A/N: Okay so because I am a complete emotional wreck and this is my way of dealing with things, I have already offered up a 'resolution' to this storyline, but here's another. This is slightly A/U, though it follows along with the episode (I altered some dialogue, fiddled with a few facts etc.) This chapter's just the basics, but I'll hopefully have another chapter up shortly.

She'd kissed her goodbye with an almost drunken smile, watching her fly off around the corner, coat flapping behind her, and she couldn't help but take a moment to let it all sink in. She was standing by the front door of the flat they shared. That morning, she had woken to the smell of fresh coffee, just like Delia had promised. The sun had spilled through the thin curtains of their bedroom, filling the room with a soft, peaceful glow, to accompany the song Delia was happily humming away in the kitchen. As Delia rushed off, Patsy had quickly wrapped her scarf around her neck, because it made her heart swell to think of that tiny part of herself going off to work with her.

After a couple of beats, she herself turned off and headed down the road to Nonnatus House. There was a spring in her step, as she waltzed through mothers pushing prams, clutching children's hands; men in tired business suits, heading off to work. Sister Julienne had given her a couple of days to settle in, but she'd promised to still come for lunch, and besides, her things were still there, lining the wardrobe she shared with Trixie, her neat row of photographs still stuck above her headboard. It felt odd to be without her bicycle in the day time. Still, she reminded herself, as she reached the large stone steps leading up to the place she had called home for over a year, everything was to be different now.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt content, not a single worry lingering in the back of her mind. She was a tense person; guarded, even. And, if she were honest, she had every reason to be. But somehow, she didn't think she need worry so much, not today. Tomorrow, possibly. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that the struggles she and Delia shared were to be forgotten now, but there was something to be said for waking up in the same bed as the one you loved, and not having to scurry out in the early hours of the morning, for fear of being caught. Perhaps she wasn't entirely safe now, but she still felt it. She'd still sunk into her mattress the night before, Delia curled around her, and felt completely and utterly at ease. Not to mention absurdly happy.

Once she entered the large hallway that lead through to the main house, she called out to see if anyone were home. Again, it felt odd. Her key still fit the door, and the building still felt the same, looked the same, smelt the same, but it wasn't the same. Nobody answered to her call, and she decided everybody must be busy. It was unusual but not unheard of for everybody – even Sister Monica Joan – to be busily working at this time of the morning. She imagined Trixie and Barbara at the clinic; Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred on midwifery rounds; Nurse Crane, Sister Evangelina, and Sister Mary Cynthia treating their usual district patients. Everything ticked along like always. Just because she was out of the equation for a while, it didn't mean the whole world would stop turning. That was a surprisingly comforting thought to somebody who barely stopped working.

She was up in the bedroom, sorting clothes into a box to cart home, when she heard the commotion downstairs, and immediately moved to the landing to see what was the matter. A mother in unexpected labour, perhaps, or another emergency down at the clinic. Whatever it was, it was surely more important than folding clothes. She stood at the top of the stairs and could just make out Sister Winifred's high-pitched, frantic, voice.

"Whatever's the matter?" she called, starting down the stairs at once.

Nurse Crane, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, turned white as a sheet, and before Patsy could question anything, Sister Winifred was throwing her arms tightly around her and squeezing her half to death.

"I only left a day ago-"

It was then that she noticed the dampness of the Sister's cheeks, as she hurriedly wiped away tears. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, and her breathing laboured. She held Patsy tightly by the shoulders.

"There was a horrible accident, and I saw your scarf, and I couldn't help but think the worse. Thank heavens you are alright and in one piece!"

The words filtered through in a jumble and Patsy's confusion quickly turned to dread, a sudden aching fire in the pit of her stomach, her throat dry, and tears pricking at her own eyes as she realised, gaping at Sister Winifred in horror.

"What do you mean my scarf..."

"Yes, and your bicycle!"

A sudden rush of heat, a ringing in her ears, her whole body numb, but every hair sticking up all at once, and she swallowed back the large lump that had begun to manifest in the back of her throat, only managing to get one word out before she fled: "Delia."

She was vaguely aware of the others following behind her, but she couldn't pause to look back, running as fast as her feet would take her, out the front door and into the street, her legs wobbly under her weight, her heart pounding in her ears. She didn't know where she was going. Sister Winifred was calling after her, her voice still laced with worry and tears, and shock that hadn't quite melted away yet. The same shock which Patsy felt now, flooding her senses and ridding her of any rational thought. She arrived, her breath laboured, and knew at once that this was the place. The small crowd of people were beginning to disband, but she could still see her bicycle at the side of the road, discarded, a wheel missing.

Her legs almost buckling underneath her, she continued to move forward, until her eyes met the pavement, and her heart leapt into her throat. The sight of blood had never phased her before, but now she went running to the side of the pavement, gagging.

Sister Winifred, who had since caught up to her, bundled her easily into her small arms and clutched Patsy close to her, stroking her head. Somewhere, behind the tears and the muddle of 'what ifs' that were already streaming her thoughts, was a distinct voice telling her that she needed to stop, that she needed to gather herself together, and be strong. Sister Winifred gazed at Nurse Crane helplessly, and then back at Patsy, rubbing her back in a soothing motion, and it struck her that these people had no idea what was happening to her. She struggled free of them, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, and composing herself.

Not for the first time, she needed to be strong. She needed to take charge. She needed to be the person Delia needed her to be.

She's dead. It was repeating over and over and over in her mind as she walked back to Nonnatus. She's lying beneath a sheet somewhere and she's dead. Sister Winifred hadn't reached the scene in time, didn't know what had happened, was still flustered by that initial moment of horror when she thought it was Patsy there lying in the gravel. It should have been. She couldn't stop re-enacting their morning together. If she hadn't done this, if she hadn't spent so long doing that. If only they had been on time, Delia would be safe.

Patsy dialed the number for the London with trembling fingers that won't work properly, and then she waited. She was entirely aware of the fact she had an audience. She was all too aware – though she swallowed it, pretending it didn't existence – that this was drawing attention to her, and in any other situation, she would avoid it at all costs.

When the voice on the other end of the line told her nothing, it was all she could do not to slam the phone against the wall and smash it to pieces. She knew, somewhere, in the back of her mind, that that would be the answer. But she had had to call anyway.

If they won't tell me anything, she probably isn't dead.

The thought barely registered. She couldn't concentrate with how unfair everything was, how much everything hurt. They're only letting her see her nearest and dearest. The words ached through her like a bullet wound, but she remained composed, told herself she was not going to cry again. It was a familiar feeling, easy to slip back into. Delia's voice unexpectedly rung out in her ears and she willed it away, squeezed her eyes closed until tiny stars danced about before her eyelids, but it was still there. You cope better with facades than I do.

She always felt uneasy going back to the London, despite the friends who still worked there, and the years of memories she'd built on the premises, or perhaps because of. Until now, the London was Delia. The only part of it she longed for, was Delia.

She paced up and down the corridor, the bunch of flowers feeling foreign in her grip. Delia loved flowers, but Patsy had never once bought them for her. Silently, she decided that as soon as all of this was over, she would treat her to flowers every week. Every day, even.

Finally, a shape from within the room approached the door, and she froze, too afraid to look through the cloudy glass for fear of what she might find on the other side.

Although Mrs Busby sounded like Delia, she looked nothing like her. Her eyes were dark, her hair a dirty blonde. She didn't have the same soft expression, the soft pink lips, the round rosy cheeks. Perhaps, on a good day, but not today. Patsy swallowed, wondering if it was too late to go back. Delia had her mother; did she even need her at all?

No.

Patsy fixed the cheeriest smile she could muster to her face, and introduced herself. As soon as she noticed the lack of recognition in Delia's mothers eyes, the smile faltered.

And then.

"OH! Of course, you're the lady she helps with cubs!"

I can't do this, she thought, but it didn't show. Delia was right. She was better at facades. Stiff upper lip, and all that. But with every word this stranger - who she thought should feel familiar, but didn't – said, she could feel her strength crumbling, feel her entire body's will to continue this charade slip like grains of sand through her finger tips. Spells. Seizures. Memory loss. The words got caught in her throat as she repeated them, blinking back tears that she didn't feel worthy to cry. It wasn't her place to cry. It would do no good.

She had to be strong.

It didn't seem so bad at first. Delia didn't talk right away, but she was responsive. Her hair was scraped back from her face, and she had cuts and bruises and scratches from where she'd struck the road, but she still looked like Delia. She still had a faint smell of her, beneath the hospital chemicals, and the crisp, uncomfortable sheets. Patsy did what Patsy did best, and talked shop. All completely logical and practical and not the least bit sentimental. She waited until Delia's mother had gone before she so much as touched her, though she longed so much for the warmth of her skin, to be sure that she were real, and not a sleep-deprived hallucination.

When she reached for her hand, she felt Delia tense.

It was always Delia who snatched her hand mid-conversation, or who covered hers in a cafe, unaware of prying eyes. Always Delia who looped an arm through hers, or who placed a hand on her knee at the dinner table.

But Delia pulled away.

She knew it, then. She'd known it as soon as she sat down with her, but she hadn't allowed herself to really think about it, to digest the information. But then, as she gazed into Delia's beautiful blue eyes, as she had so many times before, she wasn't met with the look of adoration she had grown accustomed to. She was met with confusion.

Delia looked like a child. Cautious and wide-eyed and as though she longed to soak every little bit of information in. She spoke slower, her accent more pronounced.

She felt the tears begin to drip down her face before she had even registered that she was crying, and then she couldn't stop. Delia continued to speak, in the background, but she was this small, fragile, incomplete version of the woman Patsy loved, and every word felt more like a stab to the heart, and she couldn't bear to look at her any longer.

"You're a good friend to still be here, all these hours later,"

Patsy looked up, tried to will herself to smile, but ultimately, gave up. She didn't want niceties. She didn't want to be told how good a friend she was.

She hadn't left, because she couldn't.

It was as though her legs were glued to the uncomfortable hard-back chair she was planted in. She couldn't stop thinking about the morning it had happened, running over that last hour they'd spent together over and over and over as if maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she could go back to it, and try again.

Delia's mother handed her a tissue, and she gazed through it, her eyes no longer able to focus on anything.

"They won't give us any promises... just hope..."

Hope, Patsy decided, was a dangerous thing. Hope had been what led her to believe that she would finally get her happy ending. She had been foolish enough to let herself believe that she might get to be with the person who made her happiest, and to not have that ripped away from her two days later, just as it had been when she was a child.

Patsy sniffed, finally forcing herself out of the daze she'd fallen into. Her eyes groggily focussed on the woman seated next to her, and she managed the tiniest of smiles.

"She's asleep just now... Always such a peaceful sleeper. Just like she was as a baby."

"Yes," Patsy said, despite herself. Mrs Busby frowned, just a little.

There was an awkward silence, and then: "She's going to need to be cared for every hour of the day. I'd best get looking into the best place for her."

Snapping out of her thoughts, Patsy turned sharply, "the best place for her?'

"The specialists recommended I take her back to Wales, back to the family home, of course. But I don't know that I could look after her properly... she's not a baby any longer, and I'm not as young as I once was..." she watched a tear as it made its way slowly down Delia's mother's face, for the first time seeing a similarity between her and her daughter, and it wrenched at her heart, "sorry, sorry, I'm try to be so strong for her..."

Me too, Patsy wanted to say, but didn't.

She could taste bile again. The thought of Delia miles and miles away, whilst Patsy attempted to piece her own life back together, making her feel sick. What would happen to the flat? She certainly couldn't live there alone, with every inch of it making her long for what could have been – what should have been; the detailed plans Delia had drawn up for what they would do with the place once they had the time, and the money.

How would she be able to go on, without her?

"I suppose we might get a full time nurse, or look into putting her into some kind of residential-"

"No," the word slipped out before she could stop it.

Mrs Busby turned to her with wide, surprised eyes, but she looked defeated, "sweetheart, I don't know what else I could do."

"Then," Patsy said, suddenly feeling a lot stronger, a lot bolder, making up her mind on the spot, "let me take care of her."