Dear Sam,

I know you'll write as soon as you can, but time seems to move differently without you. The days warp and stretch until it feels as though we've been apart for much longer than we really have. I can't help worrying that something has happened to stop your letters, even though it hasn't been so long, really.

Every time I hear a knock at the door, I flinch. I could almost start praying for your safety – my grandmother would be thrilled I've even partly contemplated the faith that once suffocated me. If it would get you home safely, it might be worth it. This time apart has taught me that I wasn't made to be without you. I love you, even more than I loathe this distance between us.

My darling Sam,

I miss you. Only three words, that hardly seem to convey my depth of feeling. I've missed your voice from the moment we said goodbye, but now to be cut off from your written words too feels like a punishment from which I'll never recover. I love you, Sam, and if there was even a shred of my original Catholicism remaining then I would pray for your safety with everything I have. In all my spare moments, I think of you, wherever you are, and I hope you are safe.

Yours always, Dylan

Christmas was coming: nowhere was this more apparent than in the ED, which seemed to pulsate with the tension of festivity and medical jeopardy. It was all of the thoroughly disinfectable variety, but decorations sparkled on the walls; tinsel around noticeboards glistening with the twinkle of fairy lights. For the most part, patients appreciated the Christmas music piped into the waiting areas and remained patient when waiting times grew.

There would always be exceptions to festivity, of course. The couple coming to terms with one's life-changing injury. A family whose holidays looked quite different now their son's arm was in plaster. Plans rearranged in hushed tones over the phone in a hospital corridor. A patient curled up in pain, who couldn't care less about the date creeping closer to Christmas if only someone could make them feel better.

It was often said that all of human life could be found within the emergency department, though this fact made no difference to Dylan feeling desperately alone and decidedly unfestive in his position over it all. The date certainly made no difference to the data analysis that earned him a talking to from upstairs, for the number of four-hour breaches. That alone would have been enough for him to become more brisk and abrasive as far as the ED team was concerned, but there was a far weightier matter on his mind. One that consumed his every moment outside the hospital and threatened to encroach upon it too, despite it being no business of anyone else.

"Will you lot shut up about Christmas?" Dylan snapped, making the assembly around the nurses' station nearly jump out of their skins. "It's more than a week away and I'm fairly sure that those unfortunate enough to end up in an ED at this time of year don't want the reminder!" He strode away, not oblivious to the rolled eyes and expressions of displeasure in his wake.

One remark rang in his ears afterwards – it was innocent, a reasonable jibe given the circumstances although it felt like a cleverly aimed attack in his over-sensitive state. 'Alright, grumpy!' The words clung to him and wouldn't fall away. 'Grumpy' was her word and hers alone.

For eight consecutive days, there had been no communication from Sam. No blue envelope in Dylan's marina mail-slot, no cheerful message to confirm her safety, no handwritten expressions of love that carried him one step closer to her return. In his more solitary, anxious moments, nothing to confirm that she was still alive. It was impossible to ignore snippets of news reports about the intensifying conflict in Ukraine, and impossible too not to wonder if that translated into danger for Sam wherever she was. Rationally he knew there could be any number of reasons for a delay. In any case his own letters might not have reached her yet if there'd been some kind of hold-up in the British Forces Post Office. But he couldn't shake the thought that something might have happened to her – a thought that hadn't been present in more than a decade.

Every evening was one closer to her return in the spring, though in his darker moments, Dylan couldn't help seeing every day without news as just one more without the need of the letter tucked into his bedside drawer, that he hoped would never be needed. That envelope felt more and more like an ominous threat as days wore on. When his hand brushed against it one evening, it made his blood run cold. He had only been reaching for his watch before heading out for the night shift. With a sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed to fasten the watch strap, allowing himself to think of Sam and hope for her safety once more before turning his attention to the night ahead.

"Thank God it's his last night shift – we'll have a break from him tomorrow at last," Faith moaned, leaning against the staffroom worktop with a coffee clasped in her hands.

"He's been a pain all night, just –" Jacob was interrupted by the arrival of Robyn, who burst into the staffroom in tears.

"Sorry," she stammered, rubbing her eyes roughly and sending mascara onto her cheeks. "I hoped there was no-one in here, I just needed… I can't do this!" She balled her hands into frustrated fists at her sides, shaking her head.

Faith was in front of her in an instant, gentle hands on her upper arms. "Gorgeous girl, what's happened? You know you can always have a cry if you need one, neither of us are going to judge you, sweetheart." She took the younger nurse into a hug and let her cry out frustrated sobs until she could form a coherent thought.

Robyn stepped back, making a concerted effort to regulate her breathing. "I'll be fine, it's…" She sighed. "Charlotte came home from nursery with a temperature so I didn't get much sleep during the day. Dylan's been winding me up all shift as well, he's all snippy comments and sharp edges on everything, and he's just had a massive go at me for a four-hour breach that I couldn't do anything about. It's not my fault that every department is backed up and we can't move patients in time!"

"Of course it's not," Faith said gently. "He shouldn't be taking it out on you, but it's not personal: he's been awful with everyone tonight. We were only just saying that we were glad it's his last night on, so we're not stuck with him again tomorrow night while he's so…" She fumbled to find the right word.

"So out of order?" Jacob put in, having stayed out of the emotional overflow until that point. "He's out of line, pure and simple. He shouldn't be so difficult with people, but telling off nurses until they're in tears? That's just wrong and he should know better!"

Unbeknownst to the collective in the staffroom, Jan had happened upon the offending exchange between Dylan and Robyn, and seen it very differently to Faith and Jacob. Though the two nurses were quick to jump to Robyn's absolute defence (which couldn't be disputed, because she didn't deserve the tongue-lashing she'd got) Jan was equally concerned for the Clinical Lead who wasn't known for treating staff unfairly. Sure, she'd heard all the horror stories of Dylan of the past, with no social graces whatsoever and no qualms about handing out a verbal beating regularly. But that wasn't the Clinical Lead she saw, and she also recognised that circumstances for him were not what they usually were.

She eyed the staffroom from a distance and prayed that there wouldn't be a shout in the time she spent waiting in hope of interception. Luckily, as she predicted, Jacob came striding in the direction of Dylan's office while Faith still consoled Robyn behind the safety of a closed door. She stepped in front of him smartly.

"If you're going to tear into Dylan, hold fire," she said quietly. "Save it – I saw how he was with Robyn and I was already going to speak to him about how he's been with the paramedics tonight." It was only a white lie, a gentle bend of the truth. "I'll roll it into one and then get out of here on another call-out. It will save you the tension of working to the end of your shift with him after having a go."

Jacob hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Good luck, he's been vile with us all, all night."

"I know," Jan replied. "He's not been easy with us either, but at least we get a break when we're out of here. I'll sort it."

He'd left the rota until the last minute. Again. He and Stress were well acquainted but not good workfriends.

It weighed heavily on his mind that the Christmas rota would need to be finalised in the next few days too and while every part of him wanted to take the day to himself and shut himself away from the world and its festive wonder, it was hardly fair on the rest of the team for him to do so when the rest of them had families they would be spending the day away from. His Christmas wouldn't be coming until March; the real one would have to be endured alone and that meant working through the day like any other.

He approached the metaphorical brick wall of logistics when he was interrupted by Jan at his office door. "Is there any chance it can wait?" he asked at once, trying to bite back his impulse to snap at her to go away. "Only this rota is a nightmare and I could do with being left alone to tackle it."

Jan closed the door behind her. "It can't wait."

Dylan pushed papers to one side and returned pens to the pot. He nodded. "I am listening."

"Good, because the next person who comes to see you about this might not be thinking about your circumstances," she said flatly. "I've already seen off one, and I imagine a few more of the nurses want a piece of you after tonight. You're not yourself at all – I know you're hardly polished usually, but this is ridiculous. Snapping left and right, shutting down people trying to explain what's happening out there, people working hard to keep your department going when the hospital isn't flowing one bit. You know you reduced young Robyn to tears?"

He flinched. "I didn't know that," he admitted. "I – I didn't realise I was so harsh with her."

"I was there. You were bordering on rude to her, Dylan, and it's not on."

He had the strongest feeling that he was being told off. And if he had made Robyn cry, then it was rightly so. "I will have a word. Apologise to her," he said quietly. "Make things right."

"Good," Jan said. "But… I would still have come to talk to you, even if I hadn't headed off a protective nurse on their way to tear a piece out of you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It's not on, the way you've been the last few nights, and it has been more than one, I assure you. But it's also not like you to be unfair to people, and I can't help wondering. No-one else is going to ask you, but with Sam being away –" She did not miss him meet her eyes in warning before returning to his default of not-quite eye contact. "I thought someone should check in with you, and I guess I'm the best you're going to get, given that you've ruffled a few feathers out there. Have you heard from her? Is everything okay, where she is?"

Dylan froze.

"I've been thinking about her a lot," Jan admitted. "Out there, facing Lord knows what. And I thought that if it was bothering me, that must be nothing compared to what you're going through."

He cleared his throat. "Last I knew, she was fine," he said, trotting out the comforting half-truth as if he had rehearsed it. It was what people wanted to hear, and what he needed to keep saying to convince himself of it as well as to maintain the Clinical Lead facade.

Jan was quiet for a few seconds. "That's exactly what you said to Iain when he asked you a few days ago," she said. "Dylan, have you heard from her more recently? You were… you were getting letters every other day to start with."

"She's not out there to write me letters," he said tensely. He was skating on thin ice, dangerously close to a point of no return. His chest was tight enough that he consciously felt each breath becoming a little shallower than the one before.

"No, but when that's your only communication… Have you heard from her this week?" she pressed.

"No," he finally admitted. "I haven't but I have to keep going. I have to keep hoping that there's some logical reason and not anything that I need to worry about. If I start, I won't stop," he explained. "So that's why I've apparently been foul to everyone, without even noticing it. I can't talk about this here, I – I need to get on. I'm not trying to be difficult with you."

She nodded, accepting that even for him to say out loud that the letters had stopped was enough. "If you need someone to talk to, not here obviously, you know where I am. It would stay between us," she added kindly.

"Thank you. I – I appreciate that." The words felt robotic even though he knew they were the right ones.

The only thing to do was to keep writing when he saw fit, in case she was simply too busy but still liked to hear from him, and to adopt Sam's own strategy of ploughing oneself into work as a distraction. There was one essential, uncomfortable conversation to be had, though.

"Robyn?" he said, almost nervous as he interrupted matters around the nurses' station. He did not miss the shift in the air, the increased tension that felt like a closing of ranks. "Can I have a word, please? It doesn't have to be right now, if you're busy."

She drew herself up. "Yes," she replied. "Office or out here?"

"Office, please."

Robyn nodded. "Let me finish with this patient –" She tapped a file in her arms. "And then I'll be with you. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty."

He tried not to be the terse, unapproachable figure he'd apparently become in the eyes of most of the team. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She was uncomfortable, standing in front of his desk, that much was clear. He balked at the thought of having become a Clinical Lead who could not be relied upon to be level-headed and fair. His circumstances external to the ED shouldn't be dragged in: it wasn't for the rest of them to shoulder the stress of Sam being away, nor was it their business that she'd suddenly gone silent.

Dylan took a breath. "I wanted to apologise to you, for the way I spoke to you earlier," he said. "I didn't realise it at the time, but I was too harsh with you, when you hadn't done anything to deserve it. It's not for you, or anyone else, to bear the brunt of my stress. I'm sorry, Robyn."

She nodded, taken aback by what he'd said. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I appreciate that." The office was silent for a moment, before they both heard the red phone. "I'd better go," she said, turning to the door.

He returned to the marina just as it was getting light. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, to close down the day and forget the undercurrent of worry gnawing at him. But something made him check the post – he hadn't checked it the day before and maybe, just maybe, there'd be something other than a bill or a flimsy piece of junk mail.

The little pile of envelopes wasn't encouraging. Bills and junk mail, as expected, plus a couple of Christmas cards that he wasn't in the mood to open. And finally, at the very bottom of the pile, a blue BFPO envelope. His knees almost gave way in pure relief, and he trembled all the way back to the boat.

Dylan forced himself to do the thing properly, to light the log burner and put the kettle on to make a hot drink before opening it. She'd reminded him so many times that he was to look after himself properly while she was away, not to sink into bad habits. Perhaps in the period of silence he'd let a few things slide. Her loose handwriting brought a lump to his throat – she was there, she was alive, and she was safe. Relatively.

Dear Grumpy,

I didn't mean to leave you so long without a reply – I'm so sorry to have worried you. Things have been difficult in a way none of us could have imagined. The usual – untreated dislocations, raging infections and wounds that won't heal. And then we lost one of our doctors to sepsis, out of the blue. He went downhill so quickly, we just couldn't get the drugs into him fast enough to make a difference. He was twenty-six, how is that fair?!

None of us could call his family because our tech is locked down so tightly to keep us safe, so we were back to the bloody dark ages, writing letters to his mum and his girlfriend. Right before Christmas too. He was meant to get married in the summer. I've never cried on tour, before. I wanted you beside me and I found myself counting out the days remaining.

There's snow on the ground and you'd think everyone'd be grumpy from the cold, but it might just be me, letting things get to me. One of your letters mentioned little moments of joy, and they do exist despite the gloom. Ukrainian kids singing Christmas carols as they build a snowman in the refugee camp. A delivery from the Red Cross – a whole crate of blankets, socks, gloves, hats, jumpers. Kids falling asleep warm, for once. The bar of fruit and nut you sent, thank you. You brighten the darkest days.

Love always,

Sam