Sister Julienne saw them out. Very little was said as she closed the large red doors behind them. Patrick immediately searched for his cigarettes and lighter. He suddenly realized he was stood alone at the top of the Nonnatus stone staircase. Shelagh had sank to the floor. Exhaustion, hunger and emotion had finally got the better of her. She sat on the top step, knees bunched up, elbows resting on the skirt of Trixie's dress and her head in her hands. Patrick immediately sat down next to her.

" Si-Shelagh, are you alright?" his voice struggled to maintain its clinical edge.

"I am fine, honestly," came the reply, "just.. the thought of all these steps overwhelmed me for a minute." She attempted a brave smile of reassurance.

"Where's your cardie?" he abruptly enquired. The sun had gone down hours ago, the autumnal night air definitely had an edge to it.

"I left it on the hooks by the door, it's Nurse Franklin's work one, she will have need of it."

Patrick rubbed his temples with his left hand, he hadn't noticed her remove the garment and leave it behind the now closed door. To eager to be on the other side, he hadn't noticed Shelagh's quiet act of altruism. Always putting everyone else's needs above her own comfort and sometimes, like now, her well-being.

Trixie's dress although pleasing wasn't really suitable for an October evening. The dress was sleeveless with a high scooped neckline, but the zip fastener finished its journey much lower down Shelagh's back, leaving a V of exposed pale skin.

Trixie hadn't been entirely accurate with her over-confident estimation that the garment would fit Shelagh perfectly. The cumbersome religious vestments of yesterday had been concealing a slight figure, three months of intensive antibiotic therapy and enervation had stolen resources from her body, that she had never held in abundance. The dress hung awkwardly at the bodice and the thick straps laid lazily on her alabaster shoulders

"Let's get you to the car," Patrick chivied, Shelagh did not move.

Patrick was worried, he wanted to feel her forehead, take her pulse, but the little ball she had curled herself up into prevented it. He tentatively placed his hand on her rounded back. Patrick's considerable hand-span almost covered Shelagh's tiny trunk. It would have been impossible to determine who was the more surprised. Shelagh reacted instantly to the warmth of his hand and shivered. Skin that had long since felt the touch of night air, let alone the touch of another, tingled with anticipation at the sudden influx of sensation.

Patrick removed his hand, with a lot more haste than he had applied it, due to the touch of her skin and the reaction of her involuntary nervous system.

"You are freezing!" was the doctor's expert opinion.

"Dr Turner," he was heedful enough of the circumstances not to correct her. She lifted her head to caution him, "I have been cold all day. I entered the order on a hot summers day and left on a dreek autumn one in the same clothes." Her tone softened from it's strong Scottish scold to something more gentle, when she saw the concern in his eyes. "Until I arrived earlier, I hadn't realised how insulating the habits were and how damp Nonnatus is. No wonder the nurses all wear cardigans."

Patrick wanted to go and get his coat and wrap her up in it, as he had done that morning. He was however afraid if he left her unattended, she might over-balance and tumble down the steps. Not unlike the bright red bouncy football, a toddling Timothy had once delighted in repeatedly throwing down the same steep steps. She reassured him she only needed a few more seconds.

Patrick chose to attempt a further course of action and tentatively put his arm around her. She felt so cold. Shelagh responded to the warmth of his body close to hers and edged slightly closer to him, leaning against his chest to let him take some of her insubstantial weight. She was finding it so hard to remain upright due to her fatigue.

If she could only just sleep for a few minutes. Patrick sensed her intention as she leaned into him and snuggled her way under his jacket, finding a comfortable place for her head beneath his arm and against his wool of his pullover. The woollen warmed her face and tickled her nose. Heat began to radiate from her place of nuzzling slowly down her body. She remembered rare summer days on the sands at Balmedie. Her Da burying her in the hot sand, her mother berating him for being too rough, drowned out by her own girlish laughter. She could feel the burning sand in between her toes and the weight of the sheet of the golden glistening mineral on her legs. She had the feeling of being wrapped up in an ever shifting blanket of love and joy. Home was only ever a heartbeat away and she could hear the rhythm of home now as her head rested against Patrick's heart.

Patrick tried to stay as still as he could, she looked relaxed probably for the first time that day. The little furrows that marked the centre of her brow had disappeared. Her eyelids were now fluttering closed and her breathing shallowed. He wanted to take her hand or stroke her hair, but was unsure of what the next step should be. She had taken hold of the bland coloured wool of Patrick's jumper to secure her position, he noticed her grip lessen, just before he felt her whole body slacken against him.

It would have been so easy to let her just have her way, let her drift off for a while, nestled safe in his arms. For a few minutes they were just a tired couple after a long troubling day, finding comfort together on the convent steps. That was until the doctor responded to the call. He abruptly and rather vigorously started rubbing her arm. This jolted her from her slumber. He was rubbing both her arms now and calling her name, telling her to get up. Shelagh was reminded of her father rubbing the family's Irish Red Setter with an old towel in the back kitchen when he came in from the rain.

"Patrick I am fine." They were on their feet and the doctor was removing his jacket to put around her. The large scarlet Nonnatus door alarmingly creaked open. Shelagh couldn't quite believe her first prayer as no longer a religious sister once outside the doors of Nonnatus was; Please God, don't let it be Sister Evangelina Something she had also prayed quite frequently as a religious sister inside those doors, she mused.

Patrick, who was trying to extricate his jacket to give to Shelagh, was taken rather more by surprise by the impending intrusion. The disruption had resulted in him becoming unsure of his footing on the steps. He wobbled and grabbed the nearest thing available to add ballast, which was something considerably lighter than himself; Shelagh.

The woman was already unsteady as she had stood on the hem of that, "Dratted dress," as she had jumped to her feet. It had all happened a little too quickly and she was now feeling slightly dizzy. It was a scramble of tired limbs and sheer-will that secured them on the step. Both quite unsure who had saved who from the significant drop. Shelagh was holding tightly onto Patrick's jacket and the doctor had a firm grip on Shelagh's arm and one of the slack straps of the dratted dress. Sister Julienne stood motionless as the pair tried to steady themselves and each other.

Shelagh wasn't sure at this moment exactly what her future contained, but an image flipped through her mind of explaining to her future children about the first time mummy and daddy had a cuddle. How mummy ended up with friction burns, bruises and possibly even a fractured limb or concussion.

"Have you been called out Sister, is it Chummy?" All three of them were surprised that the ex-midwife found her voice first, showing an unexpected element of composure.

Sister Julienne said nothing, just moved towards the disheveled young woman in front of her, wrapping a ruby red cardigan around her shoulders and steadying her in doing so. She brought the two edges of the woollen garment together with a firm pull and smiled into Shelagh's eyes.

"I thought you looked cold," by way of explanation," it's Nurse Noakes', therefore a little on the generous side, but it will keep you warm and shield you."

With that she added, "Good night my friend."

Patrick stood unobtrusively a few steps below them. The nun turned to him,

"Good Night Dr Turner," there was no smile for him, but there was no reprimand either. Patrick nodded much more than a farewell. Sister Julienne turned and disappeared through the great doors. Shelagh started to cry.

Patrick was thinking out loud, something on the lines of, it being too late to secure lodgings. She would come home with him. Timothy would act as chaperone, so that was all right. If Tim was still up she could have his bed, if not he would sleep on the settee and on he kept rambling.

Shelagh said nothing and munched on her supper, the warmth of the chip filled newspaper warming her hands and lap. The car heater was blowing hot air on her feet and other places under Trixie's kind but rather unsuitable gift. Patrick aimlessly stole a chip between machinations. The ample red cardigan was neatly tied around her shoulders.

As Shelagh started to feel more like herself again, her thoughts turned more from her own ordeal to that of the owner of her knitted comforter. Chummy's life with Peter, how they would have imagined ending the day cuddled together in their Nonnatus makeshift home, with their new baby and how it had all gone horribly wrong.

Out of nowhere she asked, "Patrick what would you do now? If I wasn't here."

He wasn't sure at first how she meant it, neither really was she. He opted for the if I wasn't in the car scenario, rather than something more universal and terrifying.

"I'dd..," he started then stopped, "I don't know."

"Yes you do, you were going to say something, what would you do?"

"It's silly."

Shelagh suddenly wished she hadn't asked.

"Do you normally go to the pub or something?"

Patrick barked out a laugh, "I haven't been to the pub in years."

Was it a woman? He had written to her without rest, but she hadn't responded, not once. Had he got fed up, maybe he was seeing someone else? No, she had received a letter only yesterday.

"Patrick tell me," she entreatied.

He finally confessed, "If you weren't here, I would go to the London." he continued when she didn't interrupt, "I have had too many experiences of sitting in vacuous hospital corridors on my own, waiting for news. To not be thinking about what Peter might be going through at this moment."

"I know a little of that too and of feeling completely alone in an unfamiliar place," she stilled his hand as he went for another chip.

"You must go."

"No, I need to take care of you, as you just said you have had to cope far too long on your own."

"But I won't be on my own, Timothy will be with me and I will wait for you and news of Chummy."

Patrick dropped her at the flat. It wasn't the most romantic of first kisses, the car held a heavy odour of cigarette smoke and chip fat. Patrick lent in to capture her mouth. Her lips felt greasy and tasted of salt, vinegar and most peculiarly whisky. As Patrick reached for her hand he accidentally grabbed a piece of battered cod. Shelagh did feel a warmth in her belly, but soon realized it was nothing to do with the kiss. Moving his body closer to hers, he had pushed her supper up against her.

"Trixie's dress!" Shelagh cried, nearly dislocating Patrick's jaw, in her haste to look down to survey the damage.

The Poplar fashionista's garment was covered in newspaper print, grease and vinegar. Shelagh failed to trap a giggle and a shower of both malt vinegar and malt whisky tainted spittle, thoroughly showered her would be lover's face. It hardly resembled a Gwendolyn de la Roche paperback romance.

He opened the car door for her and then the flat entrance, he thought she would be cowed and furtive, sneaking into his flat in the dark. Not a bit of it, instead she was a fit of gorgeous giggles, clinging to the remains of her precious supper. He wondered if she was now so completely overwhelmed and physically spent, that she had surrendered to whatever may come.

He stole a final chip and a kiss on her grin and chip induced swollen cheek, as she passed him at the door. A succession of hiccups climbed with her up the stairs. Sister Bernadette was climbing up his stairs in Trixie's dress and Chummy's cardie covered in grease and condiment, wreaking of whisky and alternating each stair between a hiccup and a giggle. What was he about to do?

Go sit with Peter, of course.