A/N- Set mid-season 3, sometime after Jimmy's arrival but before Lady Sybil has her baby, and is wildly AU from this point onwards.
He blinks awake.
His head seems to explode in pain and he lets out a soft groan.
He hears a voice speak but there's a rushing noise in his ears that masks the person's words and makes them impossible to decipher.
He doesn't try.
He lets his eyes slip shut and sleep claim him once again.
It's night time when he next awakes.
He knows this because the curtains of the room have been pulled shut and there's a small candle spluttering, on the verge of going out, on the small table next to the bed he's lying in.
There's a person in a chair next to him and he can see by the slump of the body and the even and gentle breathing that they're asleep.
He tries to reach for the glass of water that sits next to the candle but the movement causes his vision to spin and turn to black.
He passes out.
"Awake, are you?" A woman asks him as he struggles back to consciousness.
His lips are dry and cracked and his mouth doesn't seem able to form words.
He groans instead and the woman seems to understand.
She holds a glass of water to his lips and it takes all of his energy to lift his head from the pillow and take a few small sips. His stomach does flips and his head pounds but he manages to keep the water down. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow, exhaustion flooding through him.
She sets the glass of water back down on the table and looks at him with an annoyed expression on her face, "what, no 'thank you'?"
"Ta." He mumbles as his eyes begin to shut of their own accord.
"I suppose that'll do." She sniffs.
But he doesn't hear; he's already asleep.
He wakes a few more times and has water and lukewarm broth forced on him in the scant minutes he manages to stay conscious. His stomach twists and turns and sometimes it settles and other times he ends up regurgitating everything they have given to him.
He has come to recognise the people that sit with him. It is usually one of four people, though, sometimes, there are others there, too. They talk in hushed whispers next to his bed and don't expect him to become involved in their conversations. Too often his voice fails him but he always tries to force out a smile in thanks because he knows he has to do something.
Despite the gruff words uttered - a severe looking woman with brown hair always tied up in a knot being the main source of these words - they are very kind to him and he is very grateful for their care.
And, at first, he's too tired to listen to what they say, sleep dominating his days and wakefulness coming in short bursts, but as time passes, as he grows stronger and he manages to stay awake for longer, he begins to worry.
These people that look after him talk about people and things that he knows nothing of and call him by a name that he doesn't recognise and he's terrified that they have him confused with someone else.
On a few occasions he tries to tell whoever is with him about his fears but his voice is too weak from disuse and he manages nothing more than hoarse whispers that don't sound like words. The effort exhausts him, just like everything seems to, and he ends up slipping back into oblivion soon after.
It is a week after the first time he awakes that he is sat up in bed by the youngest of the three women that care for him, the one with the blonde hair and the sweet smile, and given a bowl of broth to feed himself.
"You're not going to get any stronger if you don't start doing these things for yourself." She tells him, watching him with a cloth at hand to mop up the food that falls from the spoon held in his trembling grasp. She makes conversation as she watches him eat, "Mr Carson tells me that his Lordship is very eager to see you back on your feet again."
He doesn't understand, he knows he's not anyone of importance.
He has worked that out because the room he is in is hardly grand and the only people he ever comes into contact with are dressed in the uniform of servants and they speak to him as someone of similar social standing.
"Why?" He croaks.
"I expect it has something to do with the endless complaints he hears from Mr Carson, God forbid the house fall behind its usual standards, but what can he expect? Alfred is only just back to work these past couple of days and Jimmy spends more time worrying after you than paying attention to his actual duties. If it weren't for Mr Molesley agreeing to valet for Mr Matthew then I think Mr Carson would have run himself into the ground."
He sets the spoon back into the bowl, its contents barely touched, and cradles the rapidly cooling porcelain in his cold hands. His head is thundering in time with his heart and his stomach is churning violently and he feels sick.
"Mrs Patmore will be very upset if I go back to the kitchens with another bowl with food still in it." She tells him.
"Will she?" He asks.
"Don't be so silly, Thomas, of course she will."
"Why do you call me that?"
He sees her smile falter, "would you prefer Mr Barrow?"
"No." He says, his voice cracking. This is the most he has spoken since he woke up and his throat hurts to speak but he knows he has to tell her he isn't who she thinks he is. "That's not my name, either."
Her smile disappears entirely, "then what is?"
"I-." And then it hits him.
He doesn't know.
"I… I…" He tries as he frantically searches his mind for the missing information. "I don't know."
And suddenly his whole body is shaking violently and he can't seem to breathe no matter how hard he tries.
He upends the broth over his lap but he barely notices because he doesn't know.
He can't remember who he is.
His head feels like it's about to split into two and his chest about to explode and he tries and he tries and he thinks that, maybe, he's scaring the woman because she's screaming but he can't do anything.
Everything hurts too much and he can't remember.
It's a relief when unconsciousness comes.
He's not allowed to awaken naturally.
Instead hands pat at his cheeks and poke and prod at his arms and chest until he drags his eyes open.
There are four people stood around his bed and he only recognises the faces of two of them: one is the woman from before and the other is the oldest woman of the three that sits with him, the one who comes in the early hours of the morning and replaces the young man with blonde hair.
She's not the one that speaks, though, neither of the women do, but an older gentleman with white hair and a moustache.
"Now, Mr Barrow," he says, "Mrs Bates tells me that you've been feeling a little confused?"
He doesn't say anything but glances at the blonde woman, Mrs Bates, and thinks he might have felt pleased to finally know her name if he weren't so scared.
"I am going to ask you a few questions in order to find the root of the confusion."
"Why?" He asks, his mouth speaking without his mind's permission. "Who are you?"
"My name is Dr Clarkson. I work in the village hospital. We were colleagues for a time, during the war."
He nods, though, he doesn't remember, "right."
"You have no memory of this, do you?"
"No." He answers, honestly.
"And the people here in this room, do you know their names?"
"I know that that is Mrs Bates," he says, nodding his head slightly in the young woman's direction, "but only because you named her earlier."
"I see." The doctor says.
"This is impossible." The unnamed man blusters, his eyebrows knitting together as he shifts on his feet. "He must be lying."
"I'm not." He says and he tries to sit up in bed but the world spins and threatens to disappear.
"Careful now." The doctor says and he rests a hand on his shoulder. "You're still very weak."
It takes a moment for the world to still and as it does he says, "I'm not lying, I promise, I'm not."
"Tell me, Mr Barrow, what is your earliest memory?"
"I don't know." He shields his tear-filled eyes from view, shame and confusion welling up inside of him and warring with the pain that booms in his head. "Waking up in this room, I think."
"And nothing before that?"
"No."
"Not even how you injured yourself?"
"No." He repeats. "Though my head is very painful. Did I hit it on something?"
"There was an…incident." The unnamed man tells him and there's a look of annoyance on his face. "His Lordship was throwing a large dinner party in honour of an esteemed guest and you were required to stand in as a third footman for the evening. I don't know exactly what happened but it appears that you and one of the regular footmen, Alfred, had a slight mix-up on returning to the kitchen for the meat course and ended up falling over one another at the top of the stairs."
He searches his mind for any recollection of this incident, of a face to put with the name Alfred, but nothing comes.
He remembers nothing beyond this room and the handful of people he's come into contact with and it's terrifying, really. They could tell him anything and he has no choice but to take their word as truth.
"I called for Dr Clarkson right away." The older woman, the one who isn't Mrs Bates, tells him. "You had caught your head on the edge of one of the steps. There was a lot of blood, as you can imagine, even Mrs Patmore went faint at the sight of it all."
"Mrs Patmore?" He asks, remembering the name.
"The cook." Mrs Bates tells him with a small smile.
"Oh." He says.
"This is ridiculous." The unnamed man states. "Are you really expecting us to believe he's lost all of his memories? It's impossible!"
"The brain is a complex entity, Mr Carson, one that I do not believe scientists or doctors will ever fully understand." Doctor Clarkson says and the unnamed man is nameless no more. "Though, I've never seen a case like this before. I will have to get in touch with some colleagues and see what they have to say on the matter."
"And until then?" Mr Carson asks.
"He'll stay here." Mrs Bates says, quickly. "Won't he, Mrs Hughes?"
"Of course he will, Mr Carson knows very well that the matter has already been settled with her Ladyship."
He feels guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach, he feels as if he's asking too much of people who have already given him so much, "will I be able to work?"
"Once you're back on your feet I see no reason why not." Dr Clarkson tells him. "Start slowly. You've been unconscious for three weeks and your body has become very weak. Don't rush yourself, it'll take some time for your body to build up the strength it has lost."
Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes leave soon after that while Mrs Bates stays with him as the doctor checks his head, his fingers brushing over the tender skin of his hairline and making him aware of the nearly healed scar he didn't know he had, and asks him a few more questions.
"Now, I know this is a lot to take in but I'm going to give you the opportunity now to ask questions if you have any." Doctor Clarkson says at long last.
His mind is swimming and he's not sure whether he wants to know anything else.
But, once again, his mouth speaks without any thought input, "wh- what do I look like?"
Mrs Bates hands him a small mirror from the top of the chest of drawers and he sees himself for the first time.
He has black hair and stubble coated cheeks that do not hide how pale and gaunt he is. His eyes are pale and empty and he doesn't see anything he recognises in them.
"What did you say my name was?" He asks, not looking away from the mirror.
"Thomas Barrow." Mrs Bates tells him.
"Thomas Barrow." He says and he feels nothing for words that should mean so much to him.
Tears burn at his eyes as the stranger that is supposed to be him stares back at him.
"Thomas Barrow." He tries again.
And, once again, he feels nothing.
In the days that follow the pain in his head finally begins to recede and he spends more and more time awake. He begins to feed and wash himself with minimal help and he even finds the strength to pull himself from bed close to four days after the doctor's visit. The day after, with more than a little help, he makes it to the other side of his room and back.
His visitors return to their normal duties as he gets better and he forces himself to sleep in-between their visits so as to avoid the boredom and loneliness that threatens to overwhelm him.
They still come to him, though, and he is grateful for their company.
Mrs Hughes sits with him while he eats his breakfast and the severe looking lady, Miss O'Brien she introduces herself as, brings him his dinner. Mrs Bates, Anna, she insists he calls her that, sits with him for a few hours in the afternoon and tells him about all the coming and goings of the house.
His supper is brought to him by his only regular male visitor.
'Mr Carson and the others call me James but I don't like that name.' The young man tells him the first time he comes to see him after Dr Clarkson's visit. 'But, before, you always called me Jimmy. I like that.'
'And what do you call me?' He asks in return.
'Mr Barrow but I can call you Thomas if you like.'
'I'd like that very much.' He says and he becomes Thomas after that.
Mrs Hughes and Mrs Bates - Anna - are very nice and they explain to him the workings of the house and what his job entails and what he should expect when he is well enough to leave his room. They don't talk about the kind of man he is, was, and he finds their silence on the subject disheartening. He feels ashamed because they are helping him in spite of what he fears is past unkindness.
So he tries to make them laugh and smile whenever they are sat with him and he listens to everything they say, storing the information they give him in his empty mind, and vows to do well by them in the future.
Miss O'Brien is a different matter.
She does not skirt around his past deeds and tells him everything she feels he should know, her words sharp but never cruel, and he knows she does not judge him for what he has done.
There is a softness to her that she tries to keep hidden but he sees anyway.
It's in the lines at the corner of her eyes, the smiles that are barely there and the hands that shake ever so slightly when she catches sight of the fresh scar at his hairline.
He trusts her without ever thinking that he shouldn't.
'We were good friends, weren't we?' He asks her one afternoon as she sips tea and he picks at a slice of thickly buttered bread.
'We were as thick as thieves.' She tells him and this makes him happy.
His favourite time of the day, though, is the half an hour or so he spends with Jimmy while they eat supper.
Jimmy always sits on the end of the bed instead of the chair and lays the tray with whatever Mrs Patmore has loaded it with between them. Jimmy is all smiles and talks about whatever comes into his mind, not careful about what he says like the others sometimes are, and treats him as if he is no different to what he ever was.
He looks forward to his time with Jimmy, however brief it is, and the way his heart races and warmth rises in his chest.
"You were always kind to me, you know." Jimmy tells him one evening, a week and a half after Dr Clarkson's visit.
"I was?"
"You sound surprised." Jimmy says and he's smiling. "Have you heard something you rather you hadn't?"
"Something like that." Thomas tells him.
"I shouldn't worry about it if I were you, you've got enough on your plate as it is." Jimmy takes a bite out of the cheese he's holding in his hand, chewing and swallowing before speaking once more, "when are you going to start eating downstairs again? Everyone's eager to see you up and about again after what happened, they'd tell you themselves, of course, but Mr Carson's been very strict about visiting rules. I don't know what he thinks is going to happen if the girls come up to the manservant's quarters. Don't know how we'd have cared for you in the early days if Mrs Hughes hadn't talked some sense into him."
Thomas pauses before asking his next question, "was it very bad?"
Jimmy nods, "there was lots of blood."
"Did you see what happened?"
"Not exactly, I was a little ways behind you and Alfred. By the time I got to the top of the stairs you two were already at the bottom in a heap. I thought you were both dead before Alfred started shouting blue bloody murder about his ankle."
"Did he break it?"
Jimmy snorts, "did he heckers, he twisted it was all. Lucky sod got two weeks off to rest it while I ran around like a madman doing his duties and mine."
"But you still came and sat with me." Thomas says and he tries not to smile.
"Course I did." Jimmy doesn't hide his smile. "I figured you'd do the same for me."
"I'd hope so."
"You would." Jimmy tells him.
He doesn't sleep well that night but spends hours fitfully dreaming of things he doesn't remember when he wakes up.
He drags himself out of bed an hour before dawn and washes in the basin of water in his room before carefully shaving, managing to cut himself only once as his hands quake.
He dresses himself in the suit Jimmy had pulled from his wardrobe the night before, barely noticing the way it hangs from his frame, and combs his hair in such a way as to shield the scar on his head from view, parting it to one side and dragging his fringe over the top of his forehead.
He leaves his room after this, knowing he is much too early for breakfast but unable to spend any more time trapped in his room, and works his way down the corridor and to a set of stairs.
He descends slowly, clinging to the bannister desperately, his vision swimming, and makes it to the bottom without incident. He pauses there momentarily and catches his breath.
He can hear the banging of pots and pans coming from down the corridor and nerves twist in his stomach and he thinks he might be sick.
He worries that he's not ready to meet everyone yet, that he's going to forget all the names that Mrs Hughes, Anna, Miss O'Brien and Jimmy have mentioned or that he's not going to be able to match names to faces from the descriptions he's been given.
He worries that he's going to disappoint the people who have given so much of their time to nurse him back to health and it terrifies him.
He thinks about going back to bed and putting this off for another day but dismisses the idea quickly.
Not trying would be worse, he knows this.
So, he straightens his back and follows the sounds to the kitchens and pretends that he's not frightened.
He doesn't expect the response he receives on entering the kitchen.
"Mr Barrow!" A young woman shouts, smiling brightly and advancing on him without thought for the task she was halfway through. "I'm ever so pleased to see you! I've been so worried, you see, after your fall and with Mr Carson not letting us come and see you and all that."
He forces himself to smile and say something in return, a blush rising in his cheeks as he stumbles over his words, "Ji- Jimmy told me about Mr Carson."
"Don't you think it unfair? Us not being allowed to come see you?"
"I'm sure Mr Carson had his reasons." He replies, recovering himself quickly.
She opens her mouth to say something else but is cut off when another woman enters the kitchen and cuts her off, "Ivy! Mrs Patmore'll have your guts for garters if you don't have that oven lit before she comes down."
It's Ivy's turn to blush as she rushes off to do as she's told and the second woman takes her place in front of Thomas.
"Is it true?" She asks him, suddenly timid and wide eyed. "Do you really not remember us?"
"I know who you are." He tells her.
"You do?" He face crumples into a frown. "But how? Mrs Hughes said that you lost all your memories, she said you didn't even know your own name…"
"And do you know what she said to me?"
"No."
"That'd I'd run into two young ladies in the kitchen who can't keep their noses out of other people's business." The woman blushes and he gives her the smallest of smiles to let her know he's only teasing. "And since you've already called her Ivy that only leaves one option of who you could be. It's very nice to meet you, Rosie."
"Rosie? I'm not Rosie, my name is Daisy." She says, looking very worried, glancing back at Ivy who appears equally concerned.
His smile widens, "I know, I'm only pulling your leg, Daisy."
"So you do remember?"
"What? No, I don't-." His smile fades but he keeps his voice firm and even, "no, I don't remember anything."
"Oh." She says as she wrings her hands in her in her apron. She doesn't look at him as she says her next words, "you look pale, why don't you go and sit down in the servant's hall and I'll bring you some tea through?"
"Yes." He says, knowing he is being dismissed without really understanding why. He thinks he might have said something wrong but he is not sure what it could be. "Yes, I think a sit down will do me some good. Thank you, Daisy."
He pauses at the doorway and looks back to the two women who are looking in any direction but his, "the servant's hall?"
"Just on your right." Ivy tells him.
He nods his thanks and leaves.
Thomas finds he has no appetite at breakfast.
Mrs Hughes encourages him to eat but he can't, the mere smell of toast is enough to make his stomach twist violently and bile rise in the back of his throat.
He keeps his eyes on his plate but he knows that he's being stared at.
Mr Carson, who is sat at the head of the table, and Mrs Hughes, who is on his left, try to carry on conversation as if there is nothing out of the ordinary but it is stilted and uncomfortable.
Thomas feels his skin itch and his hands tremble when he picks up his teacup, spilling the warm liquid over his hand, the normal one and not the other which he has hidden underneath a glove he found in one of the drawers in his bedroom, and he quickly replaces it in the saucer.
Mrs Hughes hands him a napkin without a word and he sends her a grateful smile in return.
Jimmy nudges him in the ribs, "are you okay?"
Thomas ducks his head down and whispers loud enough for only Jimmy to hear, "I wish they wouldn't stare."
"What did you expect?"
"I- I don't know." Thomas tells him. "Not this."
"You'll be fine." Jimmy says and he pats him on the leg. "Miss Sybil is due to have her baby soon, as soon as that happens the gossip mill will move on."
"I hope so." Thomas says and he tries not to think about the heat of Jimmy's hand on his leg. "I don't like all this attention."
"I never thought I'd hear those words coming out of your mouth." Miss O'Brien says from across the table, having caught most their conversation. "But then I suppose with what's happened… We can't expect you to be the same, can we?"
"What are you trying to say, Miss O'Brien?" Jimmy asks, his tone sharper than Thomas has ever heard it.
"I'm not trying to say anything." Miss O'Brien says and she gives Thomas a small smile which Thomas returns, not understanding Jimmy's reaction because Miss O'Brien has only ever been kind to him.
And she had been his friend before, too, and he doesn't think he can say the same for many of the others sat around the table with him.
"When do you expect you'll be back at work?" Anna asks him.
Thomas looks to Mr Carson, "I don't know. Whenever Mr Carson thinks I'm ready, I suppose."
"His Lordship is very eager to see how you're getting on." Mr Carson says, setting down his newspaper and picking up his tea. "Perhaps you should accompany me while I dress him for the day. He's seems most keen to learn more about your…condition and I daresay it would be a good opportunity for you to see what is expected of you if you're to remain at Downton."
He shrinks under the weight of the stare the older man levels at him but lifts his chin and meets the older man's gaze, "yes, Mr Carson."
"Remember what the doctor said and don't let him push you too hard." Mrs Hughes tells Thomas, sending Mr Carson a sharp look before returning her gaze to him and frowning, "you're looking a tad peaky, are you sure you wouldn't prefer to rest for a while? Seeing his Lordship can always wait until tomorrow."
"I'd prefer to do it today." He says even as nerves make his mouth grow dry. "Get it over and done with, if you know what I mean."
"Of course." Mrs Hughes gives him a soft smile and refills his teacup. "Now eat your toast. It won't do to have you passing out in front of his Lordship."
"It most certainly won't." Mr Carson states, dryly.
He feels the colour rise in his cheeks at being chastised like a child in front of the other staff, especially as he knows that they're all listening intently, but he doesn't say anything.
He knows they're right.
"Barrow, my good chap!" The grey haired man exclaims, approaching him with a hand held out to shake. "It's bloody good to see you!"
Thomas takes it, tentatively, unsure if he is allowed to do so but refraining from looking to Mr Carson for guidance, and offers the man a smile, "it's nice to me- to see you again, too."
He covers himself quickly because he knows he's met this man this before, worked for him for a number of years, even if he doesn't remember doing so, and he doesn't want to appear stupid in front of him.
"Carson didn't tell me you were going to be back to work so soon."
"He, ah, he didn't know." Thomas tells him and steps back to the edge of the room like he had been instructed to do so by Mr Carson as the butler steps forward to begin his duties.
"Indeed, my Lord. Mr Barrow joined us for breakfast this morning and I thought it might be worthwhile for him to see what it is he is to do once he returns to work." Mr Carson says.
"And when do you think that will be?" Lord Grantham asks. "I can imagine you're very eager for everything to get back to normal."
"Yes, Lord Grantham." He says and pauses before adding, "though, I'm not quite sure what normal is exactly."
"Of course, forgive me, Barrow, I just find this whole situation most peculiar."
"As do we all, my Lord." Carson drawls, helping his Lordship into his shirt.
"Can you truly remember nothing?" Lord Grantham asks, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
"Not beyond waking for the first time." He answers. "It is very strange."
"Yes, I can imagine so. And how have the other staff been treating you?"
"Very kindly, my Lord, though, some of them forget to introduce themselves and force me to ask after their names. It can… It can make things awkward."
"And is it not very strange?"
"My Lord?"
"Being surrounded by all these people who know so much more about you than you do yourself."
He tries to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat but finds himself unable to do so.
He closes his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness and tries not to think about Lord Grantham's words because the truth of them cuts at him deeply.
"Barrow?"
"If- if it's alright with you, my Lord, I think I'd like to go rest. I suddenly feel very unwell."
It isn't a lie.
"Was it something I said?"
"No." He says, bringing a shaking hand to his eyes and blocking his view of the spinning room. He hears Mr Carson clear his throat and in a shaky voice he adds, "my Lord."
"Do you need Carson to take you back downstairs?" Lord Grantham asks.
"I should be able to find my way, your Lordship." He tells the older man and makes a hurried exit.
He can feel the world slipping away from him and he doesn't want to embarrass Lord Grantham or Mr Carson by fainting in front of them.
He regrets not listening to Mrs Hughes.
Still, he finds his way back to the servant's staircase without losing his way and he is grateful for not meeting anyone on the journey. He knows he's not in any fit state to make conversation and all he wants to do is return to his bedroom, fall into bed and sleep until this horrible illness has passed.
And the world is spinning and his limbs feel heavy and he just needs to get to his room.
Everything will be better if he can get to his room.
There he can be alone.
He wants to be alone.
Because Lord Grantham is right, everyone knows him better than he knows himself.
He is not the person they all know and they no longer know how to interact with him.
He is a stranger wearing the face of a friend.
And yet…
And yet that's not it.
He doesn't think he was a friend, not to most of them, and this confuses him because he has lived and worked with these people for close to ten years, if the words of Mrs Hughes are to be trusted, and he thinks they are, and yet he has but a few friends among them.
It hurts.
His head hurts.
Bright lights are flashing in front of his eyes and his head feels as if it has been split in two and he's halfway down the stairs to the servants' area.
All he has to do is reach the bottom of these stairs, travel a few feet down the hallway and then crawl up the next staircase to his bedroom.
It is not far but it feels a world away.
His vision blacks out for a moment and his knees buckle and the only reason he doesn't tumble down the stairs is his desperate hold on the bannister.
He clenches his eyes shut and holds onto the railing with all his strength and waits for strength to return to him.
His breath is coming in huge, wet gasps and he thinks maybe he's crying but the pain is unbearable and he feels himself on the edge of oblivion.
"Mr Barrow?" He hears a male voice ask. "Mr Barrow, are you okay?"
Then strength leaves him and he starts to fall.
His hold on consciousness slips away.