A/N: This is just a one-shot set directly after Sybil's death. It's the first part of what will be a series of one-shots.

Richard sighed as he trudged home. He wished there was someone waiting for him, to hold him and help ease the ache his soul was in. He'd seen his unfair share of horrible deaths during the wars he'd been in, but none were so horrible as watching sweet Lady Sybil's senselessly horrific death.

Pausing as he drew close to his cottage, he turned to look back in the direction of Crawley House. If he went home he knew what he would do. He had a bottle of whiskey that would be gone come morning with his need to drown out the anguished cries that still rang in his ears…his need to erase the visions of the young lady seizing that still flashed before his eyes.

Realizing that the only other human being that would understand was Isobel Crawley, he slowly started walking toward Crawley House. He didn't want to get drunk, he knew that. But could he really let her see him broken? Let her hear all of his raging anger spilled out?

Without really paying attention, Richard found himself standing outside the door of Isobel's home. Indecision overtook him and he frowned. What was he doing here? She was a member of the very family he was so angry at.

"But she's not like them," his inner voice whispered. "You know she doesn't get on well with most of them. Take the chance or go home and get drunk."

Raising his hand to knock, he took a deep breath as the sound echoed into the night. It seemed overly loud to him, though he knew he hadn't knocked that hard on the door. Hearing footsteps and the sound of the lock turning, he felt his heart race, once again wondering just what in the world he was doing here.

"Richard?" Isobel said his name again, having said it twice already.

Starting, he blinked at her as if he didn't recognize his name. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here," he mumbled and turned to leave, stopping at the touch of her hand on his arm.

Isobel knew something was wrong simply because Richard's brogue was so thick she hardly understood a word he'd said. Had he been drinking? Taking a careful sniff of the air, she smelled no liquor. "What is it? Why have you come?"

"She's gone," he whispered, looking at Isobel over his shoulder.

The words that came now were words Isobel didn't understand, but she did understand the anguish behind them. Dear god, who had he lost? "Come inside," she commanded using the tone of voice she used as a nurse, tugging at his arm to get him to do her bidding.

The words kept flowing out of him in his native tongue, changing from anguish to anger as he went…the tones going from soft to sharp. He stumbled and looked up at Isobel when she caught him. "Gabh mo leisgeul."

"Come on," she whispered, not understanding what he'd said though the way the words were spoken told her it must be an apology. Leading him into the sitting room, she pushed him down on the settee then went to the liquor cart and poured a glass of scotch.

"Here," she kept her voice soft as she handed him the glass then sat down beside him. "Drink that and then try to tell me what's wrong in English." She smiled when he looked at her in confusion. "You weren't speaking English earlier and I'm afraid I never learned anything other than Latin and French."

Looking down into the amber liquid, Richard sighed before throwing his head back and swallowing the drink in one gulp. Twirling the glass in his fingers, he took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have come."

"I thought we were friends. I would expect you to feel you could come to me any time you need a friend." Resting her hand on his arm, she lightly squeezed it. "You said she's gone. Who? Who did you lose?"

"You mean they haven't called you?" Richard blinked in surprise.

Isobel felt a sort of panic begin to set in. "Who, Richard?"

"Lady Sybil," he answered, his voice barely audible. "I was right, it was eclampsia. Why wouldn't they listen to me? Why? She died so horribly. She didn't have to die, Isobel. She didn't have to die," his voice trailed off as he drug a hand over his face. "It's my fault."

Pushing down her own grief, Isobel frowned at Richard's last words. "Your fault? How is it your fault? Richard, you told me you tried to tell them, that Sir Philip Tapsell disagreed with you and they took his word over yours. How is it your fault?"

"Don't you see? If I weren't a lowly Scot, a man with no name, no title…I might have saved her," his voice cracked and his shoulders began to shake as the grief and anguish began to pour out of him, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Isobel felt her heart breaking. She never realized how he felt about himself. Or how much he cared for Sybil. But…why hadn't she? He'd delivered Sybil. Probably patched every scrape and bump she'd had that her parents insisted he be called for. She knew that he thought a lot of the young woman as a nurse, how proud he'd been of her rising above her station and getting dirty with the rest of them because she cared, because she didn't want to just sit and be pretty waiting to be married off to a young man with the proper title and wealth.

Lifting her arms, she pulled him to her, her hand coming up to cradle his head as she held him. So this was what had brought him to her doorstep tonight. She felt her own tears wetting her cheeks and ignored them. There was time for her own grief later. Right now what mattered most was the man who had trusted her enough to let her see him break.

Words were tumbling out of him, some English, others he slipped back into his language from home. Those seemed to be more angry than the others, and she wondered if he was subconsciously protecting her from his feelings toward her family.

She knew that he'd been shocked that they hadn't informed her, but she wasn't, not really. Matthew would be busy consoling Mary and he would be the only one who might think to call her with the news. Feeling Richard half collapse against her, she realized he'd fallen asleep from the sheer exhaustion of the last few days and his churning emotions. Gently nudging him until he was settled with his head on her lap, she pulled the throw from the back of the settee and covered him to keep him from growing cold as he slept. Sitting back, she looked down at him and thought how handsome a man he was and wondered at herself for not really having taken notice until now. A hitch of breath had her tenderly combing her fingers through his hair to soothe him.

It had been years since she'd had a man sleep with his head on her lap, but she could still remember the last time it had happened.

Reginald had lost a child that he'd fought for days to save and it had broken him. He'd come home and simply sat down and laid over, his head on her lap, face buried in her abdomen as he wrapped his arms around her and let himself go…trusting her not to judge him for not being the strong, stiff upper lipped man that society thought he should be.

And now, here she was with another man that trusted her so completely that he'd come to her in one of his darkest hours. Only this time it was different. This man wasn't her husband, there wasn't really a reason for him to trust her so implicitly.

"But there is, and you know it. Have done since the war," her inner voice told her. She'd tried to ignore it, but here and now…she couldn't.

The man was in love with her. He hadn't just turned to her because she was a nurse and had been the wife of a doctor. There were other nurses in town that he'd known far longer that he could have turned to if he'd just wanted someone that would understand from a medical professional's position.

In his mind, the only person he could turn to was the woman he loved so much it gave him the ease and trust to let himself be weak in front of her.

Dear god.

What was she going to do?

This time the voice she heard wasn't that of her inner voice…it was Reginald's.

"Let yourself love him, Darling. He needs you as I once did. It's alright to fall again. He'll catch you."

Isobel would look back on this night for the rest of her life as the bleakest and greatest of nights. For it was this night, in the midst of such heartbreak, that she had opened her heart to love once again.

"You aren't just a lowly Scot, a man with no name," she whispered as she bent over to press a kiss to his temple. "You're a good and wonderful man. I'll make you see, my darling man…I'll make you see."