Not the end, but the beginning.

It was wrong.

What you did.

But you understand your own reasoning perfectly, previous experience and knowing him inside out seems to justify the choices you have made in the past few weeks.

No one does it quite like he does.

No one before, and you'll be honest, there were a good few, and no one since, as there hadn't been any. There wouldn't have been any point. They wouldn't have mattered anyway. Not really.

You liked to make him think there had been others though. You would dress yourself up in the lab, intricately paint on a made up face over your own, after a postmortem, with the slim hope that he might see you and wonder if you are going on a date.

With someone else.

A mind game.

You do a lot of those.

Supposedly wrong too. But you've always played these games with him. It's fun to see him jealous, or to feel him watching you closely, when you know he wants you. It's exhilarating.

It's the only sexual release you had until you started sleeping together again, not long after Kit's first birthday.

You never had forgotten how good he was...

You liked to make him think it was just a release. You were using him. But recently you are finding it harder to convince yourself that it is just that. There were moments where, despite lying as far away from him as possible, you wished he would stay with you all night. When he left, and you felt the warmth fade on the other side of the bed, you would find yourself crying. And that scares you.

Kit, who was usually quite vocal in the afternoons, was very quiet on the drive home after the football match. The consequent shouting match had left you shaken, exposed. You wonder if he knows, if he can tell when you are upset, and if he is aware of the complex mess that is his parents and their relationship. You stay silent too, eyes occasionally flicking to your mirror and you see him dolefully fiddle with a toy giraffe, eyes down.

When you get home and you change him, you make a special effort to be cheerful, never a difficult task when he's around.

"Was that funny today? Watching Daddy and Uncle Leo running around?"

"Leeeeo."

For a moment you freeze and wonder if you heard correctly. Leo. His first word. Leo. You have made a habit of talking to him almost constantly, when out shopping, feeding, getting ready for bed, all excuses to give him a running commentary or tell him about your day and things that have been happening. True, in most of these one-sided conversations you mention Leo.

"That's right, darling. Uncle Leo."

This is quite a milestone and you quickly text Harry, with a kiss on the end. Then the rush of excitement has gone and you regret it instantly, wishing you could drag the words back through cyber space and not send him anything. You'd rather not see him, for a few days at least, while you get your head around what is going on between the two of you, what he had told you today.

Yes, you had slept with him. Yes, it was because you had wanted to. But you're a woman. You have needs. Did it mean you wanted him back? Certainly not...

Yet you still tense up when he walks into a room, and choke on your breath when he touches you. You still sleep with his favourite shirt in beside you (you had told him that you had thrown it out after burning it with the iron) and with your favourite wedding photo at the side of your empty bed. Sometimes you want to cry with inexplicable pride when your baby boy pulls a face just like his Father's...

You are in love with him.

And that makes sleeping with him very dangerous.

You have been careful to detach yourself, never looking him in the eye, no lingering kisses or touching when not necessary. The sex was animalistic, angry almost, not loving or tender. But that was what you needed, this way, you could be satisfied without the connection, without the love.

He couldn't hurt you again, this way, not emotionally, at least.

He thinks it's all so simple, you can reconcile and carry on as if nothing has changed. But everything has changed. In no way is this just about the two of you anymore. You have a child. Everything has to centre on Kit.

Like two lonely planets around the sun, he is the centre of your universe, and without him all meaning is gone and you would be plunged into darkness. He is everything.

You are removed from your thoughts when you hear the doorbell and your stomach begins to churn. It has been twenty minutes since you sent the text.

You open the door and are not at all surprised to see Harry standing there, looking slightly apprehensive, and slightly more excited. He looks at you, questioning and you say nothing, just stepping back and allowing him to come in and immediately make his way to the living room. He picks up the small boy from the ground, holding him at face level as if he were some sort of gadget.

"Kit. Leo?"

"Leeeeeo."

The aghast expression on Harry's face is enough to make you want to laugh and he beams at his son and you're not sure you've ever seen someone look so proud.

"Just wait until I tell Leo about this."

"Leo."

With a quiet chuckle, Harry places Kit back on the ground and sits down on the sofa behind him, one hand gently on his son's head, looking over to you.

"I think we should talk."

You consider arguing, before deciding that it probably isn't a good idea and you take a seat beside him, clasping your hands between your denim-clad thighs to quell their shaking.

"I want you to tell me the truth. You don't trust me at all do you?"

"I just don't want anyth-"

"Yes or no, Nikki."

"No."

He breathes in and out once, slowly, deeply, as if breathing in your words, taking them in, accepting them, trying not to let them hurt him, before he turns slightly to face you and gently takes your hands from your lap and holds them in his own. Although your eyes remain firmly on your knees you see him now more than ever, and how much he has changed, grown. His erratic, unpredictable movements have been replaced by something infinitely calmer, more romantic and you can feel your body in its ache to be loved by this new man in front of you, to give your soul to him.

"Nikki, I love you. I always have and I always will. But I'm not a mind reader. I can't make you happy if you don't tell me what you need to happen next."

The truth is, you don't know what you need. You've barely even worked out whatyou want. Your guard panics and flees, leaving your body and shooting out of the open kitchen window next door. You are left with your true self, insecure, weak, and frightened. He knows this side of you. Since the death of your Mother, he is the only one who has ever seen it and he seems to recognise it as hope ignites in his eyes, etched with sadness as your own sting with the promise of tears.

"I don't want to hurt again. I don't want you to hurt me again. I – I can't –"

Before you have a chance to finish, he sees the tears taking you over and he hushes you, pulling you into his arms as sobs rack your body. You finally allow yourself to give in to him and fall against his chest, burying your face in his shirt as he gently rocks you.

It is not the end, not of anything. But merely the beginning. It is not a reconciliation, not by any means. But it is a start. It is not a fairy tale, not of any sort. But the relief that floods your body when you have run out of tears and he is still holding you is indescribable. You wrap your arms around his torso and hug him tightly whispering in his ear that you love him. You know that neither of you are perfect, and the promise of tears may last for a long time yet...

But some things are most certainly worth fighting for.

You pull away from him in a brief second, to look into his eyes. They are shining, sparkling and he looks content as he stares back at you. No looking away this time.

Slowly, you lift a pale hand to the collar of his shirt, and use it to pull him willingly towards you. Your eyes are closed and you can feel the ever tightening coil in your stomach winding harder as the tip of your nose touches his cheek. Simultaneously, you feel strong hands just below your hips as he pulls you closer to him.

Your lips part and you arch your neck…

…and then feel a small, sticky hand on your knee. For now, the moment is broken as you both open your eyes to the sight before you.

"Oh my…"

Balancing himself with your knee and smiling up at the two of you is your 14 month old son.

Completely covered from head to toe in what looks like...jam.

Harry laughs as you look on in complete shock, nonplussed as to how your son managed to get hold of the sticky substance in the mere seconds you weren't watching him.

"Oh sweetheart."

"That's my boy!"

"Enough of that! You're not the one who's going to have to clean him up!"

The end.

Well, all that's left to say is one great big thank you! I've tried to reply to you all when I can, but just know that I'm truly grateful to all of you who read and review, even if I don't get the chance to tell you personally.

I've had a wonderful time doing this, so much so, I have been spurred on by your lovely reviews to write more Nikki/Harry/Kit stories, if you could leave me one last review to let me know if you'd like them posted, I will repay you by richly showering you in fluff and occasional humour!

Love to all!

D.A. xxx