A few days later, Bernie came back to Holby. She wasn't sure why, exactly – she couldn't see herself back in the hospital. As for her relationship with Serena, they hadn't really talked since France, and they'd not been in a good place then. Serena had definitely not been happy about Bernie going to the Sudan, and Bernie wasn't sure what to do anymore. Her daughter had gone back to Marcus' house to recover properly, and although Bernie knew she would have to have a good talk with her about the recent events, there had been nothing in her daughter's behavior to suggest she wanted her mother in the same country as her. No boyfriend had appeared at the hospital, and Charlotte had refused to say anything about the baby or the father. Bernie hoped she would confide in someone, if not in her. For the first time in many years, she found herself with nothing to do. She had finally decided to rent a furnished flat for four months, but she found she couldn't stand to be in there all alone, with nothing to do except think about her daughter and try to get her career back on tracks. She was worried about Charlotte, and she was worried about Serena too. Their last meeting had been awkward – they'd found nothing to say to each other, and they had dodged the essential questions. Moreover, Bernie had the definite impression Serena was hiding something from her.

And then, the nightmares started – she woke up every morning drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. Sometimes she couldn't remember what she'd dreamt of – these were the good days. On bad days, when she opened her eyes, she remembered what had woken her up – the memory of enemy fire, of being blown up by the IED, the sight of a Taliban rifle pointed at their jeep, the sound of a grenade exploding near Camp Bastion. She couldn't stay in her flat with those images in her head, so she went running, till she couldn't breath or think anymore. Or she went for endless walks accompanied with several packs of cigarettes. When she called Serena, she did not mention anything, and their conversations were about mundane subjects. She knew she had always found solace in work, and so she tried to find at least a locum position. But not in the NHS, not at Holby – she knew it was probably only a matter of pride and stubbornness, but she couldn't go back – not yet. She got in touch with the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, which at least would get her back on familiar grounds, working with military personnel. They seemed interested, and they scheduled an interview in two weeks' time. And then Cameron invited himself for the weekend.

They talked about his career, about his prospects, and he asked about Serena. Bernie quickly changed the subject. Later on that evening, she sensed he had something to tell her, probably something unpleasant:

"Much as I enjoy your company, Cam, I can see you've got something on your mind. So why don't you cut to the chase and tell me?"

"Right …Spot on, mother dear. It's about Charlotte."

"Charlotte?" Bernie did not have a good feeling about that.

"Yes …She talked to me …About the …You know!"

"If you're going to be a doctor, Cameron, you'll have to learn to explain things better, and to go straight to the point. For God's sake, just say what you have to say."

"All right! There was no boyfriend – she went to a bar with friends, and she got chatted up by a bloke. She said he was very handsome, and they had a good talk – he told her he was a lawyer, specializing in family law. They all drank a lot, and she remembers going with him to a car park, as he'd told him he would take her home. That's all she remembers from the night – when she woke up, she was still in the car park – it was about 6 in the morning. Her clothes were all messed up. Two weeks after, she took a pregnancy test…"

Bernie was stone-faced – during her long sleepless nights at the hospital, it was one of the possibilities she had envisaged – but between speculating about rape and having it confirmed, there was quite a difference. She put her arms around Cameron's shoulders, hugging him. She was glad Charlotte had confided in someone, but she wished it hadn't been in Cameron – it wasn't fair to him, the burden was too heavy. They remained hugging on the sofa for a long time, until they finally separated to go to sleep.

They did not make it through the whole night, however, as Cameron came into Bernie's room around 4 a.m. She woke up with a start, to find him shaking her: "What ?"

"You were screaming, Mom – something like "Take cover, they're here"!"

By the state of the bed, she had been having her usual nightmares: "I'm sorry, Cam, only a dream. Go back to sleep."

In the morning, he tried to make her talk about the nightmares, but she clammed up – she dismissed the matter, telling him briskly that it was nothing, it happened sometimes, and it would pass. No way would she burden her son with that as well. In any case, she thought that if she ignored them, they would go away – nothing like burying one's head in the sand…

She wasn't sure what to do about Charlotte – Cameron had told her Charlotte didn't want anyone to know, and Bernie thought she might just aggravate matters if she forced the issue. She could have killed her daughter's aggressor with her bare hands, but she knew from professional experience that rapists in cases like Charlotte's usually got off scot-free. Cameron had told her that the name he'd given Charlotte was probably a fake one, as he didn't exist on social media.

When Cameron left, she thought she would try to distract herself by going to the cinema. She was queuing among a horde of people intent on seeing the latest Star Wars movie when she suddenly felt a sharp pain in the chest, and found herself unable to breathe. She had just enough self-control left to get out of the queue and the cinema and to flatten herself against a wall, fighting a rising nausea. She remained there for several minutes, panting and feeling close to fainting. Her medical training told her it was not a heart attack – she was in no immediate danger. However, her brain and her body were not in agreement over that… She cast her eyes around her, but no one seemed to have noticed. Good! She focused on her breathing, imagining what she would tell a patient: "Deeply and slowly – breathe in, breathe out…breathe in, breathe out …" She kept inhaling and exhaling until she could feel her heart rate coming back to normal. She thrust her hands in her pockets in search for a cigarette, but remembered she'd smoked the last one the evening before, and swore under her breath. She peeled herself from the wall and walked away. She knew what had just happened, of course – she'd been trained to recognize the symptoms of a panic attack. But she'd thought herself immune. She had coped for months after coming back from Afghan, so why should PTSD strike now? This was only a purely rhetorical question – finding herself at a loose end, plus what had happened to Charlotte, plus the other previous shocks …. Maybe she was not as tough as she'd thought she was after all.