A/N: Hello! This fic is an AU beginning at the end of S6 E7 when Mary breaks up with Henry and it veers off canon considerably around Chapter Four. I'm almost halfway through writing this story, and I have a good idea of where this story is going. Expect angst, a Mary and Thomas friendship, sisterly reconciliations, loose ends being tied up, and Brary!

Come Alive

Chapter One

Mary picked up the telephone up with some hesitance. She wished he had waited until morning, when sleep could have numbed her rawer emotions and taken the sharp edges off her words. "You should try to sleep," she said by way of greeting.

"I found that I had to hear your voice first," Henry said on the other end. Oh, no... that's not what she wanted to hear. "The truth is... I won't sleep until I know where we're headed."

Mary felt sick. Oh, why did he have to call now, just as she had made up her mind? Just as she had realized the truth? "Henry, please let's not do this now. Think of Charlie, not us," she begged.

"Hear me out. Charlie would have." Mary closed her eyes. "Because his death has made me realise we don't have a minute to waste, you and I. This is my carpe diem moment. I... I must seize the day."

"No." The word flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. A part of her regretted her haste; it was astounding, how harsh a two letter word could be.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have said this now, but today has made me realize something, too." I don't love you. I've come to care for you, but I'm not in love with you. And I fear never will be. "We're not meant to be together, Henry. We're not right."

"I can..."

"Don't start saying you'll give up racing. I don't want you to give up anything except me," said Mary, desperate.

"I can't give you up," Henry replied, despaired.

"Please. I wish you nothing but good. I want you to have a long and happy life. Just not with me." It was the truth, finally out in the open. For too long now she had been running away from her problems, only to face them head on once more... hopefully, this time, her resolve would stick.

"Mary, please don't do this," he implored.

"I must. Good night, Henry." She hung up the phone, a weight being lifted off her chest... if only it could have happened before her heart had been shattered yet again. No more mind games... no more race cars... no more Henry.

"I wish you wouldn't."

Mary didn't even have to turn around to know that it was Tom. Of course... she should have known he was listening in. Tom was more invested in her relationship with Henry than she was.

Mary turned around, mere seconds away from bursting into tears. "All I could think about was Matthew," she admitted. There was lump in her throat, making it hard to speak. "When I saw that car in flames, I didn't even think about Henry! Imagine that!" She brought a hand to her forehead. "How can I stay with Henry when all I'm thinking about him?"

"You're not seeing straight," Tom insisted, paying her previous words no heed. "Today brought up Matthew's death and all the rest of it. You're in a black mist."

"It's not what I want!" Mary cried out. Why didn't he understand? She didn't want Henry. She wanted herMatthew. She wanted him back more than anything. He was the person who knew her best, who had seen the darkest parts of her soul and loved her all the more for it.

"You're frightened of being hurt again," Tom stepped towards her, taking her hands in his own. "But let me tell you this," he said softly. "You will be hurt again, and so will I, because being hurt is part of being alive. But that is no reason—" his voice trembled, "—to give up on the man who is right for you."

The man who was right for her? The man who was right for her? That man lay six feet under ground, residing in a wooden box beneath the dirt. All that remained of him by now was bone.

Mary wanted to do nothing more than fall to the floor and sob. That blazing car brought back a flood of memories: Papa coming to the hospital, ashen faced and shaken, telling her the news in a hushed voice. George being carried away by a nurse as she wept uncontrollably, the sound of glass shattering as she threw a cup of water against the wall, Mary standing in front of a mound of dirt, wishing she could be beneath it instead.

But crying would do her no good. Displaying emotions so openly was a weakness, and one she wasn't about to let Tom see, not right now. Mary gathered herself together as best as she could and staggered to the stairwell, gripping the railing as if it were her lifeline.

When she made it back to her bedroom, any remnants of the tears she might have shed were gone. The only remaining evidence was the redness of her nose and the sniffling she had taken to. When Anna came in, Mary told her the news in a monotone whilst Anna conveyed her sympathies. While she loved Anna like a sister, she was pleased when she finally left. She longed to be alone.

Mary crawled into her bed, knees close to her chest. There was something inside her that was broken, she decided. Henry was a wonderful man; he was handsome, astute, and most importantly, was great fun to be around... and yet Mary could not love him. And how could that be possible?

This wasn't the first time that Mary had wondered if there was something was not completely right with her. When Patrick died, she hadn't cried for him. When Papa had told her the horrid news, her first thought had been that she would be forced to wear black for months. They were engagedto be marriedand she hadn't shed a single tear. The only time she had cried was when she thought about how cruel and heartless she must be inside, to not cry for a man who was both a fiancé and a cousin.

Edith was the one who really loved Patrick. She always used to pull him off into darkened corners, whispering with him about God knows what. She'd sent him lovestruck glances across the table when she thought nobody was looking. But alas, Patrick had been dead set on marrying Mary.

"Edith is a sweet girl," he confessed to her once in a low voice, as they sat beside one another on the sofa. Edith was with Sybil on the other side of the room, giggling about something. Mary remembered staring after them enviously, wishing she could join in the fun and not worry about keeping Patrick entertained. "But you and I— well, we're what the family wants. Besides," he added cheerfully, "I don't think we'll make one another too miserable! In fact, I suspect we'll be quite happy! Picture it, Mary— the future Earl and Countess of Grantham!"

And then he had proceeded to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and compliment her eyes while she pretended to be flattered when in actuality she felt nauseated and wanted nothing more than to run away from him. And what kind of woman did that? Longed to run away from a man who adored her, a man wanted to make her happy?

But Mary had done it countless times. With Patrick, with Tony Gillingham, with Richard Carlisle (though perhaps his definition of the true meaning of happiness was twisted), with Charles Blake, and even with Matthew. She resented him until she realized she loved him, but she had spent so much time spurning him that he hadn't wanted to bother with her for quite sometime. And then, after he had proposed the first time...

Mary stopped herself. It was no use, thinking of Matthew. It only lead to melancholy thoughts where she longed for him and for the woman she had been when he was alive. Neither of them would ever return.

So Mary shifted in bed once more, ignoring the empty aching deep in side her chest while she fell into a fitful, restless slumber.

—

Tom wasn't nearly as frosty with her the next morning as she thought he might be, and for that she was grateful. She couldn't bear it. Over the last few years, she had found herself confiding more in Tom than anyone else. If someone had told her younger self that she would be close friends with chauffeur, she would have laughed in their faces, but it was the indisputable fact. He was truly a part of the family now, and he understood her situation more than anyone else at Downton. Nobody understood the pain of losing someone you loved with all your heart quite like him.

It was a blessed relief, to return to Downton. As the car pulled into the driveway, she finally felt as though she could breathe again. Downton was more than a home to her; it was practically her life now. She had come to enjoy working on preserving the estate, knowing that she was helping to make George's future secure.

Of course, she had missed her son when she was in London. He was so small and so like his father. She knew that she didn't spend nearly enough time with him, but she did love him dearly. There were times she found herself comparing her parenting style to that of Edith's and wondering if she was lacking... but then she brushed those thoughts away. Perhaps she was not the most maternal, but she did love him, and that was all that really mattered.

It took a day or two to settle back in. Sometimes Mary would find herself thinking of calling Henry before she remembered what she had done... and then she breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping Henry on his toes felt like a chore at times— and an exhausting one at that. Now that her mind was freed up, she was at liberty to do as she pleased.

Of course, nothing was simple for long.

"The 6th Marquess of Hexham, 39, has died on holiday in Tangiers where he was a frequent visitor. The cause is given as malaria. Lord Hexham was unmarried," Tom read, the newspaper crinkling beneath his fingers. The two of them had traveled to Thirsk for some errands when Mary had spied the headline.

Her mouth fell open. "Does this mean Bertie's out of a job?" Mary asked, thinking of Edith's latest suitor. He was nice man— even now that he was likely unemployed.

"That depends on the heir."

"Poor Edith," Mary commented, though her heart wasn't truly in it. She pitied Bertie, of course, but she couldn't bring herself to care either way about Edith's impending engagement. "It was bad enough he was an agent. Now he may not be that."

"Don't sound so gleeful about it," Tom said reproachfully, which caused her to scowl.

That was the thing about Tom: he always wanted her to be a better person than she actually was. He expected more from her than what was there. Sometimes, it made her want to scream— especially when it came to Edith. He hadn't lived with her for over thirty years, he didn't understand how wretched and irritating her sister could be. But there were times Tom was her only ally in the house, and she didn't need him switching allegiances, so she kept her mouth shut.

Still, Mary couldn't help but think about poor Mr. Pelham. She doubted the new Marquess, whoever he was, would want to keep him on. If Edith was smart, she would break it off with him— but somehow Mary doubted it. Knowing Edith, she would give some impassioned speech about how she would rather die penniless with Bertie at her side than live a life of comfort and ease— and that last part would somehow be a jab at Mary, as if it were a crime to appreciate the finer things in life.

Maybe it had something to do with all these thoughts of life and death that made Mary examine her own existence with a fine toothed comb. Of course, now that she had a career, that side of things was taken care of. But her love life— that was something of an enigma. It seemed like over the past couple of years there had been an endless stream of men, each one wishing to make her his wife. Mary never feared that she would have trouble finding a man, but she did worry about finding the right man. The man she could be happy to wake up beside every morning.

It seemed more like something out of a fairytale than reality. She'd had it once; every day with Matthew was like something out of dream. They had been deliriously happy.

And then she had been forced to wake up to reality.

It was then, as she removed her coat, that resolved herself to stop this search for a husband. What good would it do? She had found her happily ever after and now it was over. What was the use of searching for another Prince Charming when there were other princesses worthier of him?

No; she would die a spinster. If she found herself growing too lonely, she could always buy a dog and give Tiaa a playmate. Mary sat in front of her mirror, gazing into her own eyes. How different they were now from those of that silly girl who had allowed Kemal Pamuk into her bed.

"How are you today, my lady?"

Mary was pulled out of her musings by Anna, who was closing the door. She had nearly forgotten she had called for her maid.

She smiled. "Quite well, thank you, Anna."

They chatted with one another, about everything and nothing. Anna commented on how blue Thomas was downstairs and Mary expressed her sympathies. She had noticed his downcast moods over the past year or so and felt dreadfully sorry for him, especially when she knew Papa's plans for downsizing the staff. He had been on a seeming downward spiral ever since Papa had sacked James and never seemed to regain his spirits. He was a favorite of the children, especially George. Mart had often wondered where the sensitive, sweet side to Thomas that Sybil had spoken about was, only to see it emerge around Sybbie and George. Mary, however, had always silently admired his unwavering tenacity and sharp wit. She recalled, in her younger years when he was just a footman, she had thought about pulling him aside and asking for insight on ways to deal with Edith or Patrick when they were at their most insufferable.

It was with surprise that Mary heard a giggle escape Anna. "What is it?" She asked. "Surely you aren't laughing at the plight of poor Mr. Barrow?" Mary praised herself, for remembering the call him by the proper name. Even though it had been a long time since had been footman, she would forever refer to him as Thomas in her brain.

"Oh, no, of course not, milady!" Anna said, a peal of laughter escaping her as she did so. "It's just that— the police came in today to speak to Mrs. Patmore—"

"Mrs. Patmore? What has she done to warrant a visit from the police?"

"Nothing, milady. But a couple went to stay at her bed and breakfast and she thought they were husband and wife. It turns out that they weren't married to each other at all and the woman's husband is planning on taking the man to court."

Mary's jaw dropped. "Oh, dear... but that doesn't explain why you are laughing."

"It's not funny, not really," Anna said, still looking amused. "But the inspector said that the bed and breakfast has been getting a reputation as— as—" It took her a moment to gather herself before she said, "a house of ill repute."

Mary tried her best to remain composed but failed miserably. Mrs. Patmore running a house of ill repute? It was ludicrous... and yet absolutely hilarious. She laughed along with Anna until they both had tears in their eyes.

"Oh, that's the first proper laugh I've had for ages," Mary confessed, finally settling down.

"I couldn't resist telling you," Anna said with a grin.

"Poor Mrs Patmore!"

"Oh, I know. It's awful for her. I'm going to have to think of something serious when I go down," Anna said, walking over to the bed.

"I had some rather sad news when we were in Thirsk," Mary shared, not sounding sad at all. "Lord Hexham's died."

Anna frowned. "Who's that, milady?"

"The owner of Brancaster Castle, where we all stayed last year. For the grouse," she clarified.

"Not me, M'Lady. I was... otherwise detained."

Mary felt like fool for saying it. Of course... Anna had been arrested... "Oh, of course you were. I am sorry," she said, truly meaning it. She hated to bring up painful memories when it came to Anna. "Only it might affect Lady Edith's friend, Mr. Pelham. He's the agent there. Or was. He might be out of a job."

"How worrying for them," Anna said sympathetically.

"My romance might not be the only one to come to an untimely end," said Mary, feeling more optimistic than she had in days. She had always hated it when things were going better for Edith than they were for her. Edith had this way of... flouting her happiness. As if she were somehow more worthy of it than anyone else. It infuriated Mary to no end.

"Have you heard from Mr Talbot?"

"No," Mary said, pulling on her gloves with an unwarranted amount of mirth. "But that's a good thing. It means he's accepted my decision."

"Which is what you want?" Anna asked, arching an eyebrow. Mary knew that she too was worried about her happiness.

"Which is exactly what I want," Mary said, and it was true. The sooner Henry Talbot could move on with his life, the happier he would be. There was no sense in him pining after her.

Anna gave her a look, one that clearly said she didn't believe her, but said nothing. For that, she was grateful.

—

Mary was only half paying attention as Edith delivered the news about Bertie's cousin. It was terribly sad, of course, but it was hardly as if she had known the man. Her sympathies lied with Bertie, who was no doubt in mourning the loss of a beloved cousin and a steady employment.

"The problem is they've already buried him and Bertie's not sure what to do," said Edith.

"It's ordinary in hot countries," Isobel interjected. "It won't mean any disrespect."

"No, but should they leave him there?" Edith asked.

"Surely the decision is down to the new Marquess, not to Bertie," Mary said, thinking of Tom's words from earlier that morning. She wondered if Edith had thought far enough ahead to realize poor Bertie was likely going to be out of a job.

"Well, that's the thing. He is the new Marquess... Bertie."

The room fell silent. Mary could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, quickening as her mind scrambled to the implications of that statement. Papa was gobsmacked. "Bertie Pelham is now the Marquess of Hexham?"

"Yes," Edith affirmed.

"Nonsense," Mary said without thinking. This couldn't be happening... "He's having you on. He'd have told you if he was the heir."

"He did tell me," she replied, almost patronizingly. "But his cousin was in his thirties and they all knew the girl he was going to marry."

Bertie Pelham... the Marquess of Hexham? What a ridiculous notion! And there was Edith— trying to hide the smile that was threatening to form. Mary gripped the arms of her chair. "But that's absurd! If Bertie's a marquess, then Edith—"

"Edith would outrank us all!" Papa cut her off, beaming. "Yes. That's right!"

Mary sat silently, fuming. This couldn't be possible. Surely, if Bertie were really the Marquess of Hexham, they would have known before now! He would have mentioned it to them...

"Golly gum drops! What a turn-up," Papa seemed in higher spirits than Mary had seen him in weeks. Mary supposed he was pleased by the prospect Edith wouldn't be the one kneeling at his bedside as his nurse, with her long face and melancholy disposition.

No, she realized with dissatisfaction, she would be the one with that task now. No longer married and unlikely to ever again, she was the natural successor. What a depressing thought, to realize she was Edith'sreplacement.

"We'll all bow and curtsy to Edith. You'll enjoy that, Mary," Tom said lowly, mouth close to her ear.

Mary ignored the way his voice made goosebumps rise to her skin. "Hardly!" She scoffed. "And if Bertie isLord Hexham which I still don't believe, he won't want to marry her now."

"Careful," Mama warned, frowning. "People will think you're jealous, dear. We don't want that."

Mary rolled her eyes. Why would she be jealousof Edith?

But as dinner wore on, Mary realized that's exactly what she was. Edith was going to be living the life Mary had always envisioned for herself. Before Matthew had entered her life, Mary admired herself in the mirror, trying her hardest to impress a duke who was only after her money. She was lucky enough to have fallen in love with her father's heir and secured herself to be next Countess of Grantham.

Now she was merely the daughter of an earl, working each and every day to ensure the estate would stay in the Crawley family until the end of days so that she could watch George inherit it all.

But it wasn't even that. Not really. Edith was happy. Properly happy.

The scales had shifted. Edith was now the beloved daughter with an advantageous marriage... and Mary was the unfortunate one.

It was times like these Mary missed Sybil the most. She had always been the person to go to when she was annoyed with Edith. Sybil knew the right things to say and would help Mary from making rash decisions. She could smooth out any dispute and brighten every rainy day. But without her, Mary found the chasm between her and Edith growing larger each day and her patience was thinning.

Her mood continued to darken after dinner. Mary had taken her place beside Tom, sipping her drink as Mama and Aunt Rosamund gravitated towards Edith— no doubt to talk about her upcoming nuptials. The thought of it all make Mary scowl.

"I had a call from Henry earlier," he said casually, as if he was saying I walked down to the village earlier or That was a good supperinstead of informing her that he had conversed with her ex-suitor.

"Henry?" Mary frowned. "Why didn't you say?" Why was he bothering speaking to Henry?

"I'm saying now." The flames from the fireplace were casting a sort of orange glow on his cheeks. Mary couldn't help but stare at it for the briefest of seconds.

"How is he?" She asked, more out of obligation than a genuine concern.

"Mourning Charlie Rogers." That saddened Mary. Of course, she could empathize. She knew grief all too well. "Missing you," Tom added.

That, Mary sympathized with less. "You're not to ask him to come here." How ever was the man to make a clean break of it if Tom insisted on spending more time with him?

"Suppose he just turns up?" Tom asked, almost like a mischievous child.

The mere thought of Henry Talbot appearing at Downton Abbey filled her with abject horror. "Don't encourage him, Tom. I mean it. We'd be wretched long term." She rose to her feet.

"And you're not wretched now?" Tom called after her as she walked away.

The phrase repeated itself in Mary's mind the rest of the night. She tossed and turned in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The terrible truth was that she wasfeeling wretched. But not for the reasons Tom thought. She had felt this way for a long time, long before Henry Talbot waltzed his way into her life. Ever since Matthew's death, she felt this emptiness in her chest. She had attempted to replace it with Tony Gillingham and to some extent, Charles Blake. When their undivided affections weren't enough, Mary had taken Tony to bed, hoping that the hollowness she felt could be fixed with sex, but only to be bitterly disappointed in the long run.

A part of her had died the same day Matthew had. It had taken a couple of years to realize it, but the pursuit of romance was futile. What good was love when all did was hurt you in the end? No— Mary was swearing off all courtships, and if Tom didn't like it, that was his problem. It was time he accepted that she knew the intricacies of her mind.

It was unconventional, of course— a relatively young woman choosing to remain alone— but Mary knew it was for the best. She wouldn't tell anyone, not yet, anyway. It was too irregular and she didn't want to put up with their remarks; Mama and Papa would insist she was giving up too easily, Edith would make a snide comment on how she suspected Mary was doing it for attention, and Tom... well, Tom would be insisting she run back to Henry Talbot. No; it was best she keep it to herself.

Why break yet another man's heart in a quest to find a man worthy of replacing Matthew when such a man did not exist?