Author's note: An introspective one-shot fic that takes places between the end of series 1 and the Christmas Special.

The quiet in the early morning bothered him the most. The rest of his day was filled with the cacophony of crowded streets, ailing patients, worried mothers, new babies and Timothy's inquisitive chatter. And paperwork. There was always more paperwork to occupy his mind. He often fell asleep at night doing paperwork. He worked until he was too tired to think or brood over the past, too tired for even dreams. Then he was able to sleep.

But the quiet and stillness in the morning before Timothy woke – no matter how he tried, he couldn't fill that. That was when he thought of her most often.

Margaret had never been quiet or still. She nearly always woke before him, and she seemed to stay in constant motion from morning til night. There was always something to do, she said.

Born with the gift of being able to talk to anyone, she did – his patients, her piano students, the nuns, the greengrocer and even the traveling salesman at the door. That was how they ended up with that hideous cheap carpet upstairs. Tea and a half-hour chat about the salesman's wife and children back in Swansea, and three weeks later, the hall was patterned with pink and green roses the size of cabbages. Margaret complained about it once it came – the sample pattern hadn't been nearly that bright – but said she wasn't about to ask for a refund, because "George and his wife had three little boys and another on the way and they needed the money." For all her teasing and sarcasm, she could be incredibly kind.

Her cancer had slowed her down physically, but it never affected her tongue. Many times he had come from rounds to find her chattering away on the phone to an old friend or playing Monopoly with Timothy. They had tournament going, she insisted, and she was not about to let Timothy win just because she loved him.

"Sleep," he told her. "You need your rest."

She smiled, somewhat sadly. "Plenty of time for that later, Patrick."

After her death, he tried to be home as often as he could, for Timothy's sake. But the silence in the house – it was unbearable sometimes. Work was easier.

The call out to Mrs. Barrie's yesterday evening had been a blessing to his unquiet mind. Both he and Nurse Miller were there all night, but at the end, mother and baby were both healthy. It was raining when they left, and her bike had a puncture, so he offered to drive the young midwife back to Nonnatus.

"Thank you, doctor," she said as he lifted the bike out of the car and wheeled it to the banana sheds. "I know you must be eager to get home."

Home. It was still very early; Timothy would be asleep for another two hours or so. He could go to the maternity home and catch up on paperwork. But it would be quiet and still there too.

"Actually, would you mind if I came in a moment? I have some paperwork I need to drop off with Sister Julienne –"

"Certainly," she said, frowning. "But the nuns will still be in morning prayers –"

"I don't mind waiting. I'll stay in the hall. I won't be a bother, I promise."

"All right." They both made a mad dash from the sheds to the door and into the convent. Nurse Miller excused herself to dry off, and Patrick paced the corridor, waiting for – what? He didn't know. He could leave the paperwork outside the Sister's office and leave if he wanted.

Far down the corridor, he could hear the nuns singing morning prayers in the chapel. He couldn't make out any of the words, just the clear bell-like sound of the cantor, and the soft chant of the other nuns' reply. It was soothing and tranquil, almost like a lullaby, and he leaned against the cold brick and closed his eyes.

Maybe it was exhaustion, or the singing – Margaret had always loved to hear the singing in church and he hadn't been back since her death – but he suddenly felt done in by it all. Tears welled up and he closed his eyes tighter against them.

He'd leave in a minute, go back to his car, smoke a Henley to compose himself and then drive home. He'd show Timothy how much he loved him and how grateful he was that they still had each other. He'd push through another day.

"Dr. Turner?"

He opened his eyes to see Sister Bernadette standing before him, her forehead creased in a frown. "You're here early. Is something wrong?"

He stood up straight and replaced his fedora on his head. "No, I was just dropping off Nurse Miller. We were both out at Mrs. Barrie's early this morning, when it started raining, so I gave her lift back." He smiled, not wanting her to worry. "And now it's home to get Timothy up for school."

She stepped closer, her eyes full of…. something. There was not the usual pity he got as a widower with a young son, but rather, understanding, as if she knew how hard it was to live in the quiet.

But that was ridiculous. She was nun; her entire life was centered on quiet reflection. It was no burden for her. He turned to leave.

"Doctor? Would you like to sit, have some tea, talk a while before you leave?" she said, with a small smile. "That is, if you're not too tired and you have the time?"

Time to talk? He sighed in relief. He had all the time in the world for that.

She had always found comfort in the quiet. The Great Silence. After a day of cycling through noisy, busy streets, making comforting small talk as she attended to patients, and trying to instill order in the crowds of mothers and young children at clinics, it was a relief not to talk. Instead, there was prayer and reflection, and through that peace.

Only lately, she'd had a harder time finding that peace. She would retire to her room for night, physically exhausted, but then lie awake, unable to sleep. Or she would open her Bible to read a passage, but the words would blur and jumble. There were ripples in the still calm of her mind, as though someone had dropped a stone there, and the thoughts spread outwards, growing into questions and then, doubts.

To have faith was to have doubt; she knew that well. She'd had doubts about her calling before, especially when she was young and still in training, when the days were long and the nights too short, when the corridors were cold in winter, and the elder sisters were strict or sometimes bossy. But she'd push through. For every bad day, there was a good one, winter turned to summer, and eventually, Sister Evangelina learned that while the young novice might be quiet, she was not stupid. She took her vows, became Sister Bernadette, and for the first time in years, found a place that felt like home.

Ten years had passed since then. Why did she suddenly feel restless now? Was it her work? Was it still a fulfilling service to the community and in turn, God, or was it just work? Had she done all the good she could do in Poplar? Was it time to move on? Time to leave home?

Those were some of the questions that ran, round and round, in her mind at night, and led her out of her room to the chapel. She was becoming quite Sister Monica Joan-like with her midnight wanderings.

Once, on her way back from one of these meditations, she'd seen the light shining through the crack in the door of one of the nurse's rooms and heard the muffled giggles within. She leaned against the cold brick outside the door and listened to their murmured conversation. Eavesdropping was wrong, but she listened anyway and let herself imagine what it might be like inside the room, giggling over Chummy's latest night out with Constable Noakes or discussing what they were going to wear to the dance Saturday night. She'd never been to a dance, and she wasn't even sure if she'd like it very much, but the dressing up part always seemed like fun.

When was the last time she'd worn a pretty dress? Not since she'd left Aberdeen at least. Just before she'd traveled to London for her nurses' training, her aunt had given her a small going away party, just her, her father and a few of her cousins. She'd borrowed a dress from one of them – it was green rayon, with flowers stitched in white on the collar. She remembered standing on a chair in front of the mirror in the hall, turning carefully and flaring the skirt out. The party itself had been a bit stilted, everyone unsure of how to say goodbye, especially her taciturn father, but she remembered the dress.

She dreamed of dresses that night, and slept better than she had in a while.

But she felt terrible the next morning during Lauds. Vanity, jealousy, eavesdropping – what was wrong with her? Why couldn't she push past this, like she had with every other doubt? Why did she keep questioning?

More to do. Perhaps that was the answer. If she kept busy and active, her mind couldn't wander to "what ifs." She'd volunteer to be on call more often, organize more classes for the nurses and offer to look after Sister Monica Joan. She'd pray for guidance and hope that eventually, she'd find her way back to her calling.

As she left the chapel for the kitchen, she spotted a dark, familiar shadow in the corridor.

"Dr. Turner? You're here early. Is something wrong?"

"No, I was just dropping off Nurse Miller. We were both out at Mrs. Barrie's early this morning, when it started raining, so I gave her lift back." He smiled stiffly and with some effort. "And now it's home to get Timothy up for school."

He looked so tired. They were all used to exhaustion – the babies of Poplar made sure of that – but this seemed a different kind of lethargy. It wasn't grief exactly, but she did recognize it from the long months after her mother died.

"He's lonely," her aunt had said when she'd asked why her father never talked anymore. "Being lonely, and raising a child on your own, makes you tired, too tired to talk sometimes, even when you really want to. You have to be patient with him and ready to listen."

"Doctor?"

He had headed for the door, hat already on, but he turned back eagerly.

"Would you like to sit, have some tea, talk awhile before you leave? That is, if you're not too tired and you have the time?"

His shoulders sagged, like he'd been holding himself up for too long, and his mouth stretched into a grin, small, but genuine this time. "Well, it is still raining. Better to let Tim sleep anyway. Tea would be lovely, thank you."