- For Lavender and Hay, happy birthday, my friend, and congratulation for Oxford! -

- It seems I simply can not write something after the 2012 Christmas Special but I'm trying, I'm trying… in the meantime, the title of this one-shot is taken from the beautiful song "The Call" by Regina Spektor. Do you know it? The lyrics are perfect for Isobel and Richard and when she left for France. It always makes me sappy. So, that song gave me the inspiration, enjoy! -

It started out as a feeling

Which then grew into a hope

Which then turned into a quiet thought

Which then turned into a quiet word

She looked absently at the small village of Downton passing before her eyes. It was her home, but was it really? Or her heart had remained in Manchester, and she had gone to live in that small village just to follow her beloved Matthew when Lord Grantham had written to inform him that he was his heir? Sure the Crawley Family hadn't welcomed both of them with open arms, and after six years, after the end of the blossoming relationship between Lady Mary and Matthew, the tensions between all of them were still many, too many, to live in peace. Wasn't it the reason why she was going to France?

To be honest with herself, wasn't it the reason why she was leaving the safety and comfort of her life in Crawley House to go to France, at the Red Cross?

As she liked to think that she was doing it just for pure interest in the wounded soldiers in France, she had to admit that she also wanted to leave the oppressive atmosphere up at the Abbey and at the village hospital.

She could not work that way and she was convinced of that. She could not work at the recovery home with Lady Cora blowing on her neck and doing everything possible to impede her, just to prove to be better than her, even without being it. For heaven's sake, she was a qualified nurse, she knew how to do her job, she had already seen the horrors of war and knew how to handle certain situations, while Lady Grantham barely knew how to make a bed or how to prepare something hot for the wounded men up there.

Neither she could work with a man, a superior, who put on the same level her experience and Lady Cora's influence, only for the common good. With a bit of discomfort, she realised that it bothered her more than what was proper. She had expected him to take her stance, that he would give her reason, but instead he placed his mind right between her and Lady Cora, looking for a balance of power rather than the functionality of the recovery house. They were at war: who on earth cared where they ate, who could have the courage to complain if they ate with the injured officers? Apparently the Granthams, who had also done a lot of favouritism, and the doctor in charge of their hospital supported them. No, she could not work on that. She would go to France.

Still, it seemed to her that the news of her departure had shook him. He said they would miss her… and she could only hope he was true in his words, that he would really miss her, because, she realised suddenly, it would hurt her knowing that he would cope at the hospital without her. He would hurt her knowing he will be fine without her, nurse or not.

Irritated by her own thoughts, she slapped her hand against the seat with anger.

"Everything's alright, Ma'am?"

"Yes, Branson, thank you."

"We arrived at the station."

......

He closed the gate at the entrance of the hospital, took his old, black bike and jumped on, quickly riding to the station. There was still time. He could do it. He had to do it. He could not allow her to go away thinking that there she was not appreciated. As for himself, he appreciated her, a lot, probably more than what was proper, also given to the their class difference. But he did not care, she was about to leave, to leave, to leave Downton and to slip into that infernal circle that France was during war-time, and everything of that just because, he was firmly convinced about that, there in Downton, at the great house, she did not feel appreciated.

At least, he hoped that six years after her arrival there, she felt at home, did not missing her life in Manchester, that she understood he needed her there. He hoped he had been able to make her understand it in those years, but if it had not been, he would tell her what was going on there and then.

When she told him that she had decided to leave, when he understood that she believed that he preferred Lady Grantham to her, a small part of him panicked, but he had hurriedly silenced it. If she wanted to leave, she was free to do so. If she thought she could be more useful in France, she was free to leave. He did not, however, estimated that, with each passing day, the concern for her and the feeling of emptiness at the idea she was leaving had increased up to suffocate him, to distract him from his work, to keep him awake at night, worried and anxious. The idea that she would leave and, God forbid, never came back, that something horrible could happened to her while she was on French territory, had awakened all those feelings that he, in six years, had carefully ignored and hidden in a remote part of his head, but never forgotten.

How could he forget all of this, how could he forget her? he thought as he pedalled quickly - why did the station seem so far away? - how could he forget the frustration he felt when she promptly contradicted him, or the momentum of pride when she made a correct diagnosis, even if it means questioning again? How could he forget her kindness and her stubbornness, her gentle smile and her laughter that ultimately he had heard less and less? And her eyes, her delicate perfume of lavender?

He could not forget her, did not want to forget her, and her sudden departure for France had frightened him. He was risking of losing her, losing her before he realised completely what really he felt for her, before he could say her she was precious to him.

With a sigh of relief, he dropped the bike against the wall of the station and jumped inside.

He knew what time her train departed, and the train going to London was just one that morning, he could not not find her.

......

She looked around, suddenly unsure. She had left her few essential luggage to young Branson, and she was sure that him and the porter on duty would have them put on the train in the right compartment.

The platform of the small station was full of people, and the smoke of the train made it even more nebulous and confused.

Wasn't it how she was feeling in that very moment? Alone, as if suspended in a dream, without something, someone, to keep her anchored to that place? Sure, there was Matthew, but he was just somewhere in France... and there was the hospital. Not the big house converted into a recovery house, just the small hospital of the village, the feeling of being useful there, to be appreciated for what she was, a nurse, not the mother of the future Earl of Grantham... being able to physically help people heal... and her strange , particular working relationship with the good doctor, who drove her crazy every two to three, but that respected her and that, despite their frequent debates, always listened to her opinions and valued her… she hoped he still valued her. Seeing how things were going on up at the Abbey, she thought again, he would probably considered her busybody and annoying. And it hurt her.

Something stirred in the back of her mind at the thought of him, but she drove it away, annoyed by the enormity of the revelation.

"Mrs. Crawley!"

She gasped, turning quickly to the familiar and very welcome voice. He was there, wasn't he?

"Dr. Clarkson!" she watched mesmerised his form emerging from the fog, he was slightly out of breath. She managed a polite smile, he really was the last person she expected to be here, but somehow she was happy it was him and none else, as if he had just popped out of her thoughts and materialised in front of her, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you?" he asked her, a little bit hesitant.

"For me? Why?"

"I..." he paused, as if searching for the words, "I wanted to say good-bye. Since you told me you had decided to go to France... I have not seen you since. I wanted..." his voice failed him again, and he just stood her, watching her uncomfortably.

"It's very kind of you, doctor," she smiled sincerely this time, her eyes lightened up at his discomfort, he was such a nice man... "Thank you. I can not deny that it surprises me, but I can not deny it pleases me too."

"Surprises you?"

It was her turn to look embarrass, but somehow she managed to keep his gaze, suddenly feeling her cheeks reddening, "We do not exactly get along well together, Dr. Clarkson, don't we? More often than not we fight, we disagree, and we breath down each other's neck. So, yes," another gentle smile, "I'm very surprised by you, but in a comfortable way."

"It is not why you are leaving, is it?" he asked hurriedly, "You're not leaving because of our disagreements, right? I can get better, really. I could not bear to know you in France, in danger, because of my -"

"Of course it's not your fault!" she shoot him a warning glance, "It's just that..." her voice left her in the worst moment possible, "I just ..."

"Mrs. Crawley?"

"I'm not useful here, doctor. The family is against me, they prefer to keep their precious house for themselves instead of helping the injured soldiers!," he smiled at her passionate words, her liberalism and her great heart always striking him, "I know I can not stay with folded hands, I need to do something. And I am not useful here."

"You're useful to me, Mrs. Crawley," his reply was a little bit sharp, as if he was annoyed by the fact that she doubted that very argument, and her cheeks blushed again at the vehemence of his words, "For me, you are a precious friend."

More than a friend, shouted his brain, more than a friend, a wonderful woman who was about to leave.

"I do not know what to say," her low murmur took him back to reality, and he looked at her, she kept her head down and stared at her hands, folded tight against her stomach.

"I hope not to have embarrassed you, Mrs.. Crawley."

"Oh, no, no, it was quite flattering, actually. You know, I did not expect such a compliment."

They stood there in silence for long seconds, looking at each another, eyes speaking volumes, eyes telling something that they can not even accept in their minds, let alone speak out aloud. His hands clenched uncomfortably at his sides, and he wanted so badly to simply embrace her, but he knew he could not, and her hands were playing nervously with the embroidered hems of her dark sleeves, her dark eyes never leaving his blu ones. It took the sound of the chimney of the train to make them both left their reveries, and she looked down quickly, suddenly abashed.

"I... I must go. The train's leaving."

"Yes, I... ehr... Your luggages?"

"I am confident that Branson and the porter of the stations have already put them in my compartment."

"Okay, then. May I… may I accompany you to the compartment?"

"Of course." she gracefully took the arm he was offering her, and her small went securely tucked in the crook of his arm, forcefully, almost painfully, but she did not care, she was too busy musing about the fact that it seemed so right, so proper, when she was quite aware it was not...

He escorted her along the train until she stood at the door of her compartment, looking suddenly shy. She was well aware of his hand on the small of her back as they stand in front of her door, more aware than him of his actions, but she smiled at him nevertheless, a hearty smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," she murmured, and daringly patted his arm, "Thank you for your... presence, here, for everything."

"Any time," he took a long breath and tried to smile confidently at her, failing miserably, "Be careful, Mrs. Crawley. Just be careful. France will be... dangerous," he lowered his eyes on her hand still on his arm, "It's a war zone."

"I'll not be on the front-line."

"Knowing you, you'll try to get there."

She laughed a little, "Yes, probably", she went serious again when she saw his worried eyes fixed on hers and her cheeks pinked a little, "Will it reassure you to know that I'll stay in Paris, or in any other cities, and do not go near the front-lines?"

"It will," he breathed out in relief, "It will, enormously."

"I promise, then," she squeezed his arm, smiling, "I'll stay in Paris. I promise I'll not try to reach the front-lines."

"And you'll come back when it's over, won't you? Here, in Downton?"

"Of course, no need to say good-bye", she went silent and looked at him for some long seconds, amused, "You sure you want this annoying nurse back at your hospital when the war will be over?"

"I'm already waiting for that very moment!" he declared fervently, taking her hand and holding it tightly.

She blushed and nodded quickly, enjoying the way his hand holding hers, "Very well then," she thrown a glance at the train and frowned, disappointed written all across her face, "Ehr... doctor, I have to go, now," she nudged her hand free and pointed at the train, "It's leaving."

"Yes," he looked at her absently, still amazed but what they have said, by what he had said to her, by her smile. By the fact that he had quickly realised he did not simply admire her, care for her and worry for her, but also desperately love her. And she was leaving without knowing how he felt about her and he was going to let her go without knowing it.

He helped her on the train, her light weight on his arm when she step on the metallic footboard, her back and her hair too much near to his nose… and by God, he decided, he was not going to leave her without making her understand how important she was to him.

"Mrs. Crawley."

"Yes, doctor?" she turned around, a surprised yet amused smile on her lips, "What is it?"

And in a moment he was with her on the small footboard, her slim body pressed between his and the outer wall of the compartment, his mouth on hers in the chastest kiss possible. He gently clenched her lips with his, his hands on her waist, enjoying the few seconds of that kiss. Then he withdrew, he looked at her, searching any sign of regret, but nothing, she was simply smiling trembly at him.

"Please, come back, Mrs. Crawley."

"I will, Richard."

"I'll wait, Isobel."

He left the station suddenly feeling more confident in the future. He would certainly miss her, desperately, and he would be worried for her till he drop, losing his sleep on the thought of her in France, but at least he knew he had made her understand how important she was to him.

In that one kiss, he saw a future full of promise, and hoped with all his heart he was not mistaken. Her last smile to him gave him hope, hope for them, once the war ended.

He lowered his gaze on where he remembered he had left his bike. It was gone.

- Reviews always appreciates! Thinking about another chapter, perhaps? -