A/N: I suggest you read my other Drumfred fic 'What Else' before this one. They are both stand-alones, but it may make slightly more sense if you do read them together. I'm also guessing on the spelling of Wilhelmina's surname. I know it's pronounced 'Cook', but I believe it is spelt 'Coke'. Anyone who knows, please correct me if I'm wrong.

WARNING for heavy angst and absolutely no happy ending.

Alfred strode down the palace hallways, searching for Drummond. It had been two weeks since they had returned from Scotland, and the pair tried to spend as much time together as possible, Drummond's wedding looming over them. He spotted Wilhelmina ahead of him and sped up to catch her.

"Miss Coke," he called, practically running at this point. She stopped and turned to face him, smiling sweetly, if slightly strained.

"Lord Alfred," she greeted courteously.

"Have you by any chance seen Drummond anywhere? I thought he was at the palace today; I may, of course, be mistaken but..." Alfred's voice trailed off as Wilhelmina turned away from him, a sob escaping her. He frowned in confusion and concern. "Why, Miss Coke, whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, Lord Alfred," she wailed. "Haven't you heard the news?"

"News? What news?"

"It's Mr Drummond, Lord Alfred. Last night he- he-" She dissolved into tears, unable to continue, and Alfred felt a horrible sense of foreboding.

"He what, Miss Coke?" he gently coaxed, bending to her height and holding her arms. "It's alright, you can tell me."

Wilhelmina sniffed and turned her face up to Alfred. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her top lip wobbled as she spoke. "He had a meeting with Mr Peel last night, but as he left the house he- he was shot!" Suddenly she threw her arms around Alfred and he held her as she sobbed into his chest. Alfred felt tears gather at his own eyes and a pain erupted in his chest, made worse by the realisation that Drummond may not have survived. He pulled away from Wilhelmina slightly and tapped her shoulder to get her attention.

"Is he alive, Miss Coke? Do you know if he lives?" he asked, trying his best to conceal the way his voice shook and threatened to give out.

"I- I believe so, Lord Alfred," she managed, bringing out a dainty handkerchief to wipe her eyes with. Part of Alfred knew that a proper gentleman would stay with her to make sure she was alright, but he couldn't stand the thought of being away from Drummond when he was injured, so he simply squeezed her hand and smiled gently at her.

"I must be going now. I have... business to attend to."

"Yes, of course. I do apologise for my behaviour just now; I don't know what came over me."

"That's quite alright, Miss Coke. No need for an apology."

She may have replied, but, if she did, Alfred didn't hear it, as he was off down the hall once more, panic and fear the only thing keeping him going.

After much asking, he finally found out where Drummond was being treated. He immediately set off to see him, ignoring all the paperwork he had to sort.

When he arrived at the place, he suddenly found himself unable to step over the threshold. It felt like a vice had begun tightening around his chest, preventing him from breathing, and he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He breathed deeply for a few moments, until feeling had somewhat abated, and then screwed up what remained of his courage and entered.

Drummond wasn't awake when Alfred first walked in, but he was breathing, which was a good sign. His face was pale and his dark locks were sticking up every which way, which brought a fond smile to Alfred's face. There were bandages wrapped around his chest and abdomen which were spotted with red in places, and Alfred stretched out his fingers to touch them before catching himself and drawing back.

Checking to make sure no one was around, he leant over and tenderly brushed a few strands of Drummond's hair out of his eyes, stopping suddenly when Drummond began to stir. Alfred waited, barely breathing, as Drummond's eyes cracked open, his face contorting in pain, but still lighting up when he noticed Alfred stood above him.

"Alfred," he breathed, the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

"Drummond," Alfred replied, relieved.

Drummond coughed and moaned, but still managed to rasp: "Edward."

Alfred huffed a laugh. "Edward," he amended, standing up straight. "It's good to see you, my friend," his voice catching on the word 'friend'.

Drummond barely nodded, and his eyes drifted shut again, but Alfred knew he was still awake. He began talking about anything he could think of; the goings on at the palace, Francatelli's latest creations, the blossoming something between Ernest and Harriet. Every so often he noticed Drummond's eyebrows raise a fraction, or spot a tiny smile of his face, and so he kept talking for as long as he could.

Some time later, a doctor arrived to usher him out. Alfred left with promises to return, and a light brushing of his knuckles against Drummond's.

Alfred visited as often as he could over the next four days. Sometimes his duties at the palace were inescapable, but he usually managed to worm his way out of them. It was on the fifth day after the shooting that Alfred woke up with a horrible feeling in his chest, and he knew he needed to be by Drummond's side immediately. He dressed quickly and set out, ignoring anyone calling for his attention, manners be damned.

He was too late.

It was Alfred who had to take the news to the queen and Prince Albert. A terrible blush crept up his cheeks as he stuttered and stumbled his way through it, words sticking in his throat, but she barely noticed.

"Oh, how awful!" she cried, visibly distressed, turning towards Albert for comfort. He put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her hair, muttering assurances Alfred pretended not to hear.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"Yes, of course, Lord Alfred," she said distractedly. As he turned to go, however, she called him back for a moment. "Drummond was engaged, wasn't he?" she asked.

"Yes, I believe he was ma'am. A Lady Florence, if I remember right."

She nodded and sighed softly. "Poor Florence."

"Yes," Alfred echoed bitterly. "Poor Florence."

The funeral was six days later. Alfred stood near the back and watched as Drummond was taken into the vaults to be buried. A pretty girl he assumed to be Florence clung to her father's arm as tears slipped silently down her cheeks. He noticed other mourners crying too, but, try as he might, no tears sprung to Alfred's eyes. He felt numb, like all the joy had been sucked out of the world the moment Drummond had taken his final breath.

Alfred only wore black in the days that followed. He made it so it wasn't too noticeable, but some - Wilhelmina especially - gave him knowing, sympathetic looks. Mostly, though, he didn't particularly care what others thought of him. He also didn't touch the Iliad for quite some time. Patroclus's death was all the more affecting, and whenever he read it, he couldn't help but be reminded of that conversation a lifetime ago in Scotland. At the time, it had seemed such a small moment of happiness, but now he wished he could go back and live in it forever, if only to hear Drummond's voice once more.

A/N: I did warn you. This is just a little episode 8 speculation on my part, and definitely NOT what I want to happen but I couldn't help myself. Hope you guys enjoyed it! Please leave a review if you have a moment! Bye!