Prompt 14: "We'll get through this, I promise."
Summary: Doctor Turner is helping in the Leopold Institute during the bomb scare when Alan Bridges has his PTSD attack. TW: PTSD, war-related flashbacks, violence.
A/N: There was way too much happening in this episode for this to have ever occurred, but I did think it was strange that Dr. Turner was never seen at the Leopold institute considering that all of Poplar was crammed in there and they definitely needed medical assistance in several instances. This was also born from thinking about Alan Bridges' plot line and about how fear can be conquered through dire circumstances and love. I think Shelagh during this time grew in a similar way through Timothy's polio crisis and being forced to face her fears and I wondered what would've happened if it had been Patrick with the crisis instead. Anyway, enough of that, on with the fic!
Patrick Turner was no longer sure if the people of Poplar actually needed more medical attention than normal or if they were simply finding new and desperate ways to pass the time by requesting to be looked over. Either way, he was exhausted and all he wanted was to run back to his flat and curl up on the couch with Shelagh for a few minutes before dinner. He sighed as yet another hand gently tapped him on the shoulder and berated himself for the momentary lapse in selflessness. He was one of the lucky few who had not been evacuated, he should be thankful he would get to go home tonight at all.
"How can I help you Mrs. Mullins?" he asked, forcing himself to be patient.
"Can you take a look at my James, Doctor?" she asked. "He was running round with the other boys earlier and he fell."
A small face peeked out from behind his mother and Patrick smiled. At least this patient was young enough to not supplement their check up with nosy questions about his upcoming marriage.
"Hello, young man. I hear you had a bit of a scrape?" he asked as he bent down to the boy's level.
"It wasn't my fault." James insisted. "Jack pushed me."
Patrick laughed.
"Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Here, hop up on the table and let's have a look at you."
James climbed up onto the table with little regard for his bleeding knee, but Patrick wasn't fazed. Grazed knees were small pennies with a young son of his own. He had to admire James' bravado, though. A small flinch at the first touch of the alcohol swab, but no other fuss. Patrick wryly suspected that was due more to a desire to go back out and play than actual lack of pain, but he was a boy once too and who was he to judge?
"All set, James. Good as new!" he assessed.
"Thanks, Doctor Turner!" James hopped off the table and ran before his mother could tell him to sit down and he shook his head. Some days, he felt called to medicine for the huge breakthroughs and medical advancements, but some days, like today, he felt pure joy in being able to turn a child's day around. Poplar was a mess and he was involved in the biggest gossip in years, but he could fix a scraped knee. That in and of itself was comforting.
He was brought out of his happy pondering by a slamming door and a man's screams.
The room turned as Alan Bridges ran hollering through the room, blood falling from his hand, and into the side pool hall.
Somewhere, Nurse Franklin and Nurse Miller were calling his name, but he couldn't hear them. Alan's voice echoed through his head and made his blood run cold. He hadn't heard a man scream like that in over ten years. He'd seen patients through every manner of malady since leaving the service, but none of them - not even mothers in debilitating labor - sounded like that.
"Doctor Turner!" Nurse Miller called out, now close enough that he couldn't ignore her. "Come quickly!"
It was force of habit that sent him following after the worried nurse. He could hear Alan's screams getting louder and louder as they raced down the hallway, footsteps echoing on the tile. He yelled in his head to pull it together. This wasn't the war. This wasn't thousands of bodies before him he couldn't revive. This wasn't another day of death certificates. This was one man. One patient. One soldier who needed his help. Cynthia opened the door and he forced himself to look past the blood smear and search for the source of the man's crying and Nurse Franklin's attempts at calming it.
He found them half way into the room. Trixie knelt beside one of the pool tables, clearly having followed the trail of blood as well as Alan's voice. He listened to her for a moment. "It's okay.", "you're safe." She was doing everything right, but he knew Alan couldn't hear her. Not now. Not like this. He eased himself onto the floor beside her and Alan turned to look at him.
His face went white. Patrick couldn't see Alan Bridges looking back at him. All he saw was the face of another broken man in the mirror from over ten years ago.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't help him, not when his own ghosts were clearly not as banished as he thought.
Ignoring Trixie and Cynthia's concern, he fled the room and ran to the nearby lav before emptying his stomach into the sink. The tap water was freezing as he washed the basin and wiped his face, but he could barely feel it. How could he go back out there? No one knew about Northfield and his utter inability to cope after the war, not even Marianne. How could he face his colleagues, God, how could he face Shelagh? She would never agree to marry him now. Marrying a man far older than her was risky enough, she would never marry someone this broken as well.
The knocks on the bathroom door banged through his head like gunshots.
"Doctor Turner?" Cynthia called out. "It's Nurse Miller, are you alright?"
"I'm fine." he forced out. "Go see to Mr. Bridges."
"Nurse Franklin's with him now." Cynthia informed. "Are you sure everything's okay?"
No response.
"Doctor Turner?" she tried again.
"See to your patient, Nurse Miller." he snapped.
"I'm trying." she thought, but knew better than to voice the thought. Instead, bracing herself, she ran out to the nearest telephone box.
Cynthia was expecting either Ms. Penny or Timothy to pick up the phone at Kennilworth, so she was pleasantly relieved when the woman she actually wanted to reach answered her with a sweet "Doctor Turner's residence."
"Shelagh, thank goodness." Cynthia sighed. "Can you come to the Leopold Institute as soon as possible?"
"Is everything alright?" Shelagh asked nervously. "I don't think I'm particularly welcome right now."
"What are you talking about, 'not welcome'?" Cynthia asked. "We miss you terribly."
"You do?" Shelagh asked.
"Of course we do." Cynthia assured. "Unfortunately, we don't just need your company. It's...it's Doctor Turner."
"What?" Shelagh gasped.
"I'm not sure what happened, but well," Cynthia paused, suddenly conscious of how far she was sticking her foot out, "he seems to have had a panic attack of sorts? He won't speak to anyone and I'm quite worried. I don't know if it was the right thing to call you and I'm sorry if I overstepped-"
"You didn't overstep, Cynthia." Shelagh said determinedly. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
Shelagh hung up the phone and grabbed her coat. The institute wasn't far, she could be there in under ten minutes if she ran. She wasn't even sure what she was going to do when she got there, but the thought of Patrick in pain was unbearable and anything she could do was more important than any shame she would feel at the stares she was bound to receive.
The winter air burned her lungs and she had the fleeting thought that Patrick would be furious if he knew she'd been running in the cold during her convalescence, but she needed to make sure he was okay.
She reached the center in minutes and hurried up the stairs to find Cynthia.
"Shelagh!" Cynthia was mercifully waiting for her and immediately called her over. "Down this way!"
"What on earth is going on now?" Sister Evangelina barked.
"I'll tell you in a moment Sister." Cynthia promised before she ran off with an every more worried Shelagh.
The two women moved quickly to the lav and Cynthia indicated the door.
"I'll leave you two alone." she spoke softly, paused, and then, "I'm so glad to see you."
Shelagh smiled.
"Thank you." she nearly cried. "For everything."
Cynthia reached out and squeezed her hand and then made her way back to find Trixie and Alan.
Shelagh stared at the door for a moment. When she'd first heard Patrick was in trouble, she didn't pause at all. She knew exactly what she was supposed to do when she left the house, but now, faced with the prospect of possibly not being able to help him, she faltered slightly. Cynthia didn't have any clue as to what happened, so she felt somewhat blind, but she'd seen panic attacks (and had her own) before. 'Better to simply charge forward', though, she heard Sister Evangelina say in her head.
She gently knocked on the door.
No answer.
Shelagh slowly pushed the door open a crack.
"Patrick?" she softly called. "Patrick it's me."
Still no answer.
"I'm coming in." she warned just as sweetly before opening the door enough to squeeze quickly through and close it behind her. The only light in the room came from the tattered shutters over the window, but maybe that was for the best for now.
"Oh, Patrick." she sighed sadly. The love of her life was sitting on the cold floor with his knees to his chest. His eyes were shut tight, as though he could will away whatever images were tormenting him. She didn't want to scare him, so she sat down next to him and let him adjust to her being there.
She wasn't sure, but she could swear she saw him slightly relax as she got closer.
"Patrick, dearest?" she asked as delicately as she could. "Can you hear me?"
After a moment, he hesitatingly opened his eyes.
"Shelagh?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you here?"
She could feel her heart split.
"I'm here." she promised. "I will always be here."
He slowly unclenched his hand from his knee and reached out to touch her face. The normally-romantic gesture shook her. He wasn't caressing her face like when they kissed, he was checking to see if he was imagining her. She moved her own hand up to hold his against her cheek.
"I love you." she whispered. It was the first time she'd ever said it outloud, but she meant it with her entire being.
Her admission washed over him and warmed his blood beneath her hands.
"I'm sorry." he apologized. "Oh, Shelagh, I'm so sorry." he turned away from her to hide the tears forming in his eyes, but she wouldn't let him.
"You don't have to apologize, Patrick." she pulled him into her arms, aware she was crying herself now. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"I don't know." he shook his head. "I thought I had it under control."
"Had what under control?" she urged.
"I can't tell you, I can't." he insisted.
"Patrick, please, let me help you." she begged.
"No, Shelagh, you'll leave!" he spat as he wrenched himself out of her arms.
"How can you say that?" she asked in disbelief. "How could you ever think that?"
"You deserve better." he fought.
"There is no one better." she argued. "You're the only thing I've cared about for so long, you and Timothy, how could you possibly think that anything you say would make me leave you?" she shouted.
This wasn't helping.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted." she apologized. "Or pushed." she admitted. "I'm not very good at this. I see you in pain and I just want to make it better and I don't know how and I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."
They stood in silence for a moment. Shelagh was about to turn to leave in defeat when his voice stopped her.
"I didn't handle the war...well." he whispered. "I thought all that was behind me, but seeing Alan Bridges today, I...I'm still not handling it well. I think that's all I can manage for today."
Shelagh took his hand and kissed his knuckles as he'd done when he proposed. Hadn't she said the same to Sister Julienne recently?
"You've made a start." she soothed. "And you don't have to tell me anything else if you don't want to, but...I want you to know that I won't run if you do."
"I want to believe that." he solemnly admitted.
"We'll get through this, I promise."
It was a promise she knew neither of them could keep, but maybe if they kept trying, it wouldn't matter one day.
14 down, 36 to go!