I wanted to go to Portland Row. I needed the familiar comfort of my friends, but I knew that in my state I would never make it. It was too far. Having lost my pursuers at least somewhat, the adrenaline had started to wear off and I could feel the weariness that went bone deep. The lack of sleep made me stagger and the blood loss from the cut on my arm was making me woozy. I raked my mind, trying to decide where to go. There was only one place I could think of that I might be able to reach by foot in my pitiful state. It was a terrible idea, but it was all I had, and I knew it was safe. I could even get some half-decent medical attention which I needed desperately. Unfortunately, the people who hunted me knew that I had been injured. They would have heard me crying out when I was struck by the knife. That ruled out the hospital as it was the first place they were going to look.

I staggered through a small alley, wincing with every step I took with my injured ankle. I passed a group of overfilled trash cans. It was still early spring, so it wasn't hot enough outside to make it smell too bad. Unfortunately, that chill that was hanging in the air was quickly zapping away my strength. I was shivering so bad it affected my movements, but at this point I wasn't sure if it was due to the cold or shock. I couldn't go into shock, then I'd be done for. I needed help. I was starting to feel lightheaded and my body felt heavy at the same time. The wound on my arm was throbbing, and I could still feel the steady flow of blood running down my fingers. I cradled it, painfully conscious about the fact that if I wasn't careful, I risked creating a trail of blood showing my pursuers exactly where to find me like some macabre version of Hansel and Gretel.

Ever so slowly, I reached Woodbridge Street. I had only been there twice, but the door I was looking for was easily recognisable as it was by far the most ostentatious one. Before I reached it, a car passed me by. Probably agents going to a job, but an icy tremor went through me anyway. I had been careful though and was certain I hadn't been followed. The car didn't stop; it didn't even slow down, but I paused and listened carefully for any traffic or footsteps nearby. It was only when I was certain that no one was lurking in the shadows that I dared approach the door.

I used the extravagant silver door-knocker and slammed it down once with all the remaining power I had and waited. I waited what seemed like forever. I resigned myself to the fact that no one was home. I was dead on my feet and leaned against the door. I was completely exposed, and it would be easy for my would-be killers to spot me and finish the job, but I couldn't run anymore - my body was betraying me. The door supported my entire weight and I had started sliding down when the door was suddenly ripped open. As my support disappeared, I fell onto a very naked chest.

"Oomph!"

We both fell to the floor, me on top of him. Thankfully, Quill Kipps was wearing pyjama bottoms.

"We have got to stop meeting like this" he wheezed from under me. He was of course referring to an incident a few months ago where I tackled him seemingly out of the blue. He was less than an inch from being ghost touched. It was reckless of him to walk alone at night without back-up when he didn't have Talents anymore. I had followed him home afterwards to make sure he got there safely, where he invited me in for tea. I had stayed for dinner as well and crashed on his sofa that night. I had returned a few weeks ago to rant about some idiots from Bunchurch who had almost gotten me killed.

I tried to scramble off him, but only managed to awkwardly flop down next to him. My arm left a thick, red stripe of blood on his chest, contrasting against his pale skin. He looked down at himself and then at me and I saw his eyebrows furrow in – was that concern?

"Help?" I whispered weakly.

Kipps jumped and slammed the door, locking it in a fluent motion.

"What the hell happened to you?!" he blurted when he took in my poor condition. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No. No hospital," I slurred. "Too many questions."

His eyebrows rose high on his forehead, but he didn't question it. He bent down and grabbed my injured arm, making me cry out in pain. He immediately let go and picked me up, bridal style instead. I didn't have much blood to spare, but I think I still managed a blush. I thought absently that it was impressive how he carried me so easily, considering how skinny I had always thought he was.

He walked up a flight of stairs and down a narrow hallway. He had to walk sideways, not to bump my head into the wall. He kicked open a door and walked a few steps before putting me down on a still warm bed. His bed. Now I really was blushing, and I felt bad about bleeding on his sheets that were obviously made of silk.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, business-like, searching my body for injuries in the dim light from the bedside lamp that he must have left on after I woke him up.

"My arm," I croaked. "My ankle as well, but the arm is worse."

He only nodded and carefully helped me out of my coat. He didn't bother with my shirt but ripped it open to expose the injury on my forearm. It looked bad. It was certainly bleeding and quite a lot. We would need to stop the bleeding, and soon. Kipps hurried out of the room and I heard his bare feet slapping on the stairs. He returned not long after with briefcase I recognised as a Fittes medical field kit. Kipps had emergency medical training. He could be a smarmy bastard, but he did save lives. In my book that somewhat made up for the bad attitude and sarcastic remarks. He rummaged around a bit before finding what he needed. I whimpered when I felt him using a compress to put pressure on the wound to staunch the blood flow.

"Come on Carlyle don't go soft on me now. I know you're tougher than that. What the hell happened to you? I'd think it was a solo case gone wrong, but last time I checked, ghosts didn't use knives. Unless you ran into another poltergeist." He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

I sighed, wondering how much to tell him. "I was robbed," I whispered, not wanting to elaborate too much. I'd learned to trust Kipps, but my connection to the skull was somehow too private to share with just anyone. Luckily, he didn't press. Agents on the way to Clerkenwell were often victims of muggings from relic-men looking for sources to sell.

"I'm going to put a temporary bandage on this to hold the compress. You've got some cuts on your face as well that we need to clean so they don't get infected and ruin your lovely face." He told me as a matter of fact.

I couldn't help but snort "Yeah, we wouldn't want that."

He smirked at me "We certainly wouldn't. That would be a travesty."

My mind had to be more addled than I thought because I had a hard time identifying the expected sarcasm. He finished the bandage quickly and left the room. He soon returned with a bowl of water and a washcloth, along with an ice pack. He grabbed a few pillows from the other side of the bed and used them to prop my bad leg up. He wrapped the ice pack in a thin towel and carefully moulded it around my ankle. He then dipped the cloth in the water and slowly started washing my face. I was surprised by how gentle he was about it.

When he finished, he moved on to my arm and frowned. "You can't keep these clothes on."

I raised an eyebrow at him, wondering what he meant by that. Apparently reading my mind, he smirked and rolled his eyes. He went to a wardrobe that I hadn't noticed and pulled out a t-shirt and a spare pair of pyjama bottoms which he put on the bed next to me.

"Just call me when you're done." He grinned "Or if you need help."

"Not bloody likely." I huffed.

He chuckled "There's the Lucy I know" he turned and left. He didn't close the door and I could hear his bare feet against the stairs. I tried to peel off my bloody shirt which proved harder than I expected. I was dizzy and almost blacked out because I sat up too quickly. I thankfully managed to both take off my shirt and put the t-shirt on. The bottom part was harder. My body was stiff, and I found it embarrassingly hard to reach my feet. My ankle was swollen, and it was hard to peel off my leggings that were torn and wet. By the time I was finished, I heard a knock on the door frame.

"You decent?"

I could practically hear the aggravating smirk. I hummed as a yes and he entered, bringing a glass of water. "I have some painkillers here," he showed me two white pills, I recognised as paracetamol "I think it could be a good idea for you to take them, because you're bound to be sore and it would be good if you could get some rest."

"Thank you." I gave him a grateful smile and received a soft one in return. I realised how rare it was that Kipps actually smiled. I had seen plenty of smirks, arrogant, mocking and sometimes teasing, but never this sort of open, honest expression. It suited him. I quickly swallowed the pills and almost downed the entire glass. He removed the temporary bandage from before to inspect the wound. It was deep, long and it was still bleeding.

"You're definitely going to need stitches. Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? I'm rubbish at this, you know." He smiled ruefully.

I scoffed "That's a lie. I saw you fix Lily Atkinson's leg."

He narrowed his eyes at me in confusion. "Who?"

"Short, blonde girl from Tamworth. Think she's about thirteen. She fell out of a shop window in Chelsea and you stitched up her leg. It healed nicely too. I worked with her a few weeks ago."

He only shrugged. He washed the wound to get rid of the dried blood and dried it carefully with another cloth. I tried not to wince too much. Then he rummaged about in the briefcase and pulled out a sterile suture kit, gloves and a disinfectant.

"I need to ask you again – are you sure you're up for this, Carlyle? It's not too late to go to the hospital."

I huffed in irritation "They're probably still looking for me. Just get on with it, Kipps!"

He shook his head at me and disinfected the wound. I growled some rather colourful expletives I had learned from the skull. Kipps looked at me funny. The words might have been a bit old fashioned, but I felt that they conveyed me feelings well enough. I gritted my teeth and tried to keep my breathing even as he worked.

I ended up with twelve stitches, all neat, evenly placed and precise. To be honest, I think the result was better than if I'd gone to the hospital. They were always eager to get us out of there and every injury was treated in a rush so they could get on to the next agent.

He cleaned the wound again for good measure and covered it with a bandage.

"Good girl." He winked at me. "I'm sorry I don't have any lollies. I'm going to have a shower," he gestured at his chest which was still covered in my blood, "try to rest."

He removed the ice pack, squeezed my hand and left without another word. I fell asleep to the sound of the shower running.