Well I've decided to add five extra chapters to this fic, since it is by far the most well-read fic I've done and seems to be the thing you guys like the most.

This chapter is based the idea that cigarettes are a metaphor within the Turnadette relationship. We can see how far their relationship has progressed based on the way they treat their cigs and each other in relation to their cigs . Of course, cigarettes symbolise desire as well (I've written an essay about this, it isn't as far-fetched as it may sound)+ I really enjoy S02X03. Enjoy!

"Penny for your thoughts?" Patrick asks and leans against the wall next to Sister Bernadette. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles softly.

"They're not that interesting, really," she says.

Patrick lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. He feels tired and hungry, but it pales in comparison to what Sister Bernadette must feel; the little nun looks as if she's asleep on her feet. The delivery they've just attended took twenty hours, and she was there for all of them. The adrenaline that is in her system must be wearing off, allowing her fatigue to catch up with her. She still has to cycle a few miles back to Nonnatus through the dark streets of Poplar. Patrick wonders whether the other nuns will allow her to sleep in, or whether she's still expected to rise with them in the morning and pray.

"Do you want one?" he asks, holding up his cigarette. Timothy always claims he smokes as a chimney. The truth is that he finds nothing unwinds him better after a hard day than a cigarette. He can imagine that the same holds true for the little nun next to him. He wonders if she found it hard to give up smoking when she took her vows, or whether she wasn't in to it that much, anyway.

She knits her brow, then sighs. "Just a puff," she murmurs. Her fingertips brush his as she takes his Henley, sending a jolt through his body. As she brings the cigarette to her mouth Patrick can feel his heartbeat speed up.

Sister Bernadette pouts her lips in a pretty way as she inhales, holding the smoke into her lungs for just a second before breathing out again. The smoke curls around her head, obscuring her features before falling apart. She sighs.

"I miss them, sometimes," she admits.

"You do?"
"Only a little. Yet another small tragedy of life," she quips. They are silent for a moment, enveloped by darkness.

"You were great," Patrick says to keep other, more uncouth, thoughts at bay. "At the delivery," he adds, ensuring that she understands him properly.

She looks at him through her lashes, which sets his body humming again. "You did pretty well yourself, doctor." She pushes her tongue from between her lips to pluck a sliver of tobacco from the tip. Her tongue is a deep pink and reminds him of that of a cat.

The image takes him back to last night's dreams, in which they lay entangled like kittens. Her body was soft and warm, fitting alongside his like a puzzle piece. Her hair was honey and ginger in his dream, though it might very well be a light brown. He can't be sure, and really doesn't want to think about it; Sister Bernadette is a nun, and he has to respect that. He does respect that, at least when he's awake. His dreams are traitorous, though, and they make him ashamed; he's always taken pride in his ability to work with women and to see them as his equals, not as objects.

But you don't see Sister Bernadette as an object, a small voice objects, and Patrick knows that is true. After all, he valued her as one of the most competent midwives and nurses he has ever known long before he came to…. what? Crave something more from her than strict professionality? Perhaps that is exactly where the problem lays: if she wasn't such a great nurse, she wouldn't slowly be restoring him to life without even knowing it. He just wishes that he could admire her for it without the dreams, without wondering if she really has a cluster of freckles on her collarbones, or whether her breasts…

Patrick shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He likes to think of himself as a gentleman, and tries to nib any thought of ungentlemanly conduct in the bud.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sister Bernadette asks, a smile ghosting around her mouth.

"I dreamed about you last night," Patrick blurts out. Only when the words have left his mouth does he realise what it is he said. His face grows hot. "I… I dreamed you took my cigarette case and didn't want to give it back," he hastily adds.

"Nuns are not allowed to have possessions," she comments, "Though I have to admit that your cigarette case is really rather handsome." She stifles a yawn.

"Do you want me to take you back to Nonnatus?" Patrick asks. He knows he should probably try and stay away from the woman next to him – a NUN, not a woman, they're not the same –, but he can't help but notice how tired she looks.

"No, I would have to come back for my bike. It wouldn't be practical." Sister Bernadette takes another puff of his cigarette, then holds it out to him. His hand brushes her wrist as he tries to take the burning Henley from her and his eyes find hers. Her pupils dilate and he can feel her pulse speed up.

Surely not, he thinks, surely those are not the signs of… She tears her gaze away and steps back, breaking the contact. Patrick tightens his hand into a fist to prevent himself from reaching out and enveloping her hand.

"Thank you for the cigarette, doctor," Sister Bernadette murmurs. She makes for her bike with a bit more speed than seems necessary and is gone far too soon.

Patrick looks at the Henley in his hand. It is little more than a stub now, glowing faintly as an ember. This is the second time they've shared a cigarette. Once again Patrick is struck by the intimacy of it; her lips brush the surface that still holds the memory of his own mouth, turning it almost into a kiss. He brings the bud to his mouth and closes his lips around where he imagines her mouth was just a few moments ago. He imagines that he can taste her. He sighs and grinds the bud out on the rough brick of the wall. He tries to banish the sadness that is building in him, but he doesn't succeed. The thought that this is as close as they will ever get knits pain into his stomach.

"Yet another small tragedy of life," he muses, but it doesn't feel small at all.

Is this cheating? I don't think so. Please leave a review if you have the time, they always make my day!