"I wanted to give you my card at that weekend thing, but you'd already left."

So this is my take on how Nikki and James first met, just a little insight into Nikki's reaction to this particular sentence and why James maybe didn't get a chance to make a move... Just by the by, was anyone else really upset by 'Legacy'? I honestly thought James was a nice guy, and he's probably gonna die now and Nikki didn't seem to care at all! His Dad was the utter bastard, not him! It just really got to me, but apparently 'BBC' and 'Happy ending' just don't go well together.

Remind me exactly why I'm here again?

You had given him a withering look, whilst unpacking your things. You weren't like Harry; placing a single textbook precariously on the lectern and chatting away fairly relaxed, only referring to it once or twice throughout just didn't cut it for you. No, you had to be thoroughly prepared, cue cards, bullet points, notes, files, books, journals…if you were going to do it right.

Moral support! You had informed him, glancing down at the bulging briefcase he was carrying, and to be my pack-mule, of course.

He had rolled his eyes and you had laughed. You knew he wouldn't have missed it for the world; if not for the chance to spend the day with you, then for the opportunity to skive a day or two off work. You just simply knew him too well.

Despite your exasperation at his ulterior motives – as he gently squeezed your shoulder, wishing you Good luck, I'll go sit at the back – you couldn't help feeling that you couldn't possibly do this sort of thing without him.

And so as you had waited for the congregation to sit and the chat to dissipate, you had looked to the back row, where Harry, and just one other – rather smart – looking gentleman had sat, Harry had winked and you had swallowed your nerves.

No matter how skilled and knowledgeable in your field you became, you will always be relieved when it's over.

The food and drink afterwards has always been your favourite part.

You find yourself alone in the lobby of the conference building having packed away your monstrosity of research and the gentleman from the back row approaches you.

Dr Alexander. A statement, rather than a question and there was a quietly confident aura about him that you couldn't help feel drawn to. James Embleton, junior science minister. You smiled and shook his hand, warm, not sweaty, just pleasant, quite soft. You returned his greeting. Nikki Alexander, forensic pathologist. For a moment the two of you had simply stood together, listening to the hundreds of conversations taking place in the space around you, all merging into one inaudible murmur of voices.

Funny isn't it, he broke your musings, why do we always define ourselves by occupation? Surely it shouldn't make us who we are…

You had turned to look at him then, intrigued by his slightly eccentric train of thought, it was a little bit like yours.

Then the second gentleman from the back row had rocked up.

That was good, very well done. His hand had lightly touched the small of your back, otherwise you're not sure you would have known he was addressing you, as his slightly suspicious looking features were glued to his opponent.

For a moment, you had felt slightly panicked as you looked from one man to the other. It was Harry's expression that unnerved you, as you couldn't quite decipher it and you had no idea what he was going to do next. Harry…His name had left your lips before you had a chance to stop it, in a quiet, slightly wary tone. This is James Embleton. James, Harry Cunningham, you recovered quickly, and with as much grace and serenity as you could muster, you had stepped back to allow them to meet…

…Only to look over and find your new acquaintance's expression mirroring that of your best friend.

Lord Embleton. He introduced himself with the same friendly intonation as he had with you, only his voice seemed to have dropped a pitch or two.

Dr Cunningham. Is the curt reply. And they had nodded to one another. No hand shake.

After a few seconds, James addressed you once again. Right, well, he began, slightly more upbeat than he had been. I believe we are neighbours on the seating plan, Dr Alexander so I will talk to you later, It was lovely to meet you, he concluded and left you with a smile, his eyes lingering over you for a moment too long. And you, you had replied, your eyes darting radically from James warm gaze, to Harry's intense, enigmatic expression.

And then, he was gone and you had breathed a great sigh of testosterone ridden relief.

And then you had asked Harry, who was still staring after James Embleton, What the hell was that?

Suddenly, he had flicked back, back to normal and nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders at you.

You tried again. Do you know him?

The reply had eventually come; No. And with a glint of something unreadable in his eye, It's just a guy thing, don't worry about it.

You're not stupid, and you caught on to what he meant quite quickly; He was just being nice, I was standing here on my own, he was just making conversation! And Harry's snort at this had aggravated you ever so slightly. He always had to be in control, had to be right. Just because you were a woman and James Embleton was a man, didn't necessarily mean he was coming onto you. Though you can't deny it had felt a little more than just comforting to know Harry had your back.

I saw the way he was looking at you in there. Pretty obvious what he's after…

You had kept up the pretence, all the same, challenging him, And what? That's a bad thing? Why should I have to explain myself to you, anyway?

Again, you're not stupid. You were 34 years old at the time, you'd been part of this game for near enough 20 years. You knew what you were doing. You knew exactly what was going on between you and Harry and you knew exactly what was going on in his mind right at that very moment.

He glanced at you, looking more than slightly pissed about something, but you knew him well enough to know there was a smile hidden under there, a secret one, just for you. You took the tease a little further, just to see how far you could push him.

Well, at least I'll get an uninterrupted chat with him at dinner…You glanced up to gage his reaction. Stoic. With perhaps a few more years' experience than you, he was also very skilled at this particular grown-up game.

Actually, you won't. I took the liberty of swapping your tag with the delightful, slightly lopsided gentleman who was to sit next to me. Couldn't leave you over there on your own, could I? With his comic wriggling of the eyebrows and his magnanimous stance; chest puffed out, hands on hips, you couldn't bear to be angry with him, chuckling deeply and taking his arm as the crowd began to make their way through to be seated.

Here's me thinking you'd just find me a nice little pub! Your smile slowly deteriorated when you realised the weight of your words, though it didn't seem to faze him, as he simply rested his hand on yours on his forearm.

When you whispered a humorous comment in his ear, he barely laughed at all. When you tried to make conversation, he was distant. While everyone else had relaxed into absent minded chatter, he remained tense. In short, all night, he wasn't himself.

It may have been the wine talking – and the two of you had a lot – but you were pretty sure it had something to do with a certain gentleman across the hall, who hadn't taken his eyes from you all evening.

You weren't just tipsy. You were properly drunk. You knew where you were, you could still see and control yourself pretty reasonably. But you had enough alcohol in your system, to slow your blinking until each time you did, it looked as if you were about to fall asleep, to tattoo a permanent, dreamy smile to your face for no apparent reason, to become uncharacteristically – and perhaps inappropriately – tactile with the man beside you. You were certainly at that dulcet stage of intoxication in which your feelings towards him had intensified dramatically, until it was at an almost volcanic level, too much to bear.

You're very worked up…You had stated the obvious, running a firm hand down the stiff muscles of his back. Your speech was slurred, low and husky, your eyelids low and you watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath in, as if trying desperately to resist something, as if his life had depended on it.

Eventually, gently, he had leaned back, off the side of his chair, until the top of his back was touching your bare collarbone, he hadn't put on any pressure, holding himself there, touching but not leaning, and allowed his head to loll back slightly, until his stubble-clad cheek rested against yours. He was just as drunk as you were. Can we get out of here?

You had smiled and couldn't help but mother him, leaning your arm on the back of your chair and tenderly stroking his hair, the thumb of your other hand repetitively stroking his upper arm. You had asked, What? Before you do something unsuitable?

No… He replied, his body was languid against yours and you couldn't help but feel slightly turned on; having his body so close to yours, pinning you to your seat. And yet he still felt edgy, heavy with concern, as if he couldn't relax. Momentarily, you had caught the eye of none other than James Embleton. Immediately you had blushed under the intensity of his stare and looked away, Harry hadn't yet finished his sentence…before you do.

He helped you on with your coat and took your hand and near enough dragged you from the building, despite your protests that you had left everything from your lecture inside. Immediately, like some divine transformation, he seemed to loosen in every sense; he loosened his grip on your hand, his body seemed to shrink down slightly, his breathing was deeper and slower, and the creases on his face disappeared to reveal a relieved and relaxed smile.

So, shall we find a pub? He asked.