TW for assault.

Sister Bernadette almost walks past the dark alley. She's tired, having been up since before dawn, tending to patients during the day and delivering a set of twins till well into the night. If she's honest, she just wants to get back to Nonnatus, sterilize her equipment, and sleep a bit before Lauds. She should have been back by now, and would have been, if her bike hadn't suffered a puncture. As it is, she is forced to walk a good five miles back, hauling the heavy bike and her bag over the uneven cobbles of the streets of Poplar.

She's lost in her own thoughts as she passes the alley. It is darker than the ones surrounding it, owing to a broken lantern. The darkness inside seems almost impenetrable.

A great place for a crime, she muses, halting to push her glasses back up her nose. It is then that she hears a grunt and muffled shouting. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Give it ter us, ye tosser!" a harsh voice. She is rooted to the spot, almost unable to breathe.

"I don't have any money!" A block of ice lands in her stomach. The words are spoken by a voice she knows, a voice she has dreamed about more and more the last few months: Doctor Turner.

"You rich cocks are all the same," a second voice, a lot more nasal than the first, claims.

"Now, hand over yer wallet and that nice watch," a third person commands. Another grunt.

Sister Bernadette knows she has to back away, needs to find a constable, but she can't leave Doctor Turner. There are three men there, mugging him. Before she can question her decision she puts her bike against the wall and strides into the alley. Her hands are shaking, but with fear or anger she doesn't know. She does know that East-Enders respect the nuns and midwives enough to leave them alone. This allows them to traverse the most unsavoury parts of Poplar without the fear of being assaulted. Still, being assaulted whilst on your way to deliver a baby or actually interfering in an on-going attempt to rob a man are two very different things.

My habit will protect me, she chants, repeating the words like a prayer. Her blood thunders in her ears, caused by the galloping of her blood through her veins.

Her initial plan is to command the men to let Doctor Turner go. She has to discard it as soon as her eyes discern that one of the three assailants has a stick as thick as a fist in his hand, and raises it to club the doctor. There's no time.

"Leave him alone!" she screams, and without a second thought she jumps on the man's back. He grunts in surprise. He's wearing a leather jacket. The material is slippery; she has to do her utmost best to not slide off. Sister Bernadette rakes his face with her nails. The man yelps, tries to shake her off. She clings to him as if he's a bucking horse, digging her nails deeper in the flabby flesh of his cheeks. The man drops his stick and uses both hands to try and get her off. One of his hands finds her wimple. His fingers close around the fabric and the underlying hair and yank. Sister Bernadette screams as she is dragged off his back by her hair. Hot pain shoots through her scalp. The strap of her wimple snaps. The man stumbles back, holding only the remains of her wimple and cap in his hand. Sister Bernadette lands on her knees, bruising them on the cobbles. Her glasses are no longer on her nose. Frantically she tries to find them, sweeping her hands over the ground, trying not to think about the slippery wetness her fingertips encounter. Her French twist has completely come undone; her hair spills over her shoulders, into her eyes.

"Yer little bitch," her attacker hisses in her ear. His breath smells sour.

He must have seen that was a wimple, he must have… she thinks, clinging to the thought that East-Enders don't harm nuns as the man kicks her in the ribs. All breath leaves her body as pain explodes under her ribs. Sister Bernadette opens her mouth to scream, but she can't even breathe. She falls on her side, curling up, making herself as small as possible. Her side is a throbbing mass of pain, a small star collapsing on itself, consuming everything around it.

Her assailant pushes her on her back. He's no longer alone; one of the other two men has joined him. In the dark and without her glasses she can't make out their features.

Where's Doctor Turner? she thinks.

Have they knocked him unconscious?

"Hold her arms," her first attacker says. The second man moves, gripping her wrists and pressing them down. He smells of alcohol. His hands are calloused and slightly sweaty. Sister Bernadette understands what they are about to do in that moment. Panic and fear grip her. She kicks and flails, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side, but the men are out of her reach.

"I like it when they put up a fight," the first man says. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture is almost tender. Sister Bernadette whimpers in fear. The man puts his knee between her legs, forcing them apart.

He can't, I'm a nun! As the first man struggles to undo his belt the second man shifts, putting his knees on top her arms so he has his hands free. He starts pawing at her breasts, his movements rough and hurried. He doesn't trouble with the buttons of her habit, but rips the fabric. Cool air kisses her damp skin.

His hands encounter the wooden cross Sister Bernadette always wears. He picks it up, ready to toss it aside. When he realises what it is, he freezes.

"Fuck," he whispers. He lets Sister Bernadette go as if she's burned him.

"She's a nun!" A lot of things then happen at the same time. Several flashlights pierce the darkness as a group of policemen enter the alley. Sister Bernadette has to close her eyes against the sudden brightness.

"Police, halt!" Feet on the cobbles, moving away from her. Suddenly, the weight of her attacker on her disappears. Sister Bernadette clutches her habit against her chest, tries to keep it closed. She opens her eyes, squints, forces herself to see. Doctor Turner presses the man in the leather jacket against the wall with his arms against his throat. She has never seen him like this. His face is completely contorted into a mask of fury, his mouth stretched into a snarl that reveals his teeth. One of his eyes is already swollen shut and his collar is flecked with blood, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"You bastard," he hisses. The eyes of the other man are wide with fear.

"Let him go, sir!" one of the policemen urges, trying to pull Doctor Turner's arm away. The eyes of the man dressed in leather are starting to bulge and his face has taken on an impressive shade of purple. If Doctor Turner has heard the policeman, he gives no indication.

"If you've hurt her…" the doctor chokes on his own words.

"Sir, you are choking him!" The policeman is starting to sound frantic.

Sister Bernadette scrabbles up and places her hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Doctor Turner, please let go." Her throat hurts. Her voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but at the sound of her Doctor Turner seems to snap out of the trancelike state that gripped him. The muscles around his mouth relax and he loosens his grip. The policeman exhales in relief as the criminal chokes and splutters, definite signs that he will live to see another day.

"I didn't know she was a nun," he splutters, repeating that sentence over and over again as the officer arrests him.

Sister Bernadette doesn't remember sitting down, but all of a sudden she is on her knees, the doctor squatting next to her. He takes off his coat and helps her put it on. His hands shake as he does the first few buttons up so as to save her modesty. The fabric of his coat is warm, something Sister Bernadette is grateful for; the effect of her adrenaline is wearing off, allowing the cold of the night to knit itself in her bones.

"Sister, are you hurt?" he asks her, rolling up the cuffs of his coat. She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"I'm sorry, I have nothing for you to cover your head with," he says as he moves on to the other sleeve. Sister Bernadette touches her hair; she had already forgotten that it was on display.

"It doesn't matter," she mumbles.

"It does matter! What on earth made you do such a thing, you silly woman? What if one of them had a knife? What if they had…?" he says, his voice trembling.

"I heard your voice, and I couldn't think," she whispers, "I thought my habit would keep me safe." Doctor Turner takes out his handkerchief and uses it to wipe away a drop of blood underneath her earlobe. The strap of her wimple must have nicked her skin there. Sister Bernadette winces; she not only feels the cold, but the pain underneath her ribs has returned with a vengeance, too. It must be one hell of a bruise.

"I would never have forgiven myself if they hurt you," she says, tears blurring her foggy vision even more, "because I love you." She starts to weep in earnest then. Great, heaving sobs rack her body. Her fear and anger and shame come pouring out of her eyes. Doctor Turner hugs her close to him. She slings one arm around his neck, tangles the other in the fabric of his jumper. Her face is placed over the cavity that holds his heart; its steady rhythm and the soothing noises the doctor makes in the back of his throat help her to calm down a little. He rocks her and holds her till her breathing has calmed down enough for her to speak. Her limbs feel extremely heavy and she has trouble keeping her eyes open. If she could, she would go to sleep right there and then, in the arms of the man she loves. She knows she shouldn't, that she should get up and make a statement, help the policemen do their job, gather her soiled wimple and find her glasses, return to Nonnatus, but she has no desire to move. Besides, the policemen are still too busy getting the two men they caught to cooperate.

"You silly, silly woman," Doctor Turner whispers, peppering her hair and forehead with kisses. Sister Bernadette loosens her grip on him and tilts her head so she can look into his face. He places his hand on her cheek, gently wiping one of her tears away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles.

"I'm sorry, too," he confesses. She frowns.

"For what?"

"For what I'm about to do," the doctor says, and presses his lips to hers. Sister Bernadette becomes completely still for just one second before melting into him. His lips are warm and dry and ever so soft. He is careful with her, the fingertips of the hand on her face hardly touching her scalp. Before the kiss can deepen Doctor Turner pulls away.

"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate," he whispers, his voice husky.

Sister Bernadette can't answer. Instead, she studies his face. Even in the dark and without the aid of her glasses she can see that his left eye is nearly swollen shut and has taken on different hues of purple and red. She lifts her hand and gently brushes over the bruise. The doctor hisses in surprise and pain.

"You're going to look like quite the prize-fighter," she notes. He smiles, then winces.

"I can live with that, if you are my prize," he says. She can't be sure, but thinks he winks at her.

"Only don't assume I'm going to do this every day. My old heart won't survive." She laughs as he gathers her up in his arms once more.

"It's a good thing that this alley is so dark," she whispers in his ear.

"Why is that?"
"Because nobody can see me kiss you."