A/N: The "missing letter" has been ringing in my head since I first wrote Chapter 4. I thought it should mirror Shelagh's letter in some ways, and this way finally rang true.

Shelagh sang quietly to herself as she folded Timothy's jumpers into the trunk. There was still so much packing to do, and as usual, the boy was nowhere to be found. He had promised to come straight home after his last cricket match, but more than likely had stopped off with his friends for a final celebration. Tomorrow, the train would take him to Oxford in the morning, and his life would completely change.

As would the whole family's, Shelagh thought. Wiping a tear from her eye, Shelagh let herself mourn a bit for the change to come. Now grown, Timothy didn't need them anymore. He would be home for holidays of course, but the last eight years had shown her how quickly time passed.

Shelagh took a deep breath, then laughed. Tim always teased her for those deep breaths. The last case was still in Patrick's wardrobe, and Tim would need it for the books he planned to bring. She flicked on the light to their room and searched the cabinet.

"How many coats does that man have?" she muttered. Reaching in, she lifted his winter coats out and placed them on the bed. "One, two, three, four! You'd think he was a fashion model." Patrick would never agree to getting rid of any of them. She would have to do it herself, when he wasn't looking. Looking over the pile, she paused. She ran her hands over the tan coat. It was worn, certainly, and had no shape to it anymore. "Not this one," she whispered, slipping the coat over her shoulders.

She was back on a misty road, warm from the coat, and warmer from the look in his eyes, completely certain that this was the path her life should take.

She pulled the coat around her, tighter, and felt something in the inside pocket. Reaching in, Shelagh drew out an envelope. She recognized Patrick's scrawl, and read "Sister Bernadette" across the front followed by her address at the Sanatorium. Trembling, she turned it over, tracing her fingers over his name.

Downstairs, the front door slammed.

"Shelagh?" Patrick called. "I'm home."

"I'm up here," she answered.

Patrick pushed the door to their room open. "Shelagh? What are you doing?" He knew Tim's departure was making her sentimental, but he wasn't expecting this.

She looked up at her husband with tears in her eyes.

"Is it Tim? Don't worry, sweetheart. He'll be back before you know it. And think of how much less time you'll have to spend in the kitchen" he joked, sitting down next to her. Shelagh held out the envelope.

"What is this?" Taking it in his hands, Patrick turned the letter over. He let out a big breath. "I didn't send this one."

"No."

"Can you guess why?" he asked, caressing her cheek.

"No." Shelagh was finding it very hard to breathe. It was as if she were back there, the years hadn't happened yet, and she was on the brink of her new life.

"You had been at the Sanatorium for about two months. I hadn't heard anything from you, and I was desperate for some connection. All those letters, and nothing in response." Shelagh made to apologize, but Patrick continued. "I knew you wouldn't answer. You couldn't. But that didn't make it easier. I was so lonely for you. I sat down one night and wrote all those things I hadn't said. Things a man should never say to a woman who wasn't his, and never to a nun. I put it in my coat to post, but never did. In the morning, I knew I would never mail it. It was the saddest moment of my life, Shelagh. I thought I'd never have you."

Shelagh ran her finger along his jaw, pulling him down for her kiss. Instantly, the passion flared up. Deep emotions always did that to them. Patrick pressed her into their bed, kissing her deeply. "Where are they?" he asked against her mouth.

"Wilson's, tea party," she breathed. "Cricket."

"Good." His hands pushed up her skirt and Shelagh squirmed further up the bed to make room for him. She pushed his braces down over his shoulders, grateful that the warm weather had prevented him from wearing a waistcoat today. Her fingers pulled his shirt from his waistband and he groaned as she slid her hands underneath.

The front door slammed again, and Timothy's feet pounded up the stairs. Frantically, they separated, straightening clothes, closing buttons.

"My glasses," Shelagh whispered.

Patrick handed them to her just as Timothy appeared at the door. "Sorry I'm late, Mum. We stopped at Colin's-" he stopped, shocked. "Ugh. Again?"

Shelagh and Patrick burst into laughter as Tim turned away. "Honestly. You two are ridiculous. Could you shut the door next time? That is the one thing I will definitely not miss around here!"

Hours later, after all the books and clothes had been packed, the supper eaten, and her family settled in bed, Shelagh opened the letter. She looked over at Patrick asleep in their bed, then began to read.

My dearest love,

I dream of you. At night, when the calls out to patients have ceased, when the demands of raising Timothy have eased, when I can no longer close my mind to thoughts of you, I dream. For so long I resisted these dreams. I have no right, I know. But I can resist no more.

I dream of your lovely face, how it shows more of your feelings than you would wish. I dream of your small hands and how they can soothe the pain of a young mother or bring life again to a newborn. I dream of your voice, soothing my fractured soul.

I dream of holding you, feeling your heart beat against mine. I dream of your touch. I dream of knowing you as no one else does and I dream of seeing your eyes open first thing every morning.

I dream of what my life would be like if you were by my side. Medicine has given my life a purpose, but for so long it has also allowed me to hide from myself. I have been able to use it to bury my pain in the service of others. Now, through my dreams of you, I have learned to embrace this pain. Loving you has enriched my life. Without you, my life of service will continue. With you, the fog I have lived under for so long would lift and I would know joy. To be your husband would be the greatest gift.

Your devoted

Patrick