Number Two:

Foyle didn't remember when he had last wanted to break the speed limits as much as when the sergeant drove him to hospital, knowing that Sam had gone there only a short while earlier, after he'd sent her home with what she thought was a flu. Sergeant Brooke had barely even stopped the car before Foyle had opened the passenger side door and exited, all but running into the building.

Talking to the doctor didn't comfort him – he described a patient with the same symptoms who had died of the mysterious illness. The doctors had no idea what it was – but it was no flu; that much was obvious.

When he was finally allowed to see her, he stopped a few feet away from her bed, horrified at her paleness. Seeing her lying in a hospital bed made him feel nauseous, it reminded him too much of Rosalind.

He had tried to deny that his feelings for his driver were warmer than they should be; he had tried to tell himself that she was like a daughter to him, but now the truth was apparent to him: he loved Samantha Stewart like he hadn't loved anyone since Rosalind, like he'd never thought he'd ever love anyone again. He wanted to hold her and protect her (even though she was rather talented with a dustbin lid) and have her in his life always. And the thought of losing Sam like this was just too overwhelming.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to rid himself of these dark thoughts.

When she opened her eyes and noticed him, she tried to sit up, greeting him quietly, painfully.

"Don't – don't get up," Foyle told her, and she gratefully rested back on her pillows. "How are you?"

"I think I'm going to need a couple of days off work, sir," she said softly, almost as a joke and Foyle tried to smile.

"What, as many as that?"

"I think I've got the flu," she said, closing her eyes briefly and therefore not noticing the pained look on Foyle's face as he contemplated telling her how serious her condition was.

"I don't know about these though," she continued when she opened her eyes again and showed him the wounds on her hand and wrist. One of them was a fairly deep cut and Foyle frowned, inquiring how that had happened.

"Do you think I've got an infection?" Sam wondered after explaining and Foyle frowned deeper, hesitating.

"Well, just rest and um… let these people look after you, hm?"

"Right-ho, sir."

Foyle smiled slightly at her before bending down and kissing her cheek softly. When he pulled back, her eyes were closed and a small smile rested on her lips. Unable to stop himself, he leaned down again and pressed his lips softly against hers, surprised when she kissed him back.

Finally breaking their kiss, he cleared he throat and stepped back a few steps.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have done that," he said softly, berating himself.

She just smiled. "Will you do me a favour, sir?"

"Certainly," he nodded, grateful that she didn't seem to be embarrassed or hate him for his slip.

"Do that again?"

For a moment, Foyle just stared at her in shock. Then a smile began to break out on his face.

"A couple of days off, no more, all right?" he said as he turned away, his dry sense of humour registering with Sam, causing her smile to broaden.

The end (again, of this bit)