Ten days later, Patrick turned his key as silently as possible in the lock of 24 Bermondsey Lane. It was just after three in the morning and he was returning from a complicated delivery on the other side of Poplar. The night had brought with it an autumnal chill and, with nothing over the lightest of his suit jackets, he was longing for the warmth of his home, and his bed in particular.
On entering the dark house, he threw his hat and jacket onto a peg in the hall, dropped his medical bag unceremoniously onto the floor and crept into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and found the cheese sandwiches and the bowl of fruit salad that he had been just about to eat when he had been called away nine hours previously. He lit a Henley and, having made a mug of Horlicks to go with it, he ravenously ate his supper. Shelagh had left the evening paper neatly folded on the table, but he was too tired to read it, all the print, aside from the bold headlines, blurred together and seemed to dance across the page.
Once he had eaten and placed his used crockery in the sink, he began to drag his exhausted body up the stairs. Half-way up, he heard a cry coming from the nursery. He accelerated spontaneously, and on reaching the landing, he stuck his head round his and Shelagh's bedroom door. His wife was fast asleep, curled up with one arm haphazardly draped across his pillow. A louder cry from the nursery made him retreat from the bedroom and towards the cot where his daughter lay. He picked his little girl up and rocked her gently.
"Shush little one, what's the matter?"
A warm, damp feeling on his lower arm soon answered his question. He fumbled around in the dark for a dry nappy.
"Let's take you downstairs," he cooed at that the little girl, "we don't want to wake Mummy and Timmy do we?"
Patrick took his daughter downstairs and changed her nappy but she was still restless in his arms. He put his finger to her mouth and his daughter's pink tongue flickered across it. Patrick grinned.
"It looks like I'm not the only one who gets hungry in the small hours."
He made up a bottle and settled down on the sofa, adjusting the cushions behind him, and stretched himself out so he filled it. He propped up his daughter on the right side of his chest, holding the bottle in his left hand and began to feed her. Despite his exhaustion, he hoped this moment would last forever.
"It's been a little while since we've done this isn't it sweetie?" he said, watching her sucking contently, "and so much has changed since then."
He kissed her forehead. "I've thanked your mother and your brother for all their help over the last few weeks, but I haven't thanked the most important person in this story yet have I? I hope you'll forgive me."
The little girl gurgled at precisely the right moment. Patrick smiled. "My daughter's timing is impeccable," he thought.
"Last time I lay on this sofa with you I was a broken man, a man plagued by the memories of his past, the wounds which he carried, too distressed and too distraught to tell anyone, even those closest to him. He was too ashamed, too wracked with guilt. He did not want his family to know him. And, it seems, there were things that they did not want him know about them. And I can't say I blame them for hiding things from me."
He hugged her tighter to him.
"Of course, you will never remember that evening we spent together, lying as we are now, your silly old Dad spilling his soul to someone who was neither listening nor capable of understanding. But that did not matter to me, what mattered was that I could gain the confidence to make the first steps along the long road which we travelled, without the fear of being judged. As much as I love your mother and brother, they were not the ones who could kick-start me along that road. Only you, the only person in my life incapable of judgement could do that. And now, thanks to that journey and the support I received along the way, I'm a very happy man. A man who has no secrets, a man whose family trusts him with all their secrets, a man who loves and is loved, a man finally free from the burdens he has been carrying, a healed man, a changed man."
She finished her feed, and Patrick lifted her over his shoulder and burped her. "Now that's better isn't it?" he said. In the absence of anything else, he wiped her mouth and chin on his shirt sleeve and laid her on his chest and planted kisses into her golden hair.
"I will never forget that night as long as I live. When you are a big girl I will tell you of what you did to help your Daddy. Then, I will tell you that I will always be here for you, I will always make time to listen to your problems, and, although I can't guarantee that I won't be an embarrassing Dad, I promise to be a good Dad I will always care for you, and Mummy and Timmy, just like you all have cared for me."
Patrick yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the clock, saw it was well after four, and then looked down to his chest to see his daughter lying fast asleep. Taking care not to wake her he stood up, switched out the light and crept up the stairs to the nursery. He put her into her cot, and covered her with her blanket, tucking the ends in delicately and securely.
"And I will protect you always, ensuring that you never suffer wounds as painful as your father has experienced. It is the least that a beautiful, precious little girl like you deserves. Sweet dreams little one, your Daddy loves you so very much."
He placed one last kiss on her forehead before leaving the room, crossing the landing and entering his own bedroom. Shelagh was still draped across his side of the bed, so once he had his pyjamas on, he gently climbed in and curled up around her. Lying staring at the ceiling, Patrick reflected on the journey he had made, and those final steps which he had just completed, then, just as he was on the final cusp of sleep, whispered to the silent room.
"My wounds are healed."
A/N
This story began with me wanting to write a bonding moment between Patrick and his daughter. His war experiences were the only thing I could think of that Patrick could only tell the baby, and as I wrote, the story grew until, well, you've just read it! After watching S3 E8, I particularly wanted Shelagh to help him as although they "talk" we do not see him "tell" her anything. I also find Timothy such a vibrant character and needed to further explore him through the help he gives his father. I know this has not been the easiest of reads in places, and I have certainly found parts very difficult to write, both in terms of subject matter and keeping it in Patrick's POV, so thank you for getting to the end of "Old Wounds." Please review if you have time, each one is greatly appreciated!
When I'm not writing FanFiction, I'm writing a Classical Archaeology PhD, and while I was writing "Old Wounds" I came across in my research the following text from Rhamnous, Greece.
Ἥρῳ ἰατρῷ Ἀριστομάχῳ ἀνέθηκεν
Inscribed sometime during the 4th century B.C., it is a dedication to a 'hero doctor' called Aristomachos. I hope you agree that this is a suitable dedication for this story:
Ἥρῳ ἰατρῷ Πατρικω Τυρνερω ἀνέθηκεν