Thank you so much for all the reviews and feedback I've had throughout this story; it has been a delight to write for you all, and I loved writing this anyway. I wrote this before Sunday's episode in case the episode broke my heart- just a precaution. It's a little bit different, but I feel as if all the characters I ship deserve happiness at some point, so now it's their turn.

Epilogue.

She lay in bed, on her left hand side, the blanket swaddled around her back in a cradle of warmth. The bedside lamp was still on, giving out a gentle yellow brightness, and her eyes lay contentedly half-open, the sight of the shoulder of her blue nightdress and her hair splayed across the pillow in front of her flooded her vision. She felt the mattress gently compress beside her and she opened her eyes fully in time to see her husband climbing into bed beside her. She felt her mouth stretch into a proper smile.

"Sorry," he murmured in soft tones, "Did I wake you?"

"I wasn't asleep," she told him, "I was waiting for you."

He reached his hand out to where hers was inclined towards his side of the bed, and as usual, he covered it gently with his own, brushing his thumb over her knuckles first then pressing the softness of his palm back over her fingers.

"Do you want to go to sleep?" he asked, "You've had a busy day, you must be tired."

"I've had a busy day and hardly seen you since we woke up," she reminded him, "Leave the light on a moment."

He smiled, leaning forward to brush his lips against hers. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his waist, feeling his stretch around her back, holding her closer to him. When they broke apart, she stayed close to him, resting her head against his chest and carefully he swept her hair out from under his head so that it was not uncomfortable for her, his arms settling back around her shoulders, but still stroking his thumb up and down so that it traced the sandy strands.

"Your hair is beautiful," he told her quietly, "I can't quite believe you kept it hidden all those years."

"It isn't as if I had a choice," she reminded him gently.

"True," he conceded, thoughtfully, "I used to imagine that your hair would be dark. I don't know why."

"Did you?" she asked, surprised, "And were you pleased or disappointed when you saw what it was really like?"

"I think it's beautiful," he repeated softly, "Now I wouldn't have you any other way. The colour; it's like sand and wood and fire in depending on the light, but it's always as soft as cotton-..."

She giggled a little. She still found it a little bit strange whenever he talked to her like that. He just smoothed her back, kissing her forehead.

"You're just beautiful," he told her, sounding slightly tired.

She looked up at him, and saw that he had his eyes closed.

"Sorry," she apologised, "It's just... still funny to hear you talk like that. I'm not used to it."

"It's alright," he told her, his tone warm again, "I know you're not. I still intend to try to make you get used to it, though."

"Well," she replied, smiling,"That's very much your decision."

Ever since their wedding day, perhaps even earlier, he had told her frequently how beautiful he thought she was, how he loved her. It was definitely strange at first, given that she had never even been courted before now, but now she was certainly beginning to like it in earnest. She wrapped her arms more snugly around him, still smiling, think of their wedding day; and the young midwives all in their best dresses and carrying flowers- Jenny catching her bouquet-; of Chummy being her matron of honour; of Sister Julienne beaming throughout the proceedings; of Sister Evangelina looking staunchly disapproving until the time came for the exchange of vows, when her face somehow softened, looked more kindly. She thought of him, holding her hand before the alter, before God, as she vowed to love them both. Of him walking arm in arm with her out of the church and gently kissing her as Sister Monica Joan covered them in far too many rose petals.

"Are you alright?" he asked her after her period of silence.

"Yes," she answered.

"Then what are you thinking of?" he asked kindly, his voice just timid enough to let her know that it was her choice whether or not she told him.

"About our wedding day," she told him, "And about how I love you."

"I love you too," he told her, kissing her again.

Then, to her surprise, rather out of the blue, "Darling, are you pregnant?"

"What makes you ask that?" she wondered, a little alarmed, "And, no, I don't think I am."

"I just wondered," he told her, "Yesterday, at the clinic, you looked like you were very happy with those babies. You were very careful with them."

"I should hope I was careful," she reminded him lightly, "I am a nurse."

"You know what I mean," he told her, "A brooding sort of careful."

"Oh, that. I don't think I'm brooding," she decided, "But that's not to say I would be upset if a child did come along."

"Just we've never discussed it before," he pointed out, "And we've been married-..."

"A month and three weeks on Friday."

"Well, quite," he finished. There was a pause. "You know things can take time, darling?" he told her softly.

"I know," she replied, "I wouldn't mind if they did take a little longer. I'm happy just as we are; the three of us."

"Yes, the three of us," he agreed happily, "You know Timothy thinks the world of you? He told me so. He actually said the other day as he was getting ready for school, it was nice to have a mother again."

"I'm pleased," she told him, beaming a little, "I like being a mother. I a convent you call people Mother and Sister, but it's so very different."

"It must be," he agreed, "I can hardly imagine."

"It's not a bad kind of different," she explained, "But I much prefer it this way. Having a real family."

"We don't have to have a child if you don't want to," he told her, "There are ways. It is your choice."

She smiled at him, silencing him softly with a touch of her hand on his arm.

"I want to have children," she told him, "I very much want to have your children. But no rush," she told him.

"No," he agreed happily, "No rush. Shall I put the light out?" he asked after a moment.

"You probably should," she replied.

He stretched over, switching it off and then turned back to her, scooping her back into his arms. After over a decade of sleeping alone in the sometimes-freezing room at Nonnatus House, she had not yet grow tired of the luxury of spending the whole night in his arms.

"You know Chummy and Fred are taking the Cubs camping at the weekend," he told her, "Timothy asked me if he could go. I didn't see why not."

"And it'll give us the house to ourselves," she told him. There was a definite catch, an undertone, to her voice and he did not miss it.

"You're a wicked woman, Mrs Turner," he told her, pretending to be rueful, "For one who used to be of the cloth."

She laughed a little, then was quiet and thought.

"When you make love to me I don't feel impure or wicked," she told him levelly, in a quiet voice, "I was worried at first that I might, but I don't. I feel fulfilled. Like I've really lived. And loved ."

"Oh, darling," he kissed her forehead. "That can't be a reproach."

"It wasn't meant to be," she told him.

"Every day I thank God for you, you know," he told her.

"But you don't believe in him," she reminded him gently.

"I know," he replied, "But I still thank him for you every day. Goodnight, darling."

"Goodnight," she replied, returning his final kiss and settling her head back down, even though now she was sure she was too happy to sleep.

End.

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