You know when stories pop into your head more or less fully formed? That's what happened here, partly as a result of a spoiler-y conversation with On-the-right-road. Repeat, here be spoilers! If you haven't seen S03E03 or read one of the gazillion rumours floating around cyberspace, this may not be your best choice of fic. As ever, I hope people enjoy and I really, really would appreciate reviews/comments/pms of whatever nature. Bit nervous re characterisation also, as this is the first time I've done Patrick and Timothy.

INTERCESSION

'Thanks, Sister. I'll see you tomorrow!'

'Indeed you will. Give my love to Shelagh and Timothy, will you?'

Patrick Turner paused at the door of Nonnatus's spacious clinical room and turned to look at Sister Julienne, a thought occurring to him. 'Why don't you give it to her yourself?'

She glanced up from the instruments she was cleaning and down again as quickly, but not before he caught the fleeting wistfulness that passed across her face. 'Oh, I couldn't. She must be very busy; I don't wish to intrude.'

'You wouldn't be.' He walked towards her, leaning against the table edge and thinking hard. 'In fact… Sister, would you call on her? Today? This afternoon?'

The nun looked up a second time, a fine line appearing between her brows at his insistence. 'As part of my rounds, you mean? Why? Is something the matter? Is it the TB? Is she—'

'Yes and no,' he interrupted to stem the uncharacteristic deluge of questions, and cursed himself for an insensitive clot when she whitened, age-veined hands flying to grip her wooden cross. 'Damnation… I'm sorry. Didn't think how that sounded. Let me assure you: Shelagh remains free of any active disease.'

Sister Julienne did not look noticeably reassured, her knuckles still too visible around the gnarled wood of the cross. 'But?'

Patrick sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump. With anyone else he might have fudged things, judged that this was too personal, too intimate, but Sister Julienne was not just anyone. 'Did she tell you we've been trying—?'

She clasped her hands in delight, the years seeming to drop from her. 'A baby? How wonderful!'

'It's not,' he said gruffly. 'We—she—can't. Because of the TB.' The stranglehold was back at his throat, limiting his ability to communicate. 'Shelagh, she….' He couldn't go on as he thought of how his wife had been in the days since they'd discovered the true legacy of her bout with tuberculosis; how withdrawn she'd been, how she'd taken to once again following the canonical hours, how the shyly passionate girl he'd married had seemed to vanish almost overnight, and become a nun once more… Not that he could say that to the woman who'd been his wife's superior in the religious life, midwife or no.

'She must be devastated,' Sister Julienne was saying softly, compassion permeating the last word and lifting it beyond mere platitude. 'Shelagh has always loved children, and she has a rare talent with them.'

He nodded dumbly, acknowledging the truth of this. He knew how his wife's gentle ways had penetrated the dark forests of Timothy's grief, he'd seen her magic at work with another child, the day the TB vans came.

'She's… I don't know how to help her, Sister.' A breath. 'I don't think I can. I, I have a child, you see.'

Sister Julienne's gaze sharpened. 'Surely you don't think Shelagh resents you for that!'

'I wouldn't blame her if she did,' he said hoarsely. 'I know she loves Tim, but this… She said it was a dream she'd never dared to have before, and now… seeing my son must be like salt in an open wound.'

Sister Julienne's hand fell on his arm, a touch of gentleness that radiated warmth. 'Salt can heal,' she reminded him when he lifted his eyes to hers. 'It sears and burns, but ultimately it heals. So it will be for Shelagh, once she's stopped grieving for the children she cannot bear. Give her time, Doctor.'

'I am, I do… it's just—Sister, what if she thinks this is a punishment? For renouncing her vows?'

'Do you think she does?'

'I don't know!' He ran both hands through his shock of thick black hair, aware that they were shaking. 'That's the trouble, I don't know! I'm too afraid to ask and when she seems to prefer spending night after night on her knees instead of in bed with me—' He choked himself off, afraid of what he might reveal. Afraid he had already said too much.

He watched as Sister Julienne returned to her instruments, her hands moving with a swift expertise born of years of practice. She was so quiet that Patrick wondered if she'd forgotten him, or worse, if she was angry.

She might very well be angry, he thought bitterly. Sister Julienne was a reserved woman, but her love for Shelagh ran too deep to be easily concealed. Certainly it had become all too plain to him.

'I'm sorry,' he blurted, suddenly feeling no older than Timothy. 'I—' He stopped when she raised a hand, grey eyes turning to steel.

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' she said fiercely. 'Nothing. This is not a punishment from God, I will not hear that or anything like it from either you or your wife, Patrick Turner!' He blinked, stunned; he didn't think she'd addressed him by his Christian name before, even obliquely. 'I will go to Shelagh this afternoon,' she continued, returning to her customary calm. 'I cannot promise that I can help, but I will try.'

'That's all I'm asking.' He could say no more; instead, he surprised himself as much as he surprised Sister Julienne by leaning across and giving her a filial kiss on the cheek.

She reared back, her eyes wide and round, and despite everything Patrick managed to find a grin.

'Thanks. Just… thanks. I don't have faith in much, but I know that if anyone can help Shelagh, it's you.' He left then, unable to bear it a second longer, and wondered if the feeling surging within him was a prayer.

He dared to hope it was.

Prayers—even prayers from a faithless one such as he—were answered. He had proof of that every day.