Prompt 5: "Please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry."
Summary: Patrick has a nightmare after explosion at the docks. TW: Violence and suggested gore (not explicit), PTSD.
A/N: The support for this series has been amazing and I can't thank you guys enough!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"Dr. Turner!" The constable barges into the surgery, completely ignoring the range of curious to offended faces in the waiting room. Patrick turns from his whispered consultation with Nurse Crane.
"Can I help you, constable?" He asks.
"Explosion at the docks, sir." The constable pants. "Ambulances are on their way, but we need all the help we can get."
Patrick pales. Shelagh's scheduled at the docks for vaccinations.
He rushes out of the surgery without a word to anyone.
The smog-filled air burns his lungs after years of cigarettes, but he doesn't care. He's sure he's never run this fast in his life. As he nears the docks, he can see the smoke rising from the explosion site and his heart drops.
He can't lose her. Not now. Not ever. He couldn't survive it.
And the baby. Their baby. They haven't even told anyone yet. Shelagh didn't want to. Said it was bad luck…
He feels the bile rise in his throat against his will, but he wills it away and runs on.
The smell of burning bodies assaults him as he turns the corner to the factory.
It's a smell he never expected to forget, but the memories and horrors flood his mind faster than he anticipates and suddenly it feels as though there are miles of trenches and blood between him and Shelagh. It doesn't matter. He'll kill thousands to get to her.
His throat burns from more than his desperate sprinting and he feels himself screaming before he hears himself.
"SHELAGH! SHELAGH WHERE ARE YOU?!"
He ignores the wounded cries for help from the men littered around him against every instinct in his body. His passion for his craft is worth nothing if it can't save her.
He trips over piece after piece of rubble, blindly forcing his way through to where the vaccination table should be.
But it isn't there.
His eyes follow the trail of splinters and blood. As the drops build to streams, the anguish in his heart builds to ruin. Under what remains of the table is what remains of his darling wife…
"SHELAGH!" Patrick screams in his sleep and the contentedly-sleeping real Shelagh jolts awake as her husband grabs frantically at the bed spread beside her.
"Patrick!" She frantically tries to wake him up, but he's so far gone that all she can really do is help him ride it out. "Patrick, it's okay, I'm here, I'm right here."
Her heart shatters as she wraps her arms around his chest and tries to stroke his hair. His tears fall onto her hands and she doesn't think she's felt this helpless since she was told she couldn't have children.
He can't feel the jagged scraps of wood and gravel in his hands and knees as he knocks rubble out of the way and pulls her into his lap. Her head falls limply against his chest and he crumbles as he adds her pulse to the list of things he cannot feel.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening again.
"Oh Patrick, please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry, my love."
He mutters into her sleeve.
"Shelagh, please come back. Please, please don't leave me."
"Darling, I'm right here, you're having a nightmare." She cries. "Please wake up."
Patrick stops fitting, and Shelagh nearly sighs in relief until she realizes that he's moved from fear into pure misery and is sobbing in her arms.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Shelagh." He cries over and over again. Shelagh can't tell if he's apologizing to her or to the version of her in his head, so she simply holds him even tighter than before, her thumb gently stroking his arm, willing him back to her.
A sliver of street light shines through the window and illuminates her bandaged hand. Suddenly she realizes exactly what his nightmare must have been about and she curses herself for not seeing it sooner.
Patrick stops shaking and slowly blinks awake, thoroughly confused and exhausted.
"Shelagh?" He asks into the dark. His voice is rough, but no longer as desperate and she thanks God that he managed to wake himself.
"I'm right here, dearest," she whispers, "let me get the light."
She gently untangles her arms and reaches over for the bedside lamp. They both instinctively shut their eyes against the unwelcome light and she turns back to hold him.
"It's alright," she soothes, "do you want to talk…"
"Do we still have that bottle of whiskey?" He interrupts her a little more harshly than he intends. "I'm sorry. I will talk to you, I just…I just need a moment." He amends.
Shelagh kisses his forehead and heads quickly to the kitchen.
Patrick takes the brief absence to collect himself a bit. He hadn't had a nightmare like that in years. Even when the memories of Northfield came back before Angela's adoption, he'd spent most of his time unable to sleep rather than trapped in dreams. Truth be told, he hadn't had a nightmare than heartbreaking since the day he found out Shelagh had TB…
"There's enough left for a couple of glasses if you need it." She says as she makes her way back to their bed.
He takes the bottle and the glass gratefully and appreciates that she doesn't push him as he knocks back his first pour. It's taken them some time to come to a place of full disclosure with each other, but they have and she knows that she just needs to give him a moment to form his thoughts when he needs to talk about anything serious.
"I dreamt about the explosion today." He starts. "A constable came to get me to help and I ran as fast as I could to get to you, but…"
"It was too late." She finishes for him. He nods.
"I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." He whispers. "I don't think I would survive."
"Yes you would," she insists, "you would for Timothy and Angela, just as I would."
"I panicked today." He admits. "Sister Julienne told me you were at Nonnatus House and that you were injured at the explosion and I panicked. She had to calm me down before I could go see you. I was so ashamed"
"Oh Patrick, I didn't know. I'm so sorry." Shelagh apologizes.
"It's not your fault." He reassures. They sit in silence, her head resting on his shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere." She promises.
"You can't promise that." He reminds her.
"Yes, I can." She determines.
He smiles at her and knows he won't win this battle, so he cuddles her to him as they drift off to sleep once more.
When she nearly miscarries, he tells her he's holding her to her promise.
When she's released from the hospital, she cheekily asks him if he ever doubted she'd keep it.
Now, holding their son as she sleeps, he knows nothing in the world is stronger than her stubborn will to survive.
5 down, 45 to go! This one got dramatic, but the next one is going to be a silly one. :D I'm going to try to alternate the moods. Hope you enjoy!