Chapter Text
If someone were to ask when his feelings for Sister Bernadette had morphed from an easy companionship and camaraderie between two colleagues to something more, Patrick wasn’t sure he would be able to provide an answer. He supposed he had always held a passing fascination for the young nun, having worked with her since she had joined the Order as a shy, unassuming postulant, eager to bring some light to the dreary streets of Poplar after the upheaval of the War in any way that she could, even if it only meant holding someone's hand and offering a quiet prayer in their final moments. Even then, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when this fascination had begun.
When she had first arrived in Poplar, fresh from training at the London and looking decidedly uncomfortable in her postulants robes, he had wondered what had drawn her to take religious orders. Oh he knew it would undoubtedly be something deeply personal, so much so he was unlikely to ever find the answer, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder. What would drive a young, pretty, idealistic young midwife to join the religious life? Their first meeting had hardly been remarkable, or even particularly memorable as far as first meetings go, not much more than the offering of a name from Sister Julienne and an exchange of pleasantries from both himself and the young novice in the form of a shy greetings from her and a jolly welcome to Poplar, I’m sure you’ll do splendidly from himself. She had nodded and smiled demurely but avoided his gaze.
Over her first year in Poplar he had watched her grow in confidence as a member of the Order and as a nurse and midwife under the careful guidance and nurturing gaze of Sister Julienne, leaving behind the timid novice she had been and quickly coming into her own. Her gentle nature and the serene aura she exuded instantly put her patients at ease and, he easily admitted to himself, the effect was not restricted purely to the patients. On more than one occasion he had found himself taking a moment to stop and listen to her gentle voice, offering reassurance to a scared, labouring mother before continuing with the task at hand.
It was one of her many gifts, he thought. To be able to reassure with only a smile and a few words given in her soft, lilting voice. Paired with her ability to command a room with little effort and her skill and adaptability in the delivery room, she had quickly became one the of the more sought after of her colleagues. It wasn’t long after her arrival at Nonnatus House that the little Scottish nun had been wholly accepted by the community, rarely seeing a day when she was not greeted with a cacophony of shouted good morning’s as she cycled along the cobbles toward whatever the day would bring.
And yet despite that, it was not hard for him to see why the nun had somehow managed to pass under his radar for the majority of the passing ten years. Not that he ever thought he had taken her presence for granted, but between his careful balancing act of being Poplar’s only GP, maintaining his (at the time) fragile mental health, and attempting to cultivate a life with his wife and son, social interactions with the nuns outside of dealing with patients was a rare occurrence. At least until his wife passed away.
It didn’t occur to Patrick until the months following Marianne’s death exactly how much he depended on the quiet, steadfast comfort the nuns provided simply with their presence. He was also not ashamed to admit he would not have been able to handle the long period of his wife’s illness without their help. Over the months it had taken the cancer to eaten away at the sunny, warm-heated person that was his wife, Patrick had found himself unable be both her husband and her doctor. The residents of Nonnatus House had taken over the role of caretaker when he could no longer hide the shake in his hands as he went to fill the needle with the morphine that would ease her pain, praying softly to themselves as they worked to keep her comfortable during the drug-fuelled stupors that took up increasing amounts of her waking hours.
The more he looked back on those months the more he appreciated exactly how much they had done for him and his son. There was rarely a day that had gone by without some form of tureen filled with the mouthwatering labours of Mrs B appearing in the kitchen. The appearance of cake was also a regular occurrence that Timothy had quickly learned to associate with Sister Bernadette’s visits, the sweet treat handed over to the boy with a small smile and a whispered comment about liberating Mrs B’s efforts from Sister Monica Joan.
It didn’t take Patrick long to notice the care and attention the young nun paid to his son following Marianne’s passing, and he often wondered to himself if that was where it all began. He had often seen her take the time to stop what she was doing to talk to Timothy during times when he had no choice but to accompany his father to Tuesday clinics or to working visits to Nonnatus House, and while seeing his colleagues interacting with his son was nothing unusual, there was something about the way that Sister Bernadette had been able to pull a smile and a sentence longer than five words from the grieving boy that had made him start to take notice of her.
It wasn’t until his autoclave malfunctioned on the run up to his and Timothy’s first Christmas alone that Patrick finally understood the roots of the budding friendship between his son and the young nun. She had been Timothy. She had been a lonely, grief-stricken little girl trying to muddle her way through life after the death of her mother. The realisation that she had shared something so deeply personal with him, something he was positive was not encouraged by the Order, both shocked him and filled him with a sense of awe and he found himself wondering once again, who was Sister Bernadette.
That thought alone was enough from him to no longer see her as just as religious sister, and maybe, just maybe, that was where it all started.