For a calcified moment, the only sound in the stagnant waiting room was the ticking of the clock on the wall. Joe threw the device a horrified look – the kind he usually reserved for concert-goers who applauded in between movements or rustled sweet wrappers during pianissimo sections. Undaunted, the clock pulsed obstinately on. It was almost eleven o'clock, nearly tomorrow. What sort of tomorrow it would be, Joe could not guess.

The surgeon, Mrs Handel, slowly eased the door shut, cushioning the catch into alignment. She had evidently undergone a lot of training in dealing with relatives of her patients. Joe had a sudden violent impulse to grab the handle from her practised fingers and slam it loudly.

"Emerson Kent was brought in just over an hour ago with multiple injuries," Mrs Handel began. "He had two gunshot wounds – one to the stomach and another which pierced his lung. We managed to extract the bullets and stop the internal bleeding, and we've put him on a ventilator to help with his breathing. That's the good news."

There was an audible release of pressure throughout the small room, which proved to be premature.

"However, added to that, he has a very nasty head injury and he's lost a lot of blood. We're not going to know fully what damage has been done until we can stabilise him enough to get him a CT scan. If he survives the next twelve to fifteen hours…"

The clock's disinterested beat had crescendoed into deafening booms, drowning out the surgeon's words. It sounded like the crack of doom. Joe felt an irrational yet virulent hatred for the clock, the room and everyone in it.

"So you're going to do nothing for twelve hours and, what, just pray?" spat Joe.

"Sir!" Mansell's shocked voice interrupted Joe's exhilarated anger. Erica had bowed her head and burrowed herself into Mansell's side, a damp blossoming appearing where her face met his blue shirt. Joe had never appreciated until then just how much she looked like Emerson.

"Are you the gentleman who accompanied Mr Kent in the ambulance?" Mrs Handel asked, her dark eyes a veneer of professional empathy.

Joe nodded.

"I understand that you're upset, but please believe that we are doing everything we can. Your friend is receiving the best possible care and I assure you that we are doing a great deal more for him than praying. Though, if prayer would help you, I can have someone show you to the chapel."

Joe knew that she was trying to help, but his spiteful rancour had not yet fully abated.

"The last thing I need is a fucking chapel."

"Alright, Joe, calm down." Miles' soothing tone complemented his gentle hand on Joe's shoulder. "Maybe it's time we all got some rest."

He began to usher everyone out of the relatives' room with a soft sweep of his arm. Ever Joe's guardian, he made sure to obtain Joe's spare keys so he could bring him an overnight bag and spare clothes. He did not try to persuade Joe to go home.

"I'll come and see how you're doing later, alright?"

Joe felt his rage wash away as his friend stood by him. Into its place flooded a wringing feeling of guilt.

"Don't hug me," he said.

"I wasn't going to," Miles raised an eyebrow, before exiting with a squeeze of Joe's upper arm.

As he passed, the new police officer paused by Joe, offering his hand in greeting once again. He spoke with a deep, resonant bass, round and portly. His shirt gaped across his extensive middle while his bottle-green jacket sagged flaccidly off his shoulders.

"DCI Pembroke. I'm so very sorry about your constable. I'll be leading the inquiry into his murd… sorry, attempted murder, in your absence. I'm looking forward to working with your team – I'm sure we'll all become great chums and get the result we want."

Joe gave a cursory nod in acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak. DCI Pembroke wobbled out awkwardly.

Mansell kissed Erica as he too left the room. Joe felt slightly sickened watching the two of them embrace. It was not his usual aversion to public displays of affection that bothered him, however, but a vast emptiness and wanting. He felt his lack of Emerson beside him like an orchestra would miss its conductor. He needed Emerson to give his life shape; without him, he was completely bereft of direction. The metronome rhythm of the clock was a poor substitution.

Once the door closed for the final time, Joe and Erica were left alone, together yet divided in their grief. Erica sat mutely, a harsh set to her jaw, sour as vinegar, bitter as gall. Joe found himself unable to look at anything other than the floor. He counted the speckles on the lino in time with each tick, still trapped in his head marking the incremental passing of time. With each second, Emerson was closer to recovery, or the alternative.

"I bet you're relieved, aren't you?" The intonation of Erica's voice was remarkably similar to Emerson's, causing Joe's head to jerk upwards.

"Excuse me, what?"

"I expect you're feeling a bit relieved. It gets you out of a really awkward conversation, after all."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come on. Em told me all about your discussion earlier. About getting married? How you basically told him to get stuffed, Mr Prim-and-Proper Detective Inspector. You're probably glad to have an excuse not to talk about it."

A sharp pain stabbed through Joe's chest.

"Nothing, nothing about this makes me glad," he strained to speak. "How dare you assume…?"

"Oh sure, you're good at all the guilt and righteous indignation. Saves you from having to talk about how you really feel."

Joe had always felt a little intimidated by Erica. She was Emerson's twin sister – she had shared everything with him, from the womb onwards, and they had a bond that no-one could come close to. She seemed to have taken on the role of Emerson's protector, particularly since the Krays case.

Joe had a sudden flashback to Erica standing in the middle of the Incident Room, the day after Joe had suspended Emerson.

"How could you treat him like that," she had shouted, eyes flashing, "when he's been nothing but loyal and supportive to you? He got injured because of you. Came back to work far too early 'cause he wanted to help you close the case. And you… you disgust me DI Chandler. "

Joe had tried to explain that he was simply following procedure, that he had not wanted to suspend Kent, that it had in fact caused him great pain to think that he could have betrayed him.

"I don't want to hear it." Erica had spun around forcefully, picking up a small box of Emerson's personal belongings that he had been unable to carry out himself. "I need to go. Emerson needs my help to have a shower."

Joe, thunderstruck, had watched her storm out of the office, trying desperately to ignore the unbidden vision of Kent in the shower that had arisen in his mind.

Erica looked at Joe furiously as a maternal swan might regard a gander encircling her young. Joe desperately wanted to prove to her that he could be trusted with her brother's affections, a feat he had evidently yet to accomplish.

"You can't possibly know how I feel," Joe retorted.

"No, and nor does Emerson. You never let him in. You've never been close to anyone in your life!"

"I do let him in." Joe felt a twinge of self-directed anger at the whining tenor his voice had taken. "I care very deeply for your brother."

Joe thought he saw something soften in Erica's expression, although that might have been wishful thinking. The bitterness in her mouth had perhaps sweetened a little, though not enough to relieve the severity in her eyes.

"Have you ever told him?"

"Yes… of course I have…" Joe spluttered. "I mean… I don't need to… he knows how I feel."
"Are you sure about that?"

Joe was silent for a moment. "I gave him a poem. He understood."

Erica heaved out a joyless laugh. "A poem! What sort of pathetic gesture is that? I think Emerson deserves more than a bit of 'Roses are red, violets are blue' crap."

Erica's face, her expression, her turns of phrase all combined in a thoroughly Emerson-like presentation. However Joe found this only served to highlight how much she was not Emerson. It was like looking at a portrait, an exceptional portrait brimming with the vitality of the subject, so realistic that you reach out to take the subject's hand, only to be met by cold, unresponsive canvas.

Emerson had understood, Joe knew he had, unlike this imitation copy sat in front of him.

But what if he didn't understand? Can he really not know? Am I guilty of not doing enough?

The clock's ticking was now a judge's gavel, beating out a verdict. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Erica was right about one thing though. Joe did guilt very well. It had become his closest companion throughout his years in Whitechapel, until Emerson had helped him blow it away a small distance. It still hovered in the periphery, nudging him occasionally, reminding him not to forget the Ripper, his other botched arrests, Josie Eagle, Morgan Lamb.

He realised that Erica was giving him an appraising look, not altogether unfriendly.

"Look," she sighed. "I like you, Joe, despite appearances to the contrary. And Emerson worships the ground you walk on. But seriously, he needs something more substantial than sonnets and songs, especially now."

Joe attempted a deep breath to settle his seething emotions, but the inhalation met with resistance. The air made its way into his lungs slowly through a maze of gasps and sobs.

"I know he does. It's just… it's really difficult for me." He dared to look at Erica, hoping to meet some comprehension. Erica's face darkened. Obviously not.

"For Christ's sake, if that's the best you can do, why are you even here?"

"Because… I need him. I lo…" But the words refused to emerge further, stubbornly remaining stuck in his gullet.

He slammed his fists against his thighs once, twice, three times in frustration. The ache thus created came nowhere near to the dreadful hurt in his core. Something was blocked deep inside of him and Joe had not the tools to release it.

Emerson had spoken to Erica about it. He had evidently been bothered enough by Joe's behaviour, or lack of it, to confide in a third party, to seek advice, consolation, support. Joe was not sure what was worse: that Emerson might never have realised the depth of Joe's feelings, or that he might not live long enough for Joe to make them explicit. If indeed he found the ability to be explicit.

Joe stood. "I need some air."

There was a dampness to the night that could not be solely attributed to the mist that still clung to the hospital car park. Joe craned his neck up to look at the sky, to where he knew he would be able to see the constellation of Orion, if not for the grimy London illumination polluting the heavens. Emerson had impressed him a few weeks earlier with his previously undisclosed knowledge of astronomy, demonstrated while they watched a TV quiz show together.

There's still so much about him that I don't know, and so much I need to tell him.

A tiny drip of wetness bounced upon his forehead. It was starting to rain.


A Whitechapel downpour always seemed to be wetter than anywhere else, the moisture soaking through and settling in every crevice. The dust and detritus of the thousands of people daily tramping through the district formed a thin slurry on the pavements, and the gutters roared with rushing water racing down the drains. Dickensian weather, Joe liked to call it. Woe betide anyone who was caught outside without waterproofs.

It had been just such an evening in February, not quite a year earlier, when Joe heard an insistent knocking on his door. As he clicked down the latch, the opening doorway revealed the sodden figure of a man dripping in the hall. He was completely soaked through, his suit saturated. His shirt and trousers cleaved suggestively to his body, while his jacket sagged off his shoulders, wet and lifeless. He reminded Joe of nothing quite so much as a human washing line, except that washing lines did not usually have chattering teeth.

"Emerson. I wasn't expecting to see you tonight."

"I know, I know. But my stupid bike broke down, and then it started to rain, and I realised I didn't have a coat, and well… can I come in and dry off?"

Joe swung himself backwards to allow Emerson room to enter the flat. He peeled Emerson's jacket from his body and placed it over the radiator. Water vapour immediately hissed into the air, fogging up the nearby mirror like smog.

"You're wearing odd socks," Joe observed, looking at Emerson's feet, now extracted from his once-shiny black leather shoes.

Emerson's lips twisted with half-hearted apology, before his whole face pursed up in a violent sneeze.

"Go on," Joe ordered. "Shower. Now. I'll find you something dry to wear."

Twenty minutes later, a distinctly warmer, though still slightly damp, Emerson was sat at Joe's kitchen table. He was bundled up like a parcel in pyjamas and one of Joe's dressing-gowns.

Joe placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of him.

Emerson blinked. "I never had you down as a hot chocolate sort of man," he said questioningly.

"I'm not really," replied Joe. "It's a very particular brand. It's got camomile in it. I save it for special occasions… or special people." Realising what he had just let slip, he reddened and dropped his gaze to the counter.

Emerson's hand rested itself on top of Joe's. It was warm.

"Oh bloody hell, I love you," he blurted out.

Startled, Joe looked up. "Do you?" He had not meant to sound as surprised as he did.

"Um… well, yeah I do," Emerson said, tentatively. He withdrew his hand and ran it tensely through his hair. "Shit, I didn't mean to tell you like that."

Joe's mouth performed a half-smile while the corners of his eyes wrinkled. "It's not the first time, actually."

"What?"

"You've said it before."

"When?"
"After Mansell's wedding to Eva. You were half asleep and barely able to stand so I drove you home. Do you really not remember?"

Emerson rubbed his forehead as though trying to massage his memories to the front of his head.

"I remember the headache the next morning," he grimaced. "Did I completely embarrass myself?"

"No, not at all. In fact, you were relatively dignified in your drunkenness. I walked you to your door, and your flatmate, Ella?..."

"Ailsa," Emerson corrected.

"Yes, Ailsa. She was up, so she took care of you from there. I wished you good night, and as I turned to leave, you mumbled 'Love you, sir' before apparently falling upstairs."

Joe observed the look of mild dismay mixed with shame blooming on Emerson's face.

"Don't worry," he said quickly, "I didn't mind. It was quite sweet really. To be honest, I didn't think any more of it until months later, when… things started to make more sense."

Emerson stood and stepped closer to Joe, all awkwardness evaporated.

"Well, what can I say? It was true then, and it's even more true now." He swallowed loudly. "I love you, Joseph Chandler. I pretty much always have."

Adrenaline pounded through Joe, a need as relentless and adamant as Emerson's rapping at his door had been. The arrival that started this encounter. Of all the things Joe had expected to have been doing that evening, standing nose to nose with Emerson, so close he could feel his breath on his mouth, listening to declarations of love from the man who had rapidly become the most important thing in his life, had not even factored as a possibility. He was glad to have been proved wrong, at least he thought he was.

I'm supposed to say it back, aren't I? Does it have to be in those exact words? 'Ditto' was a perfectly adequate response in that awful film he made me watch the other night.

He could say it. He would say it. It was only a tiny little word, surely much less intimidating than other four-letter words he could name.

"Emerson, I… I l…"

For heaven's sake, just say it.

"I… had better check you've turned the shower off properly. It gets a bit stuck sometimes."

Joe turned and fled, bile ascending through his body in a sickening torrent.

Emerson had, in fact, done a stellar job at shutting down the flow of water in the shower. There was a knack to it, but he had used it enough times to have become expert at manoeuvring around its idiosyncrasies. Still overcome by adrenaline, Joe's pulse was racing and his hands shook as he began to fill the sink from the taps. Adrenaline – the fight or flight hormone. In Joe's case, it most often manifested itself in flight, with the odd exception, such as when he had challenged Jimmy Kray to a boxing match. He wished he could find something between the two – neither fear nor aggression. He supposed that was what love was, the harmonious equilibrium. A slight discordancy on either side and it would pivot and tumble, but when it was there, balanced, all it needed was constancy. Like the planets orbiting the sun, it could not fall if everything was in alignment. All Joe needed to do was not panic. But panicking was something he was very good at. He should put it on his CV.

He bent down and submerged his face into the lukewarm water. A few heartbeats' time underwater was enough to be unpleasantly reminiscent of drowning, and Joe surfaced, lurching backwards and gasping. Emerson was standing in the doorway.

"Joe? Are you okay?"

Joe looked at him, expecting to see disappointment or even anger etched in his features. But Emerson's sole expression was a tender concern.

"I don't know what I am," Joe answered faintly. "I'm so sorry, Emerson."

Emerson's bare feet, already pointing themselves towards Joe, took a step closer. In concord, his arms rose forty-five degrees, enclosing Joe's body within them.

"It's alright, you know. You don't need to say it just because I have."

Joe fingered his temples. "No it's not alright. I don't know what's wrong with me. Emerson… Em… what you said, I do, I really do. But I just can't form the words. It won't… come out."

He sank into the side of the bathtub, his face a mask of anguish.

Emerson followed him down, crouching in front of him, making himself a mirror image. They became like two halves of a compass. Like a duet where both soloists sing as one. The rain outside pummelled the windows, sounding like applause from a thousand hands. As though bowing to the ovation, Emerson leant forward and gently laid his mouth over Joe's. Joe could taste the remnants of hot chocolate on his lips. The warmth that emanated from them melted his desperation, and he slowly placed his hands on Emerson's hips, grasping him, dragging him ever closer.

His anxiety could not remain at bay forever, though. Anxiety, fear, worry – they all had frequent flyer points in Joe's head. They lay in bed together that night, Joe awake staring at the ceiling, Emerson asleep, his head nestled on Joe's breastbone. His mind was once again active, swirling like the water he had released down the plughole. Emerson was in a deep slumber – Joe could tell by the depth and pace of his languorous breathing. So peaceful, so calm, so utterly content in his surroundings. Joe could not quite believe that Emerson had such faith in him, that he could possess such profound feelings for him.

He arched his neck to drop a chaste kiss onto Emerson's forehead. Emerson wrinkled his nose in his sleep and burrowed more tightly into Joe's side.

What did I ever do to deserve him?

He sighed as his mind, perversely and against his will, flipped the question onto its head.

What has Emerson done to deserve such an old fool as me? He should be with someone who would shout from the rooftops how much they love him. Not me, so crippled with… whatever it is… that I can barely whisper it to myself.

Those three little words. Other people said them all the time, tenderly, passionately, even flippantly. Why could he not say them at all?


Joe felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Joe?" Erica was standing behind him, silhouetted in the yellow light of the hospital. A warm forgiveness enlightened the shadows upon her face. "The doctor's just been back. They said we can go and see Em if we want. You coming?"