A/N: Sometimes I can't believe this story happened, or that you all came along on the journey with me. I know we didn't get to see all the places the story could go, or meet all the patients who had stories to tell, and that's why I'm only calling it "done" for now. I'll leave the door open – a sequel, some drabbles somewhere down the line. But please know that this AU, this story and each and every one of you — will stay with me.

For those that have loyally followed here and on Tumblr, when I was there for a time, I thank you. You have no idea how much of an impact you had on me not just as a writer and a fangirl, but a human being. I have made some truly irreplaceable friends in this fandom. I also cherish your insights, your commentary, your joy and struggles with this and all my fics, and I hope that you can read and re-read this fic and still cherish it. Nothing would make me happier than to know that I live on, somehow, in this crazy modern AU that captivated me just as much as it captivated you.

Some of you know that I'm off into the wild blue yonder — I've got a literary agent, next month it's off to see publishers— it's moving faster than I ever could have anticipated. Only sad it's for a project that isn't in any way related to fanfic, ha! While I'm terribly excited about what the future might hold for me, I can easily say that it won't likely hold a candle to the fun I've had with all of you.

I do hope that if you're so inclined, you'll keep up with me. Sheepishly hoping maybe a few of you will buy my book! But in the meantime, please enjoy the epilogue to this story.

The end—for now.

But as you know, just as it's time to say goodbye to Downton, the hospital here is always a place you can come back to.

Downton Hospital is truly never far from your reach. And even though we're left with a lot of unanswered questions, some plots that fell away — that's the nature of life, particularly in a hospital. But just know that one day, if we're called, we'll come back and walk the halls together.

It's been a privilege. Thank you for taking this incredible, incomparable journey with me.

You've made me a better writer, a better patient — and a better human.

With all my love,

Doc

They'd disappeared into the cold night air. Off in the distance a church bell rang, striking midnight, and she stopped short, sliding along the icy pavement. He laughed, stuffing her ungloved hands into the pockets of his coat. She hushed him, then looked up, snowflakes wetting her eyelashes.

"Do you hear any reindeer?" she whispered, her breath a warm plume that tickled her nose.

"I think we'll miss Santa entirely," he said, feigning a concerned glance, "My poor old Volkswagen is no match for eight steroid-infused reindeer."

She laughed at this — really laughed, tipping her head back, the beautiful sound cascading up into the dark sky. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tighter and kissing her neck, his hand tangling in her hair and pushing her hat off her head and into the snowbank at their feet.

"Charles," she said, grinning against his mouth. He stopped, pulling back and blinking little icy flakes from his eyes. She bit her lip, a little pinch of white on the plushy red, "My ears are cold."

He chuckled, reaching up and covering them with his mitts, shaking her head gently before kissing her again. The streets around them were empty, no sound but that of the crinkling of the snow beneath their feet as they fell into one another's orbit.

She lifted her hands from within his pockets, reaching down to grab her hat and then popping back up, taking his hand in hers and leading him toward the car. Breathless, they both practically fell into their seats. He started the engine, cranking the heat up and the car groaned to life. The radio clicked on, startling them both.

I really can't stay,

baby it's cold outside.

"Well, there's a classic," Charles said, clearing his throat, "Fancy a duet?"

Elsie smirked, shaking her head — but she hit the next verse, right in her key.

"Maybe just a half a drink more. . ."

They both giggled, realizing that of course they both knew the all the words — especially this time of year when it was a Christmas station staple. What they hadn't anticipated was their harmony — the way their voices blended together so deliciously, so effortlessly.

He threw the car into park outside his flat, letting the song finish before turning the key. He looked at her for a moment in the dark, trying to make out the expression she wore in the moonlight.

"I hope. . .if we. . ." he tried, the keys jangling against his fingers, "You'd like to. . .?"

"Oh Charles," she breathed, letting her head loll back against the headrest, "I thought you'd never ask."

He closed the door to his bedroom, which was somewhat strange and perfunctory a thing for him to do in his own house, where no one would disrupt them. Still, to him, it felt somehow befitting of the moment. A customary way to solidify their intentions.

They'd both shed their coats and boots, but she sat on his bed, still nestled in her frilly blouse and sweater from the evening, he much in need of having his shirt and tie removed. He took a few soundless steps toward the bed, his hand rising up before him, as if guided to her, and gently slid beneath the shoulder of her sweater, pushing it down. Without taking her eyes from his, she reached up to begin to unbutton her blouse. Kneeling before her, letting his hands walk up the sides of her thighs, he undid her stockings, carefully rolling them down each smooth leg.

"I didn't think women still wore garters," he said, momentarily puzzled, "But I must say — I thank you."

"Pantyhose are wretched things," she said, reaching up to undo her chignon. Her hair fell down softly around her shoulders, a few tendrils falling across her lips. She felt his gaze hanging on her and suddenly she grew nervous. Was she showing her age? She self-consciously pulled her shirt tight in front of chest, "We don't have to —"

"I know you're nervous. I know you feel old. So do I," he confessed, gently rubbing the tops of her thighs, "And maybe we are — but to me, you are beautiful. And I want to be as close as two people can be for whatever time we have left."

She felt a tear escape, cascading down her flushed cheeks, and she blinked furtively. He leaned forward, kissing her softly at the corner of her mouth first, then along her cheek, tightening his grasp of her thighs. She rose up against him, letting her hands fall away, her blouse opening to him. He pulled back, letting his hands emerge from beneath her skirt (which she hastily unzipped). He stopped short at the sound of it, swallowing a laugh.

"Do you remember that night, in the ICU, with your skirt and — and I—"

"Oh God, yes, I do." she breathed, her cheeks pinking up, "I thought you were trying to cop a feel." She looked at him now, clearly aroused in every speakable and unspeakable way for her.

"I . . .I thought you'd just come back from. . .from being with someone. That perhaps you —"

"Oh God," she said, her eyes wide, "No. Never." She lifted her hands, taking his face between them, "It's only ever been you."

"Really?" he said, his voice cracking a bit with either relief or disbelief, perhaps both at the late hour.

"Yes," she breathed, "My body knew even when my mind didn't. The heart is a lonely hunter, to quote Carson McCul—"

He rose up, kissing her squarely and pushing her back against the bed. She gasped against his mouth, letting him unfasten her bra as she wriggled out of her panties and garter. He discarded his shirt first, and the snap of his belt against the buckle made something begin to thrum deep inside of her. Metal against leather some sort of bewitching siren song.

"I don't know that I have much to offer you besides my love," he panted, gently caressing a fallen strand of hair from her face, "But this. . .this is a privilege, Elsie Hughes."

She tipped her head, watching him for a long moment as he covered her breast — the scar, the mangled horrible thing — with his gentle hand.

"Looks better than the last time you saw it," she whispered, offering him a small smile, "They weren't so bad, you know. Once upon a youth. . ."

"I have a rather reverent affection for this breast," he said, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple, "The first time I ever saw it . . .held it in my hand. . .it was an enemy that might well have taken you from me. A dragon I could slay. But I kept you safe. I made you well. You came back to me, Elsie, and this scar — while you think it unsightly — is a testament to your strength. Healing can't occur in dead tissue. A scar such as this is more proof of your vitality than your years."

She sighed, her chest heaving against him.

"Charles Carson, your words are endearing but I'm a woman of science. I need proof." She laced her hands around his neck, pulling him down, pressing him against her bare skin, whispering playfully in his ear, "So show me."

"Did you put Dad to bed?" Sybil laughed, closing the dishwasher with her foot as she turned to face her mother. Stepping into the kitchen, Cora yawned, nodding.

"We'll have to let him sleep in tomorrow," she said, folding her arms in front of her chest, warming them with her hands, "At least you girls are all grown up now and won't be clambering into our bed at 4 am. . ."

"Don't be so sure," Sybil said, crossing the kitchen to wrap her arms around her mum.

"I'll fill your entire bed with coal if you even so much as think about it," Cora laughed, kissing Sybil's cheek.

"Mary's gone back to her flat and Edith drove Roz home. They said they'll meet us at Granny's in the afternoon."

"Thank you for all your help, really. I'm sure you'd've much rather done . . .well, anything else, frankly."

"I had fun, Mum."

"Good," Cora sighed, looking around at the mostly cleaned up kitchen. Her life here, with the girls, with Robert working late nights, had always been "good enough" — she wasn't the kind of housewife Violet Crawley had envisioned, and as the years went by, she realized she'd never set out to be.

"I've got a gift for you now, though." Sybil said, taking her mother's hand and leading her into the den, where their sparkling Christmas tree towered over the room.

"Oh, Sybbie! Shouldn't we wait until tomorrow?"

"No," Sybil said firmly, "This one is special."

She scooted under the tree's branches, emerging a bit pine-sticky, but beaming. She handed her mother a rectangular parcel and a simple notecard.

"Open the card first." Sybil instructed, pulling Cora down to the floor with her.

Cora eyed her, meticulously opening the envelope and squinting at it a moment before her face lit up.

"Oh — Sybbie, darling!" she said, tearing up a bit, "Oh, this is — I can't believe you remembered."

"Mum, how could I forget? You divulged this — hidden part of yourself to me. And I'm serious. I want you to get that back. Not for me or Dad — just for you."

Cora looked down at the card, which included a semester's worth of painting classes at the University. She felt the package in her other hand and could only guess.

Unwrapping it, she did burst into tears. A brand new set of oils. She hadn't had them in ages.

"All of this on one condition, Mum." Sybil said, wrapping her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"What, my darling?" Cora sniffled, reaching up to push the hair from Sybil's face.

"Your first painting. . ." she whispered, her smile breaking through, "Must be of me!"

"Dr. Carson and Dr. Hughes took off in rather a hurry," John said, tossing back the covers and crawling into Anna's bed. She pushed back, nestling against him, sighing as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I hope it's because they've finally confessed their love to one another and they went squealing off into the night to consummate it," Anna laughed, tucking her toes between John's feet.

"About that. . ."

"Hm?"

"Are we ever going to tell anyone that we got married?"

She rolled over onto her back, one arm slung up above her head.

"I don't know," she shrugged, "I rather like that it's been our little secret."

He nodded, "It's nice to have one when, of course, Downton tends to squeeze them all out of you. . ."

"We have two, actually."

John furrowed his brow, "Oh?"

"But it won't be our secret for much longer," Anna grinned, her eyes sparkling. "John — I'm pregnant."

"Alright, alright — what about this one?" Violet said, waving a card in front of Isobel's face as they road in the backseat of the town car, traversing London's snowy streets.

Isobel squinted at it in the dark, "Damned if I know. . ."

"Excuse me, sir?" Violet said, pushing her face between the seats to address the driver, "Do you know what — flying sex snakes—means?"

Isobel guffawed, slapping Violet's thigh, "Stop it — stop, he'll drive us off the road, mercifully killing us all!"

Managing to pull Violet back against the seat, Isobel just shook her head. A moment or two later, Violet's laugh roared up next to her.

"Oh! Here we go. Give this one to Richard the next time you see him."

Isobel took the card, giving Violet a look before glancing down at it.

Friends with benefits.

Tony Gillingham sat in this empty flat, finishing off a bottle of merlot he'd opened a few hours ago and looking out over the city. London was mostly quiet, a few twinkling lights left on. Snow drifting softly beneath street lights. He sighed, patting his breast pocket for a cigarette, before turning and heading back to his desk.

An opened email. A blank response. His cursor blinking, an electronic taunt.

Mr Gillingham,

I'm terribly sorry to send this on Christmas Eve, but I really do need your final decision. If we're to file a case, I'd prefer to do it before the new year.

You've all the evidence we collected.

It's up to you now.

He thought about Mary Crawley's cool rejection a few weeks earlier. About Downton, and all that they stood to lose. The wrongs that should be made right. About Alex Green— a man he'd hardly known really—dead in their emergency room for days before anyone knew. He thought about how really, Tony couldn't be certain he knew himself any better than he'd known Green.

He took a long drag off his cigarette, downed the last of his wine, and let his hands hover shakily over the keyboard.

As the first light of Christmas day rose up above the skyline, all that was heard was the steady clickety-clack of his fingers against the keys, and if he were a younger man— a different man—maybe he'd've mistaken it for hoofbeats on the roof.