Somehow, in the days that followed, the world kept turning. The people Thomas saw passing by continued their lives as if nothing in the world was different. From the cold, hard bench by the river where he sat, day after day, Thomas felt as if his whole world had caved in. And there was no light, no James, to help him escape it.

An hour after Thomas had identified the body, a telegram was sent to Mr Emery. Thomas had begged the police, sobbing, not to tell Mr Emery the truth about James's death – he could not bear to have Mr Emery asking questions. The police had probably planned to report James's death as murder anyway, but Thomas was thankful that was what Mr Emery was told.

Another 16 hours later, Mr Emery arrived, looking exhausted and shabby – the complete opposite of how Thomas remembered him. For the first time, it seemed Mr Emery truly recognised the worth of his son.

Thomas watched Mr Emery enter the police station from a distance. Thomas had left as soon as he had signed an official statement, but he could not help but linger between it and the river.

He did not feel angry at Mr Emery as he watched the man enter and leave throughout the day. Undoubtedly it was his final letter that drove James over the edge, but what was the point in getting angry? Mr Emery had his punishment in the loss of his only child. Thomas knew full well that the letter was not all that had weighed on James – being homosexual, studying something he was only half interested in and working towards a life he could not have would be mentally exhausting.

In my life, few have been kind to me. But James was. We were the same. But he was the very best.

Whether there was something that Thomas could have done to help James, he would never know. Certainly, the warning signs had been there. But he had been too caught up in his own trivial problems to notice.

Could saying something different, or doing something different, have truly saved him? Thomas now had a hunch that when he arrived, James had been planning this anyway. Maybe their conversation had changed James's mind, at least temporarily – his note was evidence of that.

He'd been depressed, that much was certain.

I should have seen. I should have read the signs.

Holding in tears, Thomas returned to his position by the river, where James had taken his final breaths. He had barely eaten or slept since he saw the body. Only kind Officer Roberts thought to give him some food in those first hours. He could barely stomach the hard bread, but at least the tea had been warm.

Only 4 days after James's death, the body was ready for Mr Emery to take north. It was still dark as the officers carefully prepared the coffin for transport. Thomas watched briefly, but soon returned to the river. He picked a tree not far from where James's body had been found, and pulled out his pocket knife. In the dark, he carved "TB & JE" into the tree. He nearly cut his finger trying, but he was satisfied with what he could see in the weak moonlight.

I will never love anyone like I loved him.

Thomas did not accompany Mr Emery, but caught the same train north. Thomas had barely spent a penny for days, but he knew there was no point lingering in Oxford. He might as well attend James's funeral – there ought to be someone there who knew the real James, who knew the truth about what had happened.

Following that, he ought to try and find a job. He had nowhere to go after all.

The funeral was a small affair. Thomas stood unnoticed at the back. The priest droned on and on, but Thomas was not listening. All he did was stare at the coffin, mind buzzing. He slipped away before anyone in his old village spotted him. He certainly did not want to run into his father, who did not even know he had been fired.

The days that followed were a blur. Thomas meandered through various villages and towns inquiring about work. He had hoped to find a job as a valet – it couldn't hurt to try, but he struggled to get interviews for even the footman jobs. Besides, he only applied where he could work for someone rich and powerful.

It was raining when Thomas found himself in Thirsk. He hurried into a public house immediately out of habit. He removed his damp coat inside the warm, cosy pub, although he barely noticed the feeling in his fingers returning. Around him, people laughed, and enjoyed a small band of musicians in the corner.

"Can I help, sir?" the owner of the pub approached Thomas with a grin.

"Not unless you can find me a job in some great house," mumbled Thomas.

"Seems unlikely. How about a room for the night?"

"That'll do. And maybe some supper."

"Coming right up, sir."

Thomas was led to a table in the opposite corner from the musicians. It was far from the fire, but he hardly cared if he was warm or cold.

It seemed an age since James had died, but it had not even been a fortnight. Thomas numbly accepted some hot soup and a pint of ale from the waitress, and proceeded to drown his feelings in as much alcohol as he could afford, which was little enough.

Thomas missed James more than anything. He would trade everything, and then some, for the chance to see his friend – no, his lover – again. Yet even with the love of his life gone, his job prospects almost nothing, and only a few pounds to his name, Thomas could not imagine taking the steps James had taken. Many of James's worries were similar to Thomas's own, and yet...

Thomas had never felt as low as he did now, and yet suicide seemed so…final. As he stared moodily into his empty ale glass, and ignored the silent chatter around him, he still found himself hoping for the things he'd once wanted: a good job in a high profile house, friends, and above all, James to be by his side always.

James had been everything. Everything to Thomas. Without James, he felt completely and utterly lost, and empty. It seemed ridiculous to hope for anything, when most of those dreams were now impossible. What was the point?

Thomas could not afford travelling through towns any longer. Thirsk was his last chance, no question. He desperately needed a job. If he could not find anything in the next two days, he was doomed. He would either return to his father, tail between his legs, or starve to death. The latter seemed easier.

Thomas ordered one more ale, and brought himself to examine the room. It was a shabby pub, and mercifully cheap. At a nearby table, a group of gruff, middle-aged men sat, talking and drinking amongst themselves.

"I thought they weren't taking on any more gardeners?"

"I heard they're hiring extra so the grounds'll be perfect when the family gets back from London."

"I've never understood why they leave the Abbey for London."

"So those girls can find rich husbands stupid."

"That's right. It's not just gardeners neither, I heard they're taking on new footmen and all."

Thomas had already drained his last ale, but despite the buzz of the alcohol, he perked up. He felt a little too shaky to ask about whatever "the Abbey" was without admitting to eavesdropping. He didn't fancy the risk – he knew what these gruff country types were like.

Instead, he called over the waitress and asked if for the job column from the paper. She came back promptly, after which Thomas thanked her, and wobbled up to his room.

Words blurred together on the page. Alcohol had been affecting him more than usual lately, probably due to exhaustion and grief – not that he consciously grieved much anymore, he was too numb. Finally, after staring at the list for far longer than he should have needed, he found an advertisement.

Last chance.

Thomas made his way to Downton village early the next morning. The crisp morning air helped his throbbing head, and he almost smiled. The little village was green and bright, full of people bustling about, waving to each other across the centre of town. Off to one side, a group of boys played cricket.

Thomas perused the advertisement again.

Footman wanted at Downton Abbey, to serve his Lordship the Earl of Grantham. Applicants are advised to send references to Mr Carson, his Lordship's butler.

Seated on a bench near the centre of the village, Thomas considered his options. He was tempted to go straight to this Mr Carson directly, and put forward his candidacy; however, if there was anything he knew about butlers, it was that they always wanted things done "properly". Thomas folded up his reference, and carefully wrote a note to the butler. Slowly, he got up, leaving his trunk, and strolled semi-confidently towards the group of boys playing cricket.

The boys were deep in concentration, focused on the game. Thomas watched for a while, but found he couldn't bear to interrupt. Off to the side, a small boy sat perched on the white fence that surrounded the small park, swinging his legs and looking longingly at the other boys. Thomas approached, flicking a penny in his hands.

"Hello!" Thomas called as he approached the boy on the fence.

The boy stood and turned to leave, but noticed the penny in Thomas's hands, and watched it rise and fall eagerly. "Yes?" he finally asked, tearing his eyes from the penny.

"I was wondering if you could deliver something for me, to Downton Abbey?"

"Downton Abbey! The big house you mean?"

"Yes. I need you to deliver this letter to the butler, Mr Carson."

The boy snatched at the penny, but Thomas pulled it away quickly. "You can have one penny now, and another if you come back with an answer about an interview. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes." The boy held his hand out eagerly for the penny and the letter. Thomas gave him both, and the boy ran off instantly.

Thomas sat on a nearby bench and watched the cricket game until they finished, tapping his foot absentmindedly. The boys left the field soon after. Thomas continued to sit, mind buzzing as he stared into space. He was bubbling with anxiety when the boy returned.

The boy held out his hand expectedly.

"Well? Is there a message for me?" Thomas asked, jolted suddenly into consciousness.

The boy signalled to his open palm again. Reluctantly, Thomas handed over another penny. The boy stared at it in wonder until Thomas's angry grumbles roused him.

"The butler says you're to go for the interview."

"When?"

"4 o'clock today, he said."

The boy ran off without another word. He ran in the opposite direction of the main group, and was soon joined by one other boy. They hugged, and ran off together to the edge of the village.

Be careful. You'll only be disappointed when something inevitably tears you two apart.

Thomas sighed, and checking his watch, realised he did not have a lot of time. He went straight for the inn, and tried his best to clean himself up. It had been a few days since his last interview, and Thomas was not looking particularly employable.

Absentmindedly, he began to shave the small stubble growth around his mouth. He combed his hair, washed his face, and racked through his trunk for his best-fitting clothes. It seemed strange to hope for something, but Thomas desperately wanted – and needed – this job.

At least working for an Earl would be a step up, even if it is only a footman position.

Staring at his reflection, Thomas decided it was the best he could manage. After practising his fake smile one last time, Thomas began the journey to Downton Abbey.

It was not so far, and Thomas found the walk refreshing. He smoked his last cigarette as he walked up the drive, and awkwardly searched for the servant's entrance.

"Can I help you?" asked a kindly, stern-looking Scottish woman.

"Yes, please. I'm here to see Mr Carson about the footman position."

"He'll be pleased you're a tad early. I'm Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper. I'll show you in."

Together, Thomas and Mrs Hughes entered the house. They passed a scary-looking lady's maid smoking on their way in, and Mrs Hughes led the quivering Thomas into the servant's hall.

"Cheer up, lad. Mr Carson is not that scary."

"I just really need this job, that's all," Thomas stared at his shoes. "My uncle passed away recently, and it's a lot less money feeding my father and sister. It's been hard without him." The lies came easily to Thomas, despite everything. "Sorry. I shouldn't bother you with my problems."

"Don't worry about it, lad. Prove to Mr Carson you're a hard worker, and he'll probably take you on. The men he's interviewed lately left a lot to be desired."

"Thank you." Thomas smiled, as Mrs Hughes asked the hall boy to fetch Mr Carson.

With James gone, Thomas knew things could never be the same again. He'd never be the same again. The numbness had started to fade, and in its place, Thomas felt a strange mix of anger and hope. Angry, that the world had forced James to take an irreversible step, taking him from Thomas forever. And yet, Thomas felt a bitter hope, that without James, he had a better chance at good career at least.

In the end, Thomas would never know if anything he could have done would have changed anything. James made his choice. The only thing Thomas could do now was truly grieve, and move on.

If nothing else, he'd learned his lesson. Do not attach yourself to anyone.

"Thomas Barrow? Mr Carson's ready to see you now," the hall boy gestured for Thomas to follow him.

Straightening his jacket, Thomas approached with his head held high.