Because we all want to know what Patrick is like when he gets a little bit drunk. Enjoy!
"Sister Bernadette?"
Sister Bernadette looked up from her half-eaten piece of toast to see Nurse Franklin. "Yes?"
"I've been called out. There's been a pub brawl in the Two Keys. Nothing too bad, but I'd hate to go alone…" Trixie's large blue eyes didn't quite meet those of Sister Bernadette.
Something has hurt her self-confidence, Sister Bernadette couldn't help but think. Ever since the Summer Fete, the young midwife had been overly cheerful in the presence of others, but Sister Bernadette had noticed that she was withdrawn and demure when she thought no one noticed her. She had also decided not to go out that next Friday, claiming that she had a headache. It was nothing for Trixie not to go dancing.
Then again, it was nothing for you to let Doctor Turner kiss your hand, Sister Bernadette thought. She felt herself blushing when she remembered the careful way he held her hand, how his calloused fingers stroked past her grazed palm, over her wrist…
"Of course. I'll fetch my bag," Sister Bernadette answered.
Nurse Franklin's face immediately lit up, her doll-like eyes sparkling like fresh water. "Simply marvellous!"
It turned out that there was very little that was 'simply marvellous' about the pub fight. Then again, brawls very rarely were. The Two Keys was large and rather dark, the room filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer and sweat.
"Nurses, coming through!" Nurse Franklin said as they pushed their way through the throngs of men.
The pub owner directed them to the back of his establishment. "They only dealt each other a couple of blows, nothing too bad, God bless," he explained, "and I didn't want ter call the bobbies, 'specially because the friends of one of them tried to break up the fight. They don't want trouble, and neither do I. I think one fella broke his nose, though."
"We'll see what we can do," Sister Bernadette said, clutching her bag a bit tighter as they approached the offenders. There were five of them, four sitting to one side, the other one all alone. One of the four, a large man with blond curls, held a handkerchief soiled with blood against his nose and kept glaring to the lonely figure on the other side. That man ignored him, cradling his hand. He sat with his back turned to them, hunched over a bottle.
"Here are the nurses," the pub owner said to the five, then to Trixie and Sister Bernadette: "Do you need anything?"
"Just a bowl of hot water and some towels, thank you," Sister Bernadette said.
"Now, gentlemen, what can we do for you?" Nurse Franklin asked.
The man with the handkerchief got up, staggered towards Sister Bernadette and took hold of her wimple. He smelled overwhelmingly of beer. "Now we can see what's underneath!" he slurred, and made as if to pull off her wimple.
Sister Bernadette tried to bat his hand away, but there was no need; the lonely figure had gotten up and almost flew at the man's throat.
"Touch her and I'll smash your teeth out!" he hissed.
Now that he no longer sat hunched, Sister Bernadette could see who he was. "Doctor Turner?!" she exclaimed.
Before the situation could escalate any further, Trixie took charge. She firmly planted herself between the doctor and the man with the curly hair. "If you insist on having another go at each other, you might want to schedule an appointment at a gym," she snapped, "but this is a pub and no place for a fight! Doctor Turner, I expected better of you. Now, I don't know who you are, but I doubt you want us to go to the nearest police officer and accuse you of starting a brawl, public drunkenness, and assailing a nun and nurse!"
The man seemed to deflate at her words and sat down again, muttering something about him 'not starting a fight' and 'only wanting to see who was right'. Doctor Turner gave the man a very dirty look before sitting down again and playing with his bottle.
"Sorry 'bout that, Sister," one of the other men said, "He's normally not like this."
Trixie rolled her eyes before turning to Sister Bernadette. "Are you alright?" she asked.
Sister Bernadette nodded.
"I think it is best if I tend to Mister Curlylocks over here whilst you take a look at Doctor," Trixie suggested.
"I agree."
"I'll leave you to it, then. Just shout if they give yer any trouble," The pub owner said as he placed some towels and two bowls with water on the table.
"Will do," Nurse Franklin said before turning her attention to the man she had named 'Mister Curlylocks'.
Sister Bernadette placed her bag on the table next to Doctor Turner and sat down gingerly. He took a swig of his bottle, still not looking at her. Sister Bernadette forced herself to study him. Apart from a quickly purpling bruise on his cheekbone he seemed not to have suffered any further damage, at least to his face. His eyes were bright with alcohol, though, and he kept cradling his right hand.
"I didn't know you frequented pubs," she said as she opened the clasp of her bag and took out her instruments.
"I don't." They both turned their heads to Mister Curleylocks, who had let out a very high-pitched squeal when Nurse Franklin set his nose.
"If you don't usually go to pubs, then why are you here?" She turned his face towards her so she could examine his cheek better. The bruise had a deep purple spot the size of a penny, with blue spreading around it in an uneven circle.
"Timothy is with a friend. The house was so lonely and cold…" He didn't finish his sentence, but hissed as she pressed her fingers against his zygomatic bone to test for fractures.
"I took you more for the 'drinking alone' type," Sister Bernadette admitted.
Doctor Turner smiled wryly. "I guess I'm more of an enigma than you thought, Sister."
"No, you can't take me dancing, you are drunk!" Trixie protested as her patient tried to wrap his arms around her. His friends drew him back, apologising once again for his behaviour. Mister Curlylocks' nose looked a bit like a potato.
"A nasty piece of work," Doctor Turner growled.
"Nothing that Nurse Franklin can't handle, I'm sure."
"Still, he's not exactly a prime example of the male of the human species." His words were faintly slurred. Sister Bernadette wondered just how much he had to drink. She had never seen the doctor intoxicated before.
"I'd say that his broken nose doesn't help." She dipped the tip of one of the towels in the water and gently wiped the bruise. Doctor Turner flinched and drew away. Sister Bernadette firmly grabbed his chin.
"Oh, shush. If you can't stand the pain you shouldn't get into fights," she scolded him softly. His hazel eyes sparkled.
"I did it to defend a lady's honour."
"And the lady was very grateful, no doubt, but you are not a medieval knight; you're a doctor, and you should have known better. Now, show me your hand." His hand was clearly hurt, his knuckles rimmed with red and swelling. She dipped another towel into the bowl with cold water, wrapping his hand in it. He sighed.
"No, don't drink, you've had more than enough, oh God!" Sister Bernadette turned her head in time to see Mister Curleylocks vomit all over Nurse Franklin. She stood paralyzed for a moment, then shuddered.
"Oh my," Sister Bernadette whispered.
"Right," Trixie said.
"Sorry, Nurse," the man said. It was hard to say in the dim light, but it looked as if his face had taken on a greenish hue.
"Well, I was done, anyway." She forced a smile on her face and turned towards his friends. "You can take him home now. Give him plenty of water to drink and some aspirin. He'll look like quite the prize-fighter tomorrow, though, and probably feel like the bad end of a tram smash, too."
"Thanks, Nurse," one of his mates said as they hoisted Mister Curleylocks up.
"Oh, I totally said you were the prettiest, love," one of them said and gave Trixie a wink and a huge grin that showed off his perfect teeth.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, and I doubt I want to know," Nurse Franklin said as she packed her bag. The man gave her another wink before dragging his hardly conscious friend away.
Doctor Turner mumbled something unintelligible as he saw them leave.
"What was that?" Sister Bernadette asked.
"Nothing." Doctor Turner tried to grab his bottle.
Sister Bernadette quickly snatched it up ."I think you've had enough for today, doctor," she said and stood up to place it out of his reach.
Trixie was trying to save her uniform.
"I'd say that you're working on a lost cause," Sister Bernadette said.
Trixie grimaced. "How absolutely appalling! And we still need to get the doctor home. He's absolutely in no state to drive, and I wouldn't trust him to find his way back," she said, vigorously rubbing the stained fabric of her uniform.
"Why don't you go back to Nonnatus and draw yourself a nice, hot bath?" She took hold of the younger nurse's hand and squeezed it. Trixie sighed.
"But the doctor…"
"Is perfectly safe in my hands. I can take care of him, honestly."
"I guess you've taken care of drunken men before, you being Scottish," Nurse Franklin laughed. She brought her hand to her mouth to cover the sound, then pulled a face as she caught a whiff of vomit.
"Ugh. I've a good mind to put a whole bucket of washing detergent into the tub and never get out. Are you sure you can manage?"
Sister Bernadette nodded.
"Thank you, Sister!" Trixie grabbed her bag, gave her a wink, and left.
"Come, time to leave," Sister Bernadette said and she helped the doctor to get up.
"Now, did you drive here?"
"Nah, I didn't trust myself to drive back. My house is only a couple of blocks away."
"Can you walk?"
"Of course!" Doctor Turner said. He took a few steps and wobbled dangerously.
Sister Bernadette had to hide a smile. She took her bag in one hand and used her other arm to support the doctor. "Let's get you home."
Later, Sister Bernadette could not be sure how long it took to get to Doctor Turner's home. She had to support the doctor and steer her bike along with her with her free hand, which was far from easy. They didn't speak as they walked.
"Here it is!" Doctor Turner slumped against his own front door as soon as Sister Bernadette let him go. She parked her bike and made sure her bag was attached properly before returning. Meanwhile, Doctor Turner had managed to find the spare key underneath the flowerpot (the keys in his pocket proved too big a challenge), though he had not yet succeeded in actually opening the door.
"Let me," she said, extending her hand, but the doctor shook his head.
"I can do this!" he grunted.
"It's no trouble."
"You've gone through too much with me already this night. It wouldn't be right to…oof!" he exclaimed as the door swung inwards and he fell, face-forward, inside.
Sister Bernadette walked in after him and helped him up. "Helping you would put my mind at rest, if nothing else. Honestly, I fear you can't even get up the stairs without breaking something," she said, helping the doctor up.
Indeed, the stairs were the hardest part.
"You're more than I deserve," Doctor Turner mumbled as they walked along the hallway towards his bedroom. Sister Bernadette realised that she had never seen the doctor's bedroom before, and couldn't prevent a faint blush from colouring her cheeks. The room was bigger than she thought, with prettily patterned wallpaper and dark-wooden furniture. Doctor Turner flopped down on the bed with a heavy sigh.
"Come, let's get you settled," Sister Bernadette said, helping him to sit upright again. She gently undid his shoelaces, feeling the blush creep down to her neck as Doctor Turner's gaze took in every inch of her. She could practically see the loving adoration radiate off of him.
"You seem to have a lot of practice with this," he commented as she slid one of his shoes off.
"My father would sometimes come home roaring drunk after my mother died," Sister Bernadette confessed.
"Oh."
"How's your hand?"
He grunted, extending his hand so she could grasp it in her own two. His knuckles were swollen and bluish bruises had crept along some of his digits. She guessed that, once the numbing effect of alcohol and adrenaline wore off, he would be in a lot of pain.
"Oh, you silly man," she whispered as she gently checked his fingers for fractures again.
"Do you know why I did it?"
She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter, that you'd always lost the fight once you threw a punch, but the look on his face made her nod instead. His gaze had become very intense and his brow had knitted together.
"Those men were discussing which nurse was the prettiest. The man that Nurse Franklin called 'Mister Curleylocks' said they couldn't decide until they knew what the nuns looked like underneath their habit. He said he would bet that you looked very nice without the habit and wimple." Doctor Turner smiled wryly, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. "I stood up and told him that he didn't have the right to talk about you or any of the nurses that way. He stood up, too, and told me he would say whatever he liked. I told him he was drunk, that he needed to go home. That's when he punched me. I punched him back, in the gut, and was about to walk away when he said: 'you know they all want some male attention. That young one especially, acting all prim and proper, is just aching for a good fuck.' So I broke his nose."
Sister Bernadette now understood why the man had tried to pull off her wimple, and why one of his friends told Trixie that he thought her the prettiest.
"So, you see, I did it to defend a lady's honour," Doctor Turner said, but this time he didn't smile. His face had become still, unreadable.
"You don't have to get into fights for me," Sister Bernadette whispered.
Doctor Turner took her face in his good hand and tilted it up so that she looked at him. "I would give you the world and more, if I could. I want to say I want to because I am selfless, but I'm not. Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to come home and find you in the kitchen, preparing dinner for me and Timothy. When my mind wanders at night, I dream of what it must feel like to wake up with you in my arms. And I hate myself for it, because you are not some prize to be won. Those thoughts make me feel just as dirty as the man I fought."
Sister Bernadette's vision had gone blurry with tears and her chest ached. She couldn't speak, so she did the only thing that could adequately express what she felt: she kissed his knuckles.
Kiss. I. Kiss. Love. Kiss. You. Kiss.
The doctor brushed one of her tears away with his thumb.
"I'll fetch you something to drink whilst you get your pyjamas on," she whispered and fled the room. She stumbled her way to the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and cried. Her heart ached for the man upstairs.
"Oh God," she sobbed. How had it ever come to this? How could the doctor ever have fallen so in love with her that he risked life and limb just when a drunken fool made lewd comments about her? And how had it ever come so far that she wished she could kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, just to take the loneliness and sadness away?
Get out of here, a small voice in the back of her mind told her, but she couldn't, not even if she had wanted to.
Sister Bernadette took an empty glass and filled it with water. She shivered; the room was cold and dark. She suddenly understood what Doctor Turner must have felt as he came home. Hadn't she felt the same loneliness at Nonnatus, too? And there, there were others. The doctor was alone, or trying to take care of his son whilst juggling a demanding profession that would always mean he failed in some capacity or another.
I dream of what it must feel like to wake up with you in my arms. She remembered how he held her hand at the Summer Fete, looking at her digits as if he had never seen anything so fragile, so beautiful. She shivered again as she came to a decision. She took off her wimple and cap, pulled the necklace with the wooden cross over her head, undid the buttons that kept her scapular on, and left them on the counter. She pulled her hairpins out, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. Armed with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin she mounted the stairs.
Doctor Turner had managed to put on his pyjamas in her absence. They were of a soft cotton, patterned with stripes. He snored softly as Sister Bernadette entered the room.
"Doctor Turner, wake up. You have to drink something," she whispered, threading her hand through his hair. He groggily opened his eyes, then sat up straight as he saw her. He reached out for his hand to touch her, hesitated.
Sister Bernadette sat down next to him and helped him down the glass of water and the tablets, then made him drink another glass.
"This is a dream," he whispered. His fingertips skimmed her cheekbone, tucked a strand of wayward hair beneath her ear.
"Is it a good one?"
He pulled her close and kissed her by way of an answer. Sister Bernadette sighed as his lips pressed against hers. The kiss lasted too long and not long enough.
"I wished I would never wake up," Doctor Turner murmured as she stroked his face.
She smiled. "Go back to sleep."
He stroked the scar on her hand, sending shivers along her spine.
"But if I wake, you'll be gone, and I'll be alone again," he said, but his eyelids were already struggling to stay open.
Sister Bernadette pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep well, darling," she whispered.
Trixie looked positively radiant that morning. Sister Bernadette was pretty sure she herself looked a bit like a wreck, deathly pale with large circles underneath her eyes. She hadn't slept at all. Trixie took her apart as soon as she could.
"I have to thank you for coming with me yesterday, Sister," she said as she lit a cigarette.
Sister Bernadette smiled wanly. "Only doing my job."
"Still, you were a real brick." Trixie exhaled slowly. The smoke curled around her head before falling apart.
"You know, I had a nasty encounter with a man a few weeks ago. He forced himself on me," the nurse said, not quite meeting the nun's eyes.
"Oh, Trixie!" Sister Bernadette squeezed her hand.
"Oh, nothing that bad, I assure you. I could get away and I was quite alright, just a bit shaken. I confess I felt as if I was somehow to blame for it all," she said, taking a deep drag from her cigarette. "I felt I was responsible, but yesterday, when that man tried to pull off your wimple, I had no trouble standing up for you, because I knew you didn't ask for that kind of attention. Then I realised: neither had I, so why would I blame myself? It was not my fault, and I had to stop telling myself it was. I know I'm not a nun, and I did want to have a nice evening, but I never gave that man permission to touch me." Her doll-like eyes were wet with tears.
"I didn't know. Why didn't you tell anyone?"
Trixie smiled. "I felt so ashamed. I kept going over everything I'd done and said. It was only yesterday that I realised that it is alright. It is alright that I wanted that man to think I was pretty; it was alright that I want to be loved and kissed. And it is alright that I didn't want it to go any further." The young nurse crushed the cigarette underneath her shoe.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Sister Bernadette said.
"It's not your fault. I am glad you went with me. It made me realise it's also important that men respect me, because without respect, their caresses are worth nothing."
The words sent a jolt through Sister Bernadette.
I fought to defend a lady's honour.
But you are not an object, not some kind of prize to be won.
"Are you alright, sweetie? You're looking dreadfully pale, all of a sudden," Trixie said, her brows knitting.
"I have to check something," Sister Bernadette mumbled, "Excuse me." It was all she could do not to run to her bike. She pedalled to Doctor Turner's house faster than she had ever pedalled before. The wind tore at her wimple. Her blood thundered in her ears as she finally reached her destination. She couldn't even be bothered with parking the bike right. She nearly bowled over the flower pot when she tried to find the spare key and banged the door shut, but she found she simply couldn't care.
Her heart sang inside her as she made her way up the stairs, softly, shoes in one hand. Sister Bernadette held her breath as the bedroom door squeaked, but its occupant didn't wake. He was on his side, gently breathing, his hair mushed in a delightful way. The lines that mapped his worry on his face were smoothed away by his slumber.
Sister Bernadette sat down next to him and traced those lines with her fingertips. Doctor Turner knit his brows and made small noise before opening his eyes.
"Good morning," Sister Bernadette whispered as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. The doctor squinted, then bolted upright as he realised who she was.
"I thought I dreamed it all," he said, clasping her hands in his.
Sister Bernadette simply smiled.
"Oh God, I thought I dreamed it all and I would awake alone again." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her scar.
"You didn't dream it."
"But at the Fete… What made you change your mind? Have you changed your mind?" His questions were frantic, clambering over each other in their haste to leave his mouth.
"Yesterday, I realised I have been alone for a very, very long time. I didn't know how alone I was till I came here, and saw that you were just as lonely. And I never, never want you to be alone again. You are a good man, Doctor Turner." Tears coursed down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, Sister, please don't cry," the doctor said. He took her face in his hand and wiped away her tears with his thumbs.
Sister Bernadette smiled. "My name is Shelagh," she whispered.
"Patrick."
"Now we know each other, and you never have to be alone again," she said as she pressed her scarred hand to his cheek. A tear clung to his sandy lashes before travelling down his face, dripping on her palm. It lay there, glistening, cradled by the ridge of her scar.
"We will never be alone again," Patrick corrected her and gathered her in his arms.
"You do have to promise me one thing, though," Shelagh said.
"What is that?"
"That you're going to act every bit the doctor, and not the medieval knight."
He laughed at that and peppered her face with kisses. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, darling, as long as it means having you."
