Chapter Twelve:

Thanks for your comments on the last chapter! I had a brill birthday away, though I'm unfortunately back in the UK.

I really appreciate all comments, please carry on leaving them ;)

"So, Jac's on holiday this week…" Sam begins, but Connie struggles to focus on what he's saying. His fingers are gently tracing the curves in her back, his touch soft and sensuous. Addictive. She's definitely addicted to his touch. And him, of course. At first, it was just his physical self – but now, now it's every single part of him.

"Mmm…?" Connie replies distractedly, her eyes closed. It's a struggle to stop any noise coming out in response to his touch, but the door is open and Grace is still awake. Moving to close the door just seems like too much effort – and it would involve losing contact with Sam.

"Well, I was thinking that you could pop upstairs. Relive the glory days, so to speak."

Now his hand has moved up, his grip firmer now as he swiftly massages her shoulders.

"Whilst that sounds tempting, I don't want tongues wagging," Connie murmurs, sliding out of Sam's grip. His fingers relax, evidently confused, and she uses his frame to help her jump round so that she's facing him.

"Very deft," Sam comments, a wickedly sly grin on his face. "Tongues are already wagging, Con. What do you think half of your department does all day?"

Raising an eyebrow slightly, Connie smirks in response, pressing the front side of her body up close against Sam's chest. He's warm to her touch, and she's more than a little pleased to feel goosebumps forming where she touches him. For all the emotional connection that's formed over the past few months, the primal instinctiveness and powerful steamy seduction of their sexual relationship remains as strong as ever. In fact, Connie thinks, she's even more attracted to him physically every time their emotional bond deepens.

"True," Connie concedes, her fingers snaking their way down the sides of Sam's bare chest. "But I think that I'll stay downstairs, sweetheart. Couldn't have Henrik walking in, could we?" She leans in closer, and whispers in his ear, "close the door and we can pretend that this is the office…"

"Well, I think you'll find there's a day that we're guaranteed nobody will walk in," Sam tries to argue, but Connie lifts a hand and places one finger over his lips, effectively silencing him.

"But then where's the fun in that?" Connie pouts. "Close. The. Door."

Sam stays silent, unmoving, despite Connie's proximity to him.

He finally groans, and pushes Connie away as he swings his legs out of the bed. "You're a tough nut, Connie Beauchamp. It's a good job I love you."

~x~

In all honesty, Drishti Batra enjoys working at Holby City Hospital. In fact, she loves it. It's more of a challenge working here – particularly as the doctors have only ever known her as a registrar, rather than as an F2 – but she loves it.

She particularly enjoys the consultants. Or, rather, working with the consultants, she mentally corrects herself, feeling a blush creep onto her face. Doctor Gardner has been nothing but lovely and supportive when they've worked on cases together. Mrs Beauchamp has been attentive and interested in what she's had to say – and she's almost an inspiration to Drishti. And Doctor Keogh – Dylan – he's…something else completely. Intuitive and yet strangely obtuse, he's brilliant: there's no other word to describe him.

But he still has an issue with her, one that she can't quite figure out. It's dissipated slightly since their meal together a few weeks back – replaced instead by a strange, yet awkward connection between them. Apparently, he doesn't really socialise with his fellow doctors, not since someone called Zoe left. She likes him, more than she probably should like her superior, but Drishti doesn't think anything will happen. At least not in the short term. Dylan seems incapable of recognising that she has any attributes whatsoever.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you." A voice from the workstation startles Drishti as she walks towards Mrs Beauchamp's office, not even a metre away. Dylan.

Drishti turns, her eyes narrowed in confusion, and makes eye contact with Dylan. That's another rarity; he tends to look away from her, particularly when he's admitting that she knows more than he had expected.

"Why's that?" Drishti replies, shrugging a little. She's never had an issue with approaching Mrs Beauchamp; even when the older woman seems stressed, she usually has at least a minute for Drishti. "Mrs Beauchamp said she wanted to know the results of this survey immediately – and I'm taking them to her?" It still feels strange to speak in an even remotely disrespectful manner to a superior; but that's the only way that Dylan will listen to her, it seems.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't break eye contact with her. Strange. Maybe he's mellowed slightly. "Because she is in an atrocious mood. And I assume you don't want to be added to her hit list."

"Hit list?"

Snorting, Dylan replies, "hit list, you know, bad list, naughty list – like Santa's, I mean, you do believe in Santa still don't you?"

Just about resisting the urge to reply sarcastically, Drishti says, "I'm Hindi, we don't believe in Santa." Even though her parents had believed that Santa Claus was a secular figure, and it was only when she turned ten that Drishti had finally been told that Santa wasn't real.

Dylan doesn't even blink at her response, though he shifts slightly. Perhaps he's more embarrassed than he'll admit. "Anyway, the point still stands: go in there, and Mrs Beauchamp will tear your head off."

"Has something happened?"

"Do you really need to know?" Dylan shoots back, but then sighs. For the first time, he looks away from Drishti, and she feels almost cold at the break in eye contact. Even if it was probably the longest that he's ever looked at her. "She's had some hiccup with her Centre of Excellence shenanigans, I'm not sure on the details. Just don't go in there."

Drishti bites her lip and hesitates. "But I have to give them to her…" she trails off, tapping her foot gently. It's her most common nervous habit, and as she gets more nervous, she taps faster. "I could page her?"

Shaking his head, Dylan removes his hands from his hips and swiftly walks through the gap in the desk, so that he's standing next to Drishti. "Give them to me, I'll pass them on," he promises, stretching his hand out to take the files.

They make eye contact again, and it's almost…almost as if he's doing something because he cares? Surely not.

"But she'll shout at you!" Drishti argues, though secretly she's happy that he'll get the brunt of Mrs Beauchamp's bad mood, rather than herself. Plus, he's doing something nice for her. Maybe he does care about her.

"And I'll deal with it," Dylan says honestly. "You'll probably cry and fear that she hates you."

She has to admit, he has a point.

"Thanks," Drishti mumbles, handing over the folders. "They're ordered alphabetically, if she wants to know."

~x~

For the first time in a long time, things at work aren't going Connie Beauchamp's way.

Particularly when things aren't going her way because her predecessors were apparently incapable of doing paperwork to an even satisfactory standard. Let alone actually filing anything non-essential but that could be remotely useful for the future: patient stats, ethnic breakdown, clinician rates, rotas. The things that, should you need in the future, you can just go to a filing cabinet and dig out. And even if they're never used, it's just useful to have around.

But no. Nick Jordan and Zoe Hanna's inability to do paperwork and have even the remotest sense of foresight have screwed her over. Hell, even Harry Harper managed to start some form of data trawl before he quit the department over that junior doctor, Ruth something or other.

Added to the unhelpfulness of former Clinical Leads is the fact that her staff seem unconcerned about her efforts. It's as if they don't care – which, to be honest, most of them probably don't. Thankfully her doctors are dedicated, but there's more than one nurse in her department that Connie really, really wishes wasn't around. And hopes won't be around during the inspection.

Their lack of work ethic means that she has to work even harder – or at least, she thinks she has to work harder. Realistically, she doesn't; she isn't going around changing drips or taking patient histories or one of the other menial tasks important to the treatment of patients effectively. But that doesn't stop Connie worrying that her endeavours are going to fail – and that without a Jac Naylor to support her, she's not going to get Centre of Excellence status for her actual department.

And an email complaining about the work ethic and professionalism of her department has been the icing on the cake this morning. As soon as she received the notification on her phone, Connie realised that the day would be a painful one. To prevent herself being irrationally angry in front of her unaware staff, she stormed off to her office, slamming the door behind her to signify that she is not to be disturbed.

One fool tried it. The locum registrar covering for Ethan – who had been warned to stay in minors and not to move from there all day – had approached her less than half an hour into his shift, wondering when his break would be.

The resulting dressing down from Connie had probably been audible in all corners of the department.

She can feel herself stressing. Her heartrate's increasing and, no matter how much she focuses on her breathing, she can feel it becoming more rapid. But she has to make it through. It's only a few more months – and she can share the burden with Sam tonight, albeit with a few facts removed. Such as the effects of stress. He – like the rest of the world – thinks she's some form of infallible superhero at work. She can't, she won't, let him think that she's weak.

She won't let anyone think that she's weak at work – not even Sam Strachan.

Connie drops her pen and flexes her fingers, thinking of her happy thoughts, of Grace and Sam and little Rufus. Of the fact that, in only one month, she has an entire two weeks away from the department and the quest for Centre of Excellence status, because they're taking their first family holiday to Greece. Of the fact that she's happy and loved and, for the first time, feels complete.

And then her mindfulness is shattered by a swift knock at the door.

Scowling slightly, Connie waits for the person to enter the door, ready to bite someone's head off. She just about manages to resist saying anything as Dylan pops his head through the door.

"Just dropping something off about a survey," is all he says as he approaches her desk.

It's only then that Connie remembers that she had asked the new registrar to bring her some survey results – though she's not quite calm enough to be amused at the fact that Dylan's brought them in.

"Is she too scared to come herself?" Connie quips, just about resisting an angry or extremely sarcastic response.

Dylan smiles slightly, and it's a smile that Connie hasn't seen before. It's certainly not directed at her, anyway. "I thought that she might want to keep the saint-like image of you intact for a little while longer. Anyway, patients to see. Bye, Connie."

If she was a little less busy, Connie might have paused to consider the fact that Dylan Keogh has done something for no apparent reason – for someone who he apparently dislikes greatly.

But as it is, Connie soon forgets that Dylan had even been in her office as she digs into the details of the latest patient survey, hoping that three years of data will be enough for her project…

~x~

"Mrs Beauchamp, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we really do need you out on the shop floor," Elle says apologetically as she pokes her head around the door to Connie's office after the briefest of knocks. "Dylan, Drishti and Lily are dealing with an RTC, and I'm up to my ears in cubicles. Locum's useless, as usual."

Before Elle can continue babbling on, Connie raises a hand to stop her. "That's fine, I'm almost done anyway." A blatant lie, but Elle doesn't need to know how much work she has to do – or the fact that she's stressed.

"Brill, thanks Connie," Elle replies, a smile on her face. Evidently, she had been expecting more of a fight – not entirely an irrational preparation, to be honest. "Can you take the incoming patient? He's with Iain and Jess, the new paramedic, I think, should be here in about five minutes."

Sighing slightly, Connie nods as she stands up, reaching across the desk for her stethoscope. Does she have time for a coffee? Probably not; she needs to be prepared. "Right, that's fine. Anything else?"

Elle shakes her head, says, "thanks again, I owe you," without Connie really understanding why, and dashes away from the door before Connie has managed to round her desk.

One hand on her hip, the other opening the door, Connie slowly walks out of her office. The department doesn't seem particularly chaotic today, which is always nice to see – but even more so when she's in a poor mood. She still has to count to three on two separate occasions before responding to rather obvious questions from one locum, but she just about gets through the conversation unscathed.

As she walks, Connie feels her trousers begin to slip, and has to surreptitiously pull them up. She's lost weight, again. Not ideal, especially as it's due to stress. Stress makes her lose her appetite, something Sam hasn't noticed yet, and she needs to nip it in the bud now before she loses anymore.

"Looking mighty fine today, Mrs B," Noel calls from across at the reception desk, and it takes everything in Connie to stop herself biting his head off. All he means is a compliment, but it isn't what Connie needs to hear right now.

"Thank you," Connie replies curtly, cutting off any suggestion that she might want to commence a conversation with Noel as she stands, waiting for her patient.

After another minute or two, Iain and Jess come through the door, a middle aged man on the trolley in between them. Connie's received two patients from Jess so far; apparently, she's only just started training, which explains why she's working with Iain – and why she's a little slow on the uptake at times. She never thought she'd say this, but Connie almost misses the Iain and Jez partnership – but Jez is currently working with some new paramedic who used to be a doctor, and is likely to stay there until Jess has finished her training.

"Right, what have we got?" Connie asks as she approaches the trolley, turning slightly so that she can walk alongside the trio.

"This is Stephen Sellers, thirty-eight, collapsed at work about forty five minutes ago. He lost consciousness for less than a minute, and his GCS has remained at fourteen since we got him. Heartrate is 60 and his breathing has been a little rapid throughout the journey in."

Connie smiles a little as she makes eye contact with the patient. "Alright, thanks Iain, Mr Sellers, my name is Mrs Beauchamp, Clinical Lead, I'll be the one looking after you today," she introduces herself, turning away and briefly assessing the patient situation. Where can she put her patient? Cubicles seems the most appropriate place. "Right, can we go to cubicle nine please…Robyn, with me please."

Within five minutes, the patient is safely on the bed with the relevant monitoring equipment, the paramedics are making their way out towards the exit, and Connie is ready to start treating her patient.

"Now, Mr Sellers, is there anything that you've done differently today, anything at all that might have triggered your collapse?" Connie asks as she places her stethoscope to his chest, listening intently. Had she still been upstairs, she would have been listening out for murmurs or irregular rhythms; down here, all she needs to know is if there's anything out of the ordinary. Nowadays, it isn't her job to diagnose a patient to the same level of detail.

"Well, there's a big deal going on at work, so I've been putting in a lot of hours recently," Stephen says slowly, running his hand through his hair. It's only at this point that Connie really looks at his face, and sees how haggard he appears; the bags under his eyes have bags, and his cheeks appear almost sunken. "I haven't collapsed before though – truth be told, I wouldn't have come in, but my secretary saw that I'd fallen and he reported it immediately. It was the CEO who called the ambulance – she used to be a nurse or something, and she said that it was a problem." It's clear by the time that he finishes talking that he's out of breath, and Connie indicates to Robyn to put the oxygen system on full.

"Right, Mr Sellers, I'd like to run some tests," Connie says, taking a step back and sliding the stethoscope around her neck. "Robyn, FBCs, Us and Es please, and I'd like a heartrate monitor on Mr Sellers. Can you also check cholesterol, and organise a chest CT please. Thank you."

As she walks out of the cubicle, Connie regrets the moment she accepted this patient. Because why, of all days, does she need a stressed patient today?

~x~

It's cold for April, Alicia thinks as she steps out of the taxi behind Ethan, wrapping her cardigan around her tightly. Perhaps it's poetic that Scott Ellison's trial is beginning two weeks off the year anniversary of Cal's death – or perhaps it's disappointing that it's taken so long. Probably both.

Alicia takes grip of Ethan's hand tightly and almost pulls him towards the stairs up to the courthouse, his expression almost dazed. There's a lot of photographers and journalists and people who, before the damning evidence against Scott was found, turned away from Ethan when he went to them for help. Who are now desperate for the scoop – the interview with Doctor Knight's only brother – that Ethan is unwilling to give.

"You can do this," Alicia says firmly yet quietly to Ethan as they approach the stairs, the questions already being shouted down towards them. "I believe in you."

"I believe in you, too," Ethan murmurs, following Alicia into the lion's den.

They emerge unscathed – though almost deaf – a minute later, revelling momentarily in the quiet solitude of the courthouse reception. And then they remember why they're here, and Alicia shivers again. Maybe it isn't cold outside; maybe it's her.

"Morning," the lead prosecutor, Anna Rodriguez, says as she approaches the pair of them. Alicia's glad that she's neglected to add 'good'. "You're nice and early, that's good. Shall we go to my office for a coffee?" She speaks kindly, and Alicia suddenly wonders how often she has to deal with still-grieving family members waiting for some weird form of closure.

Ethan mutters something close to agreement, and within minutes, they've relocated to Anna's office. Another minute later, and there's a steaming cup of coffee in each of their hands, probably strong enough to stand a spoon up in.

They've met Anna five times in the run up to the trial, each time in different places. She's always been reassuring – though subtly showing a steely underside which suggests what sort of barrister she is. At any rate, she's better than Dominic Wood, the initial prosecutor, who walked into the meeting convinced it was Caleb Knight on trial…

"As we've discussed, my counterpart is likely to use elements of your brother's personality as a defence for his client," Anna begins, sitting down behind her desk. "It's shoddy work, of course, but he'll do it anyway. I just want to remind you not to let anything he says tarnish your memory of Cal, or let it rile you up. It will be hard, but you need to try and remain calm…or at least as calm as you can be. Otherwise, the judge will be forced to remove you from the proceedings – and trust me when I tell you that, no matter how painful it is in the courtroom, it's a thousand times worse waiting outside."

"What do you think our odds are?" Alicia asks, breaking the silence which forms as Ethan remains silent.

"Well, Mr Ellison's two confessions, one of which was entirely unsolicited, are extreme pluses in our column. But I can never assure you of certainty, you know that.

"Having said that…we have a strong repertoire of evidence and witnesses. We can rebut anything that the defence is likely to throw at us, and even some things that he's unlikely to have even thought of. I assure you, I have worked tirelessly on this case – and so have my team. We will get through the next few weeks."

Alicia nods slowly. "How long do you think it will last?"

Anna shrugs, the first sign of any uncertainty appearing on her face. "Who knows, in all honesty. Judge Riley is a thorough woman, but I don't think she'll drag things out unnecessarily. She's just come out of a high profile case, and I doubt she wants her next one to be elongated. Best case scenario, a week. Worst case, maybe five."

Ethan swallows, and Alicia can see him processing the news on his face. Potentially five weeks of being face to face with Scott Ellison – and not being able to hurt him. Ever since Cal, he's found it harder and hider to hide what he's thinking. Maybe that's a benefit – but probably not for an ED doctor.

"Right, well…thank you in advance for what you're going to do," Alicia continues, looking back at Anna though she keeps holding Ethan's hand. Is it her imagination or is he gripping it tighter? "I know it must be hard-"

"What's hard is knowing that justice hasn't been served yet," Anna interrupts. "We will get him, I know it. Now, I need to go and meet with the judge, to discuss the proceedings. I'd prefer it if you would stay in my office until the time of the trial – a member of my staff will be along a few minutes before to take you down. I'll see you down there. Good luck." She smiles slightly as she stands, pausing to briefly rest a hand on Ethan's shoulder before walking out of the room, the sound of her heels the only sign she's left.

"You can do this," Alicia repeats, shivering slightly. "We can do this."

~x~

"Oi! Lover boy, I'm talking to you!"

Jac's shouted comments across the office jolt Sam out of his reverie, though he just about manages to stop himself jumping. He'd been having a nice daydream about the holiday that he, Connie and Grace would be taking in a few weeks – though he still needed to talk to his mother about having Rufus, as Connie had asked him to – and Jac's unnecessary comments had interrupted that.

"How many times do I have to remind you, my name is Sam," Sam replies through gritted teeth, though only half-heartedly pursuing an irritated approach. He's too mellow from the daydream –where his mind was distracted by the question of what exactly would Connie be wearing on the beach?

"Whatever," Jac replies, sounding increasingly like a thirteen-year-old teenager. Which, Sam thinks, she usually sounds like. "What time are you going for lunch?"

"Why?" Sam asks, suspicious to the core. There's usually nothing good that comes of a personal question from Jac Naylor. She probably wants him to do a seventeen hour operation or something.

"No reason," she says innocently, looking up from her computer. "But a little birdie tells me that you're off for lunch with Connie…"

"You're not coming," Sam interrupts, rolling his eyes. "It really is old news now, Jac. Surely you've got something else to do than gossip about something that's been going on for not much less than a year?" Well, nine months, but there's really no point in mentioning the specific time – or anything that could even hint to Jac as a reference to pregnancy.

Jac pouts, meeting Sam's gaze. "That hurts me to my core," she says, absolute deadpan. "But no, I don't want to come. Why would I want to watch you make lovey eyes at each other? Actually, no, don't answer that. But anyway, you'll be going down to the ED, right?"

"That's generally how two people meet for lunch, yes, they meet in the same place," Sam replies off-hand, looking away from Jac and back towards his computer. He's let his paperwork pile up again in favour of going into theatre, and he's really regretting it. Maybe if he takes it home, hints strongly and makes it up in sexual favours, Connie might consider helping him get through it all. "Want me to pick you up a cup of children's toenails and some witchy beverage for your latest spell?" For all his jesting, he does actually like Jac Naylor; he'd probably consider her his closest friend in the hospital nowadays, despite their differences.

"Make it two cups," Jac retorts. "In all sincerity, what time are you going?"

Sam sighs. "Why?"

"Just answer the question." Jac's voice is sharp now, and Sam can tell that she isn't playing around.

"Probably about ten minutes," Sam replies. "I'm just finishing this paperwork, and then I'll go down a bit earlier than planned. I'll make up any extra time on the end of my shift, don't worry."

"Right, okay, good," Jac says slowly, tapping her pen. That's unusual for Jac. "Don't worry about the extra time – I need you to assess a patient in the ED before you meet Connie. But can you make sure that you're back for two thirty?"

"Sure…why?"

"Does it matter?"

Sam supposes not.

~x~

"Sam, what are you doing here?" Connie can tell that her voice is a little sharp – and shocked – as she looks up from the workstation to see Sam Strachan walking towards her. She deliberately makes an effort to soften her voice as she adds, "I thought we were meeting at half past?"

Sam smiles as he walks towards her, reaching across and placing a hand on her waist. If she isn't going crazy, Connie's sure that she can hear a wolfwhistle or something in the background of her department.

"I've got a patient to quickly assess," Sam explains, making eye contact with Connie. She only hopes that she isn't showing too much crazy. "But I also wanted to surprise you. Is that alright?"

On a normal day, absolutely. Today, not so much.

"Yes that's fine," Connie says, doing her best to smile. It's easier to forget about her woes when she's with Sam. "You'll have to wait in my office though when you've finished – excuse the mess."

"No problem," Sam replies, pressing a swift kiss to Connie's cheek. This time, she's certain she hears an audible gasp around the department. "See you soon, sweetheart."

Turning back to the workstation, Connie's faced with at least six members of her department, all of whom swiftly turn away and try to look busy when they see her.

"Perhaps if you all put as much effort into treating patients as you do into gossiping about my life, perhaps this backlog would disappear faster," Connie says sharply, her voice ice cold. "Get back to work."

~x~

"Now, Mr Sellers, I have your test results," Connie says as she enters her patient's cubicle, looking up briefly from the paperwork to make eye contact with the man. "I have to say, everything is inconclusive."

Before she can continue, the man interrupts. "Great," Stephen says, sitting upright and looking down at his chest. "How long till I can get rid of all of this stuff?"

Connie just about hides a smile. Oh, how similar she is to him when she's a patient. "Not quite yet, Mr Sellers. Whilst there's nothing to suggest that there's any immediate risk to your health, I have to say that the results are higher than normal. This would suggest that your lifestyle is likely to blame for your collapse."

"I told you, I've been working more hours recently," Stephen insists, "it'll be over soon. And anyway, no offence, but you're not a specialist are you? Just in emergency medicine?"

Biting her lip slightly, Connie replies, "well, I'm actually also a cardiothoracic surgeon. And, bluntly, Mr Sellers, I have to tell you that you need to reassess your priorities. You've been lucky today, but if you continue along the same path for another few weeks? It could be a heart attack."

Breathing deeply, Stephen leans back against the bed. "A heart attack? Really? Just from stress?"

Connie nods, and moves further into the cubicle, reaching over to hand some leaflets to her patient and doing her best to ignore the fact that maybe, she should be listening to this advice for herself too. "Stress has more of an impact on our bodies than we initially realise, Mr Sellers. You need to set aside time for yourself, where you're not thinking about work. It is hard, I fully appreciate, but there is help out there to organise your life. You might also wish to see a counsellor, if there is anything in your life that is specifically causing you stress."

"I, er, yes, well, thank you, doctor," Stephen rambles, leaning forwards and extending a hand to Connie, which she takes gingerly. "I appreciate all of your time and effort – I'll certainly make an appointment. Good day to you, thank you again."

"No problem," Connie says honestly, though her mind is elsewhere, filled with questions of Sam Strachan and stress and whether she even wants to get Centre of Excellence status for the ED. "Goodbye."

~x~

She enters her office to see Sam sitting at her desk, typing rapidly on the computer.

"I didn't realise that the computer had done anything to hurt you." Connie tries to make a joke as she closes her door firmly, turning the automatic lock on. The blinds are already drawn, so she doesn't have to worry about yet more people ogling her and Sam.

Sam looks up with a tender smile, and pushes his chair away from the desk slightly. "Sorry, sweetheart, I was just keen to get something done," he says gently.

Connie walks across the room and takes a seat on his lap, her attention focused solely on Sam. "Don't be sorry, I'm sorry I'm late," she murmurs, leaning in to press her lips gently to his as she wraps her arms around his neck. "Did you see the patient you were here to see? Who were you here to see?" It's only now that Connie realises just how far out of the loop she is in her own department.

"Yeah, we're not admitting him, he's not particularly serious," Sam says off-hand, his arms wrapped tightly around Connie's body, pulling her closer to him. If the chair was a little bigger, it'd almost be like they're at home together. "Shall we go for lunch?"

"In a minute," Connie murmurs, breathing deeply. There's something comforting about Sam: being with him makes her forget how stressed she is. Which is very. "I just want to spend time with you."

They sit in silence for a minute, before Connie disentangles herself from Sam, keen for something to eat. Whatever he does, he always makes her hungry – which is good, to be honest.

"Oh!" Connie exclaims in a cross between shock and elation. "The paperwork!"

"Yeah, I saw that it was a bit haphazard so I tried to tidy it up a bit," Sam explains. In this moment, Connie loves him more than she ever has before. "I've also reorganised your figures a bit on the spreadsheet so that they're by age rather than type of patient. Age definitely shows a better breakdown for this section of your report, I've checked."

"I love you," Connie whispers, grabbing hold of Sam's tie to pull him closer. "I love you more than you could know."

~x~

Half an hour after they return from lunch, Connie makes her way up to Henrik Hanssen's office.

"Do you have an appointment?" his secretary asks, and Connie shakes her head.

"No," she says honestly. "But I'm going in regardless. Try and stop me."

She does exactly as she says, and enters Henrik's office to see him eating a rather revolting looking sandwich. Connie thinks it has pickle in it – or maybe gherkin.

"Mrs Beauchamp!" Henrik declares around a mouthful of sandwich. "I wasn't aware that we have a meeting scheduled. Unless you emailed me the information, of course."

Connie rolls her eyes. She's not in the mood for playing games. Instead, she wants to do something proactive about managing her stress levels – without even hinting that she's stressed.

"I want Jac Naylor or Sam Strachan for one day per week." Rather than bothering with niceties, Connie gets straight to the point, taking the seat opposite Henrik. He has a rather nice fruit bowl on his desk; she's tempted to copy his addition of a pear to the bowl.

Henrik raises an eyebrow, and Connie can just sense a sarcastic comment in response. "My, Mrs Beauchamp, what a dark horse you are! I had no idea you liked Ms Naylor in such a manner."

"It's impossible to coordinate a Centre of Excellence bid from scratch as well as run an ED when I've got two locums covering for my members of staff," Connie continues as if he hasn't spoken. "I could spend every day and night here and still not get it all done. And I'm not doing that. It isn't healthy, for me or for the department."

"And why should I give you two of my cardiothoracic surgeons?" Henrik counters, setting the sandwich down. "And why in particular would I give you Sam Strachan? The last time you worked together, you were on the verge of killing each other."

"Jac helped me on the last one, I'm sure she can do the same thing again. And Sam, well, Sam knows how I like the paperwork doing. He's also relatively well trained in the ED way of work – so I can send him to work on the floor, so to speak, rather than losing track of where I am with my report," Connie explains, crossing her legs. "One day per week is hardly a lot to ask, Henrik, when I practically lived on Darwin for five months."

Henrik raises an eyebrow. "You're not going to back down are you?" He then sighs. "I thought you'd want to do this alone, your little pet project."

Connie's mind flashes back to two things: firstly, the sight of Stephen Sellers and secondly, an image of Sam Strachan. "I don't need to prove that I can do it alone," she says honestly. "I'd rather ensure that the department gets its status. This isn't about me. It's about the patients."

Which it is. Which it always has been.

"Very well," Henrik sniffs, though smiles slightly. "I'll let them choose who comes down to assist you. Best of luck with the endeavour, Mrs Beauchamp."

~x~

Ten days later, the ordeal is over.

"We, the jury, hereby find the defendant, Scott Ellison, guilty of all charges."

Finally, Ethan can begin to heal.

I have to actually write the next chapter, but I hope to have it up within the next few days