She eyed the bottle distractedly. It was past 1am and she still hadn't slept. She knew it was useless, she was overtired, and the pills would only knock her out completely. She had a PM at 9am and there was no way she'd be able to drive to work, let alone wield a scalpel if she took one now.

The little red light on her phone flashed intermittently, but she had so far avoided picking it up. She was sorely tempted to turn the bloody thing off again, but she was technically on call from 6am, and it simple wasn't worth the risk. Rubbing her eyes, still sore from crying, she sat up in bed and grabbed the phone. 3 texts, 2 missed calls.

Robbie: Please don't be angry Laura, I'm so sorry I upset you. Can we talk?

Robbie: Please, Laura, I don't want to lose you.

There was another name in the list, a name she didn't expect to see:

Hathaway: Are you ok?

It had arrived at around midnight, by the look of it, long after she'd switched the phone off. How the hell did he know? For Christ's sake...

There were two missed calls, both from Hathaway, and by the looks of it, two voicemails. She frowned. The first call had been just after 9.30:

"Good evening, Dr Hobson. DI Hathaway. Sorry to call you Laura, but I think I might need your help. Lewis just finished doing a housecall to the husband from today's hit and run. Wife dead, along with the kids. He looks bloody awful. He's pretending it's all water under the bridge, but I know him well enough to see it's a front. I've just dropped him off near your house, but I'm worried all this might be getting to him... I don't know. He didn't say if he was heading to your place, but if you're in, you might well see him in twenty minutes or so. Maybe we could all have a drink tomorrow night? You know how to help him when he's like this. Anyway, thanks. I hope he isn't in too foul a mood when he gets to you."

She sighed, closing her eyes, pressing the phone to her lips. Oh god. How could she have been so totally and utterly stupid? For years she'd expertly trodden a delicate path with Robbie, supporting him through his grief. And tonight, when all he'd needed was a kind ear, and a glass of scotch, she'd practically lynched him. No wonder he'd run.

Gingerly, she pressed play on the second message from James:

"Me again, Laura." There was a long pause... "It's just after 1, and I've left Inspector Lewis at his flat. I found him wandering back from your house when I was filling up the car at the garage round the corner. Look...I've no idea what happened, but whatever he's said, he didn't mean it. He's punched a dent in my car, announced his retirement, and told me that you deserve far better. It's none of my business, but, well...I thought you should know. I've a feeling he might have broken a finger actually, but I wasn't going to risk insisting on hospital tonight. Anyway, hope you're ok - call me if you need to."

Oh Robbie.

Laura glanced at the clock. 1.45am. Who was she kidding? Pulling on some jeans and a sweater, she walked to the bathroom. God, she looked old. Splashing some cold water on her puffy eyes, she wondered if she should put some makeup on. No. Enough of trying to be perfect all the time, he'd have to take her as she was. She picked up her medical bag and her keys, and walked out the door.

Driving through Oxford at 2am was a strange feeling, but one she knew well. Violent death rarely restricted itself to the hours of daylight, and the lack of traffic in the centre of town was one of the few benefits of being dragged out of a warm bed in the early hours. She knew the route well, and as she concentrated on the road, she began to relax. It didn't matter what happened now, not really. She had no agenda. She just knew that he was hurt and that she wanted to help him. She wouldn't let her stupid wounded pride get in the way of that. She loved him, she saw that now, it was what had kept her coming back to him all these years - he had always been there, always constant - but this was enough, he was her best friend.

As she pulled the car into the drive, she noticed that none of his lights were on. Maybe he had gone to bed. She doubted it. Robbie was as bad an insomniac as she was. Please don't let him be drunk… She locked the car, and fingered the extra set of keys she had brought. It felt like an invasion of privacy, but one that might be necessary. She'd had the keys for months, after she had looked after his cat during his last trip up to Lyn's, and it had never felt entirely right to return them.

She knocked lightly, and turned the key in the lock. As the door swung opened, she listened carefully. Nothing. Monty padded across the hall, rubbing himself against her legs. "At least one of you is pleased to see me", she whispered. Conscious that she was walking around in the dark, in the house of a police officer, she called out,

"Robbie...it's me..."

Nothing.

"Where are you?"

Again silence, but a light clicked on in the living room. Steeling herself, she walked towards the light.

He was slumped in the sofa, still in his suit, a full whisky bottle sat on the coffee table in front of him. He was curled over, his head resting on his good hand, the other hanging limply in his lap. She placed her bag carefully on the floor, and walked over to the kitchen. Quickly, she located a couple of tumblers, and carried them back to where he was slumped. She sat down carefully, and opening the bottle of whisky, poured a couple of large measures.

He still hadn't looked at her, and for a moment she realised how much he looked like a sulky teenager. A smile flitted across her lips. It scared her how much this man meant to her. He lifted his head, and she was shocked to see his eyes red and obviously swollen. He watched her carefully, holding her gaze. She delicately skimmed her fingers over his injured hand, and he winced.

"Let me..?"

He nodded, still not taking his eyes from her. Carefully she assessed the damage, lightly brushing her fingers across his wrist, down each joint of his fingers. His knuckles were swollen, and he had split the skin on his index and middle fingers. It was tricky to say, with this amount of swelling, but it seemed unlikely that he had broken any bones. Laying his hand on her knee, she leant down to her bag and extracted a bottle of saline, some butterfly clips and a large swab of cotton wool. Imperceptibly he squeezed her knee, and she smiled cautiously. He was still watching her like a hawk, not saying anything.

As she cleaned the two cuts, he gripped her knee, and she felt the warmth of his hand radiating through her jeans. She still didn't know what to say, embarrassed by her earlier behaviour, and she thought it wise to just concentrate on the task in hand. As she pressed the final butterfly plaster over the gash on his middle finger, she slowly lifted his fingers to her lips and gently kissed the back of his hand.

"There. All better now... I won't bandage them until the swelling has gone down a bit, but try to keep your fingers still."

He blinked, and then held her gaze again. She smiled weakly, her brows still furrowed in concern, and brushed her wayward fringe back from her eyes. He swallowed, and looked down at his hand, which she was still holding lightly in her lap.

"I'm sorry I upset you Laura..."

"So am I."

She felt the lump rising in her throat, and blinked quickly to stop herself crying. He looked at her, his eyes serious and inscrutable. Lifting his good arm, he stretched out to grasp her shoulder, pulling her to him. She hesitated, then tucked her feet up beneath her, and he laid his chin on the top of her head. Pressed into his chest, Laura suddenly felt calm. She felt him relax against her, his arm growing heavy around her. There was no need for conversation now. Their relationship had always been unspoken. As the clock on the mantelpiece ticked softly past 2.30am, they were both sound asleep.