Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling as she slept soundly beside him, worn out from the vigour of their earlier burst of activity and her excessive alcohol consumption, he found himself unable to sleep. Things that her family had mentioned – her drinking habits and the true circumstances of her mother's death in particular – niggled away at the back of his mind, keeping him permanently alert, despite the exhaustion that wracked his body. To find that she'd lied to him had been no surprise, he mused as he lay beside her sleeping form, mindlessly stroking her hair from her eyes with gentle sweeps of his fingers. To find that she'd lied to him about her drinking had also been strangely expected, and filled him with guilt at not realising sooner more than anger but he understood why she hadn't wanted to tell him about that; like he didn't like to broadcast his gambling habits to all and sundry, she was clearly less than proud of her own personal addiction and had been ashamed to tell him, probably fearing that if he knew then he would try and take care of her. On that score at least, she was wrong – if there was one thing that he'd learned about Connie it was that she despised anyone trying to care for her; she saw it as ruling her life and felt stifled, lashing out in a desperate bid to escape – and he knew better than to even try. What concerned him more than anything was her lie about her mother's death – there was no good reason on earth for her not to tell him the truth.

He must have dropped off at some point without realising because the next thing he was aware of was a low moan that came from somewhere to the left of his ear and echoed eerily around the room. For a moment he simply rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head, attributing the strange noise to a distressed dog belonging to the neighbours. It was when he heard a second moan, louder and more distressed than the last that he rolled over, noting with surprise that beside him Connie was thrashing her arms around as if trying to push some invisible assailant from her. He was awake in an instant, shaking her gently, fending off blows as she tried to slap him away, her eyes now open but unseeing, mistaking him for whoever she was so terrified of.

'Wake up' he pleaded, reaching over and switching on the bedside light, horrified by the sight of her face, pale and clammy, eerily illuminated by the harsh halogen lamp 'please, wake up' he continued, stroking her face as her eyelids began to flutter and she slowly came round, glancing fearfully around the room for a moment before her gaze came to rest on his face.

'Will you get off me please' she croaked and with a start he realised that he was sitting astride her, his hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the bed. Rolling over he watched as she sat up, calmly brushing her hair from her face and sipping the glass of water that sat by the bed, acting as though nothing had happened.

'You had a nightmare?' he asked eventually once a reasonable amount of time had passed and the panic that he had experienced had started to abate. In response she simply shrugged, pushing herself up from the bed and moving briskly to the bathroom, pausing only to pick up her bathrobe and grimace at her reflection in the full-length mirror of the bedroom.

'No' she snapped quickly; too quickly – it was obviously a lie. Pleasant dreams didn't make you cry in terror or lash out at unseen assailants. Whatever Connie had been dreaming about, it was clearly something very dark. Probably what she refuses to speak about, he mused to himself slightly bitterly as he lay back on the bed, listening to the sound of water raining down from the shower, waiting for her to return to bed.

'Better?' he enquired sleepily, his eyes closed as he heard the telltale creak of the bathroom door opening and her soft footfall on the laminate floor of the bedroom 'Do you want to talk about it?' he added on the off chance, knowing that it was an exercise in futility – she had retreated so far behind her legendary defences during the course of her shower, clearly loathing herself for letting him see her at her most vulnerable and he knew that if ever he was going to confide in him, it wasn't going to be tonight.

'Nothing to talk about' she retorted tensely, crawling into bed beside him, virtually clinging to the edge of the mattress in her desire to keep as much space between them as possible without incurring the questions that would arise from asking him to leave.

'You had a nightmare' it was a statement not a question but she ignored it anyway, closing her eyes and trying very hard to at least pretend to be asleep 'What was it about?'

'Nothing' she repeated, pulling more of the duvet off him and around her, cocooning herself in it as if protecting herself from something that he could not comprehend 'It's the middle of the night and we have work tomorrow. Go back to sleep'

'You're going to lie awake' he told her conversationally and she rolled over to face him, anger burning in her eyes and resentment oozing from every pore.

'Either stop being so irritatingly persistent or please leave' she snapped, pulling the remaining duvet from him and watching with something approaching sadistic pleasure as he shivered involuntarily.

'Fine' he relented and she returned the cover, pulling herself marginally closer to him as she did so, an act that he took as a silent request to be held. As soon as he put his arms around her he realised his mistake; her body tensed at his touch and she paled slightly.

'Sorry' they apologised simultaneously, colour filling their cheeks as she turned and looked away from him with embarrassment 'I can't help it'

'It's okay' he murmured, dropping her like a stone and shifting down the bed away from her, suspecting that her reaction was her bodies way of telling him that she needed space

'No, carry on' she insisted, following him across the bed and laying her head on his chest, once again flinching as their bodies connected 'ignore it; it'll pass'

'You're tense' he stated 'is this about your nightmare?'

'So you're taking the leaving option then' she remarked with accusation in her voice as she pulled away from him, moving back to clinging to the edge of the bed 'I'll see you at work'

'I'm not leaving' he sighed wearily 'I'm not going anywhere and that isn't going to change, no matter what it is that you're keeping from me'

'You don't know that' she retorted instantly 'I could be a child killer for all you know'

'Are you?' he didn't miss a beat before retorting but immediately he saw the way her face clouded over for a moment and her hesitation before answering and he felt his blood run cold. It wasn't that he thought that she was capable of cruelty – the possibility was so absurd that he couldn't begin to entertain it – but perhaps there was something in what she'd said. It had been something he often wondered about when watching her treat her younger patients; she wasn't generally credited with having a maternal bone in her body and yet the children at the hospital adored her and she adored them. Furthermore, he had seen the look of devastation on her face when Paris had died and seen the concern on Michael's face as he stood alongside his wife as they offered their condolences, but he had dismissed her reaction as simply a manifestation of the uselessness that they all felt at being unable to save the baby, despite their combined years of medical experience. More recently he had seen her body and noticed the thin silvery scar like stretch marks across her stomach and the barely perceptible scar that he recognised as a caesarean scar. At the time he had known better to ask and as he started to know her better and fear her rejection less, he also began to stop noticing these small imperfections, seeing only the bigger picture. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that somewhere in the past Connie had lost a child and blamed herself. The current, very peculiar question only served to reinforce his suspicions.

'Are you' he repeated slowly

'No' she responded, without hesitation and he stifled a sigh; another lie then.