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Chapter Text

You Send Me – Sam Cooke

Her hair is the color of honey, his mind quirks as he spies at Sister Bernadette from his perch against the door jam. A tear of sweat from the heat of the sterilizer draws down the curve of her neck. He stares at it until it disappears underneath the weight of the dark wool. The tiny strand of blessed hair that is sinfully poking out from her habit curls under the stress of the stream rising up. And it's curly.

I should not be staring at a nun of all people, but their physical features are hidden from us mere mortal men and, just to gain a glimpse, is exciting enough.

His heart, curiously galloping at such a fast pace, nearly halts when she starts to lowly hum a song. Closing his eyes, he takes a small drag from his cigarette as her sweet voice fills his ears. Sam Cooke, he soon realizes from his numerous hours spent in his car or in a home with a radio tuned in to a station for the younger crowd. Sister Bernadette has soul, opening his eyes, he smiles, and rhythm and blues.

The clinking of china shakes him from his idleness, as well as from her song, and kicks him from his hiding place to make his presence known.

Hearing the knock on the door, Sister Bernadette’s vertebrae straightens into a steel rod as she opens the lid to the sterilizer. The steam crawls along her skin as the heat quickens her heart beat.

They are cordial, briefly talking of instruments and autoclaves before Nurse Franklin’s heels click in a timely manner to where they are chit chatting.

The silky, sweet voice of the young nurse asks if the Doctor will be staying for tea and cake and, for the briefest of moments, Sister Bernadette’s lungs ceases to operate. He would be placed next to me, her mind screams as she buries her hope into the darkest part of her soul. Where is this coming from, she silently asks with the grit of her teeth.

His excuse of spending time with his son allows her to breathe once again, yet the butterflies that line her stomach still flutter as if it is springtime in a distant meadow. While the sound of the telephone rings in the distance and the gentle perfume of Nurse Franklin floats past, Sister Bernadette asks about his sweet, sweet boy.

For the most part, he has been able to keep his fears at the upcoming holidays at bay from most of the people who realize that it is their first Christmas since his wife died, yet, for some reason, he confesses them to her. Afterwards, he will blame it on both his lack of proper rest and parenting skills, but, for now, he is soothed as the weight of his worries lifts from his shoulders.

She takes his concerns to heart and, for an instant, she is transported back in time to her first Christmas without her mum; the shame at burning the Christmas ham, the tears that streamed down her face at the emptiness her mother left when she had passed, but, most of all, the weight of her father's hand on her shoulder when he told her that she helped make Christmas bearable for him that year. If I can get though it, then so can the Doctor and Timothy. The memory of her mother’s beautiful face swims by as she tells him of her past.

The idea of the loss she had suffered at such a young age endears her to him. He is sure, pretty damn sure, that others at Nonnatus House had a similar childhood, but her words of resiliency helps him become a tad bit more confident in his fathering skills. Not necessarily my cooking skills though. “He’s made his opinion about my cooking rather clear.”

His eyes twinkle in mirth as he takes another drag from his cigarette, and the butterflies come back in full effect. The idea of both father and son sharing fish and chips from its thin wrapping infiltrates her mind making her smile. Yet, the ideal picture is completed with another person there – a womanly figure with glasses sliding down her nose in laughter – and she shoves it down with all of her might. This is ridiculous! I need to stop with these silly thoughts.

Nurse Franklin comes back and informs him that his work is never truly finished, not even with Christmas around the corner. Without another word, he steps up to Sister Bernadette to gather his bag of medical instruments and once again sees the little pocket of hair poking out next to her ear. Curling his fingers around the cloth bag to keep himself from tucking away the errant wisp of curl back to its rightful place, he smiles at her and quickly makes himself disappear.

From her perch of where he left her, she watches him leave with a smile still playing along her lips as the butterflies flutter throughout her chest.

“Come, Sister, for there is cake to be eaten and prayer to be sent for our bounty.” Sister Monica Joan slips her fingers along the palm of her youngest sister and tugs her towards the kitchen.

“Did the Doctor just leave?”

Glancing up at Nurse Franklin, Sister Bernadette nods her head. “He said something about getting fish and chips with Timothy.” Her words come out as a sigh, yet with Sister Monica Joan’s enthusiasm over the size portions of cake, it was quickly drown in a sea of flurry.

It wasn't until she felt cold fingers brush along her ear did her mind finally let the image of the Doctor’s twinkling eyes and kind smile drift away. Sister Bernadette looks up to see Sister Julienne gazing down at her with her own brand of kind eyes.

“You must be careful when standing around the sterilizer. The heat made some of your hair fall out from it’s place.” Making sure perfection is once again shown, Sister Julienne smiles before taking her place at the head of the table. When she sits, however, she notices a flood of red covering Sister Bernadette’s cheeks. “Are you okay, Sister?”

Did he see? Did he notice my hair out of place? Her mind quickly thinks back the few minutes before Doctor Turner made his presence known. Did he hear me humming a not-so-secular tune? What would he think of me? Swallowing down the lump of fear that is caught in her throat, she wills her mind to think of other things, other important things, before answering back. “I, uhh, must have spent too much time over the sterilizer.”

Plopping down in the chair next to the dazed Sister Bernadette, Sister Evangelina barks, “Hopefully we shall see our new autoclave before the end of next Christmas.”

Hearing the choruses of agreements, Sister Bernadette makes a promise to herself to spend an extra hour in silence – on call permitting of course – to take in His advice as to what to do with these thoughts of the Doctor.

..::..::..

Idle hands are the devils handiwork.

It is Christmastime at Nonnotus House, her favorite time of the year. Yet, instead of observing silence in her room or in the church – where I should be – Sister Bernadette uses her idle hands for cooking. The idea of Timothy Turner – and his father, her mind sneakily supplies – without a Christmas supper seemed slightly more depressing than the burnt ham she had made for her father and brothers after her mother died.

Better at cooking than at the young age of eight, the heavy smell of sausage and potatoes attacks her senses as she takes out the baking dish from the oven. This was the dish papa always wanted me to make, every Wednesday, like clockwork. Slipping the mittens off of her hands, the memory of her mother’s death on that rainy Wednesday night claws through her mind.

Shaking her head, she covers the dish with the lid and places it in the box next to the Christmas cake she had made a few hours prior. Making sure to bypass Nurse Miller who is on call - and who also believes that I am making this food for a family in need - Sister Bernadette shuffles towards the front door.

Gathering her coat and scarf from the chair, she bundles herself up before making her way to Mrs. Ailbhe’s shop. Her plan, rather quick to form when she watched the good Doctor jog into the Parrish hall just in time to see the Nativity play, is depending on the little old shopkeeper to keep her promise not to tell where the food is coming from. She is rather a gossip, though.

Rolling her eyes, Sister Bernadette trudges on. There are others who could have brought the food to the Turner home, however Mrs. Ailbhe had kindly offered her the sausage needed to make the casserole. She had also offered to bring the food since the Doctor’s home is not to far from her own. With her hands tied, she agreed only with the sole purpose for the shopkeeper’s discretion.

Knocking on the door, Sister Bernadette bobs back and forth on her feet to keep her body warm from the slurry of snow falling around her.

Opening the door, Mrs. Ailbhe smiles as she opens her arms to take the box. “Not a word, Sister.”

When the door closes, Sister Bernadette twirls around and looks up towards the light breaking over the night sky. She allows herself a minute – one tiny minute – to allow the butterflies to overtake her chest. The feeling of their fluttering wings enraptures her heart as a small smile dances along her cheeks.

An extra hour of penance is worth all the butterflies in the world.

That thought, that one singular thought, frightens her into moving quickly back to Nonotus House. Such a thought is sinful, yet the silence of His answer to her prayers deafens her defenses on the matter.

As she patters up the stairs, she resolves herself to rid her mind of any thought pertaining to the Doctor that is not professional. I don't need to hear His thoughts on a matter to know that it is wrong.

Quietly closing the door, she slips off her jacket and scarf to hang them on the hook and then slips off her shoes. Without a sound, she tip toes back up stairs and into her room being careful to step over the floorboard that creaks rather loudly in the silence before the dawn breaks.

It is not sneaking about if I have a good cause to be out, she silently reasons against her guilt, the spirit of those in our community is just as important as their health. The image of the Doctor and Timothy eating together as a family dances through her mind. A smile stretches along her lips before she reminds herself of the oath she took not even fifteen minutes ago that she would no longer have Doctor Turner occupy her thoughts.

Just as the glorious light a Christmas morning breaks through her window, she takes her bible in hand and settles upon her bed with the fullest intention to start her morning prayers.

..::..::..

Nervously taking a puff from his cigarette, Doctor Turner looks up to the door for the millionth time willing it to open with a particular nun at its heels.

Glancing down at his watch, he realizes that thirty seconds has passed since the last time he looked. Shame tinging his cheeks at his urgency, he tries to refocus his attention back onto the case notes at hand.

Just as his eyes scamper along the fifth word, the door swings open to the muffled clicks of worn down shoe. Looking up, a burst of sunshine brightens a piece of his soul that has remained dark since cancer took his wife.

Ignoring that last little bit, he stands to greet her, “Sister Bernadette. I hope you have had a happy Christmas.”

It's his smile, always his smile, that makes her falter in her step and in her thoughts. Clutching her cross as if it is a talisman to help her mind find the way back to her prayers, she pleads for the butterflies to leave her stomach. “It was beautiful,” her smile strains and she hopes that he cannot see it, “like it is every year at Nonnatus.” Rubbing the pad of her thumb along the backside of the wood, she asks, “I hope you have been having a good new year so far?”

With the excitement of the holidays over, he had not seen her since the Nativity play. Now as January is just about to slip into February, he was surprised to see her name as part of the roster for the maternity home. “Yes, it has been jolly good, other than the slight outbreak of influenza that has turned this maternity home into a haunted house.”

“No fear, Doctor, reinforcements are here to help with whatever you need.” She clasps her hands in front of her and gives him a genuine smile this time.

“With you, Sister Bernadette, I never worry.” His words rush out of his mouth without so much as a thought and, by the scared look cast upon her normally bright eyes, he knows he has said the wrong thing. “I meant,” he tries to retrace his steps, “you are a great asset to this home and community, as with all of your colleagues.” You're a right, ol’ idiot, Patrick.

“That is very kind of you to say, Doctor.” Her palms begin to sweat as she tries to clear her mind of all thoughts pertaining to him.

Clapping his hands together, he bends down and pulls the Christmas bag from its hiding spot under his desk. “Before we begin, I wanted to return this to Nonnatus House.” Placing the bag between them on his desk, he opens it for her to peek inside.

Leaning over when her curiosity gets the better of her, she yelps in surprise at the clean baking dishes she had sent his Christmas meal in.

“Timothy is a bulldog when it comes to mysteries. When Mrs. Ailbhe dropped this off, he used his boyish charms and she confessed in under a minute that it came from Nonnatus house.” He gives her a crooked smile. “I knew that just from the dishes themselves. I remember the pattern when Sister Evangelina brought us dinner when… well, just over a year ago.”

Sister Bernadette gives him a kind smile. When his wife died. I helped bake those casseroles, but the thought of the present came from all of us during those dark days.

He glances down at the worn dishes as thoughts of his wife invades his mind. Yet, he finds solace in the fact that the image of her sweet face doesn't pain him as much as it has in the past. “While Timothy’s curiosity was appeased and his appetite satisfied, I came to the conclusion on my own that it was you who had made our Christmas dinner.” He glances up to see her brow furrowing in confusion, yet her cheeks bright red with apprehension. “You are the only one – apart from Tim – that knows of my debilitating skills in the kitchen.”

Fish and chips. Closing her eyes, she sighs, “I couldn't, in good conscious, let you both eat fish and chip on Christmas.”

“It was marvelous.” Her quiet confession has him grinning like an idiot. “Both Timothy and I – along with our stomachs – thank you for your kind generosity.” Pulling his side of the bag towards him, he casts his eyes down, “There is something else in there just for you.”

Biting down on her lip, she leans forward expecting to find a card. Instead she finds a clumsily wrapped gift with a hand drawn card attached. Gently picking it up, she lets it rest in her palms as she murmurs, “You didn't have to. You know as well as everyone else around here that I cannot accept personal possessions.”

He stares down at the package that nearly took him just over an hour to wrap and says, “I figured as much. You can keep it here or give it to one of the nurses if you like and the card can be stowed away inside a book.” When she refuses to move, he hastily adds, “You did not have to make us Christmas dinner, but you did. Please accept this as our thank you for keeping us fed on the only night where fish and chip stands close early.”

“Very well,” gently pulling off the card, she opens it to find a hand drawn picture of the Turner men eating at the table, with a Christmas tree next to them, and the words ‘Merry Christmas’ scrawled in red and green letters. “That is very kind of Timothy. I will cherish this without the confines of a book.” Not daring to look up at the Doctor, she places the card on the desk and gingerly opens the present.

As the paper gives away, an album – brand new by the looks of it – stares back at her. “Songs of Sam Cooke.” She looks up to him and asks, “Who is Sam Cooke?”

His eyebrow quirks as he asks with an outreached hand, “May I?”

Nodding her head, she gives him the album.

Tipping it out of the case, he turns and places the vinyl on the turntable. Placing the needle on the edge, the first song – the song I heard her hum so many weeks ago – begins to play.

Embarrassment, like none she has ever felt before, stings her cheeks as the familiar song reverberates along the walls of his office down to the darkest part of her soul. She had heard it once through the radio that was playing from one of the Nurse’s rooms and for the life of her, she could not get the song out of her mind. Not during my prayers, or our mealtime, or the birth of Mrs. Mason’s little boy, or when I had to clean the Doctor’s medical instruments. “It took me days to get this song out of my head,” her hips begin to slightly sway on their own accord.

He rewards her pluck with a boyish grin. “And now you can hear it as much as you want.” Stepping around the desk, he gathers her in his arms and sweeps her around in an easy waltz.

Feeling dizzy from both the sudden movement and the heat from his palm radiating along her lower back, a small giggle escapes her lips as he twirls her around. As the steps she had learned so long ago comes back to her, she dares a glance up with a smile tugging against her blushing cheeks.

When their eyes finally meet, time slows to an infinitesimal rate. Their lips, oh-so-close, part at the sudden rush of proximity. Both know that they need to look away, or pull apart, or something, but they stay rooted; their bodies too stubborn to leave the warmth and comfort that they both can provide.

Their dancing comes to a standstill as the music continues to the next song.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her chapped lips, subconsciously – sinfully, her mind screams – wondering what were to happen if she would lean forward.

His hand on her back makes the choice for her when pulls her closer towards him. For him, everything around him blurs to the point of obscurity. There is no music, or work, or habit. Just two people wanting to feel something different, perhaps. This pull, magnetizing and blinding, begins to close the distance between their lips inch-by-delicious-inch.

– Ring, Ring –

The cold ring from the telephone on his desk slices through the dense air throwing them apart from one another as if the sound itself electrocuted them. Clipping the side of his leg with the corner of the desk as he rushes to pull the needle off of the record, he turns to answer the telephone with a disgruntled, “Turner here.”

As one of the nurses on the other side fills him in on a woman in a difficult labour, he notices that Sister Bernadette is turned away from him. A chill, far more brutal than the dark winter nights settles along his chest as he swallows his guilt, “Very well, I will be here within ten minutes.” He hangs up the phone and reaches over for his bag. “I will be going to the McShay residents. Bonnie McShay is going into her thirteenth hour of labour and is tiring very quickly.”

Praying for His forgiveness at the lapse of judgement, she opens her eyes and let's go of her cross. Taking a deep breath in, she turns to give him a comforting smile – one that has no hopes of reaching her eyes – and clears her throat, “Very well, Doctor. There will be no need to return back here unless there is an emergency.” Gathering the notes from his desk, she piles them into her capable arms and turns towards the empty desk out in the reception hall.

Following her out, he passes by her for the door when he hears her calling out his title.

She winces as he turns back to her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. I should have let him go. I need to let him go. “Tell Timothy thank you for the card.” Returning back to her work, she does her best to ignore the heat from his stare.

He silently begs her to look up at him, to acknowledge that something happened between them, that he is not crazy, but she continues on with her work and he eventually gives up. Without another word, he pushes the door out and takes his leave.

Collapsing into the seat behind her, she rebukes the need to pull her knees up to her chest and instead clasps her fingers around her cross. As she silently asks for forgiveness, she wishes with all of her might that she did not accept the night shift at the maternity home.

Yet, a small voice – the smallest in a sea of prayers and questions and confusion – wishes that the telephone had never rang.

Chapter Text

It’s Easy to Remember – Perry Como

“You have brand new glasses.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat as his low voice quicken her heart. He noticed them. Placing the different sized beakers in the boiling water, she pushes the brunt of her glasses back onto the highest ridge on her nose and wipes the sweat from her brow. “I just received them last week.”

Studiously staring at the bubbles gently rolling in the pot, she explains, “My other ones broke beyond repair and I was lucky enough to receive these.” After a few ticks of her finger thumping an erratic beat on the counter, she airily adds, “They are a bit more modern than I'm used to, however, I am grateful for what has been given to me.”

He had noticed them when he first saw them on her as he ran around carrying gas and air to the laboring mothers, but he had just now plucked up the courage to say something to her. With the hall devoid of any other life except for the two people in the kitchen, he felt an over abundance of confidence that she would speak more than two words to him than if they were anywhere else.

Ever since their small dalliance in his office at the maternity home a month ago, she has only spoken to him what is necessary for their job. Thinking about his actions, he knows he shouldn't have pulled her into a dance, but half-heartedly reasons she has always come off as less regimented than the other nuns at the Nonnatus House.

But she is a nun. A nun with vows to abide by and prayers to be held and rituals to maintain. Casting his eyes down to the ground, he silently beseeches himself for the millionth time, you should have never pulled her into a dance, you bloody idiot!

Taking a step forward, he extinguishes his cigarette in the ash tray and clears his throat. “Sister, I wanted to apologize for my behavior at the maternity home. I hope you can still feel as if you can rely on my professional behavior when you are needed there or anywhere else in the district for that matter.”

Her eyes stay trained on the task at hand, “Have I given you cause for concern?”

“No. No! I just…” he pauses, unsure of his next step, “I just don't want you to feel as if I'm going to accost you during these rare moments where we are alone.” The silence hangs deafly between them as if waiting for the guillotine to drop. Picking at the edge of the counter with his nail, he softly murmurs, “I would hate for you to think of me as ungentlemanly.”

In an instant, her promise to devoid her mind of all thoughts of him falls to the wayside as she turns to him. “I could never think that. You have always been kind and ever-the-gentleman to me.” Catching her breath, her cheeks burn in fervor as her lungs try desperately to keep up with the wild cantor of her heart. “And to the others as well,” she swiftly adds under her breath. The heat from his sizzling stare has her slowly turning back to the task at hand with a renewed sense of penance.

Relieved that she doesn't find him to be such a fiendish boor, a small smile creeps along his cheeks as he notices her blushing a deeper burgundy. “Do you enjoy Sam Cooke?”

Of course he would have realized that I had taken the record. “I gave it to the nurses under the guise that it came from a younger couple wanting to show their appreciation.” I will repent for my lie, but he doesn't have to know that I keep it tucked away between folded sheets in a drawer. “They enjoy the music.”

Using the tongs, she takes out each glass beaker one at a time and lays them on the drying rack. Turning off the stove, she realizes that he is still staring at her with a cheeky grin. It is only then that she understands that she didn't truly answer his question. Wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand as she places the now empty pot next to the beakers, she huffs, “Of the little snippets I have been able to catch, I find his songs to be… nice.” Glancing at him over the curve of her layered shoulder, she shyly adds, “I fancy myself as more of a Perry Como girl, actually.”

Drawing his fingers through his hair, laughter gladly tears apart the guilt he had been feeling since making the rash decision to twirl her around in his arms. "Such an old soul.” As his laughter idles into a low chuckle, he gives her a mock salute and sternly says, “Dually noted, Sister.”

Taking a peek at the clock on the wall, he sucks in air as he realizes how long he has been in the kitchen. “I have to get going. There is a short symposium given at the lecture hall on a possible mobile x-ray program to help diagnose TB.” Snatching his coat from the back of the chair, he swings it around his shoulders and buttons it up. “I'm hoping we can get it here in Poplar before they make their customary rounds in the more affluential neighborhoods.”

Drying her hands on the hand cloth, she dutifully turns to him to bade him a good evening when she notices that his tie – a rather frayed, ugly tie – is lying awkwardly skewed. As the unkind words shabby, worn, tired swim around her mind, she calls after to stop him.

Without a word, she takes a confident step closer to him and fixes his tie. Taking a curious pleasure in the gentle thump of his heart as it plays a hypnotic beat under the tips of her fingers, the sound of his short gasp has her pulling her fingers away as if it had electrocuted her. Curling her hand into a fist, she slams her eyes shut and turns away from him. Tears, hot and heavy, flood the corners of her eyes, aching to stream down her cheek.

Her hand, my God, the warmth that seeped through my chest felt as if a furnace were blowing at it full force. If she were any other woman, I would have twirled her around and kissed her with all of my might. Taking in the stark nature of her habit, he shakes his head with defeat. She is no ordinary woman, she is a nun and a highly respected one at that. It's time that I suspend this ridiculous folly that we can be anything more than coworkers. With one last look at her, he murmurs, “Good evening,” and grudgingly makes his way out of the door.

Hearing the clickity-clack of beads marking his departure, she waits for the slamming of the hall door before falling to her knees in prayer.

O loving and kind God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my transgressions. Oh, wash me, cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again. For I admit my shameful deed-it haunts me day and night. It is against you and you alone I sinned and did this terrible thing. You saw it all, and your sentence against me is just. Create in me a new, clean heart, O God, filled with clean thoughts and right desires. Don't toss me aside, banished forever from your presence. Don't take Your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me again the joy of your salvation, and make me willing to obey you.

..::..::..

'Dear Sister Bernadette,

     Thank you again for helping me with my science project at school. My teacher was rather empresed impressed that I had caught so many bugs, but was upset that he wasn't able to see them. I had explained to him that killing – even the smallest of life – is a sin. He argued that unforunetly unfortunately it is a hazard in the name of science. Regardless of my lack of bugs, I was still able to receive top marks. Next year, however, I think my next science project will be with astronome astronomy. At least then, I will not be required to worry about the endangerment of life.

     As a thank you present, I saved up some of my pocket money to give you this album. My father had told me not so long ago that you are a fan of Perry Como. Although, I have never heard any of his songs before, dad played his record from his own collection that he had bought that day and I find that he has a nice enough voice. I must admit that it was nice to see dad bring out his record player. (He has been rather sad lately and I think it cheered him up a bit.)

     Dad warned me that because you are a nun, that you are not allowed to accept gifts, but I hope you accept this one. Dad explained to me that you have taken a vow of poverty (which means ‘the state of having little or no money or goods’). However, I ask you to think of it as getting top marks on the science project you helped me work on. Besides, I'm sure Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan will enjoy listening to the album too.

I hope you enjoy your album and enclosed is a picture of me and you collecting bugs.

Sincerely, Timothy Turner

P.S. I’m sorry for the mistakes. Akela helped me with the spelling.'

Gently placing the letter down on Sister Julienne’s desk, Sister Bernadette meekly looks up from her perch on the chair to see the superior sister smiling kindly. “Master Turner looks up to you greatly. This is the forth drawing his has given to you in so many months.”

Feeling her cheeks stretch into a smile, Sister Bernadette whispers, “He is very special and kind to have thought of making me a card.” Pressing her nails into the thick fabric covering her knee to keep her from reaching out to touch the album, she breaths, “I shall return the album back to him though.”

"Please don't,” Sister Julienne interjects. “He gives a rather good argument on why you should keep it, despite our vow of poverty. Besides, I feel it would hurt his feelings if you were to return it and he is just a boy.” Curling her fingers around the edge of the album, she lifts it up and inspects the track listings. “I have to admit, I look forward to hearing him sing.” Holding it out across her desk, she can't help but add, “Perhaps sometime after dinner.”

Slowly lifting her itching fingers to capture the album, Sister Bernadette murmurs, “Yes, Sister.” She gathers the note and the card as well before she stands to make her exit.

“I wonder why Dr. Turner is sad,” Sister Julienne postulates out loud.

Stopping all movement, Sister Bernadette’s cheeks burn as she quietly asks, “Pardon me?”

Lifting her teacup, Sister Julienne tips her head to the side in thought, “In his note, young Timothy had mentioned that his father has been ‘rather sad lately’. I wonder why that is?”

Perhaps I did something to offend him. Perhaps he thought my touch to fix his tie was unwarranted. Perhaps… perhaps he feels just as unhappy as I feel. “Perhaps he is taking the death of the Kelly baby rather hard.”

Placing her teacup back on the saucer, Sister Julienne solemnly says, “The death of a child is never something to be taken easily, even when no one is at fault.”

Taking the silence that follows her cue, Sister Bernadette bows her head before retreating out of the office.

That night, when most of the nuns and nurses gather around the record player to hear Timothy Turner’s new gift, one is noticeably absent. As Sister Monica Joan looks about to inquire her whereabouts, she finds Sister Bernadette in the abbey on her knees muffling her tears with silent prayers. Never wanting to see her sister suffering in silence, Sister Monica Joan takes one step in when she hears her own name being called out from the sitting room.

Glancing back at her young sister, she quietly reasons that her tears and prayers are just after the death of a young newborn. Leaving Sister Bernadette to herself, she returns back to the others with the song ‘Its Easy to Remember’ playing its soulful cadence.

Chapter Text

Secret Love – Doris Day

I'm in love with her, his silent confession punches him in the gut as he watches her walk away from him. The taste of her on his cigarette drives him wild with abandonment, yet, the only thing holding him back – just barely, he meekly adds – is the cold, hard fact that she is unable to reciprocate the love that aches along every centimeter of his body.

She took a vow of chastity. I should never have assumed that she would change her lifelong commitment to the religious life just because of my ridiculous feelings towards her.

The need to reach out and touch her weighs heavily along the tips of his fingers. Instead of chasing after her and making a damn fool of both himself and her, he takes another long drag before putting it out against the metal of his car.

Slipping into his seat, it isn't until he sees the Carter flat in his rear view mirror that he feels the same itch in his fingers to follow after her. Gripping the steering wheel with all of his might, he charges forward in the opposite direction towards his own home.

..::..::..

"Congratulations on the successful birth of the Carter Twins."

Looking up from her perch from her bed, Sister Bernadette gives a small smile and replies, "Mavis did the hard work. Nurse Franklin went with her to hospital."

Sister Julienne steps in and clasps her hands in front of her. "Yes, she just called to inform us. She also told us that her sister Meg slapped you."

Sister Bernadette shrugs her shoulders and murmurs, "I've been in worse situations."

"Yes, an occupational hazard when emotions are already running high." Giving her younger sister the once over, she quietly asks, "Are you in need of Doctor Turner's assistance?"

"No." Her denial to see the very man she desires to touch slips out too quickly, but she is too tired to care.

Narrowing her brow in worry, Sister Julienne looks her over once again, but with a more critical eye. There is a slight bruise forming along her cheek, but she mostly looks exhausted from the night. "Both you and Nurse Franklin will rest. If you could take over the phone duty from Sister Evangelina at noon."

"Yes, Sister," was her autonomic response.

Giving her a tight smile, Sister Julienne bids her a restful nap before bowing out of her room with a quiet snap of the door.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years pass before she has the strength to move. In the total silence of her simple room does she begin to think about everything that had happened in the street.

Lifting her fingers to her lips, she drags her tongue along the edge of her lips to taste the cigarette she dared to take. Closing her eyes, she imagines his lips on the cigarette and then his lips on her.

Snapping her eyes open, she abruptly stands from from her bed and walks to the small mirror on her wall. Staring at her reflection, she takes in the ruby redness coloring against her pale skin as well as the molt of bruised skin beginning to form under her eye. Yet, it's her lips that attracts the tips of her fingers. Slightly pink and tasting of him, her stomach clenches at the thought of her lips touching something that his lips touched.

Her body's reaction to the excitement enrapture her. Layer by thick layer, she peels off her habit slowly so as not to upset the order of things. Just as her dress crumples around her ankles, she threads her fingers underneath the band of her cap and pulls it off. Unclasping her hair, she shakes it loose so that the strands tickle her bare shoulders.

Her slip is the next to fall, followed by her stockings, garter, and brassiere. The one and only piece she keeps on – I can't take it off – is her cotton underwear.

It's then that she sees her body's natural reaction to the thought of him. Closing her eyes, she once again pictures herself kissing the Doctor's lips. His hands, rough and calloused from the many years of abuse with soap, lightly touches her cheeks and slowly makes their way down her neck.

Lazily opening her eyes, her legs nearly give out at what she sees in the mirror as she takes in her now haggard appearance. Her normally bright blue eyes are dark portals into the tunnels of her heart and soul. Her skin is colored in a bright pink coat as if fire had been set upon it. The pounding of her heart can be seen hitting the wall of her chest as her breasts rise and falls under the workings of her exasperated lungs.

Her mind feels so heavy that she fears that she can faint at any moment. Is this what you want from me? Is this how I should look? How I should act? We are always taught that we are made from an image of yourself. Would you look like this if you had the same feelings running rampant in your heart?

Do you love me less for feeling this way? Do you love me less for the way I look in the mirror? The questions she has been dying to ask Him are falling down, down, down with no filter, no way to stop.

Should I be ashamed? Should I accept it as a body's natural reaction? Or should I embrace the way he makes he feel, the way he sets my skin on fire?

Would that mean that you would love me less if I accepted another man – a mortal man – into my heart? Or into my bed? An image of him kissing her in a bed takes her breath away with the pounding of her overworked lungs.

Tell me, what do you want of me! I beg of you, please tell me. Falling to the floor in utter shame, she wraps her arms tightly around her chest as she lays her head down on her bent knees. A strangled, "please," rushes out from her parched lips as her eyes slip closed to the heartbreaking silence of the world around her.

..::..::..

"I have found another woman." Patrick stares at the grass between his fingers as a gentle wind rustles around him. Gaining the courage, he looks up to his wife's grave stone and murmurs, "I'm in love with her."

In loving memory

Mariann Turner

Wife, mother, daughter

Her stone stares back at him unanswering – it never answers back – but she always answers him in the wind charging up from one of the streets.

Closing his eyes, he breaths her in and allows her to seep into his heart. "I have missed you dearly. Timothy is growing into a young man within a blink of an eye." Feeling the tears gather into the corners of his eyes, he opens them and looks up towards the sky. It's a brilliant shade of blue, as bright as Sister Bernadette's eyes. "You know her and you admired her when you were still alive."

She replies kindly as the wind twirls around him.

"The only problem is, is that I can't be with her. She has taken vows and I could never ask her to renounce those vows all for the sake of me and the meager love I can give her."

The wind picks up, bringing with her the salty nip from the river from which she is cast.

Leaning his elbows down onto his knees, he continues to pick at the blades of grass underneath his shoe. "I know, I always seem to get myself into situations I can't get out of on my own, but you have to admit, that's what endeared me to you." He gives her – or rather her stone – a half cocked smile. "I love you Mariann and I always will, but you told me just before leaving us that I should make myself happy once you have gone."

The wind threads through his unruly hair.

"Timothy will always make me happy, even though I don't spend as much time with him as I want. I see him and instantly I see you. His smile especially. He has your smile." His own smile falters. "The only other person that has filled me with such joy since you had left us is her, any and every time I am with her. Plus, she is brilliant with Timothy."

As the wind dies down a bit, it reaches out and strokes his face.

"I guess my real question is, should I let her live her life and be miserable or should I fight for her and risk the possibility of losing her forever?"

For the first time since sitting down in front of her stone this afternoon, the wind slows to a complete stop.

Yet, despite the stifling heat that climbs through the collar of his shirt, he smiles an even grander smile. "Are you telling me that I have to answer my own question?" No answer. "Okay, I get it. I will have to think on it for a few days, but I know in the grand scheme of things, you will truly know my answer by looking deep within my heart."

Standing up and stretching out his legs, he sighs contently when the wind picks back up again and gently threads through his rebellious hair.

"Do I have your blessing to love again, to love her?" He holds his breath as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

The salty nip twirls around him, causing goosebumps to erupt along his exposed skin.

Curling his fingers around a cigarette, her cigarette, he quietly murmurs, "Thank you, my love." Picking up his jacket and throwing it over his shoulders, he quips, "Timothy told me that he will be stopping by sometime this week to see you." Stepping forward, he presses his finger along the curved edge for a few seconds before whispering into the wind, "I love you."

A strong gust slices through the churchyard and cocoons him in its warm embrace.

Shoving his hands back into his pocket, he turns and makes his way to his car. Along the way, he silently weighs in on what his next move should be.

..::..::..

He's gotten really good at watching her from a distance. Since his own silent confession of his love for her and the subsequent journey to Mariann's grave, he has found himself seeking her out when he knows that they are somewhat alone in the same building. He knows that it's a sin to covet a woman that has devoted her life to God, but he can't stop himself.

I will get caught one day, but that day be damned. Shoving his hands into his pocket, his fingers wrap around the talisman he secretly keeps with him at all times – the kiss of the cigarette that had touched her lips. It is the only item of hers that he has for his own. All the others – notes, drawings, and cards – belong to Timothy and he would hate to take it from him. He, regretfully and shamefully, has thought about it and was at the door of his son's room a few days ago when he talked himself out of it.

She knows that he is watching her. She can feel the heat from his gaze sear into the back of her neck and, instead of cowering away into the sanctuary of the abbey, she takes comfort in it. Even if I have to pretend that he is not close by.

Scrubbing the glasses from their clinic day, she bows her head to peek up towards the setting sky. Vibrant colors of yellow, pink and orange brush the heavens above and she reminds herself that He is watching her. Although, He has yet to answer my pleas. Does He already know my fate? Is He displeased with me? Or is this His way of encouraging me?

Clutching the kettle from the stove, she pours the now boiling water into the pot where she is letting the non-sterile glasses soak. For a second, barely, she flicks her eyes over her shoulder to see him wedged against the door jam. He is quite… handsome.

Her heart flutters against the confines of her chest as she once again imagines his lips against her skin. Filling the kettle back up, she places it on the stove to heat up so that she can clean the beakers next. Brazenly, with a hint of a smile that he is unable to see, she begins humming a song, an older one, that she had heard from the nurses room the night before. Will he know this one?

Perking up when he hears her sweet voice, he stops himself from crushing his only connection to her when he realizes which song she is humming. 'Secret Love' vibrates from her throat as her hips give a slight sway to the slow rhythm and he is completely and utterly mesmerized. Artillery shells could have been falling all around him and he would not have noticed a single one.

– BANG! –

"AHHHHHHHH!"

Except for that, his mind stubbornly murmurs as the boys from the Cubs pack runs in like a group of ravenous hyaenas. Affording himself one more tiny little peek, he takes in her stiff posture that she also heard the raucous boys. Giving her a smile – even though I know she can't see me – he turns away from her, ready to greet his son.

"Dad! Dad! We are going to be having a fête!" Running up to him completely out of breath, Timothy notices his dad smiling for the first time in a long while. "What's made you so happy?" At his dad's lack of answer in the appropriate three second time, he asks, "Did you know about it? Why didn't you tell me?"

Perplexed and quite frankly overwhelmed, Patrick stutters out the first thing that came to mind, "Sister Bernadette is in here."

Peeking around his father's hip, he yells out, "Hello Sister Bernadette!" Leaning back, he impatiently asks again, "Why didn't you tell me?"

He sighs as he lets go of the six week old cigarette to place both of his hands on his son's shoulders, "Simply because this is the first time I'm hearing of this too."

"Then why are your cheeks so red?"

His son's innocuous question claws at the inside of his belly, fearful that Sister Bernadette is listening in to this conversation. "It's… it's just been a busy day, son." Giving him a small smile and a pat on the back to encourage him to return to his pack, he warmly says, "Go ahead and get on. I have to make a few house calls but I should be back in time to pick you up in an hour."

"Okay," Timothy agrees solemnly, "but don't be surprised when I sign us up for different contests."

"Just as long as it's not the three-legged race," Patrick called out to his son's retreating back. Stealing another glance over his shoulder at the back he has nearly memorized, he cheekily calls out to her, "Good night," before turning and heading towards the exit.

She admits to Him that she heard everything between father and son – they certainly didn't keep their voices down – but she makes no sudden rush to apologize for it or to ask for forgiveness. Instead she idly wonders what has made him so happy that his son had asked him about it.

His smile; the way his eyes instantly brighten, the curve of his dimples; makes her stomach flip flop with her heart. She sigh contently at the image. He is rather handsome.

Finishing up with the last of the beakers, she dumps the water out of the cleaning pot and guiltily glances up towards the ceiling. Is it natural to feel this way towards a friend? Or is this how a woman would feel with a man?

Clasping her hands together against the basin on the sink, she closes her eyes and confesses, I have never felt this happen to me when I pray to you or when I sing in your grace. Are these feelings wrong or am I wrong in having these feelings?

Chapter Text

Fever – Peggy Lee (Beyoncé‘s version is good too)

This is always my favorite night of the year, Sister Bernadette briefly closes her eyes as the last cold nip of air rushes around her heavily clothed body. It was the last of the cool weather they would see until autumn and she is taking full advantage of it by walking back to Nonnatus House instead of breezing there on her bicycle.

The streets, normally quiet at this time of night, is filled with jazzy sounds from a night club not too far from where she is walking. The music is rather catchy to her tired mind, yet after the long but successful birth of the Huble babe, she gladly puts an extra sway in her hips to follow the soulful rhythm of the sounds filling the street. This quite reminds me of –

“We shouldn't be doing this out in public,” an unknown woman giggles as a man, presumably her boyfriend, pushes her against the wall.

Placing both hands on the stone wall around her head, he huskily murmurs, “I love you, my darling girl,” before taking her lips once again.

From her perch at the corner, Sister Bernadette watches the young couple with a renewed sense of fascination. She, along with everyone else in the medical profession, knows how exactly babies are conceived, but she has always been curious as to what a couple did before the act itself.

However, I shouldn't be trespassing on their private time, she mentally sighs as she steps back around the edge of the building. But you always are a curious person, the Doctor’ voice flutters through her head. Picking at the handlebars of her bicycle with her thumb nail, she tells herself that she will only look for one minute as she peeks around the corner again.

His lips, now moving on to the curve of her neck, she presses her hips into him. Pulling her arms from around his waist, she begins to tug at his belt. Just as her fingers slips down his fastener, she breathlessly asks, “Do you have a sheath in your pocket?”

He nips his hand into his sagging pants and pulls out a foiled wrapper with a cheeky, “Nipped it from my dad.”

Well at least they are using protection, Sister Bernadette reasons as she eases back from her voyeuristic perch. Glancing behind her, she tries to think of another route that won't take her past the portside bars that are littered with drunk seafaring men and loose women willing to ease their loneliness.

“I don’t want to breath another day if I can’t live without you for the rest of my life.”

The man’s raspy words quickly brings Sister Bernadette out of her thoughts and back around the corner of the two young lovers. Thinking that he had proposed to her, she slaps her hand over her mouth to keep from yelling out as she sees them having sex against the stone wall. The music – now slowed down to rhythmic crawl – keeps the beat of their hips as their moans of love and ecstasy create a symphony against the almost pitch black backdrop of the street around them.

Quickly climbing onto her bicycle, she peddles as hard as she can away from the young couple. The sounds of their love pounds against her eardrums, her heart quickens as each foot cycles closer to her home, her sanctuary. Screeching to a halt barely a centimeter away from the rack, she clumsily parks it and pulls out her bag before running up the stone steps.

Slipping in through the door, she makes it all the way to the clinical room before seeing a sleepy nurse greet her.

Yawning from her perch by the telephone, Nurse Lee bleakly smiles, “A long night for Mrs. Huble?”

Pulling out her instruments with shaky hands, Sister Bernadette breathes through what she just saw and attempts to wash it away from her memory. “She's had long births with her other two children. However, I'm happy to say that she delivered a healthy eight pounds four ounces baby girl.” Her voice is almost perfect, it’s a little too high, a little too shaky, yet the tired nurse heeds no objection. And for that, Sister Bernadette is silently grateful.

Opening up the log book, Nurse Lee distractedly says, “I'll add that in the log book and add her to our daily rounds schedule.” Stifling another yawn, she murmurs over her shoulder as she writes down the information, “You go on up to sleep now, Sister Bernadette. I can clean those for you. If I could just get you notes.”

Placing the last of her soiled instruments into the autoclave, she then reaches down into her bag for her notes before handing them off to the young nurse. With a soft good night and a thankful prayer that it was too dark for the young nurse to see her blushing features, Sister Bernadette tip toes up the stairs and into her cell without a single noise. Pulling off her wimple and cover and throwing them in the chair, she slips into her bed and pulls her covers up tightly to her chin.

With the solemn promise to never think about what she just witnessed tonight ever again, she allows her eyes to close and prays for sleep to quickly follow.

..::..::..

The halls are dark as Sister Bernadette marks her way towards the abbey. For ten years, she has made the same trail to and fro that she can do it in her sleep. Yet, this time, with her body is still shaking from the dream she had just woken from, she thinks that a light would greatly help guide her path.

Not just to the abbey to seek your word, your guidance, but to help me trespass down this unknown path you have taken me down.

The setting moon now begins to casts its shadow through the windows when she turns the corner, her sanctuary just steps away.

The tears she has been holding back begins to tumble down her cheek as she covers the few steps towards the alter before she falls to her knees onto the the cold, stone floor. Pressing her palms together, she prays for the light of his guidance and the love she so desperately desires.

Not of his touch, I beseech you, but of the love you promised to all of the children that takes your name into their hearts. Am I not your child, your sheep to flock towards the promise land of your eternal glory?

Closing her eyes to hopelessly stave her stubborn tears, images of his hands guiding her body to the pleasures of the flesh invades her mind. His fingers are bruising her thighs as his moans ghost along the shell of her ear. Her eyes snap open and she looks to the cross to lessen the burden.

I know I shouldn’t have these thoughts, but I do and I don’t know what I should do about them. Tell me, show me, teach me, whisper it to me, shout it for the whole world to hear; I don’t care, but I need your word, your strength, now more than ever.

Pressing her palms together so that her fingers are digging into her knuckles, her tears fall down her cheeks in an unending stream. “Please, please, I beg of you,” her hoarse voice softly calls out and reverberates along the stone walls.

There, just beyond the door, hidden within the shadows, Sister Monica Joan watches helplessly as her sister succumbs to her heavy sobs. Never had she seen her sister in such a disorderly mess. Her hair, wild from sleep, spills upon her shoulders as her dressing gown sticks to her sweating body. Clutching her cross as if the strength in her grip can magically give her sister the strength to fix what needs to be fixed, she timidly steps in biting her bottom lip.

Leaning over, she lays a warm hand on her sister’s shoulder. “The mountain you are carrying on your shoulders are put there for you to climb, my child.” When Sister Bernadette looks over to the older woman, Sister Monica Joan wipes her tears with the pad of her thumb. “The guidance that you seek from Him will only take you to your first step. You have to have the strength to overtake this mountain yourself.”

“What if that first step takes me away from you, from Nonnatus House, from the people that love me the most?”

Sister Monica Joan threads her knobby fingers through Sister Bernadette’s golden hair, “My dear child, nothing can take you away from us, simply for the fact that we hold you in our hearts.”

“I’m afraid,” her voice cowers as her eyes draw down towards the floor. Shame at the thoughts that run rampant during her days and the dreams that plague her nights has her meekly pulling away from the warm embrace of her sister.

“It was Mark who wrote to the Apostle Peter that those who believe in Christ should not be afraid, but to just believe. Believe that He is lighting your path and that those who truly love you will never leave, but will encourage you as you battle the peak of that mountain upon your tired shoulders and will celebrate when you have conquered it and will heal your bruises with gentle hands.”

For the longest time, Sister Bernadette allows the older woman’s words to wrap around her shivering body to comfort her. Silence pierces the abbey walls as the morning’s dawn begins to stretch along the stained glass window.

“Come, my dear Sister. Morning is approaching us, the day is new. Let me help you to your room and to dress you so that we can sing both for his praise and for your strength to overcome your mountain.” Threading her arm around the shoulder of her younger sister, she pups her up from the ground and steers her towards her room.

As an afterthought, Sister Monica Joan quietly adds, “If it is guidance you seek beyond your first step, maybe our own Sister Julienne can help you take your second and third step.”

As they cross through the door of her room, Sister Bernadette turns and gives her older sister a small smile. “Thank you, Sister Monica Joan for both your words and comfort. They have brought a sliver of light to me that has been absent for quiet a long while.”

“The light has always been there, my child.” She lifts the cover for her hair in one hand and her wimple in the other as she simply explains, “You have just chosen a different source to cast its brightness into your soul.” Furrowing her brow in confusion, she looks to her younger sister and asks, “Is the source of your light the same as the one who draws the tears down your cheek?”

Taking a moment to dress in her proper attire for lauds, she the fixes her glasses and timidly asks, “If it is, will that change what you have said?”

A smile softens her features as she takes her sister’s hands and squeezes it. “No, my child, for Venus is on the rise. A great change is coming to our humble abode, but it is change that makes the world turn and our lives flourish.”

Pulling at her hand, they walk back to the abbey hand in hand.

..::..::..

He gently cradles her hand within his palms. She is hurt and he needs to make sure that she is okay. Yet, the moment their hands touch, he knows he can no longer keep his love for her within his chest.

Fireworks, or perhaps a starters pistol, or maybe the pop of a balloon explodes from somewhere inside him. He has to taste her skin with his lips, to kiss her with all the love he has kept bottled up, to somehow tell her that it is simply her presence that makes his heart burst with joy he had sworn he would never feel again.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Shakespeare’s words tumble about in his mind as he bends down and casts his lips upon her palm, expressing all of the love he has for her in that one delicate kiss.

Her heart, pounding an unsteady beat since he joined her, nearly shatters into a million irreparable pieces. Slipping her hand from his warmth, a cold chill settles across her chest. She makes an excuse, always an excuse, yet she can hear though the sorrow lilt of his voice that they both suffer the same pains of secret love.

She waits until she hears the door to the Parrish hall close to allow her tears to fall down her cheeks. His one kiss fills her heart with such joy and yet she had to push him away. There is much joy in the Lord, however, it was nothing compared to the moment his lips touched me.

Turning towards the window with the fading light shining through the hazy curtains and the sounds of children merrily playing through the streets, she can’t help but see a brighter light shining down towards the dark corner of the door the doctor just left through.

That mountain, that Sister Monica Joan had seen the night she took solace in the abbey, has lessen its depth, its weight to a point where she feels she can overcome that peak. There’s my first step, but I’m not sure if I have the strength to take it because it will mean that I have to walk away from both this life that I truly love and the people that I have callied family for the last ten years.

That first step will have repercussions for the rest of my life. That kind of bravery is unknown to me, to my soul. Will I ever be brave enough to take the first step towards his light?

..::..::..

Collapsing into his favorite chair after turning on their new radio, Patrick allows a song he has never heard before help fill in the void of silence that has been following him since walking out from that blasted kitchen. I'm such a bloody idiot. I should have stayed away from her, but she was hurt and I was worried. Her smile at winning the race with Timothy was memorizing to say the least. How could a sane man stay away from that?

Fever. Half listening to the lyrics as the soulful cadence of the woman’s raspy voice fills the still air, his mind perks at how accurately her words capture his mood. Just her soft voice gives me a fever, an ache so deep down, that I never knew had existed.

Yet, I shouldn’t! And as much as I ache for even an acknowledgement from her, she has no right to give me one. She is taken for, her vows said many years ago. The quicker I can accept that, the quicker we can go back to what we were before I had seen her golden hair peeking out from under her habit.

“Hey, dad,” Timothy’s voice cuts through his own thoughts, “you’re actually listening to this song?” His son sits opposite of him, lounging about on the couch still in his cubs uniform.

Plastering on a smile, Patrick nods, “It was playing when I turned on the radio.”

“How is Sister Bernadette doing?”

His fake smile draws into a frown, “She's… she's doing fine. Why do you ask?”

Timothy looks at his dad as if he was growing another head, “She got hurt after the three-legged race. I saw you go after her. I assumed that you helped her.”

Something unknown tugs at Patrick's heart as he tips his head side to side, “She skinned her hand on the pavement.” Glancing towards the ceiling, he takes a deep breath, “She didn't need my help.” In fact, like the cod I am, I made things worse for her. Why? Why can't I just stay away? She's married! She's married to the Lord! I need to get her out of my head.

But how can I? Her eyes are so clear, so blue, that there are times that I swear I can swim in them. Her smile is captivating, almost as if she knows a secret and refuses to tell you what it is. Her lips, her beautiful lips. Her skin felt so soft when I had kissed her and–

"Is that why you're so sad?”

His son’s innocent question stirs him from his thoughts of her. “I'm not–”

“Please don't lie to me just because you think I'm just a kid who wouldn't understand,” Timothy hotly interjects. “Since January you have been sad, but not like the sad you were when mummy died. This kind of sad is different, like the sad you get when you don’t get your way and it effects your patients.” At his father’s stunned silence, Timothy kicks his feet off the sofa to face his father, man-to-man.

As his fingers thread along his mouth and jaw, Patrick tries to catch his breath. I didn't know I was this transparent. However, instead of answering his son’s question head on, he takes the cowards route by changing the subject, “What do you think about moving somewhere else?”

Before his son can respond, he quickly adds, “I've been offered a job as a partner position at a small clinic in Chelsea. It comes with a flat big enough for me and you. Or Uncle Johnny has always said that he could use more help in his clinic at Brighton Beach. You've always said that you enjoy going to the beach with J.J. and Peter. You can hang out with them anytime of the day if we move there. Or I received a letter from an old army buddy wanting to know if I wanted to move to a place called Chicago in America.”

Confusion knits along the young boy’s brow. After a heavy few seconds, Timothy slowly asks, “Are you not happy here?”

Patrick makes himself sit up further in his seat. “It's not that, I am just under the impression that you are sometimes unhappy here.”

Timothy shakes his head, “I'm unhappy that you leave me to fend for myself while you go off and take care of your patients. And unless you want to change jobs, that will still happen regardless of where we are at.” Taking in his father’s hunched figure, he slowly says, “You love it here. It's where we started as a family, it's where mummy is buried, but most of all, it's where we live.”

Rolling his eyes at his stupid idea, Patrick concedes, “You're right, of course.”

Timothy knows that something is not right with his dad. As much as he tries to hide it, he just draws more attention to it. “Is the reason of you wanting to move have anything to do with why you are feeling so sad?”

When has this little boy grown up? Most likely when I wasn't looking, too busy with other people's families instead of my own. Leaning forward and catching his elbows on his knees, Patrick decides to come forward, but not too much, “Sometimes adults do things and say things and make stupid decisions that inevitably makes them want to run away.” He knows that it's vague and utterly ridiculous, but I can't tell my eleven year old son that I'm in mad love with his favorite nun and that I kissed her and now she probably never wants to see my ugly mug again.

Rolling his eyes at his dad’s answer, he takes a guess at what is ailing him, “Does this have something to do with Sister Bernadette?” Internally smiling at his ability to make his dad speechless twice in one night, Timothy takes pity on him, “After getting the trophy for the three-legged race, I went inside the hall to show Sister Bernadette. I saw you leave the kitchen and a few moments later I heard her crying.”

Burying his head in his hands, his heart nearly wrenches out of his chest at the mere thought of Sister Bernadette crying and him being the culprit for her tears. Scrubbing his face with the heel of his hands, Patrick murmurs, “I didn't know that… I never wanted to make her cry.” He glances up at his son and gives him a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Now you understand why we need to move.”

Timothy vehemently shakes his head, “No!” He really doesn't want to leave the only home he has known all his life just because his dad can't think straight. Time for the tough love, as mummy would always call it when she had to tell dad off. “You are the bravest person that I know. You have got to fix it so that both of you feel better.”

Chapter Text

Body and Soul – Mel Tormé

His lips, ohhh, his heavenly lips suck at a point on my neck that drives me to the brink of total destruction. His tongue darts out and licks my skin before his teeth nips down.

Biting down hard on my lower lip to keep myself from calling out his name, I thread my fingers through his unruly scalp and drag him closer so that all of the air between our glowing bodies is suffocated out. That's when I feel it, his excitement at our pleasurable pastime, pressing against my belly.

His hands, which I swear were on the wall next to my head, are pulling up my skirt, exposing my burning flesh to the cool air that surrounds us.

Throwing my head back, I unwittingly expose more of my neck to feast upon as my own hands travel around his waist. His growl of satisfaction stirs something in the pit of my belly and I have to press myself against him to appease my own satisfaction that I crave. Pulling and tugging at his belt and clasp of his pants, I shove down his slacks as he hitches up my skirt.

Wrapping his strong arms around my thighs, he picks me up with little effort and pushes my back against the rough wall. Leaving the little crevice of my neck, he glances at me with his dark eyes and cocky smile and murmurs against my lips, "I don't want to breath another day if I can't live with you for the rest of my life." Pushing his hips forward, we are ready to become one.

Snapping her eyes open, Sister Bernadette takes a shuttering breath as the last image torturously leaves her mind. Swallowing past her own confusion as to why she had that dream again, especially so close after his kiss, she rolls to her side and pulls her hand out from under the covers.

Running her fingers along the faint scar, her only reminder that she can have happiness elsewhere, she glances out of the window to see the light breaking the dawn. Throwing off her sheets, she places her feet on the ground, fully intent to ready herself for the day.

Yet, as she goes about her routine, it's hard for her to keep her mind from drifting back to her dream; the taste of his lips on her neck, the feel of his fingers pressing into thighs, the growls of hunger that drives her body closer to his.

Grabbing her Bible from her bedside table, she collapses onto her bed and wonders not for the first time what she is supposed to do with these images. Blindly opening the good book, she hasn't even said one of her prayers before Sister Julienne knocks on her door and opens it.

Pushing away his whispered words of life with only her and the impression of his kiss that has remained on her palm – despite the number of hours trying to scrub it away – she follows her sister out of her cell.

..::..::..

Stepping out of Sister Julienne's office, words of death and disease tunblemished about in the doctor's mind. Just before he makes his way out, he stops in front of the alter and looks up to the cross juxtaposed with the stain glass of Jesus and Peter the Apostle.

I know I am not a man of God and I do not practice my prayers like mother would have liked me to do. You needn't worry, I'm not going to sit here and pretend to either. All I ask is that you spare the men and women who still look to you for guidance and who sing your praise.

His fingers itch by his sides, wanting desperately to mark the body of Christ like he had done numerous times when he was a young boy. Instead, he turns towards the door leading to the hall without another glance or prayer back.

– Oomph –

Throwing out his hands to steady the small frame that he walked into, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue, his eyes glance up and in an instant all the air in his lungs rush out leaving him bereft of any coherent thought.

"Doctor?"

Her voice – a voice of a sweet angel – resuscitates both his heart and lungs. "I am…," he stammers to a stop when he notices that the rims of her eyes are slightly red. She's been crying. "I am sorry." His thumbs, on their own accord, begins to stroke her shoulders, more out of concern rather than the love he carries for her.

The beat of her mangled heart tears through her chest, clawing, begging for her to seek the warmth she knows he can provide. Just as she is about to give in to her wild desire, the giggling voices of the nurses beyond the wall rattles her and instantly pushes her away from his embrace.

His fingers, tingly from the loss of her warmth, reaches out to keep their connection intact, yet she keeps tumbling back, back, back until she hits the wall.

Startled by the rough contact of the brick, she looks both ways down the hall like a skittish mouse trapped between a rock and a hard place. Settling for the open door leading out to the courtyard, she runs off and doesn't dare to look back.

Feeling his outreached arms falling aimlessly by his sides, he does nothing but to stare at her retreating form. Turning towards the other direction, he shuffles off with the image of her crying eyes and retreating form burned into his memory.

..::..::..

Putting the car in park, Patrick takes another look in the mirror and tries his best to lay flat his hair.

For the most part, she has been successful at keeping her distance cold and unfeeling while in the same company as him. Yet, the picture of him making a vein approach at controlling his unruly hair fills her chest with a warmth that melts away her treatment towards him.

Pressing her lips together to not let out the giggle that is dying to escape, Sister Bernadette seriously says, "You know, Doctor, there is such a thing as over preparing."

Pressing his rebellious hair to his scalp, he turns to the woman next to him and notices her eyes bright with uncontained laughter. With nothing but shell shock and awkward silences between them for the past thirty minutes from the moment he saw her climbing down the steps to now, he finds it oddly exhilarating that she is choosing this precise moment to flirt with him. "Yes, well, these people are quite particular about etiquette and protocol. I have known Quine since university. He was a pansy then hell bent on keeping his numbers straight as he is now."

"Regardless, just show them the facts and the figures. You will do great." Blush explodes upon her cheeks when she sees his eyes soften at her.

Her vote of confidence is something he wasn't expecting when he had decided to take on the board for them to bring the x-ray program to Poplar first. But now that he has it, he feels a few sacred inches more secure at his chances to win the bid than he felt he had a mere few hours ago.

Yet, it doesn't stop his nerves from getting the better of him, "The fate of diagnosing and treating TB rests squarely on my shoulders at this particular moment and the thought of failing is overwhelming and, quite frankly, catastrophic."

Everything that has happened between them before this moment falls to the wayside as she takes in the two ton weight in the form of a x-ray mobile resting awkwardly on his shoulders. With these mountains resting on my own shoulders, I regrettably know how he feels. Reaching out with a confidence she had never known she had possessed, she twirls the lock of unruly dark hair around her finger and smooths it along his hairline with the gentle press of her thumb.

Closing his eyes to the soft touch of her thumb along his forehead, the swirl of stormy weather that has been plaguing his soul calms to the likes of a balmy spring day. Just like the balmy spring day when I had tasted her skin with my fevered lips. The desire to capture her hand and to kiss her palm fires through his mind. Opening his eyes, he is just about to raise his hand when she quickly pulls away from him.

She feels his change of emotions before she sees it and she admits only to herself that the womanly desire to touch him was a selfish one to make. Just like allowing him to examine my scrape when I could have fixed it on my own.

Wetting her parched lips with the tip of her tongue, she sighs, "You will do great Doctor because you will always have the best interest of Poplar in your heart." Opening the door, she steps out and breaths a sigh of relief when noticing that no one witnessed their little affair.

I have already made my first step towards this new path with just the simple touch to his forehead. May God help me when I make my second and third step. Charging forward into the county hall, she doesn't realize how close he is until he opens the door of the building for her.

..::..::..

Climbing into the car, Patrick feels a new sense of vigor soar through him. Despite the moments awkwardness after the meeting, he can still taste the sweet nectar of victory on his tongue. Turning on his car, he pulls away from the county hall to make his way home. Sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Sister Bernadette is staring out of the window but is rubbing her thumb along the stretch of skin he had kissed a week ago.

With the high from both their win at acquiring the x-ray program and Timothy's still fresh words on encouraging him to be brave, Patrick grips the steering wheel and prays that the next words that come out of his mouth are what helps him overcome this mountain that has settled between them. "Sister, I, uhhh, I wanted to apologize for what had happened… a week ago."

Clasping her hands together, she stamps down the need to turn to him.

Taking in her silence, he tries his best to fill it, "I have been meaning to talk to you about it, but I couldn't find the best opportunity."

"In my need to figure out what He wants from me, I have been taking extra precautions to eliminate all that is distracting me." She hates her words, distastes them as they make their way out from between her lips, she still refuses to look at him, afraid that he would find her to be the coward she knows she is.

I distract… she's been ignoring me. Stopping at a stoplight, he runs his fingers along his chin as the thought of her sequestering herself away from him topples about in his mind. And what were to happen if we are both needed at a patient's house or at the maternity home? "I'm sorry that I have been the cause of your pain. I can move away from here if you would prefer."

"No, don't you dare!" Her words fly out of her mouth in a rage with no chance or desire to stop them.

– BEEP! BEEP! –

Glancing up at the green light, Patrick eases off of the brake and waves to the driver behind him. "Clearly, you can't stand the sight of me–"

Turning fully in her seat so that her whole body is facing him, she vehemently shakes her head and says the first thing that comes to her mind, "The sight of you lifts my spirits to a high I never thought possible." The instant her impassioned words leaves her lips, she knew she had divulged too much. There goes my second step.

Staring down at her hands, her heart hammers against her throat as she tries to find a way to fix what has been said. "Like I said before," she murmurs down towards her lap, "I am unsure of my path and I have to understand what He wants from me before choosing my next step."

There, his heart sings to his soul, is a light at the end of this dark tunnel. A slight possibility is better than none at all.

Taking a deep breath, she musters the courage to look up at him, "Please, I beg of you, don't make a rash decision based solely on my need to pray to a god you have stopped believing in so long ago."

Turning down the now familiar streets along the edges of Poplar, he stops to allow families to cross the street. "I won't leave, but I will also promise not to seek you out as I have selfishly done these past few months." His heart thumps wildly against his chest. "But, before I commit myself to this life of gloominess, I ask if you will allow me the honor of holding your hand? Just until we get to Nonnatus House."

I should tell him no, ask him what good it will do, and hide my hands underneath my scapular. But, as he puts the car back in motion and both the people and buildings stream pass them in a haze, she bravely reaches out to place her palm over his knuckles on the gearshift. And now my third step. My course is set; destination: unknown.

Twisting his hand around so that his fingers lock in with hers, he carefully looks around to make sure no one can properly see them before bringing her hand up to kiss the small stretch of skin that covers the joint of her thumb.

The brightness and clarity she had been desperately searching for the past six months blossoms in her soul and calms the torrential storm waging war in her heart, her mountains shrinking down to inconsequential molehills. Pulling their conjoined hands down so that they rest in her lap, she goes back to looking out of her window.

He wishes with every ounce of breath in his lungs that their drive could go on forever and ever, but when he sees the familiar rubble lining the street up to Nonnatus House, he knows he only has precious few seconds left. Squeezing her fingers once more to help stamp down the desire to kiss her again, he pulls his hand from hers to shift the car to stop.

Seeing the humble building, her home for the past ten years, she slams her eyes shut as the oppressive weight of her mountain settles back along her shoulders. Tears streak down her cheek as the darkness – my old friend – grips her heart.

He sees the tears marking a trail down her beautiful cheek and it takes every bit of self-control that he can muster up to not stop her tears with the brush of his thumb. She has allowed me to hold her hand. How can I ask for more when I have been given so much? Gritting his teeth, he makes himself look out at the gloomy day ahead of him.

Lifting her glasses, she expertly wipes away the evidence of her silent affliction with the hem of her sleeve. After a long silence in preparing herself to face the world once again without him, she quietly confesses, "I'm not losing my faith in God or even in you, but I fear that I'm starting to lose faith in myself."

Opening the door on her own accord, she steps out of the car and all but runs back into her sanctuary. Remembering to show the others that there is not a war raging inside her soul, she plasters a smile on her face before pushing the door open. Two steps forward and three steps back.

Unashamedly staring at her hidden figure as she runs up the stairs, he silently begs to the same god he swore he would never pray to again so long ago to have her glance back at him. When the door closes behind the swish of her billowing habit, he allows his head to fall onto the steering wheel with a resounding thud.

..::..::..

The atmosphere is high as the evening turns into night. Dinner is finished and the nurses have offered to clean up while the nuns begin their retreat to the parlor to work on their handicrafts before compline.

The doctor, no longer wanting to impose himself on their time – not when I have already imposed my feelings onto a certain nun – says to all of them, "I must be going. Thank you for taking me in so late at night."

Sister Julienne gives him a kind smile, "Thank you for giving us this wonderful news. We are grateful that you have been successful in your attempt to keep the good people of Poplar safe and healthy." Just before she turns towards the parlor, she adds, "Sister Bernadette will see you out."

For the barest of seconds, panic rises in his throat. She does not wish to see me, not so close after the afternoon we had shared. "She needn't bother. You have other important things to do," he murmurs with one foot is already turned towards the door.

Yet, Sister Julienne is not going to give in, "Nonsense. Sister Bernadette has to fetch her paints, which are in her room." Her eyes flicker over to her young sister's slightly hunched figure still in her chair, "If you could, Sister."

Standing and facing the man as if he is just a doctor and she is just a nun, she gives him a small smile as she holds her hand out to show him the way he already knows. Walk him to the door, open the door, and close the door when he leaves. That is all I am to do.

Following the sequence of her own self imposed directions, she makes it to the door when she sees his hand reaching for the knob. "Congratulations, Doctor." Her words unknowingly slips from between her lips and carries with them a sense of cool loneliness that she has felt since stepping out of his car just a few hours ago.

Letting his hand fall from the door, he quietly turns to face her with a quick glance down the hall to make sure that they are truly alone. Threading his fingers through her palm, he lifts it up and gives her a chaste kiss on her knuckles. I promised myself that I wouldn't do this. Hell, I promised her before I promised myself. "You were brilliant yourself, Sister." His voice is the perfection of propriety.

A small sigh, only loud enough for him to hear, leaves her parched lips as she squeezes his hand. "Have a good evening, Doctor Turner." Kiss me again, she silently pleads with her eyes.

Seeing her plea as if it is plainly painted along her rosy red cheeks, he looks off beyond her shoulder to make sure they are alone before granting her silent wish. This time, though, he flips her hand over an kisses the little patch of skin just below her wrist. "Good night, Sister." Reluctantly letting go of her, he gives her one more cheeky smile before turning to open the door.

Step two again. Twice in one day. She eagerly watches his retreating form flow down the stairs and into his car. Closing the door, she turns and lean against the unforgiving thick wood. I need to figure out which path I need to take before going any further with this… this… whatever-this-is.

Pushing herself off and steering herself towards the parlor, her mind begins to churn. I can ask Sister Julienne to send me to Chichester. There, I can use silence and prayer to think about what I want out of my life; either being the doctor's lover – her cheeks burn in fervor at that thought – or continue as a servant to the Lord.

Glancing up towards the ceiling, she smiles, you were never truly gone, never silent. You just needed me to make the first step, then the second, then the third.

Waltzing into the parlor, she sits down on the sofa before reaching out for a pair of knitting needles. I created the mountain on my shoulders, it is up to me to scale and conquer them. Hopefully, it is him that will meet me on the other side.

"What happened to your paints, Sister."

Sister Julienne's voice cuts through the density of her thoughts. "I, uhh, had changed my mind. I want to knit a set of booties for the Fitzpatrick family."

"The poor darlings," Nurse Franklin's sweet voice travels from the sofa, "not a shilling to call their own and with twins on the way."

Sister Bernadette can't help but retort back, "Yet, they are rich with love." Blush tinges her already fevered cheeks as she ducks down to look for the yellow yarn.

"The light has finally outshone the darkness." Sister Monica Joan calls from her perch in her chair. "The path is set, you now have the tools to overcome the mountain that stands on your shoulder."

To everyone else in the room, it was nonsense – Sister Evangelina's whispered prayer to give her strength reverberates off of the walls – but to Sister Bernadette, it was everything. Casting off her first stitch, she gives the older woman a small smile before focusing her attention on the task at hand.

..::..::..

I have tuberculosis. Those three words repeat in her mind over and over again as if death himself is signing her death certificate. Pulling at her wimple and then her veil, her fingers are shaking so much so that she can't pull apart the buttons to her scapular.

Sister Julienne takes over the simple task of removing the garment. Her own aged hands trembling at the possibility of her younger sister having this debilitating disease.

Observing from his quiet perch behind them, Patrick glances up from his stethoscope to see a patch of curly hair peeking out from under her cap. It's funny, all of what I have become in these past few months stems from seeing a lock of her hair. Looking up towards the ceiling for a brief moment, he prays to any and every deity to protect this woman from harm.

When Sister Julienne steps away, she allows the Doctor to come forward to conduct his examination. Clasping her hands together, she silently prays to her Lord, the Savior, for good news.

His hands, cold and trembling, pulls away her dress to slide his stethoscope along her skin.

Oh Lord, give me strength in my weakness. She takes a deep breath in and slowly releases it.

He hears it almost immediately. He moves around her body so that he is standing in front of her. Careful to not touch her body, the tips of his fingers pull at the hem of her dress.

Give me faith in my fear. She looks to the side, not trusting in herself to hold back a profession of love that has been burning in the deepest recesses of her heart since he pulled her into a dance.

No! Why her? Why with this? He briefly looks towards the ceiling and damns the god she loves. I asked you to protect the ones that sing your praise. Doesn't her sweet, beautiful voice reach you at your highest perch.

Give me power in my powerlessness. She can hear his defeat in the small breath that leaves his lips. When he pulls away, she immediately focuses back on buttoning up her dress. I am trusting you.

He looks to Sister Julienne. He can't face her, not with this, not without falling to his knees. "Crackles. On both sides."

Damn. The small slip never leaves the older woman's silent lips.

Still avoiding him with her eyes, her mind now goes into clinical mode. The London for more tests. Once confirmed, the triple treatment. Streptomycin, para-aminosalicylic acid, isoniazid. Rest. Recuperation. Then what after that? In the back of her mind, she hears him offering to drive her to hospital. "You don't need to do that." I will be weak for him, for his touch, for his comfort. The only comfort I wish seek at this moment is his and his alone and I must abstain. I have to be strong.

He grips his stethoscope with every ounce of strength he can muster as he finally looks down into her cold, drawn eyes. Please, he silently begs, please let me care for you. "I'll drive you."

Ever-so-briefly, she holds her breath and looks up at him. Giving him a slight nod, she finishes her last few buttons.

Sister Julienne, sees something flicker between her young sister and the Doctor. It had been so long ago that the same feeling flickered across her own face as talks of war far mightier than the first one raged all around her. Fear of death is what exposes a secret love from the deepest parts of ones own tortured soul. She had heard that from somewhere and it has always stuck with her. Regardless, stepping up to Sister Bernadette, she thanks the Doctor again for his generosity which effectively dismisses him.

Feeling as if the last flickers of light die out when she hears the door close behind her, Sister Bernadette turns to her friend, her mentor. The dam crashes and her tears, which she has held at bay, tumble down her cheeks.

Wrapping her arms around the young woman, she whispers, "You are the bravest person I know. Come, let's get you in bed and we will pray together."

..::..::..

I need to touch her, to let her know that I am here for her, that I feel something more for her despite whatever will happen. Glancing in his rear view mirror at Sister Julienne in the back seat, he places the car into gear before slowly gliding his hand to rest on the section of seat between him and Sister Bernadette.

Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, she clings tightly to the cross resting against her chest. Yet, instead of the prayers she knows she needs to recite, she dully wonders if prayer will make a difference now at this point. I have tuberculosis. No amount of prayer can wish it away.

Cognizant of the woman she highly respects sitting in the back seat – unbeknownst of the storm raging inside me or the mountains that sit squarely on my shoulders – Sister Bernadette let's her hand drop to the seat.

Inch-by-delicate-inch, their hungry fingers fight through shame and guilt and longing to finally find each other. At first it's a small sliver of skin that touches, yet, when the hospital looms in front of them, cascading their worries into full on nightmares, their fingers tangle within each other. Neither knowing where one begins and the other one ends.

Wishing for the millionth time that God had awarded the human body with more limbs, he slowly pulls his fingers from the warmth of her palm to ease the car to a complete stop. Staring up at the dull brown brick building, he doesn't dare to look over when he asks, "Would you like me to go with you?"

She wishes with all of her heart and soul that she could reach out for his hand again, but with Sister Julienne as their witness at the moment, she curls her hand into a fist and listlessly answers, "That is not necessary, Doctor." A moment, a second, a beat of her heart passes between them before she turns to face him, "You have been most kind."

Feeling her eyes on him, he turns to face her, but not before seeing Sister Julienne's placid reflection in his mirror, reminding him yet again that they are not alone. Keeping his bubbling emotions at bay, he tells her, "I will be checking on a few other patients. Please let me know if there is anything that you need."

From her perch behind the two in the front seat, Sister Julienne can sense a change between her sister and the doctor. It is as if a great force is vibrating between them and they are doing everything in their power to keep it still. Leaning forward, she places her palm on the doctor's shoulder and kindly says, "When her tests are finished, we shall meet you in the waiting room outside of the x-ray office." Even through the thick layers of clothing she can feel him trembling, his resolve waning.

Knowing that that is Sister Julienne's discreet way of dismissing them to exit the car, Sister Bernadette gives him a small, encouraging smile and softly calls out to him, "Thank you, Doctor Turner."

Just as he sees her turning towards the door, he tumbles out from his side of the car and opens both doors for Sister Bernadette and Sister Julienne. Stepping aside and shoving his hands in his pockets, he waits for them to disappear behind the door leading into the hospital before clenching onto their shared token of affection in the form of a crumbling cigarette.

Turning to slam the doors shut, he leans heavily against the car and folds his hands together in prayer.

Lord, look upon her with eyes of mercy, may your healing hand rest upon her, may your life giving powers flow into every cell of her body and into the depths of her soul, cleansing, purifying, restoring her to wholeness and strength for service in your Kingdom. Amen.

Reciting the prayer he promised he would never utter when the cancer took Mariann away from him, he marks the path of Christ along his body and makes his way towards the hospital.

Chapter Text

Love Me Tender – Elvis Presley

The hum of the engine is the only sound that fills the listless void as the tall buildings turn into tall trees. Staring off into the clouded sky, hoping, praying for a peek of light to punch through the thick wall of fog, Sister Bernadette subconsciously rubs her thumb along the inside of her hand. It will be her only source of comfort while she is tucked away at Saint Anne’s.

Patrick, for his meager part, remains stoic until he sees the sign pointing him the the right direction for Saint Anne’s Sanatorium. Gripping his steering wheel, his murmured words rush under his breath, “I will write to you.”

Clasping her hands together, she closes her eyes, “You shouldn't.”

Turning onto a dusty road that is lined with curved trees, he shakes his head, “I know I shouldn't, but I will go mad with worry if I don't.” Turning to look at her, just briefly, he pleads, “Say you'll read them.”

Not brave enough to answer back to him, she instead asks, “If it were someone other than me, would you be mad with worry for them?”

“No,” he instantly answers, “not unless it was Timothy.”

Turning her body so that she is facing him, she asks, “Why me? Why do you worry so about me? What makes me so special?”

Because I love you and there's no rhyme or reason to my decisions. He swallows hard past the lump in his throat. “Because,” he starts off carefully, “I care for you with such passion that I question myself sometimes.” Giving her a quick smile, he slightly changes the subject, “Besides, Timothy adores you and is already talking about how you will help him with his next science project.”

“Is he the only one that adores me?” Her question slips from her lips and thickens the air inside the already stifling car.

Feeling a zing of electricity pass through his heart, he pulls over the car and places it in park. Giving her his full attention, he states with the upmost confidence, “I would adore you until the end of time if you would allow me to.” Lifting his hand, his fingers gently traces along her cheek, “Adoring you is a male Turner trait.”

Desire explodes along her cheeks as her heart skips a few beats. The weight of the mountain on her shoulder becoming less cumbersome.

“I have already asked so much from you,” Patrick tips his head to the side, “but I would be a most grateful man if you were to allow me to kiss you the way a man would kiss a woman he adores.”

I shouldn’t. I should tell him to continue on to our destination, but it’s that same destination that make me curious as to how his lips would feel against mine. It is that same destination that make me think that there is a possibility that my chances of walking upon this mortal earth are slim at best.

With that last thought, she allows her heart to answer instead of her mind; she slowly nods her head and closes her eyes. When she feels his warm breath tickle her nose and his fingers settle around the back of her neck, she parts her hungry lips with much anticipation.

Bliss, beyond anything she has experienced before in her life explodes like a bomb in her chest. He is warm, and gentle, and everything she has been searching for. My shoulders, completely devoid of the mountains that have been weighing me down for the longest time, feels free, yet strong.

Knowing he needs to pull away at this moment or he never will, he leans back into his seat and slowly opens his eyes. Her lips, rosy red from the attention they just received, are still plump and puckered, enticing him to kiss her again.

Keeping her eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary, she opens them to see that her world has brighten from the dark and dim light that has been hanging over her since finding out about her diagnosis.

And it's all because of him. Taking a deep breath in, she tries to hide her smile as she says the first thing that comes to her mind, “I thought the reason I was so breathless was because of you.”

He smiles back at her a genuine smile, one that stretches along his cheeks and uses muscles he had long since forgotten were there. “I must confess to a similar affect.” Glancing over her shoulders at the robust greenery that surrounds them, he earnestly adds, “I must also confess that I am now thinking of different ways to steal you away. To live with just you and Timothy on the outskirts of some small insignificant village would be heaven.”

Pressing her lips together to stop herself from agreeing to his small plan, she shakes her head and croaks, “I have an appointment to keep at Saint Anne’s.” She pulls her hands away from his, “There, I have to learn where my path will take me.”

Nodding, he shifts back into his seat and places the car in first gear. The short ride to the sanatorium is filled with the same silence that had plagued them at the beginning of their trip. He is still unsure of what he wants to say to her. She is still a woman of God and she still has to make the choice to remain a nun or to make herself part of the community.

Pulling on the brake and turning off the car, he turns to her and reiterates, “I will write you, every week if you'll allow it.” Not waiting for her to answer him, he opens the door and steps out. Lifting up the boot, he pulls out her lightweight luggage and then swings to the other side of the car to open the door for her.

She makes herself return back to the proper nun she is expected to be; one that is not doubting her vocation, one that is not in love with a mortal man, and certainly one who didn't allow said man to kiss her. She thanks him for his help, yet, the only part of his body that she stares at is his lips. His glorious, soft to the touch lips.

As his last true act as a man hopelessly in love with a woman who is both unavailable and sick, he hands her the featherlight brown suitcase and allows his fingers to brush along hers. He prays, harder than he’s ever prayed before, that she will leave the sanatorium a healthy woman and that this last touch won’t be his last touch at all.

She can feel every last bit of emotion in the crook of his finger, yet she walks away. She has to if she is actually going to walk through those doors on her own accord.

For the tenth – or maybe it's the eleventh – time since that fateful night at the maternity home where Sam Cooke played the soundtrack to their blissfully ignorant lives, he silently begs her to turn around. When she slips in through the door without a peek back, he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Unsure of his next step as the rain drizzles down his neck, he pulls out the cigarette that changed his life. Nearly crumbling from the abuse of traveling with its owner in his pocket, he flicks it around his fingers for a few seconds. Giving it a small kiss, he places it on the ground at his feet. Standing, he makes his way back to the driver side and slips in. Before he can change his mind, he starts the car and drives away.

..::..::..

“You are royalty. You are Scottish by blood, but were raised in the streets of London. When you decided to join the order, that is when they came to you to tell you of your right. This is your top secret letter on how to claim your throne.”

—

“You have won the lottery and to escape your ruthless, money hungry family members, you hide out here under the guise of both a nun’s habit and a TB diagnosis.”

—

“Your having a secret love affair with Doctor McGullian. He has always had a thing for Scottish women just out of his reach. He admitted you in under the guise that one day you will both run away.”

—

“You are an international spy and there is someone in this hospital that you need to, you know, take care of. These are your orders.”

—

Each story Nurse Peters came up with were just as wild and crazy as the last. Yet, the morning after Sister Bernadette spoke with Sister Julienne, she came in with her tray of cake and tea with a solemn look about her face.

Glancing up from her Bible, expecting to hear another bizarre, yet funny story, she is greeted with an apologetic frown.

“You really are a nun, one who is well respected in her community as a nurse and a midwife. You help bring babies into the world.” She places the tray down on the bed. “I briefly talked with Sister Julienne just before she left. She is rather worried about you.”

Tugging down at her robe, Sister Bernadette swallows past the lump of guilt in her throat before explaining, “Her visit here wasn't what she was expecting.”

Clasping her hands in front of her, Nurse Peters bites down on her bottom lip before saying, “There are some people who come here expecting to die, so they tell me every secret they own. Others stay bottled up to hide the secrets of their past all the way to their graves. You, you get a letter from the same man every week – sometimes twice a week – and my mind begins to churn and wonder. I should have just kept my stupid stories to myself.” Taking a deep breath, she sighs, “I'm so sorry for any discomfort I have put you through.”

Just as the nurse turns to leave, Sister Bernadette courageously calls out, “I'm leaving the order.” When the young nurse turns back around, she points to the chair next to her bed to invite her to sit.

When she follows suit, Sister Bernadette begins, “My story, the real one, is that for a long time I have been blindly following this path I have set out for myself years ago because that is what is expected of me. Live a life devoted to God and to service the good people of Poplar in their most desperate hour of need.”

Running her thumb along the seam of her blanket, she builds up the courage to tell her story that she had been so careful to hide. As my mother always said, it's time to let the sunshine in. “A year ago, I began to question that path. I love my sisters, I love my work, I love the people I help, but I found myself wanting more out of my life. At first I thought I was being selfish; I had a roof over my head, food in my belly, clothes on my back, and a purpose to life. I am luckier than most, especially to those who call Poplar their home.” She hangs her head in guilt.

Leaning forward, Nurse Peter covers the young nun’s hands with her own. “There are plenty of people who have passed through those doors that have wished for a better life but were too scared to admit it.”

Sister Bernadette gives her a small smile, “I still find it to be a very selfish notion to leave all that has made me who I am behind to traverse down an unknown and dark path.”

"I'm assuming this gent who has been littering our front doorstep with letters has something to do with helping you light that dark path,” Nurse Peters lightly asks.

Sister Bernadette blushes something fierce as she replays their brief kiss in her mind. “He helped me see that I can explore this uncharted path with his company as my guide.” Glancing over at the box that holds the butterfly still in need of a cause of death, she heartily adds, “Well him and his son, Timothy.”

"So you and," she points at the worn letter with the flick of her eyes, “Mr. Sunshine and Daisies are going to get married after you spring free from here.”

“I'm… you know, I'm not quite sure.” She blushes again, but this time it's more out of embarrassment. “I haven't opened up any of his letters.”

"You didn't know of his true feelings for you before you came here?”

"I did, to an extent, but I wanted to come to this conclusion of my life by myself, with no outside influences. I didn't want anyone to think that I had succumbed to my decision due to impropriety rather than my own conversations with God.” Smirking at the weight of those mountains being permanently lifted from her shoulders, she confesses a second time, “When I came here, I thought I was to die, but in essence, I came here to find my life again.”

“Are you going to open up those letter,” Nurse Peters quirks her brow up, “or do I have to do the dirty work for you? I have already proven that I can be quite brash at times.”

"Funny enough, I have come to look forward to your stories of grandeur,” Sister Bernadette grins.

“How about after your treatment tomorrow, I'll bring you to the nice comfy chair close to the window – the one you always sit at – along with all those letters?”

A spark of hope and fear ignites in the pit of her belly at the simple thought of reading his letters. Nodding, Sister Bernadette picks up her fork and begins to cut through her piece of cake.

Leaving her to be, Nurse Peters is about to walk out of the room, when Sister Bernadette stops her.

Taking a quick breath, she calls out to her, “Please, Nurse Peters, call me Shelagh.”

..::..::..

Both light and shadow are the dance of love.

Pushing her way in through the curtain covered door at the end of clinic, she can see a shadow cast upon the doctor’s brow. Crossing her hands in front of her, she calls out to him, “It was a wise little teddy bear that said, ‘Never fear the shadows, they simply mean there’s a light shining nearby.’”

Looking up from his full cup of cold tea, Patrick furrows his brow at the sight of the elder Sister Monica Joan. “Excuse me?”

“There is a darkness that seeps up from your soul and clouds your vision, but I am here to tell you that the night is always at it’s darkest just before the dawn stretches out from the horizon.” She gives him a reassuring smile.

He shakes his head, utterly confused at what she is getting at. Placing his cup and saucer into the sink, he softly tells her, “I’m sorry, Sister, but I still don’t follow.”

“Sister Bernadette had the same look of darkness settling in her eyes, yet, just before the gamma rays took her away, the light began to cast its heavenly glow upon her cheek.” With timid fingers, she reaches out and places her palm on his. “Venus has risen and with it comes great change.”

With a final smile and a knowing twinkle in her worn eyes, Sister Monica Joan takes her leave with Doctor Turner staring at her retreating form in both disbelief and with a bubble of excitement.

..::..::..

Settling into her favorite chair by the window, Shelagh gathers the small stack of letters with one hand and a small biscuit in the other. Taking a rather large bite, she indulges herself for the small reward of getting through one more day of treatment. While it's not necessarily painful, it's tiring to the point of total exhaustion.

Yet, she wanted to make a dent into the stack of letters before turning in for the day. Since making her final decision – more like a giant leap of faith – to leave the order, she feels the sun rays basking along her cheeks while the world around her bursts with vibrant colors she had never known existed.

Finishing off her biscuit, she smiles to herself before opening the first letter; the folded one she kept hidden away in her Bible.

—

 “Dear Sister Bernadette,

     I told you on the way to the Sanatorium that I would be writing to you every week. It has been one hour since returning back from Saint Anne’s and I find that I can't think to do of anything else other than to put pen to paper.

     However, I find myself with one problem; I honestly don't know where to start or what to write. For the past ten minutes I have been staring off into space as if I have cobwebs in my brain. If it weren't for Timothy coming in and asking me why I have this daft look on my face, I would have stayed the whole night like that.

     He asked about you and I had no choice but to tell him that you are recovering from an illness. I had made a promise to him after his mum died that I would never keep secrets when it came to matters of health. He is upset that you are sick, but is confident that you will make a full recovery for the simple reason that you are – and I quote – “the coolest person that ever existed.”

     I am not the expert on “cool”, however, if the synonyms include beautiful, caring, and lovely, then I would have no choice but to agree wholeheartedly with him.

Until next week…

Yours sincerely,
The Uncoolest Dad Ever”

—

 Covering her lips to keep herself from laughing outright, a twinge of blush strokes her cheeks at his list of synonyms. Quickly opening the next one, she hungrily begins to read.

—

 “Dearest Sister Bernadette,

     It has been a full week since you have gone in for treatment and I have thought of nothing else but you. That kiss – oh, that beautiful kiss – has left me bereft of any focus for the numerous things that need my attention. There are times, usually when I am by myself, when I think of the little moments we have shared and I wish for you to be here.

     How are you feeling? How are the treatments getting along? How are you getting along?

     Life for me seems to go in a continuous circle, devoid of any excitement without you here to keep me – and my wanderlust lips – in check. I know, I know, you should be thinking of your path back into the arms of God, but selfishly I would rather have you in my own arms.

     Is there not a way that we both could share room in your heart?

I readily await your answer,
P.”

—

 Pressing her lips together into a thin white line, his last question causes a lump to form in her throat. Has he been waiting for an answer all of this time? With no more time to spare, she rips open the next letter.

—

 “My friend,

     I'm sure after that last letter, you think of me as presumptuous and rude. The moment I dropped it in the mailbox, I fought nail and tooth to get it out, much to the jargon of those around me to witness my ludicrous behavior.

     Please forgive me if I had said too much. (If you can imagine, I am on bend and knee.)

     I have spent the last few days blaming my appalling behavior on everything from the stress of the job to Timothy playing Perry Como over and over again (a silent vigil for you) to the three glasses of whiskey I had consumed before taking pen to paper. But in the end, I wrote it, stamped it, and mailed it.

     And for that, I again, ask for your forgiveness in the matter.

Sincerely,
P. Turner”

—

 Lightly tracing her finger along the scrawled ‘P’, she idly wonders what his first name is. Peter, Patrick, or maybe even Pierce. Or does it stand for a nickname? Possibly from university? Adding the letter to her growing stack resting on her legs, she quietly opens the next one.

—

 “Dear Sister Bernadette,

     Have you forgiven me yet? I can't help but ask since I have not received correspondence from you since driving you to the sanatorium.

     How are you feeling today? I know that with the triple treatment, you can tire rather quickly. I know that you are holding on strong. You are brave.

     Now don't you think I am succumbing to the same stresses that brought that frightful letter two weeks back. Timothy is always the first one to say how brave you are. He even wrote a school report on you. I told him that he should have asked you first. So instead of turning in that one, he wrote another report on Maximilian Kolbe.

     Funny enough, he said it was you who told him the story of who he was and why he is so brave.

     I hope you are starting to feel better. I also hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,
Dr. P. Turner

P.S. Enclosed is a picture Timothy drew for you.”

—

 Shuffling the papers, she opens the folded paper to see a picture of the both of them in the three-legged race, which brings a bright smile to her face.

Pulling the next letter, she rips it open with her finger.

—

 “Dearest Sister Bernadette,

     I am catholic. Did you know that? My mother was the religious one in the household; always taking us to church and making damn sure we grew to be fine, upstanding catholic men. My father (a physician) was raised catholic but never attended mass with us.

     We – my brother and I – would always ask why father never came. It wasn't until I was a physician myself coming back from the war did I understand. You see, just like me, he was a doctor on the front lines; same place different wars. War makes you lose faith in God. I dare say, for sometime, it also makes you lose faith in yourself. After returning from France, I lost faith in both myself and in God.

     That being said, I attended mass for the first time in almost twenty years on Sunday. I didn't go for the sole purpose of praying for your health (although it was the first prayer I recited), I went so that I can learn to walk hand in hand with you and God.

     That's not to say that I'm being presumptuous again – I'm being a good boy by taking better care of myself – but to prepare myself for when you return. You have made vows and promises to Him and it would be selfish of me to think that you could easily leave that life as if it were like a flick of the switch.

     I'm rambling.

     On a lighter note, Timothy, who went with me to mass, thought it was wildly exciting at first, but then in the middle shuffled down in his seat claiming to be too tired for all of the calisthenics they made us do so early in the morning. He then told me that I should go to mass everyday to get my own exercise in. Catholic humor at its finest, I suppose.

     Until next week...

Your Friend,
The Catholic Who Needs More Exercise”

—

 A small giggle escaped her lips this time. Taking stock of the room, she breaths a sigh of relief when nobody pays her any attention at her slip.

She rereads the letter again, this time letting her eyes slowly take in the bit about him losing his faith. Although, she has never lost her faith in God, she has felt that need to stray from the path set before her. It's easy to lose ones faith in oneself, especially if you feel as if you are not living up to the expectation you give yourself or that other people have for you.

Closing her eyes, she lets the renewed sense of guilt wash away. Opening her eyes, she stares at the words until her vision blurs. I wish he had continued on rambling. Despite the gloominess that has settled around her, she smiles at the thought of them walking hand in hand under the gentle eyes of God.

As a vision of herself in white dances along her wild imagination, she places the letter on the others and opens the next.

—

 “My dearest friend,

     This is going to be one of those letters that you will need to stop reading right now and to burn it.

     If you are still reading it past the point of no return, then you either have a heart of pure gold or you have made your decision about the direction of your life. (I secretly hope it's the latter.)

     Today has been the worst day since Mariann passed away. Mrs. Tate, who spurred me into fighting for the x-ray program with her diagnosis of advanced TB, has succumbed to the disease as well as her infant child. One moment, she was giving birth to her stillborn and the next… it's as if she had lost the will to live. We tried everything, even prayer, but nothing had effect.

     And as much as I want to scream at God, at his need to take a woman and her child away from their family or to punch my fist through the wall at my lack of providing care for both mother and baby, I instantly thought of writing to you.

     Now, this very second, I can't go another moment without telling you that I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

     I understand the vows you made and the disease you are being treated for, but I couldn't possibly – no.

     If something were to happen to you and–

     I love you, it is as simple as that. I refuse to live another day where you don't know my true feelings for you. I know it's a sin to be writing something like this to you, but I assure you, if you were here, in Poplar, I would be saying the same thing, only I would be telling it to you face-to-face.

     I will gladly face down the gates of hell just for you to know where I stand when it comes to what makes my heart beat.

I love you.”

—

 “Sister - I mean Shelagh? Are you okay?” Nurse Peters lays a hand on her shoulder as she looks down at the woman with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh looks up at the nurse she has come to respect and gives her a glorious smile. “I have honestly never been better.”

Sighing in relief, Nurse Peters gives a small nod back. “Why don't we get you settled in for the night?”

“No,” she busted out stubbornly. “I have one more letter to read,” after a second, she passionately adds, “please?”

“How about I come fetch you after I put on a kettle of tea?” With a wink, she moves off to check on the others before slipping out of the day room.

Now having limited time, she rips open her last letter.

—

 "To my dearest,

     It is six o'clock in the morning and I am at the docks watching the sun come up along the river. After my last letter to you, I feel as if a large weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Yet, with your lack of response, that same weight has now shifted into my heart.

     You told me the morning I drove you to the sanatorium that you needed to decide where your path should take you. With no response to me specifically (Nurse Franklin informs me that your letters lack juicy gossip), I understand now which path you have chosen.

     I will respect your wishes, but please also take note that my feelings for you (as written to you in the letter before) will never change. Each day will be a new day, a new day that you will be healthy and alive. I will spend my free time thanking God for His help in healing you.

     I love you, but I will love you from afar with all of my heart and cherish the few times we have had together.

With love,

P. Turner”

—

 I must call him and I must call him soon. Watching Nurse Peters consoling another patient, Shelagh counts down the precious seconds she has until she will be taken to her room. Placing all the letters into their corresponding envelopes, she makes sure to keep the picture Timothy drew for her out.

“Are you set to retire, Shelagh?” Helping the smaller lady up, she can't help but to look down at the letters and paper she is clutching protectively in her fingers. “I see you have read all of your letters?”

Carefully stepping around the furniture it isn't until they are near her room that she softly confirms, “Yes, I have.”

Nurse Peters pulls down the comforter and helps Shelagh lie down in her bed. Tucking her in, she gently smiles, “I hope they have brought what you have been seeking.”

Holding them close to her chest as if they are her prized treasure, Shelagh sighs, “They have brought me love; something I haven't been seeking, yet, now that I have it, I can't see myself without it.” Glancing back up at the young nurse, she asks, “If you don't mind, I would like to reread my letters. Could you please leave the light on?”

“Of course,” she pats her on the shoulder, “Good night.”

Chapter Text

Let’s Do It – Ella Fitzgerald

Shelagh. Shelagh. Shelagh. Her – her beautiful name – name joyfully bounces about in his head as the fog from the road slowly begins to dissipate around them. Curling his fingers into the lapels of his jacket that he placed around her, he takes a step closer so that the tips of their shoes kiss.

A curious sensation sizzles from the tip of his nose all the way down to his bones with an overwhelming desire to touch her, almost as if her soft skin is the only element his body needs in order to survive. Letting go of his jacket, he draws the pad of his thumb along her cheek.

Closing her eyes, she knows, just from his simple touch, that she has made the right decision in choosing this path; arduous and dark at first, now shines as brightly as the blessed sun. Everything that felt so wrong a few months ago, now feels so right as his fingers lightly dance along the path of her neck.

Grasping his free hand with both of hers, she leans down and gently kisses his palm; just like he had done at the fête, except he doesn’t pull away. Glancing up through her eyelashes, her knees nearly collapse at the dusk of desire that fires through his eyes. “I… I wanted to write you back, but I was unsure how to put that in a letter.”

“I love you.” Snapping his lips closed after his words blurts out of his mouth, he is relieved to find that a soft smile stretches along her cheeks and reaches the creases of her eyes. Grasping both of her cheeks, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers. “I don't know when it happened, but it did and I am so happy to have found you.”

--Beep! Beep!--

Patrick chuckles at the car horn cutting through the hazy fog of love that has clouded all of his senses. “I brought someone with me and he is anxious to see you.”

Leaning out of their embrace, just slightly, Shelagh peeks over his shoulder to find Timothy wildly waving at her. Blushing at the thought of his son witnessing their passionate embrace, she buries her face into his chest.

Patrick gives her a quick kiss on the forehead, before picking up her suitcase with one hand and pulling her towards the car with the other. “He wants to see you, desperately.”

Opening the door and stepping out onto the dirt road, Timothy runs the rest of the way before crashing into her with a monster of a hug. He knows that without a doubt that his father is in love with her. And while the true thought of “love” makes him wrinkle his nose, he is happy to see his father happy again and to know that Sister Bernadette is healthy.

Pulling away with blush tinging both of their cheeks, he murmurs, “I'm so glad we found you Sister Bernadette. I'm also glad that you are well enough to come back to Poplar.”

Shelagh looks to Patrick first before smiling back at Timothy, “I'm glad to be coming back.”

Hearing the thunder rolling miles away, Patrick encourages them to move, “Let's get into the car before it begins to rain.” Opening both passenger doors, Timothy squeezes in while Shelagh gingerly slips in the front. Dropping her luggage into the boot, he quickly walks around the car before shoveling in himself. Instantly, he turns to her and asks, “Have you eaten?”

“Not since breakfast,” she softly replies.

Timothy pops up from behind them, “There was a restaurant not to far back, dad. We can take Sister Bernadette there as a celebration for getting better.”

She blushes, “I don't want to impose. Besides, I have to meet with Sister Julienne and find suitable boarding before the day's end.”

Timothy's “We are hungry too,” crashes against Patrick's “It's not an imposition,” and both look at each other crossly.

It is Patrick who wins the stare down battle and speaks, “It is no imposition simply for the fact that you are recovering from an illness and you need to keep up your strength.”

Timothy patiently waits his turn before blurting out, “And we are starving and I don't think you want to punish yourself with dad’s version of cooking.”

“Oi!” Patrick barks as Shelagh giggles into her fingers. Hearing her small laugh instantly diverts his attention from his son back onto her. A goofy grin settles along his lips as he softly replies, “We will be able to get you back in time for you to complete your errands.”

As he drives away from a vestige that he will always remember as the spot where they found each other, he nervously fills in the silent void that has overtaken the car, “If you need a reference to rent a room, please put my name down. In fact, I believe Mrs. B. is in need of some help since falling a few months back. She has not taken kindly to neither mine or Sister Julienne's advice on taking in someone to help with her daily chores. She might, though, be more comfortable with you since she knows you.”

He finally stops his rambling and takes a brave peek over to her to see that she is staring out of the window. Not wanting to make her transition anymore awkward than it already is, he wisely seals his mouth shut and focuses on driving with a tightening grip on the steering wheel.

That is until Timothy speaks up, “Are you no longer Sister Bernadette? Do we call you Bernadette or do you have another name?” The precocious eleven year old leans forward with his arms and rests his chin on his hand, yet he – curious of the changes happening right before his eyes – doesn't stop his line of questioning all in one long breath. “Are you leaving the nuns because you kissed dad on his hand? Can you still be a nun and stay with us? Oh, and what–”

“Timothy! That's quite enough from you,” his father sternly calls out to him with a steely stare from his perch in the rear view mirror.

Shelagh covers Patrick’s hand on the gear shift with her own. “It's quiet alright. I'm sure I'm going to have to answer the same questions when we return to Poplar.”

As she turns to face the eager young boy in the back seat, she naturally tries to slip her hand from his, but he doesn't allow it. Stealing a glance over to him, she silently understands that there is no more need to hide their ‘forbidden’ feelings from those around them – at least from the people who know about our relationship and, the only ones who are privy to it, are sitting in this very car on its way to a celebratory lunch.

Giving him a gentle squeeze, she keeps her hand with his as she partially turns towards Timothy, “I have decided to resend my vows as a nun, so in essence, I am no longer Sister Bernadette.”

“What shall I call you,” Timothy interrupts.

She gives him a warm smile, "You shall call me Shelagh. That was my name before I joined Nonnatus House as a nun and that is the only name I wish to go by from here on out.”

“Shelagh? Shelagh. Shelagh.” Her name bounces about in his head and off of his tongue as if he is trying to get used to saying it. All my life I have known her as ‘Sister Bernadette’. “It's a very pretty name,” he slowly begins, “but I might accidentally call you Sister Bernadette from time to time.”

“That's okay,” she gives Patrick an affectionate smile when she feels him squeezing her hand, “I know there are a lot of changes that we will all have to get used to.”

“You mean you kissing dad?” He scrunches his nose and makes a face. “Kissing is gross. Jack and Benny told me that nuns can't kiss men, but you're not a nun anymore so I guess that means that it's okay for you and dad to kiss. Just promise me you won't do it in front of me and my friends.”

While Timothy overlooks his bluntness with another ‘grossed out’ face, Shelagh glances down at the crack of the seat in embarrassment.

Trying to clear the somber mood that has now stiffened in the air between the two adults, Patrick warns, “Timothy…,” his reproach is caught by the younger Turner with wide, unknowing eyes as to why he is in trouble. “Timothy, this is all brand new for Shelagh. Your questions and comments are bordering on rude.”

Volleying between the two adults, Timothy notices Shelagh’s rather red cheeks and says in earnest, “I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. I'm just curious as to where we go from here.”

“You are not the only one,” Shelagh soothes. Lifting her chin, she gives him a small smile. “I would appreciate your confidence, though, until we have figured out where that path will lead us.”

In truth, Timothy was itching to tell his two best friends that he saw a nun kissing a man, but he doesn't want to embarrass her or himself in the long run. “I promise.”

“That's a good lad,” his dad calls back as he pulls into a bed and breakfast that is open to the public for lunch.

As his dad parks the car, Timothy notices that they are looking at each other while trying not to get caught. He is about to roll his eyes when he sees his dad’s eyes light up from a bright smile that she gives him. Now, I think I understand. “You have made my dad happier than I have seen him since mummy died. I'm glad you came back to us as Shelagh instead of Sister Bernadette.”

Tears gather in the corners of her eyes at his last comment. Speechless as to how to reply back, she can't help but feel that she has crossed her first – and hardest – hurdle since walking out of the sanatorium without the sanctity of her habit. I’ve scaled my mountain and I’m lucky to have them waiting for me on the other side.

Carefully watching the exchange on her face, Patrick tuns to his son and murmurs, “You have helped make that path a little more easier to see, son.” As confusion settles in the knit of Timothy's brow and Shelagh hastily wipes at her cheek, he opens the door and quickly makes his way to the other side. As they both step out, he quips, “I'm hoping they have something other than fish and chips.”

As Timothy gives another ‘yuck’ face, Shelagh giggles, “That is actually something I have been looking forward to eat since I have been discharged.” Enjoying the sheer look of slight disgust on both Turner men faces, she stifles another laugh as she makes her way to the entrance.

..::..::..

Gripping the curves of his hat, Patrick glances up at the wooden cross juxtaposed against the colorful stained glass. It had been a long time since he has been in a church by himself and an even longer time since being confronted with his catholic upbringing on his own. Prayers in solitude have been more challenging to me as opposed to the monotony of prayers in church.

Glancing at the closed door to Sister Julienne's office, he mentally wonders if he has time to give the prayer of thanks. It is rather long, yet, he looks back at the cross, you did bring Shelagh into my life. What better place to give thanks than in the building she has called home for over ten years.

Rubbing his thumb along the pads of his pointer and middle finger, he casts a shy look around before bending down on one knee. Marking the cross along his body, he recites his prayer. Just as he marks the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the door to Sister Julienne's office opens.

“As I live and breath, Doctor Turner giving thanks through the Lord, our Savior.”

Sister Evangelina’s cocky voice fills the echoing hall of the abbey as he awkwardly stands. Looking between the cross and the people he has come to see, he feels trapped by tempting fate. He started his prayer and he had an urge to finish it so as not to upset the powers that be.

Rolling her eyes, Sister Evangelina curries her hand through the air and shortly calls out to him, “Be a good boy and finish your prayer, we haven't got all day.”

Bending back down on his knee, he finishes the prayer he knows by heart as quickly as he can; foregoing the ‘Our father’ part. Sending up an apology to his mother, he marks his faith again and quickly stands.

Marching towards the office, just as he passes Sister Evangelina, she stops him with a hand on his forearm and murmurs so that only he can hear, “You forgot the ‘Our father’ part, but I'll let it slide just this once.”

Numbly nodding his head, he steps further into the cramped office and settles in a chair opposite of Sister Julienne. Placing his hat on the curve of his knee, he waits for Sister Evangelina to sit next to him before starting. “I, uhh, wanted to thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know with Nurse Noakes in the hospital, you feel as if your time should be spent elsewhere.”

"While we continue to pray for Nurse Noakes’ recovery, we are overjoyed at the newest addition to her family.” Sister Julienne smiles, “Yet that is not the only thing that has brought joy back into Nonnatus House. Sister Bernadette, or rather Miss Mannion, as what she would like to be called now, has returned back from the Sanatorium completely healed.”

Briefly biting down on his bottom lip, he stiffly nods his head, “Yes, Timothy and I were the ones who drove her back to Poplar.”

Surprise and confusion volleys back and forth between the two nuns at the reason their sister decided to call him instead. And while somethings that she had noticed are starting to connect for Sister Julienne, Sister Evangelina calls out with the cross of her arms, “Oh really?”

Stroking the blessed inch of skin she had kissed on their road of discovery, Patrick silently encourages himself to be brave – as brave as Shelagh. “That is why I came here tonight and on such short notice.” Avoiding Sister Evangelina altogether, he glances at Sister Julienne and quickly says, “I would like your permission for Shelagh’s hand in marriage.”

The silence that engulfs the trio in the small office is stifling to say the least.

“No!” Sister Evangelina’s voice reverberates loudly off of the brick walls.

As hot anger at her quick answer fires through his chest, Patrick turns to the robust nun and counters her one word answer with his own, “Why?”

She narrows her brows at the insolence of the man sitting in front of her. “You asked for my permission and I gave you my answer. Are you a trifle deaf of hearing?”

Holding up her hand to stop the onslaught of bickering that was sure to take place, Sister Julienne turns to Sister Evangelina and reasons, “I too have my doubts, but we should allow the Doctor to speak.”

Leaning back in her chair and folding her arms along her chest, she murmurs, "Very well, but," she sharply holds up one finger, “this is only because I trust you as a competent doctor, not as some heartthrob Romeo.”

"Thank you Sister," he bows his head towards Sister Julienne. Swallowing past the rather large lump in his throat, he begins with the one thing he is sure of, “I love her very much.”

"Oh for Pete’s sakes, what did I tell you about heartthrob Romeo?” Sister Evangelina shouts out.

Sister Julienne was just about to instill the peace once more when Patrick interrupts her, “I speak the truth. I'm in love with her. I see myself with no one else but her as my wife.”

“Pardon me for saying this Doctor,” Sister Julienne softly calls to him, “but how would you know you are in love with Shelagh when she has been ‘Shelagh’ for a few days at most?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but he quickly closes it. He doesn't want them thinking that they had done something to be ashamed about. Just a few touches here and there, a few chaste kisses on her palm, and that kiss in the car, but they don't need to know about that.

"Oh my God! How long have you been coveting her?” Sister Evangelina’s fury is now starting to boil over the top. “Did you do anything to her?” At his continued silence, she abruptly stands up, making her chair topple behind her, but she pays no mind to it whatsoever. “I swear, if you laid one unwelcoming finger on my sister, I'll make Adolf Hitler look like the bloody pansy lion from Oz.”

Standing herself, Sister Julienne looks between the two warring sides and is unsure of where to place her loyalties.

Patrick shakes his head and somberly looks up to the one person that has seen his family evolve over the course of several years, “Sister Evangelina, you were at my wedding to Mariann. You helped her give birth to our son. And,” his voice gets caught in his throat, “and you held my hand when she took her last ounce of breath. Never once did you question my love or my loyalty to her.” When he sees her features soften, he sighs, “I'm in love with Shelagh with all my heart, body, and soul. Never once did I cross a line with her that would put her at risk of losing your trust.”

Gritting her teeth to stave off the tears threatening to fall, Sister Evangelina croaks, “But she has barely seen the light of day from the other side of our walls. How do you know you are what she needs? How do you know you will make her happy?” Her voice gives out as a tear spills down her cheek. With a quick wipe of her finger, she clears her throat and explains, “She is but a child in a world where her faith cannot save her from being… used.”

He takes a moment to ask those very same questions. A small voice – tiny compared to the voice that reasons that he's no good for her – reminds him that they make each other happy and that is all that matters. “You are extremely protective over her and, for that, I am thankful, more than you will know.”

"I think what Sister Evangelina is trying to say,” Sister Julienne interrupts, “is that why do you want to ask her so soon after her departure from Saint Anne’s? She hasn't even had time to convalesce, let alone to get back on her feet after such a change.”

“Because my love for her will never waver, not even in the slightest. She brings a lightness to a part of me I had thought would never see the sun again. Then she fell ill with TB and once again my world fell silent, dark. That brightness that filled my heart disappeared. When we – Timothy and I – went to go pick her up from the sanatorium, we found her wondering and lost on a country road. Just as I placed my coat around her shoulders, she told me that she was no longer lost now that I had found her.” Bowing his head, he barely mumbles, “She doesn't understand that it was I who was lost on that winding road and it was her spirit, her love that lit the way for me.”

He glances up between the two women Shelagh cares about more than anyone else. “Nevermore will I be condemned to the darkness by the loss of my first love, not with a brightness that she willingly shines down on our lives.”

Straightening his back with a deep breath, he confidently says, “I will give my all to her to make her as happy as she has made me. If that means I am condemned to love her from afar if you do not wish to give me your consent, then so be it. But, I will tell you right here, right now, that I will never stop loving her and she knows that.”

Silently the sisters briefly look at each other before Sister Evangelina softly says, “Then our consent you shall have,” she hold up her hand to stop his early jubilation and roughly states, “with three conditions.”

Feeling his heart beat out of his chest, he shakes his head, “Name them.”

She holds up one finger, “One, you keep her safe,” she holds up her second finger, “two, you go finish the ‘Our father’ part of your prayer,” she holds up her third finger, “and third, you make sure the ring you buy her is as classy as the lady you are giving it to.”

Quickly standing, he gives both the women a huge grin, “Thank you, Sisters. Thank you so much.” With a small bow, he nearly tumbles into the door before making his way into the abbey.

While Sister Evangelina sternly shakes her head at his rather comical retreat, she looks back at her sister, “You knew about this, about them, didn’t you?” Her tone is not accusatory – never with the one she respects the most – but more inquisitive.

Sister Julienne sits up straighter in her chair, “I had my suspensions, but Sister – Shelagh assured me even before I truly knew about the nature of their relationship that she had come to the conclusion on her own through prayers and her own conversations with God.” She softly smiles and then sighs, “This engagement is rather sudden.”

Sister Evangelina hums in agreement, “I'm still not convinced that it's the right thing to do, but I am sure that it will be done out of love and that is half the battle.”

Sister Julienne looks back at gruff nun, “Sometimes I forget that through your tough exterior, you are an old romantic at heart.”

Turning back towards her sister, Sister Evangelina quips, “It is a secret that I will gladly take with me to the grave, as will you. If you will excuse me,” she gives a quick smile before stepping out of the office. Silently closing the door so as not to startle the Doctor mid-prayer, she pads over to where he has taken up residence on the cool, cobbled floor and bends down on her knees with him.

Gently grabbing his hand, she begins to pray out loud, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory for ever and ever. Amen.”

Marking the body of Christ along his body, he opens his eyes and looks to Sister Evangelina next to him. “I promise to love her and to make her happy.”

Patting him on the back of his hand, she murmurs, “I know, or you'll have me to contend with.”

He gives her a crooked smile, “Yes, ma'am.” Stepping up, he reaches under her arm and helps her up. With one last smile to her, he bows before the cross and makes his way out of the abbey.

..::..::..

"So what did they say? Did they say yes?” Timothy all but clambers when his dad opens the door and slides into his seat.

Patrick stares up at the brick building that he has seen numerous times and sighs with a dazed smile still coloring his cheeks, “They gave their consent.” Turning to his son, he hastily adds, “Including Sister Evangelina.” He was more nervous about gaining her support than he was about Sister Julienne.

“Yahoo!” Timothy punches his fist through the air. It took him about three days after returning home from picking up Shelagh to ask his dad if he was going to ask her to marry him. His dad tried to push it away as an excuse for her health, but Timothy – precocious and extremely observant – asked him what he was waiting for and gave his own permission for him to ask her to marry him.

Taking a peek up towards the vibrant pink and orange crusted sky, Patrick murmurs under his breath, "The jewelers are closed by now. I'll have to go first thing tomorrow morning.”

Timothy tips his head to the side, "Why do you need to go to the jewelers?"

“If I'm going to ask Shelagh to marry me, then I will need to make sure to have a nice ring to go with it.” Patrick smiles, but with his nerves now starting to take over, it turns more into a grimace. Rubbing the pad of his thumb under his pointer and middle fingers, he craves both a cigarette and a shot of whiskey all in one breath.

“Are you okay, dad?” Timothy's brows knit together in concern. “Only, you look a little pale.”

“It's nothing,” he murmurs under his breath. Turning the key to start the engine, Patrick throws the shift into gear and pulls away from Nonnatus House.

“That's a lie,” Timothy states the obvious. “You look as white as a sheet, like a few days ago when we had to find Sis – I mean Shelagh.” Turning completely towards his dad, he begins to rattle off, “Do you think she'll say yes? Or are you nervous she will say no? If she says no, are we still going to hang out with her? Do you think she will say no or do you think she'll say yes?”

“Timothy!” Stopping off to the side of the road, he places the car in park and mumbles against the steering wheel, “You're not helping.”

“I'm sorry, dad. I guess I'm just nervous for you.” Timothy stares down at his fidgeting hands in his lap.

Patrick glances over at his son and places his hand over the young boy’s. “There are certain times in a man’s life that will help define if he has lived a good life or one fraught with ‘what ifs’ that were never truly answered. This is one of those times. I am in love with her and I want her to say yes, but there are many factors to it.”

“Like what?”

Patrick tilts his head to the side as he remembers an article he read in a men's magazine right before he asked Mariann to marry him. “I have to make sure I look presentable; I'm sure she wouldn't want to marry a slob. I have to get her a nice ring; even though I don't think she would care about things like that, I want her to be proud to wear her ring. And the words…” Just the thought of what he should say to her and wants to say to her is daunting. “They have to be perfect, otherwise I'll blunder it up.”

Timothy scrunches his forehead in confusion. I know that I'm just a young kid and most of the stuff dad is talking about doesn't make sense, but it seems rather important to him. “Well, I'll make sure to have your shoes properly cleaned while you iron out your best suit. So that's taken care of,” he holds up one finger. “You are going to buy a ring tomorrow and I can go with you so that you don't botch it up. So that's two,” he holds up his second finger. “As far as the words go, can't you just say, ‘Shelagh,’” he gives his best impersonation of his dad’s deeper voice, “’marry me.’?” After the tick of a second, he hastily adds, “I also wouldn't mention anything about her no longer being Sister Bernadette. That seems to make her sad.”

Patrick gives his son a warm smile. Such a sweet and caring child. When did he grow up? “That takes care of most things, but the words…,” God, I wish I had a cigarette right now, “it's just not that simple.”

Timothy still doesn't understand why his father is so worried about the words, but this time he lets it go. “Come on, dad. We have to get you cleaned up. Plus, you promised to help me build the Spitfire that you gave me for Christmas.”

Brightening his smile, Patrick nod, “Right,” before putting the car back in first gear.

..::..::..

Alright, old chap, you can do this. You are looking sharp in in your well ironed suit. The new tie you bought this morning goes better with the suit than the other ugly ones that are thrown about on your bed.

Staring in the mirror, Patrick straightens his tie for the millionth time and adjusts his jacket when he notices that it seems crooked. Running his fingers through his hair, he makes sure to press it back so that it stays out of his eyes.

Turning away from the small mirror, he makes his way to the kitchen. The place I had first kissed her. The light streaming in from the window brightens the room while the children playing outside gives the same ambiance as that late spring day he leaned down and kissed her palm.

The ring! Patting down his breast pockets first, he sighs when he feels his palm strike the box that is laying in his pants pocket. Shoving his hand in and curling it around the paper wrapped box, he ticks, the ring is as perfect as perfect can be. Not too small to look like a toy ring, but not to big to be offensive to someone who had previously taken a vow of poverty. It's… it's pretty, beautiful even. Beautiful for her to wear… if she says yes.

Pulling it out, he places it on the counter. It looks like a ring box. Will it ruin the surprise? The paper, the string, I dug it out of the closet from the same box as our Christmas ornaments. It looks wrinkly, she will think–

Hearing the click of the door opening, he turns towards the sink thinking for a brief second that he was going to vomit his breakfast of tea and cigarettes up. Taking a few deep breaths as he hears the heels of her shoes click along the floor, he desperately grabs onto the tiny box while going over what he is going to say to her in his head.

Seeing her shadow out of his peripheral side, he takes another deep breath and turns towards her. His heart stops, his lungs cease to function as the sight of her in her new dress barely registers in his brain. My God, she is beautiful.

Alright, he mentally kicks his heart and lungs into gear, you can do this, Patrick, and she will say yes.

She pushes away the curtains and gives him a shy smile. Noticing a small parcel in his hand, she blushes as she murmurs, “Hello Patrick.”

Her voice, like sweet nectar to his heart, nearly makes him faint right then and there. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he barely whispers back, “Hello, Shelagh.” Glancing down at the ring weighing heavily in his palm, he knows for certain that she will say yes.

Chapter Text

All I Have To Do Is Dream - The Everly Brothers

“Well, if it isn’t the bride-groom-to-be, himself.”

Volleying between his mother-in-law and his son, Patrick licks his parched lips and nervously stutters, “I was, uhhh, I was going to, uhhh, to, you know–”

Granny Parker waves her hand through the air and then invites her son-in-law to sit next to her, “I know, Patrick. Timothy didn’t give you away either.” After a tick, she jovially adds, “Well, not everything. He is rather excited to see you happy with this mysterious woman named Shelagh; who by his rather colorful account is the coolest person his dad could have asked to marry him.”

Patrick immediately turns to his son ready to scold him for breaking their promise not to tell anyone just yet, when Timothy pops up, “Oh no, I forgot to clean my room,” as he runs out of the parlor.

“That’s your excuse all the time when you know your in trouble,” Patrick yells at his retreating backside. Turning back to Camilla, he gives her a nervous sort of laugh when he sees what him and Mariann used to call the ‘doe eyes’. It’s the look she gives when a secret has been kept from her. Just like when we had found out that Mariann was pregnant and didn’t tell her immediately.

Glancing up towards the ceiling, Patrick silently sends a, help me, towards Mariann.

Camilla softens her eyes, “Is this why you have been so melancholy the past few months?”

“I have been melancholy since Mariann died. My only saving grace from a life filled with depression was Timothy survival, the constant strain of work, and… and…” He is unsure of how to address Shelagh at the time he fell in love with her.

“And Shelagh,” Camilla finishes with a warm smile. “Patrick, I’m not upset that you have moved on, I’m upset that you felt you had to keep her from me. I want to meet her, to talk with her.” Seeing Patrick’s unease growing, her brow furrows, “Does she even know about Mariann?”

“Yes, of course,” Patrick exclaims. “It’s just…,” he sighs, she’s going to know regardless, “Shelagh wasn’t her name when I fell in love with her.”

At his obscenely dramatic pause, Camilla rolls her eyes and jokes, “Don’t tell me she was a nun.” She laughs and shakes her head as she reaches out for her teacup.

Biting the inside of his mouth, he confesses in one breath, “Her name was Sister Bernadette and she was a nun and a nurse at Nonnatus House.”

With her teacup tipped in midair, Camilla blinks a few times before abandoning the thought of taking a sip of something hot. “Patrick, you didn’t…”

“Of course not, I just… it happened so fast. I didn’t know I was in love with her until it was too late.” Already making up his mind that he’s not going to tell her about the hand holding and the kiss to her palm, he goes on, “I had resided in the fact that I was going to keep it to myself when she fell ill. After that, I couldn’t help but to tell her of my true feelings.”

“What was her prognosis?” Being a doctor’s wife and a nurse, she was not oblivious to such medical knowledge, even past the death of her husband and retirement.

“TB.”

Wincing, in her young days, such prognosis would spell certain death, but now, “I’m assuming she had the triple treatment?” At his silent nod, she softly adds, “I’m assuming that she is cured and had made the decision to become Shelagh once again without you to curry her decision?”

Folding his hands in his lap and murmurs, “Everything happened so fast, yet, time seemed to move at such a slow rate.” He looks up at her, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you, but I did talk with Mariann. I think she would be pleased, at least I hope so.”

“Timothy absolutely adores her and so will I.” She shyly smiles at him, “Please make sure you bring her around so that we can meet properly.”

He gives her a cheeky grin, “Yes, ma’am.”

Diving into a comfortable silence, she thinks back to a certain time in her life as she pours him some tea. “You know,” she murmurs as she passes him a cup, “at one point before meeting a young Timothy Parker, I had considered entering in the religious life myself. I even got as far as signing into my postulant papers.”

Patrick’s mouth slacks open in surprise. “What happened?”

She gives him a small smile, “This was just as the first war was heating up. A group of medics came into the hospital my father worked at for battle wound training. There, I meet Timothy and fell hopelessly in love. It was a secret love at first; he was unsure if he would ever return and I didn’t want to upset my father or Sister Eustice, the nun who encouraged me to follow my dreams of helping people.” She glances over the rim of her cup and sees a dreamy look about himself. “Yet, there were times when we were together that I thought I was going to burst if I didn’t kiss him.”

Letting her words drown as his thoughts run away with the feel of Shelagh’s lips against his, Patrick lazily nods in agreement.

So I thought, Camilla smirks. “Before going off to war, he made me promise not to enter the religious order. Never breaking my vow to him, when he had returned, we married.”

“And Sister Eustice? Did she approve of your marriage?”

“She could tell that I had changed and after some prayer, she encouraged me to wait before becoming a postulant. She was there when we got married. I did feel a bit guilty, but she told me that the love between a man and woman is just as holy than the vows women take in service towards the Lord.” Pressing her lips into a fine line, she asks, “Do her sisters not approve of her choice?”

“Quite the opposite.” He straightens his back, “I had thought that she would continue her prayers with them, at least on Sunday, but instead she traveled more of a distance to St. Joseph’s for their morning service. When I asked her about it, she said it was because she doesn’t feel that she’s welcomed there. Yet, when I asked Sister Julienne, she said that she made the same offer numerous times with only vague answers back.”

“She probably feels as if she let them down when she chose to say yes to being your wife.” She pats him on his knuckles, “Give her some time, she’ll come around eventually.”

“Thank you, Camy.”

“Now,” she smiles brightly, “I suggest you leave Tim here for the night so that you can take her out on a date.”

“Excuse me,” he asks as his eyes widen with shock.

She lifts her brow in amusement, “Am I correct in my assessment that you have yet to take this dear woman on a date yet?” At his look of guilt, she grins, “I thought so. Leave Timmy here and take her to a simply divine restaurant.”

His face scrunches in confusion, “But, it’s already past noon. How would I be able to–”

Placing a calming hand over his knuckles, “Send her flowers and tell her that you will be picking her up in the evening.”

“She only has two dresses to call her own. I would hate to put her into an imposition.”

“Then go and buy her a dress for crying out loud! She gave you the best gift of all, my dear boy,” she gives him a sad smile, “the gift of bringing light to your soul when you had thought you were going to live the remainder of your life in darkness.”

“And who is it that brought lightness back to you?”

“Is it okay for me to come back in?” Timothy peeks his head into the parlor with a small, but still fearful smile.

“You and Mariann, the blessed moment he was born,” she holds out her arms to invite her only grandson into her embrace. “You will be staying with me for the evening. Your father needs to take Shelagh on a date.”

“Eww!” He scrunches his face. “Does that mean that they are going to kiss?”

Just before Patrick can reprimand his son, Camilla pipes up, “Let’s hope so.”

Ruffling his son’s hair, he gives his mother-in-law a rueful smile, “Fine. A person can tell when he’s being ganged up on.” Just before he stands to make his way out, he kisses Camilla on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Before he can leave though, Timothy yells out, “Don’t forget to buy her pretty flowers! And don’t take her to get fish and chips!”

Rolling his eyes, he waves goodbye as he throws over his shoulder, “Goodnight.”

..::..::..

“Shelagh,

I will be by your place at six o'clock sharp to take you out for a celebratory engagement dinner (not my bright idea, I'm afraid). To save you a trip to the shop at this last minute date, I have packed away a beautiful dress for you to wear. I assure you that my tie choice will match the color of your dress.

Impatiently counting down the minutes to see you,
Patrick”

Rereading the note for the hundredth time, she places it on top of her vanity and takes one last look in the mirror past the vase of flowers that also came with the parcel. Placing an errant strand of hair back in its place, she checks the pins to make sure that her hair is securely fastened. Trying something new she had found in a magazine, she left her curly hair down with just the front few strands pinned back.

With no makeup to call her own – let alone the knowledge on how to apply it – her face is freshened up with good old fashioned soap and water.

Her dress – oh my! – her dress is cut so that it beautifully accentuates the curves she has been hiding underneath her habit. Unsure of how Patrick – my fiancé – was able to pick out a dress like this is beyond her. The poor soul can't even pick out a matching tie let alone pick out a dress that is my perfect size. Chuckling to herself as she smothers down the rich emerald green fabric that hugs all the right places, she glances at the clock when she hears a knock resounding through the flat.

Six o'clock on the dot.

As she makes her way down the stairs, she overhears Mrs. B say rather impressed, “Well don't you look dashing, Doctor Turner.” Her heart hammers against her chest as she steps off of the last stair and turns the corner into the parlor. His back is to her, but she can already tell that he is dressed nicely with a dark coal gray suit.

Hearing Mrs. B’s breathing hitch and her attention stolen to the lady behind him, he swiftly turns and is nearly knocked down to his knees by the breathtaking beauty before him. His eyes, hungry to take in every inch of her, rakes along her body as his mouth slacks opens to help draw in oxygen to his lungs.

Hobbling pass the younger couple with the help of her cane, she smiles to Shelagh, “Please be back at a decent time and don't forget to lock up.”

Never tearing her eyes away from the handsome man in front of her, Shelagh sighs, "Yes, Mrs. B."

Swallowing hard as the silence between them is counted with the drum of the clock on the mantle, Patrick quickly rushes, “You look…,” he's at a loss as to which word could correctly convey how beautiful she really is. Sliding his fingers along his lips, he tries to think of as many synonyms to the word ‘beautiful’ with no luck. “You must think I'm silly, but ‘beautiful’ does not even come close as to how you look this evening.”

“You are not silly, but I can tell by your face that you appreciate the way I look tonight.” She clasps her hands in front of her as a blush creeps along her neck and cheeks. “Thank you for the dress. Sometime during our evening, you will have to regale me with how you were able to pick out a dress that is perfectly my size.”

Not really focusing on what she is saying, he blurts out, "Stunning." He pauses so that his brain can catch up to his mouth. “Breathtaking. Lovely. Elegant.” He takes a few steps forward and stops just before her. Lifting his hand, his thumb sweeps along her cheek as his fingers comb through her curly hair. “Completely ravishing to the point that ungentlemanly thoughts are now coursing though my mind.”

She gives him a small smile as she whispers, “You will have to regale me with those too.” Her tiny smile turns into a coy one when his eyes widen at the implication of her words. Not wanting to show an ounce of impropriety with Mrs. B in the next room, she takes a step back and asks, “Where are we going tonight?”

Listing the names of the human bones in alphabetical order to calm his libido, he feels his mouth curl into a smile. “There is a small Italian restaurant right off the water in Greenwich. You will love it.” Holding out his arm for her to take, he leads her out of her boarding home to his car.

..::..::..

“So there I was, with this woman piling on an assortment of dresses across my arms, face flushed with indecision, when low and behold, in walks Nurses Franklin, Lee, and Miller.” Patrick wipes his brow with his finger in embarrassment as he hears a small chuckle escape the lips of the woman next to him. “Now they were just as surprised to see me in a woman's dress shop as I was at seeing them in a place devoid of a laboring mother.”

It was a nice night, the last before winter, and they both wanted to take advantage of it by him escorting her home. Strolling down the secluded street arm in arm, she giggles harder at the thought of his perplexed face in a women's dress shop with the three young nurses standing before him.

“For five minutes, we just all stood in a circle looking at each other until Mrs. Brimble tells the nurses the reason why I was there followed by a request to help this poor man – me – to choose and buy his new fiancé a pretty dress to take her out in.” At her quick intake of breath, he nods his head, “She used those words exactly. I'm afraid, my darling, that if they didn't notice your ring at the baptisms, they surely will now.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, stamping down the panic throbbing in her throat. “It is bound to come out eventually, Patrick. Especially now that the biggest gossip in Poplar knows that you have a fiancé.”

“And that all three nurses exclaimed your former name.”

Cold dread now chokes her at his last bit of information. “Oh, Patrick, no.”

“I'm afraid so, but Timothy's friend, Jack, told his mother, the second biggest gossip in Poplar. She also has no problem telling people that the nun who delivered all of her children is now marrying the widowed GP.” He nervously glances at her under the concerned hood of his brows to see that she is biting her bottom lip as her eyes quickly survey the empty street around them. “I heard her gossiping with the other ladies outside the clinic the other day. The sight of me quickly quieted them, but I'm afraid, my love, that our secret love affair is out.”

“You make it seem as if our affair was torrid when, in reality, we have only shared a few chaste kisses and a dance that lasted one minute.” Turning down a deserted alley, she playfully rolls her eyes as she returns his smile. “And the other ladies can gossip all they want until their heads fall off. Just as long as those close to us choose to ignore them, then so will I.”

“That's my girl,” lifting her hand, he kisses her knuckles.

Invigorated by the simple touch of his lips, she confidently grins, “Besides, I'm sure there are other affectionate displays we can give for them to really gossip about.”

Abruptly stopping, the street to her boarding house looming within sight, he threads his fingers through her hand and pulls her to a halt. Giving her a cocky grin, he innocently asks, “Such as?”

He's egging her on, she knows. “I'm not as innocent as I am perceived, Doctor Turner. I am a fully trained nurse. I know of the activities leading up to the procreation of a child.”

He narrows his brows in a mock consternation, “And what kind of ‘activities’ does a former nun turned fiancé know about?”

She slips her hand out of his and crosses her arms along her chest with a dramatic huff. “I'm sure you can use both your medical knowledge along with that imagination of yours, Doctor, to know what kind of ‘activities’ I am speaking of.”

“Is that so,” he heatedly murmurs. Reaching out and planting his hands on her hips, he gently pushes her so that her back collides with the wall. Just before he gives in to the desire of tenderly touching her with their first true kiss as sweethearts, he looks to her for permission. And, my God, her permission do I have with that little smirk; I just wish I had a camera just to capture it.

Burying his nose within the crook of her neck, his lips languorously tastes her skin as his thumb circles along her hipbone. Despite her kindly hands taking place just above the drumming of his heart, he continues to explore the exotic reaches of her beautiful neck.

I need to push him away. This is not appropriate for him to be – oh! – how magnificent!

Sliding her arms around his shoulders, her fingers playfully thread along the short hairs on his neck, encouraging him to never leave that specific spot on her neck. The heat from both his palm and his lips plays a sinful melody along her body, one that reminds her of that hypnotic jazz song that would replay over and over in her wild dreams. 

Just as he rewards her with one last peck on her pulse point, he barely leans out from their heated embrace when she pulls him back for a smoldering kiss.

The last time he had kissed my lips, I had thought that I would never see him again. Melting into his embrace, she shivers as she feels his skin erupt in goosebumps as the tips of her nails drags along the exposed skin of his neck. He is alive and I am alive, and I never want to waste one single moment ever again.

His world, the world as he knows it to be, shatters around him into tiny irreparable pieces as her soft lips dances along his. Snaking his hand around her jaw, he deepens the already passionate kiss by probing her lips with his tongue.

Although her muffled sigh excites him to no end, he slows when he feels her hands glide down to his chest. When the cool night air caresses his fevered cheeks, he breathlessly murmurs against her plump lips, “Wow.”

Her eyelashes flutters against his as glances up at him, “Wow is an understatement.”

“As far as first kisses go,” he plants wisps of darling kisses along her nose and cheeks, “that one quite nearly takes my breath away.”

Enjoying the attention he is giving her, she quietly quips, “I hope that feeling doesn’t come with crackles and liaisons in you lungs.”

He abruptly stops his ministrations and produces a kind smile, “I am as healthy as an ox, especially now that I have you in my arms. I’m afraid my dear,” he gives her a final peck on her forehead, “that we will be together forever.”

Taking a step back to invite some much needed cool air between their wanting bodies, he silently rejoices when he sees her rewarding him with a bright smile. “Tell me,” he cheekily asks as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets, “where does a former nun learn how to kiss like that?”

She pushes off of the wall and coyly responds as she straightens her dress, “Two things; Shane Hollingsworth and ‘Casablanca’.” At his confusion, she demurely explains, “Shane Hollingsworth took me to see ‘Casablanca’ at the cinema in Aberdeen. Afterwards, I told him that I wanted him to kiss me like how Rick kissed Ilsa and he did.” Giggling as his mouth falls open in shock, she fixes her hair and lightly says, “I wasn't a nun all of my life, you know.” She turns towards her street and demurely makes her way out of the shadow, leaving him to pick up his chin.

Shaking his head, he catches up to her and asks, “And purely for male chauvinism purposes, will I have to contend with Mr. Hollingsworth’s affections towards you in the near future?”

Pressing her lips together, the memory of that sweet night where she allowed a boy – a boy I fell in love with a lifetime ago – to kiss her sweeps through her mind like a sad lullaby. “He died at Normandy.”

He silently nods his head, yet he keeps his own memories of the war to himself. Talk of battles and death has no room during an otherwise perfect date.

“What about you?”

Stirred from the rush of mortar shells exploding against his eardrums, he shakes his head, “I’m sorry?”

She blushes, “Who was your first kiss?”

He grins, “You would think it was Mariann, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t her first either.” He remembers that at the time she told him, it bothered him to no end, but then he would look at her holding Timothy or make love to her, and he would remind himself that it was him she chose, not the sap she kissed before him. “My first kiss was Ramona Martin. She was slightly older than me and was about to marry my brother’s best friend.”

“And she kissed you?”

He gives her a sheepish look, “I kissed her. We would be the only ones in our little posse who actually enjoyed jazz when we went to jazz clubs and I fell madly in love with her.” He gives Shelagh a cheeky grin at her hitched gasp. “Oh, it gets better. She told me that she was madly in love with Johnny, but would give me kissing lessons. We snogged for a whole hour.”

“Oh, my!” Shelagh hides her mirth behind her furrowed brow, “First you snog with a taken woman and then you charm the habit off of a nun. Should I be concerned?”

“You cheeky thing, you,” he pulls at her hand so that their shoulders collide, “You should never be concerned when it comes to my love for you.” Leaning in, he whispers into her curly hair, “The only one I’ll be snogging in any part of my future will only be with you.”

A nervous shiver shimmies along her spine at the thought of her innocence when it comes to romance. “I’ve only kissed Shane Hollingsworth, and now you,” she glances down at the pavement in embarrassment.

“They didn’t teach you how to kiss when you were a novitiate?”

“Patrick?!” She playfully swats at him with her free hand.

He lets out a huff of laughter as a curious question pops in his brain, “If he hadn’t died at Normandy, would you have married him? Shane Hollingsworth?”

She bites down on her bottom lip and glances down at their clasped hands. For the rest of their distance to her front door, they walk in silence with his innocent question hanging awkwardly between them. It’s not that I’m ashamed, it would just confirm that I would have been a completely different woman and the thought of him not in my life is something I care not to think about.

With their perfect date at its end, he tries to settle the stale air with a smile as he nervously shuffles his foot along the pavement. “I had a great time with you, Shelagh.”

She clasps her hands behind her back, “As did I.” She bows her head and cheekily murmurs, “I would invite you in for a cup of tea, but that would give all the gossiping geese something dreadful to talk about.”

He chuckles, “Not to mention, it would give Mrs. B a heart attack.”

Just as she sees him leaning in to kiss her cheek, she blurts out, “I would have married him.” She couldn’t stand the awkwardness anymore and with their date at a close, she didn’t want to send him off with mixed signals. “He asked me to marry him just before leaving and I said yes. So I waited and when we received the letter, the same letter that came for a lot of families that week, I swore that I would never marry.”

“You two were in love with each other.” It was more of a statement rather than a question.

She nods and adds, “Not soon after, I left and decided to become a nurse. It was there that I found my calling to the religious life.”

“And now we are to marry...,” his voice trails off, unsure of where to go with his next thought.

“And I couldn’t be more happier,” she confidently finishes for him.

Reaching out for her hand, he kisses her knuckle and murmurs, “Me too. Goodnight, Shelagh.”

Turning his hand over and bravely kissing his palm, she whispers, “Goodnight, Patrick.” Opening the door, she gives him a bright smile before slipping through.

..::..::..

“I just still can't believe it,” Trixie sighs before she takes a sip of tea.

“I find it romantic,” Jane calls from her seat.

“I call it ridiculous,” Sister Evangelina murmurs under her breath.

Jenny rolls her eyes, “Yes, but you knew about it before we did.”

“He actually asked our permission,” Sister Julienne informs the table. “He is quite in love with her and she feels the same way.” She holds up her hand, “However, she has assured me that he is not the reason for leaving the order.”

Sister Evangelina rolls her eyes to kingdom come, “It wouldn't be the first time a woman of God succumbed to the passions of man.”

While the nurses giggle, Sister Julienne gives Sister Evangelina a cold stare, “That is enough, Sister. She is happy and that is all that matters.” Glancing at the other women around the table, she sternly adds, “With Mrs. Brimble now aware of the situation, both Doctor Turner and Miss Mannion will be facing a slew of gossip that will not be kind, pretty or romantic. Let none of it come from us.”

Everyone around the table chimes in, “Yes, Sister.”

After a moment of deafening silence with the scrapes of silverware on half empty plates, Trixie huffs, “But it's not gossip if we find it terribly romantic.”

“We are happy for her, for both of them,” Jenny quietly adds, “She will look beautiful in that dress he bought her.”

“Thank goodness we were there to help him pick it out.” Trixie brims with pride at their hand with helping the Doctor chose an outfit. “I’m quite sure he would have chosen something dreadful.”

“Give me strength,” Sister Evangelina mutters under her breath.

"I wonder when their wedding will be?" Cynthia dreamily asks.

“I should hope it’s a Christmas wedding,” Jenny answers.

Jane shyly calls out, “Oh, Christmas weddings are quite lovely.”

“More importantly,” Trixie pipes up with the furrow of her manicured brow, “who will be choosing her dress; a former nun whose only outfit choice for the past ten years was a habit or a man who can barely pick out a matching tie?”

“You know,” Sister Evangelina throws out, “this is the essence of gossiping,” Eyeing all the nurses until they cower sheepishly, the dining hall is driven into silence once more.

Until…

“And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, so eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!” Sister Monica Joan looks up from her slice of cake with a bright smile. “Lord Byron always calms my fears on matters of love when love is just and kind and wanted.” Giving all of the women around the table a crooked smile, she goes back to eating her cake.

Chapter Text

Twilight Time – The Platters

“Oh, I heard that Sister Floozy was with him before going away.” Shelagh froze at those words. The women on the other side of the aisle had their back turned to her as they kept chatting.

“I saw them riding in his car once. They seemed rather cozy in there.” The younger woman puffs from her cheap cigarette making Shelagh want to gag.

“I'd say the tramp is in the family way.” Closing her eyes, she tries desperately to hold on to the tears that threaten to fall down her cheek.

“No wonder the nuns kicked her out to the curb. There's no such thing as a knocked up nun.”

The older lady lightly smacks the younger one on her shoulder with the back of her hand, “With the Doctor as the father no less.” Shelagh closes her eyes and leans her head against the shelf. The world around her is spinning, and spinning, and spinning, with no way to stop.

The younger woman gasps, “I wonder if his boy knows?”

The older woman takes puff of her own cigarette and leans in closer, “I reckon he touched her without her consent,” she takes another puff, “on the account that he’s, you know, a doctor.” Hearing the accusation coming out of the woman’s mouth has Shelagh seeing red.

The younger one sighs, “He is a man and a man with many needs since his wife croaked.”

Not able to stomach anymore of this wretched conversation, Shelagh steps out from behind the aisle and confronts the gossiping geese. “You both are wretched women.”

Both surprised at being caught gossiping, the younger woman drops her cigarette, yet doesn’t dare to go fetch it.

Clenching her fists, she had never had the reason to hit anybody before. But I sure do now. “We are in love and that is that. I am not in the family way and Doctor Turner certainly did NOT take advantage of me.”

Taking a deep breath to calm the ire that has her seething, she quietly murmurs, “Your time will come to answer for your actions long before I do.”

Without a glance back, Shelagh drops her groceries onto the counter and leaves the small shop.

..::..::..

“Oooh, did you hear about one of them nuns at Nonnatus?” The hushed words caught Patrick's attention from around the corner.

“Sister Bernadette? I heard she left the order. She delivered my lil’ ones.” He smiles at the familiar voice of Sue Baker.

“She, apparently, has been havin’ an affair with the Doctor. She is now engaged to be married to him.” His smile slides into a frown at the unknown voice.

“She delivered little Michael here not too long before she had to go away. The Doctor was there. It didn't seem like anything was going on between them.”

“But it makes you think why she went away for a few months. I reckon she's in the family way.” Patrick nearly drops his tea cup. How could she–

“Surely not. She would be showing right about now. Besides, Sister Bernadette has been nothing but honest and kind towards me and my family.”

“But right after she came back, he asked her to marry her. With a quick engagement like that, there is only one reason why he would do it.” Patrick rolls his eyes. This isn't the first time he has overheard a conversation like this since their engagement has become known in the community.

“He could just love her and is taking advantage of the point that she is no longer a nun.” At least Mrs. Baker is on our side.

"He's a man and a man with needs just like any other man who has not had the comfort of a woman in over a year.” He rolls his eyes again, stamping down the need to throw his cup across the room.

“Johnny and I haven't done it since my diagnosis. That has been almost half a year and I don't see him galavanting off to get in with a nun or a nurse.” Patrick smiles and silently thanks Mrs. Baker. “Sister Bernadette and Doctor Turner are kind and gentle people. If they found love with each other, then so be it, but it's none of my business.” He hears the chair scrape across the floor. “Excuse me, I'm being called.”

Pulling back and leaning against the counter, he finishes his tea before meeting his next patient.

..::..::..

“Good evening, my dear. How was your day?” Patrick drops his case on the table and kisses Shelagh on the cheek. Turning to the smells emanating from the stove top, he takes a hearty breath in to let the delicious scent calm his still chaotic heart. The conversation he overheard at the clinic still pounds against his ears and makes him want to punch a wall.

Yet, at her silence, he turns back to her and nearly buckles when he sees the same haunting eyes he saw in himself in the mirror just before making his way home.

Taking two steps towards her, he envelopes her into a tight hug. “I can tell by the same look that you also overheard certain conversations today.” Though she doesn't say anything, her tears catching into his clothes tells him all the answers he needs to know. “We have to remain strong and vigilant. We knew that people were going to talk.”

Shelagh leans her head back enough to wipe her tears on her own sleeve and hiccups, “These women called me a tramp in one sentence and accused you of raping me in the next.”

Feeling his muscles tense in utter fury, his heart crumbles at the thought of her hearing such dreadful nonsense, “That is deplorable and I'm sorry you had to hear it.” Sliding his arms tighter around her shoulders, he breaths, “This will all be over soon.”

“What if it doesn't, Patrick? What if it keeps going and going and going?” She sounds defeated and after the things being said about her she quietly adds, “We can't defend both of our honors to every person with contempt in their hearts and gossip on their lips.”

I’d love to give those women a good talking to myself. He sighs as she wipes away another errant tear. Be the strong one, the strong one she needs me to be. “The way I see it, we have two options; one, we stick it out and let the gossip die out. It will always die out. Or two, we pack up and move to one of the job offers that has been given to me.”

Taking a deep breath, she she pulls away from the warmth of his chest and digs up the same courage she found when she decided to leave the religious life. “No. I will not let a few meddlesome women run us from the place we both call home.”

Grinning something fierce, he murmurs, “That’s my girl.”

“We have to stay, if not for the people who need you, but for the stability in Timothy's life. I just…,” she snuggles against the gentleness of his heart beat, “I just want it over with already.” She closes her eyes, “I want to be your wife so that I don't have to hide from people anymore. So that we can live in peace, together.”

He peppers her forehead with kiss after loving kiss. “Give me the word, my love, and we can be married by tomorrow night. All we would have to do is to go to the civil court and it will be done.” He feels her body stiffen and instantly he knows that is not what she wants. “But you don't want that. You want our marriage in a church.”

She pulls back, just slightly, and asks, “Where would you like us to marry?”

He gives her the biggest smile, “Anywhere with you walking down the aisle to me.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, she crashes her lips against his with such force that his knees nearly buckle. As his hands circle around her waist, the bliss that warms her belly quickly turns into desire so hot that she melts against him. Slowly, reluctantly, her lips pull away from his, “I don't want to stop, but I know you are hungry.”

Just as he opens his mouth to make a cheeky comment about being hungry for her, his stomach lets out a loud growl.

“You see,” she giggles as she takes a step away from him.

Not wanting to be separated just yet, he captures her hips and pulls her back into him.

With laughter mixing in with her shrieking, she playfully bats him away, “Patrick Turner, you let me go this instant!”

“No!” He pulls her back with him so that he is sitting on the edge of the breakfast table with her between his legs. Threading his fingers through the tiny strands of hair on the back of her neck, he murmurs against her jaw, “Not until you promise that we will have a proper snog after after dinner.”

She is about to swap at him again, when she feels his tongue dart out to lick her pulse point. Instantly, her heart begins to gallop against her chest as that same desire from earlier pools low in her belly. “Isn’t Timothy due back from Cubs soon?” When did I become so breathless? So… wanting?

“Mmmm,” he hums against her neck, “did I forget to mention that he is staying at Jack’s house tonight?”

Selfishly relishing in the feeling of his warm breath tickling every nerve ending along her neck, she then slowly pulls away with a quick peck on his lips for good measure. “Then a snog it will be, after dinner.”

Knowing not to press his luck, he threads his unruly hair back as he grins, “Yes, ma'am.” Standing up from the table, he properly sits in his chair, “Whatever you have made, smells delicious.”

She blushes a deep red before spooning the stew into their two bowls, “Its Scottish beef stew, just like my mother used to make.”

..::..::..

He sucks in his breath as she lets a low moan escape through her lips.

Their snogging, which started out so innocent with his arm captured snuggly around her shoulder and little pecks and kisses on her forehead, has now blossomed into a full blown tangle of limbs and sighs of pleasure the moment she lifted her chin to catch one of his kisses with her lips.

Feeling her arm go numb from sitting at such an awkward angle beside him, Shelagh turns towards Patrick without breaking their connection and throws her knee over his legs. Unknowing what her little move would do, she gasps and then sighs when she feels his excitement at their change of pace pressing into her belly. “I'm sorry,” she murmurs as he ferociously continues to pepper her neck with his lips, “I didn't mean for this to go this far.”

One hand, curious as to how her skin feels under her dress, lightly trails up and down her exposed knee while the other presses into the soft covered flesh of her hip. Resisting the need to push his hips into hers to relieve some pressure, he grunts, “I have been coveting you since you snuck a smoke after the Carter twins were born.”

“Now that we are confessing our sins, I must confess that I have been coveting you since that time as well.” Steadying herself by placing her hands on his shoulders, she leans back in and assaults his mouth. With his tie long gone right after dinner was eaten, her fingers slide down his chest to the first set of buttons under his collar.

Unable to resist the urge, he pulls her hips closer towards him, moaning as the pressure from her heated thighs press against him. Leaning out of their embrace and throwing his head back so that he can catch his breath, he croaks, “And how do nuns covet?”

Feeling her own embarrassment tinging her cheeks a bright red, she mumbles her confession under her breath, “By taking off my habit and thinking of you.”

Closing his eyes and willing his mind to place the periodic table in reverse alphabetical order, he grips her hips to push them away. “You need to stop before I embarrass myself. Just the thought of you naked is enough to finish me off.”

Balancing herself on his thighs, she bows her head, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

"No," he captures her cheeks with both hands, “don't ever be sorry. It… it has just been… well, it has been a long time since… well, since I…,” his cheeks grow red with the thought of finishing his sentence. Sensing her body stiffen and cowering away from him, he sits up and beseeches, “Don't be embarrassed. I just… I just want this to happen when we are officially man and wife.”

She bites her bottom lip, “Have you not been with another woman since Mariann died?”

He gives her a shy smile, “By the time I felt ready to move on, I feel in love with you and I knew no one else could compare. At that time, I had no hope of solidifying my love with you, so I was content on staying celibate for the rest of my life.”

Tears springs to the corners of her eyes as her heart bursts into a million pieces. Gently and lovingly, she kisses him on the cheek before saying, “I love you Patrick Turner.” She takes a deep breath to help her get through the next part, “I am willing to go as far as you want it to go tonight.”

A shot of electricity powers through his body at the simple thought of her body under his, yet, his mind grinds, you must resist. “No, Shelagh.” He breathes through his surge of hormones and focuses his mind now on listing the muscles of the body from bottom to top. “You might want that now, but I would hate for you to regret it come morning light.” His thumb caresses her cheek, “I love you too much for you to hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Patrick,” she murmurs into his palm. “I have never been more certain than I am now.” She takes his hand from her cheek and kisses him in the same exact spot she had kissed him on that foggy road. She then boldly drags his hand down to cover her breast.

Closing his eyes, he can feel the rapturous cantor of her heart as he uses all of his control to keep his itching fingers still. “Call me old fashion, my darling Shelagh, but I am looking forward to our wedding night as being our first time together.” Languorously opening his eyes, he sees that Shelagh is looking at him with such intensity that he wonders if what he said upset her. “You are rather brave tonight.”

She gives him a shy smile, "I can be a brave girl when I want to be.” She takes his hand from her breast and lays another kiss upon his palm. “It is your sheer presence that makes me as brave as that woman you found on that foggy road.”

“The same brave woman who allowed me to sweep her into a dance, and to kiss her, and to fall madly in love with her.” Completely mesmerized by her sparking blue orbs, he stares at her with his rose colored eyes and the silliest grin.

Yet, despite her confidence, her smile slides into a confused frown. “I do have to confess that most people believe that we are already intimately aquatinted, that sometimes I wonder why we hold ourselves back.” She refuses to look at him, ashamed at how he would perceive her words.

“We would know and that's more important than anything else,” he covers her one hand with both of his as he tries to catch her gaze. “If you want us to make love at this precise moment, then I can take you to my bedroom, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”

Escaping the gentle hazel eyes she fell in love with almost a year ago, she thinks about solidifying her love with him. She knows that He would look down upon their lovemaking as a sin, but since the baptisms, she has been struggling through her usual prayers, afraid that she has made a hypocrite of herself since renouncing her vows all for the sake of a love for a mortal man.

Not for the first time since walking out of Nonnatus as someone other than Sister Bernadette does she wish she had someone to talk to, to counsel her on these confusing thoughts and feelings.

Noticing her breathing evening out, his fingers reach out, starved for her attention, and asks, “What is it you want, my dear, brave Shelagh?”

“I want both of us to be happy,” is the first thing that comes out from her lips. “I'm just…,” she bites down on her bottom lip, “my body… my body wants you.”

His thumb caresses her jaw, “And your heart,” he quietly asks.

“My heart wants us to be man and wife before appeasing what my body wants,” she gives a shy smile.

He gives her an endearing smile as his back relaxes against the cushions. With both of his hands resting on her hips, he asks, “Do you know how beautiful look right now?”

Her reaction is instant; blush stains her cheeks as she bites down her bottom lip and looks away. “Patrick, stop.” She makes a move to slide off of his legs, however with his hands squarely on her hips, she is only able to wiggle a few centimeters in either direction.

“No!” He sits up straight and tightens his arms around her waist. “I will not stop. I am the luckiest man in the world because I have you in my arms when, for a time, I thought I was never going to have this.” She finally looks at him and his heart melts all over again. With one hand squarely on the small of her back, he lifts the other to capture her bright red cheek. “In the ten years you have been a nun, how many times has someone called you beautiful?”

A fresh new wave of blush spreads along her cheeks, “You know as well as anyone else, that no one has–”

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” his words tumbles out heatedly.

“Patrick–”

“You're beauty encompasses your entire being. You are kind, gentle, loving towards your fellow man, patient even with the most stubborn person in front of you, but most of all, you carry yourself with a confidence that is seldomly seen during times like these.” He pauses and gives her an easy smile. “You probably think that you don't deserve such praise, but, my God Shelagh, you do, even if I wasn't madly in love with you.”

Shaking her head, she leans forward rests her forehead on his. “I accosted you tonight, Patrick. That's more of me being silly old tart, rather than being confident.”

“You know what you want and you're not afraid to get it.” Closing the distance between their lips, he briefly pulls back and murmurs, “You are magnificently beautiful and there is nothing that you can say that will make me take back those words.” Keeping his lips a hair's breath from hers, he silently begs her to close the distance, to show the confidence he has repeatedly fallen in love with over and over again.

That's it, his mind cheers as her lips grazes his own.

--Ring, Ring--

Instantly, the warmth that has surrounded them is doused in cool air when they pull away from each other. Running his hands through his hair, Patrick mutters, “Bloody hell,” just as he feels her weight shift off to the side. Scrubbing his fingers along his scalp, he stands up and makes his way to the telephone. “Turner here,” he gruffly barks into the receiver.

As he talks to the other person, Shelagh takes the time to smooth her skirt down her legs and to piece back together her stray hair. Just as he hangs up the phone, she stands up to greet him with a concerned, “Is everything okay?”

He rolls his eyes, “That was the maternity home, Mrs. Bellows has gone into labor.” Stepping up to her, he captures her cheeks and kisses her on her forehead. “Come. I'll drop you off at Mrs. B’s house.” Before he can decline his offer, he grasps her hand and pulls her towards the front door. Taking her coat from the rack, he quips, “Its been quite a night,” as he shuffles it around her shoulders.

“I should say so,” she cheekily replies back as she threads her arms through the sleeves. “I can only imagine what we shall get up to the next time we are alone for dinner.”

Before she has a chance to get her hat and scarf, he quickly captures her jaw with both hands and murmurs against the shell of her ear, “I shall hope it is the night of our honeymoon, where the only appetite I will have is only for you and there will be no phone calls to interrupt us.” Stealing a kiss from her parched lips, he turns to gather her hat and scarf for her.

After both are properly dressed for the cool night air, he escorts her out to his car.

Chapter Text

Some Enchanted Evening - Perry Como (from the musical South Pacific)

“Welcome! Welcome, please come in.” Opening her arms to invite the younger woman in, Camilla broadly smiles when her grandson shyly steps out from behind her. Hugging Timothy, she then thrusts her hand out to greet Shelagh, “It is so nice to finally meet the woman who these two oafs keep jabbering on about.”

“Hey!” Both father and son exclaim in complete bewilderment.

“It is very nice to meet you as well,” Shelagh shyly shakes her hand.

“Hey, dad, Shelagh, guess what Granny got for me?” Pulling out the colorful box, he runs it over for Shelagh to see. “It’s a space rocket. She said that if I can build it correctly and it works, I can take it home with me. I can’t wait to show Benny and Jack!”

“Timothy,” his dad cautioned, “Why don’t you take that to your room so that Granny and Shelagh can meet properly. We’ll call you down when we are about to leave.”

Giving his grandmother a kiss on the cheek, he grins, “I’m happy I get to spend the night with you again, Granny.” Shoving his box under his arm, he runs out of the room without a backward glance back.

“Please, sit down, my dear.” She turns to her son-in-law and coos, “Patrick, can you be a darling and make tea for us. The kettle should be on the stove.”

Giving Shelagh a quick kiss on the cheek, he walks out of the parlor and into the kitchen.

“Now, my dear, is everything settled for tonight?”

Shelagh captures her slightly trembling hands in her lap and says, “It is, although, I thought we were taking Timothy out to see a movie.”

“Change of plans dear, on my behalf.” Shen bends over to cut a slice of pound cake and heartily adds, “I’m stealing Timothy away so that the both of you can have a night to yourselves. Cake?”

“Yes, please.” She takes the small china dish from the table and holds it out for the small sliver of cake. “You don’t have to take him on our behalf. We are quite excited to see ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.”

Camilla leans in and winks, “Patrick let it slip that both of you are having a hard time with the gossiping ladies of Poplar. I suggested to him when he called to let me know that you were on your way that I take Timothy tonight and that you two can go off and relax.”

Shelagh gives her a meek smile, “That is very kind of you.”

Dragging her fork through the moist cake, she focuses all of her attention on her plate as she murmurs, “Being a woman who also put her faith second when finding true love, I understand the complexities of catty women gossiping over things that they don’t frankly understand.”

After taking a few bites, she finally gains the courage to glance up at the young woman in front of her. Noticing her perplexed brows folding into her misty baby blue eyes, she reaches out and pats Shelagh on the arm, “This cake is delicious. Eat up, dear.”

Shelagh silently nods and pieces off the edge of her cake.

“Now before Patrick comes back to whisk you away, I wanted to invite you out for an afternoon with just me and you. Unfortunately my dance card is booked, but I have some time on Sunday after mass.” Circling up all the little crumbs along her plate, Camilla looks out from her peripheral side and slyly asks, “Would you mind accompanying an old woman to mass this coming Sunday? Afterwards we can return here for a light luncheon and some girl talk.”

Placing her half eaten plate on the table in front of her, Shelagh stutters, “Well, umm, it has been… what I mean to say that I haven’t been… Yes.” Taking a defeated breath, she nods, “Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Good,” she pats her on her hand and looks up when Patrick walks through with the tray of tea, “oh, Patrick, thank you dearly.” She gives him an endearing smile, “Why don’t you two young ones go ahead and make your way to the cinema. You make sure to tell Robert in the front ticket booth that you are my son-in-law and that I’m ready for him to pay up.”

Rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, Patrick teeters onto the tips of his toes before he says, “Should I even ask?”

“You see, he thought ‘Peyton Place’ was going to win the Academy Award for best picture, but I just knew ‘Bridge Over the River Kwai’ was going to win big.” She flicks her hand through the air, “We made a bet and I won.”

He shakes his head and laughs as he invites Shelagh to join him, “You do love your movies, Camilla.”

“I do,” she places two sugar cubes in her tea before standing with them, “that is why I think you should skip that awfully depressing movie ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and take this dear, sweet girl out to see ‘South Pacific’. It is absolutely breathtaking and the music…,” she sighs contently, “heavenly.”

Patrick lightly kisses her cheek as he chuckles, “Point taken, Camilla. I will drive by tomorrow morning to pick up Timothy. I should be back tonight by ten.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Parker for the delicious cake and for your hospitality,” Shelagh holds her hand out for them to shake.

Camilla takes her hand between both of her own and says, “My dear, Shelagh, call me Camilla and I look forward to our luncheon on Sunday. I shall call Patrick to gain specific times.”

“I look forward to it as well.” Shelagh gives her a small, shy smile, “Thank you, again.”

Popping his head into the parlor, Timothy asks, “Are you leaving?”

Ruffling his fingers through his son’s hair, Patrick says, “We are. Be good for Granny, make sure you brush your teeth before bed, and I will be picking you up in the morning.”

“Okay.” Timothy throws his arms around Shelagh’s waist, “Have fun at the movies.”

Shelagh lovingly pats him on the shoulders, “I will see you on Monday.”

“With apple pie,” he asks with the wiggle of his brows and a silly grin to match.

“It wouldn’t be Monday without apple pie,” she coyly answers back.

“Have a good evening, you two,” Camilla begins to shoo them away with the flick of her wrists. “Don’t be late for the cinema.” When the young couple finally leaves, Camilla turns to Timothy with a cheeky smile, “Apple Pie Monday’s?”

Timothy groans with contentment, “Shelagh is the best cook ever.”

“So suffice to say, your growing boy’s stomach is happy to have Shelagh as your new stepmother?”

Timothy’s brows furrow as he asks, “Are you upset that dad is marrying Shelagh?”

“No, my darling boy, I just want to make sure that you are happy.”

“She does and she makes dad happy, too.”

Satisfied with his answer, she asks, “Did you finish building the rocket?” When he eagerly nods, she then adds, “Lets go try it out in the park.”

..::..::..

“Oh, Patrick! That was such a lovely movie!” She snakes her arm around his and brings him closer to snuggle against the cutting winter nighttime breeze. “I had heard the nurses talk about it when it first came out and hum some of the songs but I didn’t fully understand their fascination.”

“And now,” he gives her a cheeky grin as her hand slips in next to his in his pocket.

“It was beautiful,” she hums dreamily.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he leans over and kisses her temple. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.” Abruptly stopping and swinging her around, he captures her cheek with his palm and quickly kisses her cheek.

Heat, far more cozy than the inside pocket of his jacket, fires through her veins as desire fans low in her belly. Barely leaning out of the supple reach of his magnificent lips, she tilts her chin down and kisses the heel of his hand. “Half way through, I found myself wondering if you were even taking in any part of the movie.”

“Not with you snuggling by my side, stealing my popcorn.” He kisses her forehead and then takes a small step back.

The warmth that had surrounded them, cocooning them from the sharp chill of the winter weather, quickly escapes, sending a biting shiver up Shelagh’s back. “Waste not, want not.”

Stifling his laughter, he murmurs, “You can take my popcorn anytime, but, I assure you, you have got to be much quicker than that next time we are at the movies with Timothy. His stomach is like a bottomless pit when it comes to popcorn.”

“Duly noted,” Shelagh grins with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Doctor Turner!”

Creating some distance between their bodies as the rules of propriety would allow, both turn towards the male voice calling out. Seeing a man hobble over to them from underneath the marquee, Shelagh tries to slip her hand away, but Patrick holds on tightly.

“I knew it was you when I saw you at the concession counter.” Giving the couple in front of him a bright smile, he nods towards Shelagh and explains, “I’m sorry to disrupt your evening with your wife, but I never got a chance to thank you for all that you have done for me and my men during the war.”

Faces, numerous faces of battle worn men in agonizing pain swims through his memory. Closing his eyes, he tries to shake the images of war as he stutters, “I’m, uhh, sorry to say that you, uhh, have me at a loss.”

Thrusting out his good hand, he says, “Captain Herman Antilles, 11th Armour Division. You patched me and my men up several times during our offensive to win over Caen after settling in from Normandy. You were very kind to my men and not just the doctoring up part either. When we pulled out and headed west, I was never able to thank you for your kind generosity.”

Taking the younger man’s hand, Patrick gives him a tight smile and murmurs, “We did what we could.”

“Yes, well, you went above and beyond.” Giving the couple another quick smile, he adds, “Like I said, I’m sorry to have disrupted your night, but I would have been remised if I didn’t come over here and thank you personally myself.”

Seeing a great shadow fall upon Patrick’s face as he struggles for his voice, Shelagh holds out her hand and says, “That was very kind of you, Captain.”

“Herman, please. I hope you have a good rest of your evening.” Tipping his hat, he gives them one last smile before turning away in the opposite direction.

“Patrick! We have more wounded coming in!” Bodies, blessed bodies in different arrays of mutilation and decay are coming at me. What do I do? Who should I start with? We only… We only have so much morphine until our next shipment. When will this all stop? When will all of this stop? “Patrick,” who is that calling me, “get yourself together, man! We have wounded coming in!”

“Patrick,” curving her hand around his elbow, Shelagh gently shakes Patrick from the horrors that are clearly replaying in his mind. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes,” he softly mumbles. Clearing his throat, he gives Shelagh a shaky smile, “Yes, I’m alright. That was just… it was just… unexpected.” Mistaking her concerned look for pity, he grits his teeth and murmurs, “Come along.” Pulling the warmth of her hand close to his body, they continue on with their walk back to his car in a silence that is engulfed by the city’s hustle and bustle of a busy Saturday nightlife.

Feeling a nervous need to fill in the dead space between them, she gently says, “I hope you enjoyed the movie as much as I did.” Glancing over under the guise of wanting to see a dress in a department store window, she notices that her change of subject does nothing to the shadow still cast across his handsome features.

She remembers from his letters to her in the sanatorium that he had mentioned that he served as a doctor in the war and wonders for the first time just exactly what he saw that made him loose his faith. He saw the ugliest side of war. Mangled bodies to match their disenchanted spirits. How horrifying.

Giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, she lightly confesses, “The last movie I saw in the movie theater was ‘Peter Pan’. Sister Monica Joan somehow maneuver her way in so that we didn’t have to pay for the tickets or the popcorn.”

“Quite resourceful, that Sister Monica Joan,” Patrick halfheartedly quips. Thoughts and memories of war so long ago still infiltrating his mind plays like a badly scratched record. Escorting her to the passenger side door, her reaches out to pull the handle and opens it.

Father used to get like this when war was mentioned. After Fin and Caelan were killed, he turned to the bottle to rid himself of the memories. Never, ever wanting to go do that road again, Shelagh turns to Patrick just as his slides into the drivers seat and says, “Tell me the one thing that makes you the happiest.”

His answer is automatic, as if his mind had no chance of thinking or quieting his response, “You.”

“Then kiss me, Patrick,” she lovingly palms his cheek, “kiss me as if there is no care in the world.”

Instead of enveloping her into a loving embrace, he captures his trembling hands in his lap, “I don’t want to take it too far. We are in public and I don’t want to cause a scene that can be construed as untoward.”

Leaning down to capture his line of sight, she gently quips, “That didn’t stop you before.”

“I find that if I begin to kiss you now, that I won’t be able to stop as easily as before.” Shame tinges his cheek and he tries in vein to rid his mind of war. These thoughts – treacherous and, dare I say, insane – still has the ability to control me. How can I get them under control without scaring her away?

“Then drive me back to your flat so that you can kiss me like how you want to.” Her rather brave words tremble out from between her lips, yet she she does not shyly back down from them.

“I have to get you home,” pulling himself out from her embrace, he turns the car on and maneuvers them out onto the busy street.

Silence, driving and cruel, infiltrates the car.

Patrick grips the steering wheel as pure anger surges through his veins. Not at Shelagh, he reasons as he tries in vain to school his features, but at my ability – or my lack of ability – to file this away in some dark corner under lock and key. As the car eases to a stop at the red light, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. There are some memories that are just…” he stutters at the lack of words available to describe what he had gone through.

“Breathe through it, Patrick. Don’t let it control you.” Doctor Oliver’s words, spoken so long ago, rings through his ears. The first time he heard those words he became angry, vengeful at the events that brought him to Northfield to begin with. But now, they calm him, reminding him that there are far more important things than what he went through so long ago.

A horn, blasting out from the car behind him, has Patrick returning to the present. Easing his foot off the brake, he shifts into first gear, then second, then third; the monotony of driving is soothing to his frayed nerves.

Shelagh, for her part, looks down at his hand covering the gear shift. While the words he failed to complete were soft and gentle, she notices that his muscles are still tense and erratic. Shuffling her hand out from her lap, she wonders how he would react if she touched him on his knuckles. He doesn’t seem like a violent man, but Father didn’t seem like a violent man either. It took one time for me to lay my hand on father’s shoulder during one of his ‘spells’ – as mother used to call it – for me to understand that my touch would never be a source of comfort for him. The black and blue bruise he left upon my cheek was evidence enough.

With her hand teetering on the edge of her thigh, fingers shyly trying to reach towards some sort of purchase upon his skin, she is surprised when she notices that the streets around her are the ones that are familiar, leading straight to her home.

Pulling up to the curb and placing the car into park, Patrick gathers his hands into his lap, unsure now of how to proceed. Don’t let it control you. “I’m sorry.”

Still unsure of whether she is allowed to touch him or not, she answers back, “I’m sorry too.”

Fear chokes every inch of his muscles. Why? Why is she sorry? Unless she’s sorry for getting herself into this ridiculous relationship with a broken man almost twelve years her junior. “You, umm, have no reason to be, umm, sorry. Do you?”

“The appearance of that man has made you melancholy,” she murmurs down towards her lap. “His platitudes has resurrected a great shadow over your heart; a shadow that I have seen numerous times in different men. I’m sorry that I’m not able to pull you away from that.”

His heart wrenches in a way that makes it hard for him to breath. “Shelagh…”

Be brave, Shelagh, be brave. Reaching out with trembling fingers, she captures his hand from the stretch of seat between them and lifts his palm to her lips. Oblivious to the world around them outside of his car, she pulls his hand closer to her chest and kisses him again on the wrist.

Sunshine, in its most purest form, pierces through his heart, igniting both a spark in his soul to help him see through the darkness that has blinded his vision and a fire in the pit of his belly with a desire to worship every inch of her skin. His mind becomes a puddle of mush while his muscles take on the consistency of jello.

Seeing his lazy smile – the same one I saw when I gave him back his cigarette after the Carter twins were born – rather than a hand raised to strike her, she gathers her purse and murmurs, “Good night, Patrick.” Stepping out of the car, she takes a peek around her to see that the street is devoid of life and prying eyes.

Sluggishly reaching out for her, his brain only realizes that she is gone when he watches her disappear behind the door. “Damn it,” he murmurs under his breath as his head falls onto the steering wheel with a resounding thud.

I acted like such a fool. I’ve ruined our night together. I need to make it up to her. But how? She was able to see plain as bloody day what an old fool I am. Does she even know what she is getting into? She’s agreed to marry a man like me; a man who couldn’t handle the war without going insane. Hell! I can’t even shake hands with a soldier with going all cock-eyed and crazy. No. No. I will tell her tomorrow that we can’t–

-Knock! Knock! Knock!-

Glancing up at the startling noise, Shelagh is on the other side of his window frantically trying to silently tell him to roll down the window.

“Patrick, Nurse Franklin called here about ten minutes ago desperately trying to find you. Mrs. Crawford is in labor.”

“Damn,” he murmurs again under his breath. “Thank you, Shelagh and…,” he stops his frantic movement and focuses on her, “I am so sorry about tonight.”

She swipes her hand through the air, “Don’t worry yourself about that, go! You are needed at the maternity home.”

“Right, good night.” Rolling up his window, he throws the shift into gear and quickly drives off to Kennilworth Row.

..::..::..

“Just like the hero in those serials, you come dashing in at the last minute to save the day.” Nurse Franklin throws her blood stained scrubs in hamper with the flick of her nose. Turning back to the doctor with a bright, cheery smile and a hand on her hip, she says, “I hope we didn’t pull you away from a date with Miss Mannion.”

Memories of their disastrous date and the grateful soldier mingling in with his exhaustion has him sighing in slight frustration, “I had just dropped her off. Just as I was about to leave she gave me the message.”

“Normally we wouldn’t call you on your night off, but Mrs. Crawford was adamant that she wanted you.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. He knows what she’s been saying about his relationship with Shelagh, but he’s been letting it roll off his shoulder for the sake of professionalism.

“It’s funny,” Nurse Franklin lifts her curious brow, “she was one of the women who was gossiping not so kindly since finding out about your engagement. I was about to call the locum, but then she began to hemorrhage and I just went on autopilot after that.”

“It’s okay, Nurse. I’m glad you called. It ended up being a happy ending for her and baby,” and then he adds under his breath, “which is more than I can say for my date.” Threading his fingers through his hair, he turns towards the exit.

Humming in agreement, she notices that just as the doctor is about to round the corner, she calls out, “Flowers.”

Shaking his head, he asks, “I’m sorry?”

“You said that this went better than your date and by the longness in your face, I’m assuming that you feel it was your fault.” Nurse Franklin lifts the tray of used instruments and clarifies, “Flowers will always work when you have messed up.” After a few clicks of her heels, she stops and adds with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “That or a nice piece of jewelry.” She smiles brightly at his confounded face as she walks out of the room.

Swallowing this fresh new little tidbit of information, he checks his watch and then turns to see that it is still dark. I can finish up some paper work and be at the shop when it first opens. Doing an about face, he walks straight into his office.

..::..::..

Oh, Lord, guide me, give me the strength that I have seemed to have misplaced. Patrick is suffering and, although our love is strong, I am unsure if it is strong enough to break what the war has done to him. Looking up towards the ceiling for guidance she is begging for, she feels the familiar weight of those mountains she had thought she had overcome.

Will these mountain always be here? Are you still here? I know it has been a long time since I have taken in your word, but I’m still unsure how to since leaving Nonnatus House.

The name of her former residence rings through her head as shame tinges her cheeks.

You led me to Patrick, yet I’m still struggling with the guilt of loving a mortal man over the women I have called family for the past ten years. I wanted him more than I wanted them. Does that make me a wretched woman?

Letting her forehead fall to her mattress, she closes her eyes to stop the impending tears.

— Knock, Knock —

Standing up from the ground, she abandons her hopes of both her prayers and her answers to the questions plaguing her soul to answer the door. Greeted with the sweet smelling fragrance of roses, a smile instantly brightens her otherwise gloomy face.

“Delivery for a Miss Mannion.”

“That is me,” taking the vase from the young man, she adds a quick “thank you” just before he turns away.

Settling the flowers in the parlor, she presses her nose against the soft petals and takes in the heavenly scent. Plucking the note from the envelope, she reads;

“My dearest Shelagh,

Please accept these flowers as a token of my apology as to my behavior last night. I love you with every ounce of my being and I can’t wait for you to be my wife.

Yours Sincerely,
Patrick”

Reading and rereading the small note over and over again, a small smile forms along her lips.

“My, those are beautiful flowers.”

Feeling her body stiffening at that familiar gentle voice, Shelagh clears her throat and murmurs, “They are from Doctor Turner.”

“The young man who delivered those flowers let me in.” Feeling the waves of nerves rolling off of her former sister, Sister Julienne stretches out her chin, “Mrs. B has asked me to come down to help her bring the pies for the harvest feast.”

Twirling around, Shelagh pleads, “I told her that I was going to help her.”

Sister Julienne holds up both of her hands, “She didn’t want to trouble you; she knew that you had few engagements coming up and didn’t want to bother you.”

Even Mrs. B. can see how uncomfortable it would be for me to show my face at Nonnatus. Shelagh bites down on her bottom lip, “Am I that transparent?”

“My dear, whatever do you mean?”

Shelagh shakes her head, not even willing to clarify what she meant, she asks, “Do you still need help?”

“No, she is in the middle of bringing the last load with an ever eager Sister Monica Joan trailing behind her.” She chuckles, “It’s no coincidence that she is carrying her favorite cake.”

Shelagh lifts her sullen eyes as they both say, “Lemon coconut cake.”

Sharing the many memories of Sister Monica Joan with her assortments of cakes and sweets, it is Sister Julienne who first breaks the amenable silence, “You know, her favorite used to be German chocolate cake, but after the war she has since shunned them from her life. She blamed it, of course, on Hitler.”

That name, that horrible man that brought more heartache to millions of families around the world, crashes down around her. Turning back to the bouquet of flowers, she reaches out and slides her thumb along the edge of the note. “I don’t blame her,” mumbles out from her lips.

Knowing that something has upset her, Sister Julienne changes the subject, “Have you set a date for the wedding?”

“Not yet, but we will be meeting with the Vicar this week.”

The cold sting of loneliness settles between the both of them; Sister Julienne seeks the voice she has grown accustomed to hearing and Shelagh, neigh Sister Bernadette, seeks the religious mentor she has always relied on especially after a great upset.

Taking a step closer, Sister Julienne places a gentle palm on Shelagh’s shoulder, “We missed you on Sunday.” Sighing, she changes, “You are missed every day of the week. We would love to have you over for compline.”

I want to say yes, more than anything, but would I truly be accepted into open arms? How could I when I have chosen something I love more over them, over the life they choose to live? “That is very kind of you, however, I watch Timothy most nights until his father gets home.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she hates the bitter taste of cowardice staining her tongue. How can she even stand to be in the same room as me?

Sister Julienne, however, sees right through her transgression, “You are welcomed anytime, even if you wish to pray on your own time.” Feeling the young woman’s muscles tense under her worn finger tips, she murmurs, “You are welcome to come anytime.”

Even when I’m finding it difficult to pray? That for hours I stand ready to say the words of prayer that have comforted me numerous times before, yet when I open my mouth my mind becomes a blank slate. “Thank you for your kindness,” Shelagh barely mumbles, “I will keep your offer in mind.”

“Well, my dear Shelagh, I have to return back to Nonnatus.” Sister Julienne pats her on the shoulder before letting go and taking a step back. “We do hope to see you very soon.”

Not even daring to make a promise she knows she will never keep, Shelagh only nods before saying, “Have a good day, Sister Julienne.”

Before turning towards the door, Sister Julienne takes in the rigid form of her former Sister and sends up a silent prayer that one day – one glorious day – they will once again be able to pray together.

..::..::..

“How did you like the movie, my dear?” Camilla spoons a heaping portion onto Shelagh’s plate and glances up when the young woman doesn’t answer immediately.

Shelagh presses her lips together into a tight smile as the memory of the date filters through her mind. “The movie was, uhh, lovely.”

Camilla squints her eyes at the young woman’s odd behavior, “And the company?”

Shelagh captures her hands in her lap as she thinks back to their date, “Patrick is and was ever the gentleman.” Knitting her brow in confusion, she take a moment to gather her words before hastily adding, “A man, a soldier, had stopped us after to thank Patrick for helping his men during the war. He became quite after that.”

Blasted war! Camilla shakes her head. The wretched place, that was an unfortunate necessity, is where both he and so many men lost so much. She sits back into her seat, all matters of food forgotten. “Did anything happen?”

Shelagh shakes her head, “No, nothing happened, the man was very kind; I just.. I just wish it was never brought up.” Twirling her napkin around her fingers, she timidly murmurs, “My father fought in the Great War. He would have horrible nightmares, but he would be able to contain them. Then my mother died, followed by my two brother in the second war.” She bites her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, “I soon learned that… that…” memories of long times forgotten surface in her mind, causing her to lose her train of thought.

“You learned very quickly never to bring it up, never to touch or give comfort for fear of a retribution that you never really deserved,” Camilla finishes for her. Numerous times, both in her personal and profession life, she saw how far the ravages of war can truly reach.

Yet, Patrick is a different story and is a story that is not mine to tell. “I will not pretend to be ignorant of Patrick’s history during the war, however, it is not, nor will it ever be my place to tell you.” She places a gentle hand on Shelagh’s, stirring her from her own nightmares of days long past and says, “Yet, I can say Patrick is not a violent man, nor will he ever be, but he is a silent one. I remember there would be days at a time where he would refuse to talk to Mariann, or hold Timothy, or even leave his own bed. Just be patient with him, my dear.”

“Yes,” Shelagh gives the older woman a soft smile before returning back to their luncheon.

Knowing when to change a subject when one desperately needed to be changed, Camilla brightly asks, “How did you like the service.”

Shelagh smiles a grateful smile, “It was lovely. It has been a long time since I had attended a Catholic service.”

“You followed beautifully; not to mention the way you sang the hymns. It was lovely.”

“I’ve always enjoyed singing Psalms 147 when…,” she falters with a hitched sob, “well, I’ve always enjoyed it.” Focusing on her food, she grits her teeth to help stave the tears from falling.

Shame at wanting something more, guilt at wanting it over the life you thought you wanted for yourself, is nothing new to me. “Your former sisters, are they unkind to you?”

“No, I just feel as if I’m not welcomed, like I have betrayed them in the worst way possible.”

Camilla’s eyes softens as she repeats the same words Sister Eustice said to her so many years ago. “The love between a man and a woman is just as holy as the prayers you recite and the hymns you sing in His grace.” Leaving those words for her to take in at her own time, she asks, “So, have you two set a date yet?”

“We will be visiting the Vicar later this week. Once we know his schedule, we will be able to let you know very soon.”

“Perfect. And I shall enjoy watching over Timothy when the both of you are on your honeymoon. Patrick told me of his plans.” She pats the jittery young woman with a mischievous wink to boot, “I helped him punch it up a bit, but you will like it.”

Blushing something fierce, “I will it enjoy it regardless simply for the fact that I will be with Patrick.”

“Timothy and I went to Brighton for our honeymoon.” She gives her a rather salacious grin, “Didn’t even see one grain of sand that weekend.” Noticing that even the tips of Shelagh’s hair blushing a deep crimson, she swipes her hand through the air, “However, that will be a story for after your own honeymoon.”

Chapter Text

Til the End of Time – Perry Como

“Okay, so I suppose I look rather silly talking to you like this, but Camilla has assured me that both Patrick and Timothy come down to talk to you.” Staring at the headstone, Shelagh takes in the lettering;

In loving memory

Mariann Turner

Wife, mother, daughter

The gray stone doesn’t answer back – they never did when I went to go see Mother, Caelan, and Fin. Ghosting her fingers along her cheek, the powerful memory of her father’s fury at her spontaneous trip to see her family near the church treacherously replays in her mind.

Stealing a glance around, she notices that the graveyard is completely empty, with the exception of the maintenance man, who is a few rows down with his back turned to her. Biting her bottom lip, she sinks down so that her knees collide against the cold, hard ground.

“I wanted to come and see you, to talk to you about your family.” She sighs, “They love you so much and I will never take that away from them.”

Feeling the cold wind cut across her exposed neck, goosebumps erupt along her skin.

“Timothy talks about you sometimes, but even within those small moments, I can tell that he misses you dearly. He is growing into such a nice young man. His excitement at accepting me to be a part of his family is quite endearing.” She gives the headstone a glowing smile. “You would be so proud of him.”

The wind picks up and swirls around Shelagh, pushing a lone strand of hair from her face.

Glancing over her shoulder, she notices that the gusts of wind have been coming up from the river through the buildings. “And Patrick…,” she captures her hands in her lap and sighs, “my goodness the love I have for that man is… unfathomable. Even last year, I never in my wildest dreams thought that we would be together. So much has changed.”

The wind softens so that it barely caresses her cheek.

“We are meeting with the Vicar tomorrow.” Shelagh bites down on her bottom lip. “Hopefully within a few weeks time, we will be married.”

The gentle touch of the wind sweeps under her jaw.

“I know that our relationship will never be an easy one, nor should it ever be,” Shelagh picks at a lone blade of grass that is tickling her kneecap. “however, if I should need to, I would like to come and talk with you if something should worry me.”

Her statement is met with another running gust that twirls around her body.

Shelagh gives the headstone another smile before saying, “Very well. I will pray and then I will take my leave.” Folding her hands into her lap, she bows her head prays.

..::..::..

“Good evening Doctor Turner and Miss Mannion. Please come in and sit down,” Reverend Clarke stands up to greet the couple coming in.

Both timid to the vicar they hope to marry them, Patrick glides his hand into Shelagh’s palm to help her walk in. “Good evening, Peter. Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.” Patrick extends his hand and reaches for the Reverend to shake good heartedly.

Shelagh extends her hand as well, "Yes, thank you.”

Extending both of his now free hands to invite them to sit, Reverend Clarke sits behind his desk with a kind smile. “What can I do for you both?” Although he has an inkling as to what kind of service they require of him, he reminds himself that he is talking to Poplar’s GP and a former nun.

Patrick glances over to Shelagh before saying, “We wish to be married and we would both like for you to marry us.”

His smile widens, yes, I knew exactly that this was coming. “Doctor Turner, I have known you for a long time and Miss Mannion, neigh Sister Bernadette, since I have called Poplar my home a few years ago. And while I am happy to see that both of you have found love, I find I must ask a few impertinent questions, if you will allow me.”

As Patrick tries to contain the roll of his eyes – with no success – Shelagh places a steady hand on his arm and agrees, “We understand that our engagement has come as a shock to most of the people in our community. And while we will not appease their curiosity, we will try to answer your questions within the proper parameters.”

Reverend Clarke bows his head, “Of course, of course. All of my questions will be within the parameters of the church.”

Shelagh peeks over to Patrick to see him compliant before nodding to the vicar.

Clasping his hands in his lap, Reverend Clarke turns to Shelagh first, “My dear Sister, you have just recently renounced your vows. Are you sure you are ready to make another set of vows so soon?”

Patrick thrusts up into his chair and barks, “Her name is Miss Mannion and who are you to pass judgement on the choices she has made?”

Reverend Clarke holds up his hands to help with the peace. “My question is not one that is meant to harm but for her to–”

“For me to answer from my heart,” Shelagh finishes as she slides her hands from Patrick's arm to his palm. “Reverend, I appreciate that the first question you have asked is my ability to stay committed to a vow, when I had just broke my previous one.”

The heat from Patrick's palm gives her the strength to be the confident women he fell in love with. “My decision to leave the order was not one that was made lightly. It has taken me almost a year and the fight for my own mortal life to see that my path has changed, that God himself wanted me on this path to walk hand in hand with Patrick.”

"And your vows to Doctor Turner?”

“Will be taken in here,” she places her free hand over her heart, “with just as much love as when I took my vows as a nun ten years ago.” After a few seconds of silence, she feels Patrick squeezing her hand in trust. “I have not, nor will I ever, lose my faith in God and where he wishes to leads me. With Patrick, I have someone to hold my hand and to give me strength while I walk down this unknown path. And that, Reverend Clarke, is the very essence of marriage.”

“And you Doctor Turner,” Reverend Clarke tilts his head to the side, “for a man who has left his faith a long time ago, are you willing to renew your own vows to God in order to walk in union with your devout wife?” He gives the doctor in front of him a small, encouraging smile with hopes that he won’t lose his temper to the likes he has seen previously.

At first Patrick wanted to rage against the man who was making it so difficult to marry the woman that he loves, but with the soft pressure around his fingers, he is able to calm himself down to take a look at the whole picture and to truly think about his answer. “You have known me since the war, Peter, and while I haven't been the best Catholic – or, for that matter, the best Christian – I have tried my hardest to be the best man for my family, my community, and the people I cherish the most. If I have to once again follow in the footsteps of God just so that I can make Shelagh happy, then I will become as devout as she.”

Patrick glances over to the woman next to him and adds, “But she knows, as well as you, that it will not be from the same place her faith comes from. And she loves me for it anyways. She loves me for me and not as someone who will blindly follow.”

For a moment, Reverend Clarke looks between the two people in front of him. “You know, I have known the reason why you have wanted to meet with me since the moment my secretary told me of you appointment. Being a man to which I can blend against the wall at certain times, I had heard about your relationship through the gossip of some of the women in my parish. However, knowing the two of you previously, I felt honored that you chose to come to me to help lead you into your life of matrimony.”

Seeing that he still has their rapped attention, he takes a small breath and continues, "I don’t know, call me an old fogey – which Patrick has done numerous times when he feels I am talking too much – but I needed to make sure that both of you have given a lot of thought about this relationship and where you see it going. It seems that young people nowadays feel that they have to marry quickly or otherwise the passion will die out, and I would hate for you two to fall into the same trap.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and quickly calls out when the Reverend takes a breath, “Come along, old fogey, are you going to marry us or not?”

“Patrick?!” Shelagh exclaims before leaning over and whispering, “you shouldn’t call him names.”

Letting out a deep laugh that fills the rather simple office, Reverend Clarke shakes his head, “No worries, my dear, we have been calling each other names since we started debating about science and religion during the down times in the war – which were very few and far between. Quite simply, my two, yes, I will be honored to marry the both of you in holy matrimony.” Giving them a warm smile when they look to each other, he hastily adds, “I apologize for the harshness of my questions, but I had to make sure.”

Shelagh, still struggling to comprehend all that she has learned about Patrick’s past as well as how the two men know each other, Patrick is the first to break the silence by holding out his hand and saying, “Thank you, Peter. That was a bit long winded, but I’m sure Shelagh will get used to it like I’ve had to.”

Gripping his hand, Reverend Clarke chuckles with the shake of his head, “It comes with the territory I’m afraid. In seminary school, they have a whole class devoted to long windedness.”

“And I’m sure you made top marks,” Patrick quips, all his anger from before forgotten.

“In all seriousness, though,” the Reverend folds his hands on his desk, “I have seen and heard enough to know that both of you will walk hand in hand together; and while Patrick will be the light to help guide you on your path, Shelagh will be the one to bring you, Patrick, back to your faith.” Reverend Clarke opens his calendar and asks, “When would you like for me to marry you?”

Patrick is the first to answer, “When is the earliest you are available?” Glancing over to Shelagh to make sure she is prepared to go through with their wedding, he is not surprised to see her eyes bright with renewed energy.

“Ironically enough, Christmas Eve in the afternoon.” Furrowing his brow, Reverend Clarke looks up from his calendar, “I trust there is no reason as to why you would like to be married this quickly?”

Patrick once again has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, while Shelagh answers for them, “There is no reason, other than we wish to begin our journey as man and wife sooner rather than later.”

“Typically, I would need to spend a few months with you to talk you through your commitment with each other. We did inherit a few of those pesky Catholic rules after all,” he smiles when he hears Patrick groaning in misery, “however, seeing as Doctor Turner was already tortured once on the commitments of marriage before and that you, Miss Mannion, are also familiar with those same conversations, I have no problem skimming over that part and agreeing to marrying both of you on Christmas Eve.”

Turning to give Patrick a bright smile, Shelagh claps her hands together in joy as she turns back to the vicar. “Thank you so very much, Reverend.”

Standing up and reaching out to shake hands with both of them, Shelagh is the first to stand and then followed by Patrick. “I assume, Patrick, she is the same woman that I heard brought you back to the church a few months ago?”

Grasping the vicar’s hand, Patrick nods, “Yes, sir.”

“You are a lucky man to have strong women in your life again. Mariann was strong enough to pull you from the despair of war, where as Shelagh will be the strong one to bring you back to the man before the war.” Reverend Clarke lets go and gives both of them a prayer, “Go with God, my children, for He has already brought you to each other and He will help lead the way down your path.” Marking the cross of Christ, he adds, “May God bless you and keep you in his glory.”

..::..::..

Tumbling out of the church door with only each other to hold on to, Shelagh turns to Patrick and throws her arms around his shoulders to bring him in to a fierce hug. “Thank you, Patrick,” she mumbles in his ear.

Pulling back just slightly, he places both hands on her shoulders and gives her a bright smile. “You were excellent, my dear.” He leans back in, but still keeps his distance, “I fear I have an overwhelming urge to kiss you silly, but I will save both of us the trouble of being spied upon by the gossiping hens until we have closed the door of my flat.”

"God help you if my lips get to you first,” her eyes dance in mirth as a coy smile plays upon her lips.

A flash of desire, carefully hidden since the night they had a proper snog on the couch, courses through his eyes as he weighs his options. Kiss her here where I can get the instant gratification yet not as much passion, or wait until we get back home to have her kiss me freely. Snatching her hand with his own, he all but pulls her down the stairs of the church.

Quietly giggling behind him at his excitement to get her home, she has to all but run to catch up to him. Since the church is a few blocks from his flat, they make it to his door in record timing. He opens the door for her and lets her walk in – such the gentleman – yet the moment she hears the door snap shut, she twirls around and crashes her lips onto his.

Throwing his arms around her waist to steady himself, he completely looses himself in the hum of her body against his as the blessed sound of her hungry moan charges up his spine.

“Hi dad, how – ugh! Gross!” Timothy closes his eyes and looks away from the old couple snogging in the front hall. “You know, catching you guys kissing will stunt my growth. If you keep it up, I will end up being a midget and will be bullied for the rest of my life.”

Giggling against his lips, Shelagh pulls away and clears her throat, “You will most likely out grow your father. So I am here to refute your hypothesis by predicting that our kissing will help you grow taller.”

"Then at the rate you are going, I'll be taller than an oak tree.” Rolling his eyes, he beckons them to follow him with the flick of his wrist, “Come along, dinner is almost ready,” he sighs as he walks to the kitchen.

Bracing his hands against her hips, Patrick sighs, “I have to go to the study to retrieve something.” Lightly kissing her, he hotly murmurs against her lips, “Be prepared to return to our celebration once Timothy is snuggled in his bed.”

Gently pushing her hips into his and eliciting a soft growl deep from his throat, she coolly replies, “I look forward to it, Doctor Turner.” Pushing herself away, goosebumps charge along her heated skin at the coolness that infiltrates the warmth they created with their bodies. Before he has a chance to grab her, she gives him a sly smile and turns towards the kitchen.

Watching her hips intently as she walks away from him, he scrubs at his parched lips with his fingers before turning the opposite way towards his study. Taking a few deep breaths to calm the excitement that is currently pressing against the inseam of his pants, his thoughts of her lips is dutifully shuffled towards the back of his mind as the real reason for his trip into his study forges him ahead.

Stepping behind his desk, he opens a few drawers and shuffles around some of his papers until he finds the small picture frame. Staring at the black and white newspaper clipping, he can't help but shutter at the grime and blood that seeps through the colorless photo. Closing his eyes and threading his fingers through his hair, thoughts of where that grime and blood had come from fills his mind and brings him back to a place he never wants to go again.

"Patrick,” Shelagh’s beautiful lilt stirs him from memories of death and war, “dinner is ready.”

Slipping the jewelry box out of his desk drawer, he stands and makes his way to the kitchen after hiding both items in the parlor. Taking in a deep breath as he walks through, he smiles, “It smells delicious in here.” He gives Shelagh a small peck on the cheek and whispers in her ear, “You've outdone yourself.”

“Ugh! Dad, haven't you tortured me enough for the night,” Timothy murmurs from his seat at the breakfast table. Narrowly missing his dad's outreached hand to scruff his hair, he looks to Shelagh first, “What did Reverend Clarke say?”

Placing the steaming bowls onto the table, she wraps her arm around Patrick's waist and exclaims, “He has agreed to marry us on Christmas Eve!”

“Wow, that's soon.”

Patrick gives his son a crooked smile, “Yes, but it was perfect for us.” Opening the chair for Shelagh, he sits down next to her and begins to eat.

Fidgeting in her seat, Shelagh buzzes, “Now that we know who will be marrying us and where we will have the ceremony, we have a few more things to do within the month.”

“Such as,” Patrick asks.

“You two have to make sure you have new suits, schedule a trip to the barbers, we have to buy flowers for all three of us, we have to go to the registrars office to obtain a marriage certificate, we have to find two witnesses to come to the wedding, and I have to buy a wedding dress,” she lists with the flick of each of her fingers.

Both men stare at her with their spoons suspended in front of their mouths. All at once, Timothy asks, “Can I have trousers instead of shorts,” at the same time Patrick replies, “I'm sure the nurses and nuns at Nonnatus House can be our witnesses.” Both Turners glance at each other before looking back at Shelagh.

Shelagh blushes a deep red as she answers Timothy's question first, “Of course you will be wearing trousers, the wedding will be in church.” She takes a small bite of her food before she answers Patrick's, “I don't want to bother Nonnatus House, I'm sure they will be busy with work as well as the Christmas Eve activities.”

Patrick reaches out to capture her hand with his, “You won't be a bother to them. They want to see you happy.”

She swipes her hand through the air, “No matter, we can talk about it later.” Turning to to Timothy before Patrick can ask anymore questions, she asks, “How was school today?”

Leaving them to talk about biology and arithmetic, Patrick swirls his spoon through his food. It worries me that Shelagh doesn't want to at least invite the nurses or nuns to the wedding. They – mainly her sisters – have been her only family for the past ten years. I understands that we will be getting married rather quickly, but that's no reason for us to not invite them to the wedding.

“Patrick!”

Shaking his head, he glances over to the two who are looking at him as if he has two heads. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I asked,” Shelagh stands from her chair, “if you were finished with your dinner?”

He gives her a complacent smile and hands over his empty bowl. When she turns towards the sink, he stands and joins her, “You wash and I'll dry.” His peace offering rewards him with a small smile from her as Timothy quickly excuses himself to go finish his homework.

Silence falls between the two as their elbows graze each other in their vein efforts to not allow their night to be ruined with the mention of Nonnatus. When all is dry and the sink is clean, Patrick throws the towel onto the counter and invites Shelagh to the parlor with a gentle hand on the small of her back.

Once they are seated on the couch, Patrick retrieves both the frame and the box from the table beside him. Giving her the picture first, he explains, “I first met Peter on the beaches of Normandy.” 

Staring at the yellowing newspaper, Shelagh takes in a young Patrick, covered in grime and – dare I say it – blood, bowing head in head with a young Reverend Clarke, who is just as dirty.

He looks at the picture over her shoulder. The sand from that French beach still gets caught in his throat, yet, he has been better at clearing it; especially with Shelagh and Mariann by my side. “Our roles as doctor and reverend fit together perfectly like a puzzle piece. I would try to mend the body while he would try to mend the spirit.”

Glancing over to the man she loves dearly, she notices that he has gone pale and that his eyes are cast and devoid of life – just like the night that grateful soldier stopped to thank him. Reaching out to place a gentle hand over his white knuckles, she silently gasps when he nearly crumbles into a pile of ashes.

The images and sounds of guns and artillery shells and men screaming that fills his mind seems so real that, for a moment, the bitterness of blood mixed with dirt settles in his mouth. His only salvation is the feel of her soft skin under his calloused palm.

Fearful once again that she will brunt the anger from his nightmares, she retracts her hand. Just as her palm is about to fall back into her lap, he frightens her when his fingers dart out to capture it.

“This was the precise moment I lost my faith,” his words barely rush from his hoarse throat as he stamps down the need to vomit his dinner. “This is… this is not an easy subject for me to discuss, but that soldier came up to me during our otherwise perfect evening and I… and I frightened you.”

“You didn’t frighten me, Patrick. I was just afraid that I wasn’t enough to help you in your hour of need.”

“But you did help me,” he exclaims passionately. “I was just too caught up in my own stupid memories to figure it out.” Pulling the picture from her relaxed fingers and throwing it off to the side, he captures her hand with both of his. “I am so sorry that you had to see me like that. I promise to get better at my reactions when it comes to the war.”

Slipping her hand from under his vice grip, she gently draws her thumb along his jaw as her fingers caress his cheek. “There is nothing to be sorry about. You are not the first man to have an adverse reaction to the reminders of war and you certainly won’t be the last. Just don’t keep me in the dark. I do want to help you, but you have got to tell me how.”

Covering the back of her hand with his, he tilts his head and kisses her wrists, “What you did, what you are doing now helps. Your touch, your sweet voice pulls me from that deep cavern back into the light of day.” He kisses her again and again and again. “This helps too,” he rasps as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

Her eyes flutter closed as she blushes a bright red. “I, uhh, I don’t want to do something that will upset you.”

“You saying that you don’t want to marry me will upset me.” His lips continue their trail along her jaw to the lobe of her ear. “You telling me that you want to go back to being Sister Bernadette will upset me.” He wraps his hand around the back of her neck as she lifts her chin to give him better access. “You stopping me from kissing you right now will upset me.”

Circling her arms around his neck, she tilts her head to the side to invite him to seek the comfort he needs. “Oh, Patrick…,” she moans, “I would never tell you those things.”

“Good,” he murmurs against her angelic skin, “now that I have tasted you, it would be incredibly hard to simply forget you.” Giving her one last peck on the lobe of her ear – a spot he had learned that drives her crazy – he leans back and captures the white box with a small grin. “I have something else for you as well.”

Capturing her groan just before it escapes her throat, she takes a deep breath to center her gravity before opening the box. “Oh, Patrick,” she exclaims, “it’s absolutely beautiful, but you shouldn’t have.”

Like an excited kid on Christmas morning, he takes the box from her hands and pulls out the watch from it wrappings. “I’ve had it engraved, so I can’t take it back.”

She takes the gold watch back and turns it over;

My Love
P+S

Catching her giggle with her fingers, she places it on her wrist and holds out her arm for him to fasten it.

“It fits perfectly,” he kisses her wrist.

“It’s rather extravagant, but I love it regardless.” She leans in and nuzzles against his cheek. “Thank you, dearest.”

Just as Patrick wraps his arms around her waist to return back to their snogging, the telephone ring blares through the rather quiet house. Immediately standing and making his way to the phone with the roll of his eyes, he answers with a curt greeting.

Admiring her new watch as he continues to talk in hushed tones, the glint from the frame catches her eye. Reaching for it, she studies it again, taking in every bit of detail that she can. Even though he was young when this picture was taken, I can still see the lines of worry and stress along his handsome face. “You have been called into work,” she states listlessly as she sees him walking back to her.

He gives her an encouraging smile that doesn't necessarily reach his eyes, “I traded Joe’s on call to free my afternoon from clinic duty to go see Reverend Clarke.”

Passing him the frame with a flick of her wrist, she murmurs, “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“If you don’t mind, Timothy doesn’t know the specifics of my time spent in the war.” Capturing the frame from her hand, he helps her up before they both make their way towards the front door “I don’t want his head filled with romantic notions of war, yet I don’t want to scare him either.” He dives into his study to place the photo back where he got it. 

By the time he walks back into the front hall, she has her coat buttoned and is reaching for both of their hats. “I won’t.” Stepping up to him, she gently slides her arms around his waist and lays her head on his chest. When he wraps his arms around her shoulders, she mumbles against the beat of his heart, “Thank you for telling me. It must have been difficult for you.”

He kisses the crown of her head, “Not as difficult as seeing you pull away from me.” Leaning back, just slightly, he places the curve of his knuckle under her chin and closes the small distance between their lips.

“You're stunting my growth again,” Timothy moans from the top of the stairs.

When both pull apart with a sly grin, Patrick is the first to call back, “I have to get going to a house call. Did you finish your homework?”

“And I've brushed my teeth,” he cheekily shows off his teeth for his father's inspection.

“Alright, up to bed you go. I will be taking Shelagh back to Mrs. B’s. I should be back in a few hours.” Patrick turns to grab his coat and hat.

“Goodnight Shelagh. Goodnight dad.” Timothy waves them off before turning back towards his room.

As both adults bid their own farewells, Patrick retrieves his case while Shelagh places her hat over her mused hair. “The rest of our celebration will have to continue tomorrow night,” Shelagh shyly murmurs as she opens the door and slips out to his car.

Chapter Text

Volare – Dean Martin

“Good morning, miss,” a prim lady walks around the shop counter, “how may I help you today?” Using her hawklike eyes to take in the nervous woman, she takes a moment to mentally guess her measurements.

Shelagh’s grips onto her handbag as she takes in the overwhelming sight of all the white and frilly dresses. “I, umm, I'm here to purchase a wedding dress, ummm, for myself.”

Showing off the multitude to dresses available with the flick of her wrist, she smiles her pearly whites, “You have come to the right place. As you can see, we have a vast assortment to choose from.” Noticing the woman shivering in fright, she shows her to the petite settee, “Please sit down. I will pour some tea for you and we shall talk about what kind of dress you see yourself in.”

“I have to admit, this is quite overwhelming.” Shelagh sits down as she steals another glance around the room.

“That's what all women say when they first step in through these doors,” she sets the tea tray down onto the table, “milk or sugar?”

“Two cubes and a dash of milk, please.”

Handing the tea cup off, the sales lady smiles, “Well lets start with names and then we can go from there. My name is Dorothy.”

“Shelagh and thank you for the tea.” Taking the saucer, Shelagh informs, “I believe Doctor Turner called this morning.”

Crossing her ankles, Dorothy’s eyes light up, “Oh, yes, charming man told us to put whatever dress you want on his bill. How wonderful!” Taking a quick sip of her own tea, she sets her saucer back down on the tray. “Tell me Shelagh, what kind of dress do envision yourself in?”

Pressing her lips together in a thin, white line, Shelagh twirls her spoon along the rim while trying in vein to think what she would see herself in. Instantly, she thinks back to when she took her vows as a postulate. My dress was a simple white satin floor length dress with a row of buttons lining down my spine. But, that is no longer my calling and I don’t want a dress to remind me of my failure to keep my previous vows. “I am, uhh, unsure of the style, but I do know what I don't want.”

“Then that is where we shall begin,” pulling out her notebook from her pocket with her pencil, Dorthy looks at her with the upmost attention.

“Nothing to flashy or extravagant,” Shelagh begins, “and I need it to have sleeves.” Taking a strong sip of her tea to steel her nerves, she hastily adds, “And I, uhh, I don't want to wear white.” Spying over the rim of her teacup to the shock knitting the young woman's brow, Shelagh explains, “Its not what you think. I was, uhhh, previously, uhhh… and it...” She blushes a deep crimson red as she stumbles through with finishing her sentence.

“Oh,” Dorothy places her free hand on Shelagh's knee, “I understand.” Her previous husband must have died while in National Service. “Will it be a small wedding?”

Shelagh didn't have the courage to correct whatever Dorothy had assumed. “Very. And it will be on Christmas Eve.”

Letting her eyes to drop down to her stomach, Dorothy lightly comments, “That is in less than a month.”

Gritting her teeth, Shelagh takes a deep breath to calm both her nerves and her anger. “We are very much in love and that is all.” Placing the cup and saucer on the tray, Shelagh stands, “I can go somewhere else if you prefer.”

Standing up with her hands held out in peace, Dorothy calls out, “There is no need, Shelagh.” Flicking her palm out inviting her to sit back down, she murmurs, “Please, lets sit down.”

Feeling her anger wash out of her in one big wave, Shelagh sits back down on the settee, “Very well.”

Giving her a bright smile, Dorothy snatches her notebook up from the table and sits down on her chair, “Fantastic, let's get started, shall we. I have some great ideas on dresses that are simple, yet would look stunning on you.”

..::..::..

The material; smooth against my skin.

The color; ghastly against my complexion, yet the other colors were just as mortifying.

The fit; will leave Patrick wanting if his behavior towards me on any normal day is proof enough.

It will have to do, Shelagh quietly sighs as she takes one more twirl in front of the mirror.

Besides, the fitting will not take as long as some of the other dresses Dorothy wants me to try on.

Staring at the dull gray material, the image of her white satin dress she wore when she took her final vows filters through her mind yet again. The one thing I remember from that day was the way I felt when I looked in the mirror before walking into the abbey. I never felt more beautiful in my life and I never dared to think of myself in such a way since.

At least until the day Patrick kissed my palm. Now every time he sees me, his eyes light up and a big goofy grin spreads along his cheeks and I feel... my goodness, more beautiful than I do in this dress. 

Yet, I should stop this absurd talk. This is the most practical dress I can find within the limited amount of time we have. There would be no way I could pick out one of the dresses Dorthry wants me to try on and for it to be finished being altered by the day of the wedding ceremony.

Dorothy knocks on the door, “How do you like this one?”

Shelagh plasters on a fake smile, “I like it a lot. I think I will choose this one.”

“Umm, that is the first one you tried on,” Dorothy gently says, “would you like to try on some of the ones I picked out for you?”

Besides, she argues against her subconscious part that wishes for a Princess Kelly style dress, why spend so much money - Patrick's money – on a dress that I will wear for an hour at most. “This will do just fine.” Slipping the jacket off of her shoulders and placing it on the hanger, she steals one more look in the mirror. Patrick will adore anything I wear.

Unzipping the dress and letting it fall to the floor, she hitches up the hem of her slip to take a look at her garters. The same dull ones I have had since my first trip to the department store after coming back from the sanatorium. Raising her slip higher, she takes a peek at her plain, white panties. I will have to purchase something that will excite Patrick more than this dress; preferably for our honeymoon, which Camilla has assured me that the hotel we will be staying at is so lovely, that we will never want to leave the room.

“Dorothy?” Shelagh calls out.

“Yes, Shelagh?”

Pulling back the curtain and peeking her head out, she whispers, “Do you sell lingerie?”

“No we do not, but I can refer you to a store.” She looks up from her note pad, “Would you like me to call ahead and to transfer Doctor Turner’s payment information?”

“No, that is something I would like to purchase on my own, but I would appreciate the reference.” She gives Dorothy a small smile, “Thank you, I do very much appreciate your help.”

“Nonsense, Shelagh,” Dorothy gives her a megawatt smile, “that is why I am here. Now place your dress on the hanger. When you are finished dressing, we will set up a time for you to meet with the seamstress.”

Nodding her head, Shelagh ducks back in to finish dressing.

..::..::..

“How did your dress shopping go?” Patrick looks up from his newspaper as Shelagh walks into the kitchen with a few bag in tow.

She gives him a secretive smile, “You will like the dress I picked,” she kisses the top of his head and whispers in his ear, “among other things.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her down into his lap, he murmurs against her cheek, “Timothy is at Cubs tonight. Maybe we can pick up on that celebration we had to leave off last week.” Not even waiting for her answer, he closes the distance between their lips.

Gladly giving in, she slides her arms around his neck and presses her body against his chest. Threading her fingers through the hair on his neck, she nearly melts when she feels his tongue probing against her lips, yet she denies him access. Pulling away, she bites down on her swollen bottom lip, “I have to get dinner started,” she all but whines.

He gives her a cheeky grin, “Mrs. B. – bless her sweet, little heart – knew that you would be out all day shopping for your wedding dress. She made us dinner and gave me the strict instructions to place the baking dish in the oven about an hour before everyone is to get home.” His hand snakes up her body and threads through the wisps of unruly hair that has made its way out from her tight bun. “I am a very good listener and I followed her directions to the T.” Nuzzling his lips underneath her jaw, he hotly mumbles, “Shouldn't I be rewarded for being a good boy?”

Closing her eyes, Shelagh lets her head fall back and throatily moans, “And what do you suggest we do for an hour that will keep our promised propriety intact until our honeymoon?”

Pressing his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, his heart gallops at an amazing pace at the numerous thoughts of how he would like to pass the next hour with her. And none of them are proper at all. “Honestly, the only things I can think to do with you, requires both of us to remove all of our clothing.” When he leans back to study her beautiful face, he notices that her eyes are wide with shock, yet her lips are parched open, begging for air to rush into her lungs. “You are absolutely beautiful when you look like this.”

She licks her parched lips, “Like what?”

He sneaks in a kiss along her jaw, before humming, ”Like you would rather continue our discussion calmly, rationally, and naked in my bed.” 

“Patrick,” she screeches as she leans out of his embrace. 

“What?” He holds onto her tightly. “Are you still surprised that I find you to be absolutely bewitching?” When she doesn’t answer him back, he adds under his breath, “Besides, in all fairness, you are the one who started this little tête-à-tête?”

“Me?” Her foggy mind tries to keep up, “how is that so?”

His eyebrow playfully quirks up as he dramatically explains, “You sashay in here and whisper in my ear about other things you bought to go with your wedding dress. It's enough to drive any sane man crazy.”

She arches her brow in similar fashion as her hands steady herself on his shoulders, “I could've been talking about earrings or shoes.”

“Were you talking about earrings and shoes?” His question lingers in the air with a sly grin dancing across his cheeks.

“No,” one of her hands slides down the curve of his chest to play with the lose knot of his tie, “but I will leave it at that.” Rewarding his restraint with a quick peck on the lips, she lightly pushes away his hands and eases off of his legs.

Unabashedly staring at the delicious curve of her hips as she bustle around the kitchen, he cheekily calls out to her, “How many more days until we are to be married?”

“Not including today,” she murmurs over her shoulder, “nineteen.” Knowing exactly what they can work on until dinner will be ready, Shelagh hitches her finger for him to follow her, “I know a perfect way to spend our hour with the added benefit of clothes being strung along your bedroom.”

Clambering out of his seat to follow, his salivating tongue is literally wagging, “How?”

“Follow me,” she winks at him with the full knowledge that he will not enjoy what she wants them to do.

..::..::..

“Oh, come now, Shelagh,” Patrick whines like a two year old as Shelagh throws the offending tie in the donate pile. “That’s my lucky tie!”

Already reaching for the next one, she strongly says, “Its frayed and quite ugly.” Busily looking between his last two ties, one more horrendous than the other, she throws both of them in the donate pile.

Reaching for his lucky tie to pull it out from the ‘pile of hell’ – as he has been referring to the donation pile in his head – he brings it close to his heart away from the clutches of his soon-to-be-wife. “This is the tie that I wore when I first danced with you to Sam Cooke. This is also the tie I wore when obtaining the x-ray program.”

Placing her palms on his chest, she softly chides, “Dancing with me and obtaining the x-ray program came from your heart; not from your tie choice.” Noticing the muscles in his hands slack a bit, she expertly pulls the offending tie from his palm. “Besides, I’m letting you keep some of your jumpers for sentimental reasons, but this tie has to go.”

His face pinches in boyish consternation, “You know, when you dragged me up here, I had thought you were needing me for far more pleasurable reasons, not to go through my wardrobe.”

“I didn’t drag you up here,” she rolls her eyes as she turns back to his closet.

“Then seduced, you little minx,” he grins when he sees her stiffen, “you want to seduce me under the guise of fashion.” He wiggles his finger, “I can now see your true colors.”

Sighing, she reasons that this is not the first time he has tried to steer her away from her objective. “Patrick, you are a handsome man. Some of the clothes you have been wearing are frayed and tattered beyond the point of repair.”

Flittering through his wardrobe once more to make sure that she is satisfied with what is staying, she turns back to him and nearly melts when she sees him self-consciously looking down at himself. Stepping close to him and lifting his chin with the crook of her finger, she smiles, “You are always encouraging me to buy pretty dresses almost to the point where you have set up an account at the dress shop for me. This is me encouraging you to dress in nice clothing, preferably these suits that look brand new.”

“Mariann had bought those for me right after her cancer diagnosis.” He gives her a sad sort of smile as the memory of his wife filters through his mind. “She knew that I cannot buy myself clothes, so she stocked up. I just couldn’t find it in me to wear them. To tarnish them, even in the slightest, would be like tarnishing her and her memory.”

“No Patrick, wearing them would bring honor to her memory. She wanted to take care of you, even beyond her death.” She gives him an encouraging smile, “You know, I remember a time when both nuns and nurses at Nonnatus House could guess when you dressed yourself verses Mariann dressing you.”

“Some of these things carry good memories,” he murmurs as he glances over at the pile on his bed.

“The good memories will always carry on in here,” she gently taps his temple, “not in the clothing.”

He pulls down her hand and lovingly kisses her knuckles, “You’re right, my dear. I don’t see you keeping your habit.” A sneaky grin forms along his mouth as his eyebrows perk up, “Although, we could have fun with that.”

She swipes at his chest, “Patrick?! My habit is holy and should not be muddled with.” Although, two people can play this game, “That is why I took it off when I thought of you,” she coyly marks with a wink before kissing him on the cheek.

Pulling at her hips so that she falls in his lap as he sits on his bed, he nuzzles in the crook of her neck and murmurs, “Do you think you can say something like that and just walk away?”

Hearing the front door slam and the clunk of a rowdy ten year olds boots striking the stairs, both barely have a second to stand and pull away when Timothy charges through his dad’s bedroom door. “Dad! Dad! I’m going to play the – hi Shelagh!” Blissfully ignoring their red cheeks and awkward stances, he glances at the piles of clothing on the bed and asks, “What are you doing with your clothes, dad?”

Scruffling his son’s hair, he says, “We are going through them to see which ones we can donate.”

Timothy brightens, “Excellent! Some of your clothes were becoming too frayed.”

Patrick rolls his eyes as Shelagh stifles a giggle behind her palm. “I’m sure if we go through your closet, we can find some clothes and toys that you have out grown that we can also take to the charity box.”

“Yeah, Shelagh gave me a box yesterday. It’s all set.” Ignoring the playful glare his dad gives Shelagh, he instead bounces on his toes, “Guess what, dad?! Instead of being given a part in the nativity play, I am going to play the piano.”

Giving him a quick hug, Shelagh smiles, “Oh, Timothy, that is wonderful! I’m glad the extra practices have been paying off.”

“Mrs. B. is brilliant, as well as her cakes!”

Pulling away, Shelagh calls out as she makes her way out of the bedroom, “Speaking of Mrs. B., she made us dinner, which should be finished cooking.”

Wrapping his arm around his son’s shoulder, Patrick murmurs, “I’m proud of you, Tim. I already have it settled with Dr. Peters that we will be there to watch you play.” Dragging him towards the door, he adds, “Lets go down for dinner.”

Chapter Text

When I Fall in Love - Nat King Cole

Quickly moving through the street to her final destination, the click of her heels against the cobbled stone is her only company on an otherwise empty alley. Checking over her shoulder once, twice, three times within the span of five seconds until she finally reaches the door – his door, which will soon be her door in two days time.

Drumming her knuckles against the wooden surface, she glances over her shoulder again to make sure no one is spying out of their window at three o'clock in the morning.

Wrenching open the door, Patrick – still in doctor mode from the two minutes he has been home since returning from a call out – is surprised to see the one woman he never thought to see a mere two days before the wedding. Opening the door wider and inviting her in, she tells him of the emergency that has happened on her side of the neighborhood.

Just as they shuffle into the parlor, that is when he first sees it. She places the large, pink box on the dining table. When they sit on the sofa, he juts out his chin towards the box and grins, “Is that it? Does it also have the ‘among other things’ in there as well?” Ever since making the innocent comment a a few weeks ago, he has been incessantly teasing her about it.

Shelagh leans in and gives him a peck on the cheek, “Honestly Patrick, you are worse than a child on Christmas morning.”

He covers her hand with his warm palm, “Can you blame me? It's almost Christmas and, in two days time, I get to unwrap the best present ever.”

Before she has a chance to reply back, Timothy calls out from atop of the stairs, “Dad, who was at the door?”

Reluctantly letting go, Patrick stands up and walks to the bottom of the stairs, “There was an emergency, Shelagh will be staying with us until it is resolved.”

Timothy's sleepy eyes brighten at Shelagh's name, but then become knitted in confusion, “Isn't it bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding?”

Shelagh glances around the snug corner and simply replies, “There is an unexploded bomb close to where I live. I'd think it would be more lucky to be further away from a bomb than for your father to see me.”

“A bomb!? Cool!” Tumbling down the stairs, Timothy immediately asks, “Did you see it? What kind is it? Do you think it will explode?”

Holding up his hand, Patrick calmly says, “That's enough excitement for tonight. Up to bed you go.”

“But dad,” Timothy whines, “it's not every day that an unexploded bomb is discovered.”

“Thank goodness. Bombs are nasty business and I hope you will never see them up close and personal in your lifetime.” A shadow passes across his face.

Timothy, in his endeavor to obtain as much information as possible to appease his boyish excitement, misses it, yet, Shelagh can see it as plan as day. Knowing full well that the young boy will not fall asleep easily, Shelagh places her hand on Patrick's arm and tells Timothy, “Since you are wide awake, why don't you go and make some hot tea for the three of us.”

Hastily nodding, Timothy steps off the bottom step and heads straight to the kitchen.

Turning to Patrick, she explains further on when Timothy is out of earshot, “Unfortunately in my haste to leave, I was able to remember my wedding dress, but I forgot everything else. Would it be possible for you to lend me a night shirt for this evening?”

“Oh course, we can provide anything you will need.” Inviting her to go up the stairs with the flick of his wrist, he follows closely after her. “I will let you use my favorite night shirt.”

Peeking over her shoulder, Shelagh coyly confirms, “I'm sure after two more days, it will be my favorite night shirt as well.”

“You can always wear your ‘among other things’ tonight,” he cheekily replies with a lopsided grin.

Turning around just as she gets to the door, she pouts, “I am rather looking forward to using your favorite nightshirt.” Flashing him a mischievous smile, she then opens the door and walks in.

Turning on the light switch for her, his bedroom is doused in soft light as he brushes past her to his wardrobe and opens the top drawer. “You know, I wouldn't trust just anybody with this,” he pulls out a well-worn striped top with large buttons racing down the front and hands it to her.

Timidly accepting it, she sighs, “All kidding aside Patrick, you don't have to let me borrow this one.”

“Nonsense,” he steps up to her and lovingly kisses her cheek. “Now you can use my room to change. I will take out some sheets and a pillow for me to use on the sofa downstairs and you can sleep in here.”

“Patrick, I can sleep on the sofa. Your poor legs will dangle over the edge.”

“You are our guest, my dear, and you will sleep in here.” Stepping around her, he pulls the door and points, “Once you are dressed, you can use my robe and we can all have some tea together.”

Nodding, she places the top on his bed – soon to be our bed – and takes off her hat. “Patrick,” she turns to face him just as he is about to shut the door, “why are these nightclothes your favorite?” Mariann must have gotten it for him either for his birthday or a special occasion.

“That's not the reason,” he can tell by the cast look in her eyes why she suspects they are special to him. “It was the first birthday present Timothy had picked out for me by himself. He was four at the time and as a special surprise, Mariann had purchased him a set just like mine. Ever since then, I always go and buy him a new pair so that we can wear them to bed just before holidays or birthdays.” Running his thumb underneath the pads of his pointer and middle finger, he stares down at the nightshirt with such fondness. “I would give the shirt off my back to a poor soul who needed it, but not that. There are too many fond memories attached to that shirt.”

Shelagh gives him an endearing smile as she softly promises, “I will make sure to treat it as such.”

“I know,” he returns her smile and then disappears behind the gentle snap of the door.

..::..::..

“Timothy,” Shelagh calls out from her stance in front of the fireplace.

Peeking out through the look-between window from the kitchen, Timothy answers back, “yes?”

“Do you have pictures of your mum?” Turning around to face the lad, she explains, “There are a lot of photographs of you and some of your dad, but none with your mother.”

Timothy shrugs his shoulders, “After asking you to marry him, dad took out all the pictures of mum. He let me pick out some to put in my room while he put the others in his study.”

Her brow furrows in disappointment as she stares off at the carpet in deep consternation. After a few moments, she looks back up at Timothy and asks, “Are you happy with that arrangement?”

“I like having a few pictures of mum in my room, but I have to admit that I miss seeing her out here too.” Walking out of the kitchen, he comes up next to her, “The way dad put it was that he wanted to make room for pictures of us as a family. It makes sense and I am excited for our first picture.”

She gives him a sweet smile, “I am excited too. However, if it's alright with you, I would like to add some photos with your mum in it.”

He tries to hide the bubble of excitement by asking, “Will it make you sad?”

“On the contrary, it will make me happy to see you happy.” Facing him, Shelagh places a gentle hand on his shoulder, “She was a beautiful woman and I can imagine that you miss her a lot. I will talk to your father when he gets back from his house calls, but I don't think she should be relegated to a dark drawer.”

“There's a picture in dad's study of the three of us for her birthday. It was the birthday before she became sick.” He smiles fondly at the memory of his dad's attempt at baking a surprise birthday cake for her. “That one should go here on the mantle. It's the one that always makes him smile.”

“Then that is the one that I will ask your father to put out here,” Shelagh confidently agrees. “Now, will you be able to help me clean and peel the potatoes?”

“Sure,” following her back into the kitchen, it isn't until he is elbows deep into potato skins when he murmurs under his breath, “Thank you.”

Wiping the sweat from her brow as she dices the other vegetables, she calls back, “Whatever for?”

“For bringing mum back out.” Keeping his eyes cast down by picking at the bruised skin, Timothy mutters, “I miss her quite a lot. Seeing her down here helps.”

Knowing that he has more to say, Shelagh keeps her eyes trained on the carrots.

“When I go to visit mum, I talk with her. I know that she is not able to answer back,” he hastily adds, “but it helps, especially when dad is too busy to listen.” Throwing the potato in the bowl, he reaches for the last one. “I told her about you and how you are gong to marry dad and that you make him happy. I think she is happy knowing that dad has someone to help keep him loved and upkept.”

After a long period of silence, he brings her the bowl of potatoes to be sliced when she says, “I hope I can make both of you proud, you and your mum.”

“I think you are doing a good job. You are a great cook and you help me with my homework and you love dad a lot. It's just...,” he bows his head in embarrassment, “Jack says that I should start calling you mum, but I can't do it just yet,” he blurts out. “I want to, but not just yet, if that's okay.”

She can understand his hesitation. She has yet to tell him that she loves him and she does love him as if he is her own son. Feeling it and speaking of those feeling are two vastly different things. “Whenever you are ready, you can call me mum. Or you can continue to call me Shelagh or Auntie Shelagh. It's your choice and only you can decide which feels comfortable.” She places her hand on his shoulder, “There is no rush, Timothy.”

Wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug, he murmurs against her shoulder, “Thank you.”

..::..::..

Quickly slipping in through the front door, Patrick shivers as the heat from the fireplace barrels against his exposed skin. He divests himself of his outerwear before cautiously peeking into the parlor. The sight he sees excites him to no end and encourages him to step towards her.

Too entranced in carefully packing away the last of her dress, Shelagh shrieks when she feels arms circling around her waist. Pushing and clawing her way out from the intruders arms, she sighs with relief when she turns to see her future husband with the wiliest of grins adorning his cheeks. “Patrick! You scared me!”

“I couldn’t help myself,” lazily follows the line of her scantily clad body.

Glancing down, she hastily remembers that she is only dressed in her slip with his pajama shirt serving as a meek cover up. Blush tinges her already red cheeks as she grudgingly closes his stripped shirt around her body. “Yes, well…,” she stumbles when she feels his desire for her thickening the air between them.

He stuffs his hands deep down into his pockets. “My dear, you can wear a potato sack and I would still find you irresistible.” Pressing his lips together in a thin, white line, he takes a deep breath, “I shall take my leave from you and remind myself that we are to marry in a little more than twenty-four hours.”

“Thirty-two hours and nineteen minutes to be precise.”

He leans forward to kiss her on her cheek when he notices that her wedding dress box is still opened, yet tightly wrapped. “More importantly, I cannot wait to see you walk down the aisle to marry me in your white dress.” He kisses her once, twice, three more times before turning towards the stairs.

Just as his tense figure slips through the shadow, she timidly calls out, “What if I told you that my dress is not white?”

“My darling,” he turns back towards her with a fire in his eyes, “you can wear an orange dress with purple polka dots and I would still find myself to be the luckiest man in the world because you will be walking down the aisle to marry me.”

Running up to him, she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him senseless.

Sliding his arms around her waist, he twirls her around with ease and pushes her against the nearest wall. The moan that reverberates through her lips nearly drives him mad with ecstasy. Knowing full well that he needs to stop before he did something he knew he would regret, he presses he hand against the wall to help push him away.

Feeling his body pull away, Shelagh tries to take in as much oxygen as her lungs will allow as her head fall back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” she huskily murmurs.

He glances up to see that her lips – her damn sexy lips – are plump from their kiss and murmurs, “In thirty-six hours and eleven minutes, we will officially be on our honeymoon and I can kiss you to my heart’s content.”

She coyly smirks, “I look forward to it.”

Threading his fingers around the back of her neck, he kisses her forehead. “I love you.”

She looks up through her lashes, “I love you too.”

“Did you and Timothy pick out a few pictures?” His thumb sweeps along the small stretch of skin behind her ear.

“Yes, the photo from your study; the one from her birthday before she became sick.” Seeing his eyes light up in laughter makes her chest flutter in delight. “Timothy told me that you had attempted to bake a cake and that when she had come home, you, along with the kitchen, was covered in flour and cake batter.”

He lets out a hearty laugh, “That was a great day.” He kisses her forehead again and again. “We will create many more memories as a family.”

“With you,” she whispers, “I already have an abundance of memories.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get my beauty sleep. I will be going to the dress shop for a few last minute checks.”

“I will be taking Timothy to the barbers as well as ironing out our suits and picking up the flowers.” He kisses her cheek before taking a step back. “Good night, my love. I will see you when you get back.”

“Good night, Patrick.”

..::..::..

Omnipotent and eternal God, the everlasting Salvation of those who believe, hear us on behalf of Thy sick servant, Timothy, for whom we beg the aid of Thy pitying mercy, that, with his bodily health restored, he may give thanks to Thee in Thy church. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Shelagh grips Timothy's hand as if her touch can save him. She quietly says her prayer over and over in her mind, hoping that it will works its miracle and to bring Timothy back to the same boy he was only a few hours before.

“We'll be at the London in one minute,” the ambulatory nurse murmurs from his perch next to Shelagh. “They will take him straight to the children's ward where they will conduct the spinal tap to confirm the prognosis.”

Not wanting to disrupt her prayers, Shelagh just nods.

“Mmm,” Timothy's quite voice rises from his now-conscious lips and seeps into her soul.

Leaning down, she threads her fingers through his wily hair and murmurs, “Timothy, my dear. We are on our way to hospital. I will call your father as soon as we get there. Just lay still. I will hold your hand for as long as they let me.”

He squeezes her hand as a tear tumbles down his cheek.

Bumping up to the emergency entrance, the nurse whispers, “We are here.” He rushes between Shelagh and Timothy, momentarily breaking their connection. The doors break open admitting both the bright light of the dying day as well as two orderlies. “To the children's ward with possible polio. You will need to keep him in a quarantine area.”

“Yes, sir,” the orderlies pull him out and onto a gurney.

The nurse steps out of the ambulance and holds out his hand to help her down. “The children's ward is–”

Shelagh begins walking in, “I know my way around, thank you.” Leaving the nurse in her wake, she marches in to first call for Patrick and then to hold Timothy's hand.

..::..::..

“Nurse!” A woman half running, half stomping comes up to both Trixie and Jenny hysterically waving her arms. “Nurse, please wait!”

Meeting the poor woman half way, they both reach out for concern as Jenny asks, “Are you well?”

Gulping down some much needed air, the woman shakes her head. “Not me…,” she places her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Doctor Turner’s… son… he was taken… to the… hospital.”

“We shall tell Doctor Turner immediately.” Both nurses turn back towards the institute with the sole intention to inform the Doctor that his son is sick when a hand reaches out for both of their arms.

“The nun told me to tell you that it’s polio.” Crossing the body of Christ along her chest, she shakes her head. “That poor boy. You make sure to tell him.”

High tailing it back to the Institute, both nurses discreetly look for the Doctor. As they run through the corridors in the back, it is Jenny who sees Sister Evangelina coming out from their makeshift quarters. “Sister! Have you seen Doctor Turner?”

“He was back there on the telephone,” she jerks her chin over her shoulder, “trying with no luck to get the ban lifted to go back to our homes.” When she sees the nurses quickly pass without so much as a thank you, she calls out, “Don’t get your hosiery in a bunch, by the sounds of it, he is unsuccessful.”

Turning the corner, they see the doctor quite literally banging his head against the wall as he forcefully yells into the phone, “No. No. No. I said that I need to talk to Stephen Riser.” After a pause, he growls, “Well you tell him that the people he had so kindly placed out of reach of the bomb are now – What the hell do you mean that he’s at his Christmas dinner? You bloody well better get him – hello? Hello?” Staring down at the receiver, he angrily murmurs, “Bloody pansy ass,” before slamming the phone back onto the hook.

Seeing a good time to interrupt, both Jenny and Trixie come up to him, “Doctor Turner–”

Turning to see the young women behind him, his cheeks rouge to a deep red in embarrassment as he stutters, “Oh, umm, I’m sorry, umm, I hope you, umm…”

Trixie rolls her eyes, “Doctor, one of your neighbors came to see us. Timothy has been taken to the hospital. Shelagh told her that it was polio.”

Not even caring about anything else around him, he charges off down the hall towards the exit.

“What is all this commotion?” Sister Julienne peeks out of the back-of-the-bar-slash-her-office.

Both of the young nurses glance at each other before stepping up to the older nun and whispering, “Doctor Turner’s son was taken to the hospital with polio.”

“Oh dear,” she looks over their shoulders towards the bright window, “and did she say anything about Shelagh?”

“Shelagh was the one who told the neighbor before going to the hospital,” Trixie murmurs.

Clasping her hands together, “Then we shall pray for Master Turner’s health and speedy recovery.”

..::..::..

“It was the most horrible thing to walk in to,” Shelagh starts after several long minutes of tears and stuttered apologies. “And now he's in the hospital on a ventilator. He might not be able to walk ever again,” she crumbles into a gut wrenching sob.

Her three sisters keep their place around her; Sister Evangelina to her left with her palm squarely placed on her shoulder, Sister Monica Joan is sitting in a chair in front of her clutching both of her hands, and Sister Julienne to her right with one hand rubbing her back and the other on her arm.

Sister Monica Joan is the first to respond, “The Lord knows the needs of this child and of the prayers of those that love him the most. We will pray that he will feel the warmth of His arms in his greatest hour of need.”

“If we can, pray together, then the strength of our prayers will soothe more than one person tonight,” Sister Julienne finishes.

Shelagh looks to all the women around her and defeatedly asks, “How is it you can still find it in your heart to love a person who left the warmth of your arms?”

“Because we never stopped loving you,” Sister Evangelina lightly squeezes her shoulder, “and we never will.”

“You will always be our sister despite whatever choices you make to your path in life.”

Shelagh vows her head in shame, “I don't deserve your love.”

“Everyone deserves love, child,” Sister Monica Joan smiles, “It is the very essence of our lives. It's what brings us color to a world condemned to be black and white.”

“You came to us, my dear Shelagh, when you felt you had no where else to go.” Sister Julienne thread back a wisp of hair that had come out in her haste to rush to the Institute. “First we will pray and then we will make you a bed. You will be with your sisters tonight.”

Too exhausted to argue against the three glorious women surrounding her, Shelagh simply nods her head.

..::..::..

Please, Lord, please protect Timothy in his hour of need. He is just a boy, my boy, who deserves to grow up. I promise to pay more attention to him, to read him his favorite book at night, to help him build his model airplane, but most of all, to show him how much I love him.

Threading his fingers through Timothy's long hair, he leans down and kisses his forehead. “I'm so sorry, my dear boy. I should have known that your were sick. I should have known.” He kisses him again and again and again.

“Here,” Patrick slowly glances up to see Sister Evangelina shoving a cup of tea in his face, “drink this. It's well sugared.”

Knowing not to disobey directions from Sister Evangelina, Patrick takes the cup with his left so that his right hand can stay connected to Timothy.

Sister Evangelina pulls up a chair opposite of Patrick and stares down at Timothy for the longest time. “Now, my dearest child, I helped bring you into this world and I'll be damned to see you depart from it before your time. Your dad and I will pray for you.” Glancing up at the haggard man in front of her, she adds, “He won't forget the ‘our father’ part this time, I'll make sure of it.”

Before he has even a slim chance to protest against it, she marks her head, heart, and shoulders with the body of Christ and begins, “O Lord God, I come to You for help and succor. You have afflicted this child.”

Hearing him following her words, she allows him to finish on his own, “Help me to understand that You mean well. Give me grace to bear my child's affliction with patience and strength. Bless me, O Father, and restore my child to health. Do not forsake us, but give us an assurance of Your loving Kingdom. Bless this illness to me and my child Timothy, and help us both to be better children of Yours because of it. In the name of Your Holy Son Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Marking the cross along his own chest, Patrick then begins the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory for ever and ever. Amen.”

For a long time, both remain vigilant around the young boy. Patrick combs his fingers through Timothy's hair and continues to make his silent pleas to God to spare his son's life, while Sister Evangelina sends another prayer, one that will keep this family together.

Just as the sun peeks through the bleary clouds in the window, Sister Evangelina finishes her prayers and begins to stand. “Shelagh was with us for the night. She will come and join you shortly.”

“She saved him by bringing him here.”

“She is your light during these dark times. I pray that you will not extinguish her out.” She places her hand on his shoulder, “We will continue to pray for young Timothy. If you need anything, let us know.”

He gives her a meek smile, “Thank you, Sister, for everything.”

..::..::..

Shuffling in through the front door, both Patrick and Shelagh divests their hats and coats in stark silence. As Patrick begins his assent up the first couple of stairs, Shelagh softly calls out to him, “I'll bring some tea and biscuits up to you in your room.”

“Bring enough for both of us,” he throws over his shoulder before finishing his trek.

Simply nodding to his ridged back, she marches into the kitchen and places the kettle on the stovetop. Readying the tea cups and the small bowl of biscuits on a tray, when the kettle whistles, she allows the tea to steep for a few minutes before making her way up the stairs.

Softly knocking on the door, she peeks her head in through to see that Patrick has already thrown his shoes and jumper on the floor and is sitting on his bed with his head heavily held in his hands.

Teetering in the entrance, unsure of where her place should be, he calls out and makes the decision for her, “Come in, my darling girl.” Pushing his shoulders up, he gives her a sad-sort-of smile and holds out his bereft hand, “I need you now, more than ever.”

Placing the tray on the bedside table, she takes his hand into both of hers as she sits on the edge of his bed next to him. “He will be okay, Patrick. He is resilient and strong and brave and...,” she takes a deep breath to help keep her tears, that have been threatening to fall since returning to the hospital, at bay, “and he will pull through this. We all will.” Turning his palm up, she leans down and kisses their sacred spot.

A spark of hope shoots through his heart as the press of her lips heats the heel of his hand. “He is alive and awake and, for that, I am extremely thankful. There is a long road of recovery ahead of him and…,” my sweet boy, why didn't I see it sooner, “and…”

“And we will be there to help and guide him,” she softly finishes for him. She squeezes his trembling hand in solidarity, “He is not alone and neither are you. We will do this as a family.”

Rubbing his tired, red-rimmed eyes with the pads of his fingers, his sight becomes bleary as he murmurs, “What would I have done without you?”

“Come along,” she pats his knuckles before standing, “you need to rest for a bit.”

Not giving in just yet, he beseeches, “Not without you. I want to hold you.” Sensing her hesitancy, he gently explains, “I almost lost you to TB at the end of summer and I almost lost Timothy four months later. I need to know that you are alive; that I will feel your heart beat against your chest, that I will hear you softly breath in my ear, that I will see you when I wake from my inevitable nightmare.”

Reaching out to caress his cheek, she sweetly murmurs, “Lay down my love.” Stepping over to the other side of the bed, she snags a thick quilt from the arm chair in the corner and then toes off her shoes. As they both snuggle underneath the covers, she wraps her arm around his waist and whispers into his chest, “I love you.”

..::..::..

The light from the sun's morning hue shines in through the window streaking across Shelagh's peaceful features, slowly stirring her from her slumber. Feeling the early morning chill brush along her cheek, she snuggles deeper under the covers and closer to the warm body next to her. Languorously opening her eyes, she is surprised to see that Patrick is wide awake. “How long have you been up?”

His hand begins to lazily trail up and down her arm when he answers, “Not too long ago.” He lightly draws kisses along the top of her head as she nestles in so close to his body that at the moment he doesn't know where his body ends and hers begins. “Thank you for staying with me last night.”

The memory of his nightmares waking her during the night seeps through her mind and coaxes her from the warmth radiating from his chest. “I love you.”

Her tender words, though he has heard it numerous times, flutters through his chest and instills a calmness in his heart that has been trembling since receiving the phone call that Timothy was in the hospital. “I love you too.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, “Once Timothy is healthy enough to leave the hospital, we are driving to the church and having Reverend Clarke marry us,” his lips murmurs against her forehead.

Slightly lifting her chin so that their lips easily brush against each other's, she smiles, “I would love that very much.” Closing the distance between their lips, she curls her fingers into the collar of his shirt as his arms slides around his waist. After a few heated moments, Shelagh straightens out her palms and leans out of their embrace, “As much as I want to stay in this warm bed with you all morning long, we both have to clean up and eat breakfast.”

“You have the whole morning planned out, eh?” Not ready to give her up just yet, he nuzzles against her neck and murmurs, “Well I say we stay warm under the covers and snog like a pair of rowdy teenagers.” His tongue dances along her salty skin, exciting him to no end at the delicious moans coming from her throat. “Then, to help make up the time from our cuddle and to save some water, we can bathe together.” Knowing that she is just as dizzy with desire as he is by the erratic beat of her pulse under his lips, he can't help but press his hips into hers to help relieve some of the pressure. “By the time we are finished, visiting hours will start at the hospital.”

“You've thought of everything,” her words come out breathless and husky.

“The best part about my plan,” his lips travel down a small patch of oh-so-delectable skin peeking out from her opened blouse, “is that I'm not on-call. No one will be bothering us–”

The ring of the doorbell disrupts whatever else he was going to say.

Growling in contempt at the idea of leaving his nice cozy bed and the beautiful woman perched in his arms to answer the door, the sound of Shelagh giggling nearly has him forgetting of the interruption to begin with. Rolling his eyes, he hopes that whoever is there goes away, yet at the sound of the door opening, he knows that he will have no such luck.

Jumping out of bed, Shelagh quickly slips on her shoes and tries her best to relinquish back the loose stands of hair.

Groaning at the rush of cool air slamming into his body, Patrick throws off the covers and makes his way to the hallway. “You stay up here until I know who has come in.” It isn't until he steps down the first few stairs does he greet the intruders; two bundled up nuns carrying wrapped baking dishes. “Sisters? Is there anything wrong?”

Sister Julienne smiles kindly, “No, nothing is wrong. We wanted to bring both you and Shelagh a few dinners that were entrusted to us to give to you.” At his confusion at the generosity, she adds, “People have heard what has happened to your son and wanted to help out.”

Finishing his trek down the stairs, he holds out his hands to take the dish from Sister Monica Joan, “Thank you. This is much appreciated.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Sister Monica Joan brightens and calls out, “Hark, the hyacinth, which has taken all year to sow, is starting to break through the bleakness of its soil. When they bloom, it will be with the brightest colors upon its cheek ever to be cast from God’s own creation.”

Sister Monica Joan throws her now free hands out as her cherub cheeks glow in the warmth of the house. “Though she has yet to be plucked by his caring hands, the morning sun still shines upon the new dew covered petals. Praise to the high and mighty, for she has returned to the garden that is most familiar to her.”

Turning to see what has captured the older nuns rapturous attention, Patrick warmly smiles when the blushing sight of Shelagh greets him from the top of the stairs. Hearing a surprised intake coming from one of the nuns – I would place my money on Sister Julienne – he turns back to them and quickly explains, “I had just gone up to wake Shelagh when I heard you coming in through the door.” Quickly and quietly praying that the blanket and pillow are still lying on the sofa in the parlor, he gives them small smile, “Please come in and sit down.”

Racing down the stairs, she pulls the baking dish from Sister Julienne's hands and settles next to Patrick, “We can take these into the kitchen.”

Sister Julienne places her palm on her younger sister and quietly murmurs, “Shelagh, we have received some disturbing news and I’m afraid that it also involves you.”

Pulling the dish from her slack hands, Patrick steps back to allow the room for the ladies to walk through to the parlor, “Please take a seat in our parlor. I will give you some time to yourselves.”

“You have no need to make yourself scarce,” Shelagh throws overs her shoulder as she leads her sisters towards the sofa. Letting the older ladies sit first, she settles on the arm of Patrick’s chair, “What news have you received, Sister.”

“Upon our arrival at Nonnatus House, we were told that the explosion of the bomb has greatly compromised the foundation and that they will be condemning it.”

“A new dawn has been cast upon our bellow with a great shadow. For Jupiter has taken the place next to Mars and now uncertainty hangs in our future.” Sister Monica Joan looks to Shelagh with a lone tear falling down her cheek. “Yet, with deep sadness comes unyielding happiness at the return of our beloved sister, whose song fills our hearts.”

As her fingers cover her mouth in shock, Shelagh tries to imagine a world without Nonnatus House. “But what will happen to you, to the nurses? Surely the city can find suitable housing so the we can continue to help the people of Poplar.”

“The city is finding housing for the nurses as we speak. I have asked,” Sister Julienne looks up to Doctor Turner as he walks in with a tray of tea, “that they be housed next to the maternity home.”

“They can be housed in the maternity home,” Patrick announces as he pours the tea. “When it was renovated, they carved out a flat for the head physician and his family. Since we live here, it’s remained empty.”

Sister Julienne smiles as she accepts the saucer, “Thank you for your kind generosity, both with allowing the nurses to stay at the maternity home and for the tea.” She takes a sip, “I shall inform them right away of their new lodgings.”

Just as Patrick pushes over the pillow and blanket to sits next to her, Shelagh quickly asks, “And where will you and Sister Monica Joan and Sister Evangelina be staying? Surely you cannot stay at the Mother House, it’s too far from Poplar.”

“We are being housed at Saint Joseph’s thanks to Father Jesup.” Taking another sip, Sister Julienne is just about to continue on when Sister Monica Joan interrupts.

“Why is it you are out of habit, Sister?” Her eyes volley between Shelagh and Patrick and, after a heavy second, she frowns. “Are you not coming back to grace us with the gift of song, dear child?”

Before Sister Julienne can answer, Shelagh replies, “No, Sister, I will be marrying Doctor Turner.”

Sister Monica Joan looks to the man sitting next to her young sister and frowns as recognition dawns in her blue eyes, “The same man who spoke in front of a court of law citing my feeble mind?”

Again, Shelagh speaks before Sister Julienne can quiet the older nun, “Yes, he is the same man, yet he is very sorry he had to do that.” Looking to Patrick, Shelagh lifts her brow and silently encourages him to apologize himself.

Taking the hint, Patrick clears his throat and says, “Yes, very sorry indeed.” He leans forward with his empty teacup balancing on his knee, “Please, Sister Monica Joan, I hope you can forgive me.”

“It is with my understanding that people usually ask for forgiveness when they know they will not be able to receive what they want,” Sister Monica Joan replies with an air of defiance. “What can this man give you, other than flesh of his body, that we cannot provide for you. We are your sisters and your voice lifts us higher to God.”

“Sister Monica Joan,” Sister Julienne finally interjects.

Yet, Shelagh once again interrupts, “We love each other very much and the love between a man and a woman is just as holy and sacred as the vows I took when I joined the order.”

Both women stare at each other for a long time, until Sister Monica Joan taps Sister Julienne’s knee and whispers, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

Within the small silence, Patrick looks to Sister Monica Joan and quietly exclaims, “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt the sun doth move; Doubt truth be a liar: but never doubt I love her.”

Giving him a small smile of approval, she murmurs back, “Doubt will never be cast from me again.” Taking a sip from her tea as if she is talking about the weather, she asks, “And the health of your young boy?”

“He is out of the oxygen machine, yet he is still unable to move his legs,” Patrick informs them.

“And we shall continue to pray for a speedy recovery,” Sister Julienne gently tells them both. “My dear Shelagh, I must also inform you that the area around Nonnatus House is being condemned as well; which includes your lodgings.”

Glancing down at Patrick for a moment, Shelagh looks back up to Sister Julienne and asks, “Has anyone told Mrs. B?”

“We called her. She is going to stay at her sister’s home for the time being.”

“And her possessions?”

“Will be packed away until she receives her new lodgings.”

“I will pack it away for her,” Shelagh places her teacup back onto the tray. “It’s the least I could do. She took me in and kept me as a renter despite the cruel gossip that surround me,” her hand slips down and into Patrick’s, “that surrounded us.”

Sister Julienne folds her hands in her lap, “I’ve talked with Father Jesup and he has offered a room for you as well.”

“Thank you,” Shelagh smiles down to Patrick as he squeezes her hand, “however, I will lodge at the maternity home until we wed.”

Bowing her head, Sister Julienne agrees, “Very well. I will telephone Mrs. B to let her know that you will be helping her on this end.” As the silence that settles between the nuns and the lovers turns into an awkward stance, Sister Julienne stands and smiles, “If you excuse us, we have to make our way to–”

“Please come to our wedding,” Shelagh stands and blurts out.

Everyone taken aback at first, including Shelagh herself, it is Sister Monica Joan who answers back, “Sleet, nor snow, nor rain or Hitler’s bombs could keep us from attending a momentous occasion.” Standing herself she gives the couple in front of her a bright smile, “God will shine down on you both that day for he shall witness the bonding of two people becoming one.” Following the same steps she took to come into the house, Sister Julienne offers a kind smile before trailing behind her older sister.

Stopping at the door to gather their scarves, both Shelagh and Patrick come up behind them. “Please let me know if there is anything you need help with. I will not…,” she falters as all of her emotions from the last few days catches up to her, “I will not run away from you or the other sister for as long as you will have me.”

Grasping the young woman’s hands, Sister Julienne murmurs, “My dear, Shelagh, you coming back into our lives is the sweetest blessing we have ever received. Just because our physical doors have closed does not mean our hearts have.”

Throwing her arms around the older woman in a tight hug, Shelagh whispers, “I’m very luck to have you,” she leans back and reaches out to Sister Monica Joan, “all of you in my life.”

Wiping Shelagh’s tears from her cheek, Sister Monica Joan exclaims, “Happiness is only real, when shared.”

Stepping out of their embrace, Sister Julienne looks to Patrick, “We will continue to keep Master Turner in our prayers as well as the both of you.” Opening the door, she bows her head, “Good day.”

Shelagh holds onto Patrick’s waist and waves as they walk out onto the busy street. Closing the door, she turns and crashes into his chest. “I’m sorry for changing everything around. It’s no wonder you still wish to marry me.”

He kisses the crown of her head, “I would marry you in a bunker if it meant the world to you.” He lifts her chin with the crook of his finger and gently kisses her lips, “However, I’m glad that you have reconciled and invited them. More than one broken heart was mended today.” He deepens the kiss as their bodies cling to each other as if they are each other’s life rafts. “I suppose,” murmurs against her cheek, “we can have our proper lie in on a different morning. Let’s eat our breakfast. Visiting hours will be opening up soon.”

Chapter Text

Dream a Little Dream – Doris Day

“Okay, so this is our third night together, the first without Constable Noakes here to blush from my questions.” Trixie settles down next to Shelagh onto the makeshift sofa turned bed with a cigarette in one hand and a baby sham in the other. “We are all dying to know how Doctor Turner – of all people – was able to convince you – a devoted nun of ten years – that life outside the order was more worthwhile than life in the order.”

“Trixie!” Cynthia exclaims from her perch on the chair.

“I don’t want to hear it, Cynthia,” Trixie waves her hand through the air. “We are happy for you, don’t get us wrong, and we would never gossip about you. We are just curious.”

“It is rather romantic,” Chummy dreamily supplies.

“And the way that he looks at you every time that he sees you,” Jenny adds, “you can tell that he loves you very much.”

“You can’t keep your history a secret forever,” Trixie salivates with the anxious puff of her cigarette, “tell us how you two fell madly in love.”

Shelagh blushes a deep red as the young women congregate around her with their tongues wagging. “It wasn’t anything as grandiose as what you are imagining.”

“Oh, do put us out of our misery and tell us, old girl,” Chummy beseeches with a charming smile.

Shelagh bites down onto her bottom lip, “If you promise not to tell…”

All four women eagerly cross their hearts in sync with each other, while Chummy supplies, “Or the man upstairs may strike us down.”

“Honestly, I can’t tell you when I began to notice him, but I do remember when it changed. It was after Christmas and I was working a shift here, in the maternity home. Both he and Timothy bought a present for me, a Sam Cooke record, and while it was playing, he spun me around in his arms.”

Trixie holds up a finger, “Hold on,” she stands and runs to her record collection. Pulling out the familiar record, she tips it out and places it on the turntable. “This Sam Cooke record,” she asks as the familiar song begins to fill the apartment.

“The very same,” Shelagh closes her eyes as the soft music fills her heart once again. “Ever since then, we shared conversations mostly about ourselves until the fête. That is where he kissed me,” with the sound of all the women gasping, she reassures them with the show of her scar, “on my palm. After that, he had kissed me on my knuckles.” Tracing her fingers around her hand, she falls silent at what follows next in the story.

“Not too long after, you were diagnosed with TB,” Cynthia quietly fills in.

“I felt as if I was being punished for having these feeling and for acting on them,” she quivers. “I wasn’t sure of my place in the world like I had been before.”

“The guilt you felt must have been awful at the beginning,” Jenny soothes knowingly.

“At that time, it consumed me night and day. Sometimes it still rears its ugly head from time-to-time, but now I don’t heed much to it.” Shelagh takes a deep breath before bravely looking up at the women around her, “It wasn’t until I faced my own mortality, that I didn’t want to live a life without him in it.”

“That is when you called him at the surgery to come get you,” Chummy fills in. At everyone’s perplexed look, she explains, “I had walked in on his conversation with you. He wanted to go to you, but Dolly had started going into labor.”

“We found each other,” Shelagh lazily smiles as she thinks about their fateful meeting on that foggy road. “A few days later, he asked me to marry him and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“And you’ll be married soon,” Trixie flicks her eyes to the pink box on the dining room table, “in that horrible dress.” At Shelagh’s confusion, Trixie innocently explains with her wide, doe eyes, “I couldn’t help but to take a peek when you were with your dashing Doctor Turner.”

Jenny guiltily bites her bottom lip, “We all did,” she confesses.

Chummy places a comforting hand over Shelagh’s knee, “If you remember properly, I didn’t wear white either.”

“You brave girl,” Trixie calls at the same time Shelagh stutters, “We have not…,” blushing too much to finish her sentence. Glancing at each other, Shelagh nervously clarifies, “My vows to God ten years ago kept me from buying a white wedding dress. We have not… we didn’t…”

“Have intimate relations,” Trixie brazenly finishes. She turns to Chummy and cheekily calls out to her, “As always, you’re still the only non-virgin in the room.”

“I should hope so,” she replies back over the breaking of a baby’s cry, “otherwise who’s young sir would that be if we were all virgins.” Standing up, she marches into the room to collect the baby in need of a good snuggle and a sip from mother’s milk. As she comes back in the room, she airily says, “I am glad we were able to get that part over with before our wedding.”

“Why do you say that,” Jenny can’t help but ask.

“It wasn’t the act itself that was awkward, rather than seeing each other naked. We both fumbled about like two beached fish flopping about on the dry sand. If it wasn’t so serious, I would have laughed.” After Freddy latched on, Chummy sighs, “It was Peter’s first time as well, so we had to go about it like two foxhounds charging into woods; tally ho!”

Her antidote had all the other women bent over in stitches laughing so hard. It was Trixie who was the first to come up for air by way of many gasps to catch her breath, “You can’t be serious.”

“Very much so, I’m afraid,” stealing a glance towards the closed door, she nervously murmurs, “please, mums the word on our whole conversation. Peter would turn as red as the sofa here if he found out that I told that story.”

All four women cross their hearts in unison as Shelagh promises, “Or the man upstairs may strike us down.” Dissolving into a fit of giggles, none of the women were able to come up for air until the telephone rang for midwife services.

..::..::..

“I’m sorry that your wedding had to be postponed.” Timothy keeps his eyes set in his comic book, feeling slightly ashamed for all that has happened since Christmas Eve.

Shelagh brushes her fingers through his hair and smiles, “That’s nonsense and I don’t want to hear anymore of it. Besides, Reverend Clarke told us that the moment you are able to be discharged, he will marry us.”

“But what about the ceremony?”

“We just want you to get better and then we’ll worry about everything else.” She kisses his forehead before leaning back into her chair.

Staring at the same picture of Superman without being able to take in any of the words, he tells her, “They fitted me for those leg braces.”

Furrowing her brow in confusion, she wonders if that’s why he has been in a sour mood today. “The Doctor said that with time in the braces and therapy, you’ll gain back the full use of your legs in a year, maybe nine months.”

“Is that why you don’t want to have the wedding,” he holds his breath, “because I have to wear those stupid braces?”

“Timothy Turner, don’t you ever say something like that ever again,” she exclaims. Glancing around to see that most people in the ward are staring at them, she leans forward and softens her voice, “We don’t want a ceremony for the simple fact that your father and I just want to be married as soon as possible. It has nothing to do with your braces.”

“But I want you two to have a wedding and for dad and I to wear a tux and for you to wear a pretty wedding dress and for people to be there to see how happy you are.”

Fiercely kissing him on his forehead, she gently murmurs against his skin, “I don’t need those things in order to be happy. I’m happy with the two people I love the most.”

Love. The word, so simple, so easy to say, so easy to spell, pitches and turns in his mind like the stormy sea. “You love me?”

“You are going to be my son when I marry your dad.” Her voice cracks with emotions. “I will love you just as much as your father until the day I die.”

Unable to respond back with his throat trembling with emotions, he wraps his arms around her neck and gives her a tight hug.

..::..::..

“Well hello there Timothy Turner.” Nurse Franklin steps through the ward towards the young boy’s bed with a bright smile adorning her face. “Both your father and Shelagh send their love, but will be unable to visit today.”

“Mum told me yesterday that she will be packing Mrs. B apartment and that dad has clinic at the maternity home.”

Eyes widening at his use of a specific word in relation to Shelagh, she sits in the chair next to him and goes on, “I had to come here to cover for the ear, nose and throat ward today and I thought I would come visit you at the end of my shift. Shelagh was rather sad that she wouldn’t be able to come see you.”

An idea, popping up so suddenly, churns over and over in his mind. Twisting his fingers in his blanket, Timothy nervously asks, “May I ask you something Nurse Franklin?”

“Of course,” she exclaims, “just as long as it has nothing to do with me breaking any laws.”

“I was wondering if you and the other nurses can help my mum and dad have a wedding ceremony.” His words rush out in a single breath, yet, at the sight of her falling features, he quickly adds, “Only, I made them miss their ceremony to begin with. I am willing to pay for all of the expenses; first with the money in my savings bucket and then with any extra work that is needed either at Nonnatus House or the maternity home or the surgery center.”

“But you were sick with Polio. It’s not your fault that they had to postpone their wedding.” Yet, she acquiesces with the nod of her head to the side, “However, I have seen Shelagh’s wedding dress and I dare say she can do better.”

“I’ve been thinking, you know being locked in here with nothing better to do, and I figure that it won’t cost too much money. Reverend Clarke is good friends with dad from the war and I’m sure he’ll be able to perform the ceremony at church with little to no charge.”

“Really?” Nurse Franklin can’t help but question.

“Apparently my father saved his life during a battle, but dad doesn’t really talk about the war.”

Thoughts of her own father filters through her mind at the mention of war and battles and it endears the young boy to her even more. Lifting her chin and putting on a brave face, Trixie pats Timothy’s hand, “Keep telling me about your plan.”

A bright smile, something he hasn’t felt in a long time, spreads across his aching cheeks as his heart begins to gallop at a faster rate. “Well, with the church and service taken care of, I figure all that is left is the flowers and mum’s wedding dress. I want her to have something that will make her feel beautiful.”

“Why don’t you let us take care of the dress and I shall talk to Sister Julienne to see if she can take on the flowers.” Squeezing his hand, she brightly cheers, “You leave everything up to us.”

“Thank you Nurse Franklin. I plan on paying you and the everyone else back once I am out of the hospital.”

She swipes her hand through the air, “You can keep your money, however, I’m sure your father would enjoy the help either at the surgery center or at the maternity home.” Before taking her leave, Trixie softly says, “I think it’s kind that you are calling Shelagh your mum.”

“She says that she loves me just as much as she loves my dad and she loves my dad a lot,” Timothy blushes as he keenly stares down at his forgotten comic book.

“Well, we shall take care of everything for you and your mum and dad,” she pats the young boy on the shoulder before standing. “And mums the word,” she taps the side of her nose before turning and making her way out of the ward.

..::..::..

“Grandmother!” Timothy’s eyes light up when he see Camilla walking towards his bed.

“My, I must say, you are in better spirits today than when I last saw you a few days ago.” She sits down in the chair next to the bed and places his basket of goodies on the table. “Now, being the best grandmother ever, I have brought enough replenishments to keep you occupied until the doctors feel fit to release you.”

“I have some good news!” Timothy can literally feel his toes wiggle with excitement which fills him with more joy. “I have talked with one of the nurses that works with dad at Nonnatus House. They have agreed to help me with setting up mum and dad’s wedding.”

Confusion knits along her brow, “Slow down, my dear boy and start over again.”

Timothy playfully rolls his eyes – a trait Camilla knows he had perfected from Patrick – and starts again. “I was feeling really down for ruining their wedding and—”

“Timothy, my dearest, you were diagnosed with polio. That’s not ruining their wedding, that’s them being parents too worried over you to care about other things.”

“Okay, “ he shakes his head, “anyways, I had talked with Nurse Franklin and she agreed to help me prepare an actual wedding for dad and mum. The nurses are going to help with the dress and the nuns are going to help with the flowers.”

“That is rather kind of them,” Camilla smiles at the thought that Shelagh has finally made peace with her former sisters. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

He scrunches his nose in his own brand of boyish confusion. “I’m not sure.”

“How about I take care of their honeymoon?” She rolls her eyes as she adds under her breath, “Your father has a hard concept of what is romantic when it comes to honeymoons.”

“What is a honeymoon?” His brow furrows further, “Does it have anything to do with mushy stuff that adults do when they think kids aren’t looking?”

“A honeymoon is where a man and his new bride go to spend their first night together as a married couple.” She captures the laughter desperately wanting to escape at the look of his curious face trying to understand what her words entirely mean. “Mushy stuff, my dear boy, mushy stuff.”

“Gross!” He makes a disgusted face. “You might as well take over that bit. I’m not sure if the nuns would be much help with that part.”

“Right you are, dearest,” she leans in and kisses his forehead.

“So…,” he lifts his brow in mischief, “what did you bring in the basket?”

“I was able to to smuggle in comic books galore with,” she leans in so that the nurse can’t hear her, “a few pieces of chocolate to help with the hospital food.”

..::..::..

“Sister Julienne, I presume?” Camilla walks up to the two nuns in full habits.

Sister Julienne turns to the sound of her name with a smile, despite all of the stress on her shoulders with both the move and demolition of their home. “I’m Sister Julienne.”

Camilla holds out her hand to shake, “My name is Camilla Parker. I’m Timothy’s grandmother and Patrick’s mother-in-law.” To her, it sounds as if she is listing her credentials instead of introducing herself. Yet, I had come here for one purpose and one purpose only.

“Oh, it is very nice to meet you,” she flicks her free hand to her side, “this is Sister Evangelina.”

The name sparks a memory within Camilla’s mind, “The one who had delivered Timothy?”

Sister Evangelina gently smiles, “How do you do?”

“I’ll be tickety boo once my grandson is healed. Although, I do have to say, he is in rather high spirits since I saw him a few days ago.” She takes a deep breath, “That is why I am here actually, instead of at the church I normally attend. Timothy had told me of his plans for Patrick and Shelagh’s wedding.”

“His is rather adamant,” Sister Evangelina interjects. “He somehow slipped out of his bed and into an office just to call us to see if we had any difficulty with the flower arrangements.”

“I’d like to think that he inherited that spunk from me,” Camilla grins proudly. “Now, I have already taken care of the honeymoon arrangements. I came here to offer my support for anything that is needed last minute. I know through my talks with Shelagh,” her smile turns more sympathetic, “that you are under tremendous stress with finding a new home.”

“Your generosity is far too kind,” Sister Julienne kindly smiles. “The flowers have been taken care of through a family that both Doctor Turner and Shelagh has worked closely with. It is my understanding that the nurses have a dress that – according Nurse Franklin – will look positively splendid on Shelagh.”

Camilla smiles radiantly. “Patrick and Shelagh are lucky to have you and the other nurses in their lives.” She pulls a card from her purse and hands it over. “If you should need anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate to call me.” She clasps her hands together, “I have also made a donation to your Mother House to help go towards your new home, when you been placed.”

Truly stunned, Sister Julienne sputters, “Why th-thank you. We—”

Camilla swipes her hand through the air, “May the Lord continue to bless you and the people you help.” With one more smile, she turns and makes her way out of the church.

..::..::..

“It was rather nice of the Johnson’s to donate most of the flowers for the wedding,” Chummy chimes as she finishes the last touch of lace on the wedding dress. “I say, this is the prettiest dress my trusty Singer has altered in a long while. The last being my maternity uniform, which was dreadfully awful.”

“She deserves something beautiful and we got a fantastic deal on it on account that the original bride is now one of our patients.” Placing the small plates on the table, Trixie adds, “It was rather easy to keep Shelagh out of the flat so that you could finish the alterations,” she smothers out the table linen. “Once a nurse, always a nurse, even if it is something as common as wrapping bandages and cleaning bedpans.”

“Not to mention, she is rather fantastic with young sir,” Chummy cuts the thread and stands to look at her handiwork. “Takes him to the park to play and such.”

“I say, she’ll be a great mum,” Cynthia calls out as she places the cake onto the table.

“Timothy Turner thinks that she’s the best,” Trixie supplies. Checking her list, she adds, “So the flowers are taken care of, her dress looks perfect, Timothy Turner has assured me that their suits are top notch, and Reverend Clarke assured Sister Julienne that whichever date they choose that he will endeavor to accommodate them. Oh,” she looks at the others with her eyes twinkling in mirth, “Timothy’s grandmother has arranged the honeymoon. He told me that they will be staying a whole weekend at Brighton Beach.”

Looking back from the window, Jenny calls out, “Quickly Chummy, cover the dress, she’s coming up the road.”

Everyone takes their place just as the front door opens. “Surprise!” and “Congratulations!” rings out in the apartment as Shelagh walks through the door.

Nearly dropping her purse, Shelagh shyly calls out, “Oh my goodness, what is all this about?”

Throwing the last little bit of confetti, Trixie calls out, “You’re getting married and we happened to notice that you haven’t had a bridal shower.”

Covering her lips with the tips of her fingers, sheer shock and pure amazement rushes through her system as she takes in the state of their living quarters. “I, uhh, goodness me, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have a drink,” Trixie cheerfully supplies and she passes a small glass of Babycham her way.

“Come along now Shelagh,” Jenny invites her to sit at the head of the table as Cynthia brings her a plate of food.

“This is much too kind,” Shelagh gives them a watery smile, “You really shouldn’t have.”

“You invited us to the wedding and you’ve been a tremendous help to us at the maternity home,” Cynthia explains.

“Not to mention with keeping young sir preoccupied while Peter and I spruce up our new home,” Chummy adds with a hint of a glance over at young Freddy sleeping away in his cot.

“I don’t know what else to say other than thank you,” Shelagh looks at all of the young women around her. “You’re support, generosity, and friendship has meant the world to me these past few weeks.”

“Cheers to Shelagh! Many happy days for both you and Doctor Turner!” All of the women hold up the glasses and clink to the good tidings.

Affording herself a small sip, Shelagh is pleasantly surprised as the fruity bubbles dance on her tongue. Taking another sip and then another, she finds it absolutely delicious.

Giggling into the rim of her glass, Trixie calls out, “Shelagh meet Babycham. Babycham meet Shelagh.”

“It has been a long while since I had partaken in alcohol other than sherry and bits of wine.”

“And,” Jenny coyly asks with a sneaky grin.

“I find it to be,” taking a moment to think of her words, she finishes, “quite suitable.”

“Well, before we have to peel you off the rafters, there are somethings that we would like to give you,” lifting the small box from underneath her chair, Chummy slides the parcel towards Shelagh.

Giving them a big smile, she gingerly opens the box to find a picture frame. Turning it over, the sight of her new family nearly overwhelms her to tears.

“The photographer, rather a young and adventurous spirit, decided to take a few candid shots after the baptism,” Chummy quietly supplies.

In striking black and white, is Shelagh leaning against Patrick’s shoulder while she looks down at Timothy on her other side with the brightest smile. “I reckon that this is our first family photo.”

“But not your last,” Cynthia supplies.

Taking a peek at the photo, Trixie adds, “I haven’t seen Doctor Turner this happy since before his wife died.”

“He makes me very happy,” she murmurs under her breath. “It just took me a little over a year to figure it out.”

“Now before we get all weepy eyed,” Trixie motions for her fellow nurses to stand, “there is one more surprise.” All four women grab ahold of the sheet and pull it away to reveal a wedding dress.

Tears prick her eyes as she stares at the beautiful gown in front of her. “I… I don’t know what to say.” She takes a handkerchief from her sleeve and wipes away the tears that have already glided down her cheek.

“We have everything planned out.” Trixie softly murmurs. “Sister Julienne has talked to Reverend Clarke about setting a day and time the moment we know when Master Turner has been released from the hospital.”

“Sister Evangelina talked with the Johnson’s who own that small floral shop next to the market.” Cynthia gently rubs Shelagh’s back. “They have graciously agreed to donate a lot of the flowers.”

“A patient of ours, Sally Reed, recently found out that she was pregnant six months before her wedding,” Jenny gives a sneaky smile before she adds, “with twins. She donated it when she overheard us talking about your gray dress.”

“This,” her fingers nervously reaches out to touch the dress of her dreams, “and everything you have done is a little overwhelming. I had always imagined that most people would have found my decision to leave the order and to marry a man, a well known man in the community to boot, as distasteful.” She turns to the women who she has gotten to know over the course of a few months and gives them a watery smile. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

“We would all like to take credit, however, it was young Timothy Turner’s master plan from the beginning.” Topping off everyone’s drinks, Trixie raises her glass, “To Shelagh, may she find every bit of happiness that she deserves.”

The others clink glasses, “To happiness!”

Taking a sip, and then another, and then another, Shelagh licks her lips, “I must confess that when I overheard you on my way back to my room, I had always wanted to join you, but couldn’t.”

Throwing the empty bottle in the garbage, Trixie opens another to pour more Babycham in both her own and Shelagh’s. “Well, you will have to get used to us now. We have charged ourselves with your wedding.” Trixie brims with excitement. “I will be doing your makeup and flower arrangements.”

“And I’ll be doing your hair!” Jenny calls out.

“I’ll be doing your nails,” Cynthia blushes.

Reaching out with her free hand, Chummy says, “I will have your dress finished soon. We will need to have a dress fitting of course.”

“But until then,” Trixie interjects, “We will drink our fancy drinks, play our music as loud as we want, and gossip our heads off!”

Walking back to the sofa, the women relax to the music while sipping their cocktails.

..::..::..

“Shelagh?” Fully opening the door to the sight of his soon-to-be-wife lazily leaning against the edge, he captures her elbow to help her make her way in. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she supplies as she trips over her own clumsy feet. “The nurses threw me a surprise bridal shower.”

“That was–” whatever he was about to say is interrupted when Shelagh twirls around and crashes her lips onto his. Tasting the sweet alcohol on her tongue, Patrick pulls back slightly and murmurs, “Have you been drinking?”

“It’s called Babycham,” she slurs a bit as her arms snake around his shoulders. “It’s quite delicious.”

“I think you might be a little drunk.” Patrick punctuates his gentle statement with an equally gentle kiss on the tip of her nose.

Petulantly scrunching her face as if she is a child not getting her way, she shakes her head. “No. I just came here to tell you that we have a wedding once again.” Falling back until her bum hits the edge of the small telephone desk, she gives him a bossy nod of her head with the purse of her lips.

Furrowing his brow all the while trying his very best to not laugh out loud at the sight of her pouty mouth, he quips, “Timothy had told me tonight when I had said that you were with the other nurses.” As her strong brow melts into a confused one, he elaborates, “I was told by a certain nurse that I had to make myself scarce tonight so that you weren’t tempted to come over.”

“Patrick,” her eyes suddenly lighting up with excitement, “I am so happy!”

He steps closer and places his hand on her hip, “I’m glad that you are happy, my dear, however, I’m more excited that I got to see you tonight when I thought I wasn’t going to be able to.” He leans in and lightly kisses her lips, “Please tell me that we have enough time for a quick snog before you have to go back.”

Trying to stand back up to shorten the distance of their heights, she clumsily falls back down on the table and instead ticks her finger side to side, “Oh, no. You’re not going to entice me with your devilish ways, Patrick Turner, doctor, M.D., PhD, GP, and all the other damn letters behind your name.”

Catching his laugh with an undignified snort, he asks, “You didn’t say that last night or the night before when we had snogged like two teenagers on the sofa.”

“Well,” she starts out as primly as possible through bated breath, “that was last night. That was before I was given a white dress for our wedding.” She gives him a crooked smile, “I am once again virginal.”

“And, please, regale me on how you were un-virginal to begin with,” Patrick’s asks with the quirk of his brow.

“Whenever we snog, I become possessed by the pleasures of your flesh.” She leans forward and catches herself on the tip of his shoulder with her palm, narrowly misjudging the distance. “Many times I have thought about giving into such pleasures,” she flutters her eyes closed and sighs, “especially when you touch my breast.”

Mesmerized by her angelic face along side her devilish talk, he keeps his lips sealed shut, afraid of saying something that he would later regret.

She then snaps her eyes open and confidently says, “I should repent for thinking of such sins, but I have found that I like being naughty with you.”

“Bloody hell,” he moans under his breath. He pulls her arm from his shoulder and places it back in her lap with a forceful pat on her knuckles. “I think you need some strong coffee and a lie down. Tomorrow, you will be feeling as if the apocalypse from Revelation is raging in your head.”

She squints her eyes as if she is pondering a great thought, “I find it very sexy when you speak about the Bible.”

Not being able to contain his laughter anymore, he quips back, “I find it sexy that you used the word ‘sexy’. Such language coming from you tonight,” he smirks at the exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You are rather bold with a smattering of alcohol in your system.”

Taking a little bit longer to comprehend his words, she holds up her finger and ticks it side to side in front of his face. “You are trying to seduce me and it’s not going to work.”

His eyes darken at her word ‘seduce’. Planting his knuckles on both sides of her hips, he presses himself between her legs and murmurs against the shell of her ear, “My dear, if I was seducing you, I would never use my lips for talking.”

Swallowing past the desire that is choking her, she breathlessly whispers, “Show me.”

“Now who is seducing who?” He kisses the fleshy lobe of her ear.

“Whom,” she automatically fixes as his lips trail down the curve of her neck. “Besides, ohh, I, uhh, I don’t know how to seduce,” she moans.

He coyly smirks as he barely leans out from their heated embrace, “The one who kisses me as if the world is ending. The one who is talking about how she likes it when I touch her breasts as if she is talking about something as dull as the weather. You are a master seductress and the fact that you don’t know drives me completely insane.”

She bites the bottom of her lip. “I sometimes find myself caught up in this moment of… uncontrollable fever. The only thing I can think of is you and your body.” She swallows hard, “Is that wrong of me?”

“My dear, sometimes I think it’s wrong of me not to take advantage.” He takes a small step away from the warmth of her body and hangs his head, “It’s wrong that I should feel that way. I should never–”

She quickly wraps her arms around his neck and crashes her lips onto his.

As she falls back against the table, he steadies himself by slamming his palms against the wall. Losing his will to resist her as her mouth opens to invite his tongue, he threads one arm around her waist.

Their kisses, just as sloppy as they are needy, feeds into a desire they both had been fighting for a long time.

Yet, having a mine devoid of alcohol, Patrick reluctantly pulls away and takes a few steps back for good measure. “Come along, my love.” He holds out his hand purposely avoiding looking at her swollen lips and begging eyes, “You will rest on the sofa as I brew coffee and get some medicine for you.”

Not putting anymore thought into the conversation, Shelagh takes his hand and allows him to escort her to the sofa. Flopping down, she tips off her shoes and curls her feet under her body. She gazes up at him as he places a blanket over her legs and dreamily whispers, “I have found the one whom my soul loves.”

Patrick gives her a half smile, “Song of Solomon.” At her surprised gasp, his half smile turns into a full blown boyish grin, “You see. Proof that at one point in my life, I was a good Catholic.”

She reaches up and palms his dimpled cheek. “You weren’t being very Catholic a few minutes ago, but that’s okay. I prefer you to be a bit naughty.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He captures her wrist and kisses the scar on her palm. “Now rest. I will be back with some coffee and medicine to combat the hangover you will feel tomorrow.” Just as he walks through the door to the kitchen, he hears her murmur a sleepy ‘I love you.’ Leaving her be, it isn’t when he brings her a mug and some aspirin that he discovers her in a deep slumber.

Giving her a kiss on the forehead, he settles himself in the chair next to the sofa with a few case notes that he had been working on before she had knocked on his door.

..::..::..

“I have some great news,” Patrick has to stop himself from running up to his son’s hospital bed for fear of the matron getting onto him.

Both Timothy and Shelagh look up from the comic book with curiosity.

“They will be releasing you a week from tomorrow!” He settles down on the bed as his family clambers around him. “You will be fitted for braces that you will use outside of hospital. You will then have to go through a few days of physical therapy before they can be satisfied with discharging you.”

“I will do my best so that I can be discharged earlier,” he hugs Shelagh fiercely, “nothing is going to stop your wedding this time!”

Chapter Text

Forever and Ever – Perry Como

Patrick Turner

Today is the day.

I am getting married.

Something I never thought I would do again, much less dream or pray for it, but that’s neither her nor there.

Today I am marrying a woman I never thought, in my wildest dreams, that I would even be able to love out loud, let alone share the rest of my life with.

Staring out of my bedroom window – soon to be our bedroom window – it has taken me all night to remember when I first started noticing her.

Blonde hair, a wisp that I should have never seen, and the low hum of a Sam Cooke song.

That lead to a dance, it’s forbiddance only an afterthought, which lead to stolen glances and idle conversations about nothing.

It was her cigarette, that she had tasted, that sealed my love for her. A nun. A woman that I respected just as much as the colleagues she had called her sisters.

Those stolen kisses, that had been selfish on my part, were the memories I was convinced were the only evidence that I was allowed to keep for myself.

The sun, which has been reaching out with its rays of light, is starting to break dawn. If I’m to make it to Mariann and back to help Timothy in time, then I have to get out of bed now. Tomorrow is the day that I will be able to sleep in.

Hmm… how funny. Today is my last day waking up as Patrick Turner, the widower GP. Tomorrow I’ll wake up as Patrick Turner, the luckiest man on Earth.

Shoving on my clothes in record time, I check into Tim’s room to see that he’s still snoring away. Rushing down the stairs, I climb into the car and race over to Mariann.

Timothy had already been able to see her and to talk with her. I took him yesterday and left him to talk with her in peace. By the time I had come back from the corner store with a pack of cigarettes for me and a chocolate bar for him, he was finished and eagerly waiting for his treat.

Now as I put the car in park, I’m glad to see that her resting place is devoid of noisy eyes.

Walking up to her, I feel my nerves getting the better of me. She knows that I love Shelagh and that I’m going to marry her, but today is the last day that I am a widower.

I will never stop loving Mariann and I appreciate that Shelagh knows and understands that. It just makes everything seem so final.

“Today’s the day,” I say to her. The wind briskly rushes around me.

Now, I am a man of science and logic, but there is a small piece of me that believes that her spirit is with me, with Timothy. She’s the wind, and the bright sun now warming the back of neck, and everything around me.

Most would probably call me silly for talking with Mariann, but she is with me. At first, it would make me sad to think that she is still trapped in our world, but then I felt her in the wind and I began to understand from then on that she’s free – free of cancer, free of pain, free of the burdens of our corporal world.

“I’m sure Timothy has told you about everything that has happened. He is… he is our precious boy.” The memories of our last few lucid minutes together as husband and wife runs through my mind. “I broke… I broke my promise to you. I’m sorry.”

The wind tumbles through me, as if she, herself, is running her fingers through my hair. It was something that she used to do when I needed her comfort.

“Shelagh is a wonderful woman. Timothy adores her. We will love her.”

The sun begins to peak out from the early morning clouds, it’s light warming my skin.

“I know.” I smile down at Mariann’s name. When her death was nearing, she had me make several promises to her; keep Timothy safe, make him happy, find someone to love, to shower her with the attention that she had wanted more of. “I didn’t make those certain promises because I didn’t imagine that I would find love again. But I’m making the promise now.”

The sun cools as it’s brightest light shades behind a thin cloud.

“I will do my best to make her happy.” I shove my hands in to my pockets, wrapping my fingers around a cigarette I had forgotten about. “I do hope I had made you happy when you were alive.”

A big gust of wind comes up from behind and twirls around me.

“I will always love you.” I kiss her as the sounds of the morning begins to echo around me.

Returning back to the car, I race back home. Quietly coming in, it isn’t until I have tea made and the bath is halfway filled when Timothy wakes. “Baths first, then breakfast and our suits last.”

“Are you nervous?” He is smirking as I lift him up from his bed.

“Just anxious to see Auntie Shelagh.”

“I’ve decided to call her mum. I started to in the hospital, but I was finally able to talk to mummy about it yesterday.” He smiles so sweetly up to me, just like he used to when he was a toddler and wanting a sweetie. “She told me that she loves me just as much as she loves you.”

He says everything so matter-of-factly, but I am brimming with joy at how well they have gotten close. “We both love you very much.” I set him in the seat next to the tub as it continues to fill with water.

“I know, just as long as I don’t have to see you guys do all that mushy stuff.”

I can’t help but laugh at his pinched face. I lean in and whisper, “We like the mushy stuff,” before splashing him with water.

..::..::..

Trixie Franklin

Today is the day and I can already see perfection coming together; just like chocolate and champagne or Rogers and Hammerstein or Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller.

The bouquets are ready. Shelagh’s dress is getting its last once over by Cynthia. Chummy is finishing up our own dresses. Shelagh is in the bath with a few minutes to spare before Jenny and I attack her with a makeup brush and a curling iron. The church is set to go. The food and cakes are ready to be placed out after the ceremony. And the groom, neigh Doctor Turner, is not a complete hungover mess.

Today is going to be a perfect day for a wedding. It took some work and some patience and maybe a tad bit of prayer, but everything came out in the end.

Beautifully, might I add.

“Cynthia, once you have finish with the dress, I will be putting on your makeup.”

“No panstick, Trixie! It makes me feel as if I have cake on my face.” She tells me this every time I do her makeup. It was just one time, yet, she will never let me live it down.

“Mascara and a beautiful light pink lipstick for you.”

“Trixie, after I get done with Shelagh’s hair, I’ll take out your curlers.” Jenny Lee is finishing her own hair with a good dose of lacquer to hold it all into place.

“Not before your dresses go on,” Chummy yells out over her sewing machine. “I would hate for your – oh, sods and swallop! Trixie, I think I’m going to have to stitch you into this stubborn dress.”

It doesn’t faze me. Poor Chummy has been stitching and sewing away like a madwoman at those damn dresses. The fabric, which was within in our budget, has been giving her a hard time. “That’s okay.” I pop open the first Babycham of the day. “I read that Marilyn is stitched into her clothes all the time.”

Jenny’s “No way!” is mixed in with Cynthia’s “No wonder her dresses are so tight!”

“I swear! I read it in ‘Who’s Who’.” I just finish pouring our drinks into the glasses when Shelagh walks out of the bathroom. “The bride-to-be!” We all stop what we are doing to clap.

Shelagh blushes something fierce as I give her a glass. “Cynthia is just about finished with your dress. Jenny is going to do your hair first, then I will do your makeup.”

“I honestly don’t know how to thank you ladies for helping with the wedding.” I think she is on the verge of tears and, I swear, if she starts crying than I will and I don’t want to ruin my makeup.

“Nonsense!” I give her a dazzling smile. “That horrible excuse for a wedding dress pretty much sealed the deal in my book!”

“Trixie!” Oh, there goes Cynthia, but what I said is the honest truth.

“Shelagh,” thoroughly ignoring Cynthia, “you need to get dressed into just your underthings and a robe. Once hair and makeup are done, it will be easy to help you into your dress.”

Without a sip from her delicious drink, she shoves the glass back into my hand and walks into the bedroom to get changed. I drink the rest of her glass for her. Oh well, her loss.

Looking at the clock – 10:37 already! – I take in the room to make a list of all that needs to be done within the hour’s times. Shelagh is the only one that needs everything done – hair, makeup, and dress. Cynthia’s needs makeup, I need my hair done, and then all that is left is our dresses.

We’ve got plenty of time.

Stepping over to the record player, I pop on my new Elvis record and turn it all the way up.

..::..::..

Sister Evangelina

Today is the day. A year ago, I would not have even imagined it for my sister, yet, here I am placing my prayer veil over my cap and readying myself to go to her wedding.

Throughout the past year, I had never known that Sister Bernadette had struggled through her vows. We are told, especially during our novitiate period, that we will struggle at times with our vows – some obviously more than others. I wish she would have talked to us, however, her strife was vastly different from my own and, even now, I would wrestle with the right words of comfort.

Yet, despite the battles she had endured, she is happier now than what I have seen in the past. She is a strong woman, even if her small stature makes her appear weak. She is anything but and I would assure anybody till my dying day who will think or say otherwise.

It takes a strong woman to face her life and the possibility of death with such grace.

That doctor, I hope he is counting his blessing for the woman that he is about to marry.

I remember the day he had come to Sister Julienne’s office to ask for her hand in marriage. At the time I was angry at the thought of him taking advantage of her. Yes, she is a strong woman, but her habit shielded her from the drunken animosity that can lurk in the shadows of Poplar.

He then said something that I will never forget.

She brings a lightness to a part of me I had thought would never see the sun again.

Once he said that, I knew that he was in love with her and that there was nothing that Sister Julienne or I could have said to make him change his mind.

I have known the doctor and his late wife for a long time. He was a young GP coming back from the war a broken, yet able bodied man. I could tell that he had seen some true horrors, unfortunately though, so did all the other men who were able to come back. It was a rough time, yet, the doctor had managed to marry his sweetheart.

Then soon after, they had a child. Timothy. Perfect the moment he came into the world. However, it wasn’t so perfect for her. She had hemorrhaged, leaving it extremely difficult to have another child. They were a lovely family together, though. Always bringing joy with them wherever they went.

That was until she had been diagnosed with cancer. A dark cloud loomed over that household even after she had passed. It wasn’t until he had asked our permission to marry Shelagh did I see the lightness he had mention shining brightly in his eyes.

And, despite my bullishness, I was happy for the both of them.

It is unfortunate that they have had their trials and tribulations from the beginning; all of the gossip surrounding their union, Shelagh’s need to hide away from us, and, of course, young Timothy’s illness just before their wedding. Yet, they have handled everything with dignity and compassion.

“Good morning, Sister Evangelina.”

Speaking of which, I turn to see Timothy and his father behind me. They are both handsomely dressed. “A good morning it is.”

“I’m glad we were able to see you before going into the chapel.” The Doctor nervously looks between me and his son, yet, I give him the time to finish his thought, whatever it may be. “I, umm, there is a smaller chapel over here,” he tips his head to the side. “Are you able to come and pray with me?”

Other than the few times I have caught him praying, I have never known him to be a religious man. Imagine my surprise when I heard him recite his prayers? It seems, though, his love of this religious woman has brought him back to the church. “It would be an honor.”

Stepping into the smaller room for some privacy, the three of us walk up to the alter. We both help Timothy into one of the chairs before bending down on our knees.

Marking the body of Christ, I start first, “Lord Jesus, on this happy day, we thank you for the joy of Patrick and Shelagh. Through this short time, you have watched over them and have brought them together in holy Christian marriage. Now Lord, bless them, for they are to be united in love of you and of each other.”

I look to him to continue the next part by himself. “Redeemed by your Precious Blood and strengthened by your grace, may we live in kindness and fidelity, in unfailing trust and love so that our whole life may be pleasing to you.” He doesn’t disappoint.

“Mother Mary, take these dear friends into your motherly care, help and guide Patrick and Shelagh through their celebrations and setbacks. May their union on earth lead to that eternal union in which all the blessed will be joined together, praising the Redeeming Blood of Jesus, the Lord.”

We both mark the cross along our chests before he recites the Lord’s Prayer.

When he finishes, I turn to him with a big smile on my face, probably the biggest since the birth of his son behind us, and whisper, “May the Lord bless you and keep you, Patrick.”

“Thank you, Sister.” He squeezes my hand.

Yet, just before he lets go, I squeeze him back and say, “You protect her, now. She is…,” I glance down and try to shake the emotions from my voice, “she is most precious along with this young man behind us.”

“I promise, Sister. I will protect them both.”

I pat his hand before making the move to stand. Being younger and quicker than myself, he stands first and helps me up. Pulling up Timothy from his chair, the three of us make our way into the hall. “Why don’t you and Master Turner here go ahead into the chapel. I will need to get Sister Monica Joan.”

“Thank you again, Sister.” Giving me one more smile, both he and his son turn and make their way down the aisle towards Reverend Clarke.

Before heading towards the kitchen, where I normally find my Sister nowadays, I take a moment to look into the chapel. It is a small, but intimate party and the air is filled to the brim with good cheer and bliss.

Love is in the air.

And while I usually balk at such a sentiment, today, I allow it to sink in and to lift me up.

After all, love is the root to all that is good in the world.

..::..::..

Sister Julienne

“Today is the day, my dear, sweet sister.” I hold out my arms as Shelagh comes racing in them.

We hold each other tightly as the other nurse move on to give us some privacy.

“I am so happy that you are here,” she murmurs against my shoulder.

“My dear friend,” I pull back and brush away the tears from her cheek, “where else would I be?” She shyly shrugs her shoulders, however, I lift her chin up so that we are eye to eye. “Nowhere else but here, I assure you. You are getting married and I can’t wait to see you walk down that aisle.”

Tears, once again, trails down her cheeks with lines of makeup to go with them. “There were some days that I had wished that I never became a nun. I was ashamed that I had hurt you or the others and I couldn’t bare the thought. But then,” she nuzzles her cheek into my palm, “it’s at times like these that I am most thankful that I became a nun. I met you and you have lifted me and given me strength when I felt at my lowest.”

“No matter of the decisions we make in life, we will always be sisters. We will always be there for each other, no matter what happens.” I kiss her forehead and, for a tiny moment, I feel as if I am taking on the role as her mother. It’s a silly and grandiose thing to feel and I have to remind myself on the dangers of taking pride over happiness.

“Oh, dear, I knew this would happen.” Nurse Franklin pulls out a small bag out of nowhere and wipes both the tears and makeup from her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Shelagh quietly murmurs as she wipes the rest of the tears.

“Don’t be,” Nurse Franklin give her a dazzling smile, “it is bound to happen. Just be glad that we are in a place where it can quickly be touched up.” She then looks to me, “Excuse me, Sister.”

Dutifully moving out of the way, I watch in awe at Nurse Franklin’s ability to turn her red cheeks into a beautiful, angelic face once again.

“Now, no more crying.” Nurse Franklin pulls her veil over and leads us up to the door of the chapel. “At least until it is time to.” She gives us one more kind smile before returning to her friends behind us.

I grab her hand and squeeze it before walking up to the door leading to the chapel, to the man that she will marry and love for the rest of her life. I turn to her and, instantly, it hits me that my sweet Sister Bernadette will soon be Mrs. Patrick Turner. Anticipation runs through my stomach as my emotions get the better of me.

“You should be giving me away. You should walking with me.” Her voice is quiet, reminding me of the day she told me she had decided to leave the order.

I am beyond honored and there is nothing more I would rather do than to hold her hand as she walks down the path towards her new life.

However, it is her path to walk. “You belong to no one but yourself and you know exactly where you are going.”

With one more encouraging smile, I make my way towards my seat. The moment I have reached my destination, I turn just as the familiar wedding march begins.

..::..::..

Chummy Noakes

Today is the day.

The weeks of stitching and sewing have paid off, even if I had to stitch Trixie into that monster of a dress.

The bride looks exceptionally beautiful as well as the bridesmaids. Yet, it’s not them that always attracts my eyes during a wedding.

It is always the groom.

By the look on Doctor Turner’s face, I’d say we chose the perfect wedding dress for his bride. He looks as if all the air from his lungs has been swept away the moment she stepped down the aisle. Yet, as we tick on to the ten second mark, I fear for a tiny moment that he is going to pass out from lack of oxygen.

Just as my fingers wrap around Peter’s arm, I see color return to his face.

Perhaps being able to read my mind, Peter leans over and whispers behind Freddy’s head, “That was a close one.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

The ceremony is beautifully recited by Reverend Clarke. Many times throughout, I squeezes Peter’s arm as memories from our own wedding comes to mind.

Love, although it can be as finicky as those darn bridesmaids dress, will always produce something magical.

..::..::..

Timothy Turner

Today is the day that I get a second mum.

Although I do miss my mummy a lot, I’m glad that dad has finally found happiness again.

When the music started and we turned to see mum walking down the aisle in her pretty white dress, I could hear dad’s gasp next to me. At that moment, I didn’t feel the pain from my braces or the shame from my disease anymore.

I saw her walking down the aisle and all I could see was her bright smile when she finally saw dad.

When he lifted her veil, they looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the room.

Is that what love it? I know it involves all that mushy stuff, but is love itself the look you give someone when you see them?

When I asked dad a few months ago, he told me that it was a bunch of things; the way someone looks, the words they say, the way they make you feel inside.

I then asked him how Auntie Shelagh made him feel inside. He got this soft, mushy look in his eyes and said that she makes him feel as if he can see the brightest light in the darkest of night.

I must have made a face or something because then he told me something that I would have never thought of. He told me that if I wanted to know what love meant, just think of mummy. She was the first woman I loved. So when I was stuck in the hospital, I thought about mummy a lot and, at times, it made me feel better. Then I started to think about how dad would hug me so tight and all the different and silly ways he would mess up dinner. Then I would think about Shelagh and when she said that she loved me just as much as she loved dad.

It all makes sense… well, sort of.

Then I saw him in the small chapel with Sister Evangelina praying. The only other time I have seen him praying is that time he took me to a Catholic church and when mummy was dying. At those times, he looked like he didn’t want to do it, but this time, he looked – I don’t know – at peace about it.

Then Sister Evangelina sounded like she was about to cry. She never cries. Does that mean she loves my mum and dad. I don’t know. I used to think that she didn’t love anyone. She’s so mean, telling us boys off if we are playing to loud and such.

Uh oh! The vows have been said and here comes the kiss. Dad specifically told me not to make a face. So instead of looking at them, I look over his shoulder at the window.

It isn’t until I hear clapping do I know that the ceremony is finished. Now it’s time to eat cake! Yum!

..::..::..

Sister Monica Joan

Today! Today! Today is the blessed day that I have been waiting for since those wretched wrecking balls took our home away from us.

Peeking over my shoulder, I make sure Sister Evangelina is busy before swiping my finger through the glorious confectioners delight known simply as frosting. Just as I am about taste the divine sugar from my finger, Sister Evangelina comes out of no where and grabs ahold of my wrist.

“We have told you time and time again,” she wipes the frosting off with something as depressing as a paper napkin, “you will have cake when its time to have cake.”

“Ever since losing our home to the German’s negligent idea of a joke, I have not had one little centimeter of sweets.” I pull my hand from Sister Evangelina. “Why is it that Catholics do not believe in such miracles such as a coconut cream cake or a cherry pie?”

“Because cakes and sweets are the fruit of the devil,” a woman I have never seen before speaks. “At least that’s what they told us in catechism class.” She shrugs her shoulder, “A bunch of bullocks if I ever heard any.”

Sister Evangelina makes the necessary introductions, “Sister Monica Joan, this is Camila Parker, Timothy’s grandmother.”

“As well as a former Catholic who shares a love of a confectioners touch,” I supply in a superior voice.

“Lord, give me strength.” Sister Evangelina rolls her eyes. How rude! In front of our esteemed guest.

“Funny enough, that’s what the sisters of Saint Anthony’s said when I had expressed a desire to join their order.”

“No! Surely not a Catholic order! They believe that one should replenish their bodies only with water and slop.” The dinners we have been treated to are worse than the ones we had to endure during the war.

“I was willing to live with the slop and water,” she leans in and murmurs to us, “however, for some reason, they drew the line at me being married to a man.”

Before I can respond, one of the nurses – the one that bothers to cover her angelic face with several painted accruements – hands me a glass filled with wine. I smell the aperitif with my keen olfactory nerves. “Sherry!” We typically save sherry for more secular holidays such as Christmas.

“Another reason why I decided to not take my vows as a Catholic nun.” Mrs. Parker drowns the amber liquid in one gulp and pours herself another.

“I find that I am content with your accompaniment.” I turn to Sister Evangelina, “Shall we cease our relations with the Catholics and take residence in her home.”

“As much as I would love to play host to a few nuns that have shown nothing but kindness towards my family, I must decline, at least until Sunday.” Mrs. Parker looks rightly gloomy.

As am I. “Damn! I was rather looking forward to a meal that consisted of more chewing than swallowing whole.”

“Is everything okay, Sister?” Sister Julienne steps up to us with more of a keen eye than a gentle one.

I ignore her question, no doubt Sister Evangelina will gladly fill her in with such topics discussed. “Why is it you are unable to house us until the day of our Lord?”

“I will have Timothy while Patrick and Shelagh go off on their honeymoon.”

“Oh dear, I missed a lot, didn’t I?” Sister Julienne looks perplexed, but not as perplexed as I.

“Please enlighten me on the conundrum of a honey moon.” Images of the doctor and his new wife, neigh my former sister, in a vat of honey is not appeasing to the eye. “Certainly one does not bathe in a bath of honey under the full moon.” The others around me begin to laugh, but I am not quite certain why. My mind must be beginning to tire.

“No, but it does sound like a hell of a honeymoon.” A round of laughter fills the small room with an older lady being the loudest one of them all.

“Sister, it is a time newlywed couples usually take to spend time with just themselves.” My sister’s voice soothes the worry that is starting to itch its way along my spine.

For a moment, perhaps more, I do not recognize anyone in this room. The names of these strange people are on the tip of my blasted tongue, but for the life of me, I am unable to speak it. Thankfully none of the attention is settled on me. All eyes have seem to cast in the way of a couple who were just recently married.

One of the women, in a dress that reminds me of an Easter egg, holds up her glass to commemorate the couple. “To the new couple! May you find happiness in every endeavor!”

Everyone around me calls out, “To the new couple!”

While I am slow to raise my glass, my mind – ever the wonderer – remembers the names of those around me. My sisters in Christ and my nurses in arms, how does my mind forget such important things?

While everyone else sips from the forbidden fruits, I take advantage of the quiet, “Might I be so bold as to proclaim that they have found the one whom their souls love.” Everyone gives a genuine smile, which also allows me to say, “From the famous words of Marie Antoinette, ‘let us eat cake’!”

Taking advantage of my close proximity, I am the first to cut myself a slice that shall hopefully last me for the duration with the Catholics.

..::..::..

Shelagh Turner

Today is the day I have ceased to be ‘Sister Bernadette, the former religious sister, and will now be known as ‘Mrs. Patrick Turner’.

What a day it has been! The makeup, the dress, the ceremony, and now the party. Everything is too much, but yet, somehow, not enough. I desperately want to freeze time and preserve this day.

Thankfully Nurse Lee’s beau, Mr. Jesmond, has been gracious enough to capture these small moment with the help of his camera.

This day has been perfect and I cannot thank God enough for giving me the strength to love this man, to follow my heart, and to accept help when help was needed. It has become more of a wonder of what my life could have been if I had not chosen Patrick or if I was not diagnosed with this disease.

A gentle knock on the door stirs me from my own thoughts. “Come in.” I’m supposed to be changing into my suit, my original wedding dress but I became distracted by the day’s excited events.

“Are you in need of any help?” Sister Julienne peeks out from around the door with a kind smile.

“Yes, please!”

She steps in and quietly closes the door. Coming up behind me, she begins the arduous task of unbuttoning the little silk buttons that line my back as I finish the buttons on my sleeve.

For the longest time we are doused in a comfortable silence with the promise to finish our tasks. It is when she is halfway done, does she whisper, “You have made such a beautiful bride, Shelagh.” Her fingers falter. “I can see, or perhaps I have been a witness for a longer time than you think, the happiness reflected in your eyes for one another.”

“It is your strength that helped me make my my decision to be with him.” I see sadness flicker across her eyes in the mirror and it pains me. I quickly turn to her and gather her hands in with mine. “I was happy with you and the work and my life at Nonnatus House, he was just able to fill a void I had no idea that needed to be filled. I will still be in need of your spiritual guidance.”

She squeezes my hands and smiles, “If you should ever need it, I will always unveil myself to you.” She twirls me around, “Now let’s get the rest of these buttons undone. You don’t want to miss out on your honeymoon.”

Sister Monica Joan’s antidote plays through my mind as I finish one sleeve and begin the other.

Finally when we have both reached the end of our task, I am able to slip out of the beautiful dress with ease. Helping me hang the dress onto a wooden hanger, I pull down the petticoat and place it in the luggage that is set to be sent to Patrick’s house after we leave.

I then look at myself in the mirror to find my hands shaking. I know what will happen next, when we have checked into our hotel room and I have put on the neglige I had bought months ago. Yet, I’m nervous.

Not that he’s going to hurt me, I know he will be gentle and loving, but I wonder if I will be good enough for him. He is more experienced than I am. What if I do something wrong or say something that will offend him.

“You will be perfect,” Sister Julienne’s gentle voice soothes my anxiety.

“What if he—”

“Communication is key to any relationship that you have.” She helps slip back a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. “Come, lets get you dressed.”

Dressing myself, I let the hat sit in the case as I pull on my pair of shoes. “I’m ready,” I pick up my suitcase and walk out of the room to the main party.

Patrick is there, waiting for me by the record player with a sneaky smile on his face. He holds out his hand and I immediately take it, relishing in the warmth it provides. “We have one more thing to do before we leave.” He turns and drops the needle onto the spinning record.

All at once, a song, familiar and delightful fills the room as he pulls me towards the middle. The soulful rhythm drowns out all of the doubt and nerves from my mind and I am left with feeling the synchronous beating of our hearts.

I fall in love with this man all over again.

Pulling me close so that his arm wraps around my waist, he kisses my cheek and murmurs, “The song that started it all.”

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes at the memory of Sam Cooke and the dance we shared so long ago. “Who would have thought we would have been dancing to the same song hours after our wedding?”

He looks down at me with love brightening his eyes. “You look just as beautiful as the night I twirled you around.”

When the song ends and the next one begins, we pull apart and say our goodbyes to the people around us. Timothy, sleeping soundly on the sofa, wakes for a few short moments to whisper his goodbye with a kiss on both of our cheeks.

It isn’t until we are in the car and driving to our destination, that I am finally able to breath. Covering his hand with my palm, I glance over to him and say, “I love you, Patrick Turner.”

He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles, the sight of our affection towards one another no longer outside the lines of propriety. “I am very much in love with you, Shelagh Turner.”

Chapter Text

You Send Me (Reprise) – Sam Cooke

“This is too much, even for Camilla,” Shelagh looks around the spacious room in awe.

“Camilla can be quite the card shark, especially if there is a lot riding on the bet.” Patrick kisses her cheek after he closes the door.

“Patrick! This isn’t some rinky dink hotel in the middle of nowhere. This is the Ritz-Carlton!” She folds her hands in front of her, “Even the chairs look too fancy to sit in.”

He throws himself onto the bed and calls out, “The bed feels just fine to me!” Sitting up straight, he holds out his hand and beckons her to come to him. “Now just one more thing remains,” his arms circle around her waist as he gently kisses her stomach. “Are you wearing your ‘among other things’ or will I have to make myself busy?”

Shelagh playfully rolls her eyes, “You are incorrigible!” She pulls out from his embrace and goes to her small case holding her neglige. “Keep yourself busy for a few moments,” she glances over her shoulder, “but not too busy.”

“Couldn’t you wait to surprise me tomorrow night?” He stands and folds her in his arms. “I want to see you now.” His nimble fingers unbuttons her coat and palms her breasts through her shirt. “If my memory serves me correctly, you like it when I – how did you put it? – oh, yes! You like it when I touch your breasts when we snog.”

“I swear,” she breathlessly sighs as she holds on to the edge of the table, “I will never let another drop of alcohol touch my lips every again.”

“Hopefully that is the only thing you shun from those beautiful lips,” he pulls her shirt out from her skirt and makes quick work of the buttons. “The moment I saw you walking down the aisle, I had to tell my lungs to breath.” He kisses down the curve of her neck as his hands pull the shirt and coat away from her body. “I can’t wait to explore your body.”

“Patrick?” The lilt of her voice gives away her anxiety, enough for him to draw his lips away from her skin in concern. She turns to him, her hands linked together to keep them from shaking. “Will you take your time to show me? I want to,” she swallows past the lump of fear lodged in her throat, “I want to be able to pleasure you just as much as you intend to pleasure me.”

“Unfortunately my dear, it will take us many times to steer through the nuisances of making love to each other to find a perfected harmony that we will both enjoy.” He cups her cheek within his hand. “Do you want to put on your surprise or would you rather I finish undressing you?”

She likes that he is giving her the option, “Finish undressing me.” She turns around so that he can unhook her corset. “However, I reserve the right to undress you after you are finished.”

“Deal,” he leans down and kisses the tip of her shoulder as he allows her skirt to fall to the floor. He unhooks her corset with ease and throws it onto the table in front of them. Unclasping the hooks of the garter holding up her stocking, he stamps down the desire to stare at her half naked body. Bending down onto his knees, he carefully rolls down her stocking on one leg and then the other with just a few kisses to distract the fact that she is nearly bare for him to see.

Staring at all her clothes piled onto the table, Shelagh looks down at her naked form and murmurs, “How is it you know how to precisely undress a woman?” She meant it more as a joke to diffuse the tension, but it just seemed to amplify it.

“Plenty of practice with Mariann,” his lips nips the curve of her waist as he stands to admire his work.

She glances over her shoulder with innocence flashing in her eyes, “You forgot to take off my panties.”

As his head falls onto her shoulder, he grunts, “I wanted you to make the decision.” His hands cups both of her hips, his thumbs sweeping along her puckering skin. “You are in control here. You tell me what you want to do.”

Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she gently pulls out from his embrace and turns to face him. Her heart sings when she sees that his eyes are still cast down towards the carpet. Cupping his chin with the crook of her finger, she brings his head up and murmurs, “I want you to look at me.”

His eyes rake down the curves and planes of her body. “God, you are so beautiful!” The light from the dying sun coming in through the sheer curtains gives her an ethereal glow that has him wishing he had a camera to capture this moment. “I want to pleasure you.” He cups her cheeks with both of his palms. “Please say that you will allow me to kiss you, to make love to you.”

“I want to undress you first.” When he nods, she gets to work of peeling away his suit, one article at a time until he is down to his boxers and sock. A smattering of dark hair peppers his chest as well as marks a trail leading down past the band of his boxers.

“Do you wish for me to turn on a light?” By this point, darkness has begin to settle in their room.

She shyly shakes her head as she reaches out to bury her thumbs under the band of his boxers. “I can see you just find.” She stares at his chest as she shoves the last of his clothing down over his hips. Without any thought to her actions, she reaches out with a trembling hand and wraps her fingers around his hard member.

The cool touch of her fingers has him jumping back and exclaiming, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

She reels back, afraid that she has hurt him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No!” He steps forwards and grabs her hand. “No, don’t apologize. You just surprised me that’s all.” He kisses her knuckles. “I wasn’t expecting you to touch me, but now that I know that you aren’t afraid to, you can if you want.”

With his consent, she once again reaches out with timid fingers and explores his body with delicate touch. It isn’t until she hears him moan does she pull away again. Threading her thumbs under the band of her panties, she pulls them down her legs and adds the last bit to the pile.

“Please, will you allow me to pleasure you?” He keeps his curious hands by his sides.

“Don’t you want to make love to me first?” Her question stems more from innocence than of desire, yet, she can hear his labored breathing.

“It has been quite a long time since I had been with a woman,” his voice drowns as total darkness covers them. The light from the moon is not bright enough to cast its warm light among the occupants in the room. “Our first time together will most likely not be pleasurable for you as it will for me. Besides, I will finish rather quickly and I will need some time to recover if we are to continue.”

She grabs his hand and places it over her bare breast. “I told you earlier that I want you to help me, to show me.” As much as she feels the tension in his fingers, he doesn’t move them. Leaning in, she wraps her free hand around the back of his neck and kisses his lips. “Pleasure me, Patrick.”

Gaining the consent he needed to hear, he gathers both of her hands within his own and pulls her to the bed. “Lay down, my love.”

She gingerly sits down and pushes herself back until her head lays on the pillows. Pulling her glasses off, she blindly reaches over to place them on the table.

Taking them for her, he places them within reach and settles on the bed next to her. He can feel her trembling under his touch as the tips of his fingers ghost along her ribs. “There is no reason to be nervous.” He kisses her collarbone. “Just relax. If there is something that you are not comfortable with, then tell me; otherwise I’m going to continue to explore your body.”

She takes a deep breath and relaxes her tense body into the cushion of the mattress. His featherlight lips begins their journey along her skin, exciting her senses and illiciting soft moan from her throat. He has yet to explore anything further down her body yet she feels anticipation coursing through her at the speed of light.

“Relax, Shelagh,” he warmly murmurs along her shoulder. When he feels her body breath out the tension, he gently kisses her nipples into excited little peaks. “Does that feel alright?”

“I will…,” she loses her train of thought when he rolls her neglected nipple between his two fingers. “Uhh… oh! I, umm, what did you ask?”

He grins against the curve of her breast. Just as he switches sides, he calmly asks again, “How does it feel?”

Needing her hands to do something, to help her stay rooted to her corporal body, she runs her fingers through his hair. “I will, uhh, gladly refer you back to the drunk conversation we had a few weeks ago.”

“Duly noted.” He inches his way down her sternum, taking slight pleasure in the way her keen body reacts to his touches.

“Where, umm, where are you going?” She tugs on his hair when she feels him kiss the small line between her stomach and leg.

The moon, which has now settled in the dark sky, casts its light through the sheer curtains, basking upon her skin as if she can glow as brightly as the stars. His heart savagely pounds against his chest at the image of her in total ecstasy. “I’m going to kiss you and lick you down between your legs.”

“And that will pleasurable for me?”

He loves her willingness to learn just as much as her innocence. “Very much so.” He smirks as he resides his path down the inside of her thigh, relishing in the way her body trembles under his lips. “This will also help you when we make love.” He can feel her muscles tense against his cheek, “Relax, my love, it will feel good.”

She lets go of the breath she was holding and relaxes the grip around his hair. “I trust you, Patrick.”

Unconditional love spirals out of his chest at her four words. Never had he felt more nervous about making someone feel good since his first time with Mariann after she had given birth to Timothy. Shelagh’s trust is implicit and he is honored that she has put so much of her faith in him, not only as her friend and husband, but as her lover.

Cool air licks the heated skin between their bodies as she feels him tense. “Shall I be the one brave enough to tell you to relax?” Through the use of her hands, she can feel him tilt his chin up to look up at her. “My goodness, I shudder to think of the view you are a witness to right now.”

“You are beautiful!” He nuzzles his cheek against her palm, “God, you are breathtaking.”

“Says the man who was able to charm the habit right off of me,” she grin when she hears him gasp.

“My, my, Mrs. Turner, are you making a joke laying in a bed naked with a man between you legs?” He leans back in and continues his journey along the intimate landscape of her body.

“It got you to relax, didn’t it?” The moment her words leave her mouth, her body bucks off the bed when the tip of his tongue draws a line along her center. Her fingers are curled around the strands of his hair as heart begins to pound in her throat. “What did you do?”

The sound of her husky voice nearly has him finishing on the spot. “You have this little button just above your vagina that carries a large amount of nerves. If touched in the right way, you will feel pleasure beyond belief.” Wanting to prove his point, he covers her warm center with his mouth and flicks his tongue against the clitoris he had just found.

“Ohh! That feels…,” her back arches off of the mattress as her nails scratch along his scalp. Her lungs struggle to take in oxygen. Desire, pleasure, sexual gratification coils in her belly hot and full of sin, but she pays no mind to it – not when it feels so good. “Ohh, Patrick! What are you…,” she thrusts her hips against his face, “what are you doing to me?”

He glances up from his perfect perch to witness the first orgasm of her life wash over her moon kissed face. He knows right then and there that anything other than watching her climax will always take a backseat. Leaning back and peppering her sensitive skin with gentle kisses. “I think you will make me go bald by the time our honeymoon is finished.”

Her muscles, still quivering under such a powerful release, tenses as she lets go of his hair. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Quite the contrary, I enjoyed you pulling on my hair. It lets me know how much you are enjoying yourself.” He pulls himself up and lightly rests his body against her own.

“Careful Dr. Turner,” she smirks as she runs her fingers through his scalp to help soothe any tenderness, “is that a hint of pride I hear in your voice?”

He kisses the tip of her nose, “You should be proud of yourself.” He snuggles his hips between her legs. “You have just achieved your very first orgasm.”

“I’m not proud,” she wiggles her hips against his own, desperately wanting to feel the same mind-numbing madness she had just felt mere minutes ago. “I’m more curious and eager.”

The primness in her voice has him grinning madly.

“You know, I can hear you smiling,” she admonishes as she reaches up and palms his cheeks.

“Are you ready to…,” he falters when her legs wrap around his waist.

“To make love?” Her fingers inch along the curve of his neck and kisses his cheek, “We have been waiting a long time for this exact moment.”

The heat from her breath excites every inch of his body. He swallows hard, “You tell me if I need to slow down.” Positioning himself, his fingers lightly slips through her folds to find her wanting. Slowly, so as not to hurt her, he eases in, paying special mind to his weight on top of her.

It stings, far more than she had imagined, but she tries to breath through it. “Patrick…,” she finds herself at a loss of words, euphoria coursing through her body, lighting all her senses on fire as he fills her to the brink.

“Oh, Shelagh…,” his head falls to her shoulder. “You feel… God! You feel so amazing.” He pulls his hips back and gently thrusts back. The feeling of her surrounding him, warmly nestled within her tight muscles, nearly has him finishing barely after beginning. “I… I am going to…,” the heels of her feet press into his ass, “ohh, you are so, ohhh, so tight around me.”

His words make her blush under the pale moonlight, yet, it emboldens her to tighten her legs around his cantering hips.

His hips falter to a slow roll as he takes slow, deep breaths. He wants to make this last longer than what his body is craving. Lifting and resting himself on one hand beside her head, he reaches down between her body with the other. Quickly, he finds the little button of nerves with his probing fingers and energizes the shift of his hips to a faster speed.

All at once, euphoria, to the likes she had never experienced before, pounds against her throat. Her stomach churns and coils in a way that sets goosebumps along her heated skin. “Ohhh, Patrick,” her moan shamelessly tumbles out from between her lips as her back arches off of the bed in order to feel him all over.

He barely registers anything other than wanting her to climax before he lets go. Yet, with her body tugging and pulling on him, sheer determination will always be beaten out by pure human physiology. Pressing his hips tightly against her body, he runs up the highest peak and swan dives off into pure ecstasy.

Falling just shy of the high she had been so close to capture, she stores her her slight disappointment away as his body collapses onto hers.

Through his delirious state, he can feel her catching her breath under her tense muscles. Kissing her on her shoulder, he pulls out of her and pushes himself down so that he is, once again, framed between her legs.

“Patrick?” She pulls slightly away from him when his tongue hungrily dives between her folds. “Paaatrick,” she hisses between her teeth as her fingers eagerly twist around his hair.

The salty tang from his climax mixes with her sweet excitement, driving him mad with desire. Nudging the tip of his finger at her opening, he eases inside her. When he feels her wanting more, he adds another finger and then another until she is withering under him with diluted moans and half-mumbled sentences.

“Ohhh, Pat – I’m… I’m…,” her body trembles as she gladly dives off the precipice of her orgasm.

Nails scorch along his scalp, but he doesn’t stop – he won’t ever stop if she were to ask him to – until her back fall onto the mattress, spent and sated. Kissing her one more time, he lifts himself and glances at his wife. “You are incredibly beautiful at this moment,” the iridescent moonlight casts along her body as the only movement that stirs is from the rise and fall of her chest.

“More like a mess,” she whispers as she tries in vein to cover her body from the cool air.

Her self-conscious words pitches him from his post-coital haze and throws him for a loop. “Never. You were able to charm this old, widow of a doctor from under the heavy cloth of a habit.”

She shakes her head and laughs, “I love you Patrick Turner.”

Her five small words electrifies his body. Yet, instead of falling back into bed with his wife, he pulls her up onto her feet. Making sure to snag her glasses from the bedside table, he brings her into the bathroom. He switches on the light and brings her to the mirror above the sink. “Here,” he opens her glasses and slides it onto her face.

Together, they look at their reflections.

Blush stains her cheeks a deep red as their naked bodies are posed within the frame of such an opulent bathroom. Yet, it’s his mouth she cannot take her eyes off of – the gentle curve of his smile, the lines that accentuates his lips, the gleam of excitement from their lovemaking still smeared along his skin. Twirling around, her cheek nuzzles into the warmth of his chest as she hugs him dearly.

“I am so incredibly lucky to be able to witness you like this for the rest of my life.” He kisses the top of her head. “But more importantly, I am the luckiest man in the world to call you my wife.”

“Not as lucky as I am to call you my husband.” She tilts her chin up and captures his lips with a passion that sizzles under the soft lights.