A/N—This chapter takes place during CtM episode 3x03.

She was asleep now, finally.

In the dim light of evening, a lone figure leaned back in his chair in a well-appointed room of a private clinic on Harley Street. His face lined with care, his eyes fixed ahead. The magazine in his lap lay there unread. He might as well have closed that up and put it away, as focused as he was on the dozing form of his wife in the metal-framed bed across from him. The creases on her forehead had smoothed. The haunted expression in her eyes was now hidden in slumber. For now, the disappointments of the afternoon had been put on hold, but Patrick knew they wouldn't stay that way.

Oh, how he wished he could protect her from harm, give her everything she wanted, dreamed of. She was so young, so beautiful. So full of energy and life. She had brought such joy to him in a few short months, and now… He didn't know. All he wished was that she wouldn't hurt, and his helplessness made him hurt all the more.

He had spoken to Ted earlier, had everything explained. He'd seen her chart, only briefly. He thought about seeking out the nurse and asking more questions, but no. At this moment, he had to shut down those thoughts. She didn't need him to be a doctor right now. She had a doctor, and Ted Horringer was one of the best. What Shelagh needed now was her husband.

He had sat there with her, broken the news. He'd tried to stall, but she'd insisted. That was just like Shelagh, he was learning. She wanted the truth, no matter how painful it would be. And here he was, a physician. He'd told patients similar news before, and it had always been difficult seeing the disappointment in their eyes. Nobody wants to be the deliverer of news that shatters dreams. Still, this was far, far worse. This was his wife. His beloved Shelagh—the woman who had taken him by surprise with her love, brought him back to life—a woman who had already lived through a year of confusion and life-threatening crisis before the joy that had followed. She had been through so much, and now there was this.

It had been a dream he had shared. They had spoken of it early on, before they were even married. He knew she didn't want to wait to have a child, and he'd agreed. He had a son he loved, and he knew that Shelagh loved Timothy as well, but she had wanted a child of her own-their child, together, and a little brother or sister for Timothy. It was something she wanted so much, and the thought was such a wonderful one, it had taken no persuasion on her part to get him to agree. He remembered the happiness of bringing up a small child—little baby laughs and gurgles, babbling and first steps and watching them learn and grow. He wanted to share that with Shelagh, and he knew she would make a wonderful mother. She had always been good with children. He'd seen that when she was still Sister Bernadette and his feelings for her were simply those of a friendly colleague. Now that he loved her, he wished so much that he could live this dream with her.

It wasn't to be. Tuberculosis, the terrible disease that had almost stolen Shelagh from him altogether, had now stolen her hope. And so here they were, in the fading evening light, as she slept under the influence of the pain medicine and he watched, wishing that there would be a magic elixir that could make this all better. He was a medical man, however—a man of science, of practicality. He knew no such magic cure would come, no matter how much he wished it.

He would focus on hope. That's what he must do. She must know that no matter what lay ahead for them, he loved her, and he had not married her for children. He had married her because life without her made no sense.

He was nearly fifty years old. He'd long abandoned the idea of having another child. He had Timothy and he'd already lost Marianne. He hadn't even thought of remarrying until he'd been caught off guard by his feelings for the last person he would have expected to fall for. This was an overwhelming love—something he'd never experienced before. He had loved his first wife, been happy with her and had missed her dearly when she died. Still, their courtship had been more conventional, more expected. Although he and Marianne had both had pain in their pasts, they hadn't dwelt on that. They hadn't even spoken of it except in vague generalities. The war had ended and it was time to put those devastations aside. Their falling in love had been sweet and lovely and comforting, like an ocean breeze on a clear day.

With Shelagh—well, then she had been Sister Bernadette—love had hit him more like a hurricane. It was an overpowering force that couldn't be resisted no matter how much he tried, and when they finally met on that deserted road and declared their feelings, it had been like the first sun after the storm. Despite the mist and the fog of that day, the sun had risen in their hearts. The clouds had cleared and all was bliss, and hope, and thinking ahead and not behind. The past was gone, and all they had was the present, and the future.

More pain had come, of course, in the form of Timothy's polio and Shelagh's estrangement from the sisters, but they had gone through those crises together, and so much had been restored. Their first few months of marriage had been wonderful. Shelagh had moved in and brought light and life to their once-dingy little flat, and again the future had looked so clear. He had seen that light diminish just a few short hours ago. How could he restore it now?

His thoughts were disturbed now by a faint sound from his wife's bed. She had shifted slightly and made a small noise in her sleep, almost like a whimper. Patrick almost jumped to his feet, just catching the magazine before it fell to the floor. He stood in his place, as still as possible, watching. Her peaceful expression was gone now, and her brows were furrowed as if in pain, but her eyes were still shut and he knew he shouldn't wake her. She needed the sleep. The rest would aid in healing. It was agony to watch her, but he couldn't disturb her now. If she awoke, he would be there in an instant to comfort her, hold her hand. He wished he could hold her in his arms, but she had to remain flat on her back for now, and he didn't want to make things worse. She needed to heal, and he needed to keep her safe.

They would move forward from this. They had to. There was no use dwelling in the past. They had each other now, and there would still be a future. Maybe there wouldn't be a child, but she had made him happier than he ever thought he would be again, and they still had Timothy. Patrick knew she would need time to grieve, and he would be there for her, but he wanted so much to see that lovely smile again, and to see the hope in her eyes. She had brought him so much hope, and that was all he wanted for her.

He stood there for a few moments, looking intently at her face until finally he was relieved to see the lines smooth out again and the look of peace return. He put down the magazine and sank back into the chair, knowing that peace wouldn't stay but glad that it was there for now. She needed this rest. Soon, she would have to return home, and he would be there with her.

He glanced at his watch, noticing the late hour. He knew a nurse would soon come and send him home, but he would stay here as long as he could. Tim was at Cubs tonight. Fred had agreed to take him, and also to drive him home. That was a blessing, at least.

He didn't want to leave Shelagh. The thought of spending even one night without her was painful, and knowing she'd be here, even for a few hours, by herself was nearly unbearable. No matter how much he'd argued, however, pleaded with his friend, Ted had refused to change his order. Patrick couldn't stay. He mustn't disturb Shelagh's rest. He could come back first thing in the morning, and that's what he planned to do.

Another whimper, and Patrick was up again, staring intently at his wife. She shifted again under the covers, but this time, her eyes fluttered, and then opened. Blinking in the dim light without her glasses, she caught sight of Patrick and squinted, a mixture of pain and relief in her eyes. It still amazed Patrick how much she could say without speaking.

"You're still here," she said quietly, subdued but obviously relieved.

"Of course," he told her, and he was at her side in two steps. Gently, he sat down on the bed, taking her hand, lightly kissing it, and then not letting go. "I'm not leaving until they throw me out."

He smiled then, and she offered a weak smile in return, and then grimaced, placing her free hand on her stomach just above where the incision had been.

Not letting go of Shelagh's hand, Patrick turned as if to get up.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call the nurse?"

Her face relaxed slightly and she squeezed his hand. "No. Not yet," she told him. "Please. Stay."

He settled back down, looking her in the eyes. "I'd stay all night, if they let me."

She smiled again, that same weak, sad little smile that broke his heart. "Tim needs you," she said.

He nodded, resigned, then brightened his countenance as best he could for her sake, placing his other hand on their already clasped hands.

"I'll be back in the morning. First thing. You'll go to sleep tonight, and when you wake up, I'll be here."

Another wince, and he leaned in closer. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded. "It does sting a little, but that's not what hurts the most."

His heart sank, seeing the hollow expression in her usually bright eyes. He didn't know what to say, so he just squeezed her hand. Seeing the tears brimming in her eyes, he almost couldn't bear it, but he couldn't drop his gaze.

"I know, my love," he said finally, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it again. "I'm here."