30 minutes earlier.

This woman is the bane of my existence.

"So, anything else I can help you with today Mrs Goldman?" I ask, clasping my hands together on a polite smile. Mrs Goldman's snarkiness always makes me overly polite. As does nerves. And I feel nervous, on edge, an anxiousness hovering over me that I can't explain. As though my body is trying to warn me to prepare for something. But what? I have no interviews coming up, or dates - definitely no dates - but my ribcage still feels like it's filled with panicked birds all the same. Maybe I've just had too much caffeine.

Mentally I count how may steaming black mugs I've consumed today: 4 average sized mugs. Too much, but average for me so it can't be that. My body's used to dealing with far more cups of coffee than that. It feels like either something really bad or really good is going to happen, and soon and I'm going to be unprepared to deal with either. I don't deal particularly well with the unexpected, I never have. I like plans, and neatly ordered diaries.

Mrs Goldman isn't helping - my most trying patient and a busybody of epic proportions - she comes to me purely to back up her own theories about what's wrong with her because she already knows it all. Clearly I'm getting better at dealing with her though because I haven't had to count to ten once since she came through the door.

"No, Doctor, I think that's all. Although, I should say that the last time I called I had to wait almost 10 days for an appointment. 10 days! I mean anything serious would have killed me by then wouldn't it?" she says accusingly, as though it's my own personal fault that waiting times in England and Wales are way beyond unacceptable. She stands and peers down at me through hard grey eyes. I stand too. She makes me feel less like a silly little girl when I'm level with her.

"Yes, that is a while. Waiting times are still a challenge for us," I tell her in what I hope is a diplomatic tone. "You know that's partly why we started the drop-in surgeries. The waiting times can vary so much - its good to have a bit of flexibility," I nod. She purses her lips into a thin line, her deep hyacinth lipstick standing out bright against her powdered skin and gives me a little admonishing smile as she starts toward the door.

"Yes well... Should I just make my appointment for the nurse with Anna?" she asks as she slips her prescription inside her sturdy leather handbag that looks like a weapon. Instinctively I move to the other side of her, away from it.

"Yes that'll be fine, I'll walk you out," At least if I walk her out I might have a chance of getting home by 9pm. "I'll call you as soon as the bloods come back - please try not to worry," I tell her quietly as we walk towards the empty waiting room. Anna looks up from her post behind the desk and gives me a thoughtful knowing smile. "Anna if you could make an appointment for Mrs Goldman for Jane for sometime that suits that would be great," I turn to Mrs Goldman and smile, trying not to look as exhausted as I feel, "so I shall see you soon, and by that time we will know much more," I nod. "And if Bill's headaches persist please ask him to call and make an appointment. As you know I do a late surgery twice a month, and Monday I do house calls so I could pop by and see him at home if that's better suited,"

"Yes, Doctor, thank you. I will. I've told him it's because he's taking too much on at work, and at his age you know? I've always said that company will be the death of him. You couldn't persuade him to think about giving it up could you? Say it's bad for his health or something?"

I laugh softly. "You really think he would listen? Anyway, Bill's in great shape, he runs, plays golf and looks after his heart," What I'm actually thinking is that living with this woman must be aging him rapidly but I just continue to smile instead, head tilted to the left in understanding. And anyway, we don't choose who we love do we? Mr Goldman's soft jovial manner must contrast perfectly with her prickly abrasiveness. It must. There have been stranger pairings I'm sure, though I'm struggling to think of any right now.

"Is Monday 15th at 9am okay for you Mrs Goldman?" Anna interjects. I take this as my opportunity.

"Ok, I'll see you soon" I touch Mrs Goldman's arm in gesture and head back to my office.

As trying as my appointments with her always are, a part of me looks forward to them because she reminds me a little of my Aunt Audrey who I really don't see enough. Who, when I do see is always trying to set me up with someone of "good blood". Good blood to Aunt Audrey I think is Oxbridge educated, polo playing and working in bonds. All at once I remember why I don't see her enough.

Back in my office, I pull up my files for the next morning on the screen and have a glance over them. My mornings always tend to go easier if I know what I'm coming in to, and if I have it planned out. Nothing unexpected. Tomorrow morning looks good and I'm already thinking about a hot bath and cold glass of wine when I hear a soft knock on the door before Anna pokes her head in.

"I swear, I don't know how you put up with her on a bi-weekly basis. She's torture." She rolls her eyes.

"She's not too bad once you get used to her. Plus, its only once a fortnight now." I look up and smile, closing down the open files in front of me. "It's Bill I feel sorry for. Every day for 35 years - I'm lucky considering,"

Anna giggles, "Yeah, I suppose but still. I don't even know why she comes here when she knows the answer to everything already anyway,"

I shrug, "Reassurance. It's what most people come in here for." Of course I totally agree with Anna but it would be unprofessional to share that.

"Oh sorry Alex, I need to stop insulting the patients! They pay my wages and all that. Just been a long day." Anna rubs her forehead and looks guilty.

"Oh it's ok, I get it. Trust me. You guys get all the fun out there," I smile sardonically. I don't envy the receptionists at all. Abuse, complaints, demands from stressed patients. I have it easy by comparison. "So, any plans tonight?" I ask to change the subject. "Is Lee at home?"

"Yeah but I wish he wasn't," she huffs.

Anna and Lee fight more than any couple I know. Not about anything big from what I can tell, just big fights over nothing. I think it's cute if I'm honest. Small cute fights over dishes and laundry sound rather comforting to me in fact. Ben and I had never fought over that kind of thing. Ben and I had fought rarely. Which looking back should have been a sign. Even at the end it wasn't a fight. It was a kind of exhausted surrender. I think couples that don't fight just don't care enough - they're the ones who've just stopped paying attention to each other.

"Oh really?" I try and hide my smile. "What's he done now?"

"Oh he just drives me mad Alex! Honestly it's like I'm speaking Swahili for all he listens. Selective hearing I tell you. And the dishes, I swear I'm contemplating throwing out every plate and getting paper ones instead, otherwise I'll be washing dishes every night until the end of time. I mean is he allergic to washing up liquid or something?" she sounds exasperated but not angry. I laugh and shake my head at her.

"Men do tend to avoid washing up like the plague. I don't think it's a Lee thing. Maybe just get a dishwasher?" I offer and she giggles. "Anyway, why don't you get off home now. I have a few bits and bobs to finish up here and then I'm right behind you. No point in keeping you back. Has James left already?"

Anna nods. I'm not surprised. When he does the late shift with me he's always out the door with his last patient. But then he has a family to get home to so I don't begrudge him that. I only have a cat and a wine rack to get home to.

"You sure? I don't mind waiting, help you lock up?" she asks.

"Honestly, I'm fine. I can manage. Get home to Lee. There are probably some dishes that need doing anyway." I smile.

"Ugh. That's funny because it's true!" she groans but then laughs.

Anna leaves and I go back to my desk to finish writing up today's notes and send a few emails, including one to my sister in California. I haven't spoken to her all week. God I miss Tash. I miss talking rubbish to her about men, and clothes and why the hell Keira Knightley would get her hair cut like that. I really need to go visit her soon.

Just before 8:30pm I shut down my computer, lock my office door and check all of the appliances are switched off in the small staff kitchen. My brain is exhausted, and my body feels the effects of a 13-hour shift too. If this is what two monthly late surgeries does to my body then I think I'd have lasted a month in A&E before having a breakdown.

I also haven't eaten since lunchtime - my loaded bagel and double shot American can only do so much. Though looking at my watch, it's clear a quick sandwich is all I'll be able to manage when I get home. Much too late to cook any sort of well-balanced meal. My main focus is on a warm bubble bath and cold glass of wine - yes, that's the thought I'll hold as I drive home.

Just as I'm turning out the lights in the back office a loud obnoxious banging bursts out from the front door making me jump out of my skin. It's a fierce insistent pounding which freezes me to the spot momentarily.

"Anyone in there? We need help!" It's a man's voice. Loud and urgent like the pounding. Finally I move toward the door and pull back the blinds to have peek at where and whom the noise is coming from.

The two men are crowding the vestibule of the doorway, one bending forward holding his arm to his shoulder, or maybe his neck, and the other looking at me with wide insistent eyes. I only hesitate for a moment and it's because the first impressions aren't entirely reassuring - they look suspicious, dangerous even. But as my eyes go back to the slouching one, and I see the blood seeping through the fingers clutched at his neck, I unlock the door.

"What happened?" I ask, stepping back, gesturing for them to come inside.

"You a doctor?" The shouting asks me in a rough east end tone. He looks warily around the reception area. He's tall and well built and has a mean angry cast to his face. I dislike him immediately but I still look him over to see if he's hurt anywhere. He doesn't appear to be bleeding from anywhere that I can see. Then I turn my eyes to the bleeding one who looks to be in a far worse condition. He's well built too but not bear-like like the angry one. He's just strong and muscular, and would be several inches taller than me if he wasn't slouching over.

"Yes I'm a Doctor. What happened?" I repeat. When no answer is forthcoming I usher them further into the main waiting area, "Okay, well I can have a look at it as soon as I call an ambulance." I say, moving toward to the reception desk.

"No. No ambulance." the wounded man chokes out. The sound of his voice and his words cause me to stop and look back at him in shock. What the hell is he he talking about - No ambulance?? His head is turned away from me so I can't see what the look is that passes between him and his friend. When the friend looks at me again there's a look of warning there now.

"No ambulance. You said you're a doctor - so help him." He commands with a cold tone that seems to dare me to argue with him.

I look at the bleeding one whose head is down and decide that getting them out of here as fast as possible is now my number one priority. I don't have time to argue the point. He's clearly lost a lot of blood and we don't keep an endless supply of type O in the surgery in case of emergency admissions. We don't keep any supply of type O.

"Sit there, on the table - I need to get some things," I say forcefully, hoping my voice sounds calm and professional and gets across how against the lack of a 999 call I am. Also for some reason I don't want them to think I'm afraid of them. I take my cotton scarf off and press it to the man's wound as a temporary measure. The man who still wasn't looking at me.

"Hold this here, hard." I instruct the mean one.

"No calling anybody. No coppers, no ambulance, no one. You fucking hear me?" He grunts. I narrow my eyes and nod in response. No I really don't like that one. Quickly I head to my office to get my bag, and some antibiotics from the locked cupboard. As I come back out I hear them speaking in hushed tones to each other, which stop as I near them.

I take a seat next to my new patient and relieve his friend from pressure duties. His dark blue hooded jumper is utterly soaked in blood down the front and left arm. I glance up to his face but only catch a bit of profile; he looks pale from blood loss and he's sweating but he looks fairly relaxed about the whole thing. Like it's an every day occurrence for him to be stabbed in the neck. Who on earth are these people that this is normal for them? Hitmen? Spy's? Murderers? An involuntary shiver goes through me. No, I can't assume that they are murderers. Though as I glance up at the friend again who's watching me intently, I decide that he could most definitely be a murderer. Okay Alex, focus here. Get them out of here.

I lift my hand to get a closer look at the wound, which on close inspection looks like a half hearted slit to the front left hand side of his shoulder, almost in the crook of his neck. Fortunately, his shoulder is heavily muscled and it looks like the knife has come up against this instead of anything important. I should be able to patch it fairly easily and get them out of here. I hope. As soon as the bleeding slows a little more. Please slow a little more. Soon.

"When did this happen?" I ask him. He doesn't answer me but he flicks his eyes up to his friend.

"What the fuck does that matter? About 15 minutes ago," The mean one snaps.

I nod. "With what?" Another look passes between them.

"A kitchen knife." Aggressive creep says. I nod again and look back to the wound. A sharp non-serrated kitchen knife by the looks of it.

"Was it clean?" I hope for his sake it was clean.

The mean one throws me a look that questions my intelligence. Then shakes his head.

"The fuck should I know?" He asks.

Christ I hate him. I bite my tongue hard and nod, focussing back on the wound.

"Okay. I think the bleeding is slowing. And I should be able to stitch it, but I'm going to inject you with this - its just an antibiotic to prevent infection," I tell him. Which means I'm going to have to stick a needle in this guy. Great. At least it's not the other one though. I would not like to be sticking anything in him. Though since the one next to me does not give off the same murderous intent it makes my task a little easier. I feel less afraid of him than the other one and I have absolutely no basis for this. He just feels less dangerous to me somehow. Foolish Alex, foolish.

I flick my eyes up to his profile again. His hair is a kind of sandy brown that I imagine lightens in the sun, and he has long thick eyelashes which stand out against his smooth tanned skin. He has a faint scar across his eyebrow which almost looks like its been done on purpose it's so perfectly shaped. He's young-ish and attractive-ish, from this angle anyway.

Neither of them says anything else and the dangerous one takes out his mobile and starts to make a call. I wonder briefly if he's changed his mind and is calling an ambulance but I only hear more hushed tones as he turns his back on us. I pad the wound with some bandages and count to thirty before checking the blood on the pad.

"Can you hold this for a moment?" I ask my patient. He doesn't look at me but he brings his right arm up to hold the pad in place. I have million and one things running through my head, like who are they, why is someone trying to kill this one, why doesn't he want me to call an ambulance, or the police even though someone tried to kill him? I try whilst I'm shift slightly to see more of his face, but he keeps it turned away from me so that all I can see is his youthful profile and full lips. He's wearing a thin hooded jumper that will have to come off to get in to the wound properly. Our hands graze as I take over the holding of the pad once more replacing it with a cleaner one. It's definitely slowing. Thank god. I should be able to stitch and pad it.

"I'm going to cut away your top now," I tell him quietly. He doesn't respond but when my hand touches him he flinches as though in pain. Of course he's in pain Alex, he has a bloody hole in his neck.

"I can get you something for the pain if you need it," I tell him. He doesn't respond straight away but then he turns his head and looks directly at me.

Oh.

My breath catches in my throat and the room seems to heat up. His eyes are strange mixture of green and blue and his gaze is very.... Heavy and intense. Not what I was expecting. Not sure what I was expecting. He's looking at me with confusion, or maybe surprise but with absolutely no menace. There's no danger there.

Immediately the dull sharp sense of fear that had settled on my spine fades and is replaced by something softer and warmer. Something I don't really understand. My stomach also feels a little fluttery but since I'm not afraid of him I don't understand that either.

"No thank you." he replies in a soft deep tone. His accent is a Londoner - probably east end - almost cockney but not quite. As though he might be cockney but he's trying to mask it. I quickly scan the rest of his face. His lips are full, very full, and pink and slightly wet. As I stare at them he licks them and I realise that his tongue has made them wet. Why does that thought make me feel strange? And hot? His nose is perfectly straight and his tanned face is peppered with dark stubble across his jaw and around his mouth. As I drink him in I linger on that small white scar across his right eyebrow that adds something dark to his dangerously handsome face. I feel heat flood my cheeks as he continues to stare at me with glittering green inscrutable eyes. I've been looking at him too long, and by the looks of it, he's noticed.

I turn my head away and focus back on the hole in is neck. I ask him to hold the pad again as I begin cutting away his blood soaked jumper. He's still looking at me; I can feel him. Staring. Why is he staring? I need to focus. Suddenly, I'm unaware of nothing else in that moment other than the sound of my scissors cutting away the soaked cotton of his top, and the feel of his eyes on me as I do it.

As I guide the scissors up his arm my hand skimming his skin, it feels hot to the touch and as his top falls away I see the hairs on his arm stand on end as the air hits it. When I get beyond his elbow I see the start of a spread of black tattoos on his upper arm - a hypnotizing combination of swirls and shapes and lettering which continues all the up his arm and across his shoulder round to his back. As my scissors reach the top, he shrugs out of the now shredded jumper baring his muscular back and shoulders. I swallow hard. His neck and shoulders are smooth and muscled and I feel warmer looking at them. I need to look away. I need to be more professional.

I glance down and take the pad from him, relieved to see that the bleeding has all but stopped. It's been a few years since I've had to stitch anything human, and I really hope to god my hands are still steady. His eyes are on me again as I bring my hand up to his neck, wiping the wound clean with an antiseptic wipe before stretching on a pair of gloves. Why is he still staring so hard? Maybe he doesn't trust me not to hurt him. Maybe I'm not coming across as a professional? I straighten my spine and purse my lips into a calm, focused (professional) line.

"I'm going to give you a local. It should take the sting out of this." I tell him in my most professional tone. He doesn't wince this time as I plunge the needle into the smooth thick skin of his neck, but neither does he stop bloody staring. Have I got something on my face? I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck as I edge closer to him. Then I smell him. Good god. He smells of heat, and a little sweat which certainly isn't in the slightest unpleasant. It's pure masculinity. It floods into my nose and makes me feel a dizzy. Focus Alex for Christ sake.

I take a deep breath, and bring my hands up to tilt his head up and away from me. I swear I feel him push against me for an instant, resisting, before finally letting me turn his head. I pick up my needle and insert it gently into his flesh. He doesn't flinch. He just closes his eyes and relaxes his head as my fingers work slowly and steadily against his warm skin. Unlike mine, his breathing is even and relaxed as I knit the hole back together.

Thankfully, my sewing skills seem to have been mostly retained. I guess it's like riding a bike. For minutes I watch my pale long fingered, awkward hands close the ugly hole someone has made in his smooth golden skin. The room is silent and I almost forget completely that me and my patient aren't completely alone.

When I finish and lean up from his body space, he turns and gives me another one of his long intense stares. I want to tell him to turn back around because I still have to bandage him, but no words come.

"What's happening? He going to live?" His friend says gruffly, breaking the strange tense silence.

"I'll live. She's good." My patient says without looking away from me. A small smile begins to spread across his face and it makes my mouth dry up. I move back into him and lay the small white bandage gently across the stitches, smoothing it out with my hands. All the while my patient watches me, while his friend watches him.

When it's secure, I lean back and stand up. "That should do it." I tell him in a strange, alien voice as I snap my gloves off. "And I know you wont like this, but I strongly suggest you visit the hospital and get yourself looked at properly."

"Didn't you just look at me properly?" His mouth twitches. I feel my cheeks flame. Is he being suggestive? Is he flirting. Surely not.

I nod, professionally. "Yes, I did." I say and he smiles. Yes, that was definitely flirtatious. It makes my cheeks even hotter. The fluttery feeling in my stomach also intensifies. "But you have lost a lot of blood and I'm not sure if you have any other injuries you've failed to disclose so you should get checked all over, as a precaution." I finish.

"Yeah, well I don't really like hospitals. Or Doctors. Normally," He says, standing up. I try really hard not to look at his bare toned upper body as I take in the full sight of him for the first time. He's tall, taller than me, and his body is incredibly well built - not that awful body builder type way - just exceptionally muscular in all the right places. He looks fierce and dangerous. His hair is a sandy brown mop on his head. He looks about my age but holds himself with a mix of confidence and self assured cockiness you normally only see in older men.

His friend comes to help steady him as he stands but he needn't have bothered because my patient suddenly looks remarkably well. Remarkably well? Am I seriously ogling the wounded, half naked, probable criminal? Pathetic Alex.

"Well," I tuck a hair behind my ear, "I would still recommend you visit. If not tonight, then tomorrow, oh and I'm afraid you'll have a scar." I gesture to the bandage on his neck. I feel apologetic, as though I bear some responsibility for it but he just shrugs as though he couldn't care less. His gaze holds mine as his friend slides his own light jacket around his bare shoulders.

"I'll give you some dressing to take with you and I recommend looking at it again in a couple of hours. You should change it when it needs doing - probably every few hours - and it's imperative that you keep it dry and clean for the next few days." He's staring at me but he looks miles away as he stretches out his hand to take the dressing and bandage. He's looking at me as though he knows me from somewhere but can't remember where. I feel strange and exposed, and a little warm by that look but I still can't seem to look away. "Is there anything else you need? Some water?" I offer.

He doesn't get the chance to answer because there's a loud banging on the door. Again, I almost jump out of my skin. What the hell now? I couldn't take another bleeding man tonight. My eyes go wordlessly to my visitors.

"It's ok. That will be our lift." My patient says softly. The tone is comforting and reassuring from his soft mouth. "Mate, get that will you?" he says to his friend who obeys immediately.

When we're somewhat alone he takes a step towards me so that we're only touching distance apart. Closer than touching distance probably. Okay yes, he's definitely handsome. In a kind of deadly, commanding way (is that even a thing?) but he's not my type. I would never go for a guy like him. In fact I'm pretty sure I would avoid a guy like him like the plague. Why I'm conversing with myself about his boyfriend potential I have no idea.

He wipes his hand, back and front, on his jeans and then reaches out his hand to me. As he does a small quirk appears at the side of his mouth, like he wants to smile but is holding it back. I wonder what he looks like when he smiles because he has a nice mouth, a really nice mouth - I imagine it would look nice when it smiled.

Unable to stop myself, not really wanting to, I reach out and take his hand. His touch is hot and his hand large and slightly rough against my skin. He doesn't shake it, he just holds it gently while he stares at me. Yes, I definitely feel too hot when he's staring at me. It must be nerves, nerves at this bizarre unsettling situation.

"Thank you Doctor...." He says politely, leaving the gap for me to fill it with my name. When it's clear I'm not going to he just nods and releases my hand, "Ok, so I guess we'll be off now. Sorry to have kept you so late," His politeness sounds forced, as though he isn't used to being polite.

I decide then that his face is probably more beautiful than it is handsome. Beautiful but with an edge. An edgy looking model or actor. I need to stop this. My eyes go again to his mouth, which with the slightly wet lips is so alluring that they make me wonder what it would be like to be kissed by hit. By that mouth. By him.

"Good to go. Ready? Can you walk ok?" The mean one says coming back over. I have to blink a few times to re-engage my brain.

"I'm good," My patient says absently. He stares a moment more, giving me that strange confused look again before he looks down and moves slowly toward the door. He's still slouched slightly but is moving far better than he was when he came in.

When he gets to the door he stops and turns to look back at me. I think he's about to say something else, maybe issue a warning for me to keep this to myself, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. He just stares at me through slightly narrowed eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek deep in thought. Finally, he nods. As though he's made a decision about something and then turns and goes out the door.

When I hear the car drive off outside, I release the breath I've been holding since I opened the door, and sit down and put my head in my hands.

Good god, I really need to put an end to these late night surgeries.