Today had been a bad day. There were no two ways about it. A very bad day.

Sybil stepped out of the back door of the hospital, heartsick and drained, and tipped her head up to look at the stars.

All was quiet. The entire village appeared to be slumbering, and even the hospital was quiet for once, just the odd moan or cry, quickly muffled.

Up in the heavens, all was peaceful. The wide, sweeping skies above Yorkshire were clear tonight, the stars shining brightly, beautiful in the dark, midnight blue above her head. But then a memory popped into her mind of her cousin Patrick once telling her that all the stars she could see were actually dying, and the bright starlight was nothing but their violent, agonising death throes.

As she remembered that, she felt her throat tighten up, her appreciation of the beauty of the night sky shrivelling to nothing, and sadness overwhelmed her.

She was sick of death. Sick of the way it was stalking her generation. Sick of the way it was scything through the young men she'd danced with during her coming out season of 1914. Sick of the way it reached out from the battlefields, not satisfied with the blood soaking into the fields of France, Flanders and beyond. Sick of the way its greedy fingers followed young men back to England where they should be safe. Sick of fighting daily battles to keep horrifically wounded men in the land of the living. Sick of losing the fight.

Today they'd lost three men. Two she'd barely known, both arriving on a recent transport, jolted by train, ship and ambulance across Belgium and France, over the Channel, and up through England, through multiple hospitals, only to reach Downton and no longer be able to stave off the infection acting as the Grim Reaper.

That was bad enough, seeing those two young men die, maimed, frightened and alone.

The third one, though. The third one was the one that really hurt. Lieutenant William Keen.

He'd been her patient from the day he'd arrived at Downton hospital. She'd washed the battlefield from him. She'd cleaned, disinfected and bandaged his wounds. She'd talked to him, soothed him, taken care of him. She'd begun to hope he would make it. And he'd rallied. He'd fought. He'd fought hard to stay alive. But in the end, death came for him, relentless and uncaring, the deadly infection too deep despite Major Clarkson amputating as much of his poor, mangled arm as possible. Once it seeped in beyond the shoulder, tendrils of poison spreading into his torso, there was nothing more he could do.

Now, she had washed Lieutenant Keen for the last time. Washed him and laid him out, readied him for his final journey. That was the last thing she could do for him.

She felt the tears rise again, the sadness overwhelming her, and she put her hand over her eyes, trying not to break down, scared that if she did, she'd sink to the floor and never find the strength to get up again.

'Milady?' a gentle voice said behind her.

Sybil felt her spine stiffen, resenting the elevation of her honorific title over her professional one.

'Don't call me that. Not here. I'm not milady here. I'm Nurse Crawley.'

'I'm sorry. Your mother sent me to fetch you. She said you'd extended your shift and I was to come for you at midnight,' Branson said, his voice still gentle.

She sighed, not for the first time wishing her mother would just leave her to do her job and treat her like an adult, not a child in need of chaperoning everywhere.

'She shouldn't have done that. She should have let you go home for the night. I'm perfectly capable of walking home by myself.'

'In the dark? At midnight?' Branson asked, too much scepticism in his voice for Sybil's liking.

'Yes. In the dark at midnight. I'm not a child!' she snapped, turning around and glaring at him.

'No, but you are a young woman and there might be bad people about,' he said, an answering spark of anger flaring bright and quick on his face before his servant's blank returned.

'In Downton? I highly doubt that,' Sybil retorted.

'You never know when something bad is going to happen. You might be walking along minding your own business and then, just like that, everything can turn on a penny and your life is suddenly over,' Branson snapped, his mask slipping again and looking like he was on the verge of losing his temper, something she'd rarely seen him do, especially with her.

Sybil looked at him in surprise, then stomped towards the back door of the hospital, annoyed with him for being as over-protective as her mother.

'Well, I'd better get my cape then. Heaven forbid I should worry you or Mama for a second longer by being out here in the dark in such a hotbed of crime!'

'The car's out front,' Branson called after her.

'Yes, I'd worked that out for myself, thank you,' she barked over her shoulder, feeling more irritated by the second.

By the time Sybil took off her stained and bloodied apron, put on her uniform cape and left the hospital by the front door, Branson was standing by the car, waiting for her, his servant's mask firmly back in place. He opened the back door, and Sybil was suddenly annoyed again by the insidious creep of her civilian status into her professional life.

'No, I'll sit in the front with you,' she said, not wanting to enjoy any more than she had to the trappings of a rank she'd never earned.

He looked surprised but shut the door, watching as she walked around the car and slipped into the passenger side of the front seat without waiting for him to help her in.

Branson got in beside her, started the engine, released the brake and they were on their way, neither of them speaking, an awkward and unusual silence hanging heavily between them.

After a few minutes, just as they were turning into the long winding drive up to Downton Abbey, he finally broke the silence. 'Were you crying back there?'

Sybil hesitated, not wanting to show weakness, but the fact that he'd even asked told her he'd seen her having a moment. 'Yes.'

'Why were you crying?' he asked, flicking her a concerned look, one that Sybil knew her mother would be questioning if she'd seen it.

'Because I lost a patient tonight. Well, we actually lost three, but this one, in particular, was hard to take.'

'Why this one?' Branson asked, a hint of something in his voice. 'What was special about him?'

'Because he was mine,' Sybil said, simply.

Beside her, Branson stiffened, bristling with an emotion he seemed to be struggling to suppress.

'What do you mean yours?' he asked, brusquely. 'Did you know him?'

Sybil cocked her head, clenching her jaw in annoyance. 'If you mean did I know him from before the war, no. But he was my patient. I looked after him from the moment he arrived. He was under my care. And I was there when he died.'

'So, you didn't know him then. Not really,' Branson said, verging on being confrontational.

Sybil shot him a look. 'I did know him. He talked to me about his family and his sweetheart and what he'd hoped for the future he'll never have.'

'But you only knew him for a few days, so you didn't properly know him. You don't know if he was a good man or if he deserved to die. Really, he's just another soldier who died,' Branson said, baldly.

'Of course, he didn't deserve to die! That's a horrible thing to say!' Sybil cried, shocked by Branson's uncharacteristic show of callousness.

'But it's true. Some soldiers deserve to die. Some of them are absolute bastards, and the world is better off without them,' he snapped, anger all over his face.

Sybil stared at him open-mouthed before her temper kicked in. 'What is wrong with you tonight? Why are you saying these awful things?'

'Because you need to grow up and understand that not everyone is nice and kind and caring. Some people are devils and if they get culled by this bloody war, then that's a good thing. Especially fecking soldiers! Good riddance to every last fecking one of them!' he almost shouted at her as he swung the car around outside the front door of the Abbey, kicking up gravel as he stomped on the brake.

Sybil glared at him, shocked beyond belief that Branson would say such a thing. She grabbed hold of the door handle and practically flung herself out of the car, spinning angrily to face him once she was on solid ground.

'That's a despicable thing to say! You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself!' she hissed.

'Well, I'm not because it's damn well true,' he fired back, returning her glare. 'And you need to get over being dewy-eyed over strangers breathing their last. Because they'll keep coming and they'll keep dying and some of them will be no loss to this world.'

'Oh, you can just… you can just… go to hell!' Sybil responded, feeling bold to use such language and shocked that Branson of all people had pushed her to it.

'Milady?' Carson said from the doorway, looking puzzled that Sybil was out of the car on the wrong side of the bonnet while Branson was still in the driving seat.

'Yes, I'm coming, I'm coming,' Sybil snapped, his use of her title needling her once again. She sent one last glare sailing Branson's way then stalked into the Abbey, her shoulders tight with tension. Behind her, she heard Branson stomp on the pedals and pull away without another word.

Upstairs in her room, Sybil unhooked her cape and flung it on her bed, pacing furiously, turning Branson's words over in her head.

She thought of Lieutenant Keen's poor broken body lying in the hospital mortuary, waiting for the undertaker to come and fetch him in the morning. She thought of the letters she'd penned for him to his mother and his sweetheart. She thought of his pale face, devoid of the spark of life.

Then she marched to her bedroom door, yanked it open and stormed out.

Sybil could see the light still on in the garage as she stalked towards it, fury fuelling her every step.

She barrelled in through the door, looking for Branson, determined to have her say.

He was sitting at his workbench, his back to her, his posture rigid.

'Where do you get off saying those things to me?' she demanded, hands on her hips, anger spilling out of her. 'How dare you talk to me like that!'

He didn't turn around.

'Go away, Sybil,' he said, his voice low but loaded with warning.

'I will not!' she said, incensed by his attempt to dismiss her.

'I don't want you here. Not tonight,' he said, his back still to her, his spine stiff.

'At least have the decency to turn around and look at me when you try to dismiss me from my own father's garage!' Sybil hissed at him, furious with both him and his attitude tonight.

Branson didn't move. 'Go away.'

Sybil stormed forward, grabbing hold of his shoulder and pulling him half off his stool as she yanked at him, trying to turn him around to face her.

Branson wobbled and twisted to stop himself from falling off the stool.

Sybil caught sight of his face and her breath stopped in her chest.

He'd been crying. He had tears in his eyes, and she could see the wet tracks down his cheeks.

'Tom?' she said, uncertainly.

'Go away, Sybil!' he said desperately, his voice breaking. 'Leave me be.'

Sybil stepped closer, laying her hand on his arm. 'What's wrong?'

He shook her hand off and turned away from her again. 'Nothing to concern you.'

'Well, that's too bad because I am concerned. Something's wrong. Tell me what's wrong.'

'You and your kind! That's what's wrong! That's what's wrong with this whole bloody world!' he erupted, pushing off the stool and whirling to face her.

Sybil stared at him, totally shocked. 'What? What do you mean, "my kind"?'

'I mean the British! The British and their sense of fecking entitlement!'

'What are you talking about?' Sybil cried, at a complete loss.

'You don't even know what today is, do you?' Tom shouted, anger and pain on his face. 'You haven't a fecking clue! And why? Because you're British and you think the whole fecking world revolves around you!'

'Then tell me! If I'm so ignorant, tell me!' she shouted back at him, not prepared to shoulder the blame for his foul mood when she didn't know what was bothering him.

Tom glared at her. 'You really want to know?'

'Yes! I do!'

He stepped closer to her, his face a mixture of anger and anguish.

'Two years ago today, my cousin Joe was walking along an ordinary Dublin street when he was shot dead by a British soldier who assumed he was part of the Easter Rising. He had no evidence, no reason to suspect Joe of anything, but he shot him anyway. Shot him dead!'

Sybil stared at him, his behaviour tonight suddenly making much more sense with this revelation. She stepped towards him, reaching out for him.

Tom raised his hands, fending her off. 'Don't. Don't touch me.'

Sybil stopped, her own hands falling uselessly by her side.

'Our Joe, he was the kindest, gentlest lad you could ever hope to meet. He was a cheeky one, but he didn't have a bad bone in his body. He was the peacemaker in the family. The one who always made us patch things up and be friends again when we started falling out. The one who always had a joke ready to make us laugh and stop us from acting like eejits. Joe was… he was the best of us,' Tom said brokenly, sinking onto his stool again, another tear spilling down his face.

'I'm so sorry, Tom,' Sybil whispered, curling her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from reaching out to him again.

'All evening, I've been trying to raise a glass to him. To remember him,' Tom said, gesturing at his workbench.

Sybil looked over at the work surface to see two glasses of whiskey sitting there.

'But all night, it's been "Branson, take the Dowager home," "Branson, fetch Lady Edith from the station," "Branson, go and get Lady Sybil at midnight instead of ten o'clock." And now it's after midnight. It's now two years and one day since that fecking British Army soldier took our Joe's life and I still haven't paid my respects to his memory,' Tom said, roughly brushing away another tear sliding down his face.

Sybil turned to the workbench and pushed one of the shots of whiskey towards him.

'Then let's do it now,' she said, gently. 'Do you think Joe would mind me having his drink?'

Tom looked at her in surprise. 'Do you want it?'

'Do I want to raise a glass to your cousin Joe, the kindest, gentlest lad you could hope to meet? Absolutely, I do,' Sybil said, waiting for him to give her his permission before touching the other glass.

Tom sniffed, then nodded.

Sybil picked up the glass. 'To your cousin, Joe.'

Tom clinked his glass against hers. 'Sláinte, Joe. May you rest in peace.'

Sybil tossed back the whiskey, her eyes watering as the taste hit the back of her throat. She coughed slightly, then felt a warmth that wasn't entirely due to the whiskey flooding her chest as Tom smiled at her.

'Is that your first whiskey?' he asked.

'Uh huh,' she mumbled, not quite able to talk yet.

'What did you think?'

'I think Joe would probably have enjoyed it more,' she said honestly, pulling a slight face.

Tom gave a gentle laugh, a sound that lifted her spirits after everything that had gone on tonight.

'Aye, he probably would have. He was partial to a drop of whiskey, was our Joe.'

Sybil smiled at him, glad they were no longer at odds. She stepped forward into the vee of his legs as he sat on the stool and took a handkerchief out of her uniform pocket. She lifted one hand, took hold of his chin and wiped gently at the tear tracks on his face.

He gazed at her as she did it, and the longing in his eyes hit her like a gut punch.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'For all the horrible things I said to you tonight. I didn't mean them.'

'Yes, you did. Well, maybe not all of them, but some of them you did. And I understand why you said them now. I'm only sorry for my ignorance,' she said, softly.

He shook his head. 'You're not ignorant. That was wrong of me to say that. Why would you know the significance of today to me?'

Sybil bit her lip, gazing at him. 'But I want to know. I want to know about things that are important to you.'

'Do you?' he asked, hope blooming in his eyes.

'Yes, I do. Because you are important to me,' she said, feeling the truth of that somewhere deep inside her.

He gazed at her, his eyes dropping to her lips for a second. Sybil felt her heart tripping in her chest but took a reluctant step back, conscious that she wasn't yet ready to push further forward in this delicate dance that was their relationship.

'I'd better go back before Carson locks up and I'm stranded out here without an explanation as to why I'm not already tucked up in my bed.'

Tom nodded, a faint look of disappointment on his face.

'Tomorrow's another day, Tom. And with a bit of luck, it will be a better one for both of us.'

'Let's hope so,' he murmured.

Sybil gave him one last smile and turned to leave.

'Sybil,' he said as she reached the door, stopping her in her tracks.

She looked back at him.

'Thank you. For remembering Joe with me.'

'You're welcome.'

'And I am sorry for what I said about your patient. If you want to remember him - or any of your patients when you lose them - I can do the same for you. Help you raise a glass to them.'

Sybil gave him a sad smile, touched by the gesture, but thinking of the number of men they'd lost in the hospital over the last few months.

'That's a nice idea but you might have to get some apple juice for me because I'm not sure I could stomach that much whiskey. And I certainly wouldn't be in any fit state to do my job if I did.'

'I can do that,' he said, softly. 'I'd do anything for you.'

Sybil gazed across the garage at him, her heart thumping. 'Good night, Tom.'

'Good night.'

She turned and headed back to the house, glad now that she'd been angry enough to storm out here after their falling out in the car. She would sleep easier tonight knowing that she and Tom weren't at odds, that they may even have pushed their unorthodox relationship one step further tonight. Perhaps not as far as he may have liked, but for Sybil, it felt like, despite all the unpleasantness of their journey home, their connection had deepened tonight. And that gave her plenty more to think about.