Thank you so much for you reviews I have really enjoyed them. Amazingly, after thinking that the letters sort of worked yesterday, I've a gone a little bit letter-y again today, because I quite enjoyed writing them.

For most of her hasty journey her head had been so full of thoughts of Matthew- worried half out of her mind about him, frightened about him, the feeling tearing through her head like a blinding, panicking headache- that she had almost forgotten who else she was returning to. Leaning her poor head against the edge of the glass, she leant back in her chair and watched out of the window, exhausted, as the countryside rolling past her at last began to look faintly like Yorkshire. How could she have forgotten Richard? Well, that wasn't quite right, she hadn't forgotten him altogether for a very long time now, but why hadn't she thought of the fact that she was going back to him at last? It would have eased her immensely, as it did now; but she could only conclude that she had been much too worried about Matthew.

Slipping her hand into her coat pocket, she took out the bundle of letters he had sent her- a lot for the relatively short amount of time she'd been away- taking her gloves off and handling them carefully between her fingers, reading over the words that she didn't need to see to be able to recall. Melodramatic, ridiculous as it sounded; when she died, the chances were that they'd cut her open and find those words scrawled on her heart in Richard's untidy writing. His second letter to her was her favourite, she thought, not that there was any one that she didn't love. She had kept them in the order he had sent them, and she found it quickly.

My darling Isobel, (a very good start, she had noted at the time)

I am very glad not to have caused you any embarrassment with my previous letter. I was so very happy to receive your reply so quickly, and so relieved to hear that you do not feel wretched in Paris. One day, my love, if you'd like to, we can go back to there together and look at all of the churches that you are visiting now. I don't want to miss another part of your life after this.

And of course, I am very jealous of the fool girls who are lucky enough to be able to work with you, and then turn their noses up at it. I find I even miss even the tyrannical side of you! If only they knew that you're the most desperately sought after nurse in the whole of Yorkshire! Yes, the younger Nurse Crawley, Sybil, who misses you the most of all after me, is behaving herself, by and large. She told me to pass on her regards to you, though how she knows I'm writing to you at all is rather beyond me. Perhaps she's as prone to enquiring into people's letter-writing habits as her cousin is.

As I said it puts me at great ease to know that it is only you reading this. Being able to talk to you privately, to confide in you openly is a wonderful thought now that I know it is absolute. Your letter was beautiful, I keep it in the breast-pocket of my jacket. Though it is still not three weeks that you've been gone, I miss you painfully. Sometimes when I'm working at the hospital I still turn around, expecting you to be standing behind me, and want to ask you something or check something with you. It's still a shock to find that you're not there. Like you, I find the evenings the greatest strain, though. My house is quiet and cold without your clattering about. I will lie awake for hours at a time trying to imagine that you're here with me- you and your faint smile when you're with me, and the way your breath whistles peacefully as you sleep, you and your beautiful body. I keep saying it, but it is the only thing I can do, you aren't here for me to make you understand in any other way: I love you, Isobel, and I miss you like a missing limb.

All my love,

Richard

It was one of his shorter letters, and she suspected that he had stopped writing abruptly, too emotional to feel able to go on. She knew that it had brought tears to her eyes now, just to read it. Reading the words again brought them back to her with a lucidity that memory alone could not supply; their meanings flashing wildly behind her eyes, the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She sank back in her chair, titling her head back, closing her eyes tightly, and letting a deep breath rattle through her with the movement of the train. It was alright, she thought, she would see him soon. She was nearly back with him.

…...

Deliberately, she did not look for Matthew first. She wasn't ready to see him; she did not know what sort of state he was in- all communications about his condition had not been terribly informative- and she knew better than anyone what kind of shock bursting straight in on him could be for both of them. It was singularly unwise not to find out about his condition first, and she wanted no one other than Richard to tell her about it.

She found him talking to some of the officers at the table in the main hall. Moving to stand behind him, remembering what he had said in his letter, she stood close to him, not saying anything. Finally- unable to bear the apprehension any longer- she nodded to the officers, excusing them both, and slipping her hand to rest gently on Richard's arm. She knew that he knew her the moment that she felt him stop dead and all of the muscles in his forearm tense under her fingers. He stood stock still for a moment, not daring to turn in case it was a particularly cruel fantasy. Then, slowly, he looked up into her face.

"Dear God," he whispered softly, his eyes never leaving hers once they'd finally engaged.

"Hello, Richard," she replied in a low voice, feeling a smile glow irrepressibly on her own lips as they took each others hands, their fingers clutching desperately at each others wrists, palms caressing each other in blissful synchronisation; as they tried as much as possible to appear to be shaking hands like any acquaintances would.

"Come into my office," he told her, pressing gently at her her elbow to guide her, "There are many things we have to discuss. Excuse us, gentlemen."

Shutting the door sharply behind them both, they smiled at each other openly for the first time. The sense of utter relief was palpable. He leant back against the door, as if knocked a little by it, as she stood in the middle of the room in front of the chair. He looked at her almost warily through his happiness.

"I know you want to know how your son is," he assured her first, still smiling, with the air of something he simply had to get off his chest, "But I can't tell you how happy I am that you're back."

She felt something like a magnetic pull between them, making her want to be in his arms. Maybe that was why he was standing back against the door; to stop himself throwing his arms around her at an inappropriate time. It was typical of him, really.

"I'm happy too," she told him, watching him fondly, "And it is only because I'm here with you. I wish it could be under different circumstances, though," she added, feeling the matter had to be addressed now, "How is Matthew? I can't seem to get a straight answer out of anyone else."

He paused for a second, then made his way away from the door to the desk to stand before her. She turned with him, watching him apprehensively as he leant back against his desk.

"Richard," her voice had risen to an alarmingly high pitch, trying with remarkable effort to keep it level, his hesitation making her extremely nervous, "We said nothing but honesty, remember?"

He sighed deeply, reaching forward to take hold of her hand, gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles. This, of all things, made her realise just how terrified she was.

"It's not good, Isobel," he told her as gently as possible.

"Oh, God. How-..."

"He'll live," he told her hurriedly, as her grip on his hand tightened impossibly, "But I'm not sure that he'll ever walk again. He hasn't taken it well."

For a moment she only concentrated on the first two words.

"He'll live?" she repeated, feeling suddenly short of breath. She was almost dizzy.

"Almost certainly," Richard nodded, "But Isobel, his legs-..."

He was stopped as she flung her arms around his neck, holding tightly on to him, tears spilling from her eyes, hitching back a sob. She she felt his arms wrap around her back, holding her close to him, soothing gently against her trembling body, taking a good deal of her weight and supporting her solidly.

"He'll live," she repeated hopelessly in his ear, feeling weak, limp with thankfulness. Slowly, she drew herself away from his neck to look at him, his arms still holding on to her securely, "Richard, I came all of the way here thinking it was possible that I was going to lose my Matthew, my little boy. Whatever you say to me now I can take."

He waited a second before going on. He brushed his thumb slowly across her cheek, brushing away the tracks and traces of her tears. His hand gently on her face, he pressed her head briefly towards himself, kissing her forehead and resting his lips against her skin.

"Oh, my Isobel," he whispered into her face, "My beautiful brave Isobel."

…...

Of course, it was understood between them that she would not want to be alone that night. There was a silent acknowledgement that this would be a night when he made an effort to go home from the hospital, and that he would find her waiting for him there.

She was on the settee downstairs, her hands folded neatly in her lap, apparently just thinking, or too tired to do anything but sit there. She turned her head as she heard him open the door, smiling at the sight of him. It was late enough to be getting dark, but as she stood he was able to see in the low light of the fire that she had already put her nightdress on. Taking hold of her hand, drawing her to him he kissed her once on the lips, leading her up the stairs to his room, well, it was their room, really, now.

As she followed him up the stairs he could tell she was exhausted, she walked almost like a sleepy little girl. He would only hold her tonight. He would only hold her and make her feel safe, and revel in being close to her once again. He was so worn out at the moment that that was all he needed too.

As soon as they were in the room, she got into bed on her usual side; assuming her usual position with consummate naturalness, almost as if she'd never been away. Simply removing his clothes down to his shorts, he got in behind her, cocooning them both away in the sheets, he pulled her body close to his, so that her back rested against his chest. He inhaled the familiar smell of her hair, holding her softly by the elbows, and knew as he feel asleep there with her, than he loved her more than he could trust or bring himself to say.

They woke within minutes of each other, her first, turning in his arms to watch his face as he stirred awake. He saw her, the moonlight from the rippling against her plaited hair. Slowly, reaching out, undoing the tie in her hair, brushing his fingers carefully through its silken length, unwinding it to fall over her shoulders; feeling so very close to her. She watched him all the while through wide eyes, barely blinking. Kissing her lips once, he lay back to look at her in the unearthly light of the night.

Then she spoke.

"Come on. I want you."

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