This story takes place during episode 4x05. It's part one of two, based on my two "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr posts about this episode. This one is Shelagh's POV. The next will be Patrick's.
His face was cold. The stubble on his cheek bristled against her smoother skin as she pressed her face to his, as if trying to will a response. He didn't turn, or smile, or even move in any way. He was like a wax figure lying in the bed, his face set and his eyes focused away from her. She pulled her face away, getting ready to stand up, looking down at her husband's listless form, wishing with all her heart that he would respond, but no. She mustn't be late for surgery today, as she would be taking the lead in his place.
Reluctantly, she stood, casting a last glance at the man she loved before quietly stepping out into the hall, closing the door behind her. Leaning against the door, she buried her face in her hands for a moment, praying that Patrick would be well. She had done her best to sound cheerful for him, but inside she was anything but cheerful.
It had been a difficult couple of days, to put it mildly. She'd seen the warning signs, watched as he had trudged lifelessly through his daily routines, trying to maintain an air of cheerful efficiency, possibly convincing his patients but never for once fooling her. She'd let it go, as she had done so many times. He'd insisted he was fine, even the other morning when he had woken up in his day clothes after returning home all too late, slipping into bed and turning away from her when she awoke and acknowledged his presence. She'd let that go, too. It was late, and he was obviously in no mood to talk. She was glad he was home, at least. Perhaps they would talk about it in the morning, she'd told herself, but they hadn't. He'd woken, muttered a quick apology for staying out so late, and then had never mentioned it again. Still, despite his words, his eyes told her that he hadn't forgotten.
She would keep an eye on him, she'd told herself, and so she had. Trying to make sure he didn't overexert himself was a fruitless effort, unfortunately, and it wasn't too long before yesterday happened. She'd sprung to her feet as soon as Fred let her know something was wrong, but she still wasn't entirely prepared for the shaking, fidgeting, haunted shell of her husband that she saw hunched over the edge of the desk as she walked into his office. She made sure to shut the door behind her. He didn't need everyone to see him like this.
She looked up, taking her hands down and straightening her glasses, blinking in the dim light of the hallway. She couldn't dwell on yesterday. She couldn't keep thinking of the man who'd walked through the door last evening, stood slouched in the entryway, still protesting that he was fine. She wasn't denying anything, but there was no use in dwelling at this moment. It would only make her cry, and she couldn't do that right now. She couldn't break down. Patrick lay still in their bed on the other side of the door, but he didn't need to see her like this. She had to be strong for him, no matter how weak she might feel.
She chose to think of before, of who he was until just a few weeks ago. The man who looked at her with an unmistakable light in his eyes, who responded to her kisses and touches with more of his own. An image came to mind, of just a few months ago now, shortly after their first wedding anniversary.
She had awoken that morning to see her husband facing away from her. That wasn't particularly unusual—they normally slept facing one another, but sometimes he would roll over in his sleep. If she awoke first, as she most often did if there wasn't an emergency call, she would snuggle into his back until he would awake. Or sometimes, as she had on this particular morning, she would sit up and watch him, smiling when he stirred from his sleep and then leaning over to place a light kiss on his cheek. At this, he had sighed lightly, then turned to face her, a groggy smile on his face.
"Good morning, my love", he had told her, before returning her kiss with a more serious one of his own.
Shelagh straightened up, moving away from the wall. Why had she thought of that particular morning, she wondered? There were so many more days, so many looks, touches, conversations. It had been a long first year for them, but there was so much to celebrate—so much to be thankful for. She thought of the dear, strong, kind man she married—the brightness in his eyes, the sureness of his walk. His confidence, his humor, his compassion. She had hardly known this man when she married him, but they had come so far in a year. And now, there was an empty form of her husband lying in their bed, and all she could do was hope, and pray, that somehow he would return to her.
This wasn't like before, like last year. In the weeks after the adoption interview he had been formal, polite, distant to her, but not to anyone else. To the rest of Poplar, he had still been the same cheerful, wise Dr. Turner, but not at home where he was aloof, guarded, evasive. It pained her to think of those days, but now it was even worse, as she had seen her once confident husband crumble before her eyes just yesterday.
There, in that room, as Patrick sat shaking, she knew she couldn't let it go anymore. She had to take him home, go out into the waiting room and tell the patients the surgery was closing for the day, but they would open promptly the next morning. After everyone had gone, she returned to the office, gently took Patrick by the arm, and led him out of the surgery. He had tried to protest, but he eventually went along, and she had walked him home, never letting go of his arm as they walked. It wasn't a long distance—just outside and around two corners to the other side of the building—but that day it had seemed endless. Timothy had been home, thankfully, when they had arrived, and he helped her with Angela and with supper as Patrick sat in the armchair in the sitting room, staring vaguely and insisting he would be all right.
She knew he wasn't all right, and the look in his eyes frightened her. She knew what she feared, but she couldn't let that fear take over. The same specter that had haunted them last year at the adoption interview—was that what this was? They had spoken a few times of his post-war trauma, not in too much detail but enough to give her an idea of how devastating it had been for him. Oh, what she would give to never have him hurt like that again.
She'd spoken to Timothy briefly last night, and he'd agreed to stay here with Angela and Patrick while she worked at the surgery. It was too late to arrange anything else. Then, she'd made a short phone call to Nonnatus, giving Sister Julienne a basic account of what had happened and asking for some assistance. Her mentor had assured her that a nurse would be sent to help—Shelagh wouldn't have to be by herself. The dear sister had also promised to keep Patrick and their family in her prayers.
Shelagh had prayed too. She had done so last night, lying awake in bed staring at her husband's restless form, and she had done so this morning, thinking of all those brighter days and wishing with all her heart that those days would return. Just to see him turn towards her with a smile, as he had on that earlier Spring morning, would ease her mind. But he didn't, and he wouldn't. He had slept fitfully last night, tossing and turning, and then this morning he lay there still and dejected. And here she was standing in the hall, hoping that he would get the rest he needed and that his strength would return. Maybe he was just overworked after all, and a few days rest was all he needed and he'd be on his feet again, as good as new. She hoped with all her heart for that to be so, despite that nagging fear that wouldn't go away.
Looking at her wristwatch, she knew she couldn't stand here anymore. She had to open the surgery on time this morning, so she had to get moving. She'd checked on Timothy earlier—he'd taken it upon himself to prepare breakfast and feed Angela while his mother got ready for work. They should still be at the table now, Shelagh thought as she walked down the dark hallway into the sunlit sitting room. Angela was giggling as Timothy made faces at her. Noticing his mother standing and watching, he nodded at her and pointed for Angela's benefit.
"Mummy's off to work, Angela," he told the girl. She turned to look at Shelagh, who mustered a smile for her daughter. Timothy then helped the little girl move her arm up and down in something like a wave as she laughed and smiled at her mother. Shelagh couldn't help but smile wider at this, and at her wonderful son.
"I'll see you at lunchtime," she told them, waving at her daughter.
"Don't worry, Mum," said Tim. "We'll take care of Dad."
She nodded, grateful. Then, saying a simple goodbye and with the image of her husband's face still in her mind, she turned to the front door and opened it, walking out into to the warm summer air.