Chapter 7

Summary: The diagnosis.

A/N: We made it to the hospital! There's still some very serious angst to come, but I can actually see the cuteness on the horizon now! Also, sorry for the delay in updating. I'm dealing with my own hospital family drama right now and writing about a loved one in the hospital was just a little too much for me for a little bit.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Hospitals smelled differently to Shelagh depending on why she was there. As a nursing student, the hospital smelled like promise. Even the rankest smells from various injuries and procedures reminded her of what she could fix and how she was on her way to fulfilling her purpose. As Sister Bernadette, the hospital smelled of the flowers dropped off by loved ones and the carbolic soap of the constant laundry. Whenever she was seconded she always marveled at the difference between the pristine hospital care and the struggles of the East End. Now, though, all she smelled was death. She supposed all the smells had always been there. There were always people helping, people caring, people dying. Now, though, one of those people was Patrick and she felt sick to her stomach.

Phyllis charged ahead of her to get the room from the matron. She wanted to argue that she was more than capable of handling it, but the truth was, she probably wasn't if her grip was anything to go by. Timothy returned her death grasp, but Angela was struggling and pulling against her hand.

"This way," Phyllis instructed, "Doctor will meet us there."

"Did she say anything?" Tim asked fearfully.

"Not as yet, I'm afraid." said Phyllis. "But if Nurse Mount says he's out of surgery, then that's a good sign." Phyllis tried to tamp down on the lingering fear that 'out of surgery' didn't necessarily mean 'right as rain'. Shelagh already knew that and she didn't need anyone bringing it to attention.

The group walked tensely through the hallways. Even Angela sensed the need for quiet, though she didn't know why. Shelagh and Tim told her that daddy was hurt and needed to go to the hospital to see a special doctor, but she didn't understand. Whenever she was hurt, she went to her daddy. If her daddy was the one who fixed people, how come someone else needed to fix him? It was all very confusing.

"Family of Patrick Turner?" A doctor called out, walking towards them. Shelagh hurried forward.

"Yes, I'm his wife, Shelagh Turner, and these are his children." she spoke quickly. "Please, is he alright?" The doctor sighed, adopting a patronizing tone and stance that Shelagh knew all too well. "I'm a trained nurse and the wife of a doctor, don't." Despite the seriousness of the moment, Phyllis smirked as Doctor Owens blinked in surprise. She remembered when she too found out just how ferocious little Shelagh Turner could be. Doctor Owens nodded.

"The surgery was successful." sighs of relief were heard all around, though they knew he wasn't finished. "Dr. Turner will make a full recovery in time."

"But," Shelagh pressed nervously.

"The bullet passed clean through his spleen." Doctor Owens explained. "The damage was too great to repair, and we needed to remove it. There was also considerable blood loss, as with any clean shot. There's little risk of infection, but it may be some time before he wakes, and even longer before he has the strength to leave the hospital. He has quite the recovery road ahead." Shelagh, Tim, and Phyllis nodded in understanding.

"But he'll be alright?" Shelagh asked with a glimmer of hope. "I won't lose him?"

"No, Mrs. Turner." he replied with a smile. "You've got a fighter on your hands."

"Thank you." Shelagh sighed happily.

"Would you like to see him?" Doctor Owens asked. "You won't get much out of him, I'm afraid, but-"

"Yes, please." Shelagh insisted. Doctor Owens nodded and lead them into the room.

Patrick lay on his back, an IV in his hand and a blood transfusion making its way into his arm. A standard issue hospital blanket covered most of him, but it was easy to see the bulge around his torso where he was heavily bandaged. His skin was deathly pale.

"Daddy sleeping?" Angela asked. Shelagh sniffled a bit, but held it together.

"Yes darling, daddy's sleeping." she replied.

"No bedtime." Angela argued. The sun shone through the small window, proving her point. "Why sleep?"

"Because daddy is...sick...right now, Angel girl. Remember how much you sleep when you're sick?" Shelagh tried to explain.

"Oh." Angela said. "When daddy waking up?"

"I don't know, love." Shelagh replied, the exhaustion creeping into her voice.

"Angela, why don't we see if we can find a bite to eat, hmm?" Phyllis asked with a keen eye towards Shelagh. Angela immediately perked up - the blessing of being a distractible three-year-old.

"Timmy too?" Angela asked eagerly. Tim didn't want to leave, but he would've done anything for the look in his mother's eyes. It was new. She wasn't asking him to leave because 'the adults wanted time', she was asking him to leave because she trusted him to take care of Angela when she couldn't and she needed a moment alone with Patrick to process what the doctor had told them. He sighed and nodded.

"Me too, Ange. Come on, let's see what we can find." Tim contracted the muscles in his face into what he assumed was a smile and took Angela's hand as they followed Phyllis down the hall.

The click of their shoes faded and Shelagh was left in silence. The Patrick laying before her didn't seem real. Her Patrick's skin was always flushed with energy or worry and even in sleep, he broke the silence with soft snores and the occasional mumble. This Patrick didn't move. He lay perfectly still and pale and if it hadn't been for the nearly undetectable expansion of his chest, she would believe he were dead.

Her hand clutched his wrist and her anxiety ebbed at the feel of his pulse. It wasn't the reassurance she wanted, but it was better than nothing and far better than the alternative. Her thumb made its way back and forth across his hand of its own accord in a familiar pattern of comfort. She wondered if he could feel it. There were endless theories as to how much an unconscious person could hear, or smell, or feel, but she'd never paid any of them much mind. She'd always told patients that their loved ones knew they were there and that their prayers could be heard. She never realized those were just words. No level of faith, no amount of prayer, no mountain of belief could make her shake the fear of Patrick being lost in the darkness somewhere while she sat helpless.

So many words lay jumbled in her mouth. Perhaps silence was better. If he couldn't hear her, it wouldn't matter, and if he could - well he didn't deserve what she was terrified would come spilling out.

With her friends and children out of sight and him bandaged before her, buried wells of anger bubbled. How dare he? How dare he be so stupidly stubborn and jump in front of her? How dare one of their patients attack them, especially in a place of care? Why were others allowed to lose their minds with grief, and steal guns, and she had to keep everything together? Why did she have to feel so useless now that she was falling apart? How dare Patrick make her fall apart?

"Mrs. Turner?" a hesitant voice called from the doorway.

"What?" Shelagh snapped. Realizing it was Patsy, she softened. "I'm terribly sorry, Nurse Mount, that was most uncalled for."

"No, please." Patsy insisted. "You of all people have no need to apologize right now." Shelagh shook her head.

"There should never be an excuse for being discourteous." Shelagh said. "No matter what the circumstances." Her gaze drifted back towards Patrick, and Patsy quietly took the seat on the opposite side of the bed.

"Perhaps not," Patsy said, "but if there were ever a time for it, I'd say nearly losing a loved one is as good a reason as there will ever be." Shelagh looked up and smiled in sympathy - possibly the last emotion Patsy was expecting from her.

"I didn't know at the time, and so I never said anything-" Shelagh said, "I'm sorry for how difficult things were when Delia had her accident. I - know how awful it feels now, and I…" Perhaps it was the presence of someone who truly understood, but she couldn't help but cry. Patsy hesitated a moment, in shock from the revelation that Shelagh (and by extension, Patrick) knew about her and Delia and appeared to accept them, but then swiftly moved her chair to Shelagh's side of the bed and took her hand. That was a conversation for a later time.

She wasn't a natural comforter, but years with the Nonnatuns had taught Patsy quite a bit about solidarity and she waited patiently while Shelagh squeezed her back with one hand and gripped at Patrick's blanket with the other. She'd admired the Turners since her first day in Poplar, not only for their work ethic and their kindness, but for their complete devotion to each other. It wasn't readily obvious, but she'd had enough of her own experience with hidden relationships to see the tells: how Patrick would put his hand on her back when he thought no one was looking or how she'd lose herself in him for a moment during an intense delivery. They completed each other...and she'd nearly taken that away.

"I'm so sorry, Shelagh." Patsy whispered. "I'm so terribly sorry he was ever at that delivery. If I could take back that phone call, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"You didn't do this," Shelagh cried, "this isn't your fault, or Patrick's."

"Or yours." Patsy supplied knowingly.

"I know." Shelagh replied unconvincingly. "But the man who's responsible is already arrested. The police have done everything they were supposed to and it doesn't matter. The arrest won't wake him up. Oh, God, I don't know what to do." Her fingers were white with how hard she was clutching the fraying hospital blanket. Patsy eased her fingers.

"Let us help you." Patsy pleaded. "All of us, whatever you need."

"I want Patrick." Shelagh's voice cracked.

"I know." Patsy replied earnestly. She knew that feeling. "But in the meantime, if you can't have what you want, let us give you what you need." Patsy had no way of knowing, but the familiar words calmed Shelagh and for the first time, she allowed herself to think of what Patrick would do if their positions were reversed. 'Probably lose the flat under a pile of chippy wrappers and Lancets.' That wasn't her, though. She was the practical one in their relationship. She could do this.

"I need to go back to the flat and make up a bag for Patrick." Shelagh spoke steadily. Patsy nodded. "And I need to call a locum."

"Let us take care of the surgery." Patsy insisted. "We can have a locum in place in no time and I'm sure Nurse Crane won't mind fixing the rota so one of us can cover for you." Shelagh went to protest, but Patsy stopped her. "I know you probably feel like you need to work, but you need to be here. It's alright to ask for help. We want to help."

Shelagh nodded slowly. She'd always been better at being the helper than the helped, but she would try. Patsy was right, she needed to be here the moment Patrick awoke.

Thank you so much for your continued support! I hope you enjoy! *big hugz*