Hello again! You must be unfortunately used to me taking an absolute age to upload so I will apologise and feel incredibly guilty. I am one of the world's greatest procrastinators and it may shock you to know that I sat down to write chapter 3, the day after I uploaded chapter 2, but I was distracted (probably by something shiny) and never got around to writing it...oh well, maybe someday I will write two chapters in two days. We can dream! As per usual thank you, thank you, thank you to anyone who took the time to review/alert/favourite...I can never tell you just how much it means to me.
I always forget to write this but... I own none of these wonderful characters!
Sybil was running. Running faster than she had ever run in her life, faster than when Edith had chased her all the way around the lake. Oh what she would give for this to be nothing more than a childish prank. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps and she was acutely aware of the throbbing pain in her fist and the blood pouring down her neck. Truly, this was the real meaning of blood, sweat and tears; the blood from her wounds, the sweat from her exertion ("Now really Sybil dear," Granny had once informed her, "horses sweat, but ladies perspire.") and tears of fear that those ghastly men would find her. However, it was not merely a fear of self-preservation. It was a fear of what Tom would do if something were to happen to her, a fear of the regrets her family would be left with and most prominently, a fear stemming from the realisation that she was not just taking care of herself at this minute in time – but caring for two.
Finally her running brought her to the place she had been striving for her whole life. Home. "Sybil!" Tom called, completely unaware of the events that had just transpired, "Is that you love?" However, Sybil was too far gone by this point and simply collapsed in the doorway with a half hearted mumble of "Tom!" Tom Branson strolled out expecting to simply find his wife standing waiting for him to welcome her home, but the sight he found was rather different to his expectations. The sickening thud of Sybil's head hitting the wall brought him straight back to 1914 and the sight of Sybil lying on the ground at that awful counting of the votes. "Sybil! Sybil!" She was clearly unconscious and, with a terrible feeling of déjà vu Tom lifted her still body carried her to her bed. After hurriedly telephoning the doctor and attempting to explain in a series of unintelligible, half formed sentences Dr Murphy managed to gather that he was needed urgently and promised Tom that he would be on his way. Still absolutely frantic with worry Tom set about changing Sybil into her nightdress and attempting to mop some of the blood from her wounds. Every second seemed like a minute and minute like an hour, until Tom was driven to brink of insanity.
At last Dr Murphy entered through the door which had been left wide open and following the gruesome trail of blood which led him up the stairs and into Tom and Sybil's bedroom. Dr Murphy had always been the Branson family doctor and while now closer to sixty than thirty he still retained the same presence of mind. Taking a swift look around he noticed Tom still pacing, his eyes never leaving Sybil. "Mr. Branson," Dr Murphy began, "do you have some brandy at your disposal?" Tom did not try and veil his surprise but made his way down to the kitchen (knocking over countless objects on his way) and returned bearing an unopened bottle of brandy and a mug. "Now then Mr. Branson, sit down and drink this," Dr Murphy poured a generous measure into the mug and handing it to Tom, who merely stared at him in bewilderment. "Wh-why are you giving this to me? It's her who needs you not me!"
"Tom." The doctor warned gravely, "I will tell you exactly what your father told you when you had 'flu. Sit down, shut up and drink whatever the doctor gives you." Tom laughed at the recollection but meekly did what the doctor bade him to do. "Because other wise," Dr Murphy continued, "I'll have two patients to look after, and let me tell you, shock isn't a laughing matter m'lad." Once Tom had drank two full mugs of brandy he was quite restored to his right mind and able to watch the doctor efficiently care for Sybil. "Well," Dr Murphy professed, as he finished his examination, "I've bandaged her wounds and left some painkillers you need to give her every four hours. She'll need plenty of rest. But, to be honest, Nurse Crawley is a capable nurse and will be well aware of all this anyway." After refusing Tom's offer to stay for dinner Dr Murphy was shown out and, waving aside Tom's continued gratitude, remarked, "You ought to be proud of her. She threw a right good punch at whoever attacked her – in fact I'd say they probably need my help more than she does." Dr Murphy patted Tom on the shoulder again, "Take care of yourself and her Tom and give my best to your mother." With one final smile Dr Murphy departed leaving a much reassured Tom, now with his trademark grin returned. He always maintained teaching Sybil to punch was one of his finest ideas.
I know these chapters aren't particularly long so I apologise but I absolutely promise to try my hardest to update more often, and remember reviews = love! Thanks for reading.