A/N: Hey everyone! I'm sorry it's been much longer than usual since my last update. I'll be honest, I had a little trouble figuring out which direction I wanted to go in with this chapter. But after much deliberating, I found a way which I think will be the best. You're reviews are wonderful as always! I can't tell you how much they mean to me =) I was so pleased that you all especially loved that John talked to Margaret while undressing her. I wasn't so sure you'd find that very…..John, I supposed. But I'm glad you liked it nonetheless. I've also been tinkering around with an idea for another story, obviously another N&S story. Don't worry, I wont start writing anything until after this one is finished, but I'd like to know you're thoughts, haha. And now I will stop rambling, and just get on to the chapter, because lets be honest, that's what you're really here for ;)

Chapter 14

He knew this place; he'd been here before, but it looked somewhat different then. The sky was dark, covered by thick black clouds, but the air was hot. Oh, it was so stifling hot in the house. He noticed then that he was in Crampton, at the Hale's home. But it was different, darker somehow. As though the walls had been tinged with coal dust.

"John." He jerked around at the sound of his name, but saw no one. It wasn't loud, but the unexpectedness of it sent his heart racing. Squinting through the haze in the room, he tentatively made his way forward, peering around every corner with hesitation.

"John." He spun around again, looking behind him into the hallway. The voice that called for him was just barely above a whisper, but it was sorrowful and broken, begging him for he knew not what. It was a woman's voice. He followed the sound through the hall and up the stairs, feeling an increasing urgency. Each time she spoke his name it was more desperate than the last. Finally, when he reached a door and could hear her voice from behind it, his eyes beheld her at last. She stood before him, wearing a wedding dress that might have perhaps once been quite beautiful. Now it was tattered and torn, as discolored by the black smoke as the walls and sky were. "John." she cried, voice straining with emotion. Then he noticed the blackness on her skin, covering her face and hands, save for two vertical strips beneath her eyes where a flow of tears seemed to have cleaned away the smoke. He stepped into the room trying to focus on her face, but the only light was coming from the window directly behind her, thus obscuring his view. "John" she continued in her terrible, broken plea.

Margaret. It was Margaret.

He crossed the space between them and grasped her face. "Margaret!" He exclaimed, not understanding. She did not speak, nor even make any physical acknowledgment that he was there. "What is it Margaret?" He searched her eyes, hoping to uncover the answer there, but she looked at him distantly, as though he were not even there at all.

"John." She whispered, eyes filling with tears but still unseeing.

"I'm here, my love. I'm right here." he replied, his voice surprisingly calm. He stroked his thumb across her cheek, but was distracted by the unusual feeling in his right hand. He pulled it back, bringing it closer to his face to inspect it in the dim lighting, and found it red with blood. He looked back to Margaret, and turned her face to search for the source of the blood. It started above her left temple, coursing down her face and dripping onto the dress below. This looked…familiar. It looked like… "How can this be?" He asked, looking at the familiar injury. The wound she had taken on his behalf.

"I chose this." John looked back into her eyes, still looking distantly at him. "Remember that I chose this, John."

"Margaret, what are you talking about?" He asked, trying to capture her gaze to no avail.

"John."

"John…"

John jerked awake disoriented, heart thumping wildly. Where was he? What was going on?"

"John…Jo…John…" His mind cleared instantly, and his attention returned to Margaret. She was restless, tossing and turning wildly in her sleep, face flushed deeply and…calling for him? He was momentarily frozen, his dream still lingering in his the front of his mind and he tried to shake the image away. The image of a smoke and blood-stained Margaret. But try as he might, he could not un-see it. The vision of Margaret in her wedding dress, still so fresh in his mind from when she had worn it just the day before, and the broken tone she used when calling for him only added to the clarity of imperception. But he suppressed his uneasiness in the same manner he always did, and focused on the woman laying in his-their- bed.

"I'm here, Margaret." He said softly, gripping her hand again and attempting to calm her whilst brushing the hair out of her face. Her forehead was blazing with fever, and his heart sunk a little. Despite the confident assurances of Dr. Donaldson the night before, he was worried for Margaret. He wanted to suppress that as well, to push it down and ignore it as he did so many other things, but it was impossible. It ate away at him regardless, clawing a slow, torturous path through his body, and leaving it raw with uncertainty. Surely she would recover. It wasn't that serious of an illness, was it? The doctor seemed unconcerned, even stating that it was to be expected out of everything that occurred. That it was a combination of overexertion, and illness. But he worried still. And the dream…the dream terrified him more than all other fears combined. He knew what his mind was telling him. His subconscious repeating the words of their argument back to him. Of Margaret saying she had made this choice; the choice to be his wife. And his demented mind showed him what that choice had done to her, would continue to do her. What he had done to her. He had ruined her, caused her injury, made a mockery of a wedding for her… this would not do. He forced himself to remain occupied, and set about calming Margaret's terrors. He might not be able to purge such thoughts from his mind, but perhaps he could help ease her fevered delusions for a short time. John located the cloth he had used the night before, and dampened it again, hoping to offer her some relief. After a few hours of this, her thrashing did eventually subside, and her murmuring (although not entirely faded) was much calmer than it had been when he awoke. When it faded completely and she began a restful slumber, John sat back in his chair and sighed exhaustedly. The fear was beginning to creep upon him once more, and he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest. 'She will be fine,' he told himself. But he found it wasn't the illness that was unsettling him. No, a new type of fear was rippling through him that he hadn't given very much thought to until that moment. Had he truly done the right thing by marrying her? But he found for the first time, he wasn't thinking about how Margaret would react, how Margaret felt about being his wife now, how Margaret viewed this sham of a relationship, or what horrible sacrifice he had forced Margaret to make. He was thinking about what everyone else was thinking of Margaret.

There had been talk of her, yes, he had heard that much with his own ears. He had seen the pointed fingers, and heard the hushed tones of those he passed in the street, but he had never paid it any heed. He was enduring the disgrace, on Margaret's behalf. Taking the blame away from her, for she had been on that night, truly blameless. The extent of her impropriety only reached to her granting him the privilege of calling her by her Christian name. He was one who tossed his self control into a blazing furnace and took affectionate liberties without even knowing whether they would be welcome or not. Surely anyone would have seen that. But no, men were generally blameless in situations such as those. It was the women who were always wanton, immoral deceivers for accepting affection from a man, no matter how inconsequential. After all, hadn't he assumed that Margaret was the one to blame for the incident at Outwood? True she had lied about being there, but if John were honest, he had long since placed the blame on her. And continued to blame her. And so would Milton, he realized. Milton would always place the blame on her, the foreigner, the disgraced, and very recently, the immoral. Had she really been thrown out of shops? He very seriously doubted that Higgins would lie to him on any account, but least of all where it concerned Margaret. He harbored an unexpected affection for her, and would never have falsified something so serious. If John remembered correctly, he had actually come there accusing him of doing nothing.

Of course, he had done nothing. Doing something had obviously ended badly for her the first time, and doing nothing, keeping her safely at home with her father where she was happy, should have had at least some positive result. But it hadn't. He had been wrong; so very, very wrong, like he had been with everything else regarding Margaret. Now she was his wife. He had gotten exactly what he had wanted from her in the first place. And he felt disgusted with himself for it. A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. "Come." he called, voice raspy at being used loudly for the first time.

"I thought you might enjoy some refreshment, sir." Carter said cheerfully upon entering. He carried a large tray bearing a plate of sandwiches, tea, and even a few blueberry scones. John smiled appreciatively at him, not noticing how hungry he was until the moment his eyes found the food.

"Thank you Carter, it's very kind of you to take the time to bring me this." John replied. "Please give Molly my thanks as well, I'm sure no such meal could have existed without her." Carter smiled at him, and as John took a rather large bite out of a scone, he suddenly better. A hope a been rekindled within him.

"Would it be too presumptuous to inquire after the Mistress?" Carter asked, looking uncertainly at the floor. John frowned slightly, and looked back to Margaret, still sleeping more restless than could be considered 'normal'.

"Dr. Donaldson is confident she will make a full recovery." He replied, his tone betraying his uncertainty. "Her fever is increasing, but she is sleeping peacefully for now, at least."

"Molly prepared a special broth for her, to help keep her calm and relaxed. I can bring it back up if it suits you." John gave him a small smile.

"Yes, thank you." He replied before helping himself to a few sandwiches while he waited. But it wasn't long before Carter reappeared with a steaming bowl of broth, and a book on an additional tray.

"Here you are, Master." Carter set the tray down at the far end of the bed. "And I've brought this up for you as well." He handed him the book. "It will help to relax her when the fever rages again." John smiled appreciatively at him, before he vanished out into the hallway.

Eventually the fever did rage again, and the delusions and murmuring started resumed, more terrible than they had been before. She was thrashing, and calling out incoherently, hair clinging to her face and her brow furrowed in pain. He had tried everything to wake her, save for throwing a bucket of cold water on her. But he doubted even that would work. She whimpered and cried, calling for him in the terrible broken way she had in his dream and he whispered his presence back to her, but she did not hear him. So he dried her tears, attempted to calm her terrors, and reassure her of his presence while continuously refreshing the cloth on her forehead, all the while ignoring any thought or need that arose within him. He did not need food. He did not need sleep. And he did not need to go to the Mill and check-up on anything. The only thing he needed to do, was sit in the chair beside his bed, and calm his ailing wife in whatever way he could, be it reading, shushing, or comforting. Which he did persistently. He lost track of minutes, and hours, and days. He lost track of the world beyond his bedroom, of the rumors that were still carrying heavily on the wind, he lost track of everything that had occurred between them, of their reasons for marrying. He lost track of the people who had come to visit him, for nothing else mattered. Nothing mattered but being what Margaret needed, the moment that she needed it. When her condition worsened, he could not be swayed from her side even for food.

And so it was that five whole days had passed since the day Carter had brought him the book. Six days since their wedding night. Six days since he had seen her eyes. Five days since he had slept, three days since he had eaten, and only one day since her fever had finally broken. There had been visitors of course, but the only ones he remembered were Nicholas Higgins, Richard Hale, and of course Dr. Donaldson who couldn't really be considered a visitor anymore. They had spoken to him, he was certain of it, but he could not remember what they had said, or even how he himself had replied. He was in a somewhat catatonic state. Once it had been proclaimed that 'the worst was officially over', they had tried to force him away from her side, but John would not be swayed, and dismissed them all. He longed for the quiet. It was not five minutes after he resumed his place by her side, habitually placing a hand to her forehead to check her temperature, that he slumped over and promptly fell asleep.

The black fog in Margaret's mind lifted slowly, the pain in her head increasing with every second of awareness she gained. But through the pain she knew that something was not right; this was not her room, the lighting was different. Why was her head throbbing so? She tried to recall the events of the night before but came up blank. She could not remember what she had been doing the night before, nor indeed, for several days it seemed. Everything was fuzzy and still shrouded by the accursed fog in her mind. She opened her eyes slowly but found she could see easily, as the room was not very bright. She did not move her head, but took in the surroundings she could see with her eyes, and recognized nothing. After some time had passed and the fog and pain began to fade away, she became aware of a strange pressure against her left side. She moved her head slowly to investigate and saw with a shock, a man. His face partially obscured by the arm it was resting in, raven-haired head nestled gently against her side, left hand resting casually against the blankets above her knee, caused a flood of memories to crash over her, and the sensation was so unusual a surprised gasp escaped her before she could stop it. And then he shot up like bolt, eyes wide in confusion and even a little fear.

"Margaret!" He exclaimed, and quickly reached for a cloth on the bedside table before pressing it against her forehead. His movements were so startled that he knocked over a bowl of water, and it shattered on the floor. "I'm here, Margaret, I'm here." he spoke, his voice raspy. She realized then, that he had not yet realized she was awake. She must have been quite ill. He looked as though he had not slept at all that night, his eyes holding that somewhat delirious quality in them, rimmed with redness that made his blue eyes more piercing than ever, and encircled by a blackness that made her feel guilty. He stood over her, gently rubbing her forehead with the cloth, and she noticed then, due the close proximity of their faces, how thin his appeared to be since the night before. Perhaps it was a trick of the light? Or perhaps it was how he looked without his cravat, for indeed it was missing, as were the first several buttons of his undershirt. She had never seen him this way before. "Don't worry Margaret, I will not leave." He continued, snapping her out of her reverie.

"John." She whispered. He continued in his task, still completely unaware of her consciousness.

"Shh, I am here Margaret." He continued.

"John." she said firmly, this time placing her hand on the arm currently attending to her head. The effect was immediate. He froze, looking at her hand in disbelief, slowly turning his eyes to find hers. The piercing icy blue met hers for a moment, before she felt as though the air had been crushed from her body. It took her a moment to realize that he had pulled her up to his chest, hugging her tightly. She tried to ignore the burning that seeped from her stomach into her chest at such close contact, but found it impossible.

"I can not tell you what a relief to see your eyes again." She blushed furiously, quite thankful at the moment for being able to hide her face against his body. But he quickly pulled her back and stared into her eyes. She didn't understand now, but she knew she would get answers from him when he was coherent enough to give them. Suddenly she frowned, looking critically back into his eyes.

"How long has it been since you slept?" she asked. "You can hardly keep your head up. Go and get some sleep. I feel very well, you need not concern yourself." He nodded at her sleepily, but rather than leaving the room as she expected, he merely clambered over her body, crashing face-first into the pillows, almost immediately unconscious.

Oh yes, they were married now. She must be in his bed.

The realization, although completely foreign to her, was not altogether terrifying as she thought it would be. And as she looked upon the sight of her husband beside her, face betraying his exhausted relief, she found she felt a little guilty even at how much she enjoyed that he would be willing to sleep beside her. Her heart soared against her will at the thought of him caring for her so diligently. The was he was comforting her as she woke, reassuring her that she would not be alone, and that he would be there for her. Soon her body distracted her with needs of their own, and she quickly located a glass of water and tray of scones on the bedside table. Not caring to whom these objects belonged to, she quickly (and unceremoniously) crammed down three scones and the entire glass of water, before slipping herself into peaceful bliss.

Sooooooo, a filler chapter. Not too interesting, but just enough I think. Sorry it took so long, midterms and all. More on the way soon =D

PS: I love you all so much!