Author's Note: Here's the one you've all been patiently waiting for! This chapter is very different from all of the rest, so I'm very eager to hear what you all think. It's also unbetaed, so any errors are entirely my own. I moved last week to start a new internship, so my time frame for writing and revision has become a bit more challenging. Crossing my fingers that it is one you will enjoy!


Matthew sank back into the chair at her bedside and fell into a restless sleep. It was a night fraught with bad dreams, cold sweats, and crushing anxiety. In one instance he was back in his chair, never to have recovered. In another, he was fine one minute and suddenly couldn't walk the next. He felt those phantom tingles in his legs again, and woke more than once in sheer panic, desperately grasping at his limbs to make sure that he could indeed feel them. He had rather a lot of poor nights of sleep lately, but nothing had felt quite so brutal. He simply couldn't turn his mind off; his eyes shut, and he was transported immediately back to those dark and hopeless days. Each time he woke, he made sure to check on Mary, but there was still no change. In the early morning hours he began to doubt himself and what he had felt. What if her head turn was nothing more than a fantasy—a lingering memory of something that he had once felt, but was unlikely to feel again? He shuddered at the thought.

He ran his hands through his hair and forced himself to close his eyes once more. And by some stroke of luck or mercy, he was finally able to sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of someone calling his name. His eyes snapped open when he realized who was speaking, and he was by her side in a flash. She appeared to be having some sort of bad dream—writhing and twisting, her eyes pressed tightly shut—calling his name as if he was the only thing that would save her. He gently brushed the hair off of her forehead and whispered her name, hoping to calm her as well as himself. He was frightfully unsure of what to do next. After taking a steadying breath, he began to catalog the facts within his mind. She was conscious, but not awake. She was speaking, but wouldn't respond. She seemed to be scared of something. While he had found that this tactic of thought gathering had aided his decision making in the trenches, it now left him feeling more conflicted. He wanted to call for someone, but he did not want to leave her alone. He could pull the cord, he knew, but it was so early still that he was not sure that anyone would hear it. He looked down at Mary again, hoping that she would have the answer for him. She had stopped thrashing around, but was still muttering every few seconds. With great trepidation, he rose from her side and made to leave the room. He decided that he would go and quickly wake Robert, without putting the whole house on alert. If Mary was truly waking up, she would likely feel overwhelmed by a room full of people. He had just about reached the door when he heard it again, only this time it was not a dream addled murmur. It was loud and clear- "Matthew". He was vaguely aware of the feeling of all the air leaving his lungs as he turned slowly on the spot. His eyes fell upon hers—now open and staring at him curiously.


It was the rush of the wind that roused her. The sudden burst of cool air colliding with the steam that seemed to be surrounding her on all sides. She brought her hand to her brow like a visor and squinted hard, trying to get her bearings. But she couldn't seem to see anything beyond the length of her hand. It was an eerie feeling—both comforting and unnerving—being swathed in the dense fog. And then, as quickly as it had engulfed her, it was gone. She found that she was standing on the platform at Downton Station. She drew in a deep breath, glad to be aware of her location, but utterly unsure of what she was doing there. It felt so different than any of the other times she had been there. The usual cacophony of traveling sounds was absent, as was the presence of any people. Or so it had seemed. Her eyes raked slowly over the setting around her, and she found it all to be very odd. She turned again to find that a train had arrived on the tracks. More like appeared, she decided, since it certainly did not "arrive" from any destination that she was aware of. Before she even had a chance to wonder about its mysterious origins, she noticed two figures standing beside it. In an instant she felt as if the ground beneath her had crumbled, and that all of her blood had rushed to her head. The dizziness seemed like it would crush her, and she stumbled against it. She forced her eyes shut tight and breathed in deeply through her nose. "It's impossible", she told herself, "a figment of my imagination. When I open my eyes, they will not be there". Even in her mind, she didn't believe it. She opened her eyes slowly and was again greeted by the vision of Matthew and herself at the other end of the platform. She remembered that day well, even though it had been so long ago. She remembered how different the world seemed so early in the morning. She remembered how chilly the air had been as she walked to her destination. She remembered her hands trembling in her pockets as she paced along the platform. And she remembered how her heart seemed to skip a beat when she finally saw him. It had seemed like such a silly gesture to her at the time—more of an excuse to see him than anything—but for some reason it was still very important for him to have it. She had called it a lucky charm, but if she was honest, it was more of a token; a piece of herself that she wanted to give to him. After he had been injured and she knew what it had meant to him, the memories of that morning were even sweeter. But as she watched the two of them now, things seemed to be different. They were standing differently, and their expressions were altered. And then, he was leaving. But she had not given him the dog, and she hadn't wished him luck, or kissed his cheek! It was all so very, very wrong. Suddenly, she found herself running towards them. She was shouting his name, telling him to wait, but he didn't seem to be able to hear her. As she ran she became aware of a searing pain in her hip. She fought against it, still screaming for him. He had boarded the train now, but she could see him sitting in the window. She shouted again and again to no avail, running and running but seeming to go nowhere. But then his eyes met hers, and he was at the window, calling for her. She tried to reach her hand out, but found that her arm would not move. It just hung at her side, utterly betraying her. And then the train began to move; began to take him away from her. But he didn't have his charm, and she didn't wish him luck, and everything was just wrong.

And then, she was alone again, her surrounding seeming to become hazy around her. She was sore all over for reasons that she could not understand. The pain seemed to radiate, dull in some spots and sharp in others. She wasn't sure where she was anymore, but she hardly cared. All that she wanted was for Matthew to come back. She had to fix it—nothing would be the same if she didn't. In an effort that she thought was surely hopeless, she called his name again. Much to her surprise, it made her feel better. She could almost imagine that he was with her, and it warmed her considerably. She realized that she was rather more comfortable in every way than she had been just moments before. Everything began to feel familiar again. She held her eyes shut for a moment, and when she opened them again she found herself in Matthew's old room. She instantly felt relieved—if she was here, it meant that he had been here—and that he was alive. And then she saw him, only he was leaving again. She could not bear the thought of having to watch him disappear once more, so she called out to him tentatively, one last time…


He wasn't sure how he had managed to close the gap between them so quickly. All he knew for sure was that she was in his arms, and that his lips were pressed firmly to hers, and that his face was wet with tears.

He heard the sound of surprise escape from Mary's throat, and a few moments later he felt her left hand come to rest on his shoulder to gently push him back. He could not tell if his breath was coming so quickly because of shock, or because of his reaction to being able to really kiss her. She looked down to her arm in its sling, and then back to Matthew, a million questions painted across her face. She seemed to be breathing rather quickly as well, and he suddenly remembered that for all she knew it was utterly inappropriate for him to be kissing her. He mentally chastised himself for acting so rashly. He knew he should apologize, but something about the way she was looking at him made him feel that it might not be necessary.

Propriety was certainly the last thing on Mary's mind. The first thought that occurred to her was simply relief. Matthew was here, and he was fine, and he was kissing her. The second was that she was in a fair amount of pain, although she could not imagine why. She tried to remember how she came to be in this room, but had no recollection of her arrival. As much as she wished to be absorbed in their kiss, she had far too many questions racing through her mind. With the little strength she could muster, she managed to gently push him back. She glanced down as she tried to catch her breath and noticed that her arm was set in a sling. She looked back to Matthew, hoping that he would be able to tell her something that made even the slightest bit of sense.

"Matthew, what in the world is going on?"

Oh god, he wanted to tell her! He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn't seem to find the words; he didn't know where to start. No, that wasn't exactly true…he wanted to start with "I love you, and everything is going to be just fine!" but he knew that that was not an appropriate beginning. How much detail would she want? Would she need? Was he even the right person to explain it all to her? It felt as if his heart had risen from his chest and taken up residence in his throat—the beat so strong he thought it might choke him. His hand, that had somehow found its way to his knee, was straining and white from the pressure of his grip.

Mary could read the tension of his body like the pages of a book, and it made her feel rather unsettled. She could only imagine what his hesitancy meant, and she was more than a little weary of the possibilities. Still, she wanted—needed—to know. Reaching towards him, she gently placed her hand over his, hoping to provide some encouragement.

"Whatever it is…please just tell me."

Matthew felt his grip relax under her touch, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Start at the beginning", he told himself. With a protracted sigh, he began…

"There was an accident."

As hard as it had been to start, he soon found that he was unable to stop himself from speaking. Words were pouring out of him like a dam that burst, and he was struggling to recall the facts quickly enough to say them. Diamond. The rain. The tree. Injured. Coma. May not recover. He watched her face carefully as he spoke, looking for any signs of confusion or stress. Her expression gave nothing away, but the hand that she had placed over his was now securely gripping the cuff of his sleeve. He knew the next part would be the hardest for her to hear, and he nervously bit the corner of his lip, trying to find the words.

"Richard...is gone" the words tumbled slowly into the room, their full weight and implication falling like an avalanche on them both. Even the sounds of their breathing had ceased, both holding the air in their lungs in anticipation of the words that would surely follow. His eyes met hers, and in that instant he saw through her schooled composure, and recognized the look of fear. It was one that he had worn often, and knew very well.

Upon hearing his name, Mary felt her muscles tense, a vague feeling of panic effusing through her. It took everything she had to stop the shaking that she felt reverberating from her core. Her mind was racing with all of the things that Matthew could possibly have to say to her about Richard and none of them we're good. Despite many years of careful practice in the art of appearing impassive, she knew from the way he was looking at her that she had given something away; some small signal that he seemed to effortlessly perceive and she could not decide whether or not she was glad for it. He had been silently studying her for some seconds now, apparently waiting for her to respond before he would continue with the story.

"Oh…I see" was all she could manage.

She flashed him a classic tight smirk—the one he knew she used as a defense mechanism—the one that meant that she had nothing further to say.

"Yes well, the thing is…he came and spoke to your mother. It was all very secretive…no one else even knew that he had been here." Matthew knew that he had reached the point of no return. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff—peering down to see wait was waiting below—but unable to see the bottom. His nostrils flared as he slowly pulled in a breath. "He came to tell her that he wished to release you from the engagement" he paused and looked up at her, before moving on "and to say that he would publish nothing of you and the Turk in his papers. He's burying the story for good."

So he knew then. He knew everything. He knew what she had done, and how she tried to cover it up, and how she tried to make it go away. The panic that she had felt moments before had settled into something entirely different. Something warm and numbing, like a sip of strong whiskey. It made her hear her heartbeat in her ears. She felt like she was losing touch of everything around her, and she thought that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. She could not bring herself to look at him.

God, what was he thinking! He should have known it would be too much for her to hear right away. He should have gone straight away to get her parents, or Anna, or anyone else who would not have made her look the way she did now. He couldn't possibly imagine what she must be thinking, but he wanted to reassure in some small way.

"Mary, you must know that it changes nothing for me! Not my opinion of you, my feelings for you…not any of it." He placed his hand over hers firmly, hoping to emphasize the point.

The touch of his hand seemed to squelch the burning that had begun to overwhelm her, but as she opened her mouth to speak, the only sound that escaped was a pitiful sob. She knew that she would not be able to stop the tears that were flooding her eyes, so she did not try. And when Matthew pulled her into his arms, she did not resist. She let her head fall to his shoulder, and she let her tears soak through his shirt.


At first, Cora thought that she was hearing things—that her mind was playing tricks on her. But as she moved down the hallway towards Mary's recovery room, the sounds of soft sobbing grew louder. It was a sound that she had not heard often over the years, but one that she recognized instantly. And for a moment, she thought her heart might stop. She quickened her pace, desperate for her eyes to confirm what her ears already knew—Mary was awake.

She reached the door and swiftly pushed it open, heading to her daughter immediately.

Mary looked up from Matthew's shoulder when she heard the door open, and felt glad to see her mother in a way that she was not sure she had ever felt before. Cora's arms soon replaced Matthew's around her body, and she immediately missed the contact. She felt him shift his position to stand, and she clung even more tightly to the piece of his shirt that she was still holding. He looked down to her hand, and he understood.

"Oh my darling! How do you feel?"

"A bit sore, but it's tolerable."

"What can you remember?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, although Matthew has been kind enough to fill me in on everything."

"Everything?" Cora asked, arching an eyebrow. She didn't want to pry—at least not so soon after having her daughter back—but she was afraid of how Mary would handle the news about Carlisle.

Mary tugged on his sleeve tighter, imploring him without words

"Well, the important parts anyway" was his response.

Before Cora had a chance to ask any more questions, their attention was once again drawn to the door as Anna came to deliver the breakfast tray.

She was distracted as she entered the room—looking at both plates on the tray she carried with disapproval. She was certain that she had told Mrs. Patmore that Lady Grantham preferred the strawberry preserves over the marmalade with her toast, and it wasn't like her to forget such a thing. She made her way over to the small side table anyway, hoping that it would not be an issue. "Good morning, your Ladyship, Mr. Crawley." She did not turn around to address them, which she knew was highly improper, but she was still fussing with the plates. Matthew and Cora greeted her in response, sharing a bemused glance.

A familiar sadness swept over Mary to see Anna looking so weary. Her usually bright and cheerful demeanor had been replaced with something decidedly more morose. She knew that Anna had not actually noticed that she was awake, so she thought she would take the initiative and offer her own greeting.

"Good morning, Anna."

"Good morning, Mila…."

Her response had been automatic—part of her morning routine for as long as she could remember. But then the sound of her voice registered in her ears, and she realized what it meant. She turned so swiftly that the plates she had been so worried about only moments before crashed to the floor, the delicate china splintering on impact.

And she could not have cared any less.