The lights of the community centre are blazing brightly, but such is the frenzy of activity inside that the windows are fogged up with the heat when Delia pulls up outside. There's a cluster of Nonatus bikes at the corner of the building, and she finds a spot to park her own - next to Patsy's, naturally. Just as she's turning to head into the hall there's a creak of hinges that need oiling followed by the muffled thudding shut of a door; the patter of youthful feet on concrete; another muffled thud, of a different texture this time; and then, after the inevitable moment of quiet while shocked child registers impact on hard surface, a wail of pain.

Delia winces in sympathy, and hurries towards the child - a young boy, six or seven years old, though she's not sure whether she recognizes him as one of Patsy's cubs. Kindly, efficiently, she picks him up and inspects the damage. Trousers have born the brunt of the impact, but there's torn skin on one knee; gravel has impacted into both palms. Nothing obviously worse than that, though the child is snivelling heartily. There's a first aid box in the kitchen of the community centre, Delia remembers (untold supplies from the Nonnatus clinic in there too, she'd wager, but she'd rather not needlessly provoke the wrath of Sister Evangelina by poking round in the stores) so, quietening the kid's sobs with a mint imperial she fishes from her pocket, she takes him in to patch him up with a spot of antiseptic cream and a plaster.

"Oh hello! Making yourself busy I see." Delia doesn't turn at the familiar voice, but, bent forward over the child's knee as she smooths down sticking plaster, tries unsuccessfully to contain the smile that rises across her features. "Oh, Sam, you have been in the wars," that voice continues, as its green-clad owner leans in to inspect Delia's handiwork. "But you're in the very best of hands with Nurse Busby."

Delia grins up at Patsy, nodding at the compliment. But becoming, all of a sudden, the focus of another adult's sympathy is a bit much for Sam and he starts to snuffle and whimper again.

Immediately, Delia's attention is back with her patient. "Now then, Sam," she says gently to the child. "You're a brave boy, aren't you?"

He nods, and whether it's the murmured reassurances that Delia makes or the mint imperial that he snatches hastily from her outstretched hand, or whether it's the rising cacophony of fun being had that bursts into the kitchen making him realize what he's missing out on - whether it's one of these reasons or a combination of all of them - within a minute or so, once Delia's blown his nose again for him, Sam's up and off and lost in the maelstrom of activity.

"Good work, Nurse Busby."

"Thank you, Nurse Mount."

They smile broadly at each other for a moment, before Delia makes a move to the sink to wash her hands. While she's busy, Patsy repacks the first-aid kid back into its little box, makes a mental note to get some extra plasters and ointment from the store, and says, "How was your day?"

"Mmm, so-so. Much better for seeing you." Delia's barely seen Patsy this week, what with their respective shifts, with Patsy putting in her regular evening stint at Cubs, Delia her evening at the St John's Ambulance, and with rehearsals for the Christmas play crammed into to any spare moment. She doesn't really want to complain, though, but it's a reminder of how thoroughly they've settled into life in the flat. Just a month or so, a few snatched moments like this would often be all they had to look forward to after a week of longing. Now, as much as she's missed spending her evenings with Patsy this week, she gets to go home with her. To share her bed with her. It's remarkable, really.

"I'm glad you could come," Patsy replies. They've both felt the absence of the other.

Hands now dry, Delia turns to Patsy, to take her in properly for the first time this evening.

"Come here, you," she says, "your woggle's not straight."

It's not really crooked, but it's the excuse they need to stand close. Patsy steps towards her and Delia reaches up to fix the (ever-so-slightly) wayward neckerchief. She doesn't miss the opportunity to briefly reach up and caress Patsy's cheek; Patsy's eyelids flutter shut at the contact. Despite herself, she can't help but lean into it.

"Whatever would I do without you?"

"I don't know, Pats."

They stand like that as long as they dare, though it's not long enough for either of them. Patsy - again, despite herself - is the first to stiffen into awkwardness.

Delia covers her own discomfort at Patsy's discomfort with brisk efficiency. And with words that might be construed as innuendo, if Patsy is so inclined. "So, Pats, where do you want me?"

Patsy gives her a look that's part-amused, part-disapproving. Delia dips her head to one side and smirks. The words were taken as intended.

To the untrained eye, the scene in the main hall is chaos. Baby Jesus has gone missing (Nurse Crane will have the shock of her life in the next day's clinic when she finds him taking a bath in one of the toilets) and Mary and Joseph are pulling gruesome faces at each other. Two of the wise men are hitting the third with their tea-towel-headdresses. Sheep are fraternizing indiscriminately with reindeers, and the camel has got the hump and gone off to sulk in the corner. Nurse Gilbert and Timothy Turner appear to be having cross words at the piano. And Nurse Noakes is surrounded by an assortment of under-6s who, it appears, she's trying to teach to be Christmas puddings.

Surveying pandemonium, Patsy spots a possibility.

"How about craft corner?"

In a relatively quiet corner of the room, Sergeant Noakes is working with a zen-like intensity on what appears to be an interminable paper chain.

"Really, Pats?"

"The reindeers need horns."

"Mightn't I be more use herding sheep?"

"Trixie's got that under control." A sheep hurtles by at pace, Trixie in relatively close pursuit. "Well, sort of."

"You have told the expectant mothers of Poplar that none of them are allowed to give birth today since all the midwives in the district are currently moonlighting in the entertainment business?"

"Oh yes," Patsy looks at her solemnly. "Sister Evangelina sent them a letter telling them all to cross their legs and hold tight until after the show on Saturday."

It takes Delia a good quarter of an hour to construct the first prototype set of antlers. With cardboard and pipe-cleaners attached to a headband, she corrals one of the sheep (an escapee from the main flock who's playing under a chair near craft corner) to act as a model so she can make sure that she's got the angles right. But, it turns out, seven-year-old sheep aren't the easiest models to control, and with her stock of mint imperials running empty, she's forced to let her run free.

At which point Sergeant Noakes offers to be the antler model, if she'd like.

Sergeant Noakes is not quite as twitchy as a seven-year-old, nor does he need to be bribed with sweets. He's actually rather patient; shyly (or proudly, Delia's not sure which) he confesses that nearly every year he's had to do the same job for his wife - mainly for donkey ears, so reindeer antlers make a nice change.

When Patsy strolls over an hour or so later there's a small forest of antlers on the table, and a pair on Sergeant Noakes's head.

"Hidden talents, Deels."

Delia slaps her hand away from the pile.

"Careful Pats! The glue's not dry."

"Here, Nurse Mount," Sergeant Noakes says, gingerly pulling the antlers from his head. "Try these on for size."

Patsy does; Delia laughs so hard she almost falls off her chair.

Two days later and Delia's out of breath and sticky with sweat when she reaches the community centre. She'd had her eye on the clock for at least the last hour of her shift, but, wouldn't you know it, at exactly five minutes to clocking-off time Matron had cornered her, with a lengthy list of instructions that Delia'll need to attend to when she's back in work on Monday. Finally breaking loose from Matron's office after quarter of an hour, Delia had hurried to change and leapt on her bike, covering the ground between the hospital and the community centre in record time. And just in time, too, it seems.

Trixie, doing front-of-house duty in the foyer waves her through to the merrily decorated hall. "Cutting it a bit fine," she says, following Delia through the door, and Delia's about to explain about being delayed at work. But there's the sound of clapping from the front of the hall, and Tom Hereward's on stage, calling everyone to order and urging them to take their seats. Trixie guides Delia over to the side of the room where there's a spare seat next to Sergeant Noakes and Mrs Buckle. They welcome her with friendly greetings, and as she sinks down on the chair, the lights dim and the show begins.

An unbiased observer wouldn't claim the performance to be an unmitigated success: lines are forgotten, entrances missed, the camel thumps Rudolph, and Sergeant Noakes' paper chain falls from the ceiling onto Sister Evangelina's head - but it is what it is: an enthusiastic community show. The songs are sung with gusto, Fred nearly puts his back out so vigorous is his ho-ho-hoing, and there's a standing ovation at the end, just because (and is there any better reason?) almost everyone in the audience is connected to someone who has performed on stage.

That sense of connection pulls at Delia as she's on her feet to applaud as Patsy and the rest of the team from Nonnatus follow the children onto the stage to receive their share of the acclaim. As Delia stands there, her pride in her partner as evident in her face as Peter's is in his face, or Violet's is in hers - as Delia stands there, alongside the other Nonnatus plus-ones, she feels a genuine sense of belonging. Whatever they think (or don't think) is going on between herself and Patsy, she feels accepted by these people. Part of their community. Part of their family, even.

On stage, Fred, Chummy, and Patsy take a bow.

From the back of the hall Violet, Peter, and Delia cheer and clap and stamp and whistle.