A/N: Thanks for the continued reviews and support. Very much appreciated on this piece!

3. Home to the Heart

She steps into the office after Mr. Walker to find Mr. Tate already waiting.

"Why don't you take a seat?" he says. "Would you like some tea?"

Numbly, she shakes her head; what is the point in prolonging the inevitable?

"Very well," says Mr. Tate. He sifts through some papers on his desk. "We looked into the matter that you described to us. The one that your…friend is particularly anxious about."

The way that he looks right through her suggests that he doesn't believe in this friend at all, but she keeps her head high and stares him down until he looks away. A stony exterior. Something else that she had perfected during those awful weeks following that night. But her heart is palpitating so fast that she thinks it will burst free of the bone cage of her ribs, lie helplessly underfoot as these two men stamp the last remaining life out of it. Can she bear to listen to those words, to return to her husband and know?

"We sourced some witnesses to the scene you described," Mr. Tate says, "and we searched through the medical files. Seems that it was trauma to the head that killed him."

"It's ironic in a way, that he'd pulled so hard at her hair, dragged her kicking and screaming behind him, and it had been his head that had cracked like a hardboiled egg. A sort of sick justice, perhaps.

She shakes the thought away, aware of the memories creeping closer, threatening to engulf her. Focus on the present. Even if the present is black.

Mr. Tate continues, "There was also damage to his ribs and his sides, presumably from the impact of being hit by the bus."

Nothing less than he deserves, a horrible voice whispers in the back of her head. She takes a split-second to wonder if his bruises resembled hers.

"He was pronounced dead at the scene," Mr. Walker chips in.

She knows they're only dancing around the only important information. The only thing she needs to hear. "And the witnesses?"

"They all said the same thing," says Mr. Tate. "He lost his footing and fell into the road."

The iron fist around her throat loosens just slightly. "There was no one at the scene like I described?"

"No one," Mr. Walker confirms.

It takes every ounce of strength within her to keep a stoic face. "My friend will be pleased," she says stiffly.

"So you're satisfied with our findings?"

"Very. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Tate, Mr. Walker."

"Not at all, Mrs. Bates. We're pleased to be of service to you." Mr. Tate pauses, studies her. "And I presume that whatever – ah – legal ramification your friend had been afraid of is unfounded."

"I suppose you're right." She keeps her voice neutral, emotionless.

Mr. Tate studies her a moment longer. "Sometimes the less said the better, Mrs. Bates. You've got the information you came for. Do with it what you will."

She nods and rises, offers a steady hand to shake. Mr. Walker sees her to the door. She gives him a last mechanical smile, then makes her way down the street. No emotion, not yet. They might read it on her face. Later, when she is alone.

But the first ray of weak sunlight breaks through the thick black clouds, colouring the grey world with a yellow hue.

"You certainly seem cheerier tonight," Lady Mary comments as Anna brushes her hair. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, milady," she replies, her usual answer nowadays.

Lady Mary gives her a look that lets her know that she doesn't believe her, but she doesn't pursue it further. "Are you looking forward to Downton tomorrow?"

"I am, milady. A change of scenery is nice now and then, but there's nothing quite like home."

"Quite. And I expect Bates has been missing you something terrible."

"I expect so, milady. And I've missed him."

"Of course you have." Her gaze lingers. "Have you a nice reunion planned for him?"

Tying off the end of her mistress' hair, she says, "I have, milady."

Finally, when she is alone, she sinks onto the end of her narrow bed, wrapping her arms around herself as if that will contain the overwhelming storm of emotion that she feels inside herself.

He hadn't done it. He hadn't done it.

She presses her fist to her mouth, tries to stifle the sobs that break free. Whatever else he might have done that day, he hadn't done what she'd feared. Mr. Tate and Mr. Walker could have told her that he'd visited five brothels, and she wouldn't have cared if it meant that he was in the clear. And he is.

It doesn't solve all of her problems. Her stomach roils at the thought of what it will never have.

But it is a step in the right direction. Perhaps she can use it to create a new life, to face her demons properly.

At the very least, come to terms with it all herself.

Life isn't going to be wonderful and perfect. But her husband is not a killer, and it's more than enough for now.

It's midday when they arrive back at Downton, and Mr. Carson is there to greet the motor. He orders Jimmy to unpack the cases, and Anna loiters for a moment before Lady Mary turns to her with an affectionate roll of her eyes.

"Go and find Bates," she says.

"Thank you, milady," she says, and darts towards the servants' entrance. Her heart pounds in her chest. It will be the first time she's seen him since the uncertainty that attacked her like a vicious cancer.

The bustle of the servants' hall overwhelms her. Hall boys carrying crates, maids hurrying to and fro to set the table for luncheon. Mrs. Hughes emerges from her sitting room.

"Ah, Anna," she says. "There you are! How was London?"

"Insightful," she replies truthfully.

The housekeeper laughs. "I can't imagine that there's much insight to be had in London unless it's news about which poor man Lady Mary is favouring this week. Any clues?"

"None whatsoever. She saw both when she was down there."

She'd lamented that it was a pity that she couldn't try the men out in other ways with a raise of her eyebrows, leaving Anna in no doubt as to what she'd been alluding to. At the time, she had felt a dull ache in her chest, but now, recalling the words, she feels warm and pink. Human again.

Mrs. Hughes sighs. "Well, I'm sure she'll make her mind up one day."

"Yes," Anna says, then switches the subject. "Have you seen Mr. Bates around at all?"

"Eager to see him?" Mrs. Hughes jokes, though there is a touch of relief in her voice. Anna remembers with clarity the beginning of the conversation that had started off this sorry mess. How the distance between them had been noticeable again. Her own failings as a wife. Her smile fades a little, but Mrs. Hughes doesn't seem to notice. "He was upstairs in his lordship's dressing room last thing I knew. He'll be down soon if you want to wait."

Shy, she fumbles with her gloves. "Actually, I thought I might go and find him now. Do you think I'll have time before luncheon?"

Mrs. Hughes seems pleasantly surprised by her answer. "I don't see why not. If you hurry you'll catch him. Go."

She doesn't need further encouragement. Without another word, she dashes past her, almost running headlong into a bemused Thomas.

"Sorry, Mr. Barrow," she pants, but she doesn't wait to hear his sarcastic retort. She takes the stairs two at a time, yanks open the door at the top, hurls herself up to the top of the house. She must look quite mad when she reaches the corridor housing Lord Grantham's dressing room; her face feels hot and sweaty, a stitch sears in her side. But she can't bring herself to care.

At the end of the corridor, a door opens, and – her heart leaps into her throat – there is John. He stops short when he sees her, an expression between joy and wariness flickering across his face, no doubt brought on by her wild-eyed appearance.

"Anna?" he utters.

His soft, dulcet tone breaks her spell, and she throws herself towards him. His cane clatters to the carpet, and he meets her more than halfway. In the next moment they are wrapped tightly in each other's arms. Anna presses her forehead against her husband's chest, breathing in his familiar scent. His hand – his innocent hand – cups the back of her neck and encourages her to tilt her head up. She is greeted by warm chocolate eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks her.

She grabs at his hand, turns her head so that she can press a kiss into the centre of his palm.

"I am," she says. It's not the complete truth, but it's close enough for now. She presses herself against him again without another word, almost as if she can melt into him, live within his beating heart for the rest of her life. John holds her just as tightly, his lips ghosting her temple as he cradles her close. For the moment, they are the only two people in the world. Nothing else matters.

At length, John pushes her back. Are there tears in his eyes? She blinks, and they are gone.

"Luncheon's nearly ready," he says. "Let's go downstairs."

She doesn't want to give him up, move back into reality. She wants to stay trapped in this moment forever, a carving of entwined lovers, withstanding time for eternity. But she must. Nodding, she disentangles herself with the greatest of efforts, lowering herself to her heels. When had she risen on them, ensured that there was as much contact between their bodies as possible?

John is staring at her with those dark eyes that she can't always quite work out, eyes that are a well-read book that she has forgotten passages of over time. He still has his hand on her waist.

"I'm so glad you're back," he says. There's an intensity there that almost burns her, Icarus too close to the sun. But she cannot resist.

Closing the gap between them once more, she sneaks her arm around his neck and pulls him down to her level. She has a moment to watch as his eyes slide closed before his mouth is on hers.

For the first time in months, there is no hesitancy. Just the exotic press of his lips, the smoky-mint taste she has grown so fond of, the heavy bulk of him against her.

She hums in the back of her throat. For tonight at least, she is home, a weary traveller seeking refuge from the harshness of the world in the reassurance of a familiar port.

It seems to be the thing that breaks him, her sound of contentment. In the next moment he is cupping her face between both of his hands, increasing the pressure of his mouth, breathlessly breaking away for just a moment to tell her that he loves her before she pulls him back to her –

"We were wondering – oh!"

The sound of the exclamation filters into her brain long enough to realise just exactly where they are. With a little breathy gasp she pulls away, spinning around to find Mrs. Hughes averting her eyes. All too acutely she is reminded of the way that her chest is heaving, can feel the heat burning in her cheeks. John's eyes are dark embers. He straightens his jacket. Crinkled from her fingers, she thinks hazily.

"Luncheon's ready," says Mrs. Hughes. She's still not looking at them. "Everyone's waiting."

"We're coming, Mrs. Hughes," says John. "We're very sorry."

Now she does look at them. Her stoic mask is back in place. "I don't know what you mean. I didn't see anything. Now come on, hurry up. The others won't thank you for making them wait."

The two of them set off after the housekeeper at once, trailing her like chastened school children, but she feels the heavy, hot weight of her husband's gaze on her back as she walks in front of him.

Despite the conversation that they need to have, this particular part of their story isn't over yet.

Before the door even closes behind them, she knows exactly what awaits them. John's eyes are midnight jet in the darkness. His coat whispers as he slides it from his shoulders. She takes a moment to listen to the pounding of her heart.

Then she is on him and there's heat and more urgency than she'd thought she was capable of feeling anymore.

They're stumbling and clawing, panting between sloppy kisses. She has him half-undressed before they even reach the top of the stairs. His clothes lay a lazy path to their destination. She pushes him through the door to their bedroom, fumbling with the button on his trousers. She feels the searing heat radiating from below. Her heart pounds so fast and hard that she thinks she might pass out. She hasn't wanted him like this in so long. Innocence is a powerful aphrodisiac.

His trousers are halfway down his thighs before he manages to pull away from her. Even in the darkness she can see how swollen his lips are. Ravaged.

"Are you sure?" he says. They slow, stop, stand shrouded in darkness. His hand moves to cup her cheek, thumb trailing to smooth over her lower lip. Her eyelids flutter at the sensation, her skin sparking. Her body aches in a way that it hasn't in a long time. She leans up again, nose brushing his for a brief moment.

"I'm sure," she whispers, then closes the gap again.

They move too fast and yet not fast enough, the door firmly closed behind them, sealing them in this room of worship. John's mouth is everywhere, sliding from her collar to the hollow between her breasts, swerving to the sides. She clutches his hair and moans, the sound ringing in the quiet sanctuary. His hands palm her hips, her waist, back again. She pushes him back onto the bed. The springs creak. She moves over him, fisting her hands in his hair. Her knees dig into his sides. Her hair rains down around her as he pulls the pins free. His hairy chest against her smooth one makes her toes curl. Those eyes, soft and worshipping, tingle her skin with desire. Lover's eyes. Her husband's eyes. His hand moves to press flat against her erratic heart. Tender. Nurturing. Familiar.

"You're shaking like a leaf," he says.

"I love you, that's all," she replies.

"I love you too."

He'd been flat on his back but he pushes himself upright, one strong arm coming around her back to hold her steady. She bends in, presses her forehead to his. Neither move for long moments. Silence in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve and primitive human need, before the appearance of the snake. Then she shifts, and is brought back to the present by the imploring press of his desire. It's his eyes that flutter this time, and she basks in the throaty moan that escapes his clenched jaw. She moves enough to capture his mouth, fingers trailing and teasing. His own hands move to reciprocate, dancing gracefully across her flesh as it pimples.

And then the heat is back, fire roaring in her veins. Two becoming one mind, one soul. The springs creak as she crushes him into the mattress. The endless kissing is punctuated only by gasps of pleasure, incoherent promises of love. Her thoughts rock in time with her body. Guiltless. His innocent hands caress her, stoking the fire. Innocent, innocent, innocent –

She cries out at the joy of it all.

Hands play over her still spasming skin in the aftermath. She's nestled in the crook of his left arm. John hovers above her, on his side. His right hand cups the side of her face as he kisses her over and over. He can't seem to get enough of her. She doesn't want him to. Tonight, the extended intimacy of the moment cements reality.

With a final sip of her upper lip, John pulls away from her, though he keeps his hands exactly where they are. She peers up at him, at the dishevelled state of his hair, at the still-fast rise and fall of his chest.

"You're back," he says contentedly.

"You're back," she counters, pretending not to notice his perplexed expression. Because it's true: no longer is she sharing her life, her bed, with a stranger. Just the same John Bates she's always known.

Apparently unable to resist, he moves in close, kisses her again. She likes this side of him. He's always tender and affectionate in the aftermath, but never quite like this. When he pulls away, she keeps her arm around his neck, keeping him right there. He offers her a smile in the darkness, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear.

"You had me worried, you know," he comments. "When you were in London."

"Oh?" She tries to keep her voice steady.

"You didn't sound at all like yourself. I was very tempted to catch the next train down to see you."

Her heart stumbles in her chest. "You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to. After…" He swallows, starts again. "After everything that's happened…"

"I know," she says. "I know." Living in a disconnected world, losing herself, him, the demons overtaking her. "But I'm here with you now, I promise. And you're here with me."

"Always," he vows, though there is a shadow of a frown on his face.

No longer does a stranger masquerade in her husband's reassuring bulk. He's transforming before her eyes, the shape shifter pushed out. She stretches in his arm, wriggles until she sits up with him, both of her hands cupping his face as he had done hers earlier, in the upstairs corridor. She takes a moment to drink him in, thumbs stroking.

"What is it?" he whispers.

"Nothing," she says. Pauses for a moment. "Just…I do love you."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, what do you say to sleeping? We've a long day ahead of us."

"You're right," she agrees. They have got things to discuss tomorrow, when the glow of euphoria fades a little. It's not a conversation for now, after such a visceral, sensual experience. She doesn't want it to be tainted. Instead, she kisses him one last time and settles down. He follows her, pressing his face into her hair and holding her tight around the waist. The first time in weeks. Tonight, she needs him close.

"I did miss you," he murmurs sleepily. His fingers find her wedding back and jiggle it slightly.

I've missed us, she thinks.

Darkness can be as comforting as a well-loved blanket. It can also be as ravenous as a rabid dog, feasting on rotting thoughts and spreading its disease further. Tonight, she had hoped for the former, with her husband's naked body twined around hers. But of course it is the latter.

Her husband is innocent of the most condemned crime. His hands had not been the ones to take the life from the monster. He isn't staining the fabric of their relationship with its foul blood.

But for all her self-righteousness, she is not innocent either.

The past week, however draining, had provided her with one relief: to channel her anger and grief away from herself into another source. John has borne the brunt of it unknowingly. But now she has nowhere to hide from herself.

She had gone to London with an acidic accusation burning her lips. What right did she have, when she is as much a murderer, stopping any chance of a child of theirs being welcomed into the world? How can she ask John to answer for his sins when she has her own that have been buried deep within the thorned cage surrounding her heart?

John's peaceful breath blows against her ear. His arms are no longer a shelter, but an oppressive noose around her entire body. Tighten it any more and she will suffocate.

She is doing this for his sake. He has suffered too much in his life. She can't bear to see him suffer again. She'll take the secret to her grave. It's for the best, she tells herself, but the shadows dance and jeer.

Darkness is cruel.

She awakens with a start. When had she slipped into uneasy dreams? She can't recall. But the sun is peeking through the gap in the curtains, dappling John's skin. He still sleeps soundly, his soft snores breaking the quiet. She twists her head, drinks in the sight of the wrinkles feathering his face, etched there by years of trial.

Willing down the lump in her throat, she slips out of the vining of his arms, pushing the sheets back. The cool morning air greets her, and she pads around quietly, searching for her clothes. Some of them are spread around the house; she'll have to go in search of those in a moment.

John stirs as she is slipping into her undergarments. He hums and wipes at his eyes, chasing the sleep away. Then he sits up, sending a drowsy smile in her direction.

"Good morning," he says huskily.

She raises her eyes in the mirror, tries not to stare at his chest. In the harsh light of day he is thrown into bright relief, pale skinned and dark haired. He looks brighter than he has done in months.

"Good morning," she echoes. "How are you feeling?"

He pushes the sheets back, strolls to her side stark naked. He's more confident than she's seen him in a long time.

"I feel wonderful," he murmurs. "Why don't we go back to bed? We've plenty of time yet."

At one time, she would have jumped at the chance, dragging him there before he could wait for a reply. Now she stiffens, remembers the thoughts that had haunted her mere hours before. They won't release her enough to allow her any enjoyment. So she shakes her head and pushes him away.

"Not just now," she says. She refuses to look through the mirror, not wanting to see the confused hurt that she is sure she'll see there after such a marvellous night. He'll be calculating, frightened that she is shrinking back into her spiky shell. Standing, she presses a kiss to his chest before slipping away. John remains motionless for a moment longer before moving to dress himself – as far as he can. She retrieves his underclothes and his shirt and tie. They're creased, but there's no time to press them. He dresses slowly, his expression faraway. She sighs, and touches his cheek.

"We should go," she says. "Later, we need to talk."

"Talk? About what?"

She takes his comb and pomade, completing the task for him. "It doesn't matter. We'll discuss it later."

He nods, but he seems morose. "All right."

She tips his head back. They stare at each other for a moment before she leans in and kisses him. This morning, it tastes of ash.

The day passes in a haze. The honeymoon period is over, and now she must face reality.

She knows John is curious. She feels his eyes on her whenever she enters a room, boring into her, reading her soul. Just as he had done in the weeks following the ordeal. The truth will come out soon enough.

Before she knows it, they have settled Lady Mary and Lord Grantham for the night, and they retrace the familiar path back to the cottage.

"Would you like some tea?" John asks as they shuck off their outer layers.

She nods her head. "Tea might be nice. Thank you."

It will give them something to do while they discuss London. A laughably domestic scene when the situation is anything but. John finds the kettle while she lights the stove. But she can delay no longer.

"John, can we talk now?" she asks.

He stops in the process of removing cups from the cupboard, fixing her with a wary look. "Of course."

"Shall we sit down?"

"I think I'm all right where I am. What's troubling you?"

She chews her lip, screws up her courage. "I need to speak with you about London."

"All right," he says. Now his expression is flummoxed.

"And what I did there."

"Anna, you're not making any sense."

She doesn't pause for a moment. If she does, she'll lose her nerve. "Just before I left, I overheard a conversation between Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary. It was about you, and the time you went to York just before the bazaar."

He has the air of a skittish colt, ready to bolt at any moment. He remains silent. She ploughs on.

"Or rather, the time you went to London."

Now he does break, his tone loud and harsh in the quiet. "This is madness."

"No, it's not. And I had to know what you had planned when you went there."

"What I had planned…?"

"Murder," she says.

Neither of them move. She can almost see the cogs turning in his head, putting the pieces together like a difficult puzzle –

When the lightbulb goes off, his face contorts unpleasantly.

"Of course," he says, and venom laces every word. "You thought I'd killed the rapist."

She reels back, the word striking like a snake. "Don't –"

"Please don't insult my intelligence by denying it again," he snaps. "Why else would you be bringing this up?"

"This is the reason why!" she shouts. "You knew and I was terrified that you'd risk everything that we've ever fought for! You told an outright lie to my face!"

"How can you say that when you lied to my face!?"

"I was doing it to protect you!" she shrieks. "I can live with what happened to me, but if anything ever happened to you, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear it!"

"And yet you had so little faith in me," he says. "You'd rather believe me a mad dog unable to control its urges!"

"It wasn't like that!" she says furiously. "Stop twisting my words!"

"You twisted mine!"

They're both breathing heavily in the aftermath of their outburst. Anna feels as if she's on the cusp of furious, frightened tears. In all of her imaginings, she hadn't expected it to be anything like this. Who is this stranger in front of her? Where has her husband gone again? Why has he reacted so badly?

John scrubs a hand over his face. "Jesus, Anna." He stares at her. His eyes are the colour of coal. Dark, endless tunnels. His mouth is set in a hard line. "So…so you honestly thought it was me?"

The words cut her to the pulsing wick, sharper than any blade slicing her skin. She wrings her hands. But she won't back down now.

"What did you expect?" she says. "After everything, the way you were acting, what did you expect?"

In the silence that echoes with her words, he glares at her. She's never seen that expression on his face before.

"I thought you would trust me," he says quietly. "Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be based on? Love and trust?"

"How can I trust you when you keep secrets from me?" she snaps, though the sly little voice in the back of her mind taunts her. After all John had hit a sore point: she has kept secrets from him in the past, is keeping secrets from him right now…

If John thinks anything, he doesn't say it, merely glares at her. "So why didn't you tell me as soon as you overheard this conversation? Why did you keep it from me and take matters into your own hands? I could have told you myself instead of you sneaking behind my back."

"Listen to yourself!" she screams. "You went behind my back! You went to London and said you went to York! I asked you about it multiple times and you still denied it!"

He takes a deep breath. His voice is laced with ice. "I'm going out."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't be here with you right now." He shakes his head, laughs bitterly. "My wife doesn't trust me. Seems like everything we've shared recently was a lie."

The ice spreads right through her, freezing her heart mid-beat. Before she can stop herself, her hand lashes out of its own volition. The sound of the stinging slap rings in the aftermath.

The second after she's done it, her hands fly to her mouth. John stands there looking as if he's been told that the sky is falling down around him.

What has she done? What has she done?

But her mouth doesn't agree, spewing furious words at him as the tears begin to pour down her cheeks.

"You bastard," she says. "Don't you dare say that the things we've shared are lies. Was yesterday a lie? Was last night?"

He barks a sour laugh. The place on his cheek where she'd slapped him is an angry red. "I don't know. For all I know you're lying again right now, playing me for a fool."

"Get out," she hisses.

"Don't worry about that, I'm going." His knuckles are white on his cane, and he turns and limps out of the kitchen. He doesn't even bother reaching for his coat, yanking open the door. Cold air blasts in. She stands in the doorway, trying to get herself back under control. The chasm between them yawns endlessly. John steps over the threshold.

"You know," he says bitterly, "I wish you had thought me capable of killing Vera. At least I would have been prepared for this feeling. Why is it any different now? After all…" His eyes burn into her. "Back then, it would have been for you, wouldn't it?"

His words hurt as much as her slap must have done. Without another word he turns and limps away, swallowed by the darkness.

She sits by the window upstairs, legs curled up underneath her, shawl gripped tight at her chest. The cold air sinks deep into her skin, chilling her to the bone.

She won't move.

John is still out there somewhere.

She wants to scream and rage some more, hurl all the pain and agony she has been bottling up inside her at him, to make him see that it's not about him. She wants to pound her fists against his chest, to weep.

To have him hold her.

Because it's not just about her either. The attack has changed both of their lives for good. It will always be there, no matter what comes in the future. No matter how they cope and move past it. It hadn't happened to John, but it has. He has to live with it in the same way that she does. For the most part he has been an indispensable part of her healing. She knows she would never have made it without him. The darkness would have swallowed her. His hand in hers, keeping her grounded, had been the only thing that had kept her sane during some of the darkest months.

She won't justify his actions tonight. But she feels a wave of sorrow all the same, shame at her actions. She shouldn't have hit him. He shouldn't have said those things, but she shouldn't have hit him.

Midnight comes and goes. Still there is no sign of him. One o'clock creeps round. Then half past. She drifts into uneasy dreams about the crash of a slap and the slam of a door.

The creak of the stairs rouses her from her light sleep. She bolts upright at once, her sleepy mind immediately conjuring up fears from the past. For several seconds, she sits stock still in terror.

The door squeaks on its hinges. The scream bubbles –

It's John.

The scream dies before it forms, and she leaps up from her chair. He looks frozen, his skin pale and mottled. She's still angry with him, but the relief that floods her body is undeniable. He's home, safe and sound.

For a moment, the awkward silence is suffocating. Neither of them move to speak.

John is the one who eventually breaks it, sighing heavily.

"I thought you would be asleep by now," he says. "You shouldn't still be up."

"Of course I'm still going to be up. I couldn't go to bed not knowing if you were all right."

It seems to be the right thing to say. In the next moment he crosses the room, pulls her into a fierce embrace.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "Anna, I am so, so sorry."

She doesn't want to, but she can't help herself. She melts into his embrace. Her arms come up around him, holding him as tightly as he is holding her, burying her nose in the front of the jacket. It smells of that terrible cold smell, but she doesn't care. He's home.

"It's all right," she says, voice muffled.

"No, it's not. It's not all right by a long shot. You're right, Anna. I was a bloody bastard. I hate myself for the way that I spoke to you. None of this is your fault, and I shouldn't have hurled those accusations at you. You had every right to suspect me, to believe me capable of those things."

"I hate myself for doubting you," she admits. "You're my husband, and I should trust your word. For better, for worse."

"No," he corrects her at once. "No, my darling. I had no right to say those things to you. You've been through so much…"

She doesn't want that line of conversation. Not again. She presses her hand to his mouth, stops his words short.

"You're freezing," she says instead.

His lips quirk, not quite forming a smile. "It was cold out."

"Get out of those clothes at once. It's too late for a bath, but get a basin of hot water. I'll put the bed coals in."

"I don't deserve it."

She resists the urge to snap. "Torturing yourself isn't going to change the things that have happened. It never worked in the past. Now go and do it."

He shuffles off like a chastened schoolboy, and she bustles around the room. It takes her mind off things, gives her the illusion of being helpful. It won't work for long. But for now it's enough.

By the time John is done she's warmed his pyjamas too, and hands them to him before slipping into bed herself. The coals have made their sheets warm as toast, and she burrows into them like a mouse hibernating for the winter. John moves slower. He's holding his right leg stiffly. The cold has made it seize. There's only further proof when he slides into bed but remains on his back. He never does that unless he's in severe pain.

A part of her thinks he deserves it for what he's said tonight. But that's a cancerous part of her, one that she wishes she could cut out.

She combats it by sliding under his arm, pressing her ear to his heart. It thrums. She matches her breathing to its pulses. Silence reigns.

"You were right."

John's voice startles her. She tilts her head. He stares up at the ceiling.

"I was right about what?"

He swallows hard, clenches his jaw. "I wanted to…I wanted to kill him."

The admission shouldn't take her breath away the way it does. He'd said it before, on their disastrous dinner in the Netherby. She'd seen it whenever he'd looked at the monster. Bloodlust.

"I think that's what hurts the most," he continues. "I had no right to be indignant and hurt because on some level it was the truth."

And she realises something too.

"I don't blame you," she says softly. "If someone hurt you…"

What would she do? If she found her husband broken and bleeding, wouldn't she want to make the ones who had put him in that state pay? Hadn't she hated Vera with a fiery passion that had surprised even her when she had discovered the truth about her suicide?

"But you must know I didn't?" His tone is almost begging, and she rushes to quell his fears.

"I know," she says. "I visited Mrs. Hayes and she told me everything. And…and I had some help from some other people. Private investigators. I know you weren't anywhere near the scene that day."

"I did go back to York afterwards," he admits. "I was disappointed, and I spent the rest of the day brooding." He grows quiet. "I wanted to confront the bastard, to let him know that I would never allow you to harm him again, but I didn't see the point, not that day. Not with you in the city too."

"I'm sorry for doubting you," she offers.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry for being a royal prig. I should never have spoken to you like that. I'm glad you hit me. I deserved it. I promise, it'll never happen again."

"I hope that it doesn't. I don't like it when we argue."

"It's not who we are," he agrees. "And I hope you know that I didn't mean it when I said that everything we've shared recently might have been a lie."

"That hurt me the most. After everything…"

"I was hurt and I was cruel in return. I thought I'd buried that part of myself, but I used it to hurt you. I'll never forgive myself for that. Not ever."

"And what's the use of that? Haven't you blamed yourself enough for things in the past?"

He stays silent. She knows even now he tortures himself about that night, how he let her face the darkness downstairs alone. How she paid the price for that. How they both did.

"What we feel for each other isn't a lie," she says. Despite everything, she knows beyond a doubt that it's true. "Last night wasn't a lie. I know we don't…not as often as we used to, but you can't forge those feelings, not for anything in the world."

"You're right. And I hope you know that the intimacy isn't important to me. When you're ready and when you want it, that's the only time I want it."

"I do want it." She does. She aches for a normal life. Wishes it could be so. "I love it when we're like that. Yesterday was very special to me."

He squeezed her tight. "I'm glad. And I am glad that everything is resolved now."

"So am I." Tentatively, she nuzzles into his neck. He presses his palm to the small of her back, drawing her closer.

"So we can start to put the past truly in the past?" he whispers.

She pauses. Can they? Even with her own failings, can they?

"Yes," she says, because she can't answer him in any other way.

At least, they can try.

Slowly but surely, the weeks crawl past. Not everything is better….but at least there has been some improvements. Anna's own guilt weighs heavily on her mind, but the relief of John being innocent goes a long way in propelling them forward.

They're rebuilding their bond. Strengthening it. On their half-days John takes her out on dates, sometimes to a picture show in Ripon, other times for tea in Thirsk. Even shopping trips to York are on the cards, despite his aversion to it. Every so often he gets permission to take her to dinner in the village. She feels like a princess. Sometimes it makes her feel guilty, overwhelmingly so, and she can't stop the darkness from worming its way into her mind. John always seems to put it down to her memories, and it is partly the truth, but it runs deeper than that. She looks at her husband and sees reflected at her the future that they will never have. All down to her.

Other days it's better. He kisses her and she feels it low, the need to be with him. There are tender encounters in the late afternoon sun, passionate ones in the cloak of darkness.

Ones that make the others raise their eyebrows when they hurry into the servants' hall flushed and unkempt before the day has even started.

It's not the life they'd dreamed of. But, bit by bit, they make it something else. A half-darkness. But there is the promise of sun, at least on some days.

A/N: I don't condone John's reaction at all, but I wanted to look at it from a different angle. Would John feel hurt and betrayed that his wife - who has never faltered even once in her faith in him in all these years - had doubted him? That's been his one constant throughout everything. I'm not quite sure that I did it justice, but I thought it was worth taking a look at. One more chapter to go. Now the question of John's innocence is out of the way, the focus can move back to Anna properly.