A/N: I Know, I know, I am rubbish. In my own defence, I am trying to work, do a degree, write applications, sew and fangirl. I lead a busy life.

Also, it has taken me all of this time to come up with an idea for the next chapter! I am sorry, but this is a fic that you have to be for the long haul on!

Disclaimer: CTM ain't mine, but I would LOVE to work in that costume department!

…

It had been a marvellous few weeks. Shelagh was home, back working at the hospital, over for dinner most nights (but never staying). Tim was happy, Shelagh was happy, he was happy.

Patrick settled back on his settee, feet propped up on the coffee table, a mug of tea in one hand and the latest copy of The Lancet in the other. He was more than content. The only way the night could have been any better was if Shelagh was sitting in her armchair, sewing.

It had been a very good day and he was enjoying the peace now Tim had finally wound down from whatever Fred had given them at cubs and was flat out. He was more than happy reading his journal, half his mind on a little domestic daydream.

Of course, it never stays peaceful for long.

Patrick sloshed his tea down his front as he jumped in reaction to the shrill 'bring' of his housephone.

"Always the way," he huffed, switching the tea for the handset and the journal for a tea towel that had been neatly folded in a pile next to him (that he really needed to put away before Shelagh next came round and scolded him thoroughly). "Hello?" he asked distractedly, dabbing at the rapidly cooling stain spreading across his front, trying desperately to limit the damage.

"Patrick?"

He stopped what he was doing instantly and looked up. She was crying. Or she had been crying.

"Darling? Whatever's the matter? Where are you?" He asked quickly, pushing himself up and trying to push down the rising fear and panic bubbling in his stomach. He quickly grabbed a pair of shoes on his way towards the stairs and Tim's room.

"Oh Patrick," She sniffed, her voice thick with barely repressed tears. "There's been a fire…"

"Are you alright?" he asked instantly, stopping dead. His heart leapt from his throat to his mouth.

"Physically," She said quietly. "Upstairs, the one with the baby… they weren't so lucky. Moira's being treated for burns and Margey for smoke inhalation… they think it might have been a deliberate fire. Patrick… who could be so cruel?"

"Shelagh…"

"Can you come and get me?" She asked, almost inperceptibaly, her voice cracking. "My building's on fire… all those people… all our things…."

"I'm just getting Tim," He assured her, picking his son up from his bed and carrying him slowly down the stairs.

Shelagh made a few choking sounds on her end of the phone. She was close to breaking, he realised.

"Darling, I need you to put the phone down and call my mobile, and keep talking ok? I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Ok…"

….

In the end, he found her standing with one of her blankets pulled tight around her shoulders. She was cold to touch, staring up at her block of flats, at the smoke still spilling out of windows now the flames were under control. The floodlights from the fire trucks glinted off her glasses, shielding her eyes, but he could see the tear tracks through the soot on her face.

He called to her softly, but she didn't respond. It wasn't until he gently touched her arm that she looked to him. Her cerulean eyes, normally so vibrant, full of life and love and hope, were pale, listless, vacant.

Patrick barely hesitated a second before pulling her into a hug, trying to force every feeling of love, hope and happiness he had ever experienced because of her into that embrace. He didn't know how to comfort her. He didn't even know where to begin.

He didn't realise it was exactly what she had been waiting for.

Shelagh pressed her face against his chest, pushing her hands under his open coat to grip his shirt as tightly as she could. She barely registered the smell of tea, just trying to force the images of billowy smoke, of children crying and parents rushing, out of her head.

"Come on," he said gently, and Shelagh relished the vibrations through his chest as he spoke. "Lets get you home."

Then he gently shifted so he could walk side by side, and slowly led her through the thinning smoke and the crowds to his car.

…..

"Can I borrow some pajamas?" Shelagh asked hoarsely, her voice raw from crying, smoke and silence, as Patrick returned to the living room having put Timmy to bed. "I smell of smoke…"

His heart broke a little. She had curled herself up in her armchair, her knees tucked up tightly against her chest, her face streaked with tears and soot, her hair haphazardly pulled away from her face but hanging limp. She looked lost.

"Of course you can," He assured her gently, feeling like he was trying to reassure some sort of wild animal that it was now safe. "Although, I think something of Tim's might be a little closer to your size than my own."

His joke barely afforded him a smile.

"Hey," he called her attention softly, crouching down in front of her and taking her hands in his own to warm "I prescribe a nice long shower, a hot, very sweet tea and a good nights sleep. Doctor's orders."

Shelagh half smiled at him, leaning forward slightly to rest her temple against his forehead, seeking comfort.

"We both know it's the Sisters with all the real power, dear," She murmured with a shadow of her old humour. "But seeing as that's just good sense, I'll take the advice for once…"

"Well, you could knock me down with a feather!" Patrick joked, pushing himself up, ignoring the complaints of his knees as he did so. He found, however, that he could only get so far. It seemed Shelagh had once again twisted her fist into her shirt and was clinging on for dear life. "Um, you're going to need to let go, love, if you want the tea," He said gently, not moving to remove her hand but waiting for her to do so.

Shelagh slowly looked down to her hand, her brow furrowing, as if she couldn't quite work out what her hand was doing, of its own accord. Slowly, almost deliberately, she unpeeled her fingers, dropping her hand back into her lap, where they twisted in her blanket.

"Sorry," She muttered.

"Hey," Patrick raised a hand gently to her cheek. "Don't apologise for that." He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead and stood up straight. He held out a hand, waiting for her to take it before pulling her up to stand next to him.

"Come on now, up to the shower," he ordered "I'll bring the tea and PJs up to you in a moment."

Shelagh smiled slightly and nodded, squeezing his hand slightly before leaving the room. As she headed to the stairs, Patrick headed to his kitchen to make a hot cup of sweet tea.

…

Fifteen minutes later, the tea was cold and Patrick had just finished making her a fresh one, when Shelagh took one last look at her bedraggled appearance in the mirror, and slipped out of the en-suite to the master bedroom. She was wearing a big striped shirt of Patrick's from a set she remembered watching him receive a few Christmases prior from an aunt or the like. Given how ridiculously long the trousers were, Patrick had managed to find an old pair of leggings she must have left before her freak out.

She may not have been in her nice comfy cotton two piece, but she was clean, and she didn't smell of smoke anymore. She already felt a little better.

Patrick was sat on the bed, in his own pyjamas, glasses propped on his nose as he (pretended to read) The Lancet. As he heard the door open, he looked up instantly, and smiled warmly at her. He was relieved to see the corner of her mouth twitch up in response, evern as she looked down to fiddle with the hem of the shirt.

"Feel a bit better?" He asked gently.

"Human again," Shelagh confirmed, moving to the cuffs of the shirt to play with.

Patrick was painfully aware he was unlikely to ever be able to call that shirt his from this night forward. And he was more than happy with that. That shirt had never looked as good on him.

"I made up the be-" he started.

"Can I stay in here tonight?" Shelagh blurted out, avoiding eye contact.

His heart may have just skipped a beat. He wasn't connected to and ECG so he couldn't be 100% sure, but he wouldn't consider it a scientific impossibility.

"I'm sorry," she started, blushing profusely "I just…. Didn't want to be alone again tonight…"

"Of course," he breathed, a little wrongfooted, but more than a little delighted. "Which side do you want?"

Rather than answering, Shelagh moved towards the side he never usually occupied, lifted the cover and climbed underneath, settling herself half on her side as she removed her glasses and put them on the bedside table.

Patrick hurried to copy her, putting his journal and his own glasses on his side table. He turned the lamp off and moved under the covers himself.

In the darkness, Shelagh's soft voice floated towards him.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "For everything."

"For you?" He replied sincerely, "Anything."

And he meant it.

…..

Shelagh always woke up early. She was just one of those people who were naturally up with the dawn and couldn't stay in bed once she was awake.

The morning after the fire however, she slept in a little later than normal. And upon awaking, found herself disinclined towards getting up. Instead, she snuggled against Patrick's chest a bit more, smiling slightly in her sleepy state as he tightened his grip on her shoulders in response.

She felt safe, completely and utterly safe.

And happy to lie in for once. She felt they deserved it after the night they'd had. And it was a Saturday.

That being so, she wasn't awfully surprised when the door creaked open and a little, messy haired head poked its way round the room. The head was soon followed by Tim, trailing Rupert behind him as he made his way to the bed, one fist absently rubbing his eye. Tim was as much a morning person as his father.

Tim made his way round the bed to the side Shelagh was on (his side). She held her breathe, pretending to be asleep still to gauge his honest reaction. She was a little surprised when Tim didn't even hesitate before he clambered under the covers next to her and tugged at her arm to pull her onto her back, whereupon he pulled her arm around him and settled his head on her shoulder.

He was asleep again in seconds.

Her peace, and contentment at having a lazy Saturday morning in bed with the man she loved as much as God and her little boy, was broken by Patrick's phone buzzing loudly against the wood of the bedside table.

Tim groaned, burying his head further into Shelagh's shoulder as Patrick's right hand came up, flailing about a bit as he tried to find the offending article. Without even opening his eyes, he found the phone, pushed the button and pressed it to his ear.

"'lo?" He grunted down the phone. Shelagh tutted quietly to herself with a smile, which vanished when she realised who was on the other end.

"Has Shelagh contacted you?" Julie-Anna demanded as soon as the phone was answered. "There was a fire in her block last night! It's all over the local news and her phone isn't picking up!"

Shelagh half pushed herself up to take the offered phone from Patrick, rolling her eyes when he simply readjusted his hold to include his son, and pull her back down again. It felt exceedingly odd to be speaking to her pseudo-mother, while in bed with a man. Very odd indeed.

"Hallo Julie," Shealgh said timidly, wincing in expectation of an emotional onslaught.

Julie-Anne didn't disappoint.

"Shelagh! Oh my lord, are you ok? I was worried sick! I turned on the news this morning and your district is all over! It said that some residents had been taken to hospital, and I couldn't get hold of you! Are you alright?"

"Julie, I'm fine," She reassured her, "I'm sorry I didn't call you last night, but honestly, I was in shock and all I wanted was Patrick to come and get me. I didn't even think about calling you, and I suppose my mobile has died now. I am sorry, I didn't realise it would be on the news! And I would have called you today anyway, you know that."

"Of course you would," Julie-Anna breathed, and Shelagh could see her putting her hand to her forehead in relief. "Now, moving onto other important matters…."

Shelagh cringed at the suddenly playful tone Julie-Anne's voice had taken on. "I understand Patrick answered the phone, unless your voice has got incredibly deep…"

"Good bye Julie," Shelagh sang, bright red with embarrassment. She heard Julie's laugh as she hung up the phone and let it drop onto the covers.

"It could have been worse," Patrick mumbled against her hair.

"What could?" She asked, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position, sandwiched as she was between the two.

"Trixie could have been the one to call."

…..

That night, after Shelagh had spoken to Julie-Anne properly, reassured Trixie, Jenny, Cynthia, Chummy and Evie that she was very much alive, been to visit her flat and been told by the fire department she wouldn't be allowed to move back in for weeks, pulled out as much as she could salvage, been shopping, made dinner and helped Tim with his homework, she kissed Patrick goodnight on the forehead and made her way up to bed.

He didn't think much of it until a few hours later when he went up himself, and found her on her side facing the dressing table, wearing (from what he could see of the arm out of the duvet tucked under her head) his shirt.

He honestly didn't think he could be happier.

….

A/N

Don't expect a quick update! I came up with this last night, and had to write it while it was still a scene in my head.

R&R, I'm sorry for the delay, but I really am terribly busy!