So, Don't Go Away

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Witness. All characters are property of the BBC. I maintain that it should have been Harry rocking up on Christmas Day. *scowls*


Bones of the hand, bones of the hand. Scaphoid, Trapezium, Trapezoid…

He had learnt them all when he was 10 years old and top of the class for science. He had x-rayed them as a junior doctor, re-set them as a surgeon and identified them as a pathologist. Now, he was staring down at Nikki's injured hand, naming all of the bones in her hand over and over in an attempt to keep his emotions under control as he listened to her.

He gently ran his thumb over the back of her hand. It was covered in cuts and scratches and there was a fresh bruise from where she had clearly just had a cannula removed. She had been gripping his hand, tightly throughout their cab ride back to his apartment and had not let go in the 20 or so minutes that it took to tell him everything she could.

She was speaking in her doctor's voice. She may not have practiced medicine for a long time but she had still been trained in breaking bad news and these were the skills she was employing as she spoke to him in her level, controlled voice. Whatever inner turmoil she was experiencing, she was hiding it under deep-rooted professionalism.

When she was finished, Harry swallowed, trying to ignore the painful lump in his throat and looked at her with a sort of angry resignation. She had come so close to dying and he hadn't been there. But she had put herself in that situation…He didn't know whether he was mostly angry or relieved, but he knew that his hands were shaking. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him so that he could kiss her hairline, before he got to his feet abruptly.

Nikki stared at him in surprise, her brow furrowed as he retreated to the next room and reappeared with his briefcase.

"Can I see your discharge letter?"

Nikki looked at the ceiling and sighed. "They kept me in for overnight observation and IV fluids for dehydration," she told him in a bored voice. Nevertheless, she pulled a sheaf of paper out of her handbag. "Here."

Harry took the papers she was thrusting at him and absent-mindedly put on a pair of reading glasses. He scanned the official-looking documents quickly, his eyes struggling to focus on the English amongst all the Spanish.

Nikki smirked at him, "Ooh, someone's eyesight is going." She leaned in. "Oh God. Of course they're Gucci."

"Shut up, they're just for reading," he told her, curtly but peering over the top of his glasses with an advert-worthy smoulder.

"I like them," said Nikki, fondly. "Very Jude Law."

"Yes, well if you could stop finding me so attractive for a second. It's inappropriate in a woman who spent two days in a box, thank you."

Harry paced back and forth across his living room floor as he read.

Nikki smiled wryly, her eyes following him. "I blame the hypoxia."

"Mmmh," responded Harry. He continued to read, nodding along, as if agreeing with whatever nameless Mexican doctor had no doubt rattled off the dictation at the end of an 18-hour shift. He squinted down at her drug list.

"Cipro and…Indomethacin?"

"Scorpion bite," replied Nikki, quietly.

Harry shot her a dark look and went back to reading her blood results.

"Your potassium level is shocking," he told her, sounding aghast. "I'm surprised they let you out."

He peered down at her, eyes raking over her pale face and the purple bags under her eyes and walked out of the room.

"Well, they were fairly eager to repatriate me. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the red tape involved in case a British Home Office pathologist died on Mexican soil," she joked, shifting on the sofa so that her legs were tucked up underneath her.

Harry's eyes flashed at her, reprovingly, as he came back in with his briefcase. "Don't."

There was a small silence between them. Harry became acutely aware of the kitchen clock ticking loudly behind him.

"Sorry," she muttered, breaking eye contact and looking down at her knees.

"Alright," said Harry, with an air of finality. "Come here. Put your legs down," he ordered, waving a hand at her.

Nonplussed, Nikki did as she was told, sitting up straight on the sofa as Harry pulled a blood-pressure cuff out of his briefcase.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Harry," she fumed, impatiently. "Is that really necessary?"

"Shush. Give me your arm,"

Nikki gave him what was evidently the dirtiest look she could muster. He had seen her use it on idiots, chauvinists and general scum. A lesser man would have quailed under its ferocity but he was so happy that she was here and alive, with a warm, toned arm underneath his fingertips, that he merely found it amusing.

Nikki sat very still; the perfect patient, as he pulled out a stethoscope and measured her blood pressure. The silence came back again, as he listened intently.

"Your blood pressure's fine," he informed her. "115/20."

"There's a relief," she muttered, sarcastically.

Harry flicked her upper arm as he released the cuff, the sound of the Velcro loud and harsh in his quiet flat.

"Can I listen to your chest, please?"

Nikki sighed but pulled her shirt to one side, trying not to flinch when the cold head of the stethoscope touched her skin.

"Stop controlling your breathing."

"Sorry."

Harry listened; well, tried to listen as best as he could when he was hyper-aware of her warm breath on his neck.

"Chest sounds are equal. Slightly tachy, though," he murmured, sounding displeased, his eyes searching hers.

Nikki gave him the glimmer of a smile. "I don't think I've ever been called tacky in my life."

"I've seen you eat a kebab on a kerb once, at 2 o'clock in the morning, singing Like a Virgin," he shot back, laughing.

Nikki gasped in mock outrage. "Excuse me. It was Like a Prayer."

She caught hold of his wrist, wrapping her fingers around it, tightly to stop him from getting anything else out of his briefcase.

"I don't need you to be my doctor, Harry," she said quietly. Stop it."

Harry sighed and turned his hand over so that his fingers linked with hers, rubbing his unshaven jaw with his free hand. "My patients tend to have a touch more rigor mortis than you, but fine. I'll be whatever you want me to be, Nikki," he said gently, bumping his knee to hers. "What do you need? Shower? Bed? We can order take out?"

"Take away," warned Nikki, pointing a finger at him.

"Take away," corrected Harry, chucking her under the chin.

Nikki looked down at their joined hands and then up into his eyes. Her eyelids looked heavy; as if they were made out of tin.

"You," she murmured, resting her head back against the sofa and closing her eyes.

"Hmmh?

Nikki half-opened her eyes and looked sideways at him. "I need you," she said, simply.