AN/Second update today for two reasons...1) I won't be updating on the 4th of July, I'll be setting things on fire- first meat and then fireworks. 2) For a few readers I thought might need some levity today (you know who you are).

Behind the Scenes exclusive: The original name of this story was 'Goodbye, Mrs. Pearson' and it was going to be a one off of Chelsie at the wake…I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed envisioning it.

"Do you think she knew?" Charles frowned into his beer. The glass swam in and out of focus. He couldn't remember if he was having whiskey with a beer back or beer with a whiskey chaser. It had ceased to matter. All he knew was when one was empty, he had the other to comfort him.

"Of course she did." Beryl Patmore assured him, patting his back bracingly. She did not have the first clue what he was talking about. She'd been enjoying the fine port on offer at the wake. She leaned against him bodily, the two of them half holding each other up.

Most people at the wake milled about and mingled, but Charles had not left his stool at the bar. All afternoon, people sought him out, praised his eulogy and bought him a drink. After the fifth one, he'd stopped protesting and had decided to let the alcohol claim him. He hadn't gotten truly sloshed since he was eighteen years old. Maybe it would be more fun this time than it had been back then, he told himself, knowing it was an empty hope.

Elsie watched him from wherever she happened to be as she moved through the room, meeting new people and sharing fond memories of Mrs. Pearson. Because of her experience with her father, Elsie did not want to speak to Charles in his current state of inebriation. She was curious as to what kind of drunk he would be, but she did not want to have such memories of a man she respected so much. She kept her distance, but it irked her to see how closely he and Beryl leaned together just now.

The wake was just getting its second wind when the omnibus for the staff was scheduled to depart. It was clear that not everyone was ready to leave. Mrs. Royston offered a room in her own home to Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore and secured a room above the pub for Mr. Carson.

Outside the pub, Mrs. Hughes loaded up the bus and sent a note to Lord Grantham explaining the absence of Downton's senior staff. Inside, Mr. Carson continued to imbibe with impunity even as the bulk of his staff loaded up to return to Downton.

The wake continued well past legal hours, but there was no slowing down. Finally, after yet another visit to the loo, Mr. Carson stumbled out into the cooling night in search of fresh air. Beryl was sleeping soundly at the bar. Carson bumbled his way to a bench beside the pathway leading around the side of the Fox and Hounds. He sat down so heavily that he slid off the front of the bench and landed firmly on his backside, his long legs splayed out in front of him. He weighed his options and determined that sitting on the ground was just fine for the moment. It actually had the advantage over the bench because it would hurt less if he just fell over.

He sat there for an indeterminate time, trying to remember why he had come here to Bullamoor to drink at the Fox and Hounds. He heard the crowd noise grow as the pub door opened briefly. He heard the light crunching of the gravel as she approached. Even on gravel, he knew her step.

"Mishush Shoose?" he slurred.

"Drink this," she said softly.

"I thing k've had enoughffff." He drew out the word as he protested, his gorge rising slightly at the thought of another drink.

"Yes, I believe you've had enough to blind a horse, Mr. Carson." She agreed. "But this is just water. It will help, eventually. Trust me."

"Thank you, Mishsus Shoose." She giggled at the way he slurred her name, but did not point out his error. Taking the pewter mug from her, he took a tentative first sip. "Thish is esxactly wha' I needed. Howdijoo know? Howdjoo always know?"

"I know all about drunks, Mr. Carson. I am Scottish, after all."

"I thought that's jusht a schtereotype. Most of the Scots I know are quite reshponsible in their conshumption."

"Most are, but the ones who are not, are legendary."

"What elssse do you know about drunks?"

"I know that there are three kinds of drunks." She explained. "There are fun drunks, mean drunks and sad drunks."

"Guesh which I am." His sad eyes tried to focus on her as she sat on the bench above and beside him.

"You may be a new kind of drunk, Mr. Carson." Adorable. He was nothing like her father or any of his loud and boisterous friends.

"Your words today were very moving, Mr. Carson."

"People act like I extra…emprinter…extremper…extemporaneously recited the Magna Carta." Carson tried to shrug off the compliment, but only succeeded in listing strongly to his left. "I jusht said what I felt."

"That's what made it so moving."

"Too little, too late." He spat. "I should 'ave vishited her. She should've told me sheesh ill."

"This again?"

"Yessh, thish again! Thish always."

"You had to get the family settled in London. She understood that."

He nodded with large, exaggerated bobs of his head. "She understood a great deal. It'sssa terrible blow to loose someone who understands…so much."

"Yes, but you can't beat yourself up over this. You did what you had to do, what she expected you to do. If she wanted to see you, she could have sent for you. You would have come."

"Yessh."

"Then you're done blaming yourself for not visiting?"

"No. In this, we must agree to dishagree."

"Dishagree? Mr. Carshun?" He caught on that she was teasing him. He looked hurt in an adorable, puppy dog sort of way.

"Don't be cruel, Elshie, it's not in your nature. I mean, Mishushughes. I'm very sorry."

"I don't think it signifies what you call me, Mr. Carson. You aren't going to remember much of this tomorrow."

He did not disagree. He was leaning against her legs, snoring lightly. She and the bench were the only things holding him up. They sat together as the stars moved in their courses. Carson dozed while Elsie watched over him. She dared to reach out and brush his unruly hair away from his eyes. He hand lingered on his head, feeling the softness of his hair and the warmth of his forehead. She was unsure of how much time passed, but it could not have been much time. The sounds from the pub dwindled as guests left through the front door. None of the departing mourners saw the pair at the bench in the shadows.

When he woke up, it was clear that the nap had done him some good. His speech was clearer, but he was far from sober.

"I cannot feel my face." He frowned as he jabbed his nose persistently until she stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. She was afraid he would poke his own eye out.

"I am sure the feeling will return." She tried to comfort him while also fighting the urge to laugh.

"I rather hope not."

"Why not?"

"Because my face is attached to my head," he explained pedantically. "And I don't think I'll want to feel my head tomorrow."

"No, you probably won't." She agreed. "Do you think you can stand, Mr. Carson? There's a room for you upstairs."

"Can't I just sleep here?"

"If you like, but you'll have an aching back to go with your aching head tomorrow if you do."

"You sound like Mrs. Pearson." He muttered soppily, but he was convinced. Carson began to struggle to his feet.

She moved to help him, but he waved her off. After gaining his feet, Carson tottered a few steps to a small tree which he grabbed for balance. He leaned here briefly, a bundle of leaves in his face, before setting out for another tree closer to the door of the pub. This tree was just a sapling and it bent slightly under his weight. Sensing that his support was inadequate he moved on quickly to the next source of support, a lamppost. He clung to the post as though gravity had deserted him and the post was his last connection to the earth.

Elsie watched his progress lovingly. Her heart ached for him. He'd lost both his parents before the age of fifteen. Now, he'd faced the deaths of three people, one of whom he cared for like a parent, in a condensed span of time. Elsie knew he was suffering and that he didn't know how to face it. He wanted to sweep his grief away like lint on a jacket, but it wouldn't go away. His grief was not lint on the surface, but a tear in the very fabric of his life.

Elsie wanted to be his support, not only physically, but emotionally. He was too proud to accept her help in either case.

"I have to do this alone." Carson smiled apologetically at her, peering around the post as he hugged it. She wondered if he could read her thoughts as sometimes she could read his. "You understand, don't you?"

"I do."

"Thank you. I knew you would." He eyed the long walk up to the pub door. It was further than he had yet traveled. After sizing it up, he decided to gather his strength a little longer. Still, she stood nearby, not advancing or retreating.

He smiled at her again, a mushy smile of adoration. "I live a charmed life, Mrs. Hughes."

"Charmed, Mr. Carson?" Her heart glowed as she returned his smile.

"Indeed. It is a rare thing to know someone as kind and singular as Mrs. Pearson. It is an honor to have worked with her and been able to call her friend."

"We were all very fortunate to know her." Elsie agreed, but Carson waved his hands on either side of the post as if to say, 'You didn't let me finish.'

"It is a rare thing to know someone as amazing as Mrs. Pearson." He repeated, "But to be so fortunate twice in a lifetime is surely a sign that my life is blessed beyond my ability to deserve it. Elsie, I want…"

Just then, the pub door opened.

"There you two are! We were about to send a search party." Mrs. Royston came out of the pub supporting a very red-faced and tipsy Beryl.

The landlord came out and took Charles by the arm, pulling him away from the lamppost. "I'll take care of this one, Mrs. Royston." Charles let himself be led by the slightly smaller man, but he looked confused. He'd lost his train of thought. He only knew he had been talking of something very important.

"Thank you, Teddy." Mrs. Royston smiled.

"You can collect him tomorrow if you dare." The man laughed as he staggered under Carson's weight and in the face of his flammable breath.

"I'll let Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore make that call."

"We'll be by at breakfast." Elsie promised. "If you set a headache powder packet by his bed, he'll take it when he wakes."

"Will do, Mum." The landlord promised.

"Good night, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Royston called. "Thank you for coming. It meant a lot to me and I know it would have meant so much to my sister."

"G'night." He tried to tip a hat that he was not wearing and nearly pulled the poor landlord over.

"Right, up to bed with you, big man." Teddy grunted as he righted the tilting butler and steered him through the door.

TBC…

AN/ Drunk and adorable Carson. The next chapter will be our last update for this visit to the Downton past. For those in the US, enjoy your 4th of July responsibly. For those elsewhere, enjoy the World Cup responsibly.