[A/N Once upon a time in Liverpool, there was a girl who wrote a play while she was sick in bed at university. Everyone loved it, including the guy who auditioned to play the lead role. Reader, she MARRIED him. Fast forward several years and this girl became the badass lady screenwriter who somehow got herself wrangled into writing 'Call The Midwife'. She quickly grew to love it (the fact that she's so damn good at it helped too) and, somehow, her loveable disaster of a husband again had the chance to play one of her characters. She, of course, gave him a, slightly autobiographical if you ask us, love interest.

and that is how I (Jane) met Rosie. TURNADETTE BROUGHT US TOGETHER. HEIDI WHAT YOUR BRAIN HATH WROUGHT.

So, anyway, at one point Rosie challenged me to write her a rather difficult delivery. In return, she promised to write the other half- the afterwards half- aka the scorching hot adrenaline smut part. We think some of it might even be good.

**fyi- this takes place in our imaginary land where Shelagh returns to midwifery and suffers no ill-effects from her bout with TB**

Chapters will appear at various intervals until Christmas. Just because we like to torture you all that way. *evil cackling* ...Or possibly that it isn't quite finished yet.

We make no apologies for the following. Reviews/Turnadette wedding spec/General fangirling are welcome!]

"Well done last night, Nurse Turner, Doctor Turner."

As she walked away, Sister Julienne was slightly mystified by how vehemently red her former sister had just blushed at what was an often bestowed affirmation.

Surely everyone had heard about the triumph of the previous evening; surely that hadn't been the first praise either of them had heard today from a colleague. And there was nothing inappropriate in-

Oh. Possibly that was something she shouldn't dwell upon, she thought, schooling a smirk down the front of her habit as she examined the chart for her next patient.

In the privacy of the parish hall kitchen Shelagh actually had to cover her face with one hand for a moment in utter embarrassment at the direction her thoughts had just instantly taken at the nun's compliment.

Patrick, recovered from his own moment of shock, choked a hearty laugh into his tea at his young wife's bewildered expression. Her hand moved, hearing his reaction. She shook her head at him in mock reproval even as her parted lips formed a rather wicked grin of her own, which she then hid behind her own yellow teacup as Nurse Miller strode into the narrow sunlit room.

Shelagh couldn't stop smiling for some time; because, despite the momentary mortification, the images her mind had betrayed her with were so exquisitely damning.

Old buttons sewn back into place with new thread, tangled bedsheets in serpentine twists, fingertips tracing the light purple marks on her hip in the early morning sun; these luminous visions would float dreamily about her all day long- swirling languidly through her consciousness like dust motes in daylight, warming her porcelain skin.