A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this next installment up. . .Traveling with small children (by myself!) coupled with 100 degree weather hasn't be too conducive to writing!

I hope the smoking lingo is somewhat accurate sounding. I'm not a smoker. . .or British. . .or from 1915, so it might be off.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy this chapter. . .

Chapter 4

John closed his eyes and took a long drag from the cigarette. Leaning back against the rough brick wall of the courtyard, smoke filtered around his head as he exhaled. The tar and tobacco that filled his nostrils was slightly nauseating.

He shifted his weight a bit; his knee throbbing more than usual. He really should sit down. He inhaled again. It's not that he was incredibly fond of smoking. A dirty habit, really. He disdained the discoloration of nails and teeth that came from it. Yet it had ferried him through many excruciating nights in prison, a thin substitute when the liquor became abruptly unavailable.

But that was the past; he hadn't puffed a fag since coming to Downton. But tonight . . . tonight was different. He was going to need help to make it through the bloody evening.

He wryly smiled as lifted his head up to blow a ring of smoke. He had scared the poor stable boy out of his wits earlier this evening. After abandoning Anna in the servants' hall, John had to escape. To walk away, to keep his jumbled thoughts at bay before attempting to go upstairs and dress Robert for dinner. He headed down the path towards the stables for no particular reason, just a blinding need to flee.

As he reached the stables he smelled the unmistakable odor of someone lighted up. Despite never having worked outside at Downton, he knew the rules: No fire near the stables, including cigarettes, pipes and cigars. An errant flame or ash could rip through a barn filled with hay and other flammable items in no time flat.

The path rounded a corner towards the front of the stables and John saw a small stable boy sitting alone on threshold of the barn door smoking. He had to be at least thirteen to work at Downton, but he looked no more than ten years of age. Bartholomew, that's what his name was. Mr. Carson was adamant that every employee of the Abbey be introduced at the beginning of each season. John remembered sharing a laugh with Anna over the large appellation for such a diminutive child.

Bartholomew quickly stubbed out his smoke on the bottom of his shoe and scampered to his feet.

"I'm so-sorry, Sir," the boy stammered out. John wasn't sure if he was simply startled to be discovered or startled to be discovered by him in particular. He knew he was intimidating and a bit mysterious to the younger staff. Downton's own Quasimodo. He sure felt like he had a hunchback some days.

"You know the rules, lad. No smoking out here," John laid out firmly but without malice. This day was already too long to deal with a delinquent smoker.

"I know. . . It's just that I heard about William. He was really kind to me when I first came on last summer. . . .And I wanted to be alone somewhere."

John could understand that completely. It was so hard to find solitude in a house inhabited by hundreds.

"Ahh, Mr. Bates, you're not going to tell . . . are you?"

John couldn't help but smile down at the boy. He had snuck cigarettes when he was that age and smoked them a whole manner of places he shouldn't have including the family's barn, privy and upstairs attic.

"I won't tell. . ." a sigh of relief came from young Bartholomew. "on one condition. . ."

Now the lad's pack of fags sat in his breast pocket, a bit of security to get him through the night.

He should just throw them out. He didn't really need them, did he? The truth was he had abandoned the habit years ago . . . for her. Not that she had ever asked him to. She had never even seen him light up. It was during dinner his very first night at Downton. He had been an unwanted addition to the staff; nobody seemed to have faith in his abilities except for the pretty blonde housemaid sitting to his right.

"Well, off they go again," Anna rolled her eyes as the surly lady's maid and first footman left the servants' hall in tandem.

"Go where?" John asked his dining companion.

"Oh, for a smoke or two out in the back courtyard." Good information. He had been wondering where it was appropriate to do so.

Anna grinned at him as she continued, "It's also where they do their 'plotting'."

John's mouth quirked up. "So there is a lot of 'plotting' done around here?"

Giggling a bit, she concurred, "Yes, Mr. Bates, with them quite a bit. . . But you know what annoys me most? Those two end up taking twice as many breaks as the rest of us because they got to have their fag. Doesn't seem right to me."

From then on, smoking greatly lost its appeal. How could he when he knew it wouldn't be fair to Anna, the only person at Downton willing to give him a fair shake?

But tonight he needed something to get him through. He took another lengthy drag. It calmed his nerves a bit, put things out of his mind.

"Mr. Bates?"

At the sound of her voice, he ripped the cigarette from his mouth and hastily ground it out against the brick at his back. He turned towards her with what he hoped not an entirely guilty look. Jesus, he wasn't any smoother than the lad he caught earlier.

"Are you all right, Mr. Bates?" Confusion was evident in her voice. "You weren't at dinner."

"No, I wasn't."

Anna walked into a patch of moonlight. Her face was drawn and a bit pale, exhaustion evident. He cursed himself a bastard. Here he was trying to escape his own past and pain and the woman he loved was suffering herself. How selfish to think he was the only one hurting.

"How are you, my dear?" John couldn't stop himself from reaching out and cupping her cheek. Anna closed her eyes for a moment. It was the first time he had ever uttered a term of endearment.

"Gutted," Anna leaned in towards him, only inches separated their bodies. "It's just so sad to think we'll never see William again. That we never got to say goodbye, at least not a proper goodbye."

Hearing her words tore at John's heart. He had an overwhelming need to alleviate her pain. His hand strayed from her cheek to run down her neck and back. He drew her close.

A dam had been broken with their earlier embrace, no shyness existed anymore, propriety no longer a concern. She melted against him; both arms around his middle and her head pillowed on his chest. Neither of them moved. A slight breeze feathered them. With so much wrong in the world, this felt so right.

"But I'll be fine," Anna assured him gaining her composure pulling back slightly. "I worry about the others."

"How is everyone fairing?"

"Walking about in a daze. Still going on with their jobs: dressing, cooking, serving, but without any thought. Mr. Carson began to polish a set of silver right after dinner. I came back an hour later and he was still polishing the same set, the same pieces, over and over. I don't even think he realized what he was doing. And Mrs. Patmore keeps cooking. She didn't stop with dinner. She says she needs to make more cakes for tomorrow. I think she figures as long as her hands and mind are busy baking, she won't think of William."

Silence ensued once again. Anna laid her head upon his chest again. It probably wasn't the best idea to hold her. Anyone could walk out and see them. More importantly, what right did he have to even have his hands on her? He was a married man who was unlikely to change that status anytime soon. But God, it felt good. He tightened his hold around her smaller frame.

"Mr. Bates?"

"Hmm…"

"How are you fairing? I know William's death is harder on you than you're letting on."

John stiffened up. He knew Anna felt it. She lifted her face up. He could just make out the blue of her eyes in the dim courtyard.

"Anna, I. . ."

The back door creaked open. Anna skittered out of his arms. He sighed and leaned back against the brick.

"Anna, are you out here? Did you find Mr. Bates?" Mrs. Hughes called.

"Yes, I did. We're out here," she answered back, looking up John in the darkness.

"You both better come in. The family is ready for bed."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes, we're coming."

But neither John nor Anna budged. He could tell she wanted to pick up the thread of their conversation. She wanted to know why he had left the servants' hall so abruptly earlier, why he had missed dinner, why he was such a mess.

"Well, we best get going," he reached down and picked up his cane off a nearby crate. He met her eyes one more time. They were teeming with unstated compassion. Maybe one day when he was stronger and things weren't so raw, he could risk telling her. It would be nice to tell somebody, someday. But not tonight.

As he made his way past her towards the back door, she called out. "And Mr. Bates, if you want to take a smoke, you don't have to hide it. I never want you to think you have to be someone you're not around me."

He had a feeling she wasn't talking just about smoking.

John held the back door open for her. She paused in the doorway. "You are who you are and I love the man that you are."

But she didn't know the man he had been.

"Well, it certainly hits home now, doesn't it?

Dressing for dinner had thankfully been a silent endeavor. Robert spoke no more than a half dozen words throughout and rarely made eyes contact. John knew him well enough that when Robert was silent, he truly wished to be left alone. Seldom was the Earl at a loss for words, but when he was John understood not to engage him.

But now hours and several brandy snifters later, Robert wanted to talk.

John had often wondered if he ever had meaningful conversations with anyone else at Downton. Did he and her ladyship ever discuss anything more significant than redecorating the parlor or who attended the latest charity ball? Perhaps Robert and the young Mr. Crawley had in-depth discussions before he left for France.

Plowing ahead with his thoughts, not waiting for a response, Robert continued, "I mean, it's been difficult to read about the casualties as they come in. After awhile you just numb to it all; they just become numbers. Ten thousand here. Twenty thousand there. But it's a lot harder when it's one of your own. It makes my job much more difficult tomorrow. "

The last thing John wanted to do was discuss was the war. Fortunately, Robert didn't seem to require any response from him. At times like this, he knew the best course was to the let him ramble on.

"We'll be planning recruitment tactics for the next two months. And all I will be thinking about is William." John helped Robert into his robe. He turned to fetch his slippers from across the room.

Robert had taken a home front position within the army to assist with enlistment. He was charged with local recruitment for Yorkshire and the surrounding counties. It had come as quite a disappointment when he found out that he would not be assigned a combat position. John, on the other hand, was relieved. The thought of his employer heading back into battle had made him sick to his stomach. But then, Robert never really saw Africa the same as John. He had never witnessed what John had. By chance, he had mercifully been knocked unconscious for the horrors that still haunted his valet.

So with the onset of this new war, the two men came from two separate places. Robert was eager to pick up the flag and fight for Britain and its crown. He happily paraded around Downton in his colonel's uniform. All John could think was countless young men were being once again asked to place their lives in harm's way. . .for what? A nation's honor? Foreign alliances? Imperial greed as Branson claimed? And this time the scale was much greater than it had been in Africa. Instead of hundreds dying at a time, tens of thousands were perishing in a single battle. It made no sense. There was no noble cause.

John placed the slippers in front of where Robert sat on the edge of the bed. As he straightened up and he could see Robert's eyes welling up. "It's not a nameless face this time. For God's sake, it was the boy who served me my pudding and brought me my newspaper each morning."

Despite this rather self-absorbed view of William, John was rather touched by the depth of Robert's grief for his footman. He should say something, make an attempt to console.

"It is quite devastating. William was a kind lad who was a friend to all."

"Quite true which makes the whole story even more ghastly." Whole story? Where was this headed?

"Whole story, My Lord?"

Robert bounded off the bed to stand in front of the large bedroom windows. After a few seconds he turned to face John.

"I didn't want to burden everyone with all I learned from William's father, especially the ladies, but I have to share it with someone or else I'll go mad with the knowledge. And I know you're of mettle to withstand it," Robert declared confidently.

John wasn't so sure, but he stayed with the conversation. "What else did his father tell you?"

"It seems his regiment was along the Ypres line at Gravenstafel Ridge."

"Dear God," John uttered wordlessly.

Gravenstafel. The graveyard of gas. It had been in all the newspapers. Everyone knew of the massacre that occurred there. It was the first time poison gas had been used as a weapon in this war or any before it. The Germans released it upon an unsuspecting and unprepared allied army. Thousands died within a matter of minutes.

"I can't imagine a more terrible fate."

No man should die gasping for breath upon a battlefield. But neither should a man be bayoneted to death while he lay injured and bleeding. All fates were terrible in war. John didn't like thinking about it. He had tried so hard not to think about. It was time to bid goodnight.

But Robert wasn't finished.

"There was a ninety five percent causality rate for their regiment. Ninety five percent!" Robert walked back over to the bed and plopped down. "It got me thinking back to Africa and how lucky to God we were to even come home, the only ones from our regiment."

John looked towards the door and itched to move towards it. He needed to leave. He did not wish to take a trip down memory lane with Robert.

"I always thought it was providence that allowed me to come back to Cora and the girls, that there was a purpose behind it. But sometimes I wonder if it was any more than luck. What say you, Bates?"

John briefly closed his eyes to collect himself. Even though they shared this defining period in their lives, since coming to Downton, he and Robert rarely spoke of Africa and only in passing. They had never discussed in detail their time there; not the places they saw, nor the people they met and most certainly not the day John had been wounded.

"I try not to think on it at all. It's in the past."

Robert contemplated what he said for moment. "Right you are. It's just that at the strangest moments I remember back to the boys in our regiment. Good chaps, all of them. I have such fond memories sitting around the campfire telling tales with a bottle of whiskey. I don't think I ever felt so alive."

Robert had fond memories. All John had was memories. Any good times he had of Africa were destroyed when he watched his regiment systematically butchered before his eyes. Unlike Robert who came alive during the war, all John ended up wanting to do was die.

"Do you remember that extremely tall bloke whose best mate was the short chap with the fiery red hair?"

Did he remember? . . . Yes, he remembered. Imagines of them lying side by side bleeding, one from a head wound, the other in the gut were indelibly imprinted in his mind. One was conscious, the tall one. The other not. The Boers came upon them and without a second thought speared them through.

"Chapmen and Harris, I believe, Sir," John struggled out. His palms were getting sweaty. A cacophony of gunfire, bayonets and anguished cries were beginning to ring in his head.

"Yes, you're right, Bates," Robert exclaimed with enthusiasm; a smile crossing his face for the first time this evening. "You have a fantastic memory. Do you also remember the imitations the short one . . .Harris, right. . .could do? He did a remarkable King Edward. Hilarious." John remembered. It had been quite funny. He wanted to smile, but couldn't with some many other memories crowding it out.

Robert laughed out loud. "And the tall one could do all sorts of odd body tricks, touch his nose with his tongue and make his ears wiggle. . .one at a time. What a pair those two made!"

Indeed, what a pair they were. How he wished his recollections of them weren't so tainted.

"Do you remember the time in camp when Harris started making wild animal sounds to scare the troops who had just arrived in country? And Parker was the officer on duty. I swear it took him the better part of the night to quell the chaos."

John couldn't prevent a small grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth this time.

"Now, Parker. . .there was a fine soldier." Even over a decade later, John could still remember how well Robert got along with his second in command. "And what was his batman's name. . .O'Reilly? O'Conner? Something Irish, wasn't it?

O'Donnell. Seamus O'Donnell. He had been John's best friend. It had been a good five years since he had truly thought of Seamus, but now that he had, John could vividly hear his rich Irish baritone as if it were yesterday. Even now, he missed his mate.

"O'Donnell," John choked out as he took hold of the bed's post to steady himself. Seamus had been like a brother. He was gregarious to John's reserve. Told the dirtiest jokes, but he could recite the most beautiful poetry by heart. A philosopher by nature, but he had no use for politics. God, they had been close. It would be nice to think back on their time together. But if he remembered how Seamus lived, he'd remember how he died. It was right there on the cusp of his consciousness. Man, think of something else, anything.

"Oh yes, that's what it was. They were fine men, Parker and O'Donnell. No, they were the best of men." Robert paused shaking his head completely oblivious to John' s torment. "And to think how they died. . .They deserved better."

Sweat trickled down John's face. He could see Seamus struggling to get up even though his leg had a hole in it. A Boer came up and smacked him upside the back of the head with a rifle butt knocking him unconscious. There only feet from John his best friend was killed.

The bedroom floor seemed to tip. A dizziness swarmed John's head. The edges of his vision began to blacken. Not here, he commanded himself. Not in front of Robert.

His legs buckled and he stumbled a few steps. He held tight to the bed post. His breathing was labored as he tried to draw in as much air as he could to avert completely passing out.

"Bates! Steady now, sit down," Robert commanded as he rushed over to John's side.

John did as he was told and sat down on the Earl's bed. He leaned over and put his head in hands to prevent further loss of consciousness. After a moment or two his breathing began to even out and he could straighten. Much to his embarrassment, Robert was sitting at his side eyeing him anxiously.

"I must apologize, My Lord. I'm not sure what came over me. I didn't eat much at dinner." Well, that was a lie. He didn't even attempt to eat dinner.

"No apologies necessary," Robert declared clapping him on the back. "I dare say none of us had much of an appetite tonight."

As John got to feet, Robert continued, "Speaking of dinner, Sybil sang your praises tonight, Anna's too. She said you two were extremely helpful at the hospital."

Now with his feet steady, John just wanted to leave. "It was nothing. We just tried to help where needed."

"Come now, no false modesty . . . You're an asset wherever you work. In fact, I wish you still served at my side. It would make my work a little bit easier. Oh, they give me competent enough aides, but it's just not the same."

John knew that Robert was giving him a huge compliment and he did appreciate it, but even if he hadn't been dishonorable discharged, he wasn't sure he could ever don a uniform again.

"Well, thank you, sir," John replied not sure what else to say. He reached for his cane. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, no. Get some rest," Robert shooed him away with a hand. "I think we all need a good night's sleep . . . Good night, Bates."

"Good night, My Lord," he replied closing the Earl's door.

He took only two steps before stopping. Leaning back against the wall of the empty hallway, John closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. How did dressing one man for bed turn into such a bloody nightmare? He wanted to put it all back, the names, the faces, the carnage, but like Pandora's box once opened there was no reigning it in.

But he could dull the pain. The pack of fags still rested in his pocket . . . No, that wouldn't do. He needed to do more than dull the pain; he needed to make it disappear all together. Robert was wrong. A good night's sleep wouldn't do him any good.

No, what he needed was a drink.

A/N: Next chapter: John, Anna and a pub. . .