I know this story is pretty harrowing, and unfortunately there is more to come, but not too much more.

Sorry, this chapter will be quite descriptive; I hope you can appreciate why. I have mainly done this from Thomas' point of view so far, but I thought it was important to put in a bit more of Jimmy's perspective in this chapter. I desperately hope I can do the feelings of these characters justice. It's very difficult but I've given it my best go to make it feel as real as possible. Thank you.

Thank you for reviews/ follows/ favourites. You are all wonderful.

Warning for trauma/ suicidal thoughts

Apologies for any spelling/ grammar mistakes

Jimmy returned to his room, ignoring the questions of his mental state which were bombarded upon him by the staff, as he stormed upstairs, moving quickly and keeping his head down so that no one could see the tears forming in his eyes. He slammed his bedroom door shut and undressed without any diligence, ripping the clothes from his body in a fury to get into bed and just settle. Having removed his braces and undone the front of his trousers he let gravity assist them to the floor, while he removed his shirt. As he exposed his flesh he went to cover himself but stopped as he caught the sight of himself in the mirror. Turning slowly back, his night shirt held loosely in his hands he saw himself properly for the first time since London. The massive bandages across his stomach. Without looking down he let the shirt fall from his fingers and felt for the edges of the dressing and slowly began to peel them away. He just wanted to look, to see what he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

His face was rigid until his mouth opened to take a feral breath at what was being revealed. He did not remove the whole dressing, he could not bear to see his wound in its entirety just yet, just a few inches was all he needed to form an idea in his mind of what the rest would be like. With every new stitch revealed a gasp and an accompanying tear were drawn from Jimmy, as it just seemed to keep going. He examined but less than a quarter of the stitched up incision, not being able to expose himself to any more without fearing he would fall apart within himself. The stitches pulled together his skin in a hideous formation of small imprecise vertical lines, his insides trying to seep through the gaps in between them. He swivelled to see the length of the dressing on his back, how long the incision beneath that one would be, he did not need to see it, it would no doubt be the same as the one on his front. He was strangely fortunate at least that the man who worked on him knew his way around a knife, as otherwise there was a real danger he could have been killed. That's what Victoria's mother said to him, but did it matter now?

His fingers wanted to touch the stitches but they were repelled by the contrast of what was there before. He remembered what his skin was once like, soft, perfect, unblemished, but now he was deformed. He would be like this for the rest of his life. It would never be the same. What would people say when they saw? What would he say to them in return? It was such a big part of his life, part of his being now, something that affected him so deeply and yet he had to keep it a secret. At least it wasn't as bad as Thomas' in that people could see his scar, he could not hide it unless he wore a scarf, as was the Duke's cruel purpose. What was his purpose for him? So Thomas could never have sex with Jimmy without thinking of it? What good was that now they were apart? At least before his suffering had a purpose, now it was just a big ugly corruption of his flesh that meant nothing except to flood his days with pain. Tears glided down his naked chest, along the goose bumps forming there. A chill sent shivers through his body as he suddenly felt the wind through his slightly ajar window. He put on his nightclothes and got into bed, folding the pillow across his face to envelope his distraught features, for he had suffered, he had suffered deeply. Jimmy hoped it would not be for long; his break up with Thomas. That this was a phase, that Thomas would forgive him and realise he needed him; that he wasn't meant to be alone and without him. Because now Jimmy had the experience of being with Thomas he could not imagine being without him; and now it had come to pass he hated to think what the next days held for him. He felt alone, he felt vulnerable, and could not imagine Thomas to be feeling any different. He needed someone, and by god it had to be Thomas.

Through all the pain of uncertainty, one thing was known to him; that he hated the Duke, as much as he hated himself.

Not long after Jimmy left him Thomas decided to go for a walk across the fields. The moon was rising in the distance, and he wanted to take in the night air that would soon fall upon him. He felt so alone, though it was so peaceful being out there, but at the same time he felt unsafe. He therefore did not go far enough to leave the sight of the Abbey, he did not want to tempt his fate that with each step he became more and more convinced was coming.

He stopped.

It all seemed so surreal. He would open his eyes and be in bed, wrapped in sweat soaked sheets, awaking from another nightmare. What happened? Had he really ended things with Jimmy? That sweet boy, that pure, innocent, gorgeous boy. Why? What for? Because Thomas should be alone, he only brought pain, pain was his purpose to the world. A harbinger of suffering to all he dared to touch. There was only this. But now it was done Thomas grew more and more uncertain. His mind was locked into a phase of unwilling testament; he was not part of this world, he held no place in it, he affected nothing, he was nothing, nothing to himself nor anyone else except a dark stain on the earth consuming all that crosses it. He was dust in the wind. His life just one circle of malevolent abasement, distrust and horror orbited him and now it had closed upon him in all its abhorred torment, casting itself down upon him; a spectre presenting itself before the blindness of his lidless eyes that would never close or see.

There was nothing.

Nothing.

He was in his room, his feet anchored to the ground. Half of his clothes were missing, only in his night shirt and long johns he stood, in the darkness of his room before a long mirror, the moon shining upon its silvery surface so his body gleamed, the cream of his clothes reflecting the light, the dressing across his neck holding a prominent place in his sight, the background faded into darkness. He trembled, in a thousand ways for a million reasons, but only one mattered. He could see the Duke standing there, by his shoulder in the mirror, that face that looked at him from across the club, smiling at him in the dark, lurking, waiting for him. The fires of hell blazing around him, in command to his piercing eyes stabbing into his naked flesh and shredding his bones. His evil shaking the foundations of the earth, those terrible walls shrinking in upon him. The Duke's whispers from the shadowy haze mocked Thomas' breaking soul as it crumbled before him into something indescribable; lesser than man, more than a feeling, more powerful, more potent; a ghost of silent death. "You are mine Thomas, you are mine." He could feel it coming, the sound hurt his ears, like they were bleeding, it hurt his head, he had to take deep breaths to stop the tears, from the anxiety choking him, it was at the back of his throat. He begged them to stop, to stop making that sound, to stop talking, it was suffocating, 'just leave me be, please leave me alone I can't take it and I can't show myself, I can't do it please it's too much, I'll break down and never come back, spare my mind please! Please spare my mind! Just stop, please, just stop!'

"STOP!"

A cry.

A crash.

Silence.

Shame. Regret. Always fear.

The mirror shattered, pieces crashed down onto the floor. They sparkled in an irony of tranquil beauty around him, through these pieces he could see the world from a thousand views, none of them his own, how he wished he could be one of them. He leaned against the wall beside him and slid down onto the floor. His legs stretched before him. The shards of the broken mirror surrounded him. They taunted him in a cacophony of agony, begging him to seize one. What else could he do? A shard grazed his fingertips as he curled his fingers about it, the sharpness perforated his skin, but it only tightened his grip of it, blood trailed down the length of the shard, Thomas wondered from where it came as it did not feel like it was his own. His hand shook, the blade digging deeper and deeper into his. In his pleas he only asked for the shaking to cease. He looked into the shard of mirror and saw nothing in its relfection but the red of his eyes. The only part of him that seemed real. His eyes in a dark of shadow, but a glimmer of dying life disguised by a haze of despair. The Jimmy of his nightmares was right; he was pathetic. There was no difference between them, they were one and the same, and he had to escape from them both. It was the only way to save them. The only way to stop the blood flowing, the scars rotting, the mind collapsing into ash; into end.

He questioned his very existence, his right to his life, and even if he had it he questioned his reason for existing. Should he exist at all? Maybe not. There was no great scheme for him, no future, he saw nothing beyond this night, beyond this moment, this second, this feeling, this thought of end. He should not exist. He did not want to.

He held the glass in his crimsoned fingers, in the same way that Edward Courtenay did to put an end to his troubles. Was it really so simple? A touch of the edge against the skin of his wrist, a small sudden movement and all the pain would flow from him as blood cascading onto the floor. Then he would find peace, the peace which called to him in all its angelic splendour. Nothing in the last four weeks felt more right as this thought which resonated through his mind.

"Mr Barrow?"

Could it be angels beckoning him, assuring him of his path?

"Thomas? What on earth has happened?" Mrs Hughes dispensed with formality in shock at the sight before her as she came into Thomas' room. His neighbours had heard the crash and Mrs Hughes insisted that she be the one to investigate. The man on the floor did not move, his breathing quickened, his mind was so corrupted it could not think, he could do nothing, just look at the housekeeper and hope she would take nothing from the scene before her.

"Mrs Hughes. What are you doing here?" He tucked the blood stained shard behind his back, keeping it from her sight in his shame.

"I came to see if you were all right." The broken pieces of mirror cracked beneath her feet as she moved towards the under butler. "What happened?"

"I were tired and fell into the mirror… cut me hand on some glass." Thomas waved his sliced hand jovially, to force from her mind ideas that were clearing running through it.

"Do you need a Doctor called for?"

"No, it's not bad." Thomas glanced at his hand. Realising now that it was his right, though his mind was not placed to see how this would affect his work just yet, as now he had two mutilated hands, not one. "What do you want?"

"Victoria said you might need to talk."

"She was wrong."

"I see." The housekeeper by no means convinced as she surveyed the shattered mirror and the under butler lying among its remnants, "That's not like her. I'm here for you Thomas, we all are, I know you've had ups and downs, but we have all grown to care for you, even Mr Bates and Anna. You've shown your worth, and we know that Downton wouldn't be the same without you. You didn't deserve what happened to you and you have been through a great deal. You're not alone. Let me know if you need anything, and I will do what I can, even if it's going to the doctors. I would be happy to come with you."

"Why are you so kind to me?"

"Because Mr Barrow, you have done some things in your time, but you have certainly made up for them, and if what you have endured can be called punishment, well, it's far beyond what you deserve." Only the tears in Thomas' eyes showed Mrs Hughes that her words had hit him hard, but with all their positive intent, "Don't think me so kind though, tomorrow the new footman's coming, he's got some French name which has driven Mr Carson half mad, he even thought the lad had misspelt his name, that's how much he didn't want to believe it, but luckily the English version is hardly different, I fear he wouldn't have got the job otherwise. Anyway he's young and seems very kind but spirited, you'll be with him for a couple of days to make sure he's settling in all right while you recover from your injuries. Old and new." The housekeeper nodded to Thomas' bleeding hand which he pressed into the side of his long johns to try and stop the flow and so Mrs Hughes would not have to see, for she had seen enough of his blood in the last month.

"I'm babysitting then." Thomas sniffed.

Mrs Hughes kept her eyes on Thomas' otherwise she would find it hard to continue to ignore everything else around her, as ignore it she must if that was what Thomas needed her to do. "Yes, but I don't think you'll mind so much."

"Why's that?"

"You'll know when you see him."

'Oh yes, definitely not setting us up.' Thomas thought wryly, communicating such a feeling with his eyes which had grown softer through his immense vulnerability.

"Will you be all right?" The woman asked.

"Yes Mrs Hughes. I'll clean up in the morning." Thomas gestured to the pieces of mirror across the floor without mentioning them, unless he risk the onset of tears in the presence of the housekeeper.

"Nonsense, the hall boys will take care of it." Mrs Hughes assured him in worry that the under butler might do himself harm in the process of clearing the mess in the state he was in.

"Can they leave it for tonight?" He already felt too much shame having been seen in this state by another which even he found unbearable to see himself in, and for now his mind just begged for him to be alone. As tears shed seeped uncontrollably from his sore, tired eyes.

"Very well, but first thing in the morning I'll send them in."

"Thank you." Thomas guiltily but gratefully whimpered.

"Good night then Thomas."

"Good night Mrs Hughes."

The housekeeper, defying her conscience, which told her to keep her distance, touched Thomas on the head, and stroked his out of place hair, the man looked up to her and felt as though he had been blessed by the warm, life- giving hand of a saint and closed his eyes to emanate himself in that touch. With that, it was gone, and she left. Like she had never been there at all, but the feeling she brought with her stayed with Thomas. It was like she knew what he was going to do, but if she didn't her words were all the more impressive as they had made Thomas believe that perhaps he did matter, and that just maybe he should exist after all.