Higgins flatly refused to transfer the unidentified bandaged patient back to the ward, leaving her in ICU for the night; and under the bandages was a pretty little girl's face, though with her tongue cut out and such a mess in her head that she was put on tomorrow's neurosurgeons' surgery list. Neal's or Clark's, Emily doesn't know, but Riley let it slip that Clark's second nurse is still looking.

Somehow Johnson isn't at all surprised by this – with the way she treats people like her, a neurosurgeon risks not having a nurse at all.

BOOM!

For a second, there is a continuous silence in the corridor, with no room to breathe in; and then someone turns on a fast-forward, and a barrage of sounds falls on the nurse's head.

The rustle of scattered sheets, the soft rustling of a robe, the sharp clatter of heels and the plastic thumping against the floor.

And as Johnson bends over the scattered papers, muttering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," her brain does go back a second, aptly displaying an image of Emily clawing her shoulder as she walks toward Clark. She had yet to manage to run into a single person in a wide, empty hallway…!

The world against her, definitely; and Clark is at the head of it.

The neurosurgeon doesn't even bend over, looking at Emily cowering below as if she'd just crushed a cockroach:

– Johnson, maybe you should get some glasses.

– I'm sorry. – Emily straightens up, somehow gathering her papers into one disheveled pile. – I'm sorry.

Clark is so close that in the cold light of the lamps Emily can see the scattering of moles on her collarbones and barely visible freckles on her shoulders – where the collar of her gray blouse ends. The neurosurgeon is only half a head taller than she is, and those centimeters probably add to her heels, so Emily, who had previously thought Clark was tall for some reason, feels her lips stretch into a smile: she finds this fragility cute as hell.

Apparently Clark runs out of words for this insolence, because she continues to stare at the nurse in silence, waiting for further developments.

Emily notices a shiny plastic rectangle at her feet and quickly, in one swoop, picks it up off the floor. Black embossed letters stand out clearly on the white background: "Lorraine Clark, neurosurgeon.

Lorraine, then.

Now that the distance between them is less than twenty centimeters, Emily can clearly smell lemon (that's what hand sanitizer smells like) and a bitter coffee scent; and Dr. Clark, who had seemed like Satan to her, is taking on more human characteristics.

– Again, I'm sorry. I was just wondering… Oh," she only now notices another folder in Clark's hands, "that's from Thirteen, isn't it?

Emily doesn't expect an answer. Her question is rather rhetorical – the numbers are written in black bold marker, it's hard not to see; especially Clark was operating on one of the patients in the room, she probably wants to make sure that everything goes well…

But the neurosurgeon suddenly exchanges anger for mercy and answers in a completely calm, casual tone:

– We want to take another look at the scans. I'll leave the charts with the nurse on duty when I leave, so you can pick them up tomorrow morning.

– I've got overnight duty tomorrow…

Clark's lips curve into a semblance of a smile:

– Good luck.

She walks away so fast that it seems as if she can hear the air parting around her. Emily silently escorts her gaze to the skinny figure of the neurosurgeon disappearing out the door, and sighs.

The sun in her pocket flashes with hope for a second – and then goes out at once.

There is no one in the thirty-thirteen except her two wards. Both Doe are asleep, the lights above their heads dimmed, only the staff call button flickers brightly, and the barely audible, monotonous beep of the pulse oximeter breaks the silence.

Emily carefully takes out a blank form, squinting in the half-light, takes readings; trying not to wake her, she barely audibly moves around the room, adjusting the blankets and closing the blinds; picks up the dirty cups, checks the room temperature; finally, puts the completed sheets back in a large hanging file.

And walks out without looking back.

* * *

Duty shifts at Royal London Hospital differ from night shifts in that there is not even a hint of rest. Every junior staff member goes through another round of hell at least once a week, scurrying around the waiting room and helping with incoming patients.

This is Emily's twentieth time, and as she changes in the locker room, she mentally (and proudly) calls herself a veteran – even if it's little reason to be proud of herself, the nurse is happy: the busy night promises to be productive, thought-provoking, and unrelaxing.