AN: This is part 3 of the series 1 drabbles. I will endeavour to come up with a nice fluffy Cobert drabble for the next one because this one is not, I apologise.

Any prompts/scene extensions people are interested in please by all means ask - either PM or in the reviews.

TRIGGER WARNING for miscarriage. Proceed with caution.

Note: I have thankfully never experienced a miscarriage, this is a work of fiction so any medically inaccurate details are my own.

It's the noise that she notices first. The breathing of another person in the room with her.

Robert. It sounds like Robert.

Then she hears the voice of someone slightly further away murmuring beneath their breath.

It's then that she sees the spots of colour in front of her eyes, telling her that beyond her closed lids the world is light. She keeps her eyes closed not ready yet to escape from her inner tranquility.

It doesn't last long; the pungent smell of blood and antiseptic is the next think she senses. With it she loses the illusion that sleep had allowed her. It had not been a nightmare. It had happened. The dull ache between her thighs is enough to tell her that it had, in fact, been a living nightmare.

The pain is what she recalls first. That shocking dull thump that had momentarily paralysed her legs before the pain had spread uncontrollably across her abdomen. All had seemed fine for a moment, except the feel of the bruises beginning beneath her skin. Then, as O'Brien had helped her to stand, she had felt it. Cramping.

Her eyes smart at the memory and she squeezes them more tightly shut, willing herself to return back to blissful sleep. But she can't, the memories keep coming.

The cramping seems to radiate through her body just as it had in the bathroom. The cramping had grown more frequent and more intense as Mrs Hughes had attended to O'Brien's ring for help. She had known then, that there was nothing she could do. She was having her baby. Losing her baby. Their miracle baby.

She can't remember much of what else had happened before the doctor had hurried into the room. O'Brien had been with her, saying things and adjusting clothes and bedding, but all she had thought about was the intractable cramping. She had murmured prayers that they would stop and that her baby would be granted its chance of life. But her prayers were fruitless, they became more and more apparent as each new cramp came. It hadn't stopped her hoping though, that the gap between each contraction would suddenly be endless, that they would just stop. She would have done anything to make them stop.

Anything.

The tears come too quickly for her to control now. They leak out between her eyelids, skating down the side of her face and into her hair and ears. It's then that she gets control of her current surroundings enough to register there is a hand that holds hers. His hand. She squeezes her eyes more tightly shut, she could not look at him. Not now, not when she had failed their little boy.

Their son.

"Cora?" She doesn't answer him. She can't possibly answer him. Words would choke her.

Their son. The one they had prayed for and wanted for two and a half decades.

The final flashbacks come now.

There hadn't been much pain, not like before, he was so small after all. But there had been blood with its the metallic smell, and tears. The doctor offering pointless encouragement as she had cried. Of course she didn't want to push when she knew there would be no joy, no crying baby.

It was the deafening silence that had filled the room as the act was done that had been the worst. The doctor has scooped the bundle away and she had stopped crying for half a minute, desperate to listen for the cry even though she knew it would not come. The silence ricochets in her mind now, pounding at her ears all over again.

The tears leak more constantly from the creases of her eyes. She doesn't try to stop them, but she doesn't open her eyes either.

Then she sees the image she had been trying to suppress. She had begged. The doctor had refused at least four times, explaining to her that it wouldn't be a good idea, it wouldn't be a nice memory. But she had begged, wept and begged. He had given in, reluctantly, a look of fear upon his face as he had handed the bundle back to her. He hadn't uttered a word as the wrapping had fallen free in her palm, revealing her little baby. Their son.

He was tiny. Their little boy had fitted easily into one of her hands. She had gently fingered his ears, nose, arms, hands, legs and feet. He had been perfect. He would have been so perfect.

"Cora?" She ignores him again. She cannot bear to see the pity his eyes. She thinks she hears the door open and close, whoever else had been in the room silently slipping away. "Please open your eyes my dearest one." She shakes her head, but her lips start to quiver and she can't suppress the sob that rises inadvertently from them. "Oh, my dearest one." She can sense that he has moved closer, his voice is nearer her ear and the light shifts beyond her eyelids. She flinches for a second when she feels his hand gently wipe away the tears at the corners of her eyes and on her face. She tries to focus on the soothing feel of his thumb running over her skin, but the image of their baby's face loiters in her mind.

"It was a boy."

She hears his swallow and she finally opens her eyes. She does not squint against the light because she can hardly see it to start with, too much water clouding her vision. The tears fall to the corners of her eyes and skates the same path into her hair. Then she finds his eyes, red rimmed, swollen eyes. She swallows and more tears come.

"I know. Clarkson told me."

"Robert, I -" He shakes his head and lifts her hand from the bed where it is still entangled with his, raising it to his lips and kissing her knuckles and then the inside of her wrist without hesitation.

"I don't want to hear the word 'sorry' pass your lips Cora. Not now. Not ever." She nods slowly, taking a deep breath to try and make some of the tears back track. He knew she was sorry; she knew he was sorry. The tears spoke louder than any words ever could.

"He was so beautiful Robert." She sees his brow furrow, clearly the doctor had not told him everything. "I held him." Her voice cracks and she has to take a minute to compose herself, that image of his tiny face appearing to her again, as it no doubt would for years to come. "Doctor Clarkson didn't want me to, but I begged, and I held him."

"Of course he was beautiful. He was ours, my dear, and nothing is more beautiful than one's child." He kisses her knuckles again and they lapse into silence. Her tears come and go in flurries. His hand routinely rubs at her, brushing her knuckles, squeezing her palm. She lets her own thumb press into his hand in comforting circles. But the face of their baby boy still comes and goes. Shattering her calm and making her lips shake every time.

"Will you hold me?" He doesn't answer with words. He simply stands, walks around the bed to his side and removing his shoes and jacket, lays down on the bed beside her. She feels him push one of his arms under the pillow beneath her head, careful not to jostle her. She shuffles a little so she can ease a little nearer into his embrace. His lips graze the hairline above her ear as he grasps her hand and kisses her knuckles again.

Their joined hands come to rest on her abdomen. Her now empty abdomen. Their little baby's face clouds her vision again. The tears come again and this time she feels the hard clasp his hand makes over her fingers, and the muffled sniff near her ear. His arm shakes where it rests against her body. His soft tears fall into her hair and onto her face, mixing with her own.