Note: This is not my favorite. It feels clunky and cringey, and like it's not finished properly.

Feel free to judge, but keep non-constructive criticism to yourself, please.


"I told her it was either you or the ambos, sir, and she chose you." The voice said, coming out tinny sounding and very young across the phone, "She's not very happy with me, but she's still bleeding and I really don't think she should walk home like this, especially in this heat."

"Thank you, Toby. You did the right thing by calling," Lucien replied. "I'll be right there."

He grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on the wall, and barked something at the new pathology registrar about needing to leave for the day, fished out the keys to his ancient Holden, and strode from the morgue. The air, which had been heavy and oppressive in the lab, barely changed as he stepped out into the parking lot; it sat, thick and stagnant. He felt as if he was actually swimming towards his car, rather than walking on his own two feet.

He could barely call it walking. Lucien was practically sprinting towards the old Holden, his heart hammering so loudly he could barely think. Jean. The phone call had come midway through the afternoon, and Lucien had answered it feeling slightly amused; Dr. Harvey had pointedly ignored the ringing and re adjusted the lens of her microscope. All right, he'd thought, so that's how it's going to be today. The voice on the other end of the phone, politely asking for Dr. Blake, had belonged to Toby Miller, the son of one of the greengrocers on Market Street. It seemed that Jean had been in to do the afternoon shopping, and had collapsed, striking her head against the corner of the counter as she fainted.

Jean's emotions were switching from gratitude and irritation, faster than she could keep track of. She was grateful for Mr. Miller, who had returned from his lunch break and immediately seen fit to help her to his office, out of view from the curious stares of shoppers. Toby had previously placed her in a chair by the cash register, where he could keep an eye on her. Poor lamb, she must have frightened him. Even now, tucked away in his father's office, Toby kept coming up with reasons to walk by, quickly peering over the half door and glancing at her as he pretended to be in search of a crate of this or that, or a broom, or a new roll of paper for the register. Jean was also grateful for the oscillating fan that Mr. Miller had procured, and for the way it briefly stirred the stale air, as well as for the glass of ice water he'd brought. Its contents were still untouched, but the chill of the glass felt blissful against her cheek and the back of her neck.

Jean was irritated at her body. How silly of her to faint like that! Too many years of living in town had made her soft, she thought, and her body would never have betrayed her like this ten years ago. She was angry with herself for making a spectacle. People had seen. And they'd stared. It'd be weeks before she'd be able to return to the Millers' store, and she'd have to do her shopping at the grocers over on the High Street, even though it was farther away and less convenient. Jean was irritated by the gash on her forehead, and by the bruise that she was certain must be forming. She wondered if there was a way she could arrange her hair, or a hat she could wear that would hide the damage, and then she chided herself for being vain and prideful. These were sins Jean would need to confess, but at least they were less embarrassing than the other sins she'd been confessing as of late. The state of her dress was another irritation; the blood staining her top would surely be set by the time she was able to wash it this evening, and Jean bemoaned the amount of scrubbing it would take to get it out.

Mostly, though, Jean was tired. Her head was throbbing where she'd struck it on the counter, and still oozing blood into the handkerchief she kept pressed against it. Jean longed to be home. How funny, she thought, that she now viewed the house on Mycroft Avenue as home. In her mind, it had always been the Doctor's home, whether that meant the Old Dr. Blake or Lucien, back when he'd first arrived. But now, Jean definitely thought of the house as her home as well, and she couldn't pinpoint exactly when that change had occurred.

She heard footsteps coming down the hallway and closed her eyes, still pressing the handkerchief against her head with her elbow propped on Mr. Miller's desk. She didn't have it in her to smile reassuringly at Toby one more time and would rather politely ignore him than appear to be cross. Her eyes opened, though, when the footsteps stopped outside the office and Jean heard the door swing open.

She lifted her head to see Lucien, standing before her, looking extremely concerned. His tie was loosened from around his neck, and he wore no jacket. His eyes were searching her up and down, taking her in somewhat frantically, assessing her.

"Jean," he said, as the same time "Lucien," left her mouth. She stopped, somewhat embarrassed. "I'm fine," Jean continued, as Lucien started to kneel down on the floor to look her over. "Stop that. I'm perfectly fine." She faffed him away and he stood up. "Please. Let's go."

"Of course," Lucien replied, and gave her his arm, slowly helping Jean to her feet. She shook her head a bit, determinedly ignoring the black spots dancing on the edge of her vision. Jean allowed Lucien to lead her to the front of the shop. She thanked Mr. Miller for his kindness and profusely apologized to Toby for frightening him, before being steered to the car by Lucien. She settled into the passenger seat, feeling rather boneless and not at all there, aside from the aching in her head, while Lucien cranked down her window a touch before closing her into the car.

….

She looked rather terrible. Her skin was pale and clammy, and there was very little color in her lips beneath the red of her lipstick. Lucien would be a fool to comment on this, however. Jean's eyes had practically dared him to mention her appearance as he'd attempted to crouch before her in Mr. Miller's office, and she'd held her head high, back ramrod straight, as he'd led her from the store toward the Holden. No, it would be folly to point out anything about her appearance.

"I'll need to take a look at your head once we get home," he said, starting the car and pulling out onto the road, "In the meantime, tell me what happened."

Jean sighed. She was leaning against the door of the car, her head propped up against the window. The coolness of the glass felt nice against her damp skin, and the breeze from the window ruffled her hair. "It was nothing. I'm sure it was the heat."

"You shouldn't have walked to the grocer's on a day like today. It's nearly 34-degrees."

"Mmm. I'm aware." Came the reply. And then, "thank you for coming to get me."

"Of course," Lucien said back.

Once they arrived at the house, Lucien escorted Jean to the surgery and had her sit on the exam table. He completed a brief neurological evaluation, which Jean tolerated with as much patience as she could muster. He flashed a pen light at her eyes to watch her pupils contract, and made her follow his finger with her eyes as he waved it about in the air.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three. Really, Lucien, this is ridiculous. I'm perfectly all right." Jean made as if to rise from the exam bench, and Lucien held her in place with a raise of his hand.

"Tell that to the gash in your head," he said, and gently pulled away Jean's hand, still holding the kerchief to the wound. Jean winced as some of the drying blood pulled away from her skin, "Has this stopped bleeding at all?"

Lucien made a noise of disapproval, glancing at the laceration. "You're going to need a stitch or two," he said to Jean. He handed her back the handkerchief and told her to reapply pressure. "I'll do my best to not leave a scar." He turned and began searching the large cabinets of the surgery for the supplies necessary to clean and suture the cut.

"Second shelf down on the left," Jean supplied, helpfully.

"Here we are!" Lucien called triumphantly, grabbing the necessary implements and returning to the cot. He frowned, watching Jean stare dispassionately at the blood beneath her fingernails. Her hand was trembling. "Let's get you a biscuit or something before we start this. You look as if you could do with some sugar."

Jean started to shake her head, but then stopped herself. "No. I'm all right. Let's just get it over with."

Lucien was already on his way out the door, "Nonsense. You just wait right here and I'll be back in a tick," He called over his shoulder.

"Lucien!" Jean called after him. Oh, why did he never listen? "Lucien, I can't." When he popped his head back around the door she continued, "That's very kind of you, but I can't eat or drink right now. It's Lent."

"It's Lent." He repeated, rather dumbly, coming back to stand in front of her on the cot. And then, "Are you telling me that you're fasting?"

"Yes, " was Jean's reply, "that is what Catholics typically do during Lent, you know."

"And when was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?" Jean could hear the incredulity creeping into Lucien's voice, and she did not appreciate it in the least.

"I ate dinner yesterday evening," she told him primly, "and had some water before bed."

Lucien blinked at her, and began to pull out the cotton wads needed for wound cleansing. He splashed an alcohol solution on them and began to dab at Jean's head. "Are you telling me," he said slowly, "that you walked to the green grocers on one of the hottest days on record, after intentionally not eating or drinking for nearly 24 hours?"

"Ow," Jean complained, and swatted at his hand. "Stop it. That hurts. It's not as if I planned on fainting like that. Please stop speaking to me as if I'm a child. Or an imbecile."

"Why didn't you ask me for the car? Or call me at the morgue and have me pick up the groceries on the way home?" Lucien asked, continuing to wipe away blood.

"Lucien, you pay me to do the shopping." Jean countered. "What would people say if they saw Doctor Blake buying his own vegetables at the green grocers? They'd think I was lazy, or that I couldn't do my job."

"You care entirely too much what people think," was Lucien's response. "So instead you've got to punish yourself by not eating or drinking. Tell me, what good are you to Christ if you're unconscious?" He violently threaded a suture needle. Pausing from his tirade he told Jean, "I can give you an injectable anesthetic before I start, which is honestly going to sting more than the two stitches I'm going to put in, or I can just go ahead and stitch you up."

Her head was aching terribly, and she just wanted this all to be done. "Just do it," she instructed, "and you're really one to talk about punishing yourself."

Lucien muttered something about bloody Catholics and their need for self-flagellation, and started to stitch.

Oh, this obtuse, fool of a man, Jean thought. Couldn't he see that he was the entire reason Jean needed to fast in the first place? Couldn't he see the way her face lit up when he entered a room, and the way she'd begun to lean into him when he touched her affectionately? Couldn't he see that she was developing feelings for him, when she had no right to do so? He was Jean's employer, and there were already so many rumors about them in town, and so when she acknowledged that she'd been having impure thoughts in the enclosed space of the confessional booth, it had been easy for Father Morton to ascertain whom about. He'd recommend abstaining from everything but dinner during the whole season of Lent as Jean's penance, and Jean had agreed. Anything to stop mooning over Lucien Blake like a silly teenaged girl, she thought.

She was having difficulty doing that at the moment, when he was standing inches from her face, staring at her intently. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth. Lucien finished his second stitch and Jean hissed when he pulled the string taught to tie the final knot. "All finished," Lucien said, "Well done."

"The whole practice of Lent is absolutely ridiculous," Lucien went on, caught in a rant and unable to stop himself. He paced before Jean and gesticulated as he gathered up his supplies, "It's just another way for the church leadership to tell people they're not good enough, and I fail to believe that a God who is meant to be about love and forgiveness can approve of such a practice. If I was your husband I'd forbid you from taking part in such a ridiculous farce."

"Well, thank God you're not my husband!" Jean huffed back, glaring up at him. She was fuming and her chest was heaving. How dare he mock her faith. Her eyes shot daggers into Lucien's and she silently dared him to continue speaking. Wisely, he did not. "This is absurd," Jean muttered. "We're being absurd. Thank you for stitching my head. I'm done here." She quickly rose from the exam cot and spun to pick up her bloodied handkerchief.

The instant she was on her feet, Jean knew she'd made a mistake. Her vision blurred, and her knees wobbled. Blinking, she reached out a hand to steady herself, feeling shakily for the cot. Do not faint, Do not faint, Do not faint, she told herself, fiercely. She could actually feel the color drain from her face as her vision grew dark.

From a long way off, she could hear Lucien's voice, laced with concern, "Jean?"

She felt him at her elbow. His solid presence was a comfort. Oh, hell, she thought, and gave in to the darkness.