A/N: Would you, lovely readers, do me a favor? Drop a line, by way of reviews or PMs, and let me know whether you'd still follow along if the rating were to jump to 'M' at a future juncture.

xx,
~ejb~

He is alone too much with his thoughts. After his having been approached by the Dean he finds he cannot sleep at night. He tries to read the paper and his thoughts drift to her. How could she think that he'd object to working with her? They had always brought out the best in one another professionally, even if it had, at times, meant each one arguing his or her corner to the point of vitriol. If he were honest, those years marked the pinnacle of his success.

Does she really think them incapable of laying aside their personal differences in the name of professional partnership? Perhaps the bit that irks him most is that she may well be right to think so. The entirety of their contention back before everything changed was down to differing opinions that could be set aside with the arrival of a patient in distress or the offer of dinner or a strong drink. Now … well. Now there is so much water gone beneath the bridge that there's no telling whether they could find the other side.

oOo

Sunday comes, and he'll be in theatre all day tomorrow, then on call overnight. If he can't get some rest tonight he'll be a danger to his patients. He sits in church and wonders whether she'll be doing the same, and where*. Days like this he is thankful for creeds and catechisms and the Eucharist, otherwise he'd never keep his focus. He lights a candle after, for Matthew Crawley. Sits and prays for guidance, which he hasn't done since Leeds. And then he prays for Isobel.

He waits until he thinks she must be back from church if she did go, but then it hits him: perhaps she isn't like him, repairing to his armchair with a book and a glass of whisky of a Sunday afternoon. Perhaps she has family to see; friends. Perhaps there is a gentleman who calls on her. He doubts this, but thinking it gives him a reason to be cross with her, which for the moment he finds oddly satisfying.

He reminds himself of the necessity of a good night's sleep and, after talking himself out of it no less than half a dozen times, he telephones the guesthouse. Asks to speak with her, and nearly ends the call again while he waits for her to come to the telephone.

"Hello." She speaks, and all of his misgivings flee.

"Isobel. I haven't taken you away from anything important, have I?"

"Richard! It's … I'm … No, I was just in the midst of Gray's. Veins of the Head and Neck." She sounds surprised to hear from him, but not unhappy.

"Ah, captivating stuff, that."

"Well it is, but at this point I close my eyes and all I can see are spidery lines running every direction. I was glad of the break."

He grins, and her star rises a little in his estimation. Count on her to be hard at it. The woman is relentless. "Have you got a date yet for your exams?"

"Yes, it's the third of next month. As in, three weeks away."

"I shouldn't worry. You know your stuff." Better than I, at times.

"Knew. I knew my stuff, before I took a sabbatical of nearly a decade. Why I didn't go and register with the GNC** when I had the chance … I'm still kicking myself over it. Could have avoided all of this."

"The wisdom of hindsight. I shouldn't be too hard on yourself though. You'd just been through the unthinkable."

"That's as may be, but the technology's all different now, which makes good medical practice entirely different. I feel like a green girl."

"Well that brings me round to the reason I called. I had a most interesting conversation with the Dean on Friday …"

He hears her groan and can picture her cheeks going pink. "Ah, that. I can—"

"Just—" he interrupts. "Isobel, you could have come to me. Telephoned. Something. Are we so far gone that we can't discuss these types of things? Richard, the board want to assign me to surgery, only I wasn't sure you'd agree to work with me again. That's all it would have taken."

There is a pause before she speaks again. "Would you believe it if I said that I didn't want to come on too strongly? The day that we met again was a rough go, and when it ended well I didn't want to dredge up anything else, in the event you'd sooner just move on."

He doesn't know what to say. "Well that's … something I'll admit I hadn't considered. And it's very good of you. I wanted you to hear it from me, though, that I would have no qualms about working together. I've thought it through. You'd be Chief of Surgical Nursing, along with all that entails: assisting in theatre, training new recruits. Keeping the nursing rota and an inventory of supplies and possibly, seeing as I know you, assisting me with marking. It moves far more quickly than things did in Downton, and at times we're all hands on deck. I need someone I know I can rely on, and I feel certain you're up to the task. I just didn't want you to be uninformed."

"You're being awfully good about this. I'm sorry that I didn't approach you myself; consider it a lesson learned. I'd like us to be friends again, but if I'm honest it's uncharted waters for me."

"I don't think there's protocol for this sort of thing. We dictate the terms. And I don't want you to think that we're not friends, either." And then he says something his own ears can't believe, even as the words are tumbling from his lips: "I'm willing to start over if you are."

"I'd like that very much. More than I can say. And I'm ready for it: the pace and the frenzy. I'm anxious to get my hands dirty again."

That's the Isobel I know. He suspects that she can hear him smiling when he tells her, "I'd expect nothing less. So I'll see you whenever it is they've asked you to report …"

"That'll be Wednesday then. In the meantime I've got to dig the old greys out of mothballs. Hopefully they won't need much in the way of alterations."

You haven't changed a bit, he wants to assure her. Or rather, she did change for a time, and radically, but she's back to herself once again. He hopes so anyway, desperately wants to believe that the Isobel with whom he reunited two weeks ago, and to whom he speaks now, is the one who was his best friend. The one full of fire and drive and idealism who gives as good as she gets and who never met an argument she didn't want to jump in the middle of.

He manages to tell her, "You may be pleasantly surprised."

"Fingers crossed. Richard, thank you for ringing me. It's been lovely chatting with you, rather like old times." When she pauses, he can see what her face is doing. That demure little half-smile, the reminiscent look in her eyes. "If you don't mind my saying so, it's made my day."

His heart skips a beat, he is sure of it. And he must have forgot to breathe because he's sputtering now, certain he looks as much a fool as he feels. Thank heaven above she can't see him!

"Richard, are you alright?" He hears her call to him.

He manages to catch his breath. "Yes, quite. Sip of water went down the wrong way. Anyway I'm glad to talk to you as well. I'll see you Wednesday morning, then."

"Good night, Richard."

"Goodbye, Isobel."

oOo

It had been naive of him to think that he would be able to sleep after having spoken with her. He lies awake in the wee hours, replaying every word she said. Her palpable relief at hearing him say he looked favourably on working with her again. His, when she agreed to start over with him, as friends.

He's picturing them side by side in theatre, or in clinic, doing intake. How he'll introduce her to his colleagues; how he'll field the inevitable enquiries about her coming in with clout, senior to the other nurses. He feels oddly protective of her, wants to set her up for success.

She needs none of that, he knows, and more than that, she'll be furious if her worth isn't proved by virtue of good graces and hard work. Still. He just wants this to work out for them. (Them? The realisation jars him.) For her to be accepted, respected. At least now he doesn't wonder why he feels this way.

He has given himself up to the fact that he loves her. Certainly, still, he wars over it internally. The intransigent pull of the heart versus the evidence, logic, common sense reminding him ceaselessly that she hurt him, and to what extent. It doesn't matter how many times he turns over the facts; his heart will not be moved to anything but greater affection. But at least he no longer berates himself for that which he cannot control.

oOo

By Friday of their first full week of working together, he can breathe easy. Stand back, hands off, and watch his department running like a well-oiled machine. The workload is the same —perhaps greater, even— but Isobel's presence has made it seem like half as much.

She'd ruffled a few feathers at first, mostly veteran nurses put out by an interloper coming in and having jurisdiction over them. The chairman of the board of directors had briefed the team and swiftly put a stop to any outward dissent. But the greatest impact had been made by Isobel herself: she had invited each nurse in turn to sit for tea in the staff room, getting to know them and sharing a little about her own experiences and her desire to add to the surgical team, not to detract from it in any way.

As she'd weighed up the skill set of each nurse, she had begun to take the youngest under her wing, allowing them to practise skills they had as yet considered above them, whilst keeping a watchful eye. And she'd asked her own fair share of questions; advice. There were many with far more knowledge than she about equipment that was only in the dreaming stages back when she'd last practiced regularly.

He had given her the use of his surgery, access to his library in order to revise for her exams after hours, so long as he wasn't seeing students. She'd accepted his offer with great relief, and he'd begun to find her practically living there, leaving her mark upon the space in subtle but inescapable ways. She always tidied more than the bit of room she used; organised the books by subject (he'd long since abandoned any sense of order; 'neat' was sufficient enough). Kept a shawl of hers hung on the back of his door for when she got cold.

oOo

It's a week from the day she's to sit for her certification, and he thinks it curious, as he approaches the building in the inky dawn hours, to see a light glowing in the window of his surgery. Perhaps he'd forgot to turn it off before leaving last evening, though he's usually mindful of such things.

As he slips his key in the lock, however, it turns without resistance. He frowns. He'd never overlook locking up.

He opens the door to find Isobel slumped over his desk, asleep atop a stack of textbooks and notes written in her impeccable hand. The fingers of her right hand are curled protectively around her readers and he knows, can so vividly picture how it must've played out.

He ponders, just for a moment, slipping back out as quietly as he came in, but then thinks how stiff and sore she'll be already, and it'll only be worse the longer he leaves her. But he can put the kettle on, fix her tea. Wait whilst the water boils and then again as it steeps.

But how to go about waking her? It's not all that unusual, the scene that he's walked in upon. He's long since lost count of the number of times in his career he's been awakened by his nurses in the very same circumstances. There was many a time he'd slept at the hospital in Downton out of necessity; no telling when an injured soldier would awaken screaming in agony in the middle of the night. And other times, faced with the prospect of going home to a cold and empty house, when poring over journal articles until, like Isobel, he collapsed from exhaustion, seemed the easier road.

But there is intimacy in finding her like this: unguarded, vulnerable. None of his nurses had ever been in love with him, at least not to his knowledge. They'd simply shaken him awake: a doctor at his post; sometimes offering tea or coffee. He'd nodded his thanks and they'd all got on with it.

By contrast, there is all manner of complication in the current scenario. She is not bound to the space by any means; she has chosen to be here. He tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to avoid attaching significance to the fact that she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep here. And he will not countenance the weight of his personal feelings for her upon his appraisal of the situation, nor her appearance; how tender and accessible she looks.

The boiling of the kettle calls him from his musings and he's glad of the task as he fusses with the tea things. He tiptoes in to look at her: long lashes fanned out against the pale pink of her cheeks and several wayward tendrils of flaxen hair curling at her nape. He does not think how he'd like to touch them, nor of the softness beneath his lips if they were to brush against that cheek.

No; his thoughts don't run so readily now to the dark downturn of his life after she allowed Dickie Grey command over her own. His memory flashes on their telephone conversation; how gobsmacked he'd been to hear his own voice uttering the words, I'm willing to start over. Their implications, he realises, frighten him: he may well be on his way to forgiving her.

In the end he touches her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Isobel," he says softly but assertively, "Isobel, you fell asleep, dear." Dear? It's a good job she won't be sharp right now.

"Hmm?" she sighs breathily, groggily, rolling her shoulders, pushing gradually with her palms flat against the desktop until she is sat upright. He tries not to stare as she blinks away sleep, adjusts to the brightness of the rising sun spilling through the window where he has lifted the shade.

"Oh! Richard!" She jumps nearly out of the chair when she perceives him stood there on the other side of the desk.

He raises his hands to show he means no harm. "Steady on. You fell asleep," he repeats now she's coming round. "I didn't think it wise to leave you any longer."

"No," she agrees, "thank you. Goodness knows how I must look." Soft, he wants to say. Beautiful.

Instead he tells her, "I've fixed tea. Want some?"

She nods. "Thank you. Oh, my neck. What a thing to do."

He pours the tea. "How late were you working?"

She has to think. "Last I glanced at the clock I think it said … three?"

"You know I can't allow you to stay and work this morning then."

"Under normal circumstances I'd fight you, but I'm afraid I quite agree." She digs her fingers into the back of her neck in a bid to loosen the knots and he itches to do it for her (so much that he has to ball his own hands into fists to keep himself from reaching for her).

He manages a grin and a witty comeback. "Aye, you really are in a bad way then!"

"It's the blasted good medical practice scenarios," she confesses. They're completely different to what we learned fifty years ago, and they go against intuition. I can't get anywhere with them."

He nods. "When I started at Leeds I had a great deal of catching up to do. I'll concede you did have a bit of a fair point back in Downton; we were sorely lacking in regards to technology. I didn't realise the extent of it until I found myself in a modern hospital." He looks down at his teacup, then at her, and catches her in the midst of doing the same. They share a smile, a chuckle at the discomfiture.

"Yes, well," she says softly, "however right I might've been, I was completely wrong." She holds his eyes and there is unspoken understanding, a step made towards one another.

A weighty silence threatens until he grants her a reprieve. "I've been immersed in the application of the new guidelines for a few years now, and if it would help, I'm happy to look over the material with you. After you've had some rest, I mean."

Relief floods her features. "I'd be indebted." Then she bites her lip.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Only there's loads of them. And that's before taking into account the anatomy and physiology practise questions."

His answer comes naturally, as does the smile; he cannot curtail it. "Best we make a start then."

She brightens immediately. "You're serious."

"Would I offer if I wasn't? Look, if it helps, think of it as me being a selfish old git; I need your help to run the department. And …" he begins, but then thinks better of it. He's already laid himself open to excess with her.

But she doesn't let it drop. "And what?"

Damn her eyes! He doesn't think she knows it, but she could ask him anything, anything at all, looking at him with those guileless, trusting eyes, and he'd be absolutely powerless to refuse her.

Guarding himself when she's around takes such an effort, whereas forthrightness still feels like the proper default, in spite of what's passed. "And I should like to see you succeed. You deserve to be happy." He clears his throat; averts his eyes, smooths his moustache between thumb and index finger. "So …"

She sputters. "You do? I do?" Shakes her head. "Well … Richard … It seems I've underestimated you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, and it's back to uneasy smiles and silence until he says, "Finish your tea and I'll drive you to the guesthouse. You'll sleep; I'll come by after work and we'll go to dinner someplace. And then we'll dig into Gray's and good medical practice."

* - Several fics I've read have suggested that Richard is Catholic. This fic assumes that he is, indeed, while Isobel is CoE.

** - General Nursing Council, established by the Nurses Registration Act of 1919. Nurses were admitted to the register if they had practiced for at least three years prior to 1 November 1919, but they needed to apply by 14 July 1923. We know that Isobel was not practicing as a nurse following Matthew's death, and for the purposes of the narrative I've concluded that she did not apply, and would therefore have had to sit for the national nursing examination in order to be admitted to the register. The first national examination was held in 1925.