A/N: Hi guys! I've been working on this for quite a while now, and the idea came from the research I've done for one of my University projects, so I hope most of the facts will be correct. I guess this will be a hard-hitting story, but I hope I've managed to do it sensitively enough. Please do leave me your thoughts if you can, I'd really appreciate them, I've been very partial about writing/posting this.

So this is a WW1 AU, where John was not injured during the African Wars and therefore is able to fight, and was never at Downton. Neither was Anna. Rating is T for the moment, possibly moving to M at some point, and as usual these characters and anything that you recognise will probably belong to Julian Fellowes, ITV etc. Although after this latest series I'd love to steal them from him.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.

Thy Kingdom Come

Chapter 1

France, October 1916

Pain.

All he could feel was a searing, blinding pain, riding up his leg inch by inch. It was almost as though something had manifested itself beneath his skin and wanted to give him no respite. It felt like a pain that was never going to go away. He had never felt anything like it before.

His vision became blurred and the ground was rising in the air around him, spitting the dirt back at him. It was creating a bellowing cloud and he could feel the mud splattered across his face as he attempted to open his mouth and call for help. It was his first instinct.

He heard nothing leave his mouth. All he could sense was the pain as it ripped through his leg. As he attempted to move and reach for the area around his right knee he found himself unable to move. He could distinctly feel the weight of another man on top of him, obstructing his movement. He was trapped. As he let his head fall back into the muddied ground, marked with rain water and everything else, his eyes searching frantically as he tried desperately to see through his blurred vision, he heard a voice calling for him.

He thought he recognised the voice. William. A bit of a ditsy Private but a good lad. He had a soft spot for him. Then he could hear Captain Crawley. He was shouting at him to speak, to say anything. He seemed to be close by.

The pain then cried out once more and he wanted to scream. He thought he might yell but once more he found that nothing left his lips. He couldn't speak.

The last thing he remembered before he fell into the dark pit of his consciousness was the pain.

When he woke up John felt numb. It took him a while to regain any of his senses. The first that seemed to come back to him was feeling, which was funny because he felt nothing. He felt numb. Then he could smell. He would rather not have been brought back to that smell. He could sense the disinfectant, but mostly he could smell the blood. The bodies. He had grown used to that smell in the trenches. He had little choice but to in France.

Then he began to hear again: there were female voices all around him and a few hollowed cries of men. It was a harsh sound to wake to. And the all too familiar explosive noises in the background.

Then he opened his eyes and the fabric of the tent came into view.

He knew he was in the field military hospital. He had been here before to see some of his privates. That was when the panic began to rise through his body. He briefly remembered the pain... the mud and the voices. But mostly the pain.

He found his hand moving down to his leg, feeling for the source of the pain. He felt nothing.

That was when he cried out.

It all happened in a hurry. First he was yelling and struggling to sit up in bed and next he was being pushed back down. He was being told to calm down. He cried out.

He felt a needle prick his arm and within a few moments the panic was gone.

One week later

November, 1916

The next time John woke up the smell had gone. That was the first thing he sensed this time. It was also quiet, save for the gentle hum of conversation floating around him and an occasional chirping that sounded a lot like birds. It was not usual to see or hear birds in France. They liked to be elsewhere. He could hardly blame them. Then he heard the sound of men's laughter faintly in the distance.

John frowned in his sleep. His eyes were still closed.

There were no loud bangs. That was strange. Just the occasional scrape or click of a heel against a tile floor. John also swore he could feel a light breeze crossing his chest. The bed was also comfier than he was used to.

No one was shouting.

He shifted to his side as he struggled to open his eyes. It was then that he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

"Sergeant Bates?"

The voice was soft. Soft but firm. It had a recognisable accent. Yorkshire, maybe. Definitely not London. Definitely Northern. It was sweeter than the sounds he was used to waking up to.

John attempted to open his eyes. As he did the brightness of the room blinded him temporarily and he tried to shy away from it.

"That's it," the voice encouraged him gently. He felt a hand on the back of his shoulder now, almost helping him to sit.

His throat suddenly felt extremely dry.

"Water," John managed to croak. He then felt the hand pushing him forward as he adjusted his eyes while another brought the rim of a glass to his lips. The liquid was a relief in his mouth and his throat felt a hundred times better already.

"You're certainly a sight for sore eyes. Your mother has been so worried."

The mention of his mother stirred the usual feelings in his chest. He remembered the latest letter he had sent and received from her – it had been a while. But if his mother had been mentioned, if she had visited, he must no longer be in France. He must be back in England, in London maybe. He blinked even more rapidly to adjust his sight.

The first thing he seemed to notice was that this place was clean. It smelt good. Then he recalled the field hospital, and a boat trip.

Now that he thought of it he did remember parts of the trip back. It made a little more sense now. They seemed like hazy memories now, like brief flashes. He recalled that he might not have wanted to be awake. He remembered being transferred: the back of an ambulance as it shook along the make-shift roads from the trenches. The pain. He remembered crying out, not just because of the pain in his leg but because his mind was hazy. He couldn't understand any of it.

"Lord Grantham made sure you came straight here." Captain Crawley, now he remembered some of it. He remembered Captain Crawley being right in the line of fire... he remembered leaping across to shield him... The voice came once more and now that his eyes had fully adjusted he could see the outline of her face. Then he focused more. She looked young, younger than him at any rate. Blonde. Thin. Too thin his mother would say.

He had no idea where 'here' was but he hoped to find out. As he turned his head from side to side she seemed to understand his predicament.

"You're in Queen Mary's Hospital, Sergeant Bates." He briefly recalled the name. Roehampton. London. "You're in safe hands. Not to worry."

John had no idea what his future held. Why he needed to be in safe hands. He had no idea what had happened. He only remembered the pain. But he did know something. She had the voice of an angel.

He had no idea she would be his saviour.

A/N: Big, big thank you to testship for all the help with this. I promise the next chapter will be longer too. Please let me know what you think :)