A/N: Many thanks to DowntonReads for your very kind review.

***chapter 10***

Determined to reach the top of his profession, the clockmaker's son rose quickly in the ranks, allowing nothing and no-one to stand in his way. Carson could not fault his work, and although he wanted Thomas gone, Carson, unfortunately for the strait-laced middle-aged butler, was an honourable man, incapable of using underhand methods to ensure his dismissal.

Mrs Hughes, to the housekeeper's eternal detriment, was cursed with a soft heart that Thomas used to his own advantage. Dear God, he could play each and every one of them, upstairs or downstairs, like a bloody fiddle. With the Upstairs lot, he simply switched on the charm offensive and had them in his pocket, while dark mutterings and murmurs of mutiny from Downstairs was "all water off a duck's back", as Kate would have said. They would never dare carry out their threats. Those who were foolish enough to try quickly learnt the error of their ways. The firm of Barrow and O'Brien operated like a well-oiled machine and took no prisoners. Edna O'Brien was ruthless in pursuit of revenge and, in addition, Thomas Barrow kept what might have been called friends – if he had had any friends - in high places.

Such as Phillip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough …

The relationship was based on no more than convenience. They saw in each other the same hidden desires in the same sidelong questioning gazes that men of their kind must chance to give, though a lingering gaze on the wrong man may lead to imprisonment; they must learn to recognise and give the same small signals, all the while knowing the slightest misjudgement may brand them criminal, may even lock them inside a concrete prison for many years, inside a jail almost as lonely as the prison locked inside themselves, where they have lived in caution and fear all their lives.

Thus Thomas and Philip Villiers contrived to secretly arrange their trysts. And while some men of their persuasion might know the joy of being with one they cherished and adored, for them there was no romance, no sweet talk, no hearts filled with deep affection. Their plans were worked out with the same cold detachment one might use to work out household expenses, a straightforward, unemotional means to an end that benefited both. No love ever lost between them because there was no love to be lost. They sniped and scored points off each other in a continuous war of words and one-upmanship even while wrapped in each other's arms, sharing the same bed.

The Duke warned his would-be valet he was getting way above his station, but Thomas Barrow took that risk, arrogant enough to believe he had the upper hand with his blackmail threats, stupid enough to leave the incriminating correspondence in his room, forgetting his lover could be every bit as devious as himself. And too late to stop the letters being thrown on to the fire.

But then maybe Philip Villiers survived because there was no love. Not like with Reggie.

He was the best bloke in his regiment, was Reggie Morris, didn't deserve any of what happened. A year older than Thomas, ruddy faced, untidy cropped chestnut hair, wide brown eyes framed by long, silky lashes and a ready grin that often reminded him of Paul Latham. He spoke quietly, gently with a country accent Thomas occasionally had trouble understanding, had lived all his life on a farm with his grandparents, uncle and younger sister, and never once set foot outside his tiny Shropshire village until the Great War. But they were mates from the off.

He felt comfortable enough to disclose to Thomas, the first person he'd ever told, he said, that he'd never been interested in women, but had always been attracted to men. He felt that way about Thomas, he confessed, stammering in embarrassment and uncertainty, and relieved to learn the feeling was reciprocated. And somehow, amid the blood and mud and stench of the trenches; the fall of the rain as they buried in shallow graves men who had been living and breathing only hours before; amid the ceaseless dull roar of the shelling and the screams and prayers of the dying, they fell in love. And yet in their love they could do little more than dream of what might be, to brush against one another when they could, to share knowing looks, to smoke a cigarette the other's lips had touched, a love they never consummated, always watchful, always wary, lest the other lads in the regiment found them out...

Reggie died before his very eyes. Seconds too late to dodge the enemy grenade.

The last image he would ever have of him, blown to bits in a brief, bright, terrifying light sealed in his memory forever. And when they buried their dead that night, Reggie, too, was one of those lowered into the ground, his last resting place marked by a makeshift wooden cross, before being left behind with all of those men the Great War forever silenced, while the living pressed on forward.

He cried for days. Often in secret. Because tears were all he had. Comrades patted his shoulder, murmured brief words of sympathy. Then expected him to move on. They understood his grief for the death of his friend, but they probably never would have understood his yearning to sob inconsolably for the death of his lover.

And in the end, the madness, the terror, but most of all the loss of Reggie, was more than Thomas could bear. That talk with Matthew Crawley put the idea in his head although Matthew Crawley didn't realise it.

On the battlefield, death made everyone equal and they drank tea together and talked not as lord and footman, but simply as men. When he pondered on the possibility of perhaps returning to England to continue his war work as a medic, Lord Crawley's opinion was that his chances were slim and the transfer would only happen if he were wounded anyway. Well, if it took getting wounded to get him home, Thomas Barrow was going to make damned sure he got wounded.

He raised the small flame to offer his trembling arm to the Hun and the Hun eagerly accepted his sacrifice. The shrill whistle of a bullet immediately pierced the air and he felt its presence burn with excruciating pain into his hand, making him cry out in agony. But it was worth it to get him out of the insanity, away from the odd kind of brotherhood they all, even he, shared here on the Somme, the chit-chat and laughter and crude jokes while they sat round a fire in the dug-out picking the constant lice from their hair, skin and clothes, the ninety per cent boredom and ten per cent fear that, when it hit, hit with an all-encompassing terror, a closeness that only those who lived it night and day could ever hope to understand.

The hand injury was permanent, but the ploy was successful. He was transferred back to the surreal reality of Downton. To cry alone, even more bitter with the world.

Yes, War had touched Downton, but compared to the Somme, its touch had been feather-light, a breath of wind stealing through the trees on a bright summer's day, a few foam-tipped waves rippling slowly through the sea by the slight chill of early evening. Oh, things had changed. Upstairs and Downstairs, everyone was doing their bit in these strange times of young men being sent to their death in droves; none were idle.

A concert held to raise funds for the local hospital, and in which it seemed almost everyone, from Lord Grantham himself down to hall boys and scullery maids, had been involved in some way or other, exceeded all expectations, and there was a constant buzz of excitement among the serving staff over the unfounded rumour there might be a second concert soon. Many of the Downton women were knitting hats, gloves and scarves to keep the boys on the Front warm in the forthcoming winter and many of the Downton men, those too old or too young or too sick to be called up, were volunteering their help on the nearby farms.

Lady Sybil was training as a nurse, and worked at the local hospital alongside the Countess of Grantham, and now Thomas too, under the supervision of Dr Clarkson, while Lady Edith had learnt to drive and was busy providing books and writing letters and a listening ear to the wounded soldiers.

But still the Abbey pandered to its petty concerns.

Charles Carson was on a sharp look out to try and identify who was responsible for a lamp found broken in the drawing room. Mrs Patmore the cook had been ill for a day or two and she fussed and fretted and fidgeted over whether the family really did like a new recipe Daisy had tried in her absence until the little kitchen maid was almost ready to throw down her cap and apron and storm out. The latest gossip below stairs was all about Lady Mary having had quite the tantrum and heated words with her sister and arch-enemy Lady Edith over a bottle of Paris perfume..

He slipped into the grey half-world with his usual disdain. Cold, aloof, smug. And, to his great satisfaction, being Lance Sergeant Thomas Barrow, medic, a man of importance. He saw the frowns of the Downstairs staff, heard their whispers, and swaggered all the more. Sod the b*****ds. They couldn't argue with his uniform, with the stripes on his arm, with the fact he had been out there on the front line, fighting for his country.

At least Lady Sybil was kind to him, though. But then the youngest Crawley daughter had always been different. She never seemed to see in Thomas what others saw, the arrogance, the cruelty, the scheming to get what he wanted, whatever the cost to anyone else. Which was odd because he saw these traits clearly in himself. But it was hard to be all these things when she spoke to him with a respect he never earned and never deserved, when she disregarded societal convention and asked him, a lowly servant, for advice on medical matters, bowing to his greater knowledge and experience.

She wanted to learn as much as she could about nursing so that she could be useful, not to while away her days in privilege and luxury, she told Thomas, and it was a great comfort to know she had in him a friend she could always rely on. He wanted to tell her it was a lie, he was too selfish, too callous, too manipulative, to be a true friend to anyone. But he didn't. She smiled when she shared the confidence and something stirred in his heart, waking long subdued memories of how he had loved once, of years gone by and Kate and Ben and Paul. It was impossible not to smile back. His first genuine smile since Reggie.

Sybil Crawley reminded him so much of Kate, never judging, never demanding, never questioning his homosexuality, simply accepting him for who and what he was. Close in age and younger than many of the other medical staff, they found a quiet, steady strength and reassurance in each other in their harrowing work, in seeing strong, brave men, shadows of their former selves, so damaged by war they sobbed like babes in arms; in steeling themselves not to vomit at the sight of mangled bodies or weep over broken minds; in trying not to break down when the thin, pale schoolboy who'd lied about his age to join the Army and lucky to escape with his life on a battlefield far from home was brought back to the tender care and kinder shores of Blighty only to fall in the final battle we all will face sooner or later.

And it was only natural that he and Lady Sybil should worry together about Edward Courtenay...