A/N: The final chapter, guys! I originally intended something short and silly, but seeing as this is the final chapter I feel I should end with a bang, so this is one of the longer fics. It is based on the prompt 'Sister B and Doctor T go on a train together', which I think was requested by MariaLujan, though I'm not completely sure. Enjoy!

Sister Bernadette liked stations. As a nun, she was familiar with the comfort that silence and rest could bring, but she felt that there was something soothing in being surrounded by a bustling crowd, too. Every now and then she would cycle to a station in London, most often All Saints, plop down on a bench and watch the people and trains passing by.

Sister Bernadette enjoyed her time at train stations the most when she felt doubtful and worn out. The last great journey she had made by train had been from Aberdeen to London, when she came to the great city to train as a nurse. She had been so full of energy and faith then. Just watching the trains would invoke that memory, and her zeal would light up like a star inside her, burning away every scrap of doubt and every fragment of tiredness.

Today, though, the puttering of the great engines did nothing for her. It just reminded her that she had been full of piety and hope for the future, a stark contrast to what she felt now. The constant coming and going of people could always cheer her up; Sister Bernadette adored seeing the bright-patterned dresses the women wore, their coats pops of colour against the dreary stone of the station. Now, it made her painfully aware of the unassuming colour of her habit, and just how lonesome she was; surrounded by people, but alone. Every unfamiliar face was a tiny stab, confronting her with the fact that there was only one face she really wanted to see.

Sister Bernadette removed her glasses, put them on her lap, and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes.

Don't cry, she admonished herself. It would not do to be seen crying in such a public place. Normally, Sister Bernadette was good at keeping her emotions close to her heart. She had learned not to show her sorrow after her mother died; seeing her cry would undo her father. His heart had already been broken; Sister Bernadette had felt, even as a child, that she would have to be the strong one if they wanted to continue living. So, she knew what it was to keep a stiff upper lip. However, the past few months had made it more and more difficult to just keep calm and carry on, and there was only one person she could blame that on.

Doctor Turner, she thought, biting her lip. It was bad enough that she had to work with him every day, forced to pretend to be a professional. Now, he was consuming her every waking thought, too.

Not just waking thoughts, a brutally honest voice sneered. She felt her face grow hot. How often had she awoken in the middle of the night, her breathing rapid and her skin flushed because of unchaste dreams that featured the doctor in a starring role? The lingering sensation of his ghostlike fingers made her weep with shame.

"Sister Bernadette?" Her eyes flew open. She hastily put her glasses on. Before her stood Timothy Turner, clutching a ride kite to his chest.

"Timothy?" she cried out in surprise.

"Can I sit down?" he asked, gesturing to the seat beside her.

"Of course." Sister Bernadette scooped up her bag and placed it in her lap. Timothy carefully placed the kite between his legs.

"Are you going on an outing, too, Sister?" Timothy asked, looking at her bag.

"No. Well, yes, actually. It's my day off. I wanted to stroll around London and do some drawing," she explained. Her drawing pad and a box with coloured pencils were in her bag, as was a tin containing a Victoria sponge. Sister Evangelina had given it to her, remarking that it was best to get it out of the way before Sister Monica-Joan found it and let it upset her digestion.

"I like drawing. What are you going to draw?"

Sister Bernadette shrugged. She hadn't given it much thought, really; just being able not to draw anatomically correct drawings of babies in different positions would be a relief. "I haven't decided yet," she told him.

"Ah. I didn't know nuns got days off, too." Timothy looked rather pensive at this new titbit of information, then smiled. "I suppose you can't go to the pictures, or go out and buy a new dress or a lipstick or something, like the other nurses do, seeing as you have no money and all."

"No." They were quiet for a moment. Timothy let his leg dangle, sitting hunched over his kite.

Sister Bernadette resisted the urge to push his floppy bangs out of his face. "That's a handsome kite," she remarked instead.

"Dad and I made it. We're going to test it today," he said, a hundred-watt smile lighting up his face.

"Where?"

"Outside of London there's a place where we used to go every year to picnic when Mummy was still alive."

"Oh. But your father has a car, so why are you at a train station?" Sister Bernadette couldn't help but ask.

"The car broke. Fred is over at our house, trying to fix it. Dad didn't want to go out anymore, but I asked and asked and asked till he said we would go, after all. He's buying tickets right now," Timothy explained. His eyes sparkled as they met hers. "Sister, why don't you come with us?"

Sister Bernadette blinked in surprise. "Me?"

"Yes. It will be fun. Picnics are always more fun when you're with three rather than two."

"But, Timothy, maybe your father has looked forward to spend a day with just the two of you. I really don't think…"

"He'll like it if you come, too. He's said that he likes you best of all the people at Nonnatus at least a dozen times. I'll go and ask him. Watch my kite!" Timothy said and he was off like a rocket.

"Wait!" Sister Bernadette shouted after him. She stood up and tried to grab her bag and the giant kite, but when she had finally clutched the kite under her arm and had taken care of the trailing ribbons she could no longer find the lanky boy in the crowds.

He likes you best of all the people at Nonnatus. Her traitorous heart beat an upbeat rhythm at these words, even if she told the organ to hush.

"Dad!"

Patrick turned around to see Timothy wind his way between the queues waiting to buy a ticket.

"Just a moment," he told the man behind the counter.

"Dad, Dad!"

"Timothy, don't shout! And where is your kite?" Patrick warned his son as the boy stood beside him, panting.

"I left it with Sister Bernadette. Dad, could she come along?"

Patrick frowned. "Sister Bernadette?"

"Yes, she's here. She has a day off. Could we take her with us?"

"A day off? Are you sure?"

The woman behind him in the queue cleared her throat and tapped her shoes impatiently.

"Yes. Can we bring her along?"

"Did you ask her?"

"She wants to, I'm sure!" Timothy gesticulated wildly.

Patrick sighed. He had to decide, now. He could not leave the queue and ask Sister Bernadette what she wanted, because they would miss their train before they had a third ticket. On the other hand: if he bought a third ticket, she might feel pressured into coming, and he didn't want that, either. Patrick could not deny that he wanted to be near her, but he knew it was probably for the best to keep his distance. Just a week ago, he had nearly drowned in her eyes as they had discussed spirit lamps. The desire to kiss her had been almost overwhelming.

"Dad, she looked very sad when she didn't know I was there. I think she needs cheering up," Timothy whispered.

Those words, in combination with the exasperated sighs and grumbles from the people behind him, decided Patrick.

"Three tickets it is, then," he said.

Timothy noticed that there was something between his dad and Sister Bernadette as they found her still sitting on the bench and told her they had bought a train ticket for her, too. He couldn't put into words what this something might be, but there was definitely something out of the ordinary going on. Sister Bernadette, always so cheerful and open, seemed to avoid making eye contact with his father, and her voice was very soft, too. There was this air of sadness around her; Timothy may not understand what was going on, but he knew sadness when he saw it.

"You didn't have to. I understand if you just want to spend some time with Timothy."

"I really don't mind. I'd be glad if you came along, actually," his dad said. His voice was gentler than Timothy was accustomed to, and he was constantly clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he wanted to reach out and do something but had to remind himself not to. The pair of them seemed to have forgotten that he was standing right next to them.

Timothy got a funny feeling in his tummy.

"We're going to miss our train," he pointed out.

Sister Bernadette looked at him and smiled, taking his kite in her hands. "Let's go, then."

"So you'll come?" his dad asked, taking the kite from her and passing it to Timothy.

"Well, you've already paid for my ticket. It would be plain silly not to come."

Patrick had to constantly remind himself not to stare at the little nun sitting opposite of him. He tried to focus on Timothy. His son was basically bouncing in his seat, his nose pressed to the window as the brick houses of London slowly made way for fields and trees. He pointed to everything he saw and absorbed Sister Bernadette's attention completely. Patrick had to smile at seeing her laugh with his son and pointing out things he hadn't yet seen; how different this trip already was from the last one.

It had only been a few months after Marianne had died. Patrick went through life as if through a great mist; his senses were dulled, and caring about anything was hard. Summer had rolled around, and Timothy had started needling him about going out on a picnic, like they had done every summer. Patrick had recoiled at the idea. He didn't feel ready to visit places where they had been a happy family of three; it would only rub his heart raw, reminding him that the love of his life was buried in the earth and his heart next to it. Timothy had begged and pleaded and cried until Patrick finally relented, deciding that the boy might need the continuity.

The day had not gone as planned. Patrick had made a kite in moments stolen between patients.

"Mummy always decorated the kite with ribbons and things," Timothy had said sullenly, regarding the kite with disappointment.

"It's a kite, Tim. It doesn't matter what it looks like," Patrick had said, feeling too tired to snap.

Bruised clouds pregnant with rain hung overhead as they made their way outside of London, a basket packed with only sandwiches on the back seat. Patrick had parked the car outside of their usual spot inside the little town; he simply could not deal with seeing the tiny store where Marianne had bought their teapot, or the window where a seamstress displayed her dresses. Marianne's favourite dress came from that shop; it was a white one with a scooped neckline. You had to tie in the back, and red cherries patterned the soft cotton.

"This is not how we usually go," Timothy had whined. Patrick had ignored him, walking at an almost brutal pace. Timothy had trouble keeping up and kept shivering in the shorts he'd insisted on because he always wore shorts when Mummy organised their picnic.

Patrick had felt a surge of hope as they unrolled the string of the kite. Surely everything would start feeling a bit more normal as he and his son flew it? It had, right until the string snapped and the kite had come plummeting down. Patrick had forgotten to bring more string, cutting their entertainment short. Timothy had looked small and sad, huddling on the picnic blanket ("Mummy always brought the one with the red checks"). As Patrick had handed him a sandwich with jelly he had frowned.

"Mummy always made sandwiches with cheese and ham and lettuce and tomato."

"Yes, but Mummy isn't here, Tim!" Patrick had snapped.

Timothy had jumped up and thrown the sandwich away. "This is stupid! Mummy would have brought extra string and the right picnic blanket and fruit and cold chicken, because she knew how to cook and you don't. I hate your sandwiches and I hate this blanket and I hate this kite!" Large tears coursed down his cheeks as he shouted. He had grabbed the kite and torn it.

Patrick hated violence and had never used it on his child. In that moment, though, as Timothy ruined the kite he had worked on with such care, he came close. Timothy must have seen the rage in his father's face. He had recoiled, shame writ large in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, staring at the broken toy in his trembling hands. In that moment Patrick had been reminded just how young his son was. Timothy was a good boy. He could be snarky and sullen at times, but what child wouldn't at losing his mother at so young an age? Patrick had rubbed his eyes, then drawn the boy close to him. Timothy had hugged him tight, shaking with grief.

"It's alright, son. I miss Mummy, too. Come, let's just go home."

That day had been a disaster; today, though, things would be different. He had only to look at Sister Bernadette's liquid eyes to know it.

Sister Bernadette had to remind herself not to stare at Doctor Turner as they made their way through a little town outside of London. The sun had climbed high into the sky and the temperature was almost tropical. Doctor Turner had rolled up his sleeves, revealing his forearms. Sister Bernadette was not a connoisseur of the male form; she had decided to become a nun when she was barely a teenager, so every minute she hadn't spent working in her father's store had been consumed by religious study. She had not felt the need to go out with boys. Frankly, the stories of her classmates about snogging and touching had scared her. It had nothing to do with her, was not meant for her. Men were creatures she only wanted to deal with on a professional level. If she had found them attractive, they had been so in an abstract fashion. Walking beside Doctor Turner, however, she had to confess that her image of male beauty was rapidly becoming less abstract. She told herself that she was feeling hot and flustered because of her thick stockings and the warm weather, but deep inside she knew that that wasn't the whole truth.

"Look, Sister, here it is!"

She tore her attention away from the doctor to focus on what Timothy wanted to show her. She gasped. In front of her hills covered in wildflowers stretched and stretched as far as the eye could reach, only occasionally broken by a lonely tree. A soft breeze made the flowers bob their heads gently, almost as if they were little people welcoming the doctor, his son, and the nun in their midst. Timothy took the picnic blanket from the basket his father was carrying and raced away to find a suitable spot to put it.

"So, you are happy you decided to come along?" Doctor Turner asked. His eyes were twinkling.

Sister Bernadette couldn't help but smile widely. "Oh, doctor, it is beautiful! No wonder you come here every year!"

"Marianne loved the flowers," Doctor Turner said, and flinched.

You are an intruder, a mean voice whispered in Sister Bernadette's ear. You're only here because he misses his wife and he can't face being here alone. He would have asked anyone to come with him. It's just a coincidence that you are here. Don't forget it. Never forget it.

"I understand. They are so… flowery," Sister Bernadette decided, then cringed when she realised just how nonsensical that statement was.

"I guess they are," Doctor Turner said, and smiled.

Timothy had put the blanket underneath one of the lonely trees and was fiddling with the string of his kite when Sister Bernadette and Doctor Turner reached him. They placed the basket with their food in the shade. Sister Bernadette took the cake tin, her sketchpad and her pencils out of her bag.

"Let me help you to get it in the air," Doctor Turner offered his son as Timothy finally managed to untie the string.

"Sister Bernadette, do you want to have a go first?" Timothy asked politely and held his kite out to her.

"Oh no, that's fine, dear," she said. Timothy smiled gratefully.

As he and Doctor Turner took turns running down the hill trying to get the kite up in the sky Sister Bernadette sat on the checkered picnic blanket and was content. She drew some quick sketches of the daisies and poppies and other flowers, inhaling their heady scent, then decided to try something a bit more demanding and started a sketch of Timothy and Doctor Turner. They stood with their backs to her, hands to their faces to shield their eyes from the sun as they looked at the wavering form of the red kite in the air.

Her heart had constricted a bit when Timothy had offered her to have a go with his kite. She had only flown one once in her life, and that was before her mother had passed away. She just wished she could remember; had her father held her hands in his to make sure the wind would not tear the string out of her grasp? Had her mother made sandwiches with jelly and others with cheese and cucumber? Had she packed slabs of cake and brought bowls of strawberries with sugar and cream for them to eat till their fingers were red and sticky? Had the sky been overcast, or blue and without a cloud in sight? She thought her mother had told her to bring her coat in case it got chilly, but she couldn't be sure.

Sister Bernadette only became aware of what she had drawn when a bumblebee landed on her page and she gently sent it on his way with her fingertips. Her heart beat very fast. She had drawn Timothy and Doctor Turner surrounded by flowers, a kite no larger than a fingernail near the corner of the page. She had also drawn herself, standing next to the doctor, his arm around her shoulders.

"What are you drawing?" Timothy asked as he flopped down next to her. Sister Bernadette tore the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it into a ball.

"Just some flowers," she said, hating the way the blood shot into her cheeks.

Timothy frowned. "You're looking very hot. Why don't you just remove those stockings? They must be very thick," he said.

"Tim!" Doctor Turner warned him as he sat down next to her.

"I… I'm not allowed to," she stammered.

"You are if it is up to me," Timothy shrugged.

"Timothy, stop it! You know how nuns and their vows work," Doctor Turner growled. He shot Sister Bernadette an apologetic glance.

"Well, you know what, those stockings are really very hot, actually," she said, refusing to look at either one. "I… I think I might remove them. Just don't tell." She kicked off her shoes and unclasped her stockings, rolling them down swiftly before any further comment could be made. Doctor Turner just cleared his throat and started to unpack the picnic basket. Sister Bernadette folded her stockings and put them in her bag before opening the cake tin, shyly placing it in the middle of their blanket.

What on Earth were you thinking?! the mean voice inside her head screamed. You can't just remove your stockings, you are a nun. You can't very well put them back on again now, either, because the doctor might see your knickers if you do. She tucked her legs underneath her body, effectively hiding them from view. She found it surprisingly easy to drown out the mean little voice when Doctor Turner passed her one of his jelly sandwiches, accidentally brushing the pad of her thumb with his fingertip.

Today is going to be a good day, she told the sneering voice, and I won't let anything stop me from having a good time.

Patrick felt that life was good for the first time in a long time as he swallowed the last bite of cake. He had made himself eat some of his sandwiches because he had to set a good example for Timothy, but he had to admit that his cooking was lacking, even if it was something as simple as making a meal out of bread and butter and cheese. Luckily, Sister Bernadette had brought some of Mrs. B's famous cake, saving them from Patrick's lacking culinary skills.

"That was delicious," he said.

"I hope you're referring to the cake and not your sandwiches," Timothy said. Patrick raised his eyebrow in warning. Sister Bernadette pressed a hand against her mouth hide her smile.

"Seems like you have a bit too much energy, young man. Let's go for a walk; it will help your digestion," Patrick decided. His knees popped audibly as he stood.

Sister Bernadette stretched beside him. "I'll join you," she murmured.

Timothy didn't wait for them, but raced ahead, following an invisible path along the flowers. Patrick and Sister Bernadette followed at a leisurely pace; the summer warmth was like a blanket, making them slow and drowsy and content.

"Timothy looks happy," Sister Bernadette remarked. He saw her jump slightly as flowers tickled her bare legs. Patrick tried not to stare at them. They were a milky white and dotted with freckles.

"I have to thank you, Sister, for coming with us today. I don't think Timothy would have been as happy if had been just the two of us," he said slowly.

She turned her head towards him and studied his face. "It must be difficult, being here. You must feel her presence everywhere," she said.

Patrick sighed and carded a hand through his hair. "It used to be difficult. It still is, sometimes, but you know something funny? I have found that lately my memories with Marianne are starting to hurt less and less. Some of them are still painful, but they've become a source of comfort, too." He blushed; he was not used to express his innermost emotions and thoughts out loud.

"I think it is a sign that you are… healing," Sister Bernadette whispered. They were silent, walking amongst the daisies and violets and poppies whilst absorbed in their own thoughts.

He suddenly became aware of her hand in his. He couldn't remember when they had started holding hands, whether they had been doing this from the moment they had started their stroll or whether it had begun just a few seconds ago. Patrick marvelled at the warmth her hand radiated, at the lightness of her grip. His own palm was dry and calloused; hers was soft, only slightly marred by the demanding job she did. He wanted to squeeze her digits, explore the valleys and hills of her knuckles. Her hand was small, hardly bigger than a child's. He moved his hand ever so slightly and could feel the stutter of her pulse in her wrist. Part of him wanted to bring her hand to his lips and kiss every digit, explore the map of the veins on the inside of her wrist; another part urged him to do nothing. Holding her hand felt like the most natural thing in the world. Patrick doubted whether Sister Bernadette was even aware that they were doing it, and he didn't want to upset this moment, so fragile and so pure. Instead, he focussed all his attention on his right hand and made himself remember everything about it.

Patrick was suddenly struck by how different his late wife and the little nun were, all because of her hand. Marianne's hands had been large, the fingers long and slender. She had been his first great love. He had met her when she had broken her ankle at a dance and had been struck by her shapely legs, the lovely tan of her skin. She was tall, athletic, and, for the lack of a better word, vivacious. Her blue eyes had simply sparkled with mischief; her red lipstick could not hide the sly smiles that lived in the corners of her mouth. She had smiled often and freely, showering affection on the people around them. Marianne was the one who had taught him to dance; with Marianne, he had bought his first house, made love for the first time. She had also been the first great sorrow of his life. Losing her had ripped his heart apart. Patrick was still learning how to live his life without her. He did not doubt that her name would for always be written on his heart, but he could not be sure whether another name might, in time, take its place next to hers.

Deep inside his soul, he knew what name that might be: Sister Bernadette. When he first met her, she still had the look of a girl about her. She had come fresh out of nursing school, her Scottish accent not yet softened. He had been struck by her energy, the energy that only the young and righteous can radiate. She was small, her body hidden by her habit. She was shy and unassuming, but Patrick had quickly learned that she was more than a pretty face; Sister Bernadette was intelligent and compassionate and, when given the chance, surprisingly witty.

Patrick still thought about Marianne every day, but more and more the gentle face of Sister Bernadette floated in front of his mind's eye, too. Sometimes, on the edge between sleeping and wakefulness, he wondered how different his life would look if she was his wife, then felt ashamed of the thought come morning.

Now, as her small hand lay cradled in his, he realised something else. Sister Bernadette was right when she told him that he was healing. What she didn't realise was that she was the source. She was like a balm, soothing his ragged heart and that of Timothy, too.

Suddenly, holding her hand was not enough, but he couldn't very well pull her in his arms and crush his lips to hers.

"Sister," Patrick whispered, and squeezed her hand. She tore her gaze away from Timothy and looked at their laced fingers. She frowned; a small line appeared between her knitted brows.

"I'm sorry," she said, her gaze startled. She unlaced her hand and shied away from him. Their separation was almost a physical pain.

"Sister," Patrick said again, reaching out for her.

She backed away, staring at her hands with something akin to horror. "I'm sorry," she repeated, and turned and made for the picnic blanket.

Patrick tore his gaze from her to locate Timothy; his son was far away, hardly bigger than a flower petal, completely focussed on whatever it was that he was doing. Patrick turned around and half-walked, half-jogged to Sister Bernadette. She was frantically putting her sketching materials in the little canvas rucksack she'd brought. Patrick was pretty sure that it originated from the charity bin, and that it would return there once this day was over.

"Sister Bernadette, please listen to me," he said, halting at the edge of the blanket. He wanted to step forward and grab her wrists, make her look at him, but he was a decent man and didn't want to upset her further.

"If you give me my ticket I'll walk myself to the station and get back to Nonnatus," she said, not looking at him.

"Why?"

"Because I can't stay. I shouldn't have come in the first place." She put the lid back on the cake tin.

"But why can't you stay? If you feel that you've hurt me, please understand that you didn't. I… I didn't mind you holding my hand."

Sister Bernadette's eyes snapped up and met his. They were very large and very blue. "Don't you understand?" she said. "I don't have control over myself when I'm with you. I have made a vow of chastity, and I've broken it twice today already, once without even noticing! I'm not responsible for my actions when you are near." Her eyes filled with tears. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand. "I am a nun, doctor, but I don't behave like one when I think of you. I think it is because I'm in love with you."

His heart wasn't supposed to beat so hard when she spoke those words, wasn't supposed to lurch and skip and flutter.

She smiled weakly. "And now I've shocked you, Doctor Turner. I didn't mean to; you were just trying to have a nice day with your son. Please forget what I said. I'll go now, I promise." She put the strap of the bag on one of her shoulders and clutched the cake tin to her chest. She didn't look at him as she walked past him.

Patrick inhaled deeply, then turned around and grabbed her arm. He felt her stiffen. "Sister Bernadette, please, please, please just look at me," he whispered.

She turned towards him ever so slowly, like a flower turns to the sun. She kept her eyes trained at his chest. He gently cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face towards his. A tear clung trembling to her honey lashes before letting go and dripping on her cheek.

"Please don't think that you've shocked me. Don't think that you've ruined my day, or that your affections for me were unwanted." He smiled and sighed. "I've thought about his moment a lot the past few months. I just never imagined it to be like this," he said, and brought his face to his. Her breath hitched as he pressed his lips to hers. He could see through his lashes that she kept her eyes wide open for just one moment. Then, she sighed against his mouth and placed her hand against his chest. He put his own hand over hers, trapping it over the space where his heart beat. She dropped the tin; it rolled away, down the hill. Her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure, then fell closed completely as she melted against him. Patrick held her against his chest, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, wishing that this day would never end.

Timothy regarded his dad and Sister Bernadette from a distance. He had not seen her stepping into his father's embrace. He guessed he didn't need to; the way his father's arms bracketed the little nun, the way how his hand splayed on her back told him enough.

Timothy felt that funny feeling in his tummy again. He hadn't felt it for a long time, so he hadn't recognized it the first time he had felt it that day. Now, he knew what to call it: happiness.