Chapter 35

John woke very suddenly. It was so bright, the early morning light stabbing through his closed eyes, and immediately prompting a headache. He groaned and attempting to shield his eyes from the offending light source. Who had left all the curtains open? As soon as he registered the intense soreness of his limbs, all memories from the night before rushed to the front of his awareness.

The fight, the gunshot.

Margaret.

He shivered slightly, eyes still closed. Thrill, elation, and the slight gnawing of apprehension scratched at his insides. He had to see her.

No. No he did not. A doubt began to fill him as he pictured himself going back into his room and seeing her in his bed. God, what if she awake? No, he could not go in there just now.

It is her bed too. His mind helpfully supplied. Ah. That.

He was a married man. He was not married to any woman, no. He was married to Margaret. That beautiful, frightening, wonderful woman that he knew...but couldn't remember. He didn't understand why he felt the way he did. Knowing that she was his wife brought him insurmountable joy. Even now, just thinking of a woman such as Margaret willingly joining herself to him for life...there was no other word for it: happiness. And yet...he could not bring himself to see her.

He wanted to go in there-desperately needed to see her face. Yet he feared being in her presence so much, John felt it might be easier to simply pretend he did not exist. What was wrong with him? That was not normal, was it? These feelings were not new to him though. As he thought back on it, he knew that he had felt these same conflicting feelings as far back as his memory went. This was different though.

Before, Margaret would come in twice throughout the day to change his bandages. He dreaded her visits with as much fervor as he looked forward to them. Without fail, despite being horribly tongue-tied while simultaneously having his insides spin wildly out of control, he always enjoyed her company. He was always glad she had come to change his bandages, and felt her loss keenly once she had gone. Before was different; before he had no choice but to accept her company.

Now, with the option of excluding himself from her completely readily availble to him, John found it surprisingliy difficult to decide between the two. He felt out of place inside of his own body. His mind was whispering to him, imploring him to remember...it might have been a foreign language for all he understood it. He sighed, and decided to forgoe further thought on the subject, as his head was already troubling him greatly.

The knock on the door could not have come at a more opportune moment.

"Master." Carter said in cheerful morning greeting. John squinted at him; his head was pounding now, and he feared that opening his eyes completely might make it explode. "Dr. Donaldson has requested that you join him in your bedroom so he might change your bandages." John unconsciously shook his head, formulating the decline he had been thinking of since he woke.

"I do not think I wish to go." He said firmly.

"Aye, Master. It is not an option." Carter replied, with as much cheer as he seemed to be able to muster. "All of your medical supplies reside in that room, and with the Mistress recovering, it is the only option." He closed his eyes and scowled, hoping that Carter noticed.

"Very well." He bit out. Carter clapped his hands together in a rather jovial manner, and moved to help John out of bed. It was an ardurous task, but eventually the pair managed their way into the master bedroom.

It was somewhat lucky for John that walking was quite painful, and required all of his concentration. It gave him less time to think so very much about seeing her.

Seeing Margaret.

Unfortunately, this also prevented him from realizing that he was being led to his bed, which was already occupied by the aforementioned woman until it was too late.

She smiled shyly at him from the other side of the bed-her side of the bed-and he found he could not remember why he was opposed to seeing her in the first place. She was so lovely, so serene, and his heart beat a little bit faster as he gazed upon her. She sat upright against the pillows with the blankets covering her legs, wearing what looked to be an emerald green dressing down over a white nightdress, dark brown curls in every direction, and her left arm securely in a sling. He had never seen her more breathtaking. Fear gnawed greedily in his abdomen, and he tried desperately to think of something to say to her.

"I am so sorry you had to be moved." She said passionately, rescuing him from having to choke out a polite greeting. "I had no intention of inconveniencing you. I do hope you did not have to suffer so much, while being forced from your own bed."

"Our bed." John replied, his ability to speak materializing from nowhere. That was not what he intended on saying. He had also not noticed that Carter had helped him completely into the bed, nor that he and the Doctor were not to be found. This room was much darker, much warmer than the other, and it was the perfect lighting for him to see Margaret with absolute clarity. He saw her lovely little smile falter, saw it replaced with a crease between her brows and a look of disbelief. Disbelief was a good thing, in his mind. It meant there was still hope. At least, he was counting on it meaning there was hope. Why was he so opposed to seeing her earlier?

"Pardon?" She squeaked. Somehow the sight of her like that filled him with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He could not understand his own feelings, and decided not to ponder them at present, lest he become even more confused.

"I had been under the impression that a husband and wife generally share a bed, so it would be grossly unfair of me to be upset at you for resting in your own room." She stared at him, mouth open in complete shock, before bursting into tears. Horrified, John attempted to scoot himself closer to her.

"Margaret, no, I-" He broke off, not even knowing what to say. He awkwardly reached to the left with his right arm to offer some form of comfort. What had he done? Her face was turned away from him, and he could see her frantically swiping away her tears with her right hand. "I'm sorry.." He said uncertainly, not quite understanding her intense reaction. Guilt burned in his chest.

"No, I..." Margaret started, but stopped to draw a shuddering breath. She wiped her eyes once more, and turned to face him. He was once more entirely arrested by her beauty, no matter how guilty he felt. Idly he wondered if he had always felt such a strong reaction to her, or if it had only been intensified by his memory loss. He reached over, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder as he did, and drew his thumb over her remaining tears. Her eyes closed, lips trembling, and looked as though she were trying to hold back any more emotional outbursts. "I am sorry." she said quietly, eyes still closed. John's shoulder had now reached the throbbing fire phase of overexertion, but he refused to move dare he break this precious moment with her. His heart beat even faster, emotion racing through his body. It was as though he could feel everything all at once.

"You need not apologize to me, Margaret." He said softly. She smiled so beautifully at him he felt he could no longer breathe. He unconsciously smiled in return, and she sighed before opening her eyes.

"Come." she said, giving him a watery smile, but sounding significantly happier. "That position looks quite painful, and I should like to hear how you came about this revelation." John wasted no time in laying back against the pillows, a grateful sigh passing his lips.

"Well," He started, slightly out of breath from pain and his racing heart. "To be perfectly honest it just struck me." Margaret stared at him with equal puzzlement, and wonder. "It was the same as when I realized that your dress was for mourning. I said it without thinking, and realized it was fact."

"What even gave you the notion?" She asked, eyes wide and bright.

"I noticed my wedding ring for the first time." John said almost reverently, gazing at the gold band. "Surely I must have seen it before, but I never really...noticed it, or what it meant. I'm certain that sounds rather nonsensical." He added, chuckling slightly.

"No!" Margaret exclaimed, smiling wide at him. "I do understand. Your heart knows things that your mind cannot comprehend at first. With time, you understand the things you have known all along." John stared at her.

"Yes..." He said, trailing off. Should he tell her? It was perfectly normal to tell your wife you loved her, was it not? Why was he unbearably nervous? His hands were quivering, and he wanted it to stop.

"John?" Margaret called softly. He closed his eyes.

"I can hear you." John said quietly, distracted from his earlier thoughts by the sound of her voice. "I can hear you saying my name so many times. Over and over, happy, surprised, angry, even sad." He opened his eyes and looked directly at her. "But I cannot form the pictures around them." He finish dejectedly, looking away and focusing on the blanket. His head was beginning to throb once more. He hadn't noticed until that moment, that it ever stopped throbbing in the first place.

"John," she admonished. "It is not your fault." He sighed, gathering his courage, and bluntly ignored the burning panic that felt like a fire blazing in his stomach.

"Logically, I would agree with you." He said, glancing briefly at her face to gauge her reaction. She gave nothing away. "I feel as though I will fail you as a husband. I could not keep you safe, I can't-can't..." He stopped, the panic now reaching unexplored heights, and fought the urge to flee in any way possible. He wanted hide his face under the cover, a pillow, anything. He tried to speak, but it seemed like his throat had completely closed, and he couldn't breathe...He forced the words from his mouth through sheer force of will.

"I can't...l-love you, the way I did...because I don't remember you." John didn't want to look at her, was absolutely terrified of what he would see. He wanted to flee, to get away from her and the horrible burning... He brought his hands up to his temples, somehow hoping to quell the raging inside. He felt her hand grasp one of his own, he could not help himself; he jerked violently against the burning sensation of her touch. He stared at her, eyes wide and heart pumping furiously. He felt so afraid, so very, very afraid. Of her words, her touch, her physical presence... But much, much worse than that, he was frightening himself.

"You're afraid right now." Margaret stated. While her voice remained calm and comforting, her expression betrayed her emotions. Regret, despair, empathy; like the candle that made the spark of joy in her eyes had suddenly been snuffed. He was the cause. He had done that to her. Dear God, why did his chest hurt so much? "You are afraid of me, yes?" He could not breath fast enough, and nasty buzzing seemed to fill his ears and block all other sounds.

A bright and sunny room, and Margaret...Margaret, anguish pouring from her in violent waves, crashing against him with tremulous force. Lines of grief creasing her lovely face, eyes and nose bright from crying. A beautiful dress hanging limply from her far too thin frame. The letter, her father, her husband...all came bursting from a mysteriously locked door in his head, and John could clearly remember that moment.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Her voice echoed in his mind, broken and defeated, because of him. He grunted in frustration, wanting to speak, wanting to be heard.

"I do not remember you, I don't even know you, and yet...I love you right now, and I cannot understand why." John took several deep, steadying breaths, and forced himself to look at her again. "It's as though my instincts are telling me to run away from it." Miraculously, whatever hellish event had just occured in him was fading. Breathing became easier, the noise diminished. He felt...liberated, cleansed somehow. He sighed in relief, waiting for his heart to calm as well. "I feel guilty, because I whatever man I was, whatever man you loved...I am not him. I look like him but... I am terrified more because somehow I find myself in love with a woman I've only just met, who is herself in love with another man."

"Darling," she said, beaming so brightly at him. A little thrill shot through him at her endearment. "Whether you believe me or not, you are exactly that man that I am in love with." John suddenly felt he might vomit with relief and jubilation. "That statement proves it. It is exactly the same way you loved me before." His immediate inclination was to shout with joy. But the weight behind her words struck him, and he could not stop himself from asking.

"I fell in love with you while you loved another man?" John asked, his voice so much harsher than he anticipated. A bitterness rose in the back of his throat, and he felt himself grow angry at the thought. It intensified as he saw Margaret's rather guilty expression. Another image, unbidden, appeared in his mind:

Margaret, looking so much younger and so innocent, with her arms flung around a very young handsome man in reckless abandon. Wherever they were it was quite dark, and then Margaret turned and faced him with a look of shock and guilt, identical to the expression she currently bore.

"Oh, I can remember it." He said, pain and anger weaving through his voice, so much stronger than he could understand. She sighed, closing her eyes as though to ask for patience. "I remember seeing you with him...I can feel how angry I was, how much it hurt."

"I know." Margaret said, matching his anger with defiance and, was that grief? John opened his mouth, wanting, needing to unleash this fury he felt on someone. To make her hurt the same way he hurt. "But before you lash out against me, understand that we never had an opportunity for me to tell you what that was about."

"Do you love him?" He snapped, unable to reign the beast inside.

"Of course I do, b-"

"I understand." He interjected sharply. "You settled for me, then?" Margaret focused on him with anger burning in her eyes, horror donning her face.

"I love him, because he is my brother!" She shouted, furiously throwing the covers from her legs, and standing to her full height. "I never got the opportunity to tell you, because you simply refused to hear anything I had to say, as you were so absolutely determined to hate me! I understand what it looked like, I understand that it broke your heart, but for God's sake John! You've only known of it for less than five minutes, and you are so eager to think the very worst of me again!"

John never had the opportunity to express his less than elegant sentiments on the matter because Margaret stormed from the room, furiously slamming the door, and leaving a piercing silence in her wake.

Out of everything John could have possibly remembered from their past, the situation at Outwood Station was the last thing Margaret would have chosen. She was furious. Furious at John for misunderstanding it time, and time, and time again. Furious at herself for being so...well, furious with him. She didn't possess the clarity of mind to deal with the situation at the moment. She was too conflicted between self-righteous anger, and overwhelming shame...

Margaret realized a moment too late, that she had stormed off through the house in nothing more than a dressing gown. This revelation only came about when she nearly collided directly into Hannah.

"Good Lord, Margaret!" She exclaimed, looking at her disheveled appearance in shock, with a hand clutching her chest. Margaret blushed furiously.

"Forgive me, Hannah." she said meekly. "I have only just realized that I am quite inappropriately attired."

"Come, child." Hannah replied, grasping her arm and guiding her into the Sitting Room. "You look positively livid." Margaret wanted to resist, to childishly fume in silence, but she knew Hannah would not rest until she spoke with her. A trickle of fear dripped softly into her stomach. Would her new found closeness with Hannah suffer now that her son was back? Would she now return to choosing John's side in everything? Margaret and Hannah were not necessarily friends per say...but she had found something in Hannah that she had not anticipated, and did not realize precisely how much she needed the older woman's presence until that moment.

"Now then," she began briskly, as they both sat upon the small sofa. "Tell me what my son has done to upset you so." Margaret could not help but to stare with her mouth slightly open. "Oh, Margaret!" Hannah said, chuckling. "You did not seriously think I would forget about you because of the miraculous return of my son, did you?" Margaret looked away in guilt, blushing once more.

"To be perfectly honest, I had thought you would perhaps lean more towards your son." She replied. "You have a relationship that I cannot even comprehend the depth of." Hannah tutted softly.

"True as that may be," Hannah said. "You and I have our own unique relationship, of which he can not relate. You saved my life in that Mill, and I truly do regret that it took such a drastic measure for us both to come to an understanding of the other."

"As do I." Margaret said, relief flowing freely through her. How could she have thought so little of Hannah? "Forgive me, I do not know why I let my doubts get the better of me."

"Think nothing of it." She stated, the briskness return promptly to her tone. "Now, what of my son?" Margaret hesitated.

"I am afraid I must beg your forgiveness on another issue." She began. "While I was not directly deceitful to you, I was not completely honest either." Hannah said nothing, but looked at Margaret to continue. She took a steadying breath.

"Some time ago, you came to me at my fathers house to chastise me for my immoral behavior." Hannah sat up a little straighter. Be it from intrigue at finally knowing the whole of those circumstances, or perhaps guilt over their ridiculous arguments, Margaret did not know. "You see, I have an older brother by the name of Frederick."

"I know of the situation regarding your brother and the Navy." Hannah said. Once more, Margaret stared at her in shock. "Do not be alarmed! Remember, I maintained close contact with your father when I began to suspect John's illness. The subject of your brother came up more than once." Margaret nodded, her eyes distant. "Am I safe to assume that the young man you were spotted with was in fact, Frederick Hale?"

"Yes!" Margaret said breathlessly. It felt as though she had finally been allowed to rid herself of an incredibly heavy burden. She felt so light, and borderline giddy. "Then you must understand why I could not say anything of it to you at the time!" Hannah nodded.

"Completely. I take it your father knew nothing of that event?"

"No." Margaret stated firmly. "Not to speak ill of my own beloved father, but he could be quite...unobservant at times." Hannah chuckled.

"Indeed. Please, do continue." Margaret nodded.

"Obviously you know that John saw us." She began. "Naturally, I could tell him nothing either. All this time, he stoutly believed I was in love with someone else. No matter how many times I attempted to broach the subject and clear any misunderstandings, I always failed. He did not want to hear it." She paused. "His memories are coming in bits and pieces. When we talk, it seems to...trigger something, and he remembers a small fragment." Hannah looked intrigued, so Margaret elaborated. "John says that when I say his name, he can hear me saying it in different ways in his head, but cannot picture the moments attached to them. Though, he did somehow manage to remember seeing me with my brother at Outwood Station...and we have now reached the same tiring misunderstanding once again. I told him it was my brother but...he was quite angry."

"I see." Hannah said quietly.

Hearing her story out loud, Margaret felt childish. She had overreacted, and very badly at that. She had been given a second chance at her relationship with John. She needed to take advantage of it. His illness was ever present, it was plain. Margaret had seen it for herself while he tried to communicate his feelings. She was better than that. She had been through too much by his side to have the same mentality when it came to dealing with confrontation.

His feelings.

God, she felt so obtuse. His illness directly correlated with her. Fear of rejection, the doctor had told her. Margaret understood now why he'd lashed out. John had an illness he could not begin to comprehend, and whatever was going on inside his head...If she could not understand it, how could John? He would only be able to act on instinct, and right now his instinct was giving him fear, and anger. If they had any hope of moving through this, Margaret would have to be something solid, dependable. An anchor, so to speak, tethering him to what was real. She needed to speak with him immediately.

"Hannah," She said quickly. "Forgive me, but I need to speak with my husband."

"Of course, child!" Hannah replied, gesturing for her to run along. Margaret hurried from the room, not noticing the pleased smile on the face of her Mother-in-Law.

"John!" Margaret called, bursting through the door to her bedroom, and closing it just as quickly. He sat up straight with some difficulty, but looked at her imploringly, bearing a contrite expression.

"Margaret." He replied quietly, seeming somewhat afraid of looking her in the eyes. She crossed the room, knelt by his side, and gently clasped the hand that lay there. "I am more sorry than I can tell you for my words." John began.

"No John, I am the one who needs forgiveness. I should never have spoken to you like that." He shook his head, obviously disagreeing.

"Then I suggest something else." John stated, meeting her gaze steadily. His eyes twinkled, betraying the relief he must have felt at her words. "We simply move past it with a better understanding of each other." Margaret smiled, so filled with joy that she had not single-handedly set their relationship back to a point she would rather not remember.

"I would like that very much!" She said, secretly hating how breathless and desperate she sounded. He gestured to the the vacant side of the bed, and she accepted instantly, not realizing how much energy her anger drained from her until she slipped beneath the covers.

"So," John began hesitantly. "The man...he is your brother?" Margaret smiled softly at him and explained Frederick's situation.

"Why have we not discussed this before?" He asked, a puzzled frown between his brows. Margaret sighed.

"We have a rather...complicated relationship." She replied. "And an even more complex history." His puzzled frown grew, but a spark of curiosity shone from his eyes.

"Will you tell me about us?" He asked, his tone light and boyish.

"I cannot." she said, wishing she could give him any other answer. "Doctor Donaldson says if I tell you everything, you might not be able to distinguish which memories are real, and which are the images you created based on what I've said.

"You told me before," Margaret continued quietly. "That you were afraid that you could not love me the way you loved me before." He looked at her with that piercing gaze, full to the brim with unknown intensity, and she nearly faltered. "Frankly, it does not matter to me if you never love me in the same way as you did before. You will be a different man now, and I...I am not the same woman you fell in love with. For my part, the only thing that is important is that you know why you love me." John's frown deepend further still, but they were plucked from their conversation by the arrival of Doctor Donaldson.

"Good morning, Mr. Thornton!" the doctor said jovially. "Good morning to you as well, Mrs. Thornton!"

"Good morning, doctor." Margaret replied, smiling congenially at him. John opted for a polite incline of his head.

"Well then!" He said in the same jovial tone as before, clapping his hands together as he looked over them. "Shall we get started then?" He started with John, undressing his wounds and carefully examining each one.

"You are much improved, John." He said happily. John leaned forward slightly, peering at his legs with a disheartened expression.

"Am I allowed to know what happened to me?" John asked the doctor. Margaret could not help but notice an underlying bitterness in his tone, and hoped that he would not grow bitter with her in turn. The doctor hummed slightly as though to himself before replying.

"To be perfectly honest John," he began. "Memory loss is a largely unexplored area of medicine. My natural inclination is not to divulge anything unless you have remembered it firstly on your own. However there is a significant possibility that your memories will never fully return. There are things in your life you will need to know of, regardless of whether or not your memories return. Your accident, for one."

John was sitting straighter than Margaret had ever seen any one person sit before. His entire body radiated the curious delight of a small boy on Christmas morning, and it was completely possible that it was no less exciting for him.

"Your accident," Doctor Donaldson continued. "As well as the circumstances surrounding it, are of such a nature that we could not keep them from you even if we wanted to. I would venture to say that so long as you do not cause yourself any distress over what you learn, it is safe to proceed." John beamed at her, and looked almost as though he would start jumping for joy any second. "A word of caution: understand that there are some things that will not only be difficult to hear of yourself, but that there may be subjects that will be difficult for others to speak of." The doctor's less than subtle glance in her direction could not have been missed by herself, or by John. Thankfully he said no more of it.

"What type of accident was I in, then?" John asked immediately, practically twitching from excitement. The doctor chuckled.

"That," he said, looking at John with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "Is a story for your wife to tell, as she was with you when it happened." John looked to her quickly, curiosity burning bright on his face.

"Not exactly!" Margaret quickly interjected, not wishing to unintentionally mislead him. "I was not with you while the accident happened, but I was immediately before, and following. I will tell you of it when we are through, if you like." She finished smiling happily at him. His cheery disposition was quite infectious.

"I would like that very much." He replied, his brilliantly blue eyes belaying the true sincerity.

The doctor finished his process while maintaining idle chatter with John, and quite briefly speaking with her about her shoulder. While it seemed a rather spectacular injury, she only needed a total of six stitches. It paled in comparison to the other injury she'd obtained on her left arm, which resulted in a hideous scar. In fairness, the scarring was mostly caused by her blatant neglect of the good doctor's advice when it came to overexertion, but Margaret chose not to dwell on it.

After choosing to only wrap a few of John's bandages again, he spent several minutes showing John how best to utilize his cane without damaging his leg. He then gave Margaret strict instructions not to jostle her arm and disrupt her stitches for some time, and to remain in bed for two days to give her body a chance to fully recover from the loss of blood.

For Margaret's part, she found herself slightly pleased that John had been distracted away from the story of their tumultuous past. For the moment, in any case. One day, most likely very soon, he would ask her again; and Margaret was not entirely certain that she would be able to tell him everything.