It is early morning when he awakes, it is cold outside, but wrapped up against her he can't feel anything but a slow warmth spread through him like honey.
It has been nearly eight months since Leo was attacked, they've spent six months sleeping by each other, and the past four having sex. It's somewhere between a love affair and the best relationship of his life, for even though they've never discussed anything they're so much more to each other than just a body to get lost in.
It's 6 years worth of friendship and meaning and is simultaneously brilliant and terrifying. He spends the majority of his time with her, thinking about what he could be doing to her, and the other half wishing she were by his side.
It's a little bit sad, he thinks, just how dependent he is on her presence, but he knows its real when he simply wants to see her smile, or when watching her work from a distance is enough to calm his fears.
She always wakes after him, something he learns early on, and on this particular day she spends ten minutes simply breathing against him, happy to be held.
"What time do we have to be at work," she murmurs quietly, and not for the first time he secretly enjoys being the boss. He tugs her closer, turning to hover above her, and presses his lips down hard, pushing her into the mattress.
"Later," he mumbles lazily, grinning as she giggles, and makes a show of running his cold hands down her sides until she squeals. She's warm and soft and more beautiful than anyone he's laid eyes on, and as she melts into his embrace he has the sudden feeling that it will be a good day.
---
They make it until 10 that evening before all hell breaks loose.
She is packing up for the evening, his eyes occasionally straying to her, and he wonders if anyone else in the labs has picked up on their synchronicity. They've always been a little in each others pockets, and it amuses him that no one has seemed to notice a difference, even after four months of sleeping together.
She's just wandering back into the room, last lot of files in hand, as he finishes answering his mobile. He can't quite understand why he does so, this late at night, especially when his other nighttime activity is watching him closely.
"Okay, yep, well I shall be there, fine," he responds shortly, and watches as Nikki smiles disappointedly. He briefly ponders what would happen if he just didn't turn up to the scene.
"Just what I wanted, a suspicious death in Hampstead. Staircase fall," he informs her, as they both slip on jackets. Her reply surprises him, but he can't help but feel pleased.
"Hmm, mind if I tag along?"
"It's late, and you've been working very hard all day," he quips and she laughs softly, eyeing him (he had hoped they would be working even harder later, just not at a crime scene). But he knows that look, has been seeing it a lot more lately, and despite his teasing, knows also that she will be accompanying him tonight.
"So?" she replies, and dares him to continue.
"So get a bloody life," he taunts, and can't help but brush up against her as he walks past. He bumps her hip with his own, a subtle reminder of the very good life they've been leading, grinning as she turns around to respond.
"Last year I contributed to a Danish paper on…"
"Oh god," he interrupts, rolling his eyes as she continues, unperturbed.
"…Accidental staircase injuries in children."
She's following him out of the office, and he can't help but smile at the domesticity of it all. Them leaving work together, arguing (as always), and he wonders what will happen when Leo returns.
"Irrelevant, deceased is 40," he tells her instead.
They've been toeing a rather dangerous line recently, somewhere between the casual sex and banter that this whole thing started out as, and a more steady, meaningful relationship that has seen her practically move into his apartment. On last count, he's sure she hasn't been back to hers in over a week.
He's brought back to reality by her quip about mechanical principles, and he wishes they were investigating another set of principles that evening. He bumps her shoulder gently, winking, and feels giddy as she laughs.
"Well yes, and how we do all adore those mechanical principles."
---
They spend the ride to the scene in a mixture of tired innuendo and meaningless chatter. The scene is crowded when they finally arrive, police lights flashing, illuminating the foreboding house of the deceased. A silence rapidly descends amongst them and Harry can't help but wonder at the ominous feeling settling across him.
It had been such a good day, yet at the pit of his stomach he knows it is about to turn.
---
The scene is an utter disaster, a dog and trampling humans combining to make Nikki cringe in shock. She's always hated a lack of evidential veracity, and when ever they come across a scene like this (fortunately, not very often) Harry always known she'll be off on a battle. It would seem this time that accidental, multiple slips is her crusade, and he wonders how long it will take to convince her that the bloodbath was not incidental.
"Can't shake the utterly unscientific impression that his shock was real," she murmurs later, as they divest themselves of their gear. He hadn't been expecting that, her sudden defense of the husband, but chooses to ignore it and allows her to voice her concerns.
"Good job you're off the clock," he states, and hopes that will be enough to dissuade her. It's not, as he should have expected, and she continues on about hyperventilating.
"You know that just means breathing very fast, and anyone can do it," he teases.
He has the sudden image of her doing exactly so late the night before, sprawled beneath him as they'd moved together. He feels a little lightheaded, but at the same time rather worked up, and demonstrates for her in the hopes of getting her flustered.
She merely grins at him, and he can't help but smile back. Her fingers brush up against his, and the slight squeeze he gives them makes her giggle lightly, the disaster of the scene momentarily forgotten.
It is only minutes later, however, that they watch Flannery being driven away.
Nikki has turned from him, but as he offers her a lift home she shakes her head softly. It confuses him, and he wonders if she had understood his intentions, but as she smiles gently up at him he realises she's actually leaving.
He's always been careful at crime scenes, offering her a platonic lift home that ends up in bed at his place, just in case someone happens to be listening, and each time she's been more than happy to agree. It's been their little secret, this continued affair, and without Leo to hide it from they've had lots of fun hiding it from everyone else.
That is until now, and as he watches her carefully he catches the blush staining her cheeks.
She won't look him in the eye, and as she turns to call a cab, the sinking feeling returns tenfold.
---
It is well into the night when he is awoken to the feel of cold hands.
They are squirming up his sides, under his shirt, and he almost jumps from his bed at the feel of them.
"Where'd you come from?" he growls, and the low sound vibrates through her.
Everything about Harry, if possible, is rougher at 3 am, and the fact that she now knows this is a source of unending delight. Stubble rasps against her skin as he turns to nuzzle at her, his hair is askew against the pillow, and as his strong grip pulls her tighter his voice whispers huskily against her neck.
"Missed you earlier," she manages to catch, and smiles as he sucks at her collarbone. It's a favourite spot of his, and as his legs push insistently between her own she surrenders to the feel of him, collapsing in his embrace.
"I wanted to go home, grab a few papers and books whilst everything was still on my mind," she murmurs, and refusing to look at his face, instead buries herself against his chest. He has one hand scraping up and down her back, tracing her spine, and she shivers violently against him.
"I wouldn't have been much company, my head was too full," she tries to explain.
Harry chuckles quietly, kissing her temple. "And now?" he asks softly.
She smiles knowingly and tries to put the image of young Anna Flannery from her mind. It's horrible, lying to Harry, but despite the terrible feeling at the pit of her stomach, she knows telling him would be worse.
She can't bring herself to answer, however, and so presses up quite insistently against him. He kisses her back and pushes her to the bed, and she hopes, much later as they fall back asleep in each other's arms, that it will have been worth it.
---
It's not, however, though she doesn't yet know it.
She's almost shy as she enters the lab a day later, her decision to help Flannery still slightly unnerving her. Technically she's doing nothing wrong, and technically it shouldn't be an issue. But technically she shouldn't be sleeping with her colleague, and that's why things are now messy.
"Harry, can I talk to you for a second?"
It had sounded a strong and convincing opening in her mind, but as she says it she comes off sounding like a timid schoolgirl, and immediately blushes.
Harry's defensive teasing doesn't help either.
"Ahh, I hear you're twicing us. Crossing the floor."
He's wearing one of his suits, something she notes he only puts up with because he's the temporary boss, and wishes he didn't look so damned good in them. It doesn't help either that she knows exactly what's underneath it, or that she had watched him dress that morning.
It shocks her, however, that he's already aware of her decision, and the beginnings of guilt gnaw away at her stomach. "Heard from who?" she asks.
"Why else would someone called Gemma King want to get hold of you so badly. And now I suppose you'll want to see my PM report," he asks rhetorically, holding the flimsy file up in one hand.
He is watching her intensely, just a little too confident and smarmy, which she's learnt over the years means he's upset.
"If that's okay," she replies simply, hoping to calm him.
It fails, and he resorts to sarcasm.
"If that's okay," he quips, and she shivers slightly under his gaze, "It's my legal obligation. I have to show you mine, you don't have to show me yours. T'was ever thus."
There's a hidden sparkle in his eyes, and she can't help but grin at him.
He's still upset, but at the same time transported back to quite a few instances when she's delighted in watching him dress before her. She'll bury herself between the blankets, forcing him to walk naked towards the drawers, and it's become a sort of game of theirs, seeing who will break first as he slowly dresses, whether she'll giggle or he'll blush.
He'd won this morning, and she can't help but feel that he's winning this round too.
"So everything's alright?" she asks, and it hurts him a little, to see how unsettled she is. He calms a bit, wondering if he'd pushed the banter too far, and smiles at her.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
She watches him, settled slightly, and they both feel much better now that things have cleared. He can't help himself, however, and throws in.
"Of course none of this would have happened if I'd told you to sod off when I had the chance!"
"You mean if you didn't love my company so much."
She almost considers leaving it at love me, and the thought makes her giddy, those never before said words, but they've just pushed through one hazy conversation and she isn't really willing to risk another.
"No, I definitely mean if I told you to sod off when I had the chance," he teases, and grins at her happily. She giggles, and wonders briefly if he had understood her implication.
"I'll get you a copy of the report," he tells her, and when leaving pretends to hit her with the files. She retaliates by brushing her hand to his thigh, feeling him falter against her, before glancing up in surprise at her very public display of affection.
"Minx," he murmurs, and carries on out of the room.
Her laughter follows him down the hall.
---
It does concern him, however, when she so obviously decides against him, and he feels a tiny bit betrayed, without really knowing why.
Objectively she has every right to disagree, and he knows that his work is never perfect, that there will always be questions and every possibility that he is wrong.
He wonders briefly if it would have been easier if they didn't share a bed at night, or perhaps even if they'd had normal conversation at some point. But the limbo they've been living in since that first night hangs over him like a heavy weight, and though he longs every now and then to push beyond the boundaries of a physical relationship, he's terrified of what would happen if they moved onto emotions and promises.
It's taping away at the surface, however, and he wonders if they'll survive this case without fallout.
---
Their first argument goes off without anything, a short burst that culminates in Nikki asking if he'd trusted her to testify that she'd seen shoe prints, but at the same time it leaves him feeling cold inside.
It startles him, how quick she switches from lighthearted disbelief to a serious questioning, and as always he throws himself into sarcastic defenses without really thinking through the consequences.
"Were you worried?" she had asked him, and he can't help but smirk. She's watching him harshly, and he suddenly wonders if this will be their breaking point. He laughs dismissively and answers.
"Well put it this way, if you didn't find cause of death to be deliberate blunt force trauma, then I would be worried."
He watches her closely, daring her to contradict him, and immediately she shuts down any sense of familiarity. There are no more gentle smiles, no remnants of the closeness they have shared. Only a cold defense of her own work that leaves him riled up and flustered.
"Alright, I will testify that I saw the shoeprints," she concedes, "But I will also testify that the scene was a bloody shambles, complete with a dog running round, destroying all vestiges of evidential integrity. Shall we talk about something else?" she finishes, and avoids his eye.
"Okay," he begins, and despite knowing better, throws back at her, "How did you come to be the person who broke the news to Flannery's daughter?"
It's low, and taunting, but at the same time he's so clouded with betrayal and confusion that he decides he has a right to know.
She's shocked by his words, but her immediate answer only confounds him more, and he can't help but repeat it sarcastically. She glares at him a moment, and is almost out the door when he mutters coldly.
"So you lied to me, last night?" and he can almost see her tremble. "You weren't getting files?"
She leaves without an answer.
---
That night it's cold in bed, and as he stares towards the ceiling he reaches out towards the phone.
"Hello," she answers, blearily, and he can't help but feel unsettled that she'd been able to sleep. He stays silent a moment, listening to her breathe, and wishes she was doing so upon his chest.
"Harry, is that you?" she asks, and he can hear her throat catch. "Harry?" she begs, and he's sure she's fighting back tears.
"Bastard," she finally whispers, but as he goes to speak she hangs up, the dead tone of the phone reaching his ears. He lies for sometime with the phone pressed to him, wishing he had the courage to ring again, before finally placing it by his bed.
---
He hardly sleeps that night, and hardly sees her the next day, not until he walks through the Flannery's house in the evening, hoping for one last look at the crime scene.
She's crouched over the floor, hair tied back, and as he steps closer slowly, he can't help but smirk. It settles him, however, the small smile she gives, and he wonders suddenly if he'll be sleeping alone again.
"I was hoping for a last look at the blood."
"Great minds think alike," she responds, and it amuses him, just how untrue her statement seems. Up until now they have always been quite similar, and it scares him, the cracks, that are slowly allowing everything else to seep through. Over the past few months he's never felt closer to her; tonight he's never felt farther.
"Or not," he murmurs, but can't help but smile.
She still does that to him, turns his stomach inside out, making him giddy and flustered in her presence. She stands slowly, and not for the first time he wishes she'd never accompanied him.
He wants to take that moment in the lab when she'd convinced him and shatter it, lock it away in another time and space whereby he'd gone to the scene alone and tumbled back into her warm embrace that night, never letting her near the Flannery's and this whole bloody mess.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, frustrated anger seeping through his tone. "I mean what's the point?"
"Point?" she questions, confused, and he can't help but retaliate quickly.
"Of your stubborn refusal to accept the self evident."
"Which is?"
"That this was a murder, and a brutal one at that. I mean how can someone get twenty-eight injuries to their face, neck, head, hands and wrist, by falling down the stairs," he states, and as his voice catches he has to turn from her startled gaze. "Even if there were one or two falls it's counter intuitive, it's something that's made up, it's a load of bullshit," he throws at her, and immediately she bites.
"Flannery deserves the best defense available."
He almost scoffs at her words, wondering how on earth she can be so blind to what's before them. The blood soaked walls, the body, and the sheer fact that no one else could have been responsible. As he points out, there were no signs of a break in, no possible way such injuries could have been accidental, and as she tries to defend the possibility that Flannery was not covered in spatter, Harry feels the lump rise in his throat.
"So now you have a murder weapon and a shirt you can't account for," she throws back at him, and as she shakes with frustration, he grins, sneering.
"So, Nikki against the world once more," he states, and walking past her can almost feel her anger. It's electrified the air around them, filling the nooks and cracks that make them who they are. For all the friendship and affection they share, they can also inflict the most heartache, and for a second he knows and hopes his next words will hurt.
"What do you mean by that?" she demands, and he turns once more to watch her, standing by the door.
"You love this, don't you?" he scorns, and feels every emotion she's ever drawn from him rush forwards as he steps closer. "Here you come, night in shining armor, bloody but unbowed, it's like a little Jane Eyre fantasy made flesh!"
He throws open the front door, feels the cool night air wash against him, and not for the first time does it sting harshly. He can't look back at her, knows if he does everything will fall apart and that will be the end of him. It's much easier to stay angry and bitter, much easier than trying to talk things through. He's never hated her in his life, and knows he never will, but right now he's incapable of being near her; and it terrifies him.
---
Harry's never before felt sick under someone's gaze, never before seen trust trickle away before him, but in those few small hours of court he's sure he's just lost any chance of a future.
--
"Dr Cunningham was standing next to me when I saw WPC Gould on the drive. He will corroborate my account."
She smiles softly, settles down, and he wonders how on earth he can do this, how they will possibly survive what he has to say.
"I do recall meeting two uniformed officers," he begins slowly, "One male, one female," he pauses, awaiting the inevitable end. "I do not recall either one of them having blood on their clothes."
There is a terrible second when the earth must stop. He's sure of it. And all he can feel is her steady gaze crumble before him.
"But I have absolutely no reason to doubt Dr. Alexander's recollection," he amends.
It is too late.