Disclaimers: Although I wish I were the creative genius behind John's and Robert's character, they belong to Julian Fellowes. I'm sorry for the time I'm taking to write this story. I've been getting the blank page syndrome lately, but here is a new chapter!

Thank you for sticking with me!

Thank you for your reviews, they are highly appreciated!

7 March 1902

Battle of Tweebosch

Bullets were flying in every direction. Cries of terror were coming from the men all around. Some were fleeing, too scared, too green, too coward in John's opinion. The land looked like hell on earth. Horses were neighing, swating men on the ground who were caught in between completely defenceless when confronted with hysterical animals, filled with dread. Canons were shooting blindly in the mass of men in uniform.

Robert's regiment had been assigned to Lord Menthuen's orders to track down the Boer leader, Koos De La Rey. But as they arrived in the Little Harts Rivers valley, their troops strong of 1200 men were being ambushed by the 2000 men of De Le Rey. All hell broke loose. Evidently outnumbered, Robert knew they would suffer considerable loss.

Time was becoming an abstract notion. The dust flying in the air due to cannonballs impacting the ground was covering the sky and the sun. It was becoming darker every minute and the arid ochre soil was getting muddier as blood was being spilt on the ground.

Too close to the enemies, they couldn't use their riffles and had to fight with their swords or pistols. It seemed like the Boers were coming from everywhere.

John struggled to keep close to Robert. They were often divided by opponents and every time John lost sight of him he dreaded to find him on the ground, deadly wounded. His heartbeat was racing, a knot forming in his stomach, but then he met the familiar blue eyes looking at him, unleashing a wave of relief. Around them, men were falling to the ground, yelling in agony. It was just a matter of time until a bullet would fly through them. John prayed he would be the first to fall, he wouldn't stand the sight of Robert's inert body lying on the ground.

The two of them got behind some vegetation to try to take a break, hoping no one would find them. Robert was searching through his munitions to reload his pistol, but he had used them all. John searched through his satchel and handed him his last ones.

"I can't accept, Bates! Are you mad?", Robert said.

"Take them, sir. I am your batman, you need it more than I."

Robert took them reluctantly, giving John a tender tap on the shoulder and looking him right in the eyes with genuine emotion.

"Thank you, Bates."

At this moment, they both heard a whistling noise in the air. It seemed to come towards them but with the heavy dust in the air, they couldn't locate its provenance. Then John realised that the noise was in fact a shell flying towards them with incredible speed. John caught sight of it, splitting the dust clouds, and only got the time to turn over and protect Robert with his body.

The impact propulsed them into the air a few meters away and they violently crashed on the ground with a disturbing noise.

John couldn't hear anything. It was just a continuous ringing in the ears. Far away he could make out cries of soldiers and gunshots. Ashes were floating above him, like snow falling on a winter day. It reminded him of the Christmases he had spent with his mother, snow falling outside, transforming the busy streets of London into a white paradise. Maybe this was it. The time to let go, to finally leave this life of struggle behind. He could only taste blood in his mouth and the piercing pain in his right leg and his thorax. Slowly, his eyes shut and he lost consciousness.

25 March 1902

Royal Herbert Hospital, London

"I am sorry, Captain Crawley, but Sergeant Bates is still in an unstable state," a doctor told Robert, holding John's file in his hand.

Robert had been released a week ago and had been coming relentlessly to the hospital in the hope of seeing Bates. But everytime it was the same. John was still in unconscious or too weak. Robert had seen him once waking up completely delirious and in pain, screaming in the empty hospital room. The noises he made broke his soul in two. This brave, loyal man had risked his own life to save his. He had been lucky compared to John. He had only injured his shoulder and had suffered a concussion. John's body had shielded him.

Closing his eyes he could still rember the sight of John's body bloodied on the mud. The battle still raging a few meters away. He had forced himself on his feet, helping himself with his riffle and had transported John away from the battlefield, ignoring the pain in his shoulder.

"We've done everything we could to extract most of the shrapnel. His wounds are now healing slowly, but his fever hasn't broken down as much as we'd like. He is still weak. I'm sorry but I cannot allow you to see him."

"But it's my last day in London! I have orders to go back to Cape Town tonight…"

The doctor looked at him with compassion but stayed firm.

"I'm sorry, Captain Crawley."

Robert sighed, resigned.

"Can you at least give this letter to him, when he feels better?" he said, handing a brown envelope to the Doctor.

3 April 1902

Royal Herbert Hospital, London

John approached his bed with the help of his clutches, still hesitant as he was trying to accommodate to them. He sat on his bed, exhausted from another afternoon of exercises. His knee was hurting, so he put a pillow below it and grabbed the book lying on his bedside table. The Picture of Dorian Gray, by one of his favourite authors, Oscar Wilde. The period of the Boer War hadn't been just hell for John it seemed. Mr Wilde had been trialled and imprisoned for homosexuality and had died two years ago in France. Maybe, if there was a God, they would have let this genius bless the world longer and taken John's life instead.

A brown paper fell on his bed as he opened the book. John recognised Robert's letter folded in four. He hesitated for a second and opened it again. The beautiful curvy letters were enough to bring tears to his eyes.

'My Dear Bates,

In my life I have never met anyone braver or more just than you are. You are also honourable which is why I trust you will then understand why I am compelled to tell you this.

I am indebted to you. You have saved my life and risked your own without even a hint of hesitation. I know you will say it was your duty, but to me, it speaks more than that. You faced danger so I could come back to my beautiful girls and my wife, alive, and this means more than everything to me. And for that, I am forever in your debt.

I don't know how I can help you, but I want to do anything I can. I will always be there for you if you need anything. Please give me news of your recovery.

Your dear fellow,

Robert Crawley'

John folded the piece of paper again and wiped a tear on his cheek. He knew Robert meant well, but there was no way John could ever ask anything of him. He was ashamed, and now more than ever as he couldn't even walk without the use of a cane. He wanted Robert to keep memories of him as he was. Not of the broken man he had become. It broke his heart but he swore to himself to never answer to this letter. Robert would end up forgetting him. He would soon be back at Downton and will have more important duties to take care of.

A few weeks later, John was able to walk more assuredly and was discharged at the end of the day. During his stay at the hospital, his mother had come often to visit him. He had enjoyed those little moments they had shared just the two of them as if the Boer War had never happened. He had been concentrated on getting better and never really thought about what he would do once he'd been released. He knew the army had kept a post for him in London in an office. At least he needn't worry about money.

He hadn't had any news on Vera since he had been injured, so it was a shock to him to see her walking towards his table in the visiting room.

She eyed him from head to toe, then her cold blue eyes stopped on the cane against the table by his side. She made a grimace of disgust.

"V-Vera," he stammered. "What are you doing here?"

She let a fiendish laugh escape her lips while she was taking her gloves off.

"Visiting my husband of course," she said.

"Sit, please," he said, trying to get up. He limped towards her chair and pulled it for her to sit."

Her face was full of repulsion as she watched him do so.

"Thank you, but it will not take long."

John sat back on his chair facing her.

"I heard you will be released tonight?"

"Yes, the doctors judged I am fit to come back home…"

"Home?" she interrupted. "This house has never been your home. You never lived in there, it's mine, Johnny."

"But you are my wife, Vera. We had a baby–" his voice cracked and Vera sent him a look that could kill. "Whether you like it or not, we said our vows to each other. We ought to live together."

She burst into laughter.

"With you? You are just a cripple now, Johnny. You are nobody, now. You're not the man I married. You couldn't even die properly, no! You had to come back and humiliate me." She paused. "I just can't, Johnny. I can't have you touch me, now. Be near me. Your weakness repels me. Your 'love' disgusts me."

She got up from her chair and put her gloves back on.

"Don't try coming back home. While you were away I got tired, you see. Tim is going to see me tonight. He is not the best but it's not very difficult to be better than you."

With this, she turned her back to John and walked away.

His first instinct after leaving the hospital for good was to go to the public house. After several pints to drown his suffering in, he decided to go back to his house. The alcohol was clearly emboldening him and he decided he had to at least reclaim his home and his wife.

He opened the door and found Vera on the couch with a man over her, kissing her.

This seemed to break something in John.

"John?" Vera's voice came to his ears. "What are you doing here? I thought I told you —"

Before she could finish her sentence, John had grabbed the man and pinned him on the wall. He threw a punch to his face and threw him out of the house.

John locked the door and turned around to see Vera approaching him, rage in her eyes.

"I thought I was clear when I told you to never come here again"

"This is my home."

"Have you been drinking?" She asked, smelling his breath as he spoke.

"So what? You can't very well judge me," he retorted, nodding towards an empty bottle near the sofa.

He got closer to her, menacingly.

"I hate you," she said.

It seemed as if someone else was in control of his body as he grabbed her and kissed her. At first, she debated but then her fire turned into sexual needs. They got to the bed and had sex there. It couldn't be called "making love", it was out of pure hatred and suffering. But they needed it.

When it was over, Vera rolled on her side and John did the same, exhausted, turning his back to her and falling asleep.