Sam knocked on the office door of her Clinical Lead, ashamed of her ashen face and red-rimmed eyes for all they tried to give away.

Ed gestured for her to enter at once, his greying eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"What on earth's going on?" he said, taking in her distraught exterior. "If I said something out there to offend you –"

"No, it was nothing anyone said or did," Sam cut in. "I can promise you that. Can I sit down, please?" she asked quietly. She had not quite regained her usual steadiness on her feet and was grateful to take a seat.

"Sam, what's wrong?" he urged.

She sighed. "The CT's I was looking at – we had a patient come in earlier from HEMS, RTC hit and run. He's… my God, I need to get a grip, I'm sorry… He's my ex-husband."

To her surprise, Ed Lakeland sprang to his feet. "Bloody hell, Sam, and you still got close enough to treat him?! Are you mad? I mean – are you okay? I can't believe –"

And then she understood. Kind, decent Ed, the only one in this hospital who knew why she'd come to London and the state she'd been in when she arrived, thought she meant Tom. Reflexively, she shuddered at the thought. "No, Ed, it's okay – not… not that ex-husband. Dylan Keogh was my first husband. He's – he's not like that. I'm safe, I'm just –" How could she put it into words without breaking down? "He's in such a bad way, and I shouldn't have treated him, it's a massive conflict of interest and I'm sorry. There was no time. I'm sorry, I messed up."

"No you didn't." Ed leaned on the front of his desk and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He removed his glasses and rooted in a trouser pocket for a cloth to clean them with. "You did what any of us would have, or at least I hope the rest of them would. You were a doctor first, and it probably saved that poor chap's life." He paused, replacing his glasses and considering her carefully. "I don't think I know many ex-wives who'd do the same."

Having expected a telling off, even knowing that Ed Lakeland was one of the most level-headed emergency medicine consultants in the business, Sam was flooded with relief. She put her head down in her hands and tried to work out what to do next.

Ed looked at his watch, an elegant Swiss timepiece. "You're off the clock, Sam."

She sat up and frowned at the clock on the wall. "Not for another hour, I'm not," she corrected him.

"I'm not going to let you quibble over that hour. Your head's not in it now and we can manage without you. You either need to go home to Georgie, or find yourself somewhere quiet to work out what you're going to say to this ex-husband of yours, once theatres have patched him up a bit."

She nodded wordlessly. It was more than a bit of 'patching up' and they both knew it. They both knew too, where she would go, and it wasn't home, not yet.

Her thumb hovered over the number she'd searched for and agonised over. Dylan's NHS ID had been recovered too: he still worked at Holby, so they'd be able to answer the question about next of kin. It hadn't taken much fighting to earn the right to make the call – as far as anyone else knew, he was just another patient and she was just his ED doctor. She was outside again, well out of sight of her colleagues.

"Holby ED, Connie Beauchamp speaking."

The clipped, cut-glass accent was slightly intimidating, even over the phone. Sam cleared her throat. "Hello, I'm calling from King's College ED in London – I'm sorry to tell you that one of your consultants has been admitted after quite a nasty RTC." She heard the sharp intake of breath. "Could you please find the emergency contact details for Dylan Keogh?"

"Of course," Connie replied quietly. "Can I ask what has happened?"

Sam felt her bottom lip begin to tremble and was grateful for patient confidentiality stopping her from revealing the worst details. "It was a hit and run," she near-whispered. "He's in theatre now, with extensive injuries."

"Good god," Connie said in a hushed tone. "I've got his next of kin here. There's very sparse information listed for the first contact, unfortunately – it's an S. Nicholls, with no relationship information. Do you have a pen and paper ready?"

Sam's ears were ringing. It was more than ten years since the fire at Holby that had revealed Dylan hadn't changed his next of kin, and even longer since they'd been together and first set each other as their emergency contacts. Had it been through inattention that he had kept her listed? Or was there more to it?

"Hello? Are you still there?"

Sam rubbed a hand down her face. "Yes, excuse me. I think there were a few issues on the line," she lied. "All resolved – S. Nicholls, and what's the number please?" She let the other woman's voice wash over her as the mobile number she'd kept until the end of her second marriage was read out to her.

"The second one might be a little more difficult, but I will give it to you nonetheless. I'm afraid I can't calculate time zones off the top of my head, but this contact is in Michigan, in the States. Her name is Zoe Hanna, are you ready for the number?"

"Yes, go ahead," Sam said blankly. She had no such thing, but once again she would not need it.

When the call ended, Sam stared up at the sky. It was beginning to rain, which didn't help her to brace herself for her next call. At least this one might understand if she couldn't hold it all together.

The dialling tone seemed to go on forever before she heard the warm, familiar Liverpool accent. "Hi, Sam, how are you?"

She sounded happy and Sam felt dreadful knowing she was about to not only put a pin in that but completely obliterate it. "Zoe," she said weakly, her resolve disappearing faster than candyfloss in the rain. "I don't know how to tell you this." A rogue sob escaped and she sniffed inelegantly.

"What's going on? What's happened?" Zoe asked warily, immediately worried.

"I don't know why he was in London, but – it's Dylan, he's here at King's. He's been… he's been hit by a car." She heard the muffled sound of hurried sitting down.

"Tell me it's not bad. Sam, please tell me it's not bad!"

Sam started to cry. "I can't. It's awful, Zoe, I'm sorry. I can't – I can't list it all off, please don't ask me to. I know I'm not being very helpful, I just… I just needed to call – I needed you to know, and… you were down as his only next of kin." It was a tiny little white lie. She wasn't sure yet, what to do with the information that she was the other contact herself.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"He still means something to you, doesn't he?" Zoe asked quietly.

There followed a reasonable pause. Sam closed her eyes and tilted her head down. There were so many conflicting feelings inside her, all crashing into each other and fighting to be heard.

"Yes."

She didn't know quite what Dylan meant to her, after all this time, but if his state of health told her anything, it was that life was too bloody short to keep wondering. Ignoring the stares and blanking the questions, knowing full well that she'd be the topic of ED gossip for days, she made a beeline for theatres and took up post in the corridor. There were no chairs out there, so despite the long day behind her, she slid down the wall and sat with her knees drawn up, attracting attention from every single passer-by.

"I'm fine… No, really, I'm fine… I'm waiting, what does it look like I'm doing?!"

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The corridor was cool and she was hungry. She thought longingly of going home for a hot bath and her dinner, even a slice of toast would do – and then with a jolt, her brain returned to Dylan and the sight of him in resus fighting for his life. She rested her forehead down on her knees and closed her eyes. She didn't mean to fall asleep, but the pressure of the last few hours was too much and forced her body to shut down.

"Everything alright, Doctor?" came an unfamiliar voice that made Sam jump in surprise. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I'm guessing you've had a long day." It was one of the scrub nurses, wearing such a gentle expression of care that Sam couldn't help trusting her as she crouched beside her in the corridor.

"You could say that," Sam replied wearily. "What time is it?" She stretched out her arms, eliciting a satisfying click from her shoulders.

The nurse smiled softly. "Nearly nine."

Sam rubbed her eyes.

"Your patient – the doctor from the RTC?"

She was suddenly alert and focused. "Yes? Is he…" There didn't seem to be a good word to end that sentence with, that didn't sound like misplaced optimism where it wasn't due.

"They're not finished with him yet, Orthopaedics have only just started on his leg. He's stable now, though. We plated a few of his broken ribs to stabilise them and allow the chest drain to do its job properly. We had to remove his spleen to stop the bleed, it was too badly damaged to repair. I don't know what Ortho are going to do – they were bringing in the full toolbox when I left, so –"

"They're not amputating, are they?" Sam asked hurriedly. In her tiredness and worry, she didn't quite have the same medical knowledge as she might have done normally.

"God, no, I wouldn't have thought so with that much metalwork on hand. Like I say, he'll be a good while yet before he gets to recovery – you'd be more comfortable waiting up there if you're going to wait the whole time. It's warmer up there, anyway," she added kindly, looking at the goosebumps down Sam's arm where her hoodie sleeve had slipped towards her elbow as she'd stretched. "They know he's coming, so they'll be able to tell you where to wait."

"Thank you," Sam said earnestly, her mind spinning all over again.

In recovery, it was harder to brush off the questions about why she had followed her patient from the ED.

"He's an old friend," she said shakily. "We used to work together." It wasn't wrong information. It just withheld some of the more important facts of the matter, although it was inconsequential once she'd commandeered use of the chair in the little side room the ward staff told her had been set aside for their incoming patient.

She couldn't sleep, her mind racing. He was stable, she'd heard that loud and clear. He'd have an incredibly long road to full recovery, she was certain, but he was alive.

There was a strange fluttering in her chest at the thought of seeing him again, talking to him again. He'd ask what on earth she was doing in London, that much was a given, and while part of her was ashamed and terrified of doing so, another part of her was compelled to tell it all. Something about relaying the difficulties of her past to him appealed to her as something that could set her free. It was an unreasonable amount of pressure to set on a man who wouldn't be sitting up independently for a while. There was no guarantee he'd want to speak to her, or even see her at all. They might have parted on semi-amicable terms at Christmas 2012, but times had moved on. He might not be the same Dylan anymore. She certainly wasn't the same Sam.

She paced the room as a conduit for her nervous energy. What was she doing here? She should be at home, having put her little girl to bed, getting on with her evening (or, more accurately, falling into bed after a busy day.) Other people wouldn't save the life of and then wait hours to check on their ex.

But then, other people hadn't had the second marriage she'd had. Other people didn't put their daughters to bed and then triple check the lock on the front door and every window. Other people didn't look back on the safety of their first marriage, despite its eventual breakdown, and wish to turn back time. Other people's hearts didn't skip a beat on seeing someone who looked vaguely like their first husband in the street.

She finally saw him again just after midnight. He arrived in recovery barely awake, but breathing for himself. She waited patiently, silently, for the staff accompanying him to do their checks, and nodded through the little spiel they probably gave every waiting party. She knew he'd be groggy, she knew he needed to sleep it off, she knew more than most what to look for as red flags for something going wrong.

For a while, she took the opportunity to sit beside him, to be in his presence again after so long. It was all kinds of wrong though – his face was bloodied and bruised out of shape, there were tubes and wires all over him, and looking at his leg made her stomach turn somersaults despite all she'd seen and done in trauma on tour. Bruised and swollen, it was surrounded by a metal cage, with pins and screws through his skin to stabilise the bones. The area where the fracture had broken the skin was stapled – it would scar dreadfully, as would much of the skin from ankle to thigh. She thought of him waking up to see all that and her heart broke a little. She wondered what his last memory was before the impact. She hoped he had been happy.

It was unsettling for him to be so unresponsive – quiet had been his normal, but even in a room with a silent Dylan, his eyes would have said everything worth saying. On the bed, one was swollen shut and the other closed in anaesthetic-fuelled sleep.

"Oh Dylan," she whispered. "What's happened to you?" She reached out for his hand, tracing the outline of each nail with one fingertip. "I'm here – Sam. I can't stand you being stuck like this, I wish you could wake up and just tell me to piss off or something – I know that's not much like you, but anyone else would, waking up to see their ex-wife by their hospital bed." She gently wrapped her slender fingers around his thumb and held it for a few minutes, listening to the sound of his breathing. It was a glorious, reassuring sound for all that she shouldn't have been in a situation to listen to it.

She didn't know how long she sat there, but finally, she felt a movement under her hand. He stretched out his hand, and she sat up straight, eyes trained on his face. He was waking up. Her heart thundered, she didn't know what to do, where to be. Part of her felt like she should run, and not be there for him to see. And part of her never wanted to leave his side.

He mumbled incoherently, moving his lips and tongue in that way that was only possible with an uncomfortably dry mouth. He seemed to be trying to bling, although only one eye co-operated.

"Wha's goin'on?" he slurred clumsily, moaning in pain as he tried to sit up but realised he was in too much pain to do so.

"Don't try to sit up, just stay where you are, that's it." She closed her fingers around his hand gently. "You've been in an accident, Dylan, you're in recovery after surgery at King's. You've been –" Her voice caught in her throat as her mind caught up with the fact she was not talking to any patient. "You've been quite badly hurt, so go gently."

"Sss..." He hissed, and she wondered if he was in pain. He had every right to be, considering. "Sss-Sam." It took a few seconds for him to form her name in his dry mouth.

She got up and reached for the little plastic cup by the bed. Wordlessly, she lifted it to his lips, tilting it just enough to let him wet his mouth.

He cleared his throat. "Thought – I thought I was already gone, when I saw you in… in resus." He released a few syllables of laughter, and it took Sam so much by surprise that it took a few moments to register what he'd said. He thought he'd already gone… He thought he'd died.

Her face streaked with tears, she shook her head. "No, no, you're still here. A little more magnetic than before, but you're still here."

With some difficulty, he lifted his head and caught sight of the metal frame encasing his leg. "Shit," he exclaimed.

"Try not to think about all that, right now," she soothed. "You need some more sleep, and then… and then I will answer however many questions you have. I promise you that much." His eyes were already closing, and she stroked the back of his hand.