A/N: Oh look it's a 3rd chapter! A bit melodramatic, but I couldn't resist. Others have used Lizzie as the name of Patrick's wife, so I figured I'd use it too - just seemed to fit. Hope you don't mind.

Dr. Patrick Turner sat in his car, watching the back and forth scrape of the wipers, steady, like a heartbeat.

Whish, whish…wish, they seemed to whisper. Wish.

There was only one person he wished for, but she was miles away. And even if he could be at Sister Bernadette's bedside at the sanatorium, they would still be separated, by her vows to God and by a disease that could kill so cruelly.

The triple treatment can be miraculous, he'd told her. He'd prayed for a miracle, something he hadn't done since Lizzie had died. He wished he could be sure his prayers made a difference.

"Is there anything else I can get you, Doctor?" she asked quietly

He smiled at her kind offer. "Some of your faith perhaps. It's at times like this I wish I had one."

Her face fell. "It's at times like this I wish it made a difference."

Patrick hoped she still had some faith, to keep her strong and comfort her when he couldn't. He'd urged her in his brief letters not to give up - to fight - but had received no reply. He would have gone spare if weren't for Nurse Franklin mentioning at clinic the other day that she was going to visit Sister Bernadette and that her letters had been regular.

So she was writing. Just not to him.

He was nothing but professional, nothing but careful, when he wrote to her. He had thought briefly of visiting, under the guise of the checking on her health - as her GP it was perfectly reasonable he should be interested - but quickly abandoned that plan. She was ill and under stress; to force a visit on her before she was ready to see him would be wrong. He would not make the same mistake he'd made the day of the baby show.

He'd just come back from tending to Mrs. Harding, a mother of eight, with another on the way. She'd asked him for sterilization earlier, but he hadn't been able to offer it to her. No medical reason. It made him feel so futile, so angry. The woman had nearly killed herself over an unwanted pregnancy, and she wouldn't be the last, unless the laws changed. He'd driven slowly back to the parish hall, wrung out and helpless.

Then he'd got out of the car and seen Timothy and Sister Bernadette, joined at the hip, running in the three-legged race. The heaviness in his chest lifted; he felt the way he remembered feeling when Lizzie was alive, when he'd come home and find his wife and son engaged in some silly game. This was his family.

He ran through crowds, cheering, "Come on, Sister! Come on, Timothy!" and met up with them just as Timothy tripped and fell at the finish line, taking Sister Bernadette down with him. He saw her hands hit the pavement hard, saw her glasses go flying and worried briefly that she'd been hurt. But when he knelt to help, he found her just as breathless and excited as his son.

"We won!" she exclaimed, a wide grin lighting up her features. Her face looked different without glasses, younger, more open.

Timothy, once untied, ran off to collect his prize. Patrick found her glasses and handed them to her. He'd wanted to thank her, not just for looking after his son, but for giving him that moment of happiness just when he needed it. Instead, he stuttered, "You've hurt your hand."

She shrugged off his concern with a light comment - "no need to amputate" and scuttled away, leaving him alone again.

He looked around for something to do or someone to talk to. Timothy was horsing around with the other Cub scouts; he didn't need him now.

He really should thank Sister Bernadette, for her kindness to Timothy, if nothing else. She'd probably be in the clinic, looking for a bandage.

But once he found her, rinsing her hand in the clinic sink, the thanks died on his lips again. Why couldn't he just say what he felt? Ever since that afternoon when they'd been discussing updates to the clinic and she'd looked up at him, her blue eyes so clear and kind, he'd found himself tongue-tied in her presence. She was his colleague and a nun, for Christ sake. Why was he acting like a giddy school boy?

The physician in him took over. "Would you like me to take a look at that?"

He'd startled her; she jumped back from the sink, but after a moment, held out her hand for his inspection. "Yes."

He took her hand in both his own, careful of the wound. It was only a graze; she probably didn't even need a bandage. Her palms were chapped from work and the weather, but the skin on her wrist was smooth and pale, protected by the sleeves of her habit. He traced the network of blue veins there, then trailed his trembling fingertips up her palm, mesmerized.

Her hands told the story of someone who was both sheltered and experienced; someone who had spent her life caring for others, but deserved to be treasured herself. Someone who loved deeply and should be loved in return.

Without another thought, he bent his head and kissed her open palm.

Before he had time to register what he'd done, what such a naked display of affection meant, she pulled away and turned her back. He cupped his empty hands and felt his heart sink to his feet. He'd frightened her, when all he meant to do was love her.

He apologized and tried to reassure her as best he could, then left.

Patrick might have felt love during the moment when he kissed her palm, but he didn't realize how deep the feeling ran until weeks later, after he saw the X-rays. Lesions, more than one, in both lungs. TB. He didn't think he'd ever forget the fear in her eyes when he'd broke the news or the sudden cold feeling in his chest when he confirmed the diagnosis.

He did the small things he could for her, taking her to the hospital for scans and then later, to the sanatorium. But there was too much he couldn't do. Couldn't take care of her. Couldn't cure her TB. Couldn't say "I love you."

It's not enough, he thought. It will never be enough.

"Dad, are you sad?" Timothy's head popped up over the seat; Patrick had forgotten his son was in the car.

"How can I be sad when I've got you?" he replied, making an effort to smile and shove his darker thoughts to the back of his mind.

Timothy leaned over the seat back. "Granny Parker said that after mum died you used to just sit in the car, like a sheepdog without his sheep."

He didn't remember that. He remembered crying at the funeral and later, in their bedroom, and once in his office. But then he'd had work to do and a son to care for and there was no more time for crying. He had been late for more than a few appointments, with no recollection of why; he supposed he spent longer in the car than he realized.

"Did she?" He sighed. Even Timothy knew. "How about some fried bread?" he asked as a distraction. He didn't know if it worked, but Timothy agreed.

He's a very perceptive boy, Lizzie had said, when they both knew the end was near. "And he'll need you Patrick, to let him know everything is going to be all right."

"But it's not all right," he'd said. "You won't be here - how can that be right?"

She'd squeezed his hand with surprising force for someone so weakened by illness. "Maybe not at first, but it will be. One day, everything will be all right again."

Timothy was all right, he thought, as they finished their tea. Children were incredibly resilient. Patrick, however, was not. There was something he had to do, something he had to say, before he lost the chance to say it ever again.

So after his son was in bed, he sat at his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper and an envelope. He knew the address so well he could have written it in his sleep. He wrote quickly, without stopping, without thinking, sealed the envelope and ran down to drop it in the post box before he lost his nerve. There, it was done. It was said - well, not everything was said - but what was necessary was there. He trudged back to the flat, suddenly exhausted and crawled into bed.

You said everything would be all right, Lizzie. You promised, he thought as he drifted off. Help me me make this right.