Chapter 3: Blood

I had very ambitious plans for this little fic, plans that of course fell rather flat after series 2 ended (and with it my creative energy apparently). Now that series 3 has started I will try to finish up and post what I had written for the series before, and then possibly get started on all the new ideas.

Also, I know Tom and Sybil briefly discussed her work in S02E02, but I felt something more was needed than that.

Early 1917

The course was finished, and while it had left Sybil feeling both shocked and eager, she had never anticipated how working at the hospital in Ripon would be. When she had arrived this morning, one of the doctors had been about to saw a man's leg off, a procedure she knew about in theory, but hadn't helped with in reality. His screams of pain was like needle pricks making her skin tingle, and when he finally passed out it wasn't any good, because that only made her focus on the amount of blood pouring from the wound. And then the rest of the day continued like it had started, one awful moment after another, almost as if the hospital had tried it's best to confront her with the most ugly and horrible things all in her first day.

At noon a man died, drowning from the fluids that had gathered in his lungs. Just after the short tea break the nurses had, drinking it scalding hot and on their feet, another man took a turn for the worst and had to be rushed off in a hurry to see if his life could be saved.

War was an ugly, ugly thing, and when her first day was over, Sybil couldn't even think about tomorrow, the day after tomorrow – the rest of the week and the month, without feeling like a foolish, weak little girl that only wanted to run home to her mama.

When Tom came around the bend, he could see her standing outside the hospital, clearly waiting for him already. It surprised him, because the weeks since her return to Downton, he had been forced to send someone into the hospital to fetch her, because lady Sybil didn't want to stop working. Not today though. As the motor drew nearer though, he could see the paleness of her cheeks, how in one day she had seemed to become both gaunt and frail; her usually brilliant eyes lacklustre.

"Good afternoon, milady."

She looked at him, and got in the back of the car before he could even move around to help her in. Well inside she merely slumped against the backrest, looking gloomily out of the window. While things had been strained between them since her return, this was not a silence he knew. This dull, heavy thing filling the car had nothing to do with his feelings or her confusion over her own.

As they neared Downton she roused and showed a little interest again, eyes darting around the entrance of the house.

"Please leave me around the back," she said, so silently he had to strain his ears to even hear her. "I can't deal with Carson bowing right now."

Tom nodded and let the motor pass by the front door, coming to stop outside the garage instead. Slowly he stepped out, wanting to give her another moment, but when he came around to open her door, she didn't move, just turning her head to stare at him.

"There was an officer who died today, we didn't even know his name. All I could do was hold his hand and tell him it was going to be all right, while in reality I knew he only had minutes left."

Tom stood holding the door, waiting for her to either continue speaking or exit the car.

"Then there was another man, I think he was from the village because I remember seeing him with the butchers cart before the war. He arrived with a horrible wound on his leg and it festered. Today they had to saw it off…there was so much blood."

Never had he known the social barriers between them like this moment. All Tom wanted was to take her in his arms, comfort her, one human being to another. But she was a lady, not just a human being, and any contact between them had to be initiated by her.

"Why do people go to war? Who decides that it is worth lives – deaths! – to win a piece of land or glory. We live in an age of such brilliance, and yet our minds are as barbaric as ever. Can the human race never change?"

"I think it can," Tom said lowly. "That is what politics is about, change for the good of all, improving the lives of those who suffer!"

Finally moving, Sybil leaned forward, her eyes blank with tears, her face very tense.

"But even politics wont bring back all these dead men, it wont take away the suffering, it wont give legs or arms or eyes back…" Her voice ended on a sob, and the very composed and controlled lady Sybil suddenly seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Tom had seen her impassioned before, happy and even angry, but he had never seen her cry. He wasn't certain if that was the English in her, or the fine lady, but one of the two was even now forcing her to try and swallow feelings that would not be pushed away.

Holding out his hand, Tom as much hauled her out of the car, as helped her. Looking towards the servant's entrance, he didn't see anyone, so he thought quickly and then took her arm and steered her towards the garage. She went willingly, and maybe later he could think on that and perhaps let it warm his heart how implicitly she trusted him, but right now he was too worried for her. Leading her into the garage, he sat her down on the little stool by the workbench, his hand lingering on her upper arms as he made sure that she wouldn't topple over. Crouching in front of her, Tom waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his, and then spoke.

"Sit here for a moment, my lady, and I will go make you a cup of strong tea. Nothing like tea to help sort out one's mind, my mum always's says."

He thought he saw a glimmer of interest in her dull eyes for a moment, but then it was gone and she nodded, clasping her hands together in her lap, clearly trying to compose herself.

Never had a kettle cooked so slowly. While he waited, Tom rummaged around his tiny stove, preparing the only cup he had and then as he poured the tea, adding a dose of Irish whiskey. He carried it back as quick as he could and some of it slopped over his hands, but while it stung he didn't slow down.

"Here you go, milady."

She seemed to have recuperated a little already, and as she sipped the tea carefully she made a face and smiled a tiny smile at him.

"Whisky," she said and it wasn't a question. "I never took you for a drinker."

"I'm Irish," he teased her gently. "I have a bottle for emergencies."

Leaning against the workbench he watched her drink the tea, a little colour slowly seeping back into her cheeks. He had so many things he wanted to tell her, but all of them were of the kind that would make her retreat from him again. In the end he opted for a truth that wasn't likely to make her run, it had nothing to do with his feelings, at least not much.

"You are very brave, my lady, to go to work every morning and do what you do."

Lady Sybil flinched, as if the mention of work brought back the difficult memories, but then she took a deep breath. Her eyes seemed older as they met his, as if during these few months the things she had seen and done had aged her years not months. As he considered how they had parted ways before her course in York and the new determination in her eyes when she returned again, he thought that perhaps she had. Never before had she left her home after all, never before had she been exposed to a world less gilded and beautiful than her childhood home.

"At first I was glad for something to do, but now I'm not so sure anymore."

The admission came softly, on a sigh, but the grief seemed to have passed or turned into despondency. Lady Sybil was staring into the tea cup, and Tom was staring at her. He had missed her while she was gone, her being in York robbing him of even the chance of setting eyes on her every other day.

"At first I was glad to be away, to be useful and to do something of myself – like Gwen did!" Lady Sybil lifted her eyes then, knowing that it was a happy memory they shared but as she found him staring she flinched and looked down again. "But now I don't know."

Her slim hands were twisting around the mug, and as he finally lowered his gaze, Tom noticed there was a few dark smudges of dried blood on the cuff of her dress. He wanted to find the perfect thing to say to help her regain her determination and courage, but he was cowardly afraid to say the wrong thing. He had, in York, he knew that now. She hadn't been ready and when the bitterness had finally left him he could see that. But just as it had taken all he had to say those words to her then, as much did he fear speaking to her now. What if again he said the wrong thing and ended up pushing her away more, when what he wanted was the complete opposite. So Tom stayed crouched before her, offering a listening ear but no words of comfort.

"At the training course I heard them, you know," lady Sybil continued at last, speech pouring out of her when everything between them had been stilted and dry for weeks. "The other girls at the course, they didn't like me at first. I tried to make friends, but they only saw a rich girl playing at being a nurse. I tried to tell them I didn't care for any of that, I just wanted to work and do a real job, but they wouldn't believe me."

"I believe you."

For all his decision not to act rash, Tom's tongue spoke before his brain caught up. He winced, then met her surprised gaze as she suddenly stared back at him, without any trace of blush or confusion.

"You are the bravest person I know, milady." Tom said, filling the silence he had created, hoping – no, praying! – that the words he picked wouldn't be the wrong ones. "Because you're the daughter of a nobleman, and still you strive to do your part." He could have continued, words were lining up in the back of his throat ready to be used ('Because you are bright and wonderful, a true lady in the sense the word ought to be used. Because you have the courage to befriend a chauffeur and hand out pamphlets about women's right to vote and help house maids become secretaries. Because I love you.'). It seemed the words were the right ones, because the frown slowly disappeared from her face.

Sybil stared down at Branson, a little shocked at being called brave but very pleased that he believed in her. It was the belief of others that had sent her to York, Cousin Isobel, her grandmother, even her mother in the end. She hadn't known she could do it, be a real nurse and after today she had been certain that she was a ridiculous coward doomed to fail. It seemed it only took the faith of one other person to make her remember her determination again; perhaps it helped that that person was Branson who never lied to her.

Life would never be all pretty, she decided, inside our outside a hospital. Life was a dirty, painful thing but she realised she preferred to know that rather than be locked away inside Downton Abbey, pretending nothing could ever touch her. This was life, in all it's ugliness and only if she went out tomorrow and faced it could she find the things that were beautiful and important and worth continuing on for.

"Thank you," she said at last, when Branson's face had began looking a little worried at her silence. "For helping me put everything in perspective."

Sybil drew a long breath of air tinged with motor oil and car polish into her lungs and released it slowly. Then she squared her shoulders and looked over Branson's shoulder out into the darkness of the yard outside.

"Any time, milady," Branson replied, his mouth curled into a half smile. Sybil smiled back and although she knew it wasn't her bright smile from before the war, she felt much more like herself.

She rose and half a second after she did, Branson stood as well, making them almost bump into each other awkwardly. He moved away at once, giving her space and again Sybil felt a flare of thankfulness towards him. He hadn't mentioned his proposal again, or any other subject that might fluster her and she was slowly forgetting her anger over the ill-timed discussion.

"Thank you," she repeated again, handing him the cup. He took it, and when their fingers brushed she was the one who didn't pull away as quickly. "My shift begins at half seven tomorrow, could you take me?" Of course, she could as well walk, but it was comforting to start her day with a ride in the car, before facing her duties at the hospital. And it was not as if she was demanding the car in that imperative way Mary always spoke to Branson.

"I will be ready and waiting, lady Sybil," Branson replied, his eyes suddenly burning with that emotion she couldn't handle especially well.

Nodding, and managing a smile, lady Sybil Crawley fled the garage, not feeling especially brave at all, but at least not afraid either.

Putting things out there for others to read is hard, please leave a not if you appreciate it or have any thoughts. Thank you.