He had seen Shelagh cry a handful of times during their relationship. He had only seen her sob on two occasions before however.
The first was the night after her diagnosis; the day she was told that she would never bare any children. She had cried at the hospital, tearing up when Timothy had hugged her when they came home, brushing Patrick off when he offered to get them dinner, limping into the kitchen to make supper. He watched her carefully, noting her ginger movements, the way she carefully shifted through the pots and pans, making sure her stomach touched absolutely nothing, so wary of the small incision beneath here clothes and the feeling of emptiness she couldn't seem to escape.
Timothy was subdued all through dinner, sensing that something was very wrong but not wanting to upset anyone with his questions. He figured his father would explain when the time was right. Shelagh collected the dishes with shaking hands, not lifting her eyes from the task as Patrick sent their son to bed. The boy went without complaint, slipping into the kitchen to give Shelagh a kiss on the cheek before retreating to his room, closing the door as quietly as he could manage.
"Do you want me to do that Love? You should be resting," Patrick suggested, coming up beside her. He didn't touch her, unsure of how she would react to the contact. He didn't know if she would welcome his arm around her waist or if it would break her. Instead, he stood close without touching, watching her trembling hands moving the dishes from the pan, under the tap, and then onto the drying rack. She didn't answer him, continuing on with her job without comment, seeming to not realise he was standing beside her for the ten minutes it took her to clean up from dinner. She jumped slightly when she noticed his presence, her eyes filling with tears before she managed to slip passed him, fleeing up the stairs and into the bathroom. Patrick sighed, running a hand through his hair before retreating to their bedroom and changing into his nightclothes. He didn't know what to do. Would she want to be alone? For him to sleep on the sofa? Would she never want him to touch her again?
When his wife finally emerged from the lavatory she was in her nightdress, eyes red rimmed and encompassed by dark circles. She didn't speak, climbing onto her side of the bed with rote motions, dropping her glasses to the side table as she curled into herself.
"I can go sleep on the sofa," Patrick offered, keeping his voice low, not wanting to startle her nor pressure her. The response he got was not what he anticipated. Shelagh let out a gasping sob, her entire body jolting from the force of it.
"I'm so sorry," she cried, trying to make herself as small as possible. "I have failed you again and again and now... Now we can never have a baby because of me and... Oh God." The words came out a mixture of hiccups and sobs, half screamed into the silence of the room. Her voice broke as she dissolved into tears and moans, pain from her sutures and emotional turmoil mixing until she did not know where one began and the other ended.
"Oh my love," Patrick breathed, lying down and wrapping himself around her back. "You have not failed me. You could never fail me," he whispered hastily, trying to stop the shaking of the tiny woman from sheer force of will. He made sure to keep his hands away from her stomach, knowing that an accidental touch could shatter the tiny bit of composure she had left as she wailed into the pillow, tears soaking the fabric as her lungs struggled for air. Sensing her fighting to breathe he sat up, pulling her with him, gently pushing at her shoulders until she bent forward, head between her knees as she hyperventilated, vision going spotty from lack of oxygen.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, over and over, not hearing Patrick's response, nor his platitudes, gulping in air as best she could between the words, her tears staining the fabric of her nightdress and the blanket, shoulders heaving as her husband traced calming circles on her back.
It took nearly an hour before she lost any semblance of energy, collapsing into Patrick's chest, exhaustion written over every atom of her being. She still hiccuped through a sob every few moments, but her tears had dried, the only remnants the tracks that showed on her cheeks and neck, the fabric around her collarbones damp. Patrick grabbed a handkerchief from his bedside table, holding it to his weakened wife, letting her blow her nose after he had scrubbed as many of her tears away as he could manage. She fell asleep in his arms a few minutes later, clinging to him with limp fingers, desperate not to be alone, to know he was there even in her sleep.
She had cried about her infertility again a few days later, but it was not the soul shattering sobbing of that first night, but rather quiet tears of despair. He didn't hear her sobbing again until Sister Evangelina died.
She held it together the entire day, crying when she told him, and again when she was ensconced in the office at the surgery until she found out about the Thalidomide. She cried again then, words tripping over her tongue when she explained why the drug was being pulled off the market. His own mind had swum in horror at the realisation. So much that he didn't consider how his wife was crumbling before him.
She had stayed stoic on the phone, trying to calm him while she demanded information, watching as he paced about the office, grabbing a cigarette to calm his nerves as much as possible. She proposed attaining assistance from Nonnatus after a while, a concept he agreed to simply because he didn't know what else to do. Wasn't familiar with the filing system. Wasn't used to reading the charts as quickly as his wife.
She had no sooner hung up with Nurse Crane than she fled into his office, a hand over her mouth. He followed her on instinct, the strange reaction provoking his curiosity and worry. She crumpled on the floor within a second of him walking through the door, a sob tearing out of her. He watched for a moment, stunned, as her composure shattered. Each breath was accompanied by a cry, her body shaking as she tried to wrap her arms around herself, feeling as if she would break if there was nothing physically holding her together. Ever muscle in her body ached, tension filling each ligament and tendon, shaking beneath her skin. Patrick dropped to the floor beside her, pulling her into his lap, holding her tightly.
"She's dead. And... And this is all... All my fault," she gasped.
"None of this is your fault," he rushed, needing her to understand. To know that there was nothing she could have done to prevent any of it. Sister Evangelina's death. The thalidomide. Any of it. "I love you. None of this is happening because of you." He held her securely against his chest, whispering assurances over and over into her hair, feeling the shaking in her limbs slow, her sobs quieting over time, the fight leaving her body. Patsy and Phyllis found them like that a while later, sitting on the floor of his office, Shelagh clinging to him as if he was the only thing keeping her together.
"We'll start gathering the files," Phyllis said, voice calm in the quiet room, the only other sound coming from Shelagh's occasionally hiccuped breath. Patsy smiled sadly at them before the nurses left the room, allowing Patrick to gather his wife, and their respective wits, before they went about the task of dealing with the horrors ahead of them.
The third time he found her sobbing, voice ringing through the house as she cried, he feared the worst. He raced up the stairs, only after making sure Angela was all right in her play pen, to find Shelagh sitting on the floor at the end of the bed.
"What's wrong? What's happened?" He demanded, voice laced with panic, desperate to know what has sent his wife into such a tailspin. Instead of her despair, however, she looked up at him, still crying freely, as she smiled. She reached a hand to him, pulling him down next to her as she curled into his chest, face buried in his shoulder as her tears soaked his neck. "Shelagh, what's going on?" He questioned again, noting how unlike the previous times she wasn't hyperventilating. Wasn't shaking apart in his grip, but rather just being vocal in her crying, her fingers playing with the buttons on his Oxford.
"I'm pregnant," she breathed, a laugh bubbling up her throat between her tears. Pulling away he searched her face, looking for something, but what, he wasn't sure. She beamed at him, cheeks covered in tracks from where her tears had flowed, droplets clinging to her lashes and clumping them together. Her face was flushed but her eyes glowed, her smile so wide that he swore he could see every one of her teeth, all perfect in symmetry save for the one canine that rose slightly higher than the other. She looked beautiful.
"You're sure?" He managed to query after a moment, watching her nod, biting her lip, trying to quell the excitement he could see radiating off her.
"Yes."
He was the one to sob then, pulling her to him as he hugged her, peppering kissed across her face, his hand cupping her stomach, feeling the tiny bit of swelling beneath his palm.
When their daughter was born six months later, both of them cried, but their tears were silent. The only sob in the room came from the infant, her tiny lungs announcing her presence to her parents and the world.
They named her Evelyn, for in the darkness of despair, she gave them light.