I thrust open the door and see John at the table by the window, reading a newspaper. He has taken advantage of my absence to hoover. Many small items have been removed from the floor. He's no housewife, though: they are repositioned on the table. He ate last night's takeaway around the debris. He has not eaten yet tonight - he has been waiting for me. There are Jammy Dodger crumbs on his lower lip.

He is tired - poor sleep rather than excessive activity - and his hands are full of the tension which he gathers inside himself when I am not here. I can see the awkward way his fingers grip the newspaper. They have been clenched more or less all the time I've been gone.

Ah John. It's good to see you.

He lifts his head and looks me straight in the eye as always. "You're back, then."

"Evidently." I drop my flight bag and unwind my scarf, flinging it on the sofa. My coat is unbuttoned in three seconds, and hefted over the sofa arm.

"Good trip?"

His tone is bland, polite, mildly interested. Does he know where I have been? How could he? I have been exceptionally careful on this one. Yet my paranoia rears up and wonders if he can see it in my face, in my body language, in the way I rest my hand on the back of the other dining chair.

Ridiculous. Yet I shift my stance and say too quickly, "Fine. Dinner?"

He smiles. He has been waiting for me to ask. "Case finished?"

I never said I was on a case. I wasn't. Yet it was a mission similar to a case and I have barely eaten. "More or less. -Yes."

A faint line appears between his eyes. I do not usually hesitate over my words. Every sentence is preprocessed. Mostly, anyway. John has witnessed almost all of the involuntary utterances. "You all right?" he asks, folding the paper, getting to his feet, frowning and adopting that brusque, casual tone he uses when he feels he is expressing an unmanly level of concern for his flatmate.

"Yes." If this is to be the level of conversation at dinner, I may reconsider. I concede: "Are you?"

"Fine, yeah."

I scan the room. John is four feet away on the other side of the table. My music stand is behind him. Good.

I saunter round and pluck at sheet music, scattered with my own pencil notations. Once you lose the fear of amending a so-called masterpiece, you can make some real improvements.

John is beside me, holding the daily rag, and as I take a breath to sigh out over my music, I inhale his scent, his honest masculinity, Imperial Leather soap and Lynx deodorant (that weird chocolate one supposed to attract the opposite sex but actually quite pleasant), espresso coffee from the machine at the surgery and sweat from the crowded commute home. Maybe he will shower later. I like the sweat but I also like the just-washed John smell. It's a close call between them, actually. John just smells good, generally. Good, and, thank God, male.

I have showered twice since parting from her, and still I long for my bath.

If I mention my (slight) injury, John will almost certainly offer to run me one.

If I do though, dinner will be delayed. We both need to eat. There is much to be done. I have neglected actual cases for this trip to Islamabad, and must catch up. An all-nighter may be called for... if John goes to bed. I hope he doesn't.

I scowl at my music and reach for the violin itself. Honestly. Unable to choose between a case and John's company. Dreadful. But these are unique circumstances.

John's hand lands on my shoulder, cupping the top of my arm. Warm palm, strong fingers. "You've got scratches on the back of your neck."

I slap my hand over them. "Bit of a fight," I say.

"They look nasty, let me take a look -"

"It's fine, don't fuss -"

He steps away, eyebrows raised. He hates being accused of fussing, even though he does, near constantly. When I am injured. Which is near constantly. I suppose it is fair enough.

"It's fine John, honestly."

Freud would smirk. Why do I need to add that last word? Am I trying to highlight truthfulness in the midst of my deception?

"Is your back ok?" he asks then.

My paranoia appears justified. (She promised me no one would know. Her favour to me, although when you look at the situation dispassionately, I seem to have done her far more favours than she has repaid. This may be part of the general problem with women: that they do not measure worth as we do. More thought required. No more research though. For the rest, I will extrapolate.) "It's fine. Shall we?" I indicate the door.

How does he know about my back? Am I walking funny? That is eminently possible. I have exercised places I only knew about in theory. Oh god.

I pick John's coat off the stand and help him into it. I am close to him again. As I place the anorak around his shoulders I experience a moment of pure sentiment and make a show of adjusting his collar while I recover. He is so valuable, so sweet and serious, and basically I cannot resist. Sometimes I think he knows it. The rest of the time he ignores his screaming subconscious in order to maintain his inaccurate version of reality.

I do wonder what he thinks I do for relief, for pleasure, for fun. Does he assume I do nothing? Does he assume I see women? Surely not. I mean, I could. Especially now. But the idea is somewhat fantastic. Men, then. He knows I don't.

There is only him, for now. He is currently my only person. And he smells so right. After all I've been through I want nothing more, at this moment, than to press my face to the nape of his neck and breathe him in, anchor myself once again in Baker Street, in the work, in John. I haven't shaved since Istanbul airport and my stubble would make him lurch round, hands wafting me away. But for a moment I would have his skin against mine and know comfort.

I want comfort. I - don't need it. Barring food, shelter and warmth, anything can be done without. Tonight though, I am appearing on the spectrum familiar to most people: I imagine my desires as needs, and I desire physical consolation.

Irene would no doubt take this as a massive insult. And she would be welcome.