***

The next morning she woke up, feeling rather odd. She climbed from under her duvet, and suddenly the room spun around her. She grabbed the corner of the headboard and steadied herself. It took her a few seconds to understand that she was probably running an extremely high fever. She hadn't been ill for more than seven years, so she hadn't immediately recognised the strange ringing in her ears and the overall sensation of being properly sloshed. Her throat felt normal, and there was no rhinitis. She just felt some sort of nervous energy run through her, as if buzzing under her skin, and all colours were jarringly bright. She realised she'd gotten Elisa Short's flu - or to be more precise, Rhys' flu.

She carefully sat down on her bed and picked up her mobile. She dialled and heard Fenton's phone ring two rooms away from her. She suddenly remembered it was five o'clock in the morning, but for some reason it seemed nothing but funny, and she snorted.

His phone rang for a few seconds, and then she heard his disgruntled raspy, "Yes?" in her mobile.

"Alan?" Viola asked. Who else do you think it would be, Viola? Considering the appreciative looks you've caught the good doctor throw at your arse, there is hardly a chance there's another male in his bed. Viola snorted again.

"What– Viola? What the sodding hell? Are you–"

She assumed the doctor sat up, considering a throaty groan, and Viola had to bite into her bottom lip to suppress inappropriate laughter.

"Alan, I'm sick," she said. "I think I have the flu. And– Well, unless you've redecorated my room overnight, I might be hallucinating. I see– flowers."

"Flowers?" he repeated slowly. "Wait– you've caught the flu that's been going around."

"Yep," Viola said. She knew her merriment wasn't exactly her normal disposition, but she just couldn't find anything wrong with it! "And there are flowers on my walls! Like wallpaper, but 3D, you know?"

"Do you have a thermometer in your room, Viola?" Fenton asked.

She could hear he'd gotten up and was now moving around his bedroom. He seemed to be pressing his phone to his shoulder with his cheek, because his voice droning his instructions seemed funny - he was probably pulling on his trousers - and then he'd dropped the phone on the floor. She heard a muffled swearing, and she burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Alan– Alan– Alan!" Viola finally managed to interrupt Fenton. "You need to take care of my patients."

"You are now my patient, Viola," he grumbled.

"Except you still hadn't had this flu, and apparently the shot does nothing against it," Viola pointed out. She rubbed her bare soles to the cold floor. They felt almost itchy - and then she realised her whole body felt unpleasantly tingling, and she dove under her duvet. "Just pack me all the meds and leave them under my door with a tray, please."

"Viola–" Fenton was clearly going to argue.

"Alan, please, we can't have both doctors in the surgery drop at the same time. What will the public say?" she said - and a daft snort finally escaped her.

"Who gives the sod," he muttered, and then finally agreed to make her a 'goodie bag' of pills.

Viola had enough energy only to shortly thank him and to hang up.

***

She wasn't sure how long she was asleep. She thrashed, a half-sob, half-moan bubbled in her throat, and she jerked the duvet off her burning body. The remnants of her nightmare lingered, sticky and repulsive, like spider web one accidentally catches on one's face in a dark attic. She wanted to get up to splash cold water on her cheeks - and to pick up whatever pharmaceuticals Fenton had left for her - but it felt as if she couldn't remember how to move any of her limbs. She stared at the ceiling, and then squeezed her eyes. Surely, there were no blue and yellow pansies there. Suddenly, she felt endlessly sorry for herself. See, Viola, that's what happens when you choose to be all by yourself - you end up all by yourself.

She seemed to have fallen asleep again, because when she opened her eyes, she could see sunlight dance on the outside of her curtains. She stretched her hand to her bedside table to grab her phone and remembered she didn't have a bedside table. She had had one - in her flat with Hani. It had been four years.

She found her mobile under her pillow, and it took an immense effort to focus on it. She saw three missed calls, two from Fenton, and one from Mable. It was hard to hold the phone above her head, and she stuffed it under the pillow against - and then she remembered she was going to check the time. It didn't matter, to think of it, and she closed her eyes again. The phone was now buzzing under her head, and she frowned, fished it out without looking, and then threw it on the floor near the bed. The last sliver of professional judgement told her she needed to hydrate and that her temperature was probably still rising, considering the joint ache that had started - and she rolled on her stomach and pressed her face into her pillow.

Get up, Viola. Get up, and make your way to the door. It's just a few steps.

She hooked her fingers to the top of her headboard and pulled. C'mon, Viola, no one will do it for you. Pull yourself together. Tears boiled in her eyes - and she immediately regretted that she let them spill. The headache rammed into her temples like two hammers. You aren't a child, Viola. Get up. No one is coming to save you. You need to reduce the fever. She pressed her other hand into the bed and rose, gritting her teeth. A sob quaked her body, and she told herself to stop being such a baby. Stop whinging, and be an adult. If you worked harder on your recovery, you wouldn't feel that manky right now. You're a failure. Take the meds, sleep it off, and make sure no one sees you in this state. Her therapist tended to speak of her 'negative self-talk' at least once during each session. She rose on all four, still holding on to the headboard, and then sat down, kneeling. Every muscle in her body shook.

The floor scraped at her burning soles like sandpaper. It took three attempts to pick her mobile up and put it in her pocket. When she finally made it to the door, it was as if she'd run a marathon again. The handle felt ice cold under her palm, and she turned it and started opening the door. She had to lean her shoulder against the doorframe to stay upright. She looked down at a tray on the floor. She saw two water bottles, a couple of thermoses, probably with tea and some clear broth, and a few of white paper bags with medication. She was pondering the mechanics of lifting the tray - and somehow not crashing down with it - when she heard raised voices from the kitchen.

Rhys.

The men were clearly arguing, and somehow Viola just couldn't care about any why's and how's.

"Rhys." She could hear that there was no volume in her voice. She pressed her temple to the cool doorframe. "Rhys..."

She pushed her hand into the pocket of her pyjama top and pulled out her phone. Her eyes, even when closed, were burning, but if she just blindly pressed buttons, chances are, she'd ring up her hairdresser.

Just lob it along the hallway. Someone is due to look out.

"Rhys," she tried again.

She needed to go back inside, away from Fenton. And she needed the tray. She struggled to untangle her thoughts - like earthworms in a warm puddle - trying to remember why it was OK to call Rhys.

"Bloody hell!"

His voice boomed shockingly close, she jolted - and he caught her just before she slumped on the floor. His scorching hard body was everywhere. So close. Safe... She realised he picked her up and carried her back in. She pressed her nose into the side of his neck.

"Shit, Vi, you're so hot."

"Take it off," she rasped out and cringed.

"Just– A mo," he muttered and lay her down on the bed. She made a displeased noise. "Just a mo, alright, love? Let me get the tray."

He was gone for a second, and she whined and lifted her shaking hands to the buttons on her top. She could do nothing, of course. Her fingers hurt so much that tears once again ran down, sliding into the hair on her temples, since she was on her back.

"OK, OK, let's get you something to drink," he said. She felt his hand slide under her shoulder blades, and he made her sit up. "Bugger, Vi, you look scary."

Her eyes flew open. Failure, failure... 'You look scary.' Failure.

"I don't– What are you doing here? I didn't ask–" she said, and her lips twisted in a distressed line. She then wobbled ahead and pressed her face into his shoulder. "Don't leave..."

"Don't be daft," he grumbled, peeled her off him, and leaned her against the headboard.

She sobbed and pulled at the collar of her shirt. "Take it off."

"Wait– I will. Just a mo," he said, unzipped his jacket with a jerk, and quickly threw it on the floor.

"No!" she cried out and sobbed desperately.

"What?" Suddenly his attentive blue eyes were right in front of her, and she made a whimpering noise. "I can put it away. Sure, sure, just don't cry," he mumbled and wiped off her tears with his thumb. "C'mon, love, just don't cry, alright?"

She grabbed his hand and buried her face into his palm. "I don't– don't care about your stupid jacket," she sobbed out. "My pyjamas– stick to me– It's real silk."

"OK," he said and then gave out a chuckle. "Blimey, Vi, not how I imagined– Nevermind."

"Just get me–" She pointed towards her wardrobe. "There, in a drawer–"

He rose, and she could hear his bang wardrobe doors and opening drawers.

"Vi? Vi?"

She opened her eyes with difficulty.

"These? Something like that?"

He was holding three assorted pieces of clothing in his hands, and it took her a moment to realise he was holding a satin chemise, a top of a yoga set, and a thermoshirt in his hands. She shook her head.

"I'll tease you for this– later–" she mumbled. "Look for something that looks like your tee."

"OK," he answered with a doubt in his voice.

A minute or two later he finally succeeded and put her favourite modal loungewear dress near her. It was soft, sleeveless, and was longer at the back. She tried to unbutton her top again and moaned.

"The interphalangeal– MCP– I mean, the distal and proximal–" she started and then lifted her hands to his nose. "My fingers hurt," she whined.

Her took her hands into his, kissed them a couple of times, and then gently put them down on her lap.

"Alright, I'll unbutton you. Just change yourself, please," he said with some strange intonation. "If you can."

She nodded and closed her eyes. The seams on her pyjamas felt like razors on her skin. She felt his feather like touches on her collarbone, then her sternum, and then her stomach. As soon as the last button was open, she dove under her duvet and started pulling her clothes off. She felt the bed rock, he'd gotten up.

"There are instructions from Fenton here, and–"

Viola stuck her hand from under the duvet, and he put the dress in it. She pulled it in and squirmed and wiggled getting into it. She did it and then just collapsed under the covers. Immediately, she felt better - and cold. She whimpered and curled into a ball.

"Vi." He touched her shoulder through the duvet. "You need to take your meds."

She stuck her head out and tried to focus her bleary eyes on him. He handed her the pills and a cup of something warm. She took them obediently and then lay back down and closed her eyes.

She felt him pull her pyjamas from under her, and she blindly batted her hand and caught his wrist. There was no strength in her hand, but he didn't move away and enveloped her hand with his long, calloused fingers. Oars, she remembered.

"Stay," she whispered, "Please?"

She felt the weight of his body near her - and then the mattresses bobbed because he moved over her and behind her, spooning her. She'd meant sitting with her - but she now thought his idea was so much better. She felt the tips of his fingers brush her hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, and she shifted back, pressing into him more tightly. She was asleep just a few seconds later.