A/N: Thanks for the reviews so far. I guess I'll just keep writing until I run out of plot ideas. :) I'm unsure about the Bible quote in this passage, as my Bible is Catholic, not Anglican (I think both use the St. James version), but I couldn't resist.

There was still an hour before she had to rise for morning prayers, but Sister Bernadette had already been awake for quite some time. She'd had bouts of insomnia before; that sort of thing came with a midwife's irregular hours. The key was not to rest during the day, even if you had the rare opportunity for a lie-in, but to keep going until the sun went down.

But this was different. She was exhausted, not only from work, but from the dreams. Oh, the dreams. Dreams she should not be having. The only way to avoid them was to stay awake, disciplining her mind by reading her Bible - Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Solomon. That last one had been a mistake that kept her awake ages.

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine."

She pulled her hand out from underneath the quilt, traced the healing scar on her palm and allowed herself the indulgence of one memory.

It had been after the three-legged race with Timothy. She stood at the sink in the clinic, running cold water over her injured hand and trying to catch her breath. She'd been feeling breathless more and more recently; she put it down to her anxieties.

"Would you like me to take a look at that?"

Dr. Turner stood in the doorway. She started at his voice and pulled away from the running tap. She hadn't even heard the doorway curtain move.

Looking back now, she didn't know why she'd said yes. It was only a graze; the scrap she'd bandaged on Timothy's elbow weeks earlier was more serious. She could clean and bandage it herself and be back to her duties in no time.

But there was something in his face, stubborn yet caring, that made her submit. She knew he wouldn't leave and she had no excuse to run this time. She awkwardly held out her wet, bleeding hand for his inspection.

He stepped closer and took her hand gently in both his own, as if he were afraid he might injure her further.

She couldn't remember if they'd ever touched like this before. Certainly, they worked in close quarters sometimes during births, sat shoulder to shoulder at the foot of beds bringing new lives into the world and passed instruments back and forth during clinics. She might have shaken his hand when they first met, years ago, but that was when he was married and she was still a nun sure of her faith.

This is a test, she thought, as he ran his fingers lightly over her wrist, then her palm, examining the wound with a furrowed brow. If we can behave as patient and doctor here, if he touches me and I can feel nothing, then everything will be all right. Everything will return to normal. She watched the path of his fingers, her breath becoming quick and shallow again.

He bent his head, his eyes fluttering shut, and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.

For a heartbeat, she didn't move, too shocked by the feel of his lips on her skin. She hadn't known such a small gesture could make her feel so warm. The heat washed up her arm and made her blush.

And yet there had been nothing lascivious about his action. He kissed her as she'd seen young mothers kiss their newborns, with tender reverence and - and love.

The sunny joy of realizing that he returned her affections was quickly eclipsed by a black cloud of guilt. This was wrong. She turned away and stared at her fingers, half-expecting to find them marked by his kiss. But there was only the graze from the pavement.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say huskily. "That was unforgivable."

No, it was wonderful, she wanted to tell him. For a brief second, everything was wonderful and clear and she knew exactly what she wanted. "Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgivable?"

"I think you know that better than I do," he said.

She could hear the hurt in his voice and everything in her cried out to turn back and comfort him. But she didn't have that right, just he had no right to kiss her. She belonged to a higher power that could not be turned away from. Then she felt worse for even considering turning away from God and her faith. That was not who she was. She could only offer the doctor, this man she loved without knowing exactly why, small words of reassurance.

"At this moment, I only know I'm not turning my back on you because of you. I'm doing it because of Him." She grasped the wooden cross at her neck, feeling the corners cut into her damp palm. Reality, harsh and firm.

He sighed. "And if I didn't accept that I wouldn't deserve to live." She heard the curtain part and he was gone. She turned back a second too late.

It had been the most romantic, the most erotic moment of her life.

In her dreams, she didn't turn away. In her dreams, she let him kiss her, then turned her hand to rest it on his cheek and stepped closer. That was as far as she ever got before waking herself up.

They hadn't spoken in weeks - well, really spoken, beyond instructions at ante-natal clinics. Soon the wound on her hand would be completely gone. It would be as if it had never happened.

Then what would they be? They'd been friends and confidants before, but she wasn't sure that possible now, not when he'd laid his heart before her and she'd given it back in pieces.

They must be strangers to one another, she thought as she rose from bed to dress. No - worse. With strangers, there was always possibility of friendship, if you opened yourself to it.

They would have to be professional, for themselves and for the patients. Sister Bernadette and Dr. Turner. Colleagues, nurse and doctor. That was the only solution.