Possibly a bit waffly and heavy on internal thought, but then the problem with writing is that you can't see the small nuances of facial expressions.

Her legs burned as she pedalled as fast as she could, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the parish hall as possible, as if speed and distance would enable her to leave what had happened behind her. Tears stung at her eyes, she was so very confused, what had happened hadn't felt wrong and yet it was. She could almost still feel his hands burning through her skin, his mouth on hers.

She shook her head, it was wrong, so very wrong she reminded herself urgently. Drawing closer to home, her pace quickened and she swung round the corner, narrowly missing running down Fred. Her hands shook as she jumped off her bike. "I'm sorry, so very sorry," she spluttered out.

"That's alright, Sister, no harm done." He gave her a warm smile. "Although I hope you weren't rushing home for cake, from what I can gather from Sister Evengelina's yells, Sister Monica Joan has already had it."

"Right," she nodded "I'll remember that," she mumbled, his words rushing over her, not one of them registering with her.

His head tilted as he stared at her quizzically, scratching the side of his head as he asked, "You alright, Sister Bernadette?"

"Yes, yes," she assured him hurriedly, making her way past him and up the stone steps. As she opened the heavy wooden door she could hear Sister Evangelina's roars echoing down the hall as she raged pointlessly against yet another missing cake. She ignored them, her fingers fumbling with the catch of her cape; it took a few seconds, her frustration growing until she thought she might scream, when finally it loosened. Pulling it from around her shoulders, she hooked it neatly on the coat rack.

The noise of the rabble drew closer, this time it was the chatter of the young nurse's, she couldn't face them, and she just couldn't. They would have so many questions if they saw her like this, questions she couldn't face, couldn't answer.

She made for the chapel, seeking solace, seeking the answers that she'd sought for weeks and hoping that perhaps tonight they would miraculously appear. Kneeling in front of the alter, she clasped her hands together, muttering softly under her breath, "Forgive me, Father. I...I'm so confused, I don't know what to do."

She squeezed her eyes shut, the silence echoing around her. She had never felt so alone, she had always found comfort in prayer and yet now, when she felt as though she needed it the most there was none to be found. It felt as though nothing could heal the ache that sat constantly in her chest, weighing her down. "Please," she murmured again, "Please show me what I should do."

The ache in her chest intensified, her head pounding and her eyes stinging as she fought her urge to cry. She bit down on her bottom lip, and she could swear that she could still feel the pressure of his mouth on hers, she had never wanted as much as she had in those few moments. Lust, she thought belatedly, lust was a deadly sin, they had even skimmed the topic of sinning when they spoke. Was that what this was? A test? It felt like more, but then she had never lusted after a man before so how could she truly know? When did lust become love? And did it make a difference as to what it was? After all she had promised herself to God and regardless what label she pinned to this, she was still forsaking her vows.

The coldness of the floor sank in through her dress, chilling her skin and still she did not move, she couldn't. She needed clarity and this had always been where she had found that, surely it couldn't fail her now.

As he watched Sister Bernadette rush from the room, Patrick Turner sank back against the wall, closing his eyes as he heard the soft, hurried pad of her footsteps, followed by the loud clunk of the door that signified that she truly had left. That should not have happened, he thought to himself and yet it had, and more than that it had made him feel euphoric. His pulse felt as though it were thundering in his ears, his hair felt ruffled where her fingers had threaded through it and he couldn't help but replay the sound of her soft sighs of pleasure.

Blinking his eyes open, he rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. It was of no use standing around here, she wasn't likely to come back. He reached for his suit jacket, shrugging it on and fumbling in the pockets for his cigarettes. Pulling out the packet, he turned it around in his fingers, remembering when they had shared one, remembering the way she had taken a few small puffs, almost savouring them. He had thought for years that he knew her and yet in the last few months she had continually surprised him. He craved her company, he saw the kind looks she bestowed on his son and it made his heart ache all the more.

He shouldn't want anything from her, he knew that, of course he did, he was no fool and yet the knowledge didn't stop him. It was insanity, even if she wasn't a nun, she was so much younger than him, such a pretty petite thing underneath the bulk of her clothing, she shouldn't be interested in him, and yet she was. She wanted him and that thought made him feel more alive than he had done in a long while.

Except he couldn't ignore the fact that she was sworn to a higher purpose, and even though he had never truly held onto any type of faith he had to respect that. He had felt wretched enough the last time and he had simply kissed her hand, he couldn't seemed to stay away though, like a moth to the flame, she drew him in.

Staring down at the cigarette packet, he pocketed them again. It was no good standing here, it wouldn't solve anything, that being said, he wasn't sure what would.

"Chip?" Timothy asked, tilting the paper wrapping towards his Dad.

Looking up dazedly, Patrick blinked at his son. "No," he replied after a minute, he nodded down at his own dinner, which he'd yet to touch and added, "I have plenty."

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "But you've only had a bite, thought there might be something wrong with it."

"No, no, it's fine." He picked up a chip as proof of point and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

Timothy's eyes narrowed as he stared at his Dad thoughtfully. "Are you sad? You look sad."

Reaching out, Patrick ruffled the young boy's dark hair. "No, I'm not sad, just thinking."

"What about? It doesn't look like anything nice."

Some of it was nice, exceedingly so, that was part of the bloody problem, he thought to himself ruefully. "It's not bad," he finally commented. "And anyway, how could I be sad when I have you?" He gave a small smile, as he added, "Now eat your dinner."

Obligingly picking up a chip, Timothy told him through a mouthful, "You look like a Sheppard that's lost his sheep, that's what Granny Parker used to say."

"Did she?" He mumbled darkly, he'd never had any issues with his mother in law but he didn't like the idea of her discussing his problems with Timothy.

"Yes, I heard her day it to one of her friends."

"Ah," his irritation lessened slightly. "You know that you shouldn't eavesdrop, or talk with your mouth full."

"I know," came the sullen reply, accompanied by an eye roll that Patrick was sure his son must have down to perfection now, after all he practised it often enough. They lapsed into silence for a moment before Timothy asked, "Are you thinking about Mum?"

"No," he replied honestly, shaking his head. "When I think about your Mum, I think about the good times, I don't feel sad thinking about her, not anymore."

Staring at the chip in his hand for a few moments, he finally replied, without looking up, "I don't either, not really. I still miss her sometimes but I don't," he frowned and his lips pursed before he continued, "I don't get as upset as I used to." He finally glanced up, "Is that bad?" he asked.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Patrick shook his head. "No, it isn't bad. Your Mum would hate us to be unhappy."

Timothy nodded, turning his attention back to his dinner, his questioning apparently at an end. Staring down at his own dinner, Patrick forced himself to start eating, noticing that his son smiled into his dinner as he did. This was no good, he thought to himself, how long could he really continue down this road? She would never, could never be his and it was agony to dwell on any possibility that she could.

"Did you see my X-ray?" Timothy asked suddenly, drawing him out of his own mind once more.

"Of course I did, and you have nothing to worry about." He had asked the technician to alert him immediately of anything came of either Tim's screening, or those who worked in Nonnatus House, and he had been relieved when everyone had came back clear.

"Can I see it?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Because I want to see what it looks like, you know, my skeleton. Did you know that the human body has 206 bones in it?"

"Funnily enough I did," Patrick replied with a grin, "but did you know that when you're born you have about 300 bones."

Timothy's eyes widened. "No, so what happens to the extra ones?"

"They fuse together as people get older."

"Wow..." Timothy muttered. "The body's quite interesting, isn't it Dad?"

"It is," he agreed, looking at his son fondly. They didn't often get the chance just to talk, away from the stresses and strains of everyday life.

"So, about my x-ray?"

"You can't see it," he told him gently. "It's already been sent away with the rest, I'm afraid."

"Oh," his little face dropped with disappointment, before he gave the smallest of shrugs. "I suppose it was really busy today, and it would be really difficult to find mine, wouldn't it?"

"It could be."

Letting out a long suffering sigh, Timothy scrunched up the paper of his now finished fish and chips and reached for his Dad's swiping a few chips neatly off the plate. "I saw Sister Bernadette today," he told him.

Patrick cleared his throat almost awkwardly as he replied, "Yes, yes you would have done, she was helping with the screening."

"She's the one who told me about the bones," he informed him happily. "We couldn't talk for long though, I got called in and when I came out she was with someone else."

Looking at the way his son's face wrinkled at the statement, he asked, "Was there something you wanted to talk to her about?"

"Our medal, the one we got for winning the three legged race," he clarified.

"Yes, I remember."

"Well I was thinking that because we both won it, maybe we should share it and take turns of keeping it."

"That's a very nice thought."

"Yeah, well I wouldn't have won it with you," came the innocent reply. "You really were hopeless."

Letting out a small snort of laughter, Patrick told him, "Then I suppose that you're secretly glad for once that I got called away."

"Only because Sister Bernadette was there, I like her."

"Yes," he mumbled, watching as Timothy pinched more of his chips. "Yes she's very...nice," he finished lamely, unable to think of the words he wanted – not that he should be saying them if he did. "She's a very nice person."

"She's funny as well, and she makes me feel better when you miss things."

Out of the mouth of babes, he thought sadly. "You know I don't want to miss anything," he started awkwardly.

"I know, but you're busy, and it's nice to have someone there when you're away," he admitted in a small voice. He looked up and gave a small shrug as he added, "You don't have to feel bad, I like spending time with her." Taking one more chip before pushing his chair away from the table he concluded, "I'll ask her about the medal the next time I see her."

Patrick gave a small nod, watching as his son darted from the table, belatedly calling after him, "And go for a bath."

The mumbled reply was lost to him, and he wasn't sure whether it had been an agreement or a refusal, and he couldn't quite bring himself to go and chase him, not yet anyway. His mind was back on the matter of Sister Bernadette. Timothy liked her, and he was obviously moving on from his Mum's death, he might not be opposed to the idea of...of what? He asked himself in irritation, she was a bloody nun! Why did his brain refuse to reconcile that?

Sister Bernadette had prayed until the coldness of the chapel had seeped into her bones, until she couldn't stay there any longer. Her knees had ached when she'd finally moved, but her mind was as troubled as ever.

She turned onto her side, staring at the unadorned wall across from her. Closing her eyes she could almost feel his arms around her again and she sighed softly, the only time she didn't feel quite so confused and upset was when she thought of him, when she ignored the obstacles and just focussed on him and how he made her feel.

Pressing her fingertips to her mouth, she fell asleep thinking of him and what had transpired between them.