A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews!

Patience was not a virtue Robert possessed. Left in the silence of the waiting room, the only thing he could do was mark the time and think. Robert couldn't control the despondent dark hole his brooding brought him down. It had only taken Dr Clarkson ten or so minutes to come back and declare that Cora needed emergency surgery, but even that had felt like an eternity as he stewed in his terrifying imaginings. Robert had tried to follow what the doctor said when he explained the procedure...and the risks. It all sounded like a jumble of big words equaling a gamble with Cora's life. Suppressing the questions he had, Robert had hastily signed the papers thrust into his hands, the trembling still evident in the bumpy loops of his signature, and the doctor had disappeared into the surgery theater, silence descending once more.

After, much after, he was left with a nagging worry that he hadn't fully understood what they were doing to her. He had left Cora in their hands, strangers virtually, and the doubt, the uncertainty that they were doing the right thing for her, slowly ate away at him.

The girls sat in the narrow chairs rimming the perimeter of the small room, more subdued than Robert had seen them both in a long time. Tom wore his worry as freely as he pleased, making no show of covering it up. Robert alternated between sitting and pacing. Once his limbs grew too weary to take another step he would fall into one of the chairs, but the inaction of his body triggered the wandering of his mind. The pictures conjured were the stuff of Robert's worst nightmares and so vivid that he half expected Dr. Clarkson to appear any moment. His deep sympathy would be etched into the contours of his face as he delicately told them of Cora's passing. Robert's body prepared for it, as if he could properly ready himself for such a thing. Every muscle tensed until it spasmed, his breath sped up, his chest constricted. Waiting felt like he imagined a heart attack would feel, and Robert thought he wouldn't survive the ordeal if they didn't hear soon.

When the thinking became too much, when his stomach threatened to empty its contents, Robert jumped back up again and wore another path into the marbled tile. He tried to pace his breathing with the sound of his steps echoing around him and he focused on the two, pushing out everything else.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Tom broke the silence. "Did you know she was ill?"

The question caught Robert off guard and he paused mid-stride, turning and frowning until he slowly figured out what Tom was referring to. Robert shook his head.

"That is so like Mama!" Mary's words were edged with anger.

"Mary!" Edith hissed.

Robert was on the verge of admonishing her himself, of shutting down any criticisms of her mother, but Mary said no more. The look on her face quieted any reprimand Robert thought to deliver. Though her words sounded harsh, Mary's face told him how frightened she truly was, her wide, brown eyes, her bloodless lips. Robert understood Mary, many of her characteristics were echoes of his own, or his mama's. And he sympathized with her, anger felt so much better than despair. Anger was animated, it made blood pump hotly through the veins. Despair was like drowning. If it weren't Cora, if what they had witnessed in the dining room hadn't so viciously shaken him, then perhaps he would bow to anger too. As it was, in the hours they had been made to wait with no word as to her condition, Robert had fully convinced himself of the worst. The only thing he could feel was overwhelming grief.

"Papa?"

Joining him where he stood in the middle of the room, Edith held tightly to his arm. The lateness of the hour, and the drama of the day, were catching up with Robert. Every part of him quivered with exhaustion.

"Mama...she'll be alright, won't she?" Edith's voice was tentative, like a younger version of herself.

"Of course she will!" Mary answered adamantly and Robert couldn't help but smile sadly at his eldest child. For all of her hard exterior, Mary cared deeply.

"Lord Grantham?"

All of their attention whipped towards Dr Clarkson, who stood in the door looking worn out and bleary eyed. Robert clasped Edith's hand, steadying himself and she sucked in a breath. Mary and Tom sprung from their seats. The truth of Cora's fate rested on the words forming on Dr Clarkson's lips and when he opened his mouth to deliver them, Robert had a very strong urge to cover his ears and block them out. While he had been ruminating on the worst possible outcome for the last few hours, now that he was about to hear how it had all turned out, Robert realized he'd rather exist in this space, this blind purgatory.

Edith's fingers dug uncomfortably into his arm as she readied herself for the news and Tom and Mary appeared at his other side. Only when his chest started to ache did he notice he had held his last inhale. Exhaling in a rush, he felt lightheaded and Mary took his other arm.

"Lady Grantham is being brought into the recovery room." Dr Clarkson announced and Robert had to repeat the words over in his mind to be sure he heard correctly.

"Then she's alright?" Mary asked, her voice unnaturally high and tight.

"She's come through it," Dr Clarkson replied cautiously. "We had to remove a portion of her lower stomach. She's still very weak from the blood loss and the recovery will take some time."

"But she will recover?" Tom stated.

Dr Clarkson's face remained somber, not the face of a man who had won a war but who had staved off defeat for the moment. Robert's heart felt cold.

"The next twenty-four hours are critical. If Lady Grantham makes it through those, and infection does not settle in, than I think she has a good chance."


Robert had been in this limbo place before, this quagmire of a place, where he sat helpless, while Cora fought battle to come back to him. His mind, sluggish and undisciplined at such a late (or was it early?) hour, recalled a joke his mother in law had made years ago. A lifetime before, it seemed, when he had almost lost Downton, back when he thought that was the worst that could happen to them. He and Martha had found themselves alone together in the library, drinking whiskey. He had been lamenting about his folly. Don't worry about Cora, Martha's words punctuated by a hiccup, that girl is like a cat. Always lands on her feet and has nine lives.

Robert screwed his eyes shut at the memory, feeling the tenuous composure he had somehow maintained slipping. Martha may have been right but Robert prayed that this would be the last vigil he ever had to keep by Cora's sickbed. There had been too many of them.

Cora's hand remained cool and slack in his own, and he flexed his tingling digits around her palm, trying to coax the blood to circulate once more through his veins. Inactive all these hours, numbness had settled in and the movement made him gasp at the pain as his hand became reanimated. Discomfort was a small price to pay to keep touching her, the only thing reassuring him that she was there.

The girls and Tom had left hours ago, sent back home by Robert with a promise that he would call the moment she awakened or anything changed, but Cora remained still, alarmingly so. Robert had to remind himself that it was to be expected, she'd gone through such an ordeal, they'd performed a serious surgery on her, but still. Her inactivity unnerved him, even her breathing was barely perceptible and Robert had leaned close more than once, placing his ear just below her jaw to hear the small puffs of air wheezing in and out. His energetic, bright Cora was so quiet and unmoving.

Fatigue cramped every tendon and ligament, it even made Robert's teeth ache but part of him remained on high alert, tuned in to any slight sway in circumstance. He desperately wanted to lay his head down, but his fear that something should happen, that Cora should fall into distress and need him, had Robert jumpy and unable to rest. Instead, he let his clouded vision travel from their hands up her arm, hidden by the cuff of the hospital gown she'd been dressed in. It was the look of that fabric, dull and institutional and abrasive against the fragility of Cora's wrist, that finally began to shake the foundation of Robert's composure. By the time his eyes took in Cora's face, her waxen cheeks, her lips the unnatural shade of seashells, Robert's tears were blubbering over, caught by their joined hands, which he had lifted up to his mouth. He kissed her palm over and over, willing some warmth back into it, giving release to all of the turmoil he had repressed.

"Cora, Cora," Robert choked on her name.

The magnitude of what had happened, what could have happened, what could still happen, hit Robert in the chest like a fist and he struggled for breath. She'd been so close, they had been so close. And not for the first time, Robert felt as though he had failed her. He had promised to protect her, all those years ago in the rose garden when he'd awkwardly lowered to one knee and asked her to mold her life to his. He hadn't offered her love then, but he had sworn he would make her happy, that he would care for her. Cora's comfort had been Robert's duty and he had failed, time and again, it seemed. He hadn't been able to protect her from anything and it was her own strength that had seen her through trials that would beat most. If anything, Cora had taken care of him, looked after him, helped him through. And what had it gotten her?

"How is the patient?"

The whispered question had knocked him so unaware that Robert jumped in his seat, releasing Cora's hand and spinning around on the chair. Isobel smiled sheepishly from the door and he let out a shaky breath, his heart still banging wildly against his ribs. Robert rubbed his bleary eyes, erasing any evidence of his tears.

"She hasn't moved, Isobel." Robert replied. "Is that normal?"

Isobel nodded, stepping further into the room. "It's to be expected."

She continued, purposefully, to Cora's bedside. Lifting Cora's wrist, Isobel placed her fingers on the pulse point and her lips moved as she counted the beats. Handling Cora gently, Isobel settled Cora's hand back on top of the covers. Maneuvering to the foot of the bed, she produced a chart, the one Robert had watched the nurses record their findings in all night. Isobel flipped through the pages briskly, chewing her bottom lip. The action caused Robert to slide to the edge of his seat, his back arching rigidly as he clutched the leather arms of the chair.

"What is it?" Panic colored his words.

Isobel shook her head. "Nothing...only they have her on a rather high dosage of medication. That's what's keeping her asleep. She needs it, Robert."

Robert slumped back in his chair, his head falling into his hands. His breath came out a little easier and a wave of nauseous exhaustion crested over him. The slight touch of Isobel's hand on his shoulder roused him.

"I think I saw the car from the Abbey making it's way down the drive as I came in. Your replacement should be here soon." Isobel said softly.

Robert shook his head, slowly at first but becoming more adamant. "I'm not going anywhere."

Isobel pursed her lips and cocked her head. "Robert, be sensible. You've been up for over twenty-four hours now. You've had a tremendous shock."

It was then that Robert looked to the windows, seeing the sun, muted by the thick shades. It was morning. As if waiting in the theater wings for her cue, Mary peeked around the open door. Robert and Isobel turned at the tiny creek announcing her presence. Mary's eyes were hooded, dark smudges in her pale face. Her eyes darted around the room uncertainly. When she took in the scene, he in his seat and her mother in the bed, a shudder of relief rippled over her shoulders. Mary straightened, forced a smile on her face, and marched into the room.

"Papa. How is she?" Mary asked, coming to his side and placing a peck to his cheek. Robert leaned into it and patted her hand.

"Much the same. She hasn't stirred." Robert sighed.

"Well," Mary stated, clapping her hands together to punctuate her words. "I'm here now and you can go."

Robert stared at her, his jaw squared. Instead of standing from his chair, Robert dragged it closer to the bed, his knees banging against the cold railing. He took Cora's hand in his once again and ignored the women standing behind him.

"Papa-".

"Robert…".

Isobel and Mary spoke as one voice, but Robert tuned them out.

Mary sighed heavily behind him. "Papa, you've been here all night."

"And I will be here when your mother wakes." Robert insisted, anger starting to build.

"But-".

Robert spun around, piercing his daughter with cool eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Mary! Do you understand?!"

Mary's nostrils flared at the scolding but her left foot crossed itself behind her right as she fidgeted in the face of his ire. Her "But Papa…" was half-hearted, even before Robert cut her off.

"What would you have me do? Sleep? Have a soak? And what if something were to happen while I'm gone? Are you prepared to make a life and death decision on her behalf? Are you Mary?" Robert asked, his voice cracking.

Robert bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted the bitter tang of iron. Mary lowered her gaze and Robert pivoted in his chair, catching from the corner of his vision as Mary hastily placed her fingers to the corner of her eye, possibly wiping away a tear. Guilt nipped at his conscious, but Robert slapped it away.

"Why don't we call up to the house, at the least?" Isobel interrupted, her words cautiously delivered. "Have Bates bring you some fresh clothes? Perhaps Mrs Patmore could send a basket."

"Alright," Robert conceded quietly.

He heard the swishing of Isobel's dress as she slipped from the room. He heard other noises too, the screech of metal against tile, the small grunt from Mary as she dragged her burden closer. A part of him thought he should help but all of his energy was focused on Cora. Their fighting earlier had not disturbed her and Robert felt horribly for hoping that it had, that their voices had been the magic tonic to wake her.

Mary lowered herself into the chair she had placed next to him, leaning toward her mother and moving a lock of hair off of Cora's face. Her fingers paused on Cora's face a moment, her hand looking milky and vivid against Cora's grey complexion and Robert startled, reaching for Cora's arm, clasping it tightly. Touching her reminded him that despite how frighteningly ill she looked, Cora was still there with them.

As if reading his thoughts, Mary whispered, "She's going to come through it, Papa."

Robert didn't point out that her assurance sounded more like a question. With his free hand he reached for his daughter, glad for her company, despite their heated exchange.


Consciousness washed over her the way the ocean water teases the sand on a beach. It rose and suddenly a bit of conversation hovered beside her, whispered words she couldn't piece together. It fell and she felt herself sink back into the deep dark. It undulated once again and she rolled closer to shore, a stitch in her side tweaking her, her mouth closed and uncomfortably dry. Her mind instructed her body and her body ignored it, remaining adamantly unresponsive. Cora drifted back into oblivion, wanting to answer Robert's far away voice, but her limbs were heavy, her lips too leaden to move.

Time wasn't linear. Flashes of memory were blurry behind her eyes, like pictures dotted with rain, bubbling and bleeding images. Fragments of dreams left her sluggish heart racing. She felt like she was falling, that weightless, stomach-in-your-throat feeling. She couldn't quite catch her breath around it.

A whimper vibrated through her chest and the blackness she had been submerged in cracked, a fissure of light creeping in. Her nose awakened as it recognized Robert's scent. Her fingers twitched under the vice of his grasp. Her ears strained, trying to make sense of the noise he made, words she imagined, though they sounded stretched out and unnaturally slowed down. The need to see him, to hold him, invigorated her temporarily, but unconsciousness pulled Cora back under the surface and she floated away.