Fault Line

I made a resolution to follow up this year's Silent Witness series with post-eps for each double episode. No idea how this is going to go, will depend on my workload when I get back to uni, but this week I have no excuse.

Post-ep for A Guilty Mind. For some reason I love writing Silent Witness in 2nd person. Edit: To just generally mess with POVs.

Harry:

You've got your coat and scarf on, but you're still sat at your desk, swinging idly a few degrees back and forth, running your right hand over your face, deep in thought.

You're almost edgy, to have her not within your sight right now, after everything that's happened. You know she's just changing out of her scrubs, you know you'll intercept her on her way out – you know Naomi Silverlake is locked up, you know Nikki's just finished stitching up Jason Bodle's chest on her table – but you wish your eyes wouldn't have to leave her face. Not after what you did.

You left her with a murderer.

The accusations you throw upon yourself ring through your mind, and you feel your stomach knotting, twisting, as you remember the ease with which you left Naomi to watch over Nikki, you remember how nonchalantly, how easily you handed over her flat keys, left her sleeping, left her unprotected, left her alone. You remember the panic, the bile rising in your throat in the car, how you were ready to scream at Leo, scream at anyone, how you'd known in that moment that if something had happened to her – if something had happened to her on your watch – you'd never be able to forgive yourself. Nothing would be the same.

You were also pretty sure that if someone, anyone, Naomi Silverlake notwithstanding, had laid so much as a finger on her, you wouldn't be held responsible for your actions.

She's making too much of a habit of this. Too many times now you've felt your heart racing, the nausea creeping its way through your body, your brain jumping to every worst possible conclusion, because she's in danger. It's like… it's like you can't let her out of your sight without something happening that sets your pulse racing, brings that blinding fear.

You know, in those moments. Quite the extent of what you feel for her, behind your friendship, behind your joking, behind every excuse you've ever told yourself.

You shouldn't have stopped to think about this. Your guilt is choking, your carelessness almost scalding. The fear in her eyes when you came back into her bedroom, the unrelenting shake of her limbs as you held her in your arms, the way she pressed her face into your neck, reminding you of a frightened child. That she'd been wrapped nothing but a sheet, vulnerable and terrified, makes you feel slightly sick.

You're human, and though it's the last thing from your thoughts right now, somewhere in the recesses of a mind you've trained to not think of her in that way, you've imagined being in that bedroom with her undressed in your arms for other reasons. With a tiny jolt you remember her lips brushing yours, the way your heart raced, her fingers on your face. But her shaking with fear, curling into you like that… the horror, the realisation, how tiny and unprotected she looked in those moments; you don't think that will fade from your mind.

Julia, hanging from the floor above. What if that had been Nikki? You hadn't had time to think that then, you'd heard Skip shout his partner's name whilst your mind was still blank, but the blood hadn't stopped roaring in your ears until moments after you heard her words.

Harry, I need you.

You've heard them before, but not called out in such desperation, with the slightly wild tone you'd been hearing in her voice all week.

The panicky, shallow breaths hadn't stopped until you'd sat beside her outside the ambulance, until you'd reassured yourself that there was no harm done, not really.

None of this will happen again. It can't happen again. You can't watch her break down like this; you can't see that look in her eyes. You'll keep her a little bit closer, from now on – not enough that she'll notice, just enough to keep her safe – you'll make sure she's all right.

"Harry?" her question is light, gentle, but you start anyway, as if surprised by the intensity of your own thoughts. She's standing in the doorway, out of her scrubs, standing a few inches taller in her heels, and with her hair curling loosely around her face she's as beautiful as ever, but only one thing attracts your attention – a small smile on her face, one you haven't seen in what seems like weeks.

"Nikki." You counter, and you surprise yourself when your voice manages its normal, offhand tone.

"Are you finished?"

You look down at yourself, noting the coat and scarf for the second time. Then you meet her eyes, and you smile.

"Yes, actually. Should be halfway home by now…"

That elusive smile stretches a little, and this time it reaches her eyes, along with something else, along with a slight apprehension, if you're reading her right. (And you are, you can't remember now when you couldn't interpret every tiny shift in those eyes.)

"I could use a drink." She says, taking a few steps across the room, lifting her bag from her desk, keeping her eyes on you, "You coming?"

She doesn't need to ask twice.

Nikki:

You are sat on a stall at your tall corner table in the bar, and Harry's walking towards you with the drinks (12 year old Scotch, large gin & tonic), and you can't quite read the look on his face. He slides onto the stool opposite yours, setting the glass down in front of you.

"Your drink, madam." You smile. He takes a long sip of his whisky and then his eyes meet yours, and they're serious this time, more so than they've been since you left the lab, and you're suddenly frightened. Not of Harry, never of Harry, but of the brutal honesty you're prepared for when he asks too many questions.

You open your mouth, start to say something, but he speaks before you've found a way of deflecting him.

"How are you?" he says, and it's a little too low and breathy to just be a pleasantry, and he shouldn't look at you quite like that when he's saying it. You don't even consider pretending you haven't understood his inflection, you know him too well, so you let the smile stay on your face, as much of a real smile as you can manage, hoping to reassure him.

"Much better, actually, after Bodle's PM." You say, suddenly looking down at your hands, your right wrapped around the glass, your left flat on the table, small and pale. You take a drink. "I know it's not the kind of justice we're supposed to want, but – this feels like I can finally close it."

He seems to understand your meaning because he doesn't question you any further, and his hands moves slightly, as if he's contemplating reaching out to touch yours, but he thinks better of it.

"There's some kind of justice in it, that's nothing to feel guilty about." He gives you a small smile. "Are you taking the SSRIs?"

You feel a dry chuckle in your throat. "No. Decided… decided maybe the depression I had needed an outcome in this case, rather than medication."

The look he gives you is ambiguous again, and you both silently take another drink.

"The little girl, though it's stopped hurting so much to think about… I think she's one of the ones I won't forget."

This time his hand moves, hovers over your own for a moment before closing over it lightly, his fingers slipping halfway into the gaps between yours. You don't know where to look, all of a sudden, his skin burning against your skin, his eyes burning into your eyes. You settle for staring at your joined hands, how large his are, almost obscuring yours entirely.

"I'm sorry, Nikki." He breathes, and there's a catch to his voice, and you're surprised, when you meet his eyes, to see the darkness in them, the set of a worried frown on his face.

"What-"

"I left you with her." He interrupts, his voice barely steady, "I shouldn't have left you."

With her, you think, or at all? But you say nothing, turning your hand and sliding your fingers through his. Something about the look in his eyes suggests maybe he's remembering what you're remembering, now the case is closed, now Bodle's dead – the feel of his lips against yours, however briefly, his arm burning around the bare skin of your back, how small you managed to curl up in his arms, how safe he suddenly made you feel.

"It's all right." You manage, "You couldn't have known."

He gives you a tiny smile, tightens his fingers with yours. "That's not it; though," he says, "You were… you weren't… I ought to have stayed, made sure you were all right. I should have made you let me in that night, I should have…" he stops for a moment, looks out the window, seems to gather himself. "You were on your own, Nikki, and you shouldn't have been."

If his words take you by surprise, it's nothing to when he reaches out a runs a finger so lightly down the side of your face that you shiver, as he tucks a curl behind your ear.

"What am I going to do with you?" he murmurs, "You're always getting yourself into trouble."

His hand leaves your face – its absence is cold. "I do try to avoid it."

A small smile touches his lips, fleeting. "You terrify me, Nikki."

Your eyes flicker to his glass, wondering if he's been secretly swigging something else, because this is the Harry he rarely lets you see – the intense stares and the low, quiet voice are usually reserved for when he can't get a handle on his emotions.

"I'll try to behave in future." You say, and he laughs, and lets go of your hand, leaning back against the wall, lifting his glass and draining it, the smile back on his lips and the light back in his eyes.

The moment fades into obscurity.

Harry:

You've both had three, maybe four drinks when you help her slide her coat over her shoulders to leave, so everything's warm, but nothing's quite hazy yet. She wraps her scarf around her neck and your hand – seemingly of its own accord – reaches out and tenderly unhooks some of her hair from underneath it, your fingers running through it for one moment too many.

She takes your arm, tucking her gloved fingers around the crook of your elbow as you both leave the bar, walking close enough that you can almost feel her. The silence is serene, despite the occasional car, the conversation murmur of a passing group of people. She doesn't say a word, but she leans in and rests the side of her head lightly on your shoulder, and your breath catches, the way it always does when you let yourself pretend for a second that this moment might be the moment that changes everything. That your relationship might begin its inevitable (you hope) shift.

"Thank you, Harry." She whispers.

"For what?"

"For this evening, for the other day, for worrying about me."

As you look down at her she smiles up at you, and you're increasingly aware of the vicinity of her face.

"I always worry about you." You murmur back, and you were hoping it would sound slightly teasing, offhand, but instead, in sounds nothing if not sincere, and her smile falls a little.

"I'm all right now, you know." She says lightly, resting her head on your shoulder against, wrapping her other hand around your upper arm, bringing herself even closer. "You don't need to be on depression watch or whatever."

You raise an eyebrow. "Can't a guy walk a girl home once in a while?"

She doesn't say anything, but you know you're both thinking – nothing about that sounds like just friends.

You walk in silence until you reach her door, and she releases your arm (you feel the loss acutely) and searches through her wildly disorganised bag for her keys. She produces them with a little victorious smile in your direction and you're reminded of how adorable she is, and without thinking you catch her shoulders in your hands, squaring yourself to face her, eyes meeting.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" you ask, fixing her with a stare, determined to uncover anything she's hiding. You won't leave her hurting, not again, not even if she wants you to.

"I will be." She breathes, her breath clouding in front of your face, and all in one moment her hands cup your chin and her lips meet your own.

Everything implodes.

Nikki:

Your heart is thumping; you can hear your pulse in your ears, and he tastes salty and of whisky and one of his hands moves from your upper arm to slide around your waist, drawing you closer.

You're regretting it the moment your lips meet, not because it's not all you expected, not even because it's not what you want to be doing, but because you know you'll have to pull back, you know you'll have to apologise, and blush, and hope to hell you haven't ruined everything the two of you have built.

You press your lips against his fiercely, the only way you can seem to thank him for everything, to reassure him your moment of volatility has passed, and then you pull back, stepping clean out of his arms, leaving him stunned, eyes closed.

"I'm sorry-" rushes out your mouth before you even have time to censor your words, "-I'm all over the place right now, I'm… I…" he's looking at you and why can't you read what's in his eyes, "…pretend… pretend that never happened… I'm sorry, Harry, I haven't – I haven't been myself… I-"

"Will you just shut up?" he says quietly, betraying nothing on his face.

And then he steps forward and kisses you, wrapping his arms around your waist and shoulders, pulling you taut against him, tongue snaking over your lips, hand curling in your hair, cupping the base of our skull.

You don't know how long it lasts, this dance you've both rehearsed but never taken to the stage. You find your hands linking behind his head, you find your knees giving slightly, you find yourself backed against your front door.

It scares you, slightly – you're not sure anyone's ever kissed you before quite like he's kissing you now – but you don't pull back, you don't run.

All you want is for this not to end.

He pulls back, eventually, and rests his forehead against yours.

"Now she shuts up…" he pants, blinking for a long second.

You feel a smile break across your face, the first real smile in days, and you let out a tiny laugh, craning your neck slightly to press a hardly-there kiss against his lips. You keep one hand curled in the hair at the nape of his neck as you fumble with the key, opening the front door to your flat, the two of you stumbling back slightly.

A slight frown furrows between his eyes. "We should talk." He breathes, as if saying anything louder will break some kind of spell.

You shake your head, finding one of his hands with your own. "We don't need to, not now," you whisper, kissing him again, lightly.

He gives you a questioning look for a moment and then a tiny smile, drawing you closer into his arms, your whole body pressed against his.

"Come inside?" you laugh, and he laughs, and you tug him inside, by the hand, letting the door close silently behind you.