This is set directly after S32 E12, aka the episode which has just aired, so if you want to avoid spoilers, please do not read any further!

It's a ramble and probably makes no sense, so I apologise in advance.

I don't want to die alone.

Part of Connie Beauchamp – and the larger part of her, at that – regrets the words she chose to use with her registrar in the car park. It makes her sound as if she's resigned to die, that there's no fight left in her whatsoever which is as far from the truth as anything. It's hard, harder than almost anything she's ever experienced, but she's never going to stop fighting. Even if she only fights until Christmas.

But more than that, she's made a tacit implication to Ethan Hardy that she is alone. She is; it's obvious that she is. Her daughter is on the other side of the world, and the one man who has meant anything to her since the dark days of Michael Beauchamp taunted her with the hypothetical image of their family, just to rip it away from her without as much as an explanation or a word of apology. For all her rhetoric of the department is my family, it's a loose stretching of the truth: her department has always been part of her family. Sometimes the greater part, sometimes the lesser. But it's always been a part of a larger whole – something which is no longer the truth.

Instead, she's in a situation where, for the first time in living memory, she feels as if she's well and truly alone. She would never have shared her situation with Grace, Lord no, but there's something about having a living, breathing dependant in front of you every day that gives you the urge to keep on living.

As she drives, Connie does her best to push everything out of her head. To clear it so that she doesn't have to think about the malignant tumour growing inside of her, the tumour which drops her life expectancy to a matter of months, if not weeks.

It doesn't work.

It never does.

She's always been too good at multitasking, at balancing the plates, not dropping the balls – her brain compartmentalises, leaving her to think about numerous thing at once. It's not always been a blessing, particularly with regards to Grace, but it's part of the reason that she's been at the height of her field for twenty-five years, and it's always been her greatest asset.

Now, all it means is that she can never push the thought of her impending death out of her mind.

Not even sleep frees her of these thoughts. The nightmares which plagued her sleep for the months after the crash have nothing on these. Seeing her own cardiac system in a three dimensional setting, watching as the life drains from her body – it's torture. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, there's nothing worse than knowing exactly what's happening to her body with every breath she takes, and knowing that her course of action is, statistically, the worst one she can take.

Because, for all her talk of statistics with Ethan, she knows deep down that this is the worst option she can take. No action will always be worse than taking a risk. But every time she comes close to even contemplating the idea of surgery, the image of Will Curtis on her operating table juxtaposed with the distraught face of his widow pops into her mind. She can't put Grace through that. She's already failed with regards to the majority of her responsibilities as a mother. She can't scar her daughter for the rest of her life.

Better that Grace thinks that she died accidentally, or of natural causes. She's probably old enough, and the Chase family history isn't exactly a story of longevity and perfect health. This is the one thing that she can do for her daughter.

It's for that reason that she's broken off her legal fight with Sam for custody. It already hurts every minute of every day to think that she'll never see Grace again – and yet that is a thousand times more preferable to imagining a scenario where she dies and Grace is the one to find her. Finding her mother's body scarred Connie more than she'll ever admit, and thinking of William Chase's body on a gurney in the hallway of an overcrowded Peckham hospital still causes her to lose her breath. No, better that she thrive in America. Let Sam be the one to tell her that her mother has died. For once, let her take her anger out on him, rather than Connie.

Almost without realising, she's driven out of the area of Holby in which she lives, instead heading towards the countryside. She's near to the place where she crashed on that fateful day sixteen months ago, the place which set in action a series of events which has changed her life completely. What if it had been her heart that had been hurt that day, she thinks idly; would they have picked up the tumour then? Or is it very much a new development since Grace's departure – very much the illness of a broken-hearted woman?

Impulsively, Connie decides to pull over on the viewing area not a hundred yards from where she plunged over the cliff. They've replaced the railing, she notes. Not that it'll do much to stop any car falling off. Her ruined Mercedes is testament to that.

As she cuts off the engine, the silence is overwhelming. It leaves her with her thoughts in a way that she tries to avoid: with no background distraction, there's nothing to distract her from the thought, I don't want to die alone.

Bitterly, selfishly, she wishes that she had died that August day, in the crash. She wishes that Grace had, too. That nobody had realised that they were missing, and that they'd still been in the car when it had exploded. That her maternal instincts to save Grace hadn't been there, and she'd wanted to let her daughter die. Things would be much simpler now, wouldn't they? There'd be no custody battle, no cancer, no power struggle in her department. Cal probably wouldn't have died either – that's yet another destroyed family that's down to her. Things would be much simpler.

Sam wouldn't have returned to Holby, wouldn't have broken things off with that lovely American he had brought the previous time. Or maybe he would have; he's been fickler with partners than she has since Grace was born. Perhaps he would have stopped resenting her, would have finally managed to reconcile the two halves of his opinions on her in his mind as he had stood over their caskets, ready to wave goodbye to the daughter he hadn't known he wanted until she came into existence.

She wouldn't have been allowed to feel something – anything – for the most intriguing man she's ever set eyes on, just to have it cruelly ripped away from her. She wouldn't have tried to be a family. Because things would be simpler. She wouldn't be here.

Unable to deal with her own thoughts, Connie wrenches her car key out of the ignition and opens the car door, stepping out onto the muddy ground.

It's cold outside, and she wraps her coat more tightly around her. She's struggled with the temperature recently; if she hadn't thought her staff would have noticed, she would constantly be wearing a scarf and three layers of clothing.

At the bottom of the cliff, there's no sign of where she fell. Where her daughter lay. She shouldn't be surprised, in all honesty. If there's one thing that the government has funding for, it's removing the signs of an accident.

She has no idea how long she stares at the bottom of the ravine. All she knows is that she stops when it gets too dark to make out the shape of the cliffs. She doesn't stop thinking, though. She can't.

There's something else in her mind now though. Ethan Hardy. For she wasn't truly telling the truth when she said that she's alone. Because, really, she isn't. He holds her secret and she holds his. It's a bond greater than almost any she's had in this Emergency Department, a place where the bonds are strong as long as you fit in but the moment that you show individuality, you're out.

He reminds her of herself, a long time ago. An unsure, fiercely intelligent and loyal doctor, who can't quite make out their place in the world. But he's better than she is. He understands guilt and regret in a far more humane way than she ever could. Before, anyway. Now, guilt and remorse and regret are her go-to emotions, the things that frame her daily life.

It's late, probably later than she thinks it is. Probably well beyond Ethan's finishing time. Not that she can remember; if there's one thing that's gone from her priority list recently, it's been the mundane administration of the department. But that doesn't stop her trying – trying to find a way to revive the brief connection, the fleeting spark, which suggested that, for once, she isn't alone.

She drives recklessly fast on her way back to the department. It's the first time she's driven like this since the accident, but she finally feels confident enough to do so. She's dying anyway. And if she were to die, it'd be even easier for Sam to explain to Grace why Mummy won't be coming to the lodge in Aspen for Christmas, wouldn't it?

"I thought you'd finished, Mrs B?" Noel says, sounding confused as Connie walks by the reception in her outdoor coat for the second time that day. "Could have sworn I saw you going out earlier?"

"I, er, forgot about a mentor meeting," Connie lies fluently, thinking off the top of her head. It doesn't take much to find the words; lying was second nature to her, once upon a time. "Have you seen Doctor Hardy?"

"Yep, he's in the break room!" Noel replies, his tone much more perky. Too perky for Connie's tired ears. "Should I page him?"

"Ask him to come to my office," Connie instructs, and turns on her heels. If only she could stop wearing these goddamn Louboutin shoes; perhaps then she'd be able to make it through a full shift. But there are already enough questions, questions that even three layers of foundation are prompting. Any sign of weakness, any sign which suggests that she's not her usual self, the vultures will pounce.

And then she will die alone.

It only takes a few minutes for Ethan to appear in her office, closing the door gently behind him. He's confused, she can sense that from his general demeanour, but the atmosphere is far from how it was earlier, when he came in to say he was going to confess. Not that she needs to explain herself to him, of course. He doesn't need to know how much she needs him – or how much of an influence his words have had on her.

"Noel said something about a mentor meeting?" Ethan decides to feign ignorance, and Connie has to applaud him. First the blackmail, then the measured efforts to make her talk. He's become her student far more effectively than anyone since Sam Strachan.

Snorting a little, Connie smiles, leaning backwards in her chair. Sitting down is more comfortable, but it's still not brilliant. She can still feel the difference in her breathing, in the way that the blood circulates around her body. All she needs is to forget what it means. But that's never going to happen, is it?

"I'm sure you're aware that there is no mentor meeting," Connie comments, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "What are you still doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Ethan asks. "I work here."

This prompts Connie to look at him, fixing him with an icy cold stare. "I don't appreciate sarcasm, Ethan," she replies, though the smile on his lips suggests that this is what he expected to happen. "I…is it cold in here?"

Ethan frowns. "Not particularly. Why?"

"Doesn't matter," Connie replies, deciding not to press the matter. Ethan certainly doesn't need to know about her clifftop visit. "I meant what I said earlier, you know. You could run this place. Not now…but in a few years."

"If I stay out of prison, anyway." Ethan's tone is light as he quips, but Connie can hear the undertone within it.

"True," Connie concedes. "But I thought that we'd agreed that you were going to stay outside jail?"

"I didn't realised that we'd agreed that," Ethan replies, frowning a little. "Unless, of course, you've decided to get treatment? I understand that Jac Naylor's very highly recommended – from people outside this hospital."

It's at this point that Connie realises how much Ethan has put into her case. He's not only pressed her at work, but he's researched her treatment options. Maybe, if she does die, she won't die alone. Not completely anyway.

"She should do. I trained her," Connie replies, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu as if she's said these words before. Which she has, she realises, to the private doctor. "How do you know…?"

"I did some research," Ethan admits. "And her success rates are almost unrivalled, except for…"

"Except for me," Connie sighs. "And I'm certain I can't perform this operation on myself. Not that I want the operation."

Taking a deep breath, Ethan shakes his head. "I think you're wrong. I mean, you wouldn't have come back to the hospital – not today, anyway – if you didn't want to talk about things. And if not with me, then with someone."

Ethan's far more astute than Connie would have ever given him credit for.

When Connie doesn't respond, Ethan continues. "Plus, you're not alone. And if you have the operation now, you'll have the chance to see Grace again. And…and Sam. You can see them both again. And you can live a long, happy life."

It's at this point that Connie snorts. "Happy?" Waving a hand around at her office, Connie laughs a long, bitter laugh. "I understand that life has been difficult for you this year, Ethan, but I would hardly call this happy. Unless you know something I don't, of course."

Blushing, Ethan stands his ground. "But it can be happy. I know that you've stopped fighting for Grace – and I understand, you have your reasons. But when you've had this treatment, you can carry on fighting for her. And I know you, Mrs Beauchamp. You don't give up. You'll win, for definite."

Suddenly, Connie's had enough of the conversation. She wants to hear his logic, of course she does. After all, why would she have consistently listened to him, to have instigated debates about her health, over the past few weeks? There's a part of her that's hoping that she can be persuaded by the presentation of the facts from someone other than herself – the logic that no treatment is always riskier than treatment.

"Well, I should let you get back to it," Connie says slowly, watching the expression on Ethan's face fall. "Or go home. You've got your exams to revise for, remember."

"I mean it, Connie." Ethan's voice is firm. "You need treatment."

"I know." Her voice is barely more than a breath, almost inaudible even to herself. "If Charlie's in, can you send him through please?"

.

It takes Charlie fourteen minutes to come through to Connie's office, and she'd just been on the verge of walking out and giving up and going home when he knocks.

"Sorry, it took me a while to get out of resus," Charlie says by way of explanation. "I thought you'd left hours ago. Did you forget some paperwork?"

She looks up from the desktop and meets Charlie's gaze without speaking, and immediately his expression softens. There's something so concerning about seeing tears in the eyes of Connie Beauchamp that would make even the hardest or most ignorant person soften.

Gently, Charlie closes the door, and takes a seat on the edge of the desk closest to Connie. It feels more natural, and makes her feel slightly more comfortable to talk.

"You know, you're not alone," Charlie begins talking when it becomes clear that Connie's input isn't forthcoming. "You might feel like you are – God you might feel as if you've hit rock bottom – but you're not. And you can tell me anything. You know that though, don't you, Connie? After all we've been through together…"

All being the various times they've saved one another's life or liberty, or one another's children. Though the debt is definitely on Connie's side, as always.

When she's still silent, Charlie presses on. "How bad is it?"

"Terrible."

"And what is it?"

Her head is fighting itself. She doesn't want to tell him, but she does want to tell him. She doesn't need his pity but she does need his counsel. And if he tells her what she doesn't want to hear – but what she also desperately wants to hear – then she'll think about treatment. Because her words earlier, I don't want to die alone, are still ringing in her ears.

She wants to see Grace grow up. She wants to go to more sports days and parents evenings and dance rehearsals. She wants to have the usual parent-child fights about their bedtime or whether they can go out with their friends.

She wants to have her own life. To find someone, if Sam Strachan never returns to her. Or at least to do the things that she wishes she'd done already. To return to cardiothoracic surgery and remember why she went into medicine.

She wants it all. And she doesn't want to die.

She doesn't want to die.

So she tells him.

I'm going to write another one of these 'post episode' fics, but that'll be Strachamp, so watch out!

Please let me know what you think, I live for feedback