There is a door that connects Mary's room to Matthew's. No one has noticed it besides Mary and probably Anna, because it is half hidden behind a wardrobe and it blends it seamlessly with the wall. But Mary certainly has noticed it, and she has ensured that it is unlocked. Just in case, of course.

Part of her wonders if the unlocked door is utter foolishness. As she checks the handle, morose memories of the night Kemal Pamuk came into her room wash over her, and she remembers that is why she is here. Because Pamuk... because she slept with Pamuk, and because Richard decided to publish.

The last day has been mercifully free of the story, besides her own intrusive thoughts, and Mary is beyond grateful for the reclusive house and the isolated location. Mary has always enjoyed social events but has given little previous thought to the benefits of relative isolation, and she finds that she rather enjoys it. Naturally, everyone in the house knows of the story, but they know the whole story, not Richard's libelous, spin-filled version. Dr. Warren, it seems, is too busy judging shellshocked soldiers for their delicate dispositions to read such a salacious article in a newspaper from London. The house in Scotland provides exactly the freedom she desires.

Mary checks the door one more time before she goes to bed. She is not concerned about Matthew pulling a Pamuk and walking in on her; it is hard enough for him to walk, and the door is even less obvious on Matthew's side, tucked in a dark corner next to his bathroom. She doubts he has noticed, and more importantly, she doubts Isobel has noticed.

But why is the door so important?

She hates to admit it to herself, but her heart flutters at the idea of having direct access to Matthew, of not having to risk being seen in the hallway in order to get into his room. If he cries out in the middle of the night, she can help him, and nobody will have to know of something that, even in an isolated country house with understanding residents, would be risqué.

Mary is unsurprised when he cries out, waking her from a sleep that was not so deep anyway. She lies in her bed for five minutes, willing him to go back to sleep on his own. Isobel is either deeply asleep or unable to hear her son, as she is in the room across the hall.

When it becomes clear that Matthew is not going to easily go back to sleep, Mary rolls out of her bed, slips on her dressing gown, wraps a blanket around her shoulders, and slowly creaks the door into Matthew's room open.

He is thrashing, troubled, and trying to stay in control but failing miserably. Mary can't quite make out what his whispered words are saying, but she can hear occasionally, 'William' and her heart clenches for him.

"Matthew," she whispers. Softly, so softly. She remembers when her father first came back from war; he was far less damaged than Matthew, but loud noises still startled him easily for a while. Matthew, then, seems to be far more susceptible.

He rolls over and squints to make her out in the dark. "No, you can't be out here," he says. He seems to be trying to scream, but there is not enough voice to allow him to do so.

"You're in bed, Matthew. In your home for now, up here in Scotland," Mary begins. She begins with the facts; if Matthew does not understand the simple facts of time and place, he will understand little else.

He rubs his eyes, blinks, and adjusts to the light. "No matter where it is, you can't be here," he whispers roughly. "Why are you in my bedroom?"

She breathes a sigh of relief; he knows where he is. "Because you were screaming and I couldn't sleep."

This typical glib answer, in years past, would have caused Matthew to laugh. But this is not the old Matthew. His face crumbles, and Mary realizes with a pang how different and fragile this Matthew is, how he is so broken and almost humorless.

"Matthew..." She sits on the edge of his bed. Maybe it's a daring move, but there in the dark, it seems so natural. "I didn't mean it that way."

"How did you mean it then?" he sniffles. "I'm sorry, I'm a burden to everyone and I'm keeping you awake and..."

Mary interrupts him by shushing him softly. "You're not. I'm in here because you seemed to be having a nightmare and I wanted to help you."

"Can you even be in here? I mean..."

Mary shushes him again. "Who's going to tell? If they even come in here, which I doubt they will."

He almost manages to laugh. "Your sense of propriety has disappeared, Lady Mary."

"It appears your sense of humor has not," Mary shoots back.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

Mary shakes her head. "Not at all. In fact, I'm glad you still have it. The war hasn't broken you completely."

His mood changes almost instantly. "Just mostly."

"Matthew..."

He thumps his head back onto the pillows and stares up at the ceiling, not really seeing anything. "I heard what Dr. Warren said. About shellshocked soldiers. How we're just weak, and delicate."

"And you told him off for it, and I was proud of you."

Matthew sighs. "I was exceptionally rude to him."

"You were making a point. You happened to be right. And now, he probably doesn't expect kindness out of you, but he knows what you're facing, or at least a slice of it. And that will help in the long run."

"I hate talking about it, you know," he says softly. "It gets coaxed out of me. People ask me, or they pretend that they know what I'm going through and there's just this urge to tell them that they have no idea. Otherwise, they'll continue to say things that don't help." He begins to shake. "I hate remembering, Mary. But now that's a part of who I am, whether I choose for it to be or not. Even if I don't remember, people will ask, and that will remind me. I never thought I'd consider men who ended up with amnesia as lucky, but if they can wipe their memories of the war, then they are very lucky indeed." His voice is husky, and shaking, and he wipes away tears.

Mary puts an arm around him to try and stop the shaking. She notices that she is lying on the bed next to him, and while in a past world, she would have been bothered due to the impropriety of the situation, she is not bothered right now. She doesn't say anything. She knows there is nothing that she can say, and Matthew will be all the better if she doesn't say anything.

He doesn't make much noise, just lays quietly and lets the tears run down his face. Finally, he turns his head to look at her. "I'm glad you're here. I know it's not proper and after Pamuk your reputation..."

"Matthew, you don't have to..."

"Do you want to talk about it? I'll leave it alone if you don't want to but if you want to talk about it... Everything here has been about my problems and I know you're suffering too, and if it helps to talk about it and not keep it bottled up, then you should, and I'll be here to listen."

Mary sighs. They are so close, their noses are almost touching, and she can feel the intensity of the situation palpate between them. "Didn't you say that with this kind of thing, you don't want to remember? And you hate that people force you to?"

He draws in a breath and stares at the ceiling again. "Without the shellshock practically forcing me to remember, I would have never talked about it. And I know that's unhealthy too, or at least I assume it is because Mother keeps telling me that it would be. So... maybe it would help you to talk about it?"

"What is there to say? I made a mistake, I kept it hidden for so long, it came out, now it's out in the open and I don't have to keep the secret anymore. If anything, it hasn't been bottled up. It's been dumped out for all the world to see."

Matthew turns back to Mary again and looks into her eyes, so intensely it almost disconcerting. "Was it your choice?"

"Matthew..."

"So it wasn't your choice," he says bluntly.

Mary throws her hands up in frustration. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters," Matthew says. He is surprisingly patient, and she can feel his hand just barely brushing against hers.

She shivers.

"I... never invited him in. I never even told him where my room was, I'm not sure how he found it. I asked him to leave, but there was really no point. He pointed out that if I screamed, they would find me with a man in my room and I would be ruined anyway. So... I just let him. There was no point in protesting, and my secret would be safer this way. But then... he just died."

Matthew is quiet, but Mary can see that his mind is working. "He raped you, Mary."

"No, I let him..."

Matthew interrupts, his voice stronger. "He raped you, and you've been living with this burden, thinking it was your fault."

"It was my mistake and I've paid for it."

"You shouldn't have had to pay anything. Carlisle has twisted the story and made you look completely responsible, and Pamuk raped you, and if he weren't dead I might kill him myself."

Mary isn't sure whether to be frustrated with him or to smile. "I'm not sure that's helping..."

"Well, doesn't it help to realize that this isn't your fault?"

Mary turns her head to look at him, to really look at him, and she manages to smile. "It does, a little bit. I'm… still not sure you understand completely..."

"I think I understand well enough," Matthew says, "although I couldn't claim universal understanding. But no matter what, I know I could never despise you, so this matter makes little difference to me."

Mary tries to ignore the feeling of her heart soaring. "Now that is good to hear."

His hand is completely on hers now, and they are so close, definitely closer than is proper, but who would know? "I'm glad. I guess Mother is right, and talking about it does help."

"Will you take that lesson to heart, then?"

Matthew manages a chuckle. "I've been forced to take it to heart."

Mary squints at the clock on the wall, illuminated by the moonlight coming from Matthew's window. The curtain is open wide. "Do you want the curtain open like that?"

"Yes," he says softly. "I'll... I don't want to be in the dark."

She nods. "I probably should go back to my room. It's almost five."

"Yes. don't want to get... caught together."

"Thank you," she says, and she means it more genuinely than nearly anything she has ever said. "You've helped me."

He smiles. "I guess we help each other."

There is very little for her to say in response. She rolls off of the bed and gives him one last glance. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"No," he replies. "I think I'm content."

"Good."

She quietly slips back into her room.

There are of course, bad days and good days for Matthew. The bad days are more typical; he'll wake up in a cold sweat after finally falling asleep after hours of sleeplessness, he'll react badly to something someone says, he'll slip into believing he's in France again, he'll sit sullenly and won't speak to anyone. There are good days, too. He'll talk pleasantly with Mary and Isobel, he'll read contentedly in the library, he'll work on his physical therapy and improve visibly. Then there are the bad days that are worse than bad. Mary calls the very first day in Scotland the worst day, at first, but she discovers, several more times, that the worst day has not yet come. There is a worst day, eventually. Not quite yet.

The third day in Scotland, Matthew does not manage to make it downstairs; he hardly slept the night before (partially on Mary, although neither of them would admit that) so he decided that instead of exhausting himself with the stairs, he would practice with the crutches in his bedroom and spend his time reading. He is quiet all day, pondering the previous night and what happened with Mary. They are not alone for most of the day, however. Isobel hovers like a hawk, and while Matthew loves his mother with all his heart, he sometimes wishes she would just go away. There is this new tension between himself and Mary; they are not awkward, but they are certainly unsure. Last night had been so odd, he isn't even certain it happened. After all, it is considerably more difficult for him to distinguish reality within his memory now. But then he looks at Mary, he sees her furtive glances, and he knows that it was all real.

Honesty, brutal honesty about feelings, is something Matthew supposes he should be familiar with as of late. After all, every doctor he speaks with wants to know the ins and outs of his brain, his mental process, his memory, because the damage is apparently so fascinating. Which is all well and good for them, because they don't have to suffer the consequences of possessing such a broken mind. But Matthew knows exactly what it is like to have to share his thoughts and feelings with brutal honesty, under such direct scrutiny.

But with Mary, it is different.

Mary doesn't see him as something to be observed, a perfect little specimen of shellshock to poke and prod at and investigate. He can't blame the doctors for their fascination; it is a funny thing, a future earl, expected to possess a stiff upper lip and to be a picture of decorum, to be so damaged, so unable to control himself, so angry and bitter and potentially crazy. After all, how weak does a man have to be, to be transformed thus? But for Mary, it is not about the shellshock. It is about him, Matthew, and how to best help him. And Matthew wonders if maybe, after Pamuk, Mary experiences a type of shellshock too. A response to a traumatic event, and her rape would certainly qualify. As Matthew replays every bit he's heard of Mary's story over and over in his head, he becomes more and more convinced that she was raped, and he feels such an anger that the world judges her for something that is out of her control.

He wonders if it will be that way for him, once he must leave this sheltered house and try to adjust back to the world. There seems to be no end in sight to the damage, no light at the end of a long tunnel of trying to repair his fractured mind. He is resigned to the idea that he will always be broken by the war. But after hearing what Dr. Warren said, about the apparent 'weakness' of shellshocked soldiers, he wonders if the world will treat him much the same as they treated Mary. The war was out of his control, and his wounds, both physical and mental, were out of his control. But the world, those who didn't fight in the war, they will not understand. They will see him as weak, and unfit, and possibly crazy. He imagines it painfully; 'Did you hear about the new Earl of Grantham? I hear they keep him locked up in his house because the war made him go insane. If he weren't an earl, they'd send him to an asylum'.

He has to get better. He can't face the rest of the world without getting better.

But he is so scared that he can't get better.

His whole life was ahead of him before the war, even during it. He had a law career, a fiancee, a huge inheritance and automatic social position waiting for him... But what use are any of those things now when he can't even close his eyes before he is back in France and screaming to no one who can hear?

He presses his lips together and clenches the sheets, willing the impending breakdown away.

But, despite how irrational he knows he's being, the breakdown comes.

It is not a good day.

The next day, however, is the first good day.

Matthew makes it down the stairs fairly quickly and without trouble, and relaxes in a large armchair by the fire, his leg propped up on an ottoman, feeling comfortable and unusually free of anxiety.

He settles in with a book, and absorbs himself in it for most of the morning. It has been such a long time since he was able to sit down and read just to do it, rather than to keep his mind off something, and it is a wonderful feeling to read for the sake of gaining knowledge independently, and to read for fun.

Mary comes in mid-morning, and curls up in the corner of the couch across from him, just watching him for a few minutes. Finally, she decides to interrupt. "What are you reading?"

"Around the World in Eighty Days," Matthew replies offhandedly.

She almost smiles. "Funny. I seem to remember you reading that same book during the last season." She doesn't just seem to remember it, she remembers it perfectly. How she managed to get his face out of the book and how his lips touched hers and how they were engaged in passionate kissing until they realized they were in the library and someone could walk in at any moment. She misses how carefree and in love they were.

"Well, I seem to remember you distracting me," he teases. "I never got a chance to finish the book before we went back to Downton, and it wasn't in your father's library at Downton and I never bothered to buy it, and then the war happened so... I guess I finally get a chance to finish it."

"Quite the hiatus," Mary smirks.

"Indeed."

He returns to his book, but Mary so desperately wants to keep talking with him, to keep reminiscing about those lovely days before the war, when everything seemed so perfect. "I think that was my favorite season of them all."

"Not your debut? If it was anything like Sybil's ball, it must have been quite grand." He looks up from the book and puts it, pages down, on the armrest, and settles back in the chair.

"Not quite as grand as Sybil's, but nice nonetheless. I was engaged to Patrick then, so my parents didn't see the point in wasting too much money on a ball meant to attract suitors when I was already engaged."

Matthew shrugs. "I guess that's fair. But still, Sybil's ball was your favorite season? Even with all the rumors swirling about London with the whole Pamuk affair?"

"You noticed? I thought you hadn't."

He looks down at his lap sheepishly. "I didn't notice. But Mother told me about it a few days ago. I feel bad for not noticing but..."

"No, don't be. I didn't really want you to notice, I wanted you to hear it from me instead. But then I never got the courage to tell you."

"I was rather oblivious to the way things were, then. I must have been an embarrassment."

Mary laughs prettily, and leans her head against the arm of the couch. "I thought it was rather endearing, actually, how you didn't know how things were done."

"I don't think many of your high society friends thought so."

"Did they laugh at you sometimes? Oh, that didn't mean they didn't like you. They might have found you a tad bit ...improper, but I think they rather enjoyed having a man around who hadn't been in tails since the day he was born. You shook things up a bit."

Matthew rolls his eyes. "Hardly. I was just clueless. Like at Sybil's ball, when I asked one of the musicians to dance with me..."

"That was quite funny, I'll admit. You'd been at Downton almost two years, how did you make that mistake?"

He shrugs genially. "She was wearing an elegant dress and she wasn't playing on that song so I didn't realize she was a musician, she was sitting all alone and… well, I needed to start dancing with someone, and she seemed available."

Mary grins and shakes her head. "Despite all that, you still had eyes all over you."

"Did I?"

"You didn't notice? A few of Sybil's friends, at the ball?"

He blushes fiercely, staring down at his lap. "I never noticed them. I suppose... then, I only had eyes for you." Still, he only has eyes for her, but no good would be done from admitting it, so he quiets himself.

"They were following you around like pathetic little puppies all night, once they did their obligatory dances with their supposed beaus. Of course, I can't blame them. You were quite handsome and charming despite your mistakes and of course, the heir to a lovely estate. A perfect package, really."

Matthew is nearly beet red, blushing furiously, unable to look Mary in the eye. "I'm not sure I agree with you, but maybe back then... Certainly not now."

Mary can sense the impending breakdown, and she panics, trying to think of a way to pull his mind away. "You're still handsome, still charming, you're still the heir... Nothing is missing in the package, it just got a little beat up upon delivery. Nothing that can't be fixed."

"It's lovely of you to say that, but..."

"I say it because it's true. But I won't argue with you because that would be unproductive. It's past noon, would you like some luncheon?"

Matthew hasn't had much of an appetite lately, but he nods and smiles. "I'd like that."

He looks back to his book as if nothing has happened. Mary holds her breath, waiting for a breakdown to come, but it never does. At least, not that day. Once the luncheon trays are brought up and Matthew continues reading happily with a full stomach, she begins to let down her guard. This is better, she thinks, that he was on the brink of something, but he didn't fall.

He's getting better, she tells herself.

She relaxes on the couch and gazes across at him, still contentedly reading his book. He's getting better. The words are reassuring, and Mary smiles.

The next few days, however, seem like setbacks.

The rain sets in, pounding on the roof and pouring down the windows, and with the gray sky Matthew's mood becomes gray. He spends the whole next day sulking in bed, or at least he appears to be sulking.

But he also appears to be struggling.

Mary tries to talk to him, but he does not respond.

He stares straight ahead.

Lifelessly.

But he stares at something.

Mary tries to insert herself into his field of vision, to distract him, to get him to notice her and break away from whatever he is so intently focused on.

But it doesn't work.

"Matthew," she whispers, grabbing his hand. "Matthew, do you want a book from downstairs.

No response.

It's almost eerie, how blue his eyes are. How they stare straight ahead and yet do not seem to see anything. How she can nearly see the tears in his eyes that threaten to flow, but stay behind the floodgates.

He finally begins to speak. But they are not words that make sense.

"Why are you here?" he asks thickly.

He says it to the wall, not to Mary.

He continues. "You're dead."

Obviously not to Mary.

Matthew tries to ignore it. The rational part of his brain that still seems to work, small as it might be, tells him that it can't be real.

But Matthew feels he has become very adept of late at rejecting his own rational thoughts.

And every time he glances back at the corner of the room, he catches a glimpse of the thing he is trying to ignore.

It is William.

Or rather, it is a visage of William. He looks like William, enough, but much paler, and bloodier, and lacking the innocent charm that William bore to his last day. The figure grins, but it is frightening and unsettling, and Matthew is trying to ignore it.

But while he can ignore the rational part of his brain easily enough, he can't ignore the grinning visage of his dead friend in the corner of his bedroom.

"Why are you here?" he asks, choking over his own words. He isn't certain he wants to hear the answer. "You're dead."

William stands, and Matthew realizes there was nothing for him to be sitting on. This isn't real, he tells himself. It can't possibly be real.

But he can't take his eyes off of the William-thing. And it speaks, in a voice that is unsettlingly like William's and yet out of place somehow. "That's right. I'm dead. I died for you."

"Your sacrifice is..."

"My sacrifice was pointless," he says, making his way to the foot of the bed. "You're a mess now and it probably won't get any better and I'm left behind, forever twenty-five years old, forever a tragedy that your kind exploit but never really care much for anyway."

Matthew stares, not blinking. "I'm sorry..."

"Of course, you're sorry. You're lucky you can be sorry. You're alive. Look at that."

Matthew looks at the William-thing with wide, frightened eyes, as it approaches his bed. It definitely does look like William, but the sunken eyes, the curled lip, the cheeks void of William's rosy glow... it can't be William.

"I'm..." But Matthew's mouth cannot make the words to apologize, or argue.

He reaches out to touch it.

Instead a warm hand presses over his.

He blinks, and William is gone.

Mary is there instead.

It should be a relief, but it is not.

"Where's William?" he asks, frantically.

"William?" Mary's voice is skeptical, but a dawning realization falls upon her.

Matthew's gaze darts around the room. "He was right there, right next to you!" He points at the spot on the wall, and shakes his head. "He was taunting me, talking about how his sacrifice wasn't worth it. And it wasn't. I realize that now. He was so young, he had so much life left in him, and he died to save this broken mess of a..."

Mary takes Matthew's face in both of her hands, staring into his eyes with unexpected intensity. "No," she says, fiercely. "Don't say that, because it isn't true."

He tries to look away, but Mary doesn't let him. He sighs in frustration, "I know you want to believe that but..."

She stares at him with more fervor. "It's a tragedy that William died. But it also would have been a tragedy if you died. Do you know how grateful I am that you are alive? Do you know how grateful your mother is? If you had died out there, she would have no one at all. If anything, think about her."

He doesn't know where to look, but he doesn't want to look at Mary. There is nothing worse than conviction. "I know, but..."

"You're alive, and there's nothing more important than life."

He shakes his head. "You couldn't possibly understand."

"No, I can't, but you have to let me! I want to help you, Matthew, let me help you."

His voice is very quite, almost disturbingly so. He presses his lips together and sighs heavily. "Oh, Mary, I wish you could."

First of all, thanks again for reading! Your support is so appreciated, and this was one of my favorite chapters to write! I'd like to give a huge thanks to Klarinette49 and galindadaae who beta all the chapters and make sure that nothing is totally ooc or wrong, I'm so grateful for them!

Speaking of Klarinette49, by the way, she and I are coordinating the MM Secret Santa again this year! We're doing it through Tumblr, but we have worked it out for people who aren't on Tumblr but are on to join in. If you want to join, message me or her on here or on Tumblr (my Tumblr is hufflepuffhermione, hers is the same url) by November 26th and we'll give you all the details. We'd love to have you join!

Also, just fyi, the next chapter may be a few days later than usual because I'll be out of town. But it will come, I promise.

Whew, that was a long author's note! If you've gotten through all that, please consider leaving a review. They make writers like me very happy; I read through old reviews all the time and just get so much joy from them! Thanks for reading!