"Would you like me to take a look at that?"

Though the voice was familiar, Patrick Turner still jumped slightly and dropped the tweezers again. Sister Bernadette stood in the doorway of the clinic kitchen, her hands clasped in front of her and a kind, patient smile on her face.

"One of the spirit lamps broke. I've cleaned most of it up, but I've got this infinitesimal piece of glass in my thumb I can't seem to get out." He held out his injured hand for her inspection.

She stepped forward and took his hand in both her own. Patrick drew in a sharp breath. Her hands were so soft, sure and careful, like herself. He watched, barely breathing, as she picked up the tweezers and deftly removed the sliver of glass from his thumb.

"There. All better." She set the tweezers back on the counter, but didn't let go of his hand. Her thumb pressed gently into his palm, and his fingers curled around it of their own accord. There had been so many times over the past months when he'd instinctively reached for her hand, desperate even for that innocent contact, but stopped himself at the last minute. Now he had it, and he didn't want to let go.

"Th – Thank you," he stuttered. He was having a hard time remembering how to speak, or what words even were at this moment.

"Of course, doctor." She smiled at him, stroking his knuckles with the fingers of her other hand. "We can't have you working injured. Your hands are very important."

She slowly lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertips.

Patrick couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything except her soft lips on his hand. This was wrong; he should stop her before she did something she would regret. But he'd ached for her touch for so long –

She met his gaze, her blue eyes wide with desire, and something in Patrick snapped. He pulled her roughly to him, hands gripping her elbows, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

She stilled immediately; he gone too far. He pulled away and stepped back, mumbling desperate apologies.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I –"

She cut him off with another kiss, gentle and a little fumbling due to their height difference, but he responded with enthusiasm, pulling her close again and wrapping his arms around her waist. She ran her hands up his forearms to grip his shoulders, spurring him to deepen the kiss.

He shouldn't be doing this – kissing a nun and respected colleague at their workplace?! What was he thinking? He wasn't – it was impossible to think when she was teasing his lower lip with her tongue like that. He mimicked the movement, and she moaned softly into his mouth. Patrick made a silent pact with himself: he'd stop when she wanted to stop. And right now, she didn't seem to want to stop.

Her fingers threaded into his hair and she pulled away slightly to press kisses to his cheek, his jaw and his ear. "Oh, doctor –"

"Patrick," he said, breathless. "Call me my name. Call me Patrick."

Her answering smile was beatific. "Patrick," she said shyly, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. "My Patrick."

Patrick had never thought much about his own name, but hearing it from her lips – something about the way she said it, claiming him for herself – sent a jolt of desire straight to his core. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He captured her lips with his again, and gently maneuvered her backwards until she was pressed up against the kitchen wall, and he against her.

His hands remained firmly on her waist as they kissed, but her fingers traveled, moving up his chest, caressing his shoulders and then running down his torso and along his ribs. Even through the layers of clothing, the feeling of her hands on him drove him nearly wild and Patrick could feel himself losing control.

One of her hands moved up to the open collar of his shirt and slipped underneath, stroking the line of his collarbone. The touch of her fingers on his heated skin brought Patrick back to his senses, and he pulled away.

"We – we can't do this," he gasped.

She pouted, her lips swollen from kissing. "Why? I want to."

His desire-clouded brain tried to scramble for a reason. "Because – because – there's a baby crying?" And there was – he could hear it whimpering, clear as day. "Do you hear that?"

He stepped back, left the kitchen and went into the hall. It was empty, but the baby's cries increased. Where was she? He had to find her, make sure she was all right and soothe her until she stopped crying. She probably just needed a nappy change, or a bottle or someone to hold her – where was the baby?

Patrick snapped awake. His head ached, his throat was on fire, his heart pounded like he'd just run a mile, and he felt uncomfortably hot and sweaty. He caught a shaft of bright afternoon sunlight peeking through the gap in the bedroom curtains, and remembered. He was ill and in bed for the day on Shelagh's orders. His and Shelagh's bed. Shelagh hadn't been Sister Bernadette for nearly three years. They were married, and they had two children. And the cries, the ones he'd heard in his dream, were coming from Angela's crib nearby. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. It was just a fever dream. A very strange fever dream.

He stretched to attend to the baby, but Shelagh scurried out of the bath in her dressing gown, hair wrapped in a towel.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Patrick. I set her down for five minutes to wash my hair and couldn't hear her over the sound of the bath." She picked up the whimpering child. "She's just lost her teething ring, that's all. There, that's better, isn't it?" Angela quieted after a moment, and Shelagh shifted her to her other hip. "So, how's the patient?"

"Much better. I think I'll be able to go back to the surgery to –" he doubled over in a fit of coughing. Shelagh set the baby down and passed him the glass of water on the bedside table.

"That's what I thought," she said. "You're not going anywhere tomorrow."

"Shelagh, it's just a cough –"

"And a sore throat and a fever. Running yourself into the ground when you're ill won't help any of your patients. You'll stay home again tomorrow and let me take care of you."

Patrick grumbled but settled back into the pillows. "Yes, Nurse Turner." There would be mountains of paperwork awaiting him when he returned, but his head ached too much to think about that now.

And the enticing yet incredibly strange dream he'd just had worried him even more. His dreams about Shelagh when she had been a nun hadn't been nearly that vivid. Why would he dream about her as Sister Bernadette now? It was probably just the fever. He tried not to think about it. "Why were you washing your hair?"

Shelagh rolled her eyes. "Your daughter decided applesauce tasted good but would look much better smeared in Mummy's hair. I was going to wash it anyway tomorrow, so harm done." She frowned. "Are you sure you're not feeling worse, Patrick? You looked rather wild-eyed when you woke up."

He swallowed painfully. "I'm fine, Shelagh."

She stroked back his hair and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "You still feel feverish. I'll get the thermometer, and some more aspirin."

Patrick let her fuss over him, getting him tea and aspirin, retrieving a cold compress from the kitchen, taking his temperature. In her dark blue dressing gown, with her hair tucked under a towel and her face free of makeup, Shelagh looked much like she had during her years as Sister Bernadette. On another day, this would have amused Patrick, but after that dream…it was disconcerting, like being faced with a past he thought he'd buried. What if one day Shelagh did regret leaving the order? He was slightly – no, quite a bit older – than her. What if one day in their twilight years she tired of taking care of him and wanted to be Sister Bernadette again?

"Shelagh," he muttered around the thermometer. "Take the towel off."

She frowned. "Why?"

He spat out the thermometer. "Please. Just take it off, please."

Her frown deepened, but she did as he asked. Her hair fell down around her shoulders in wet, dark gold strands and he caught the clean scent of her shampoo. He tucked one damp lock behind her ear, and she grinned and blushed slightly. There she was. There was his Shelagh.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a burden like this and making you take care of me."

She grasped his hand. "Patrick, I love you. But sometimes you are ridiculous." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, once, twice. "Caring for you is not a burden – never a burden. In sickness and in health, remember?"

"In sickness and in health," He ran his thumb over her wedding band and felt comforted.

"And I intend to get you back to good health by Saturday," she said.

"What's going on Saturday?"

She shrugged. "Nothing in particular. Timothy's got an all-day cricket outing and Sister Julienne and the other nuns are dying to spend some time with Angela." She smiled slowly. "If you could bear to spend another afternoon in bed, I might join you. If you're feeling better, that is."

Patrick grinned wickedly. "Oh, I think I'll be feeling much better by Saturday."