DC Emerson Kent pulled his dark grey overcoat tight around his body as he stepped out into the street. The warmth and noise, the very lives of the punters propping up the bar, all faded away as the pub door swung shut behind him.

"Come here, you." The dark-haired woman in front of him turned round to straighten his lapel. "Just talk to him, yeah? He loves you - any idiot can see that."

"We do talk, Erica. He just clams up when we touch on anything to do with his feelings."

"Just your typical bloke then," Erica joked.

"He's hardly that" said Emerson, a small smile momentarily skipping across his face.

"True." Erica enveloped Emerson in a hug and kissed his left cheek. "Now don't leave it another three months before we have dinner together again. Shall I send your love to Finlay?"

Narrowly avoiding the faux-annoyed tap of Emerson's hand on her upper arm, Erica released him from her embrace. She glided away down the street towards the bus stop, pausing only to buy a copy of Big Issue from the vendor a few feet away. A quick glance at his watch told Emerson that Joe would probably still be at his desk, where he had left him a couple of hours earlier with Miles, collating evidence for an upcoming prosecution. Emerson sighed heavily, his breath visible in the air like cigarette smoke. He and Joe needed to finish their conversation from earlier, though that was something he could happily put off a while longer. He should have known that bringing up the idea of marriage would cause Joe to panic, he being a man who struggled to verbalise his emotions at the best of times. It had been difficult enough getting him to agree to them buying a flat together.

Emerson began to trudge back in the direction of the station. With any luck, Joe would be nearly ready, and they could travel back home together. The air was heavy with mist – it was on nights like these that Emerson particularly felt the weight of all the history of Whitechapel. It was almost enough to make him want to fork out for one of Ed Buchan's tours. Not tonight though. Tonight, all he wanted to do now was get home and curl up with Joe, assuming they could get past this latest obstacle. He manoeuvred his way past several other pedestrians, at one point being compelled to dance a sort of quickstep around a raucous hen party. At another time, he would have enjoyed people-watching, observing the tiny details that make up the vibrancy of life in the district: the elderly gentleman crossing the road swearing like a trooper at the bus drivers, the person behind him wearing a hoodie whose headphones were regurgitating music that Emerson thought he recognised from 'The Blues Brothers' film, the group of young men walking towards the East London mosque for Friday prayers.

As he rounded the corner, Emerson started to feel a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He shifted the material on his coat to cover more of his exposed flesh, but the uneasy feeling remained unabated. During his time as a copper, he had developed a bit of a sixth sense about being observed, and he recognised the symptoms now. It was the same feeling he had had just before being attacked by the "Krays". He spun around on the balls of his feet to look behind him, but he could make out nothing untoward. One street light was flickering on and off sporadically, blinking in the night like morse code. Emerson shrugged and continued his walk. Yet something was still off. He reached into his breast pocket and extracted his mobile phone, swiping right to unlock it. Joe's number was pinned on the home screen, like a beacon. He shoved his left hand deep into his pocket to keep it warm while the other held the phone to his ear. It took only three rings before it was answered.

"DI Chandler"

"Joe, it's me. I'm on my way back. Are you still at the station?"

"Em," Joe's voice sounded fatigued. "Yes, we're nearly finished here. How was dinner?"

"Great. Erica was on top form." The scars on Emerson's rear were tingling now. He looked over his shoulder again, thinking he saw some movement in the shadows. A shop doorway stood to his left, offering a temporary shelter. As Emerson withdrew, the hooded funk-music fan passed him, catching his eye with a nod.

"Listen," said Emerson, his words a low hum. "Can I get a lift back with you? - I don't fancy getting the tube tonight."

"What's wrong?" He spoke a perfect fifth higher than usual. "Where are you now?"

"Nothing's wrong." Emerson hoped that Joe couldn't hear the echo of apprehension in his voice. "I'm only a couple of minutes away. Will you wait?"

"Of course I will," said Joe. "Come up to my office."

"I will. Look, about what I said earlier. I didn't mean to…"

Joe interrupted. "I'll see you shortly."

"Oh. Alright. I love you."

"I… um… You too," muttered Joe.

Emerson couldn't help the wry smile that twitched one corner of his mouth following Joe's muted expression of affection. It did bother him, sometimes, that Joe appeared unable to say those particular three words, as if there was an unbridgeable crevasse between what he meant and what he said. Emerson appreciated that opening up had always been hard for Joe – he would just have to continue offering what he could until Joe was ready to bridge the chasm himself. Releasing his phone back into his pocket, he drew out from that same recess a well-worn folded piece of paper hidden within the covers of his appointment diary. He read the words upon it quickly, fluently, his expression relaxing

He stepped back onto the pavement, scouting down the street behind him on the lookout for his unwelcome companion. He could see no-one. He shook himself, deciding that he was just being paranoid. He had been a bit jumpy ever since their flat had been broken into three nights earlier. Nothing had been taken – Joe had disturbed the intruder – but it still felt like a violation.

The hen party sashayed round the corner at the far end of the street. Several of them were tracing figures of eight on the ground with their feet as they attempted to walk. One step forward, two steps back.

That sounds like a metaphor for something, he thought.

He shifted round to face his direction of travel, when he felt something hard and cold pressing into his left side.

Joe exhaled the tight breath he had been unconsciously holding. He really did not want to resurrect their aborted discussion. He never seemed to be able to find the right words to make Emerson understand what he was thinking. His fingers lingered over the photograph of Emerson on his phone as he hung up the call. In the image, Emerson's eyes were thoughtful as he leafed through a thick book. His dark hair, wayward in the breeze, framed his head like a curly halo. He sat underneath a tree, the sunshine dappling through the leaves onto his face. Joe wasn't much of a photographer, but he felt that this was one of the best snapshots he'd ever taken. It had been a few months before, in the summer, when Emerson had persuaded him to bring a picnic over to Green Park on one of their rare days off together. They had spent an hour or so in Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly – Emerson had wanted to find the next Game of Thrones novel – before strolling up the road to the park. It had been their lucky day. There were plenty of deckchairs available to sit on – Joe didn't think he could have coped with sitting directly on the ground, even with Emerson's thick green picnic rug knitted by his gran. Joe had then presented Emerson with his own book purchase.

"For you," he had said, placing the volume on Emerson's lap.

"The Complete English Poems by John Donne," Emerson had looked quizzically at him. "Are you trying to educate me or something?"

A gentle laugh had escaped Joe's throat. "No, I just… I thought you'd like it. He says what I don't seem to be able to."

Emerson's frown had taken on a mischievous glint. "I thought John Donne's poems were all about sex?"

Lost for words, Joe had looked down at his knees to avoid Emerson's grinning face. He hated how awkward he always felt when it came to talking about feelings. His throat had seemed to have descended into his chest cavity, while his stomach had felt like it was both melting and boiling at the same time.

He had cleared his throat. "Just read the poem on page 188."

Emerson's smirk had faded as he flicked through the pages.

"The Good-Morrow?" he had said, looking at Joe.

Joe had nodded and Emerson had begun to read, first silently, then under his breath. The last stanza he had read aloud, his eyes cloudy as the sentiment became clear.

"My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres,

Without sharp north, without declining west?

Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die."

"Knock, knock"

Joe hurriedly locked his phone and raised his head to see Miles entering his office.

"You not going back to your love nest yet?"

Joe blushed. "Em… Kent is on his way here. We're going soon."

"Well, don't keep him up too late," teased Miles. "Kid needs his beauty sleep."

Miles, through his own brand of waggish humour, had proven to be a great support for Joe and Emerson. He had eased their transition from being simply colleagues to an established couple with a grace and encouragement that defied all appearances. Joe suspected that he had been instrumental in preventing Mansell from making too many vulgar jokes in the Incident Room.

The older policeman placed a print-out of an email on Joe's desk.

"This has just come in, Sir. Update of prisoner releases in the area. Only three this week," he glanced down at the page. "Er… Frank Brown, Will Bousfield, Kerry Upton."

"Thank you Miles." Joe filed the report neatly in the appropriate place.

"Well, I'll be off then, Sir," said Miles, turning to leave.

Joe swallowed hard, his Adam's apple wedged in his throat. "He asked me to marry him."

Miles stopped walking so suddenly that he nearly overbalanced. Regaining his footing, he slowly turned to face Joe, a look of mingled disbelief and delight animating his features.

"Well, not exactly asked. He told me to think about it. He says he doesn't want to spend his life with anyone else."

"You say that like it's a bad thing?"

"It's not a bad thing. I just… I can't. Standing in front of people and making vows. The very idea terrifies me."

"It wouldn't have to be a big do, you know. Just the two of you, the registrar and a couple of witnesses."

Joe reached for his tiger balm. "I know, but he… he deserves more. And I just can't."

"Have you told him this? Maybe he doesn't want anything more than that."

Joe grimaced and lowered his head to the table. "The conversation wasn't exactly what you would call a success."

Miles sighed, and lowered himself creakily into the leather chair opposite Joe. "You'd better tell me what happened."

The afternoon sun had already started to fade at half two that afternoon, not that much daylight ever penetrated the dank corridors of Whitechapel CID. The atmosphere in the Incident Room was as dulled as the sky outside as the detectives performed various mundane tasks to put their latest case to bed before handing over to the CPS. Joe, sitting in his office, looked out at his team through windows that were fuggy with vapour or dust, he was not sure which.

If it is dust, he thought, I'll be having strong words with the cleaning contractors tomorrow.

The only movement in the room was Mansell attempting to throw a paper aeroplane at the back of Emerson's head. The tiny missile glided forwards a few inches before spinning wildly and crash landing on the floor. Mansell looked up guiltily and, catching Joe's appraising look, rapidly retreated into his paperwork. Joe took that as a cue to return to his own work. He could feel the beginning of a tension headache in his temples. It really was very stuffy in that office.

"Sir?"

Joe's head jerked up at the hushed sound in his doorway. Emerson stood, leaning against the doorframe, file in hand.

"I've finished cross-checking our timeline with the witness statements, sir. It all matches up."

Joe thanked Emerson for his hard work and diligence as he would any other of his team. They had agreed long ago that, while at work, they would be DI Chandler and DC Kent, no more no less. They had become very adept at compartmentalising, keeping their private lives in a locked box far removed from their professional selves. However Emerson was often much better at finding the key to that box.

"Joe… while it's quiet, can I speak to you for a minute?"

Startled by the use of his first name, Joe splayed his hands on the desk and tensed his fingers. His headache was getting worse.

"I am quite busy actually, Kent," he said.

"Please," Emerson moved to shut the door. "It won't take long."

As Joe gave a hesitant affirmative, Emerson sat down. His limbs, Joe noticed, were unusually active. He was compulsively lacing and unlacing his fingers, and a light tapping sound under the desk suggested that his feet were restless also.

Emerson took a deep breath. "The break-in at home… it's got me thinking. If something happened to one of us, we wouldn't have any legal rights. I mean, you're not my next of kin in the eyes of the law. If I… you know… my half of the flat would go to Erica. You might end up having to share with Mansell!"

Joe scowled at the prospect of flat-sharing with the man who was at that moment scratching his head with a spoon. "I would have thought it would be easy enough to arrange so you can leave the flat to whomsoever you wish?"

"OK, that may be true," Emerson said, running his hands through his hair. "But you still wouldn't have any rights as next of kin."

"What's your point, Emerson?"

"I think we should… what would you say to making this… us… more official?"

Joe's level of discomfort had risen to previously unknown heights. He couldn't feel his feet anymore. Some part of his brain, the part that wasn't pounding in pain, was convinced that his chair was floating away with him sat in it.

"Um… well, we could go to see my solicitor about updating our wills if you want. I'll phone her tomorrow morning and make an appointment for next week."

All of Emerson's body ceased its fidgeting at once. He leaned back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. He looked deflated, vulnerable. Slowly, he sat up and leaned forward. The only sound was the bass squeak of the leather chair.

"Don't you get it?" he said, softly. "I want to marry you."

Joe was utterly unable to breathe. He heard a roaring in his ears, which he was positive did not come from the ancient air-conditioning. Emerson's dark, infinite eyes held onto Joe's and refused to look away. Eventually, after several moments, or perhaps only a few seconds, Joe broke the gaze.

"We can't talk about this now, Kent," he said, shuffling the papers on his desk into precise order.

Emerson blinked once, his already pale visage turning deathly-white, although the set of his jaw was determined.

"I'm not suggesting it just to get around legalities. I wouldn't do that to you." His voice was vibrato. "I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can't imagine wanting anyone else."

The throbbing in Joe's skull felt as though his head was trapped in a vice. He feverishly wished he was elsewhere. He did not want to be having this conversation at this moment, wholly unprepared as he was for the tsunami of thoughts and feelings that were crashing over him. He was not floating in his chair after all, he was drowning.

"Joe?" Emerson prompted. "This isn't a proposal. Not if you don't want it to be. Just, please, think about it?"

Joe could find no response.

"For God's sake, Joe, say something."

There was a stifling pause.

"You'll need to make sure your case investigation report is on my desk before the end of the shift." Joe turned back to the paperwork on his desk, massaging first his temples then the bridge of his nose. Emerson's whole frame sank in on itself, like a mass fallen from a great height.

"I just don't think I'm the marrying type," said Joe, steadfastly refusing to look up.

Emerson's right hand reached over the divide between them. "You weren't the relationship type two years ago. Now look at us."

The fingers on Joe's hand twitched towards Emerson's for an instant, then retracted. His face closed, sealing off the turmoil he felt within.

"Make sure the ballistics report is included. That's going to be pivotal in making the case."

Thus dismissed, Emerson saw himself out of the office with a mumbled "Yes sir." Joe's eyes followed him as he toiled back to his desk.

Joe finished relaying the scenario to Miles.

"So you just sent him away?" Miles shook his head.

"What could I do? He took me completely by surprise. I didn't know what to say."

"Well, are you?"

Joe gazed helplessly at Miles. "Am I what?"

"Going to think about it."

"That's what I am doing, Miles."

"I don't just mean coming up with a list of reasons not to. You owe him the respect of considering it properly, not closing yourself off with excuses. He definitely deserves better than how you spoke to him before. Haven't you thought marrying him might be the best thing that ever happens to you?"

"Of course I have," snapped Joe. "But I've told you. I can't do it."

Miles breathed out heavily. Joe could not tell whether it was in frustration or resignation.

"Do you love him?" he asked sternly. He barked a laugh as Joe's face began to resemble one of the carps in his pond. "No, don't answer that, it's obvious you do, even if you'd never admit it. Just do yourself a favour and try thinking of all the reasons why you should do it."

"What sort of reasons?"

"Well if nothing else, it'd give Judy an excuse to buy a new hat." Miles' flippancy signalled that he was running out of patience. "Just don't be a bloody idiot."

Both men jumped as a shrill, falsetto clangour resonated throughout the office. Miles recovered first to answer the telephone. Joe rotated his wrist ninety degrees to look at his watch. It had been nearly twenty minutes since Emerson had called.

Miles hung up. "Come on, sir, we've got to go. There's been an incident on Commercial Street. Uniforms are on their way. We'll be quicker walking."

Joe seized his greatcoat from the back of the door and strode after Miles. "What sort of incident?"

"Suspected shooting."