In Sickness and&hellip Chapter 1: Part 1, a bridget jones' diary fanfic

In Sickness and…

Yet another speculation on a possible (near) future post-Thailand in EOR. I will only say that I tried very, very hard to not make this a giant cliché—I hope I succeeded. Please let me know if it didn't, and why.

Word Count: 33,400 in total (according to MS Word)
Rated: T/ M (for language and adult situations)
Note: While never as bad as, say, "ER", this story gets a little… medically-detailed at times. If that squicks you, hie thee away.
Special thanks to: Carly, who let the plotbunny loose on me in the first place, and who is practically a co-author. Mille grazie.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

Part 1

Friday

He kept asking her if she was all right.

She knew it was simply out of concern for her headache the entire drive from London to Wellesbourne. The pain had started to creep into her head as they crossed the outermost periphery of the city, and Bridget Jones had initially wondered if somehow her body was in some sort of withdrawal due to a lack of metropolitan pollutants. The return of her fingertips to her forehead again and again necessitated the first concerned query from Mark Darcy, but she dug out an ibuprofen tablet from her handbag, washed them down with some of the water in her bottle, smiled, and proclaimed she was fine.

Bridget wrote off the recurring nausea as nothing more than carsickness from the two-hour-plus drive. He asked about that as well when she wrapped her arms about her midsection several times, but she waved it off. Her back and calves were aching too, but she chalked it up to not being able to properly stretch during the length of the drive despite the roominess of his luxury car. In an effort not to draw more concern for no reason, she didn't think it important enough to mention.

He interrupted a mini-rant about her boss Richard Finch to point to a stately edifice at the end of the country road they were presently navigating just outside of Wellesbourne. When he told her this manor house was the one they were to stay in for the weekend it literally took her breath away, and her prior physical discomfort was consigned to oblivion. It was delightful, a purely perfect slice of English countryside lifted out of a period Merchant Ivory film, a fitting locale to host a getaway to celebrate not only a reunion but an engagement, complete with manicured grounds, moss-covered statues, leaded glass windows, draperies and wainscoting. And, she recalled from Mark's enumerated list of selling points, there was an on-site spa pool, steam room, sauna and salon.

After check-in, they and their things were brought to their room. Their suite was incredibly luxurious: a king-sized bed, a view of the lake, a private bath, very soft looking linens, and room service. The latter two were very important to Bridget, as she had a very strong feeling (if she had anything to say about it) they might be spending a great deal of time ensconced in linens and utilising room service. Bridget wanted desperately to make up for lost time now that she was back with Mark, and she hadn't been able to do much of that because he'd been so busy she'd barely seen him. He had so much catching up to do in the two weeks since she'd returned from Thai prison as a result of his globe-hopping, and she was so grateful to him for his hard work that she felt she had little room to complain… except that she did miss having him back in her bed. Terribly. Achingly.

But Bridget had more than just loads of shagging in mind—this was going to be a chance to really reconnect after the weeks they were separated. After their time apart, and especially after her experience in Thailand, she felt like a whole new person—responsible, poised, sensible—and she was determined to prove to Mark that she was a changed woman ready to handle their relationship like a mature adult.

As Bridget bounced playfully onto the bed to test its softness, Mark suggested an early supper in the glorious dining room. She agreed wholeheartedly, even though she wasn't feeling particularly hungry. He thought they should dress up for dinner—insisting of course that she looked beautiful just as she was but that dressing up would lend a certain sense of occasion—and with a smile she chose a pretty printed cotton summer dress and low white heels. When she emerged from the bathroom his face lit up with an appreciative smile, and, after kissing her, he extended his elbow to her to escort her to the dining hall.

They were finished with dinner and were waiting for the dessert tray to be brought around when the all-but-forgotten nausea returned to an extent that Bridget had to dash for the loo, aching calves and all—and thank God she located it in time, because the entirety of her gourmet meal came back to haunt her.

She cleaned up at the sink and looked at herself, feeling dreadfully embarrassed. She was there with the handsomest man on site and now she looked a perfect fright after losing her dinner: hair wild, face blotchy, eyes red. She dabbed at her mouth with a damp towel, patted at her face with powder from her compact, popped a breath mint into her mouth and reapplied some of her tinted lip gloss. Not perfect, she decided, but definitely better.

As she emerged from the ladies' room, she nearly walked into Mark, who had come to meet her outside the door. He took her by the waist and quietly asked close to her ear, "Bridget. Are you feeling all right?"

"Hm, yes, I'm fine," she said, combing her hair back with her fingers and cursing her unruly hair as it fell upon her cheek again. "I think I must have just eaten too much or too quickly, or had too much wine on an empty stomach. I'll be fine."

"If you say so." He brushed her hair from her face and held it back, then drew his brows together, releasing it. Raising the backs of his fingers to her forehead, he declared, "You feel a bit warm."

"I've just been retching into the loo. I'm sure I've worked up a sweat. Can we just go back to the room?" she asked, her tone a bit more defensive than she intended; she loved this man but sometimes he really was just the biggest mother hen.

Mark studied her more closely. "Have you been crying?"

"Why on earth should I be crying? I am the happiest woman in England right now." She reached up and kissed him.

He smiled one of his trademark patient smiles. "And I am quite possibly the happiest man. The only reason I asked was because of your eyes. They look a bit red."

"Probably from the puking."

He studied her closely. "If you're sure you're all right… would you like to take a walk on the grounds instead of retiring so early? It's a beautiful evening."

She beamed a smile, taking his proffered elbow once more, feeling for all the world like the mistress of Pemberley. "I would love to."

………

"Bridget. Bridget!"

It was Mark's voice, desperate and scared.

She opened her eyes and slowly her surroundings came into focus, but the location was all wrong. She was no longer strolling amongst the sun-dappled trees on a stone path; she was lying on the bed in their room and Mark was hovering very close to her. She tried to lift up her head but the world moved ninety degrees to the left, so she dropped back to the pillow.

"Thank God," muttered Mark, sitting upright, drawing his fingers across his forehead worriedly. She realised he looked terribly shaken.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice a mere croak.

He frowned, drawing his brows together. "You started acting very strangely out on the path, almost like you were drunk, so I brought you back here, got you to lay down, and you kind of came in and out of consciousness." He replaced the cool cloth on her forehead, then touched his hand to her cheek. "Darling, you are burning up. Why didn't you just say you were sick? We could have rescheduled."

She recalled the headache. At first it had felt like an average, run-of-the-mill tension headache, only it had gotten worse and the ibuprofen had done little to help. Then she thought about the nausea, which she realised upon reflection had been steadily building since their departure from London, and was the reason why she hadn't been hungry even though she hadn't eaten all day. Her eyes were feeling irritated and tired, but she thought it must have been fatigue, her body still readjusting to Greenwich Mean Time. And she did, in fact, feel weak and woozy and much better lying flat on the bed.

No. She couldn't, just couldn't be sick. Not for a mini-break!

It was, however, becoming more difficult to deny.

"Did you think I would be angry if you needed to cancel for being sick?" he continued. He was clearly trying very hard to reign in his irritation.

She pushed herself up on her elbows to emphasise her point: "Mark, I swear I didn't feel like this when we left this morning. I'm really sorry—I don't know what's wrong with me. Hopefully it will pass, and I'll be right as rain in the morning."

His temper seemed mollified and he reverted to mother hen mode. "You were just in a prison in Thailand; I'm not taking any chances."

"What do you mean?"

"A mate of mine from Cambridge practises out of Stratford Hospital. I've rung him up and he should be here soon. I've told him where you'd been, described your symptoms and he's got his suspicions as to what it might be."

"Why not just take me to his hospital?"

"I really would rather not put you in a car with the way you've been vomiting—"

"Vomiting?"

He blinked. "Three more times. You don't remember?"

Bridget shook her head.

"I've tried giving you ibuprofen to help with the fever but, well, they aren't staying down."

She felt like crying; her perfect little mini-break weekend with her perfect fiancé was shot to tatters.

He stroked her forehead before replacing the cool cloth once more. "The hotel staff were able to find a set of flannel pyjamas for you as you hadn't brought anything… suitable for convalescence." She swore he was smiling.

"I'm glad you're amused," she said petulantly.

He continued to look at her and she was immediately regretful for snapping at him. "I've really been looking forward to this too, and I'm very sorry you're ill, believe me." He went silent and looked at her a few moments more before he continued. "Well. Let's get you into the pyjamas so that when Hugh arrives he can take a look at you."

She sat up, fighting back the vertigo, and pushed back the sheets to find Mark had stripped her of her clothing. She could not hold back the tears any longer; Mark embraced her and held her close.

"I wanted to be naked and in your arms, but not like this," she said between sobs. She could only imagine what kind of struggle that had been for him, to undress her while she was loopy and feverish.

He ran his fingers gently along her back. "We'll get a proper reunion, I promise you," he whispered softly.

She was suddenly mindful of how close he was, and pushed on his forearms. "Oh God, Mark," she said as strongly as she could manage, "you should get away from me—I don't want to give you what I've got."

He pulled back, but not to flee from her, only to walk to the bureau to grab the pyjamas. "Bridget, if you picked up a bug in Thailand and you're infectious, I probably already have what you have," he said matter-of-factly. She realised he was probably right. They had spent the first night after the Peruvian conference madly shagging like rabbits before he'd had to return to working so hard. The memory of that night made her smile, but also made her sad, because it was unlikely any shagging would occur during this trip unless this Dr Hugh fellow had some sort of miracle cure-all.

He held up the ugliest set of men's blue-grey flannel pyjamas she'd ever seen. Even in her state she must have made a disapproving face, for he smiled and said, trailing off, "It's either this or the black lace camisole, and, well, I know which of the two I prefer, but…."

"I know," she said with a pout. He helped her to thread her hands through the arm holes, then buttoned up the top. He then held the legs of the pyjama bottoms up for her to poke her feet through, and she arched her bottom up so that he could settle the elastic at her waist. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and bade her drink from it.

"There you are, love," he said gently as he pulled the truly decadent linens up to her chin.

"Who'd have thought you'd be putting old man pyjamas on me and tucking me beneath the covers this evening?" she asked sadly.

He chuckled and kissed her forehead.

………

Bridget must have fallen back to sleep for when she next opened her eyes it was to the sound of Mark speaking, and another male's voice she didn't recognise replying. She turned her head, which caught the attention of the stranger. He was about as tall as Mark and probably just as old, with short, curly, greying light brown hair. The visitor smiled. "Looks like the patient is awake."

She managed a smile in return.

"I'm Hugh Carri, I'm a doctor, and I'm a friend of Mark's."

"He told me you were coming. Thank you so much; it's so late, Dr Carri." Honestly, she had no idea what time it was, but it must have been late.

"Please, it's Hugh. And it was the least I could do—Mark saved my bacon during my divorce. So." He grabbed a small black medic bag that he must have brought with him, and took a seat beside her on the bed, fishing instruments out of the bag's depths. "Let's see what's going on."

He looked into ears, listened to her heart and lungs and took her temperature—indeed feverish (almost thirty eight degrees Celsius) but not dangerously so. He also seemed to take a long time studying her eyes.

"How long since you last vomited?"

Bridget turned to Mark, as she had no idea. Mark supplied, "About an hour ago."

"Have you been drinking water?"

She nodded. A half glass, at the very least, so it wasn't entirely a lie.

"Good. You have to keep taking in fluids." He paused. "Mark tells me you were in Thailand?"

"Yes. I got back about a fortnight ago."

He nodded. "And I understand you were in prison there."

She was deeply embarrassed. "Yes."

"I'm not passing judgment, it just helps me to understand your circumstances and weigh the options, as far as what you might have." He smiled again, his blue-grey eyes crinkling; he really had a very kind bedside manner. "Is there anything else you can think of that I should know about?"

She suddenly remembered the muscle aches in her legs and back, realised they hadn't gone away. She told him.

"No diarrhoea? No unexplained bruising?"

"God no."

"Good, good. And no petechiae." As he reached into his bag again, he said more to himself than anyone, "Classic symptoms."

"Of what?" she asked, alarmed.

He pulled out, much to her horror, a syringe. "Leptospirosis," he said. "There's a special test for it, so I'll need to take a blood sample and run it through the lab to verify before we can get you started on the course of antibiotics."

"Blood sample?" she said shakily.

"I know you hate needles, Bridget," Mark said, "but we must know for sure."

She looked to Mark. He nodded reassuringly, looked relieved. Clearly the doctor had given Mark some possibilities and she hoped this meant it was the lesser of possible evils. She was so distracted by thoughts of Mark's mind being eased that when Hugh gently took her arm and drew a sample of blood she didn't realise he'd done so until the fine needle was being withdrawn.

"Excellent, Bridget. You did great." He capped the needle and placed it into a biohazard pouch. "I'll get this over to get it tested and we should know by morning if my suspicions are correct. You don't have any allergies to antibiotics, do you?"

"No."

"Are you—" He glanced to Mark fleetingly. "—pregnant?"

"No."

"Okay. Good to know. I've given Mark a thermometer to monitor your temperature. I'll call—"

Nausea roiled up in her and she realised she imminently needed to vacate the bed. "Mark? Loo. Now."

He jumped to his feet and practically carried her to the bathroom, where she did indeed vomit profusely into the toilet. How had he managed to get her to have perfect aim the past few times? And where was all of this stuff coming from?

As she resumed her place in the bed, she said, "I'm very sorry, Doctor. You were saying?"

Hugh smiled. "It's Hugh, Bridget, and it's all right. Perfectly understandable. I was saying I'll call in the morning with the results and we can take it from there."

Mark interjected, "If there are any outstanding costs for this, you are to bill me."

"Aye-aye, Captain," he said with a grin, saluting his friend. Hugh turned to Bridget. "Well, Bridget, it was very nice to meet you. I only wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you too. And ditto."

He turned back to Mark. "I'd ask you down for a pint in the pub but… well…." He grinned, looking back momentarily to Bridget. She felt terrible, chaining Mark to her side like this.

Mark took his hand and shook vigourously. "I can't thank you enough, mate."

"Well, like I said, you came through for me when I needed it." He picked up his bag and headed for the door. "I'll speak to you in the morning. Goodbye."

With that, the good doctor left.

"What was all that about?"

"All what?"

"'Aye-aye, Captain'?" She mimed the salute.

He covered his face with his hand, obviously mortified, but he was still smiling. Clearly keen to change the subject, he said, "Well, if Hugh's right, least we know I'm not infected."

She laid back down to the pillow, loved the coolness of it against her cheek. "How do we know that?"

"He told me earlier that leptospirosis is only transmittable through contaminated food or water, not human to human contact."

Mark and his friend must have had quite a lengthy phone conversation. "Contaminated with what?"

"What do you think?" he asked darkly as he unbuttoned his dress shirt.

Bridget pondered. "Ew."

She watched as he unfastened his trousers and removed them, and she felt a renewed fury at whatever had made her ill.

"Try not to think about it."

"Believe me," she sighed, staring at his boxer-clad bottom, "I'm trying."

He switched off the light then slipped into the bed beside her, spooning up against her back. She didn't realise how chilled she felt until she had his warmth against her. "If you need anything, you tell me."

"If I need anything, you'll probably already have it waiting for me."

He raised himself up and kissed her on her temple.

As he settled behind her, she said, "Mark?"

"Yes, Bridget?"

"I'll get the story out of you some day."

She felt him silently chuckle. "I know you will."

………

Saturday

When Bridget next awoke, it was plainly still the middle of the night, judging from the darkness in the room and the night sky peeking through between the panes of the drapes. She threw back the sheets and reveled in the feel of the cool air on her skin. Yes. Yes! She was well, the doctor was wrong, her fever had broken, and she would get to spent the next two days doing all manner of naughty things to the delightful, delicious Mark Darcy. She turned over and snuggled up to his back, running a hand along his exposed shoulder. She heard a cross yet playful voice address her: "Give it a rest, will you?"

She recoiled away from the figure in fright. That wasn't Mark's voice. It was— no. It was not possible.

Timidly she asked, "Who is that?"

He laughed—she knew that laugh; it was not Mark's laugh—and said, "It's me, you silly cow."

He turned over, raising himself up on one elbow, and oh God. It was him.

It was Daniel.

She scuttled backwards so quickly she nearly fell out of bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Who else would be here, Jones?" The moonlight tinted his blondish brown hair quite artfully as he grinned at her, very plainly amused.

"Where—where's Mark?"

"That stick in the mud? Why would you want him here?" As an afterthought, he added, "He'd never go for it, anyway." He sat up, stretched his arms apart. "Come now, we reconciled in Thailand and we're having a rest between shags, you little minx." He waggled his eyebrows playfully. "I presume you're ready for another go?"

"No!" she shouted. "As you can see I'm wearing—" She looked down. Jesus. The flannels were gone and she was wearing nothing at all. She covered up her nakedness.

Decisively he finished her sentence: "My favourite outfit: your birthday suit."

"No. No!" she said, the volume of her voice escalating. "I am not here with you! I want to know where Mark is! What have you done with him?"

"You know where he is, Bridget." Daniel reached for her.

Once more she backed away, perilously close to the edge of the bed. "Tell me where Mark is! Get away from me!"

"You know bloody well he joined Her Majesty's Navy. Captain now, I hear tell."

"No! Mark has not joined the Navy! You're wrong! I want Mark!" She turned over to flee the bed but he was too quick for her; he encircled her waist with his arms in a vise-like grip.

"Bridget. Bridget!"

"Get away from me! Get away! I want Mark!"

"Bridget! It is Mark!"

As if hit with a tranquiliser dart, she stopped struggling, blinked a few times, and turned to look at him. Sure enough, it was Mark, brown hair, chestnut eyes and all, looking quite alarmed. "Mark?" she asked. She had to be one hundred percent sure.

"Yes," he said firmly, fixing her eyes with his. He looked slightly less unsettled, obviously realising she was returning from a fuzzy between-realities state.

She raised her hand to her forehead to brush back her sopping wet hair, found her pyjamas were stuck to her skin as if she had been doused with a bucket of water. "Oh God." She turned into his embrace, panting into his shoulder. She was not naked, in bed and reconciled with Daniel after all. But that also meant she was not well.

"I think you were hallucinating, or at least dreaming quite vividly." He placed his fingers to his eyes, pressing gently, and she felt terrible for the state she'd put him into. "We've got to do something to bring down your fever. How's your stomach? Do you think you could take a fever reducer?"

"The thought of taking anything right now makes me want to puke," she admitted.

He sighed. "I think I ought to run you a cool bath."

She nodded.

There was a light rap upon the door. Mark grabbed a courtesy robe from the bathroom door and answered it. She could not hear the conversation, but judging from Mark's side, it was a concerned employee of the hotel. An unfamiliar young man dressed in bellboy livery peeked in momentarily before retreating, confirming her suspicions and probably dispelling his. Mark then nodded, backed into the room, and closed the door.

"That young man heard the shouting and was concerned. I explained you're ill and that we have consulted a doctor. He's going to bring a bucket in case we have an… emergency."

She barely heard him because she had begun crying again; it was just her luck to not only fall horribly ill during a dream mini-break weekend, but then hallucinate about her fuckwit ex.

"Oh, darling Bridget," he said softly, taking his place beside her, embracing her. It was as close as he'd ever gotten to a pet name; her heart fluttered with happiness every single time he said it. "I'll run you a cool bath and keep you company."

"Mark, it's the middle of the night. You should get some sleep. Just give me back that flannel for my forehead and—"

"Nonsense." He pulled back, looking fatigued beyond all reason, yet still managed a smirk. "You must be unwell if you're so bloody determined not to be treated like you are. Besides. I want to hear why you insisted that I had not in fact joined the Navy." He kissed her cheek, then rose and headed for the loo. She heard the tap come on and he came to fetch her. "So. What were you seeing?"

She closed her eyes, feeling woozy as he helped her stand, wanting for all the world to avoid telling him exactly who her sick mind had replaced him with. "What was I saying to you?"

He supported her around the waist as he led her to the bathroom. "Gibberish—that you were not here with me, to get away from you, but that you wanted me. What were you seeing?"

As he unbuttoned her flannels, she said ruefully, "It was nightmarish—I was seeing Daniel Cleaver."

He stopped mid-unbutton and looked up to her. "What?"

"I started kicking and screaming when I thought you were him."

To her relief he smiled, continuing to help her out of her damp nightclothes. "Ah. That's what that was all about."

"He told me you weren't there because you had gone to join the Navy."

"Why the—Oh. Hugh earlier."

He helped her into the bathtub. With the way her muscles ached she wished very much that it was a steaming hot bath, but the tepid water nonetheless felt heavenly swirling about her body. She laid back along the angled end of the bathtub as the water crept up around her shoulders. He reached up and shut off the tap, taking a seat upon the edge of the bathtub.

"How does that feel?"

"A little colder than I typically like my baths to be, but not bad."

"You're cracking jokes. That's good."

She closed her eyes, felt him stroking the hair at her forehead.

She said, "You could amuse me and tell me why he called you 'Captain'."

When he didn't reply right away, she opened her eyes to see he'd furrowed his brow. "I think I hear someone at the door." He stood and headed for the main room.

"Chicken."

Pausing at the threshold, he turned to look at her. "I'm being serious, Bridget. It's probably your bucket." He strode out, calling back over his shoulder, "Don't go sinking under and drowning before I get back, all right?"

"I'll do my best."

………

Quiet voices were what awoke her again. She was back in bed once more, and judging from the sunlight streaming in through the windows, it was morning. She raised up her head and saw Mark quietly conferring with his friend Hugh.

"Mark?" she croaked, her throat unexpectedly dry.

She was almost sure he couldn't have heard her, but he did, and he turned to the bed. Her heart broke. He looked dreadful: wan skin, dark smudges under his eyes, unkempt hair and badly in need of a shave. He must have been up all night caring for her. He came to her and sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his, a distinct air of relief about him. Perhaps it was just the flu, after all.

"We meet again," said Hugh, striding nearer as well, plucking his carrier bag from the desktop by the window. "So I was just telling Mark the good news. It is leptospirosis."

Bridget blurted, furrowing her brows, "How is that good news?"

Hugh grinned. "It isn't something worse, and believe me, there's much worse. It's fairly straightforward to treat, comparatively speaking. If you start immediately, you should be well in about a week. I've written you a prescription and brought what you'll need."

She could see now why Mark looked so relieved. "Dr… um, Hugh, you're a wonder."

He smiled, pulling a white paper bag out of his medic bag, setting it down on the bedside table. "You may not think so once you see what it's going to take for you to get well. I've just been explaining to Mark how to administer your… treatment." His pause was a loaded one, and it filled her with apprehension.

She looked over to Mark. His expression remained mostly unchanged, which reassured her, and he even nodded.

She directed her gaze back to the doctor. "What is the… treatment?" she asked glumly.

"Doxycycline, which is an antibiotic, as well as glutamine supplements."

That was it? It really didn't sound so bad. She'd had strep throat as a teen and it was no big deal—a few big horse pills a day. "Excellent. No problem." She smiled.

The doctor continued: "Because of the nausea, the antibiotics must be given intramuscularly."

At her assured look of incomprehension, Mark explained, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, "I have to give you injections with a hypodermic needle."

"Ohh." She felt herself brim with irrational terror, which she was sure flashed in her eyes, because Mark squeezed the hand he held.

"Unfortunately there is no other way," Hugh advised; "I'm sorry. I've filled Mark in on your medication schedule." He consulted his watch, then continued, "It's nearly eight in the morning. I recommend the first dose at about that time; it will help you to keep track of things more easily and then you won't be taking your last dose of the day too late. Well. I must be off—have an appointment in less than an hour." He turned to his friend with an outstretched hand, which Mark took and shook firmly. "Mark, any questions, call my mobile day or night."

"Absolutely. Thank you again."

After tipping a nonexistent hat in Bridget's direction, Hugh showed himself out.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed to Bridget that Hugh had the air about him of a man running for his life. Bridget could not exactly figure out why but didn't have much time to contemplate it—another wave of nausea overtook her very suddenly. She clamped a hand over her mouth and it was all she had to do or say because in an instant Mark was clamouring for the bucket at her bedside. For the time being she didn't care about anything but hitting the inside of the white plastic container.

After she was finished, Mark took away the bucket to empty and rinse it. He brought back a damp washcloth from the bathroom and patted at her cheeks and mouth before taking her in his arms and holding her again. Her body shook with residual muscular spasms, and she took in great heaving breaths. Mark tried to comfort her as best he could, holding her close until she quieted. He really was the very best of men.

But then he pulled back, cupping her face in his palm. "We should get you started so you can get well."

She sighed; it was a pitiful sound due to her dry throat. A slight panic began welling up within her. As much as she wanted to be well, she dreaded the shots with a passion. "Mark," she said in a rather pathetic tone, "does it really have to be shots? Surely modern medicine has come up with some alternative to… medieval torture."

"This is not—" Mark seemed to fumble for a suitable futuristic science-fiction scenario. "—Star Trek." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "If not for the vomiting you could take an oral dosage. But look how successful we were in keeping an ibuprofen down. Hugh would not have me give you a shot unless he thought it absolutely vital."

She hardly had a fight in her, but surely he knew how much she hated needles. Surely! A compromise was in order. "Couldn't we wait until the vomiting stops, and then I could take pills? It can't possibly last much longer, right?"

He was silent for a moment, looking away, as if weighing his options. Finally, he turned his unblinking eyes back to her and said in a very soft, serious tone, "Bridget, the vomiting will not stop on its own. And if this infection progresses you run the risk of jaundice, serious liver and kidney damage, meningitis and internal bleeding. Worst case scenario, permanent organ damage, hospitalisation and death."

"Oh." She suddenly realised that most of his weariness may not have had anything to do with staying up doctoring her all night.

His tone still quiet, he said, "So I think you can handle a needle prick twice a day for a week, can't you?"

Bridget nodded, blinking back tears, resolved to her fate as a pincushion.

He smiled, stroking her cheek again with his fingertips. "That's my girl." He reached for the paper bag, removing a sealed plastic bag of pre-measured, capped hypodermics and some alcohol pads. "Hugh told me the best injection site would be the gluteus maximus."

"Where?"

He pursed his lips. "Your arse."

"Oh." No wonder Hugh had fled for the hills—he was a doctor and he dealt with this sort of thing all the time, but this was his mate's girl, and he probably didn't want to embarrass Mark. It was then she realised that Hugh had never mentioned anything about the glutamine. She reasoned it was probably something like a sports drink. "What about the other thing, the glutamine? What is glutamine?"

"Hugh told me it's an amino acid complex that helps replace what you're losing by vomiting. And to keep your intestinal flora on an even keel, with the antibiotics and all. However, it is also… not oral," said Mark darkly.

Great. More injections.

Mark must have known what she was thinking. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

"Then how—?" But before she could even finish her thought, she knew. There was only one other possibility, one that was very common for taking her temperature when she was a child. She felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh, God… no."

"Unfortunately… yes," Mark said.

Things couldn't get worse. Puking, hallucinatory fever dreams, being stuck with needles, and now suppositories? This was indescribable torment, pure and simple. God clearly did not want her to be happy.

Mark looked as if he had bad news yet to deliver. He took in a steadying breath, and, hypo and alcohol pad in hand, sat beside her again, resting them by his thigh. "I'll warn you now. He says the suppositories have a tendency to… well, not to put too fine a point on it, burn and the body tends to want to eject them. So they have to be, um, held into place for up to five minutes."

She smirked. "Very funny, doctor."

The stony seriousness of his face told her he was not joking, and her jaunty smile soon disappeared.

That was the problem, she thought, with declaring that things couldn't possibly get worse: it usually meant they immediately did. And this was definitely worse.

She must have looked either on the verge of crying again, or possibly in contemplation of hurling herself off of a tall building, because he took her hand and said in the gentlest tone he could manage, "Bridget, I can't tell you how ecstatic I am that it's not something more serious, and when you're well, I swear, I will make it up to you. But for now, you have to have your antibiotic shot."

"Yes. Twice a day for a week. And how about…" She jerked her head back and to the side, indicating the point of entry for the glutamine capsules.

"One every four hours during the day." He bent forward and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Believe me, I'm hardly going to enjoy myself doing either of these tasks."

"I know," she said sulkily, sighed, then added, "but if anyone's going to stick me with a needle or shove a pill where the sun doesn't shine, I suppose I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

He actually chuckled. "It must be love. Now come on, stubborn girl."

With that she sighed, laid down flat on the bed, yanked her pyjama bottoms down over her arse and kicked them off, then rolled onto her stomach, resting her face on her pillow once more. "Let's get this over with."

Gently he ran his fingers over her backside; she thought he was merely being tender until she realised he was actually looking for the ideal injection site. His fingers came away and she heard the paper-covered foil wrapper of the alcohol pad being torn open, felt the coolness of the sterilising liquid against her skin.

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

She heard him chuckle. "I meant are you on the verge of vomiting again."

"Not at the moment."

"Good. Hold still."

She was about to make a joke about precisely how white her knuckles were gripping the duvet when she felt the needle pierce her skin, the (she swore she could feel it) hot flood of antibiotic going into her tissue, and just as quickly the needle was gone, replaced again by the cool alcohol pad.

"There. Not so bad, was it."

It actually wasn't. She turned her head to see that he was holding the pad firmly against her. He lifted his gaze to her and smiled, and even through the exhaustion and the concern, she could tell he was proud of her, and she smiled in return. He took his hand away, reached into the white paper bag for a small red sharps container, recapped the used hypo and placed both it and the alcohol pad inside before setting it aside.

To her surprise, he reclined beside her against the headboard with the pillows cushioning his back, pulling her onto his chest, stretching his legs out in front of him. She looked to him, truly shocked. "What about… the other thing?"

"I'm resting before the big fight."

"Ha, ha," she said sullenly.

He closed his eyes, his head falling back to touch the headboard. "I'd like to hold you in my arms for a few moments while you're not post-retch, trembling and gasping for air. It's deeply unnerving," he admitted.

She rested her head on his shirt. She knew he didn't mean to make her feel guilty, but she felt that way all the same. First pulling every favour he was ever owed to get her out of prison, and now this. In a meek voice she said, "I'm sorry I'm so much bother."

He held her tightly for a moment, then kissed the crown of her head. He stroked her hair until his hand went still, and she was convinced he'd drifted off to sleep until he spoke in a voice that revealed precisely how knackered he was. "Darling, you are not a bother. The illness is a bloody inconvenience, to be sure, but it wasn't anything within your control. And were our positions reversed, I know you'd do the same for me."

"I would be a catastrophe giving you a shot."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes," she admitted.

They were silent a few moments more, and for that stretch of time Bridget forgot that she was ill with a weird tropical disease, puking on a semi-regular basis, with a dose of antibiotic in her bum and something almost worse in her future. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and was immensely grateful for the man whose arms were encircling her.

"If you must apologise for something," Mark said after a few, "apologise for the appalling conditions in the Thai prison, as that is likely where you were infected."

"Okay. I'm sorry they kept me in such a shithole."

He laughed. Even through all this he could still laugh.

She lifted her face to his again, suddenly feeling the need for absolution for a multitude of sins. "I'm sorry for chucking you, I'm sorry for Thailand and Fucking Jed—and I'm especially sorry for Daniel, for you thinking—"

He lifted a finger to her lips. "Shhh. Don't rile yourself." He then lowered his head to kiss her, pulling away much too soon, as if the heat of her skin reminded him of his current mission, like maybe he had also forgotten about her disease for a moment. He sat up, eyeing the white paper bag filled with pharmaceuticals. "Well. Let's get this over with."

Gently he rose out from under her, and she braced herself by wrapping her arms around her pillow and burying her face in it.

"Bridget," came his quiet yet authoritative voice, "there's a better way to do this." She looked up to see he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed. "If you lie across my lap, that should make this whole process much easier."

She did as he suggested, muttering, "This is so… humiliating. I feel like I'm four."

"It's only me, love." He surprised her by leaning over her and placing a kiss on the opposite side of her rear from where he'd just injected her. She felt herself flush from head to toe—perhaps it was just the fever. "Just relax."

She hadn't quite realised how tense she'd gone and consciously willed the muscles of her body to loosen. "Good," he commented. She heard the rustling of the paper bag and then the sound of a foil bubble being burst. Then—nothing.

As if sensing her confusion, he explained, "I'm just going to hold this in my hand for a moment to warm it up. Then once it's in I'll have to hold it in place."

She croaked out a woeful-sounding, "You needn't remind me."

She heard him take in and release a steadying breath. "All right. I'm ready, I've got my eye on the clock. Just stay relaxed." She felt his hands on her rear.

"Mark?" she asked abruptly. "Is it big?"

"Not any bigger than a normal tablet. Do you want to see it?"

"No." She released a breath she didn't realise she was holding in. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready."

Trying to stay relaxed as his hands grasped her bottom, she closed her eyes, and imagined that she was anywhere else and in any position other than the one she currently was in. Then suddenly she felt him pushing it in as gently as possible (thanking the heavens for his slender fingers), but even still she could not refrain from gasping. She reminded herself that staying slack would ease the process, and she tried to think of good things, joyful things, like the looks he gave her that were filled with such unbridled adoration, the way he kissed her and touched her, how magnificent it felt to be with him just before he shuddered and went still—

That was when the burning started, and it jerked her from her shag flashback with the fury of a lightning bolt. She must have made a distressed noise and tensed up, because with his free hand he stroked the small of her back, whispering words of comfort. She tried to recall the happy place she'd been to moments before—calling up memories of him admitting he liked her as she was, of turning to see him crossing the snowy street when she thought he'd gone off to New York, his declaration that he had a high regard for her wobbly bits—but even still it was the longest five minutes of her life. When the burning finally started to subside, she exhaled slowly, and without any words he slipped out from under her, pulled the duvet over her, explaining, "Stretch yourself out, lie on your stomach. I'll come right back after I use the sink to wash up." She nodded, embracing her pillow.

When he returned he first made a hushed call from the hotel telephone, then slipped under the duvet with her, wrapping his arm around her. "I'm sorry," he murmured in her ear.

She turned her head to look at him. "That was horrible," she said in a shaky voice, "but I hardly blame you."

"I know, but I'm sorry all the same. Especially since we'll have to do it again in four hours."

She shuddered. He squeezed his arm more tightly around her.

"Who did you call?"

"The front desk. Asking them to ring us at eleven forty-five. Because I was thinking we should try to sleep," he said with a yawn. "You know, take advantage of the no-vomiting stretch."

She could only murmur a "Mmm." She was already drifting off.

………