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Her shift finished at eleven. She was half asleep when she tripped through the door, her blonde hair damp from the mist that had dropped over Holby. She placed her key over the hook allocated for her, on Serena's set of hooks. They had one each: she, Jason, Serena, and one for the garage key. She took her coat off, pulled her trainers off. She put a hand to her head.
Serena, she knew, had gone back to Albie’s after being offered a drink by Dr Burrows. Morven had texted Bernie so she was up to speed. Morven had assured her that Serena had been on apple juice all night. Morven had checked and, in a bow of submission, Serena had let her. Jasmine had been on rum and coke. Morven had told Serena she had texted Bernie. Morven was going to receive a box of chocolates through the post, the minute Bernie had time to order her one.
Morven had also texted Bernie to say she had left Jasmine and Serena in Serena's car, after Serena had insisted on driving them both home. Morven had apologised that her place was closest to the hospital and that Jasmine’s place was between her place and Serena's. Bernie had said not to worry.
Bernie narrowed her eyes as she went into the kitchen and saw an unfamiliar pair of trainers kicked off under the table, two coffee cups on the work surface. Both with the dregs of coffee in. Jason didn't drink coffee. Serena would only use one cup.
Bernie's stomach clenched and her brain went into overdrive. Had Serena brought someone home? She immediately thought about running, she didn't want to see that, she didn't want to walk in on that. Her hand was on the front door knob, but then she stopped herself. Benefit of the doubt. Reasonable. Calm. Bernie slowed her breathing consciously. She swallowed. She went back into the kitchen and took a glass, made herself a drink of water, sipped at it.
She left her bag and shoes in the hallway, put them neatly as an act of understanding, not wanting Serena to feel she should comment in the morning, about the untidiness of her things. One less thing to worry about. She was fragile: her Serena. What had happened today. What she'd seen. It had nearly broken her apart.
But it was a good thing. Perhaps the wrong way to do it, she though idly, but still. Cathartic. Progressive. Positive. Serena was finally admitting how she really felt. Bernie was so utterly sad but so terribly glad. A weight had been lifted, just a touch. At the end of the day, Jasmine Burrows had wrestled out of Serena what Bernie, herself, had continually failed to do.
That made her a little sad as well. But it couldn't be helped. It didn't matter how or why, just that it had happened. That it had finally happened.
So Bernie carefully padded upstairs. She knocked softly on Jason's door, opened it to find him gone. Then she remembered he was at Alan’s. Another weight, she supposed. He wasn't a trouble for either of them. But he was another person to ask questions, which she assumed Serena probably wouldn't want to, or be able to, answer yet. She needed some rest.
Bernie pushed open Serena's bedroom door. The room was empty. She frowned. Serena's things we're here, her car was here, her keys were here.
She went into Serena's bedroom and looked in the en suite. Then she looked behind the curtains, then under the bed. No one and nothing. She frowned some more.
Then she heard a voice, a man's voice, coming from the next room. The spare room. It had been there, she realised, since she came upstairs, she'd just assumed it was background noise from a radio next door or something. Her eyes widened. Her mouth went dry.
As she listened she realised the voice was not participating in a two way conversation. The voice was talking. Explaining. Telling a story.
What the hell was Stephen Fry doing in Serena's spare bedroom?
Bernie stepped into the hallway and pushed the spare room door open. The voice was Stephen Fry and he was talking about wizards. He was reading a Harry Potter book. It was an audiobook, emanating from a smart phone, plugged in by the side of the bed.
And two forms, one under the duvet, the other spooned up behind it on top, lay on the queen-sized bed. Bernie stepped in and blinked as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the room.
Jasmine’s hands were curled up by her face, which was half obscured by the thick pillows. Her hair was tucked neatly under her head, like it had been tidied after she'd fallen asleep. Stroked back perhaps, repeatedly. And asleep she was, with Serena Campbell's arm around her waist, Serena Campbell's nose in her hair.
They both had tear-stained faces and red noses. Like they'd been crying together.
Bernie didn't know what to do. Both women in Serena's spare bed were fully clothed, and the embrace was chaste and they were both asleep. She looked down at them, gazing almost. Tears filled her eyes, a hand went to her mouth in emotion. Serena was asleep. Serena hadn't slept for weeks. She knew she had barely rested at all.
Serena's texts to Bernie had been frequent and almost predictable. Each hour, throughout the night. Mundane things. Bernie tried to reply, felt bad when she fell asleep in her little flat, when Serena didn’t in her big house. Felt bad that she couldn't make it better.
Bernie was unsure what to do. She quietly went into the cupboard and pulled out a large blanket, carefully slipped it over Serena, round her shoulders, tucking in her feet. No need to wake her now.
She left the room, went to Serena's chest of drawers to collect her own pyjamas, the set she kept here. She pulled them on, then sat on the edge of Serena's bed. She turned her head to look at the wall separating them. She decided. She stood. She left the room, entered the spare room.
She carefully pulled back the duvet on the side of the bed currently vacant. Jasmine was lying in the middle of the two sets of pillows, her face buried in between them. Bernie slipped into the bed beside her, making sure she kept her distance, didn't touch her. She rested her hand on top of the duvet near Serena's, which still rested around the younger woman's waist.
She tensed as she heard Jasmine inhale deeply. Jasmine’s large eyes opened in the dark. She stared at Bernie, who stilled and nodded once before starting to slip out. Jasmines hand on her shoulder stopped her. “No. It's okay,” Jasmine whispered, very quietly. She flicked her eyes to the side. “Is she asleep?”
“Deeply,” Bernie breathed, settling down anxiously in the bed again. Jasmine’s eyes looked huge in the grey of the room. Stephen Fry continued.
“Good.”
“What happened?”
“She didn't want me to leave,” Jasmine explained, simply. “She didn't want me to go. So I stayed.”
“Thank you,” Bernie whispered.
“It's okay,” Jasmine replied. “I get it. What ever makes it better for her.” She smiled a touch, sighed in disbelief. “I'd move. And let you two … if it wouldn't wake her.”
“That's … that's alright,” Bernie whispered, sneaking the back of her hand on the pillow to rest against the back of Jasmine’s. “Stay.”
“She's sober as a judge. I may have had a bit too much.” She sighed. “Think she was worried about me.”
“I think it's all going to be okay now,” Bernie said, quietly, but allowing a single tear to fall down her face.
“I hope so.” They looked sombrely at one another.
“Get some sleep, Doctor Burrows.” Jasmine nodded very slightly, for fear of waking the slightly snoring woman against her back.
“Oh,” she breathed, indicating her phone. “Sorry about the audiobooks. For some reason I can't sleep without them.”
“Not a problem,” Bernie whispered back. Jasmine smiled a bit, then closed her eyes. Bernie closed her eyes too.
Three bodies, wrapped around one another in Serena's spare bedroom, with Stephen Fry speaking quietly into the darkness, might have seemed strange to an unknowing onlooker. But right in that moment, tinged with grief, anxiety and desperation, three bodies got the best sleep they'd had in a long time. They could deal with whatever it all meant in the morning.