Title: Tantamount To Drowning
Pairing : Isobel/Richard
Rating: K for now
Spoiler: Set post Christmas 2012 episode so major spoilers for events in that episode.

Notes: I started this within minutes of the episode finishing, within an hour I had seven pages written, (unfortunately not the beginning but at least the direction is set), And it has flowed ever since. All I planned to do was find a way to get from Isobel not wanting to risk everything for marriage to finding her way back to the man she is clearly fond of. The last few minutes of the episode put pay to that and this has become a more angsty, more therapeutic story.

A short chapter to start but it will be a multi chapter piece.

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Richard stood at the back of the gathering, his thick wool coat his only protection against the cold wind that blew through the graveyard. Although summer there seemed to be an almost arctic chill to the air, a fitting accompaniment to the occasion, the sun hidden behind an angry grey sky that promised more than summer showers in its wake. As Travis continued in a monotone, his voice in shocking contrast to the vibrant life that they were saying goodbye to, Richard allowed his attention to drift to the other mourners. Most of the village had turned up to mourn, standing on every available foot of grass, even those who rarely had a good word to say about the family. As on so many occasions he found himself next to the servants, his eyes drawn to Anna, opening weeping against her husband and he had to tear his gaze aware, focusing instead on the family.

They were gathered at the front, close to the open grave, stoic even in their grief. Leaning slightly to his left he caught sight of Isobel, flanked on either side by Lady Edith and Lord Grantham, neither touching her, each trying to take on some of the loss she must feel, ready to catch her when she fell. For a brief, almost selfish moment, he wished that he was the one standing there, ready to catch her, but he didn't have the words to comfort her, nor was she likely to want him. Instead he kept the polite, proper distance that was befitting of his status, and grieved for the overwhelming loss she had endured. To her right stood Lady Mary, her mother gripping her arm. There had been tears at the hospital, an outright refusal to allow the baby to leave her side and then nothing. In the days that followed she had remained stoic and silently grieving, clinging to the child as though it was her life raft.

Richard stared down at his feet, the image of Matthew lying dead beside the road forcing its way into his memory when he only wanted to remember the young man who had been smiling and happy, shaking his hand and thanking him profusely for the safe delivery of his son. He was not close to the younger man but he liked him, grieved for him, grieved for his mother who had lost her son. The adage was that you should never outlive your children, in her case it had never been more true. What little he had seen of her in the intervening days had been enough to convince him she was not the same woman. Her grief was raw, her anger barely held in check and he had wanted to relieve her of it but instead had uttered pointless platitudes.

The gathering began to disperse as the vicar committed his body to God, and he watched as the mourners moved through the church yard, most heading home, a few invited to the wake. His eyes were once again drawn to Isobel, standing alone by the grave, waving off the family to grieve alone for a minute.

Richard watched, wanting desperately to comfort her, but knowing it wasn't his place. As she crouched, leaning precariously close to the grave, he moved instantly, prepared to pull her back, the irrationality of his conclusion not lost on him.

"Isobel?" he said softly, when she righted herself and stepped back. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to startle you."

Her lips barely registered a smile and he was reminded once again that she was but a shell of the woman he knew. "Richard?" One hand moved to her face as she lifted the black netting that covered her eyes, allowing him to see her face, red puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks evidence of her grief.

"I don't mean to intrude."

"You're not. I just needed a moment." She glanced around before turning to face him. "I haven't been alone since it happened, not properly. And all this. I don't know."

"Is someone taking you back to the Abbey?"

She nodded. "I'm sure someone is taking care of it. Robert has been kind enough to take care of everything."

There was something in the way she said it that made him wonder if she had been sidelined, if in the midst of ensuring a service fitting for a future Earl, his sweet adoring mother had been forgotten. It irked him and again he had to remind himself that it wasn't his place to comment. "Good. It was a lovely service."

"Everyone is really very kind."

"I came over to say how so very sorry I am for your loss. I liked Matthew. He was always so kind and brave, so very like you."

Isobel took a deep breath and he knew that she was trying to keep her emotions in check. "Thank you. He was very glad that you were there for Mary and the baby."

The baby. After three days of nursing he had discharged Lady Mary and her child home, believing that in the familiar surroundings and with her family close by she would grieve properly. She had walked out head held high, the baby tightly pressed against chest. The only indicator that she was tormented the fact that she refused to name the child. "How is the little fella?"

A real smile lit up her face. "He's wonderful. I've been staying at the house so I get to see him every day. Sometimes I see Matthew in him, other times he's all Mary," she offered with a sniff as though it was further evidence that her boy was gone.

Edith appeared, and hovered just in view, and he realised that their time alone was at an end. "Are you holding up alright? Do you need me to prescribe something to help you sleep?" he asked softly, his voice low so no one else could hear. She was after all a proud woman and he was loathe that anyone should think differently of her, think her weak.

"I really don't want anything," she replied, her voice equally as gentle, her hand resting on his arm for the briefest of seconds. "I just need to be busy."

"If you . . ."

"I won't," she assured him with certainty. "But thank you. Edith, I'm coming now." She took a step, moving around him. "Are you coming back to the house?"

He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "I would like to very much but I have a patient and . . ."

"I understand." She moved away. "You would hate it as much as I'm sure I'm going to," she offered sadly. "Goodbye, Doctor Clarkson."

"Goodbye Mrs Crawley." He watched as she meandered through the headstones, Edith's hand now holding her arm, the black veil once again concealing her face. Close up she had seemed a little lost, but as she walked he noted a fragility to her gait, defeatism in her posture. He had wanted to be there for her, to offer more than platitudes but selfishly he knew he would want to offer her so much more. His place was as her friend, not at her right hand, ready to catch her when she fell, and she would eventually. Better to keep away, to tend to those that needed his help and allow her to mourn her son in whatever way she deemed necessary.

He wasn't aware how long he had been standing there, his thoughts centred on her until he felt the first drop of rain ricochet off of his hat and onto his coat. Stretching his hand out he watched as it began to fall heavier, drops merging on his clothes, staining the material. Finally he began to walk leaving the grave diggers to fill in the hole, heading to the hospital, heavy hearted.

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