A/N: Not at all canon

"Timothy, please try to keep your homework confined to one area of the sitting room," Shelagh said, stepping around the stacks of books and papers littering the carpet. "I don't want a mess when your father comes home."

Timothy made a small effort to straighten some of the piles. "Sorry, Mum. I can't find the paper Mr. Latimer gave us with the guidelines for our science project." He began rummaging through his school bag again.

"Would it be this one?" Shelagh whipped out a folded typewritten sheet from her apron. "It was in the pocket of other trousers. You're lucky I checked before laundry day."

"Thanks, Mum," he muttered, his smile guilty.

She sighed. "Clear this up please, and wash your hands for dinner."

Shelagh went back to the kitchen to check on the casserole, glancing at the clock as she did. Patrick had said he might be late. In the corner, Angela sat in her high chair, sucking on her fist. She'd want a bottle soon. Perhaps she should give her one before Patrick came home, and let him eat his dinner in peace. But feeding Angela always did seem to brighten his mood, and he had left the flat in quite a mood today.

"What's the matter with that one?" she asked after he'd switched ties for the third time that morning.

"I've got my meeting with the Chief Medical Officer, Mr. Lansing, about the dysentery cases today," he growled, his voice echoing from the depths of the wardrobe.

"With Sister Julienne?"

"No, she wasn't available." He pulled a maroon and gray tie out of the wardrobe and she caught a glimpse of his sullen frown in her vanity mirror. "I'm being sent into battle with Nurse Crane."

Ah. There was the rub. Patrick had plenty of experience dealing with stubborn government officials, leaders more keen on keeping their jobs than helping those in need. When he had a supportive ally, he could be absolutely brilliant, and he'd often brought along Sister Julienne, Nurse Miller or even herself once or twice to help argue his case.

But Nurse Crane seemed less keen on mere support, and more than ready to stage a hostile takeover. As soon as Patrick had mentioned the threat of an epidemic, she'd made it her personal mission to eradicate the disease - even if that meant stepping on other people's toes. She'd nearly taken over Shelagh's lecture at clinic on the importance of hand washing.

Shelagh stuck one last pin in her hair, rose and went to the wardrobe. "Nurse Crane seems very knowledgeable about preventing disease," she said, selecting a dark green tie. "I'm sure she'll be a great help." She slid the maroon tie from her husband's neck and slipped the green one in its place.

"It's not her knowledge or nursing abilities I'm worried about," Patrick griped. "We can't go in there arguing, with her trying to take charge and contradicting everything I say."

"So now nurses are not allowed to disagree with the great Dr. Turner?" she teased.

Patrick gave her a half-hearted smile. "You know what I mean, sweetheart. We have to work together, as a team, if we even have a hope of convincing Mr. Lansing to help."

"I'm sure Mr. Lansing will want to prevent an epidemic. Present him the facts and appeal to his better nature, as always," Shelagh said, finishing the knot and smoothing down the tie. "And as for Nurse Crane, she only wants to help. At least she's -" what was a kind word for it? " - enthusiastic."

Patrick lifted one eyebrow, not convinced. "I'd settle for a little less enthusiasm and little more cooperation."

The meeting had been scheduled for 10 o'clock, and Shelagh hadn't heard from Patrick since then. She locked up his office and left the surgery at lunch to work on her investigation into the source of the dysentery outbreak at home while Angela napped. She started dinner after Timothy arrived from school, and still, the phone didn't ring once.

Perhaps the meeting had gone well. No news was generally good news, right? After all, both she and Patrick were professionals, and Nurse Crane seemed the type to appreciate professionalism and order. Yes, she had frowned on Shelagh's decision to bring Angela to the surgery with her, but she held her organizational skills in high regard. She was, by all accounts, an excellent nurse. Shelagh had heard from Patrick how Nurse Crane and Sister Evangelina had stepped in to help Barbara during Mrs. Bissette's delivery. It took someone with an experienced hand - a kind hand - and a steel backbone to help a mother through a stillbirth. Afterward, there was prayer. Always prayer.

No, the problem was not Nurse Crane, Shelagh suspected - well, not entirely Nurse Crane.

Patrick, she had learned from a year of marriage and nearly a decade of working together, always appreciated suggestions and advice, especially in situations where the patient was more comfortable with one of the nurses.

But he very rarely liked being told what to do. And Nurse Crane seemed to do an awful of telling.

In that regard, Nurse Crane and her husband were very much alike, she mused with a smile - though she certainly wouldn't tell him that.

Shelagh heard the click of keys in the lock and the front door swung open with a bang. Patrick was home.

"Sorry!" he called out. "Wind took it away from me."

She looked up from preparing Angela's bottle. He sounded cheerful. Was he whistling?

Her husband strolled into the kitchen and kissed her in greeting. "Hello, my love. Dinner smells wonderful."

He was smiling. Not the weary smile of a man just glad to be home, but the wide and - dare she say it? - victorious smile of a man who has just had a very good day at the office. She thought suddenly of their triumph, long ago now, in bringing the TB screening van to Poplar.

"Hello," she said, then added cautiously, "How was the meeting with Mr. Lansing?"

"Well," he said, bending slightly to tickle Angela in her high chair. "It started out a bit rocky - we argued, and I didn't think Mr. Lansing was going to give in at all. But in the end, he came round." His grin widened. "They're going to clear and fog Bullthorpe this week and I think, with some more convincing, we might even be able to get them to close it down for good."

Shelagh beamed proudly. "Oh, Patrick, that's wonderful. Well done." She wouldn't mention Nurse Crane. Best not spoil his good mood. "So what convinced Mr. Lansing in the end?"

Patrick's grin turned sheepish. "Nurse Crane, actually. She gave him quite a tongue lashing."

Shelagh chuckled. "Poor Mr. Lansing."

"Indeed. Fear can be a strong motivator." He lifted Angela out of her chair and balanced her on his hip, bouncing her slightly. Shelagh handed him the bottle and turned back to the stove. Thank goodness everything had worked out. They'd have a nice, quiet evening at home now, without Patrick pacing and worrying over his work.

"You know, she's not such a bad egg really," Patrick said.

"Who's not a bad egg?" Timothy said, coming into the kitchen. "Are we eating soon? I'm hungry."

"Nurse Crane and yes, we are," Shelagh said. "Please finish setting the table."

Timothy took the plates and cutlery off the counter and began laying them on the small table on the other side of the kitchen hatch. "She acts mean," he said. "But she keeps sweets in her pockets. I've seen her give them to the littler children at clinic."

Shelagh raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

Timothy nodded. "Barley sugar twists." He returned to the kitchen for the glasses. "Why does Nurse Crane drive a car, instead of riding a bicycle like all the other nurses?"

Patrick shrugged. "I expect she learned to drive in the war. Lots of women did."

"Did you, Mum?"

Shelagh shook her head, amused. "Timothy, you know I was only about 14." She took the baby from Patrick's arms. "If you'll move Angela's chair, we can sit down to dinner."

Patrick did, and Shelagh brought out the casserole and vegetables. After saying grace, they all tucked in.

"So how was your day? Any luck with your research, Watson?" Patrick winked at his wife.

Shelagh's face pinked. "Well, I've narrowed down the source of dysentery to a few places, so I think I'm getting closer. I just have a few more calls to make."

"Ugh, can we please not talk about dysentery while we're eating?" Timothy said, grimacing.

"Sorry, Timothy." Shelagh smiled, then sighed. "The trouble is, Patrick, even when we do pinpoint the origin of the - the mystery - we're still going to have to do more with education in the community in order to stop its spread. We can only do so much at clinic."

"True," Patrick said, chewing thoughtfully. "I'll speak to Nurse Crane, see if she has any ideas. We could meet at the surgery. Or we could have her here, one afternoon, for lunch or something. On Saturday?"

Angela squealed and dropped her bottle on the floor, so Shelagh was able to hide the shock on her face as she bent to retrieve it. "Here, Patrick?"

"If you don't mind. We've got to tackle this thing head-on and we don't have much time. Besides, it would give the two of you the chance to work out a plan."

A plan? With Nurse Crane? That would be like trying to plan with a bulldozer. "I suppose that's true - "

"Do I have to be there?" Timothy asked. "Can't I go play cricket or something?"

"You can play cricket after lunch," Patrick said. "Shelagh?"

Shelagh toyed with the vegetables on her plate. It was one thing to be ordered about by Nurse Crane at clinic and in the surgery. But inviting her into their home? She'd probably inform Shelagh that she wasn't sterilizing bottles according to the latest method and that Angela's napping habits were irregular because she spent too much time at the surgery. She might even spout off more nonsense from that Dr. Spock.

But what could she say? She'd teased Patrick only this morning about his reluctance to work with the bossy nurse; she couldn't very well say she didn't want to work with her now. And Patrick looked so eager, energized by his victory at the meeting.

Well, it was only one lunch, she thought, pursing her lips. "Of course. Invite her Saturday, if she's free."