A/N: So I had to work out all my s3e2 feels somehow and the result is this angsty "bonus" chapter. It's a jump back in time to the death of Claire. The last chapter with happy-family-feels will be up in a few days!

STORY THE FIFTH
1919

Martin wakes from the sun on his face. The sun's usually not this bright when he wakes up. He pushes off his covers and sits up. His head swims, protesting the movement. "Uggghhh," he falls backwards onto the bed. He doesn't feel good. His body hurts, his head hurts, and his throat is sore and scratchy. He calls out "Mum?" His voice comes out quiet and hoarse. It hurts so bad. He closes his eyes, the sun hurting his head. He strains to hear Mum's footsteps but there's only silence. His throat hurts so bad. He wants water. "Muuummmm?" Still no answer. She probably can't hear him with his voice all funny.

Slowly he rolls out of bed, clutching onto it as the room swims again. He needs water. He needs Mum. Soon the pain and dizziness lessen and he shuffles across the room. Their main room is deserted, the stove cold and empty. The sink taunts him but he can't reach the glasses on his own.

Martin drags himself to Mum's bedroom door. He knocks twice and he leans listlessly against the wood. "Mum?" There's no answer so he pushes the door open. His mother lies sprawled across her bed, blankets kicked off onto the floor, her face pale and shining with a sheen of sweat. She doesn't seem to notice him so he creeps to her bedside, shakes her arm that feels clammy to his touch. "Mum, I don't feel good."

Her eyes open slowly, and she blinks at him a few times without recognition.

"Mummy, my head hurts and my throat hurts."

Her eyes widen and she lifts a shaking hand to his forehead. "No fever," she murmurs. Her voice is as scratchy as his. She closes her eyes, then pushes herself to a sitting position, one hand grabbing for the bed the other for her head as she sways precariously. Martin latches onto her arm in worry.

"Let go, baby." He doesn't feel well enough to protest being called baby and lets go of her arm. Mum stands, swaying a bit, and all color instantly drains from her face. She takes a few steps to the door and then stops, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily.

Martin is terrified. What is wrong with his mother? She turns and slides against the wall to the floor as he rushes to her, ignoring the pounding in his head at the motion. "Mum? What's wrong?"

She takes his hand, presses it to her forehead the way she did to him. The skin is hot to the touch, her whole body shaking, and he pulls his hand away quickly. "Martin, can you be a very brave boy for me?"

"Brave like Daddy?"

"Yes, brave like Daddy. Do you remember where the doctor is?"

He knows where the post office, the police, and the hospital are. The post office has a phone if he needs to call Granda Charles Carson and Grannie Elspeth Carson at Downton Abbey. The police are for if something goes wrong and Mummy isn't around. They can also call his grandparents. The hospital is where the doctor works. Martin thinks of the brick building they have taken frequent walks to. There is a sign at the door, painted blue, with big letters that say "RIPON HOSPITAL". He goes down their street, turns left, walks past two streets, and turns right. At the end of that street is the the hospital. "Yes, Mummy."

"Good boy. Can you go get the doctor or a nurse and bring them there? Tell them-" she stops to cough, a painful sound.

"Mum?"

She grabs his hand. "It's okay, Martin. We're just sick. You need to tell the doctor how you feel and that your mother has a fever. Repeat that?"

"Get the doctor. Tell him you have a fever and bring him here."

"Good boy." Her eyes close and she leans her head back against the wall.

"In my night clothes, Mummy?"

She opens her eyes, blinks at him once or twice, before grimacing and closing her eyes again. "It doesn't matter, Martin." She coughs again, longer than before. "Go baby. Go get the doctor."

"I love you, Mummy."

"It'll be okay, Martin. We're just sick and need a doctor. I love you too. Now go."

Martin goes.

Elsie knocks on the door, shifting her grasp around the basket she carried. After a minute or two there is no reply so she knocks again. Claire and Martin ought to be home. She had confirmed her afternoon off with them in a letter last week. Suddenly the door jerks open, catching her by surprise.

An unfamiliar woman stands in the doorway, dressed in the gray dress and white apron of a nurse. "I'm sorry, but-" the nurse starts

"Is something the matter?" Of course something is the matter if there is a nurse opening the door. "This is my daughter-in-law's house, and my grandson's. Are they ill?"

The woman stands firmly in the doorway, although her voice is cautious. "Yes ma'am. But you see... we think it might be Spanish Flu."

Elsie's blood runs cold. "...Both of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. Although the mother has it worse than the boy."

"Claire and Martin," she corrects as she pushes her way past the nurse into the house. "I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Nurse Scott."

Her coat is already off as she removes her hat. "You may call me Mrs. Carson. Now, Nurse Scott, what can I do to help?"

"It's bad, Charles. Martin seems to be doing alright. He hasn't developed a fever, he's just a bit sore and groggy, the poor lad. But Claire started vomiting an hour ago and her fever just keeps getting higher. Nurse Scott wanted to take her to the hospital but they turned her down because they don't want it to spread." She keeps her voice low, glancing around as she talks. Thankfully the post office is mostly deserted and the man behind the counter had vanished into a back room with some packages.

"Do you want me to come down?"

"What about the dinner service?" A stupid question from a stupid woman. For all their arguments across the decades regarding his obedience to The Family versus his dedication to their family, she chooses now, when they both know too well that "doing alright" can turn to "dead" in a matter of hours, to inanely question the dinner service? She blames the nerves.

"Thomas and Anna can manage." His voice is firm, the commanding butler voice that brooks no argument. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

She takes comfort from his voice and re-fortifies herself against the memories of Miss Swire's funeral not even weeks earlier. She needs to get back to the house. Nurse Scott had agreed to stay only a bit longer to watch them while Elsie ran the post office to make the call. "I love you, Charles Carson."

The commanding tone drops, his voice becomes warm and caressing. "And I love you, Elsie." And then he hangs up.

Charles is sitting on the bed beside Martin when she comes in with the news. The boy had been cranky and tired after being unable to sleep most of the night due to achy muscles and a dripping nose. Elsie had suggested hot chamomile tea with plenty of honey. When combined with a reading of Robin Hood, it was a surprisingly effective remedy for insomnia.

They are still in the dark early hours of the morning. When he sees her face, he knows what has happened and his heart breaks. It makes no sense that the disease should take the young and spare one as old as himself. War and the Spanish Flu: together they seemed to have turned the natural order of things on its head.

He brushes the hair from Martin's forehead, checks that the boy is thankfully still without fever. The boy snuffles in his sleep, but his body is too exhausted from fighting the illness for him to wake so easily. Charles eases himself off the bed, lets Elsie lead him into the hallway and shut the bedroom door.

It seems there are no tears left in them, or maybe the shock is just too great. They have reached their quota of grief and cannot process anymore. For want of something for their hands to do, they make tea.

They sit at the table, not drinking their tea, not talking, but simply staring into space. Nurse Mitchell - fetched hours before when Claire suddenly took a turn for the worse - joins them, accepts a cup of tea wearily. She drinks it, offers her consolations, gently tells them the hospital will contact them in the morning about the body. They are too worn down to do anything but nod their thanks and Nurse Mitchell has done this often enough to not take offense or offer additional platitudes or advice. She leaves them, and they continue to sit as dawn slowly breaks and begins to fill the house.

"Did she saying anything? Before..."

Elsie shakes her head. "Her fever was too high, she was just babbling in delirium. And then she wasn't able to breathe..." He clutches her hand as she relives the horrific moments. She had been in Miss Swire's room just moments before the girl's death, changing the sweat-soaked blankets. She had heard the girl's gasps for air as she had tried to talk through the fluid in her lungs. That had been a relatively calm death. Claire's had been a violent one - violent with a sudden terrible surrender.

They are struck at the same moment with the desperate need to check on Martin.

The boy is still sleeping, more calmly than when they had left him. They take turns, both checking the boy's cool forehead and the soft puffs of breath from his mouth. This is their family now: a small boy and Elsie's sister in Lytham St. Anne's.

"They will let him live with us, won't they?" she breathes the words out softly, her forehead wrinkling in a frown.

A child living in the servants' quarters? He's never heard of such a thing. Of course, it is not so uncommon to employ children as young as ten or eleven, from families that need the extra money, to be boot-blacks or laundry maids. They work though, and more often than not return to their families in the evenings. "Temporarily at least... I've always expected a cottage when we retire. Perhaps that moment will just come sooner than we thought."

"You'd retire and leave Downton?"

Charles wishes she wouldn't sound so surprised. "I can't say I wouldn't be sad to leave, but..." But he has outlived his son and survived a disease that has struck down his daughter-in-law. When he tried to cling tighter to his job it knocked him reeling. It strikes him as all rather futile now and here is a small boy, utterly dependent on the two of them for his future. He sighs helplessly, "I could hardly ask you to retire and take care of Martin on your own." How his opinions have changed in 35 years.

"You may not need to. The Crawleys are hardly the most usual aristocratic family-" He looks at her askance in surprise. She laughs softly. "Just because I don't worship them the way you do doesn't mean I cannot admit they're hardly the most usual of employers." Their hands meet, offering and taking reassurance in equal measure. "We'll talk to them and see what they say. No use worrying until then." A short huff of breath lets him know she's trying to convince herself as much as him.

The whole conversation has been held side-by-side, watching Martin instead of each other. There are too many feelings, too many memories, and too many hopes to sort through. One moment Elsie feels as if she's thirty years old again and watching over Nathan instead of Martin. The next she feels so very old and wonders how much time they have left to give to Martin before they leave him too. Charles' non-heart-attack two years ago was a painful reminder that they are not getting any younger.

She takes her own advice, shoves the thoughts to the back of her mind. Martin is looking better, it is likely his appetite will have returned and she doesn't know what is in the pantry. More sobering, Claire's room needs to be cleaned, the sheets taken care of, the wet towels they had applied... if she can bear to go in there. She will. She needs work to do, needs to be busy.

Charles' thought process mirrors that of his wife. He doubts he will ever shake the lingering guilt of surviving what the younger generation did not. However, his priority cannot be himself. There is his family to take care of and his job, the hospital, a funeral home...

The tears will come later. For now they are two dedicated, efficient servants working to serve one small boy.