Thank you once again to all the people who are still reading and reviewing this fic. For all the folks asking for smut, please do remember that Jack has been quite badly hurt. Also, I'm reluctant to up the rating, so any later smut I do write is likely to be quite tame, at least if it ends up in this fic.

WhatsABriard - Jack's mummy and daddy are likely to show up again in the next chapter. I like them, too.

Although he would never realise it consciously, the weeks following his injury were a time of profound healing for Jack on a much deeper level than the merely physical. After so long married to a woman who had repeatedly made it clear that she would rather be anywhere but with him, Phryne's obvious preference for, and pleasure in, his company provided a deep reassurance not only of the sincerity of her feelings for him, but also of his own inherent worth and desirability to her. Physically, their intimacies were limited not only by his injuries, but also by the public nature of his hospital bed and, once he had been transferred to her house, her desire to avoid causing him too much frustration. They held hands, kissed, and touched one another's hair and faces, but otherwise, by unspoken agreement, generally restrained themselves. Instead they sat together for hours, talking or reading aloud to one another, or playing endless games: draughts, backgammon, dominoes, and even cribbage and other card games, although he soon learned to keep these short because Phryne found most card-games dull, and a bored Phryne swiftly became a restless and mischief-making Phryne.

For Phryne, too, those weeks marked a lasting change in the way she measured and managed her relationships, not with men, but with one man in particular. Even since her disastrous affair with René Dubois in Paris a decade earlier she had been cautious in her matters of the heart, avoiding attachments of any depth or duration in favour of protecting herself from both physical harm and emotional hurt. Over the course of their friendship, Jack had somehow made his way behind the barriers that she had erected, systematically undermining them from within, and now their time together set about demolishing those walls and clearing away the rubble that was left behind. Unlike René – and, if she were honest, most of the men she had been intimate with in the past – Jack was not charming, but sincere. Where René had been cruel, both casually and deliberately, Jack was kind. And where René had been jealous and controlling, Jack was simply interested in her life; when he asked about her comings and goings, what she had done and whom she had seen, it was not in an effort to judge or condemn but rather because he was interested in her day and seeking a diversion from the boredom that consumed much of his.

He was surprised, and slightly ashamed, when he realised just how busy her life was. Deep down inside, a part of him had assumed that she passed much of her time in frivolous amusements, and that her detective work was merely a diversion for a woman whose life was otherwise both dull and empty. That, however, was far from the truth. Yes, Phryne enjoyed being fitted for dresses, lunching with friends, and being pampered at her salon, but she also had a genuine passion for justice that saw her engaged not only in a number of cases that might otherwise have gone unreported, or which related to wrongs that weren't technically illegal, but also in letter-writing campaigns, public meetings, charitable works, fundraising endeavours, and lunches, drinks, and dinners with people, usually men, who might be convinced to use their power and influence for public good.

"I'm sorry I've monopolised so much of your time," he told her on his second evening in her house, when she explained in a manner that somehow managed to be both apologetic and matter-of-fact that he would be on his own for part of the following day, as she had commitments to keep which really couldn't be put off any longer.

"Oh, nonsense; it's been a pleasure. But I imagine you'd appreciate some time to yourself before I manage to drive you completely up the wall."

He struggled to suppress a smile at that. As much as he was enjoying her attention, he had indeed been starting to think that it might be possible to have too much of a good thing, and that sooner or later her near-constant attendance would become cloying. "Even so, I have kept you from your other commitments."

Phryne rolled her eyes. "Jack, have you ever known me to do anything that I didn't want to do? Well?" she prompted, when he remained silent.

He shook his head. "No."

"Then you know you can believe me when I say that there is nowhere I would rather have been these last few days than by your side." Her expression changed, darkening with sorrow. "When I saw you lying there..."

He took her hand. "I'm fine, Phryne. Dr. Macmillan says I'm making good progress."

The smile she gave him was shaky, but it was a smile nonetheless. "I think I understand, now, how you felt after Gertie died. I'm sorry I wasn't more sympathetic at the time."

"And I'm sorry you had to go though that at all. That day was a nightmare for me. But," he swiftly changed the topic, "I'm here, and you're here, and that being the case you have commitments to attend to. I'll use the time to write to Rosie."

Thus he found himself the next day in her second study (and who on Earth had one of those, he wondered), a little-used room equipped with a desk and chair, plus an armchair and a half-empty bookshelf containing volumes that clearly had not been deemed worthy of a place in another, more heavily-trafficked room. Not that the study was unpleasant: in fact, he found the quiet, practical and uncluttered atmosphere much to his liking. Phryne, sensing his approval, smiled at him. "Feel free to use it any time you want for as long as you're here. There'll be times when I need the parlour, and I'd really rather you didn't feel the need to go to your room like a child being punished."

He smiled in return. "I'll bear that in mind."

The letter wasn't an easy one to write. In the end he spent half a page on banal pleasantries before tackling the real issue. He tried to keep his tone factual without saying anything that might cause alarm, keeping the tone personal – they had, after all, been married for sixteen years – without giving the impression that he needed Rosie or that they would ever again be anything other than two people who had once been married to one another. He wasted well over an hour and several sheets of Phryne's good writing paper, but eventually managed to come up with something he was willing to dispatch before slipping away to his room for a lie-down. As pathetic as he felt seeking rest after such light labour as writing a letter, the mental strain had been anything but light, and in his weakened state it was easier simply to sleep it off. When he emerged from his room several hours later Phryne was back, and they spent the rest of the afternoon in what could only be described as pleasant conversation, peppered liberally with long looks and lingering kisses.

Nonetheless, the stress must have had an effect, because much later that night he sat bolt upright in bed, hissing in pain at the strain on his side, wrestling with the clinging shreds of a nightmare and dimly aware that it had been his own fear-filled shout which had awakened him. Shaking, he drew a shuddering breath. He couldn't remember the details of his dream, but he didn't need to. Mud, and blood, and terror and death. They had started shortly after he returned from the War and had recurred with greater or lesser frequency ever since, often triggered by stress. They had distressed Rosie to the point that he had started sleeping in the spare room, frightened that he might inadvertently hurt her as he thrashed around in bed. He was running a trembling hand over his sweat-drenched face when he heard a door open, followed by swift feet before his own door burst open and the light snapped on, making him wince briefly.

"Jack!" Phryne was across the room in an instant and kneeling on the bed by his side, her eyes wide.

"It was just a nightmare love, that's all."

"I heard you cry out. You didn't pull your stitches, did you?" That was a concern, and he could only shake his head uncertainly. "Here, let me check."

This time there was nothing teasing in the way her fingers flew over the buttons of his pyjamas before loosening the bandages that still encircled his midriff. Soft fingers explored gently until she finally gave a slight sigh of relief. "No damage done." She pulled the bandages away properly and began to roll them up again in preparation for reapplying them. He watched her silently, drinking in her presence as an antidote to the poison of his dreams. She pulled his pyjama top off, then began carefully rewrapping him, her movements swift, competent, precise.

"You must have been a good nurse," he commented.

She shrugged. "There was some basic first-aid training, but most of what I know I learned on the job."

"How many of the men fell in love with you?" The nurses had always been popular, and he knew several of the men he had served with had ended up married to women who had tended them.

This time he could hear the smile in her voice when she replied. "A few."

"And you were never tempted?"

"I'd just escaped from a stifling finishing-school and a controlling family. I had absolutely no desire to have a man ruling my life instead." Her tone darkened. "Although I suppose you wouldn't know it from the way I fell for René."

"You were young," he reminded her softly.

"Very," she agreed, as she finished with his bandages and sat up on her heels to regard him properly. It was late for talking, but she suspected he was looking for an excuse to avoid trying to sleep again, and that was something she could hardly fault him for. "You know, the War was terrible, but in an odd way it was wonderful for me as well."

"Oh?"

"When I was nursing..." she paused, trying to think of how to phrase it. "It was the first time in my life that I'd ever really felt useful. As though anything I did mattered. It's being a woman, I suppose, and being very poor, then very rich; apart from having children, what opportunity do we have to do anything that counts?"

"Is that why you became a detective?" he asked.

She nodded. "Much to everyone's disapproval."

He touched her cheek. "It's been a long time since I disapproved of you."

She grinned and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her close, pressing more kisses against her hair and cheek. "Stay with me tonight?" he asked suddenly, and felt her tense slightly. "I know we can't... do anything," he clarified, "I just... want you near. Please, Phryne." It was a humbling admission, that he wanted her there to keep the bad dreams at bay, but he knew better than to think that she would ever hold it against him or shame him by speaking of it to others. He felt her nod her soft head against him.

"Alright." She straightened to look at him, a teasing gleam in her eye. "But no hanky-panky."

He chuckled then, softly, at the notion that she of all people would caution him against 'hanky-panky', then eased himself back down in the bed before lifting the covers invitingly. She smiled at him.

"Just let me turn out the light first."

That done she slipped in beside him and he lay on his back, wishing he could curl his body into hers as she was currently curling her body into his, but happy even so. It had been a long time since he had had the luxury of a bedmate, and the feeling of Phryne settling her head against his shoulder was precious, almost a gift.

"You know," she murmured after a few moments of tracing circles on his chest in the dark, "you're not the only person who has bad dreams."

"What do you dream about, sweetheart?" he asked, running his fingers idly up and down her arm.

"Janey, of course. Searching and searching, and never finding her. Searching for other people, too. For Jane, or Dot – or you. I dream about France; about the War, and René. Sometimes I dream about Foyle, or about something terrible happening to you. More recently, I dream about the Pandarus."

He jumped slightly at that as a thought suddenly occurred to him – he had taken himself off to comfort Rosie that night, and turned to Phryne for comfort himself in the following days, but who had been there to comfort her? Dot had Hugh, and Bert and Cec had each other, while the girls from the ship had been returned to the convent under the now-watchful care of Mother Aloysius, but who had Phryne turned to, while he was too preoccupied to care? "Oh?" he prompted carefully.

"Mmm." Her voice was soft now, pained. "I dream I'm still tied up there, all alone, and I can feel the ship leaving port. I dream..." she trailed off, and he could hear her swallowing back tears. "I dream I'm all alone," she finished, and he hugged her tight as best he could.

"You're never alone, Phryne," he told her fiercely. "If they had taken you, I would have turned the world upside-down until I found you." He paused awkwardly. "And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you afterwards," he added. "It can't have been easy, coming to terms with it all on your own."

She shrugged, and forced her tone to lightness. She had meant to comfort Jack, not upset him further with imagined guilt over failing her. "It's not as if I'm inexperienced at handling these things alone. After you left I had a stiff drink and cried myself to sleep. It works wonders."

"Even so..." he paused again, remembering Aunt Prudence. "I should have stayed," he finished, with sudden conviction.

That made her chuckle. "And let me have my way with you, with my aunt lurking downstairs?"

He chuckled too at the thought. "Maybe."

She pressed a kiss against his cheek. "You're one in a million, Jack Robinson."

He nuzzled her hair, breathing in her scent. "And you're unique in all the world," he replied, meaning every word.