I just wanted to start by saying how deeply saddened and distressed I am by the recent shootings in Orlando, USA. Such an attack on the LGBT community, and society as a whole, is incredibly upsetting, and I hope that you will join me in sending support and condolences to those affected.
As always, I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and, as always, every single review is received with enormous appreciation.

Delia was a dead weight in the arms of Trixie and Patsy. Her eyes were unfocused and she seemed to be almost unable to keep them open in the sunlight. When they finally managed to get her inside, the moment that the door shut behind them, Delia pitched forward and vomited onto the floor.

"Call for Doctor Turner!"

Trixie shot off down to the telephone just as Sister Mary Cynthia walked inside. The minute that she saw Delia, her eyes widened in shock and she dropped her bag to run over.

"Please help," Patsy sobbed, "I don't know what's wrong with her,"

"We'll take her upstairs, Patsy, and lie her down. She's going to be alright, don't you worry,"

But the stairs presented an impossible challenge. Trying to lift Delia was difficult enough, but she was beginning to squirm and whine in discomfort, making it hard to even hold her.

"Sister, go and get Fred. He's out in the garden, or at least, he was. Tell him that we need help,"

Cynthia hurried out leaving Patsy alone. She sat on the bottom step, cradling Delia, murmuring soft words of love and encouragement to her through her tears. Encounters with illness was something that she experienced on a regular basis, but it felt so different and so much more frightening when it was somebody that she loved. When the nun returned with Fred, the handyman scooped Delia up and carried her carefully up to her room.

The bedroom was uncommonly untidy for Delia. It was clear that the young nurse had left in a rush that morning. Patsy was reminded of Delia's confusion and disarray that morning and felt anger towards herself for not properly noticing the signs.

Fred left just as Trixie came back in.

"Doctor Turner is on his way,"

Trying to drive the terrible worries and anxiety from her head, Patsy busied herself tucking the blankets around Delia to make her more comfortable. The shaking and writhing had subsided a little, but she still flinched when Patsy brushed against her. Her hands were cold and clammy, yet her forehead was burning with heat.

"She's got a fever," Trixie noted, resting her palm on Delia's head.

"Do you know how long she's been like this?" Cynthia asked.

Patsy did not make any attempt to an answer, so Trixie replied for her.

"She was in a bit of a state this morning, but not enough to raise any concern. It was just general forgetfulness and fatigue. The sickness must have developed throughout the day,"

"I should've seen that she wasn't herself," Patsy mumbled, "It's my fault,"

"Don't be absurd," Trixie snapped, "You weren't to know that anything was wrong, and neither were any of us. This isn't anybody's fault, Patsy,"

A knock at the door prevented Patsy from responding. Doctor Turner made his way over to the bed, depositing his waistcoat on the chair in the corner as he did so. Trixie reeled off the list of symptoms that she had seen, and the doctor ran his routine checks with great speed and efficiency. Patsy felt a strange surge of jealousy as he felt her glands and took her pulse. Seeing another's hands touching Delia made a feeling of protectiveness rush through her veins, and she had to look away to suppress the urge to push him away from her.

"And you say that she was shaking, Nurse Franklin?"

"That's right,"

Doctor Turner pulled his top button open and loosened his tie. The room was becomingly increasingly warm with the five people squeezed into the small area. Running his finger beneath his collar to pull it away from his neck, he indicated towards the window.

"Can we get that open please, Sister?"

Cynthia obliged him, and pulled the curtains back to haul the sash window open. The second that the beams of light entered the room, Delia moaned and kicked until Cynthia quickly whipped them shut again.

"Well, I think that supports my diagnosis," Doctor Turner said, more to himself than anybody else.

"What is it?" Trixie asked him, "What's the matter with her?"

"I believe the Nurse Busby has contracted viral meningitis," he explained grimly, "But it would also appear that the inflammation of the tissue covering her brain has triggered several seizures, which, although they were relatively minor, would explain the convulsions and inability to stand without support,"

"They're from her accident," Patsy groaned, "Her brain injury,"

Doctor Turner nodded sombrely, "The effects of a traumatic head injury usually last a lifetime,"

"Can anything be done?"

The doctor rubbed his knuckles along his jaw thoughtfully.

"The usual recovery time for this strain of meningitis is about seven days rest at home, but with her in this sort of condition, I'd recommend at least ten, if not more. And she'll need to be cared for as well, because overexerting herself could lead to the triggering of further seizures,"

"I'll do it,"

Patsy knew that she had spoken far too quickly and hopefully to avoid suspicion, but she was past caring. If anybody was going to nurse Delia back to health, then it would be her. She was not going to take no for an answer.

To her relief Doctor Turner smiled in approval.

"Yes, that seems like a perfectly suitable setup, Nurse Mount. I'll inform Sister Julienne that I have prescribed the bed rest and care, so I am certain that she won't object to you being relieved from your duties for a week,"

"Thank you, doctor,"

"But if her temperature is to rise even fractionally, or any aspect of her condition worsens, ring for an ambulance at once,"

On that, he departed the room. Trixie collapsed into the chair and sighed.

"Thank God," she muttered, "Thank God,"

Patsy scrambled around to try and find a pack of cigarettes, but when she did manage to take one out, her hands were trembling so badly that she could not light it.

"Here," Trixie stopped her and took the matchbox, "Let me do it,"

Cynthia eyed the lit cigarette, and licked her lips, trying to mask her dislike of the stench of tobacco.

"I think that I'll put the kettle on," she said.

"I'll come with you," Trixie responded, feeling suddenly that it might be a good idea to give Patsy some time by herself with Delia.

There was nothing that she could say or do that would ease Patsy's upset, and she knew that seeing Delia lying out in bed like that would bring back difficult and traumatic memories from her accident. Patsy, she understood, did not like to cope with situations like this by talking things through. It was in times such as these that the other nurse would need to be given some space to process her emotions by herself.

"Give us a shout if you need anything, Patsy. We'll just be downstairs,"

As they walked down the corridor, Sister Mary Cynthia glanced over at her blonde friend.

"One of Patsy's nightshirts was on the floor of Delia's room," she noted.

"Is that supposed to be significant?" Trixie asked coolly.

"Of course not," the nun said quietly, "It was just something that I observed,"

Trixie gently caught her hand and pulled her to a standstill.

"Whatever we observe, it's not for us to make any assumptions about the meaning,"

Cynthia placed her hand over that of her friend and squeezed it reassuringly.

"I never would, Trixie, believe me when I say that,"

"I know that you wouldn't… I just thought I should say because…"

"Because you care," Cynthia finished, "And Patsy and Delia are blessed indeed to have you as their guardian angel,"

"I'm not sure that I'd go as far to say that, but I am determined to be here for them,"

"And so you shall be,"

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. 1 Corinthians 13