AN: I am fully aware this isn't now nursing, hospitals, hierarchy work — that said, for the purposes of this, let us imagine that it is. Suspension of disbelief and all that jazz.

No beta, all mistakes are mine. But if you enjoyed it, hated it, or had any feeling related to it outside of ambivalence, feel free to share a review.


Friday nights had their own energy in the east end of London. The air was electric - alive with promises of excitement and adventure and possibility.

Most of the people were just getting off work were ready to spend what money they had on celebrating and enjoying life, even if only for the night while the others were settling in for a long night of work. The men and women of St. Nonnatus Hospital weren't much different, those who had finished their day shifts were just now making it into the locker rooms to strip out of their scrubs and head out into the night, while those coming in for the night shift were settling in for the usual Friday bedlam. Like many jobs where the hours were long, the work stressful, the pay low - situations forged casual relationships into long-lasting friendships. It was here at Nonnatus where men and women from every walk of life met in some way, shape or form and it was during these rare changeover times that allowed the staff to see each other during their monthly rotations. These moments, despite occurring twice a day (with no disrespect to the swing shifts, always forgotten, neither here nor there), were moments of great celebration during the solemnity of their shifts. They would spend the few moments of togetherness catching up with one another's lives, or making plans, borrowing perfume or a hair tie - and the occasional phone blasting out the latest song as the lucky ones who were on their way out got themselves ready.

Ever quiet amongst the cacophony of noise in the women's locker rooms was Sister Bernadette - it wasn't to say she didn't approve of the goings on, more that she was forever a witness to them, an observer to these women, most of whom were the same age but so vastly different. For their parts, the other laywomen of the hospital knew the sisters preferred to keep to themselves, and so would limit their non-professional interactions with them out of respect to their chosen vocations. So in instances like tonight, where the women burst out singing, loud and off tempo as they tried to keep time with the flow of the melody, they would only look past her, as if she were only half-there. She knew she should join her fellow sisters in the second floor room, so much more quiet, more private, but there was always this energy here that made her smile shyly, made her ache.

St. Nonnatus hospital was built in the infancy of the NHS as a shining beacon of modernity to help the poorest of London's poor sixty some odd years ago, and now stood as a relic, the last of dying breed, but still serving the poorest of London's poor. There was nothing to be done, repairs and patching and prayer were all that was holding this building together after decades of use and abuse. It wasn't neglect, for the Anglican order dedicated to the St. Raymond Nonnatus, removed from his dying mother's womb, had spent the whole of their energies and efforts in maintaining the hospital as best as they could. It was just that the building was so hopelessly overrun and undervalued that every other hospital came first in terms of funding, of supplies, of staffing. That said, St. Nonnatus tended to draw a particular kind of staff member, only the most dedicated to their profession, to learning all they could, to serving as many as they could. Most of their staff sought out their roles here, knowing that the practical education that they would receive here would be invaluable. Those at Nonnatus learned quickly because they didn't have the luxury of time, of additional staffing. If something needed to be done, they did it and if they didn't know how, they learned it, and quick. The ship was run by Chief of Staff Sister Julienne, a woman who parlayed her earlier days as a nurse and her devotion to others into a career as caretaker and guardian to the building and community and a mentor to those who worked with her. At her right hand sat the young Sister Bernadette, who kept her in touch with the soul and the spirit of the staff, religious and layperson alike. At her left sat Doctor Turner as the Chief of Surgery, a confidant and a friend who took on as much as he could and more, especially for a man in his position.

With a quick glance in the mirror to ensure her hair was appropriately covered by the surgical cap, Sister Bernadette slips out of the change room quietly, leaving the women to try to keep pace with the rapper playing on their phone. This is the calm before the storm. She closes her eyes and takes a breath to steady herself before making her way to the board, taking any available opportunity to reflect and offer thanks, knowing as it's Friday, she'll likely not make it to compline in the chapel where the working sisters perform their daily prayers. She completes her moment and looks about the nursing station in the neonatal ward, updating the boards with the name of the night nurses and doctors, reviewing notes. "Sister Bernadette, I had rather hoped to talk to you downstairs, but you slipped out!" Nurse Trixie Franklin exclaims, she stands before her, all curled blonde hair and bright red lipstick, a starlet in scrubs. "Can you let Dr. Turner know it's very important I speak to him when he comes in? I've sent a text, but you know that man." Except she doesn't, not at all, outside of the bare facts. "I'm in A&E all night and will relish the chance to see someone not about to be sick down my front." She beams at other woman before turning on her heel and making her way to the A&E ward. Sister Bernadette offers up a silent thanks that Trixie is downstairs for the night - she's a brilliant nurse, full of passion and energy and curiosity - but nights on the neonatal floor are a quiet affair and she finds keeping up with Trixie's dialogue more exhausting than a double shift.

The handful of the nurses trickle up and quietly they begin their work for the night.


"Sister, have you seen Dr. Turner?" The soft voice of Nurse Cynthia Miller breaks through her focus on the documents before her.
"Sorry, I haven't. Anything wrong?"
"No, not yet, I just wanted to see if he can stop by little Noah and take a look. His fever is coming down, but there's still some other lingering issues that look like they aren't improving as they should."
"When I see him, I'll pass the message along."
"Thanks, anything interesting?" She asks, indicating to papers before Sister Bernadette.
"Depends what you find interesting," She laughs softly, "Fact checking Sister Julienne's speech for her next fundraising event."
"I don't know how she does it, but I am glad she does. Having you must be a great help." Cynthia smiles before grabbing another set of patient records and returning to work.

Sister Bernadette turns her eyes back down at the pages spread out before her, trying not to think about how often she now hid behind a wan smile, how heavy those words, well-meaning as they were, made her feel. Where she had once loved these night shifts - so much time to think and pray and work - uninterrupted by the world outside but now she has come to dread them, seeing only the darkness in her thoughts and her soul reflected in the world outside of herself. No, it wouldn't do to dwell on these thoughts, she reminds herself, shaking her head out of the dark clouds that hung around her. She picks up her pen and begins to lose herself in the the elegant script of Sister Julienne's writing, who after all these years still insisted on drafting her thoughts with pen and paper. She's so engrossed in her work that she nearly misses the clear chime of the lift signal and the silent rush of wind from the doors sliding opening, revealing a sheepish Dr. Turner and a child sized bundle in his arms. He makes his way to the nurses station, "The sitter canceled," He shrugs, offering in ways of a quiet apology, flashing a half grin she can't help but return. "Everything alright here Sister? Holding down the fort?"

"Oh, we're fine." She comes out from behind the nurses station to greet them both. "Hello Timothy, you're up awfully late."
"I was sleeping until dad made me get up." He mumbles, nestling deeper into the crook of his father's neck.
"In the car Tim. I wasn't about to leave you in the parking lot."
"But I was sleeping!"
"And you can sleep in my office."
"Oh, Doctor!" Cynthia rounds the corner, catching sight of the three of them. "Did Sister Bernadette tell you about Noah?"
"No, no, I just arrived. Is he worse?"
"Come here Timothy," Sister Bernadette softly speaks, taking the small boy into her arms from his father, freeing him to see his patients. "Let's get you settled, shall we?"
"Hmmmmmm." He murmurs, cuddling closer to her. "Your new glasses are pretty."
"Are they?"
"Yes, but they're awfully pokey."
"I'm sorry." She laughs.
"I'll be in to check on you in a bit Tim."
"Good night dad."
"Good night Tim. Sister, thank you." Dr. Turner he smiles apologetically to both woman and child, placing a hand on her arm for a moment before turning his attention to Nurse Miller.

It's not until much later that night, back at the nurses station, where they're reviewing patient notes side-by-side with with the Doctor does he turn to her, "He's right you know, Tim. Your new glasses really are rather pretty on you." For a brief moment, Sister Bernadette blushes and looks down. She feels wholly confused, but for the first time in a very long time, she doesn't feel half-invisible.

TBC.