A/N: Inspred by a comment made by purple-roses-words-and-love on Tumblr. I don't post there (at the moment lurking only) so if you see this you've no idea who I am, but I couldn't get this out of my head re the end of S7:

And I can't imagine how [Phyllis] will feel seeing Shelagh and Sister J interact from now on.

This is what I came up with, although it's not entirely Shulienne. Spoilers, natch, and possibly a tissue warning. I'm one of those hard hearted people who almost never cry at something I read/watch, so I'm not the best judge of tearworthiness!

The Silent Land

Phyllis Crane was a practical woman. A rational woman, one who was not easily (if at all) moved by such flummeries as emotion or spirituality. If anyone demanded evidence of this, she would point to her long career as a nurse and midwife, her refusal to countenance religion in any form, her abjuration of meat, and her status as a deeply contented spinster. More whimsically she might also point out that she was the only member of Nonnatus House with the good sense to own a car; not for her the frantic pedalling in all weathers from patient to patient endured by the nuns (even Sister Julienne) and the other nurses. No, at her age she'd earned the right to a little comfort and convenience, and she'd give short shrift to anyone who suggested otherwise.

Or so she'd always told herself—and successfully so— until very recently. Until the untimely death of Nurse Barbara Hereward, in fact. Since then her internal monologues had lost something of their customary spice; it was all she could do to power through each day, stiff upper lip resolutely in place. After all, she couldn't support the younger nurses in their grief if she was wallowing herself, and there was always Barbara's devastated widower to consider. Then there was Sister Monica Joan, who'd become visibly frailer in the month since the young woman's funeral, while the lines around Sister Julienne's eyes were deeper than they'd been ... before.

Even practical, rational Phyllis Crane could not bear to use 'death' or 'dead' in connection with Barbara. Not Barbara, their good, kind, Barbara. Barbara was not dead. She'd simply ... gone away. To Birmingham, perhaps. Or Newcastle; Phyllis remembered Trixie saying the Bishop wanted to send Tom Hereward there. That was it. Barbara had simply gone ahead, getting the house ready before Tom came. Or she was looking for a job; the slums in Newcastle were little better than those of the East End, and Barbara's skills would be sorely needed.

The illusion usually lasted until she next saw Tom cross the courtyard that lay between his house and Nonnatus, his shoulders more bent with every day that passed. Or stood before the on-call board where 'Nurse Hereward' could still be read, despite repeated attempts to remove it. Even her own wardrobe betrayed her. She'd told Barbara she would borrow a suit for the Herewards' wedding, but the younger woman had insisted she buy something new, and accompanied Phyllis to choose it. What a day that was ... almost as much fun as choosing Barbara's wedding gown. And now that suit hung limply amongst her sensible skirts and blouses, as lifeless as the beloved girl for whom it was worn.

It was usually at this point that Phyllis would seek to find something—anything—to do. Anything that would allow the black dog to loosen his claws on her, just for a little while, and today was Sunday, when everyone would gather in the kitchen for dinner. Until now she'd studiously avoided those Sunday gatherings, unable to bear the pall of sorrow that hung over the house, but Trixie's return earlier that week marked a change. Phyllis found some of the weight on her soul lifted when laughter was heard through Nonnatus House once again; laughter that was occasionally forced and even false, but at least it was there. Everyone knew moving on was painful, but it was better than being stuck in a rut of sadness, wheels churning in the mud of grief.

The little clock by her bed (do not think about that first night with Barbara, Phyllis. Do not think about demarcating lines) struck noon, and she stood, pulling her cardigan around her shoulders. It might be nearly spring but it was still cold outside, and Nonnatus was never cosy at any time. A deep breath and a pasted smile that hurt her cheeks, and she was ready, walking with her usual briskness down the corridor to the stairs. Voices floated up, proclaiming that everyone was back from church, and she allowed the smile to broaden as she began her descent.

And came to a crashing halt on the landing when she stumbled into a scene she'd seen a hundred times, but never before with this shaft of pain.

The front door was open. The Turner family had obviously just arrived; Dr Turner and Shelagh were still wearing their coats, although young Timothy had already shrugged out of his.

'—wonderful to see you, my dear,' Sister Julienne was saying, taking Shelagh and baby Teddy into a comprehensive hug whilst Dr Turner stood smiling behind his wife.

'We were only away ten days,' Timothy pointed out, truculent as any fifteen-year-old.

'Ten days too long, Master Turner!' Sister Monica Joan put in, one hand taking the young man's wrist in order to pull him in the direction of the kitchen (doubtless hoping for cake). Phyllis could hear them talking as they went, but her attention was focused on someone else.

The Turners' adopted daughter, to be precise.

Small Angela was standing between her mother and Sister Julienne, tugging at the nun's habit to gain her attention. When Sister Julienne crouched by the child the little girl flung herself forward, chubby arms wrapping tightly around the older woman's neck and curly head scrubbing into her shoulder.

'Easy, Angela,' Dr Turner cautioned. 'You don't want to strangle Sister, do you?'

Still held in the nun's embrace, his daughter twisted to grin at him. 'I missed her so so much!'

'And I missed you!' Sister Julienne informed her with one of her twinkling smiles as she regained her feet with the smooth grace that Phyllis always found herself envying. They weren't that far apart in age. She held out a hand and the child took it. 'Now, shall we go to my office to see what's waiting there?'

Angela swung gleefully on her hand. 'Just us, Sister?'

'Just us,' Sister Julienne confirmed with a conspiratorial smile, and Phyllis's throat constricted at the look of adoration the little girl gave in response.

'You spoil her, Sister,' Shelagh remonstrated gently, and the older woman glanced at her.

'Of course I do. I have only this one namesake!' They exchanged a look of deep affection and the invisible noose about Phyllis's throat tightened; that look so clearly said What else are grandmothers for? Sister Julienne leaned forward to brush baby Teddy's cheek with a forefinger. 'Now go to the sitting room and rest, both of you; you look tired. I'm sure someone will look after Teddy.'

'You mean, he'll be snatched away and we won't see him again until it's time to go,' the doctor corrected wryly, but Phyllis didn't miss the small nod of gratitude he sent the nun. 'Come on, sweetheart. Let's make hay, eh?' He ushered Shelagh and his son after Timothy and Sister Monica Joan, leaving only Sister Julienne, Angela, and a stricken but as yet unseen Phyllis in the hall.

Sister Julienne chose that moment to look up, her gaze meeting Phyllis's, and Phyllis suddenly understood why the younger nurses hated being called into the Sister-in-Charge's office. Her eyes were kind and far, far too knowing for Phyllis's comfort, as though the other woman could read thoughts and feelings she'd not even acknowledged to herself. She did not stop; Angela was chattering away, but she did give Phyllis a single nod as she passed and Phyllis watched them disappear towards the office, a slender figure in blue and white and her tiny companion, dancing pink against the panelled wood.

She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Breathing hurt. Her eyes stung from the longing to weep, but Phyllis Crane didn't do tears unless they absolutely insisted on being shed, and she hadn't reached that point, not yet.

She wanted to scream and rail against a God she didn't believe in for taking—for stealing—her Barbara, and Barbara's future and

... Barbara's children.

Hell's teeth, woman. Now you've done it.

Slowly, she turned, everything aching as though she'd aged ten years in as many minutes. It took every bit of war-won grit she possessed to lift one foot in front of the other, pushing herself painfully up the stairs. Climbing them had never taken so long before, even with her bad back; her hand on the widely-carved bannister trembled and she couldn't get a grip.

She leaned against the wall the whole way to her room, unspeakably glad that Val would undoubtedly keep Lucille occupied for the duration. When the door was safely shut all the stiffness went out of her and she slid down it, hands clapping over her mouth, one across the other, as though to catch the howl that wanted to come, that still escaped in the form of barely muted whimpers.

Watching Sister Julienne with the Turners had ripped off the plaster she'd so carefully applied over the heart-wound caused by Barbara's loss. The wound that went beyond Barbara's death alone, encapsulating the quiet hope she'd so carefully avoided substantiating by deliberate thought or feeling, the hope that Barbara and Tom's children would one day look at her as the Turner kids looked at Sister Julienne. The hope—if she was anyone else, she would say 'prayer'—she'd remain part of their lives as a beloved friend or maiden aunt; she'd hardly dared think 'grandmother', even to herself, but her heart knew the truth ... Ever since she'd stood by Barbara on her wedding day, as dear friend and bridesmaid and sort-of-surrogate mother, she hoped for a family at last, encouraged and nourished by the young couples' obvious affection.

Now that hope lay buried like a stillborn child in Barbara's grave, and Phyllis grieved for its loss as surely as she mourned the girl who'd been friend and protégée and colleague and surrogate daughter in one.

The strength of her grief frightened her. She couldn't see through it, couldn't see past it. The young nurses had their lives before them; in time this would be a sad memory amongst other memories. The nuns had their faith, and their belief that one day they'd meet again.

But Phyllis? What did she have?

It was not a question she dared ask. There were some answers that even practical, reasonable women like herself could not bear to know.

No. She'd get over this crying jag, don her indomitable persona once again and sally forth, bowed but unbroken—at least as far as the outward world was concerned.

'I hate seeing the people I love upset,' Barbara said in their last proper conversation.

Well, in that Phyllis could honour her wishes. There was that poem Sister Monica Joan insisted on reciting until they all felt like screaming, particularly the last lines:

Better by far that you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

For Barbara, Phyllis would forget and smile. Perhaps that would be her passport out of this silent land of lost love and broken dreams.

-Fin.

The poem quoted is Christina Rossetti's Remember Me.

Um. Yes. I had planned to add a lovely bit where Sister Julienne and Phyllis bond over Barbara's death, but I couldn't help thinking it would be OOC. I think these two respect each other deeply, but they're both too reserved (and, tbh, too antithetical in their world views) to find comfort in each other. Of course, if twenty people demand a follow up showing exactly that or an attempt at it, I'll happily oblige!

Thank you for reading, and please review.