitment and you realise that what you have might actually be a serious, healthy relationship and you're far too self-destructive for that, and then you'll end up with a broken heart and my best doctor will be pretty much useless."

Kristian gives him a long, hard stare. "Are you quite finished, Arthur?"

Kirkland grins. "I am indeed. You're welcome!" he says as Kristian stalks out of his office.

"It's a tumour," Edelstein reports. "He'll need a liver transplant."

"He should be eligible, he's otherwise healthy. Have you informed Oxenstierna?"

"Not yet," Kristian answers, flicking through his notes. "I'm not happy with the diagnosis."

Every head in the room turns to look at him.

Kristian shrugs. "I know it was my diagnosis, but — I'm missing something. I'm going to see the patient."

"The tumour explains everything!" Edelstein cries as Kristian gets up. "The vomiting blood, the liver failure, you were right. The longer we wait, the higher the risk of a transplant and the less time we have to find a donor."

"No, he might actually be right again," says Héderváry, staring at the papers. "The patient had a hematoma last year, and reports bruising easily. Sounds like a Vitamin K deficiency. If we perform surgery on him now, he'll bleed out."

"The hematoma was to be expected after a major knee surgery and the patient plays rugby. I'd be worried if he wasn't bruised. A Vitamin K deficiency would mean he'd have to be severely malnourished, which he's not, or have some kind of malabsorption, which he doesn't," argues Zwingli.

Kirkland claps his hands. "I agree with Zwedelstein, but we don't want to kill the poor guy. Oxenstierna would give us a hell of a lot of paperwork. Héderváry and Lover Boy, take a blood sample and check for signs of celiac disease."

"I think it's Wilson's," says Kristian, still not looking up from his notes.

"It's not Wilson's, the patient has no relative with the condition and it would've started presenting before now. Besides, no neurological symptoms," says Kirkland. "Vitamin K is a stretch, but Wilson's is implausible. Get some sleep, Thomassen."

Kristian finally looks up from his notes, only to glare at Kirkland. "I'll take a blood sample. But I still think it's Wilson's. The patient is free of toxins, no HBV of HCV, no diabetes, yet he has an unexplainable tumour. Wilson's explains it."

"That's barely anything to conclude Wilson's from," says Zwingli. "The patient has no neurological symptoms, no psychiatric symptoms. It's HCC, he needs a transplant, just make sure he not going to bleed out during the surgery."

Kristian looks to Kirkland for backup, but Kirkland simply raises an eyebrow. "Fine," he says. "Let's do the blood test."

Dr. Andersen is in the cafeteria at two, just as he said he'd be. Kristian slides into the seat opposite him, and steals a chip off his plate.

"Good afternoon," says Andersen, smiling. "You look tired."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Hey, I never intended to sleep over. Do you think Emil noticed?"

"I think my brother would have to be an idiot to miss such a conspicuous guest at breakfast."

Andersen laughs. "You know what I mean."

"Mm, probably. If I have to put up with his boyfriend practically living with us, though, I'm sure he can handle you."

"How generous," Andersen winks. "Are you planning on buying your own lunch, or are you just going to steal mine?"

"I don't fancy anything on the menu," says Kristian, and then when he sees Andersen's face, "and you can stop the poor euphemisms. That one was a stretch. I can't be bothered to spend five pound on something I'm only going to eat half of. And stealing your food is fun. Can I get a second opinion?"

"And there I thought you were only interested in my looks. What do you have to ask of St. Thomas' best oncologist?"

"Don't be an arse, Kirkland disagrees with me on a case. HCC in a thirty-five-year-old male with no history of alcoholism, no toxins, no hepatitis and no diabetes, generally good health. Had a hematoma after a knee surgery last year and bruises easily, although he is a rugby player, which Edelstein is using as a basis to ignore the bruising."

"Liver cancer doesn't always have a determinable cause, you know."

"I know. But I think this is Wilson's."

"No neurological symptoms? Vitamin K deficiency would account for the hematoma and the bruising. Have you checked for that?"

"Héderváry is analysing the blood sample as we speak. There's no reason for him to have a vitamin K deficiency, though."

"Wilson's is a stretch. But you know that. It would increase the chance of HCC. If you truly believe it's Wilson's, biopsy his liver, but if it is just vitamin K, it's risky."

"I know," Kristian sighs. "I'm sure I'm right."

Andersen grins. "You probably are, then. Kirkland may be the best doctor here, but he's been wrong plenty of times. Trust your instinct."

Kristian nods. "Yeah. I will. Thank you, Søren."

"No problem, Kristian. Is Emil home tonight?"

"I think so, but he knows now, so it doesn't matter."

"I like those words," says Søren, leaving up to kiss Kristian on the cheek as he leaves. "See you later, then."

"See you," Kristian says, and lets a small smile show as he smooths his collar and walks away.

"No vitamin K deficiency," says Héderváry as he walks into the lab. "Low iron, though his file said that he was—"

"—presenting with fatigue about a year ago, and six months of iron supplements cleared it up. Thanks for running the sample, though." Kristian sighs. "I'm going to biopsy the liver."

Héderváry looks up from the test she's running to give him an incredulous look. "It's not Wilson's."

"What, because Kirkland and Zwingli say it's not Wilson's? Zwingli doesn't actually care about the patient, and Kirkland just doesn't want it to be Wilson's because that would mean he's missed something and he's the most fucking stubborn of us all. The patient has an unexplained tumour and haemolytic anaemia. It's Wilson's, and I'll prove it, and then I'll save a fucking life."

Kristian is tired of being undermined by less qualified doctors, less concerned doctors, less invested doctors. He takes a deep breath — he can feel his angrily elevated pulse, so closes his eyes, exhales and calms himself.

"Alright, do the biopsy. I don't agree with your diagnosis, but I trust your medical knowledge. I'll help you."

He bites back a bitter I don't need your help, and pulls on the white coat he ditched for lunch. The two walk to the lift in silence, until Héderváry breaks it with a—

"Why do you care so much?"

"What, you don't care about the patient?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "You're putting more of yourself into this than usual. Did Andersen's oncology-esque empathy rub off on you — or in you — or something?"

"Can we please keep my sex life out of this?"

"Stop deflecting."

"Fine," says Kristian, hammering the floor number into the keypad. "My little brother died because of a misdiagnosis."

Héderváry narrows bright green eyes at him. "Emil is alive and well, I saw him about two weeks ago when he came in to collect a refill for his inhaler."

"Maybe I had another brother. Why do you want to know?"

"You know, I know that Kirkland has five brothers of varying ages, only one of whom shares his father. I know that on Christmas Day they all congregate at his mother's house in Richmond-upon-Thames, along with all the fathers and aunts and uncles and cousins and it's all a bit messy. I know that Edelstein actually studied music before he decided that the piano was just a hobby and went to med school, and that when Zwingli tries to give him tea instead of a black coffee in the morning, he throws a tantrum. I know that Zwingli detests black coffee and drinks a glass of milk every morning, before going for a five-mile run and then waking Edelstein at six. But you, Thomassen? I know you have a seventeen-year-old brother, and I know it's just the two of you and occasionally some muscular man in your bed, and I know you were top of your class at Cambridge and I know you still don't have a British passport." She pauses for breath, now looking him straight in the eye. "But I don't know you, Thomassen. I don't have a fucking clue why your brother is ten years younger than you, or why he's not living with your parents, or even how you take your fucking coffee or whatever got you through med school. Edelstein is aloof and Zwingli is private, but you're just closed off."

"And maybe I intend to keep it that way," says Kristian, grabbing a biopsy kit as they walk into the patient's room. "Bupropion. That's what got me through med school."

As Héderváry stares at him, a small part of Kristian shrivels and dies with his confession. In all honesty, though, he's surprised the rest of the team didn't know — he's sure Oxenstierna must know that one of his best doctors relies on an antidepressant just to function, but then again their employer holds professionalism in greater esteem than anything else. And Kirkland is far more messy than he is. Kristian is pretty grateful for that.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reeder. How do you feel today?"

The patient grunts in reply to Kristian's questioning, while Héderváry continues to examine the wrong man in the room. It's only as he's checking the IVs, preparing the biopsy needle, anaesthetising the area, that he realises something is off. The patient is far less verbally responsive to Kristian than the last time he checked up on him — then again, Kristian isn't exactly a people person and the patient is slowly dying, so it's hardly groundbreaking.

"Dr. Héderváry, could you talk to Mr. Reeder and make sure he's not having an adverse response to the biopsy?"

Héderváry agrees and finally focuses her attention on the patient instead of him. Kristian makes sure the area is properly anaesthetised, before picking up his scalpel to make the incision.

"Stop—" chokes Héderváry, and for a moment, Kristian worries that he's wrong, that the patient is suddenly bleeding to death because he hasn't caught the haemolytic anaemia soon enough and it's all his fault. And then he looks up—

"Security!" he yells, dropping the scalpel and pulling the patient's hands from around Héderváry's neck. She's choking, gasping for breath as she stumbles away. But the patient is turning on him now, and it's all he can do to try and force his arms down, away from his neck and this guy is strong, a rugby player, and Kristian is doing his best to push him away but his priority is just getting Héderváry out of there so when he pushes the patient against the wall and Héderváry out of the door, he can't stop the patient from picking up the scalpel he dropped. And suddenly the blade is pressing against his throat, and he's backing away, and then — finally — security are there, restraining the patient, sedating the patient.

But everything is too bright, and everything is too loud, and Kristian realises he hurts — and then Héderváry is screaming again. There's a scalpel in his chest. He can't breathe. There's a scalpel in his chest.

"I — told you it w-was Wilson's."

Kristian coughs, splutters, and falls.

"The pacemaker isn't functioning properly, his heart rhythm is too irregular. We can't operate yet. He can't take it."

"What, so you're going to let him die? You're just going to give up on him?"

"Andersen, his heart has already stopped once. I've aspirated as much of the fluid as possible, but I can't do anything more until his pulse is more regular."

"It's not going to be more regular until you solve it! Repairing the pericardium will—"

"—risk fucking his heart up further. You think surgery on a patient with this much tissue damage is a good idea?"

"I think trying to repair the damage that wasn't already there is a good idea."

"I literally cannot do that. Look, you're not the only one who cares about Thomassen—"

"—no, you're quite right, Zwingli, better make sure you tell his seventeen-year-old brother you're sorry you killed him—"

"—and I'm the cardiologist here."

"Just fucking do something, okay?"

"I'm trying my best, Andersen."

Emil is asleep in the chair beside him when he wakes. From the creased clothes and messy hair, Kristian assumes it's been a couple of days.

"Kirkland," he calls hoarsely, pulling off the oxygen mask and quickly realising that there isn't a part of him that doesn't hurt like hell. Everything is an effort. "Kirkland, I know you're there."

"I'm afraid you'll have to deal with me instead," says Zwingli, opening the curtains around his bed. "Kirkland's been mysteriously absent since you were stabbed."

Kristian frowns. "Why?"

"How should I know? Don't move, you'll damage your stitches, and put that mask back on. The stab wound caused you to go into cardiogenic shock, so we gave you dobutamine, but the shock caused pericardial tamponade. I drained the fluid, but later had to remove the part of the pericardium as it was restricting the heart's function."

Zwingli doesn't look at him for the entire duration of his explanation. Kristian is tired, hurting and he knows what Zwingli is about to say.

"Just say it."

"I've put you on the transplant list, but your heart is just too damaged to last. I'm sorry, Thomassen." Zwingli, usually so apathetic, shows him some kind of sadness, some kind of sympathy. Dying changes everything, after all. "Without a transplant, I'd say you have five years to a decade before it gives out."

The words don't really process with Kristian, so he just nods and thanks Zwingli, who leaves pretty quickly. It's not like he wasn't expecting it. At the same time, he wasn't really expecting it — there was some part of him that had managed to ignore six years of medical school, and had convinced him that it would be okay, there wouldn't be any real long term effects. He supposes that really, he should be grateful: at the very least, he can still take care of Emil, and probably see him through university. It's only twenty years fewer than he was betting on.

But Emil can't know.

Some time after Zwingli leaves, Emil stirs and wakes and leaps up when he sees Kristian is awake. Kristian hugs him, wordlessly, even though his body is screaming at him not to move; his brother sobs quietly into his chest.

"I thought you were dead, Kristian."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It was like when we were younger again."

"I know, Emil. I'm alright now, though."

"Don't you dare do that again."

"I won't."

Kristian strokes his younger brother's hair softly, gently. He can't know. It would destroy him.

"It wasn't your brother, it was you."

Kristian is barely awake, and Héderváry's words don't make a lot of sense.

"What?"

"You said your brother died, but it was you. I knew Emil was your only brother. You were misdiagnosed and then you nearly died, and so now you're scared that you'll fuck someone else up in the same way. What happened?"

Kristian rubs his eyes with a heavy hand. "The patient stabbed me. Psychotic break. Wilson's. I was right. Has Andersen spoken to you? Or Kirkland?"

"You were stabbed and all you have to say is that you were right?" Héderváry says in disbelief.

He shrugs. "It was my fault, I brought a scalpel into a room with a patient who I knew could display neurological symptoms. I'm sorry you were caught up in it."

"I wasn't hurt," she says. "Have a little more concern for yourself."

"I'll live. In hindsight, I should've checked neurological function first."

"You'll live? Thomassen, you were stabbed—"

"Kristian!" Søren chooses the optimum time to fling open the curtains around his bed and rush to his side. "Kristian, I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up, I was in a meeting but oh my god, I'm so glad you're awake, I was so worried, how are you?"

Kristian smiles. "I'm fine, Søren," he says, leaning up to kiss him. As Kirkland opens his mouth to disagree, the tension melts away from Søren's face and is replaced with relief, and Kirkland appropriately decides to shut up.

"Don't ever do that to me again, okay?" he says, gently kissing him back. "And the next time I tell you to trust your instinct, ignore me."

"This isn't your fault," Kristian says. "I hope you know that."

"It's nobody's fault," says Héderváry. "But everyone thinks it's theirs."

Kristian looks up at that. "They do?"

"Newsflash, Thomassen; people other than your brother and your boy-toy care about you," says Héderváry.

"That's completely unrelated to the fact that a patient suffering from a psychotic break lost control and injured me."

"Kristian, baby. A terrible thing happened, people are going to blame themselves."

Kristian sighs. "Where's my brother?"

"I told him to get some food, I'm sure he hasn't eaten in hours," Søren says, and his sympathetic look suddenly turns serious. "Dr. Héderváry told me what you said about your brother — or you, rather — being misdiagnosed. What happened?"

Kristian doesn't really want to have this conversation. Rather, he doesn't really want to have this conversation with Héderváry in the room — Søren knowing things about him, he can deal with. His coworkers, however? Less so.

"I had sarcoidosis when I was eighteen," he begins reluctantly. "And obviously, it wasn't anyone's first thought, because I didn't have any kind of skin symptoms. I saw a doctor because my heart rhythm was off, and was sent away with severe anxiety as a diagnosis. Meanwhile, the sarcoidosis fucked up my heart, I collapsed, developed atrial fibrillation and was readmitted. They thought it was myocarditis. The sarcoidosis had actually caused third-degree heart block, not helped by the anxiety meds I was taking, and eventually my heart was unstable and I went into cardiac arrest, and that's when someone put two and two together and finally got sarcoidosis. By that point, my heart tissue was severely damaged, I needed a pacemaker and my lifespan was considerably shortened."

Héderváry raises an eyebrow. "That's a colossal fuckup."

Søren looks crestfallen, and takes Kristian's hand. "That's awful, Kristian. I can see why you'd be so passionate about getting the right diagnosis."

He shrugs. "I don't want someone else to suffer for my mistakes as I suffered for theirs. I nearly had to drop out of med school because of the time I missed."

"That's why Zwingli had so much trouble repairing the stab wound, then," says Héderváry. "He wouldn't tell us what was on your file. Wipe away your oncologist tears, Andersen, you're going to have to be a bit stronger if you're going to look after Thomassen and his broken heart."

That certainly wasn't part of the plan. "I didn't agree to that."

"What, you don't want to go home?"

"I can look after myself, Héderváry—"

"Zwingli says you can't. Emil has school, and Andersen is eager to stay with you for a while."

"I already checked that it's okay with Emil," adds Søren.

Kristian closes his eyes. "Fine. But you'll have to learn how to use your indoor voice. And if this is out of guilt, you're sleeping on the floor."

"It's out of love," says Søren, and Héderváry makes a small noise of disgust.

"It's lupus," says Kristian.

Kirkland doesn't look him in the eye. "You know I'm not here for a patient, Kristian."

"I'm guessing Zwingli told you."

"He did. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Kristian," Kirkland says, sitting down in the chair next to his bed, "you're my responsibility. By discounting the possibility of Wilson's, I made you carry out a biopsy on a patient with potential neurological symptoms without a proper team. This is my fault."

"I've heard enough of this from Søren and Hédeváry. Is this why you were avoiding me?"

Kristian should probably be more annoyed at Kirkland for bringing in this pity party. It's more pathetic than anything else, though; he almost feels sorry for him. Nevertheless, he'd had enough of the blame game as soon as Søren started on it.

Kirkland shrugs, almost imperceptibly, still looking more at the floor than at Kristian. "That and the fact that my best friend is dying."

Kristian really does feel sorry for him now — ironically. "I've got a few more years in me yet."

"But if I'd been there—"

"—you might've taken a scalpel to the chest instead? Very reassuring. Stop blaming yourself, for Christ's sake. I don't want you here if you're just going to be full of lament and sorrow. You haven't even asked how I'm feeling."

Kirkland finally makes eye contact, trying for a smile. "I'm sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Not too great, actually, I was stabbed in the chest. How are you?"

"Not that great either, my best friend was stabbed in the chest."

"Zwingli says you disappeared for a few days."

"I went home." Kirkland pauses, and amends his sentence, "I went home — to my family."

"I thought I was the one who nearly died." Kristian wonders for a second whether he should specify that he's teasing, but then thinks of his lingering, petty resentment towards Kirkland for showing up a week late, and decides to leave it.

"I needed to think some things through. I'm sorry — you know how it is, I couldn't face it — I lay in my childhood bedroom for a good three days. Just thinking."

Kristian knows the feeling all too well. "I get it."

"When will you be discharged?"

"Zwingli doesn't really want to let me out of his sight, but I should be free to go soon. Søren's going to stay over foe a while, though. To make sure my heart doesn't decide to pack it in ten years early, or something."

"An oncologist, taking care of a genius intensivist."

"I trust him more than I'd trust you."

"Probably wise, we have Zwingli for a reason. A neurologist may not be your answer, I'm afraid."

Kristian laughs softly. "I might actually be better off with Edelstein."

Kirkland feigns being highly offended. "No one is better off with Edelstein. Why do we even have a nephrologist? Why did I offer him the job?"

"Zwingli would be even more insufferable without him," says Kristian. "Imagine, all the fussing he directs towards Edelstein would be directed towards us. Absolute hell."

"It's hell enough without you. Hédeváry is wallowing instead of keeping Zwedelstein under control, and Oxenstierna is checking in every five minutes to make sure we're filing all the necessary reports for the incident and that everyone is doing well. I can't really tell the difference between being here and being back with my family."

Guilt stabs at Kristian. "Arthur, I'm — I'm not coming back."

Arthur looks blankly at him. "You mean, you're transferring? Why? What will we do without you?"

"No, I mean — I'm leaving. I'm leaving St. Thomas'. I'm going to take a couple of months off while I recover and while Emil finishes school, but then we're going back to Norway."

"But — why? If this is about security, I can have it all changed, or work hours, I can shorten them, or—"

Kristian shakes his head. "I can't come back. I've had enough, Arthur, I'm sorry. I might go back to practising medicine in Norway, but I need a break from it. It's been nine years since I had sarcoidosis, and all I've done since then is work continuously. Emil hasn't seen our parents since he left when he was twelve."

"So you're just going to do — what? What's Emil going to do? Isn't he going to university?"

"He wants to go to university in Stockholm. Great fine arts course there. I figure if we live in Oslo, it's a lot easier for him to just come home if he needs to."

"Does he know?"

"I've run the idea past him. He seems alright about it."

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs at them. "So you're just — going back to Norway. That's it."

"Look, Arthur, I know it's selfish, I know you'd rather I stay in England, I know Søren would rather I stay in England. But I need to get out of this country. I'm sorry. I might come back, but I just need to be somewhere else."

"It'll break Andersen."

Kristian raises an eyebrow. "He's in touch with his emotions, he's not an emotional mess. There is a difference. Søren goes back to Odense every month, anyway. Oslo's not that far."

"And me? Will I ever see you again?"

"Of course you will. I'll come back, I just — I need an out."

"And being stabbed was an out?"

"Being stabbed is why I need an out. I have maybe ten years left, Arthur. That's twenty fewer than I had two weeks ago. Emil and I might've left our parents for the better, but I'm still their son."

"I can't convince you to come back?"

Kristian smiles sadly. "No. I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur stares into space, distracted. "You nearly died for a patient, and yet you're giving up medicine. I don't understand. How can you do it?"

"I have to do it."

"No, you don't. You don't have to sever nearly ten years' worth of connections for some kind of arbitrary sense of closure. Why are you really doing it, Kristian?"

"I told you, I—"

"No," says Arthur, standing up, raising his voice. "No, you didn't really say anything, just some bullshit about needing to leave. You needed to leave Norway, what's changed now?"

"Everything's changed, Arthur, I'm dying. My heart's giving out. I'm only twenty-seven, why can't you just understand that I need to get away and live?"

"You were always dying, Kristian! When I first met you, I met you because you were dying, because you were young and full of life and anger and shouting at the doctors who had wronged you! Nine years later, you're stabbed by a patient and all you care about is the fact that you got the right diagnosis! What happened, Kristian? What changed, what snuffed the spark out of you?"

"Nothing changed, Arthur, I grew up! I accepted my fate and made sure it wouldn't happen to anyone else if I could prevent it!" Kristian takes a deep breath, heart pounding from the strain of shouting. "I've always had less time to live my life than you have, and now I have even less — what business is it of yours what I do with it? Who are you to tell me how to spend my remaining time?"

"You won't be able to do it, you know. You can't — you can't — just walk away from medicine, especially because you've got less time. You'll come back, mark my word."

Kristian shakes his head. "Get out, Kirkland."

Arthur storms out, curtain swishing behind him.

Kristian wakes to the sweet smell of pancakes and fruit. Even sweeter is the creamy-skinned, shirtless man offering him a plate. Through the doorway, he can see Emil already eating before he runs to school. He leans up to kiss Søren, and smiles.

"Good morning, darling."

"Good morning, my love. How do you feel today?"

"Mm… Rough, but not too rough. Would you like to go somewhere?"

Søren's eyes light up. "Kristian, I would love to. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I think so. If I start feeling awful, I've always got St. Thomas' best oncologist with me."

Søren grins. "There's an exhibition I'd like to see at the V&A, it's on fifteenth-century Italian sculpture. You interested?"

"Of course," says Kristian, carefully buttoning up a shirt over the dressing on his chest. "We could go to Carluccio's afterwards."

"That sounds wonderful," says Søren, pressing kisses to Kristian's neck and chest as he tries to get dressed. "God, I'm going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss you too," Kristian says, returning a few of the kisses, tracing Søren's freckles with his lips.

Emil yells a goodbye as he slams the door behind him, and Kristian runs his hands through his hair, trying to push down the odd curls.

"Leave them," says Søren, flicking one. "They're cute."

"They're weird," says Kristian, but leaves them anyway.

They take a taxi to the exhibition, and spend hours wandering through the long halls of art. When they leave, it's begun to rain, and Søren wraps his coat around Kristian and shields him from the raindrops. They run — or run as much as Kristian's lethargy allows — and dive into a taxi, laughing.

"Carluccio's, Covent Garden," says Søren, and Kristian buries into his chest. Søren is muscular, but not too muscular, he decides — the perfect amount of muscle for Kristian.

"I love you, you know," he tells Søren's chest. Søren laughs.

"My muscles love you too, my love," he says. "And I love you the most."

It takes Kristian two months to make a properphysical recovery. He still has the chest pain — but he supposes that's just part of it now — and he's still too easily tired, but he's fine. Zwingli has given him the seal of approval that he would have given himself weeks ago, and now, with Emil having finished sixth form late last month, they stand in Heathrow waiting for their plane.

"We've sent all our luggage on," says Kristian to no one in particular, "and the house is clean and ready for tenants to move in, and I've set up a Swedish bank account for Emil and the purchase on the flat was finalised a month ago. I think I've done everything."

"You know, I miss you already," Leon, Emil's boyfriend, tells him.

"I miss you too," says Emil. "I'll be back. Just wait, I'll invade UCL."

"If I get in," says Leon.

"You'll get in," Emil and Søren say in unison. Kristian nods in agreement.

"I thought I'd failed my A-levels," says Søren. "All four of them. I was away when everyone collected their results, too. I had them sent to me back in Denmark, and when I got the letter from Karolinska telling me I'd got in, I actually cried."

"And he hasn't stopped being overly emotional since," says Kristian.

"Hey, oncologists need their empathy."

"I wouldn't want you telling me I have cancer," Emil tells Kristian.

"Good thing I'm not an oncologist, then. Neither intensive care nor diagnostics particularly require oncology-level emotion."

Søren shakes his head. "I know you're secretly empathetic, Kristian. You've got this hard shell, but inside you're warm and soft—"

"How disgusting," says Emil, to everyone else's amusement.

"We should tackle security, Emil, before everyone rushes there," Kristian says.

Emil nods, if dejectedly, and gives Leon a last hug and kiss goodbye. Søren pulls Kristian into a bear hug which Kristian leans into, and when they pull apart, both have tears sparkling in their eyes.

"Hold up, one sec," says Søren, and pulls two wrapped parcels out of his messenger bag. "The first is from Berwald, and the second is from Tino. They're for both of you — they're the sharing kinds of things."

"Thank them for us," says Kristian.

"And this is from me," says Søren, stealing a last kiss from Kristian, who smiles at it.

"I'll miss you, Søren."

"I'll miss you too, Kristian."

As Kristian and Emil force their way through security, Søren and Leon wave to them, and Emil pretends he isn't crying behind his fringe.

"Hey, you can come back to see him whenever you like, okay?" Kristian says. "If you need any money for a flight, just let me know."

"Thanks," says Emil. They walk to their gate in silence.

The flight passes uneventfully, and when they arrive in Oslo, it's a smooth transition — though Emil's Norwegian is rusty, at best. They spend a week settling in, indulging in Tino and Berwald's gifts of wine and good chocolate and unwinding. Norway seems less hectic than England, somehow — though perhaps the difference is just between London and Oslo.

They go to a ski resort in the glaciers in their third week there, although Zwingli doesn't hesitate to tell Kristian through Søren on FaceTime what an idiotic decision it is. Kristian takes it gently — after all, he wouldn't want to make Emil feel like the inferior skier.

It's as they're heading in, coming off Emil's new favourite blue run, that it happens. They're going steadily, taking in more of their surroundings than they were when they were racing down the slope, and it's as they're about to get the lift back that Emil cries out.

"Kristian — Kristian, look — I think there's someone lying in the snow."

There's a dark lump in the snow some forty metres away from them. Kristian forewent his contacts this morning, so at first he's not entirely sure what he's skiing towards, but Emil's right — male, probably mid-thirties, lying on the snow.

"He could have hypothermia, if he's been here too long," says Kristian, releasing his boots from the skis and kneeling down to examine him. "Oh, fuck."

"What? — Oh," Emil says, as he sees what Kristian sees. The man's legs are tangled in his skis, fractured in awkward angles that make Kristian grimace.

"Call the ski rescue patrol number, and stick your skis in the snow so they can see us," Kristian says, checking his vitals. "No breathing, no pulse." He begins chest compressions, breathing air into the lungs. "Take off your jacket, put it over him." Kristian pulls off his own jacket, and carefully slides it under the man's torso, separating him from the cold snow.

"It can't be cold enough for hypothermia," Emil says, watching his brother.

"Depends — on how long — he's been here — and any pre-existing conditions," Kristian replies in between breaths. "Got a pulse, he's breathing but not conscious. Ski patrol?"

"Uh — they'll be here soon. Like?"

"Hypothyroidism, diabetes, Parkinson's — I'm guessing a spinal cord injury from the fall. Unless the fall came second, in which case possibly intoxication, maybe the hypothyroidism."

The ski patrol arrive and help Kristian get the skier off the hill and into an ambulance. At some point, he sheds a few more layers of skiwear, rolls up his sleeves and acquires a pad of paper that he fills with notes. When the man wakes up in excruciating pain, he's the first to question him, and the ski patrol fade into the background as Kristian naturally takes over.

"Mr. Solberg, can you tell me what happened when you crashed? — And was that before or after you fell? — Morphine, get me one hundred milligrams of morphine, he's going to crash from the pain—"

When the patient is in surgery, Kristian is observing, and when he's stabilised, he's in the middle of the differential.

"The fall was an effect, not a cause," he says to the team of doctors in the small mountain town hospital. "Check for hypothyroidism, that would account for the hypothermia, but check for toxins, too."

Emil looks at him in amusement when he comes out of the hospital at six thirty-two, having diagnosed the patient with severe hypothyroidism.

"You can't escape it," he says.

"Can't escape what?"

"Medicine. You couldn't help yourself, you slid right back into it."

Kristian looks at him. "The patient may well have died even after recovering from the accident, had I not insisted on a breakdown and that they run the necessary tests. An underactive thyroid that goes untreated can lead to all sorts of complications."

"But it was you who took charge," says Emil. "You belong in a department like Kirkland's, where you're solving puzzles like that. That's the most fun you've had today, which says a lot considering we've been sliding down mountains."

"I had fun earlier," he protests.

"But not as much fun as when you were working. You know, the tenants in the Kensington house are due to move out in three months."

"Emil, I am not going back to London. I swore I would take a break."

"You can," says Emil. "Take these three months off before my term starts, then go back to St. Thomas'. You'll only be by yourself when I'm at uni, after all."

"I'm not doing it."

"But you want to."

"I don't. I'm tired of Kirkland's need to control everyone's every move, every thought. He didn't respect my wishes, and nor did he truly respect my opinion as a doctor. I was the best team member he had, but we were only there to support him — when I decided to do that biopsy, I was angry, because I knew what was wrong, but no one was listening. Kirkland should've considered Wilson's. He should've been in the room, for god's sake. He's a neurologist — if he'd sensed something was off, maybe none of this would've happened."

"Do you blame him, then?"

Kristian sighs, sits down on a bench and wraps his scarf back around his neck. "I don't blame anyone, Emil. I just want to have fun for a bit."

"We're having fun. But no one can give you the kind of satisfaction you get from solving puzzles. You switched instantly when you saw that guy in the snow. It came more naturally to you than anything else."

He looks down at his feet. "I did enjoy it. But I really can't go back, Emil."

Emil looks at him for a good minute, then shakes his head. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Kristian's chest tightens, in a way unrelated to any and all tissue damage. "No! I just can't go back to Kirkland."

"There is. You haven't been back to Oslo since med school, not even when you were in Trondheim for a conference. There's definitely something else."

"Emil, there's nothing—"

"Is it Søren?"

Kristian relaxes. "Søren? What about Søren?"

"Kristian, you've never had any kind of long-term relationship. You always broke it off before it got too serious. But you love Søren — don't shake your head, I'm your brother, I can tell — and you don't want to break it off or worse, ruin it with all your commitment issues. But you can't solve that by running away."

"I'm not — I'm not trying to run away." Kristian feels personally attacked by Emil's words — he didn't expect them to ring quite so true. "Søren and I are maintaining our relationship well, despite the distance."

Emil raises his eyebrows. "Sure. Skype calls are definitely a good way to maintain a healthy, adult relationship. You miss him, Kristian. You had something really fucking good before we came here."

"And so what if I don't want my lasting memories of that to be me fucking it up?"

"Why do you assume you'll fuck it up?"

"Well, I — since when were you my therapist?"

Emil rolls his eyes. "Stop deflecting, for Christ's sake. I promise you, if you go back to London and go back to Kirkland and Søren, you'll be infinitely happier."

"I'm happy now, with you."

"I'm going to Stockholm in three months."

"I don't even know if I want to go back to Kensington and live in that house without you."

"Then move in with Søren."

"Now, that is a ridiculous idea," Kristian laughs.

"I mean it! If I could move in with Leon, I'd do it in a moment, but I know we can stand the distance. You and Søren have only been more than a one-night stand for a couple of months. If you lived together, every day would be like that day when I got home and you two were eating macarons together on the sofa while watching Gatsby. Go back to England, Kristian."

Kristian shakes his head. "I'll think about it. Let's go home, Emil."

Emil smiles. "You say that as if you don't mean it, but you'll go back."

It's September, and there's a definite chill in the air as Kristian steps outside. The scarf he wraps around his neck is softer than his own, thicker than his own, and he happily breathes in the scent.

"How does everything I own look better on you?" Søren asks, smiling. "I think this may just be the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

"I'll tell the cat that," says Kristian, and Søren gives him a look of betrayal.

"You wouldn't. She'd never speak to me again!"

"Cats don't actually — never mind."

Søren is the one to drive them to work today. They've agreed to split it — left up to Søren, he'd drive them every day, but that suggestion earned him an impressively cold glare. They keep teasing each other for the entire duration of the journey, and they're both laughing by the time they get to St. Thomas'.

"How's Emil settling in?" Søren asks as they clock in.

"He's been out every night this week, I've received a lot of drunken snaps. But he's making friends, which is good. He was pretty worried about that."

"Yeah, I get that. Freshers is the time to do it, though. Sounds like he's doing it right."

"As long as he drinks responsibly after Freshers, I'm not worried about him."

They stand in the entrance, Oncology pointing in one direction and Diagnostics pointing in another.

"I'll see you later, then," says Kristian.

"Yeah," says Søren, "take care, okay?"

"I will, don't worry."

It's actually Edelstein who greets him first — Kristian supposes the others all got in earlier, Edelstein was never the most punctual — in the locker room as he's slipping off his jacket and slipping on his coat.

"It's good to see you," says Edelstein. "We missed you."

"I missed it too," says Kristian. "It's — it's good to be back."

Zwingli takes him aside as soon as he sees him, and examines his well-healed stitches. "I haven't told anyone," he says quietly. "It's only Kirkland that knows."

"Keep it that way," says Kristian. "I don't want Emil or Søren to know, and certainly not from someone else. And I don't want a pity party."

Zwingli nods briskly, letting Kristian go as Kirkland takes his place at the head of the conference table and Hédeváry beams at him.

"Our prodigal son has returned," says Kirkland, throwing five copies of a patient file on the table. "It's good to have you back, Thomassen. Now — how about lupus?"