He needed a drink. Badly. It had been years since he'd wanted one this much, and knowing he couldn't just made the ache in his throat ten times worse. Pulling the door shut of his humble houseboat, the chill nip in the wind almost woke him from the ridiculous plan he had concocted in his mind. But even the late winter freeze couldn't quell his need for the solace which could only be found at the bottom of a glass.

Wrapping his wool coat tighter round himself, he braved the darkening streets and made his way towards the pub which he had turned down on so many occasions. His colleagues would be long gone, and only the serious drinkers, like him, would still be propping up the bar, eyes barely able to focus on the drink they were clutching. Even in his mind he knew how pitiful a sight it was, and yet the familiarity of the scenario almost gave him some kind of comfort. It was the safety of treading over past footsteps – every inch of that place was known to him, and right now, he could think of nothing better than to conceal himself in a dusty, stale-smelling corner and forget.

Rounding the corner, he could already hear a group of teens guffawing as one of their friends vomited back up that night's units of alcohol, and he felt his upper-lip curling at the very idea, no matter how hypocritical that made him. He passed them silently, ignoring their jeers and yells, and carried on, his face half-hidden by his upturned collar. It was only as he approached the pub that he saw someone swaying outside, trench coat draped across one limp arm while her shoes were clasped tightly with the other. He sighed, recognising instinctively the long, fair hair and shapely, bare legs of his wife.

"Sam," he called, pushing his hands into his pockets and quickening his pace. She hadn't turned, which didn't surprise him as she seemed completely oblivious to everything, including the lamppost she was fast approaching.

He jogged up to meet her and guided her away just in time before she smacked her head, and the slight flinch as she pulled away from him stung more than anything.

"Dylan?" she asked, her voice slurred and eyes squinting at his face. She rubbed her forehead before giving a quiet groan, and finally her shoulders sagged. "I'm drunk."

"I can see that," he replied, slightly amused by the rather obvious statement. Even when they had been at their closest, he had never really seen her like this – so open and incautious.

"Why… Where are you from?" she asked, before furrowing her brows having realised she had muddled her words but unable to correct herself.

Dylan ignored the question and placed a careful, almost timid hand on her back before directing her across the quiet street and towards the main road. "I'll get you a taxi and take you home," he said, before realising he didn't have a clue where she lived.

"Sam, I need your address."

She nodded and began rummaging in her bag, only to come back empty handed. "My purse…"

"Have you lost it?" he asked, but he could see she had already forgotten what she had been looking for. He sighed, picked up the bag she had now dropped on the ground, and raised a hand at a passing taxi. Saying his address to the driver, he quickly bundled Sam inside before climbing in beside her, unsure what the hell he was going to do once he got her to his place. It had been a long time since they had spent the night together, in any sense of the word.

By the time they reached the canal, Sam was fast asleep on Dylan's shoulder, and he had to pull her out of the taxi and carry her, shoes, coat and all, across to his boat. She mumbled something unintelligible into his ear, perhaps a 'thank you' though he couldn't be sure, and then returned to unconsciousness. Two minutes later, she was tucked up safely in his freshly-made bed, a peaceful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It took him a moment to realise how long he had been staring at her, but this time the familiarity of the situation before him brought with it no comfort at all. This was one memory he had never been planning on revisiting, for the sole reason that he couldn't bear to rake over all that lost ground. Too much water under the bridge, with too many bitter words said which could never be forgotten, or forgiven.

Shuffling into the matchbox that was the lounge, he slumped into the threadbare armchair and closed his eyes, deciding that only sleep could bring him any kind of relief now.

xxx

Same awoke to the smell of burning and a rather hard mattress. She knew instantly that this was not her flat, and yet there was something about her surroundings which almost seemed… The framed photograph by the bed brought back everything she needed to know, and she almost kicked herself for being so stupid. God knows what might have happened if Dylan hadn't been there.

Kicking off the covers, she hurriedly pulled down the extremely tight fabric of her dress and yanked the dressing-gown from the hook on the door. Perhaps it was ridiculous to feel embarrassed about showing her husband even the tiniest piece of flesh, but she hardly considered Dylan as anything more than an acquaintance now – he certainly didn't see her as his wife, that was for sure.

Stepping cautiously out the door, she was shocked to see him standing with his back to her, swearing quietly under his breath as he tried to cook bacon while making toast and eggs. It was so unusual that she almost wondered whether she was still drunk from the night before, and certainly the smell of grease and fried meat was doing nothing to appease her churning stomach. But the sight of him in a white t-shirt and stripy pyjama bottoms couldn't even have come from her imagination, and she knew she wasn't dreaming.

"Morning," she croaked, causing him to jump out of his skin and drop the buttered knife he'd been holding.

"Damn," he cursed, before picking it up and chucking it into the sink. "Toast?"

"Thanks," she replied, pulling a chair out and shivering as it scraped along the tiled kitchen floor. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble, you know."

"I didn't. This is for me," he said, gesturing to the bacon and eggs he was piling onto his own plate. She smiled, now knowing that she was definitely back to reality, and played with the salt and pepper in the middle of the cramped table.

"Do you have work today?" she asked hesitantly, unsure what to say but not wanting an unbearably awkward silence.

He shook his head and gently placed the plate of toast in front of her. "Not until this afternoon. You?"

"Day off," she immediately replied, having expected the question. Dylan was nothing if not predictable.

"Well, you can stay here until you get yourself sorted. I doubt you'll want to walk back to yours looking like that."

She tried not to take the remark to heart, but she couldn't pretend that it didn't hurt a little. He had never been good with women, or complimenting them in any way, but even now she was still surprised when he came out with such blatant insults.

"Thanks. I'll just shove a paper bag over my head, shall I?"

He shifted uncomfortably, realising he had said something wrong, before sitting down opposite her. "I just meant that it's cold outside and you don't have anything warm to wear."

It was a lie and they both knew it, but she was grateful that he was making an effort to paper over his mistake – it was more than he would have done before.

"If I could borrow a jacket…?"

He looked up from his breakfast and nodded. "Just take anything. I can't pretend that their fashionable, but I'm sure there will be something that isn't too bad."

"Good job I don't like trendy men then, isn't it?" she joked, before realising how flirtatious that sounded. It almost felt as though they had slipped back into old ways, and she knew how close she was to crossing that very clear line they had drawn a long time ago.

He cleared his throat and carried on eating. She did the same. Sooner or later, she knew one of them would have to speak, but that stubborn side to her refused to be the first.

"Your bag buzzed earlier. I assume it's your mobile, but I didn't check."

At this, Sam almost choked on the hard, dry toast she had been forcing herself to gulp down. She didn't have friends or family, apart from Dylan, which meant there was only one other person she could think of.

Grabbing her bag off the floor, she hurriedly pulled the mobile out and unlocked, giving a sigh of relief as she saw the name.

"I suppose he's worried about you. You can get signal outside… to phone him back," Dylan said hesitantly, glancing up at her for a second before returning to his bacon.

She shook her head and put the phone back in her bag. "It was Zoe." She had never felt more relieved, and stupid, for thinking that Matt was calling her. He probably didn't even have her number anymore!

"Right."

She looked up, hearing that familiar, derogatory tone and feeling her blood boil. "It's the truth."

He stood up, his breakfast only half eaten, and scraped the rest in the bin. "I have some paperwork to attend to. Keys are in the bowl by the door. You can give them back to me tomorrow – I have a spare set."

She didn't even have time to reply before he had closed his bedroom door, and she wondered how she had ever been able to live with him at all.

xxx

"I can't stop you from discharging yourself, but if that clot ruptures and you are not in hospital within three minutes, you will die," Dylan said matter-of-factly, trying to judge whether his patient was frightened, or just a moron.

"I'll take my chances, thanks. No way am I staying in here. I know what you people do – you say it's all going to be fine and then you end up in a body bag."

Dylan gritted his teeth and asked himself why he had decided to be a doctor. "This is not, as far as I'm aware, a Lynda La Plante novel, and while your conspiracy theories are entertaining, they do not go any way to convincing me of your fine health. In fact, if I wasn't so busy, I might bring psych down here to assess you."

"Bloody doctors. If I wasn't so busy, I'd be suing you!"

With that parting goodbye, Dylan waved off another disgruntled and delusional patient, and hoped that another doctor would deal with him next time. He cared very little for his patients after he had stitched them up and sent them on their way, and he cared even less for those who wouldn't allow him to do his job. As far as he was concerned, they were taking up valuable time and resources which could be of better use to someone who actually wanted, and needed his skills.

"Dylan."

He looked up to see her marching across the reception area with his keys dangling from her finger.

"You could have handed them in tomorrow."

She shrugged and placed them in his waiting hand. "I couldn't. I'm not going to be in tomorrow. Or at all, actually. I'm leaving Holby."

At this he could only stare. "What do you mean?"

She looked away from him before finally returning his gaze, and he almost felt intimidated by such an intense stare. "There's nothing to keep me here, and I'm sure the ED would be better off without another stubborn, hot-headed doctor. I'm catching a plane tomorrow morning… to Dubai."