A/N: My contribution to the Banna Celebration on Tumblr, with the question of what secrets Anna and John could be keeping from one another. I suspect that it will be "the identity of the attacker"/"the truth about London", but I decided to change it up a little anyway. I'm not very confident writing series four stuff, so I hope this is okay overall. The last thing I want to do is offend someone.

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey.

Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind – Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

Cancer in the Soul

1. Dead Yesterday, Bleeding Tomorrow

Life is a new kind of normal. Certainly not as good as it had been at one point…but Anna is slowly understanding that she can deal with it. She still has John by her side. The things that she has been through – that they have both been through – can never be altered, but she is beginning to realise that the only revenge is learning to live more than a half-life in the shadows of the memories that they'd once made.

It is a work in progress. Some days she can't shift her black mood no matter what she tries to focus on, and he is prone to withdrawing in on himself if he thinks that she won't notice. She wonders what dark paths he is traversing in those moments, but she never feels brave enough to ask. A small voice whispers if she really wants to know.

But they have made progress, despite everything. There are periods where she can laugh freely and not remember, moments where she does not feel guilty for revelling in the joy of her husband's smile. They have always been a rarity, but now they are even more so; a fleeting flash of sunlight in the bleakness of winter. There are moments when their minds forget enough to bring them closer in other ways; nights spent making love under soft candlelight, his hands playing a pleasurable melody over her body that she'd been sure at one time that she had forgotten how to sing. Moments in the tender afterglow where she burrows against his side, breathing in the sweet smell of sweat and sex, the both of them open and vulnerable and, most importantly, whole. Scarred. Cracked with thin fissures. But still whole. Somehow.

In the present, Anna watches her husband sleeping. He looks so much younger in these moments, unburdened by the things that usually haunted him, the lines smoothed from his face. Carefully, afraid that she will disturb him, she sweeps a few stray locks of his hair away from his face. They only fall stubbornly back into place. She suppresses a smile even as her heart swells. She enjoys seeing him like this, suitably dishevelled and relaxed in his own home. Peaceful. She doesn't think he's been truly been at peace here since that awful night. But mornings like this at least give the illusion.

Not for long.

"How long have you been watching me?"

John's sleep-gruff voice breaks through her thoughts, and she glances down to find him just blinking open sleepy eyes. She shifts closer to press a chaste kiss to his mouth, unable to resist running her fingers through his locks one more time.

"Not long," she says. "I'm starting to see what you see in watching me sleep. You were rather adorable."

"I'm sure," he grimaces, sitting up. "Although I don't think there's much competition between us. You would win hands down, my darling."

She reclines back against the pillows as he slides to the edge of the bed, slipping out and padding across the room on bare feet. He fishes his clothes out of the wardrobe. She tempers down the low simmer that she feels in the pit of her stomach at the brief flash of his chest as he pulls off his pyjama top. The intimate part of their life is still something that they are adjusting to.

"Is there anything in particular that you want to do today?" he asks her, voice muffled by his shirt as he pops his head through the neck.

Shaking her head as she slips out of bed too, she says, "No, not really. I need to pop into the village on an errand or two, but then I'm open to ideas."

"A picnic, perhaps?" he ventures. "The weather is still nice enough for one. We could pick some things up in the village and head off from there. I'm sure Mrs. Patmore could sort us out with some sandwiches, and I'll get the cakes."

"All right," Anna agrees. "But I'll pick the cakes up while I'm in the village. There's no need for both of us to go."

John's voice is suddenly unsure. "Don't you want me to accompany you?" They rarely venture out alone on their half-days.

Anna closes her eyes, pretending to be fiddling with her braid so she doesn't have to look and see the hurt on her husband's face. "I've got a couple of things that I need to sort out alone. You know I love you, John. I'm sorry."

The things she needs to sort out are for a good cause. At least, she thinks they are. When she tells him later, he will understand her desire to go alone. Perhaps he'll be a little disappointed, but he will be very content. He'll forgive her for pushing him away again.

He doesn't speak for a few moments, but she hears all she needed to in the heavy sigh he heaves. She hates hurting him. Some days, she feels that it's all she does. That she gives him the illusion that things can be better before cruelly tearing that away from him.

But this isn't supposed to be like that.

At last he says quietly, "I understand."

She knows he doesn't, not now. But he loves her enough to still give her the space that she needs, and she appreciates that.

"Thank you," she says, turning back to him, hiding his half-hearted smile with a soft kiss. He cups her waist tenderly, moving his lips to her forehead when they part.

She pretends not to notice the way that his lips quiver just slightly against her skin.

"Anna, dear, are you all right? You've been distracted all morning."

The sound of Mrs. Hughes' voice makes Anna turn. The housekeeper stands in the doorway to her sitting room, worry etched into the lines on her face. It isn't enough that she has John henning at the back of her. She has to deal with those looks from Mrs. Hughes, too, the ones that make her wish that she could just fight off the suffocating shroud that still has her cocooned like a helpless fly within the spider's reach. She knows that Mrs. Hughes means well by her mothering, and as much as she sometimes resents it she appreciates it with everything she has, for she could not have survived the past year and a half without her support, but there are times when she wishes that she could slip off alone without being questioned or followed. Not everything has to lead back to that night.

"I'm all right," she responds. "I've just got a lot to do today before I can leave."

Mrs. Hughes frowns at her. "Are you getting enough sleep? You're looking a little peaky."

There is a chance that she knows just why she looks a little unwell. But she keeps the thought to herself, forces a smile instead. "The past few weeks have been hectic. House parties are always the same."

Just saying the words cool her blood. At one time they had represented fun and excitement, a change of pace. Maids gossiped with the visitors, the footmen showed off, the valets exchanged talks of their experiences.

Last time she had gossiped and laughed and joked around. Last time her world had been torn apart.

She fights down the urge to be sick, pushing those memories away. Focus on the here and now, she reminds herself. Focus on the good.

Good, new memories to replace the ones she'd had, as if the old ones had never existed in the first place.

"Anyway, I must get on," she says. "I've a few errands to run in the village in an hour. I'll see you in time for the dressing gong."

"Very well," says Mrs. Hughes, but she doesn't sound convinced of her charade at all. It won't stop her now. She continues to move down the corridor, heading towards the stairs.

As if moving is the only thing keeping her ahead of the things that haunt her.

It takes far too little time to complete her errands in the village. They are only a smokescreen for the inevitable, and just like with everything else that she dreads, the time to face it comes far too quickly. She stands outside Doctor Clarkson's office on quivering legs, working up the courage to go inside.

And, alongside the dread, is the tiniest seed of hope, planted there a couple of weeks before. It has been nurtured in the darkness. Perhaps it can now bloom in the sunlight.

She takes a deep breath, pushes her shoulders back, and walks inside.

The clouds have gathered overhead when she emerges half an hour later. The air is close. A storm is brewing. The perfect reflection of her mood.

She keeps her face down as she hurries through the streets of Downton, hoping that no one will stop her. If they do, they will see into her soul. They'll know.

Through some small mercy, she makes it to the dirt road that leads to the cottages without anyone stopping her. The trees close in overhead. Not a bird cheeps. She is alone. Safe to show her emotions.

The floodgates open, and she bursts into tears. Ugly, heaving sobs tear through her body. Hot tears scald her cheeks. She sinks to the floor, uncaring of the dirt and the things she had gone into the village for, curling her arms around her knees and drawing them up to her chest. If only she could shrink, become invisible. It would surely hurt less than this. In all the months of awful crying, she hasn't cried as hard as this since the weeks following that terrible night.

The terrible night that had changed everything for good. Everything.

The image of a tiny hand within her own vanishes, a ghostly spectre that had never existed in the first place. She hugs her empty abdomen. She had tentatively begun to hope that perhaps after all the horror they were being tested with for their love, that they would have a happy, full nest. John with a baby nestled in his arms, his expression open and adoring as he lavished love on his child. The two of them together, bathing and clothing and playing with their flesh and blood. The one thing that could stitch back together the remaining ruins of their lives.

All of it gone in a few simple words uttered by Doctor Clarkson.

She buries her face further into her skirts to muffle the sound of her sobs. She had been nervous about being examined in the first place, having adamantly refused after the concert for fear of the news getting out, for fear of the doctor judging her, but there had been no way around it today. An examination had been the only way forward, and she had been hopeful through her fear that he wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. When they had made love for the first time since, she had been beside herself with nerves that it wouldn't be the same as it had been before for John, that he would notice something different about her and be unable to take any pleasure from her. But he had reassured her in the aftermath that it had felt just as good as it usually did, that there was nothing at all different.

She wonders now if he had been lying to appease her, not wanting to cause her any more hurt and humiliation than she has already suffered.

Because the doctor had noticed. Immediately. The frown on his face, the burning curiosity in his eyes that went beyond his stoically professional face…there is something wrong with her down there.

He'd known. He'd known what she'd been through. Passed no direct comment on it, of course, because that was not his way, but he had hinted.

"Mrs. Bates," he'd said, "if you ever want to seek advice or help, then my door is always open. Everything said in this room is strictly confidential. If there is anything you'd like to know about anything…"

But how could she? How could she have sat in there and repeated every vile thing that had happened to her? She had barely survived telling her husband, had spared him the most gruesome of details – for both of their sakes. How could she repeat it in such a clinical, cold environment? As if she is unfeeling as stone (and how she wishes she was), that the trauma that she has lived through has not left her broken and scarred?

And there is also the question of who. Doctor Clarkson's face had said it all. That little worm of doubt shining in his eyes, that unasked question.

Was it your husband, Mrs. Bates?

As if John could ever be capable of hurting her in such a way. But he is a mysterious, quiet man to most of the village. He has been imprisoned for murder in the past. Acquitted, true. But it would spark off thoughts. What else is he capable of?

She shivers, hating herself for thinking of her husband in the same way as that vile snake, hating Doctor Clarkson for even considering it. But she can't tell the truth. Not now, after all this time has passed.

Now she has no hope to hold onto at all.

The doctor's words are a blur in her head as she forces herself back to her feet. John is waiting for her at home. She can't delay any longer. A thrill of fear paralyses her as she wonders just how she will hide this from him. She can't share it with him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. How can she tell him that she has failed him yet again? And yet her ability to remain normal under pressure is weak. She had failed so badly in the weeks following her attack. She had pushed her husband away and hurt him because she had been unable to live under the illusion of a lie. And now there is this. Just something else sent to push them to the limit. She has to wonder just how much more either one of them can take before they snap and decide that it is all too much to bear.

Trudging along the path is torture. The supplies feel too heavy in her arms. All the while, Doctor Clarkson's voice reverberates in her head. Talk about infertility. Scar tissue, the thing that had piqued his concern in the first place. Then the growth. Not unusual, he had been quick to reassure her, he's seen plenty of them before, but hers is worrisome. Benign, no threat to her health. But it will make conception difficult. Has she experienced anything out of the ordinary? Heavier bleeding than she's used to? Any pain? What about during sexual intercourse with her husband? Any discomfort there? He's heard of them being brought on by roughness in the marital bed. Had…had that happened at any point?

She has noticed nothing. She should have done. There has to be a sign that she's missed somewhere along the way.

It is a long time since she'd last been in for a check-up, he'd told her. Despite the unusual scar tissue, it is not unusual for them to flare up in women her age. Is there anything specific that could have triggered it?

A part of her mind whispers that she can't know for sure if that vile human had been the cause of it. But in her heart of hearts, she knows. It has to be him. He is the source of all of her misery. It should be no different in this case. Doctor Clarkson had mentioned torn tissue. That could only have occurred by one means.

She clenches her jaw. Secrets had almost destroyed her and John before. But she can see no possible way of telling him that her chances of carrying a child are extremely low. He always talks about how he has failed her, but he doesn't understand. She has failed him. And now she can't even give them the one thing that had the potential of improving their lives for good. She can't tell him and watch the hope die in his eyes as it has so many times before.

Once more, this is her burden to bear.

The outside of the cottage looks beautiful. They had planted new flowers a few weeks ago, and they are beginning to bloom shyly, yellows and reds and oranges, all cheerful, bright colours. Mocking her. It looks homely again, no longer just a house of heartbreak. But here it is, all over again.

She wipes at her eyes on the way down the path. There is nothing she can do about the redness, but she can plaster her stoic face on. She's had enough practice over the last year.

The door is on the latch, and she pushes it open, placing her packages on the little table in the hallway as she unhooks her coat. She can hear the muffled sounds of John moving around in the kitchen. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, pushing her shoulders back. She can do this. She has to.

She pushes the door to the kitchen open, standing quietly by for a moment as she takes in the sight of her husband. He hasn't noticed her yet. The table is overflowing with sandwiches, a basket taking centre stage. There are bottles, ginger beer and cider. Of course. The picnic. Her heart sinks. She'd forgotten about that. The last thing she wants to do is celebrate. But still she swallows hard, forces a smile.

"Hello," she says.

John turns at the sound of her voice, a soft smile on his face. It fades immediately when he sees her.

"Anna?" he questions. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

At the concern in his voice, the hot tears rush to her eyes. Her bottom lip wobbles, her throat working as she tried to formulate a reply. China clatters together as John drops it onto the table. By the look of it, he'd been packing their best service. Always so thoughtful, her man. It only makes her feel worse.

"Did something happen in the village?" he presses.

"I…I forgot the cakes," she says.

"I don't care about the cakes," he dismisses. "This is clearly about something else."

She can't keep up her façade when he looks at her like that. Like he is staring straight through into her soul. Her view of him blurs as the tears blossom again. He crosses the room in a couple of paces, engulfing her in his arms. She sinks into his embrace, pressing her forehead against his broad chest. His large palm cradles the back of her head, careful of her bun, the other moving to her waist, holding her close to him. Her own arms move around his waist of their own accord, squeezing him tight, desperate to soak up some of his strength. His lips brush her hairline, warm and tender.

"Shh," he murmurs. "Don't cry, my darling. Everything's going to be all right. I promise. Shh."

His little nonsense endearments make her feel even worse. Here he is, comforting her, never suspecting what a failure she is yet again. But she is unable to resist his warm embrace, sobs into his chest. She knows she is soaking his shirt, but he makes no comment, only stays there quietly as she wilts against him like a dying flower.

Eventually, the sobs subside, but the pain in her heart is almost overwhelming. She grasps him tight, trying to regulate her breathing. He kisses her hair once more, easing her back slightly.

"Tell me what happened," he says. "Please." Gently, his thumbs smooth her tears away.

She has to come up with something quickly. Anything. She casts about for something. Latches onto the first thing she can.

"Just Mrs. Johnson again," she mutters.

John's expression darkens. "Why, what did she say?"

"Nothing, not really. But it was the way she looked at me."

John draws himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing. "I'll give her a piece of my mind."

"No, John!" she cries. "You can't!"

"I can," he counters, "if she upsets you like this. If she has anything to say, she can say it to my face. And she can hear it in return."

"No, you'd just make it worse!" she exclaims, panicked. The last thing she needs is John taking up a false mantle in her name. Mrs. Johnson, the owner of the village tea shop and the worst gossip going, is indeed a nasty piece of work, who still takes pleasure in making snide remarks about the honour of her husband after his release from prison, but today she is innocent. "Please, John. If you love me you'll leave it alone."

It is the trump card. The fire is extinguished and he caresses her cheeks again, the pads of his thumbs worn by hard work. "Oh, Anna, you know I love you. I love you more than my life. I don't think it's right that she's allowed to get away with upsetting you so much…but I won't go against your wishes. Although if she says anything to get you in a state like this again then I can't make any promises. You've been through enough."

Yes, they've been through enough. She squeezes her eyes tightly closed, clenches her jaw until it hurts. They've been through enough. Why are they still being punished? Are they such bad people that they deserve this torment? Has she caused all of this by pursuing a married man without a care?

Movement from John breaks through her thoughts. He kisses her forehead then loosens his grip on her. She feels cold all over again, hunches in on herself.

"Let me just put these things away," he says softly. "I don't expect you feel much like going on a picnic."

She shakes her head wordlessly.

"Well, that's all right. Perhaps if you're feeling a little better later we could have an indoor one instead. Just the two of us in our little home."

"I like the sound of that," she whispers, and he smiles.

"Go and sit yourself down. I'll make you a cup of tea and bring it through."

"Actually, I'd rather we lie down for a while."

"All right. Go and make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you as soon as I've tidied this away."

The few moments apart give her time to try to compose herself. She stares at herself in the vanity mirror as she unhooks her dress and loosens her corset. Blotchy and puffy faced and, she looks a mess. During the brief golden period after his release from prison, she had almost glowed. The happiness on her face had fascinated her. Now all she knows is misery. She averts her eyes.

Climbing into bed, she settles onto her side, waiting for the tell-tale sound of her husband's approach. Her hand moves to cradle her empty abdomen. Tears threatened anew. She sniffs them back, but can't stop them all.

He makes an appearance eventually, shucking off his jacket, removing his tie and collar. He strips down to his undershirt and trousers, and clambers onto the bed beside her. He slips his arms around her, his hand moving to cup hers over her stomach, his front tight to her back. He kisses the side of her neck, squeezing her tight. No words are spoken. They don't need to be. Anna has nothing to say. Instead, she concentrates on the rise and fall of his chest, the reassuring bulk of him. But even with their bodies pressed so close together, she can feel a barrier between them. She is withdrawing, shrinking, moving out of reach like she had on all those long, lonely nights.

And the silent tears fall all over again.

Days pass. All the while, the pain grows worse.

There will never be a wriggling baby Bates in her arms. She will never feather kisses across soft, downy hair, will never know the incredible mixture of emotions at carrying a child inside her, will never witness John with a son or daughter. She has nothing to give him.

She senses his confusion as he watches her cross the room. She can feel his worry as he pushes plate after plate of sweet treats in front of her, only for her to reject each one. She has no appetite. She isn't eating for two, after all.

On this night, John sits up in bed while she brushes her hair at her vanity, staring absent-mindedly at her reflection. Her pallor is decidedly grey. There are bags under her eyes. The first fine lines are making their presence known around her eyes. Eyes which are older than they should be.

Life has aged her far too much recently.

She remembers a time when John had praised and flattered her for her youthfulness. "You stayed young," he'd told her. She will never forget those words. Another statement that will never be true again. Her youthfulness is gone.

"Anna."

His raised voice makes her jump, and she twists around in her seat. There is a slight frown creasing his brow. The familiar worry mars his countenance. How she had hoped that that tortured look was a distant thing of the past. He tries a soft smile, clearly for her benefit.

"I've called you five times. Where were you?" He tries to keep his tone light and joking, but the tremor beneath gives him away.

"I'm sorry," she sighs.

"Never be sorry."

He's repeated those words a thousand times over. She still disagrees with them. But there is no sense in arguing. He'll only dispute everything she says anyway. A dark part of her wishes he wouldn't. That he'd rage and scream at her. It would make it easier to hate herself.

As if he would. He is as gallingly loyal to her as she is to him. Was this what it had felt like for him at the beginning, when he couldn't act on any of his feelings and she had followed him staunchly anyway? Had her unwillingness to give up made him hate her just the tiniest bit, alongside that deep and agonising love?

"Come to bed," he says softly.

She realises that she's been staring at him for a few minutes now, and shakes herself to life. Tying her hair off, she rises to her feet, taking her time to clamber into bed beside him. He wraps her in his arms at once, his lips moving to the sensitive spot behind her ear that still makes her toes curl.

"I've missed you this past week," he sighs into her hair.

"I've been here all along."

"No, you haven't," he says softly. The words are a punch to the gut.

"I'm here now," she says. "Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

He reclines there on his back, his hair unkempt, chest hair peeping seductively through his nightshirt. He offers her a boyish smile, leaning up to press gentle kisses to her cheek, the side of her neck, back again. The first scratching of his stubble scrapes her face. The tip of his tongue teases her throat.

And her insides are dead. No stirrings of response. It kills her even more. John needs her. And she can't even give him that. Because of that snake. And her own inability to realise that her instincts were wrong.

They together have been the cause of this. Once more, John is innocent. They've robbed him of his chance at fatherhood. Torn tissue and growths. That's all the gift she can give him. Dirty, obscene repayments, whatever he might declare to the contrary.

Just the thought of trying to push herself for his sake makes her sick to the stomach. She can't do it. Not again. Can't bear the thoughts of dirtiness and being soiled.

Hating herself for being the cause of yet more pain, she says, "Not tonight, John."

He backs off at once, as she knew he would, his eyes wide. "Of course. I'm sorry, Anna. I never meant to imply –"

"I know," she tells him quickly. "I'm the one who's sorry. I want to. I do. I just…I'm tired."

"I understand," he tells her, easing back.

He can't understand. She manages a tremulous smile, moving to give him a reassuring kiss. It tastes of ash and broken dreams.

"I love you," she tells him. It's the only truth she can tell him now.

"I love you too," he replies, all ardent sincerity. "Now get some sleep. We've another long day ahead of us tomorrow."

She nods. He wriggles over to give her more room, the mattress creaking comfortingly. How many times has she heard that sound in the heat of lovemaking? How many nights had they giggled over it like new lovers, wondering if the Tripps would hear them and know what they were up to? How many times had John teased her that they'd know anyway, with her exquisite inability to keep quiet? Now the sound is a lonely one, signifying the isolated descent into sleep, the gulf between them growing larger by the day.

He puts his arm around her, as he usually does, but she still feels as if she's floating away.

A/N: My medical knowledge is rather poor, but I did try to do some research. I read at a couple of sources that fibroids can be caused by sexual assault. However, they are usually benign and are apparently fairly common in women in mid-late reproductive years too. Only a small percentage (roughly three percent) are the cause of infertility. Apologies if something is way off.

I don't want this to be all doom and gloom mostly because that's depressing for me too. I guess we've got to try to have some faith in series five. :(