A/N: I'm sorry, I'm not sure if chapter will answer much. I also apologize that, starting perhaps tomorrow, the chapters will not be posted daily due to a variety of things but mostly my inability to write the rest as quickly as I wrote this first bit. Undying thanks to silhouettedswallow who steadfastly beta's this story and keeps me grounded in its progression, which will be invaluable in future chapters when things get a bit more ... well, involved. Trying to keep them under 2,500 but this one failed.

This is the last chapter of the "Say Something" section, and we'll move on to a new musical accompaniment after it.

THANK YOU - omg, overwhelming thanks - for the response to this story. I've never seen reviews come in so fast! I apologize if I did not get back to some of you, I was having trouble managing it on my tablet. Also, my theory for replying to Guests didn't work, so if you left a guest review rest assured that I did see them!

Onward...xx

CSotA

Elsie boarded the train and watched from her seat as the doors were closed. She was vaguely aware of a man checking her ticket and moving on, but if anyone had asked her she'd never have been able to recall what he looked like. She had gotten the seat nearest to the exit, sparing a moment to wonder if that choice would prove to be a blessing or a curse if the train she was on were to suffer the same fate as Mr. Carson's had.

The countryside rolled by as the train carried her closer and closer to London. The entire voyage seemed to be overshadowed by an expansive feeling of gloomy gray, as though the sunny day meant nothing in the wake of all that had recently occurred. Elsie hadn't slept much these past days, overworked during the daytime and having fitful, frightful dreams when she finally made it to her bed at night. She was simultaneously looking forward to and dreading this voyage back to London: looking forward to having fewer responsibilities with no one at Grantham House except for Lady Mary, but dreading having to answer the unavoidable question that Mr. Carson had unknowingly thrust in her lap – Can you help me remember who I am?

And could she? It was such a loaded question, and she'd spent any free energy she'd been able to muster trying to sift through decades of information, trying to find the best solution, the best way to reach inside of his mind. It was a mind she knew intimately well, having had years to peer inside of it, having learned to hear its thoughts as clearly as she heard her own. They'd become a team over the years, the Lord and Lady of Downton's downstairs, much like a married couple. Elsie allowed a minute upturn of the corner of her mouth at that thought; oh, the irony. Her heart had soared at his request to send his wife (or, rather, at everyone's hope that he'd meant her), but she knew that thousands of other, bigger bits of his life than just the part she had played were gone to him; this accident had evidently wiped almost everything from his mind, however keen and sharp it had always been. Bloody hell … it could be like starting all over again.

She knew as she pondered the situation put before her that none of what she had wanted before would matter now, that almost nothing of the past they'd experienced at Downton would really come into play at all, and yet she had to find something, some tidbit, some powerful experience with which to jog the great man's memory. She wondered if he were still as stubborn as she'd always known him to be, if he'd awaken from his experience with at least that bit of himself intact, and if that stubbornness would act as more of a blessing or a curse. For the thousandth time, she began sifting through memories of their lives together at Downton, looking for the one thing she'd felt sure would enable her to draw him out of this hazy amnesia. Pictures flipped and flitted as though she were watching a film inside of her head: the arrival of Matthew and Isobel Crawley, Master George's birth, losing Lady Sybil, the Titanic, the soldiers, Charles Grigg and Alice, Barrow and O'Brien, Mr. Bates landing in jail, Ethel Parks … they kept coming and coming, and she kept returning to two fairly recent things that she thought just might have shocked the man enough that, if pressed, he'd remember them, the two images that her mind plucked from the frenzy, setting them aside in a place of hope: paddling at the beach as they held one another's hand, and the time she'd been ill. The first had shocked him into something, well, new, she thought, whereas the second had been hanging over them ever since it had occurred, the elephant that was forever residing in the room that was their friendship, their … partnership. And, if those didn't work, she had a store of other things to draw upon, although in all of the confusion of the last few days she was hesitant to do so.

The train arrived and, as it came to a stop, Elsie rose from her seat. She glanced out the window and almost fell right back down again – there, standing and awaiting her arrival, was none other than Lady Mary. Elsie wasn't sure what to make of her presence at the station. Surely she could have just sent a car? It terrified her in a way, making her wonder if the young Lady was there to deliver awful news that, for some reason, couldn't wait. There's only one way to find out.

"Milady?" Elsie had come up on Lady Mary from behind, the younger woman evidently thinking Elsie had been seated further up on the train.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes, there you are. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"I didn't expect to see you here, Milady. Has there been a change in Mr. Carson's condition?" She wasn't sure how to phrase that all very nicely, and realized she really didn't care how Lady Mary took it, either. There was little love lost between the two women, what little regard they had for one another stemming directly from the other's care and concern toward Mr. Carson, Anna, Tom Branson, and Lady Sybil.

"No, unfortunately, but I wondered if you might prefer to head directly to the hospital instead of coming to the house first." Lady Mary managed a small smile, one which Elsie put together in her mind with what she knew was undoubtedly the fear behind the smiling face.

Yes, I would – just perhaps not with you. Outwardly, Elsie smiled. "Thank you, Milady. Perhaps along the way you can fill me in on what, exactly, I'm walking into. Her Ladyship gave me as many details as possible, but conceded that she's not seen him recently enough to know precisely what to say."

The women headed to the waiting car, a porter placing Elsie's valise on the back as the chauffeur helped Lady Mary into the back seat. Elsie moved to sit in the front, but Lady Mary stopped her. "No, please, Mrs. Hughes – would you join me? It will be so much easier to hold a conversation."

Elsie paused, then nodded her agreement. "If you wish, Milady, then I'd be happy to. Just … perhaps we won't tell Mr. Carson about this when we see him." She gave the young woman a small smile, one which she was happy to see was returned in kind.

"I don't know, Mrs. Hughes. Perhaps it might be just the shock he needs!" Mary laughed, aware that she'd done precious little of that over the past week.

Smiling, Elsie replied, "Yes, well, perhaps we'll hold that one back for a bit yet, Milady."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Elsie found herself walking alongside Lady Mary down the bright hospital corridor, desperately hoping for a miracle. When they'd arrived they'd been told that Mr. Carson had taken a turn for the worse: his heart was acting up again, and they had sedated him; however, the sedative should have worn off hours ago, and yet he appeared to be unconscious still.

"Mrs. Hughes, would you mind terribly if I left you? There's no sense in both of us being here and I'm sure you'd like some time with him." She smiled kindly at the housekeeper. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, Milady, thank you. Mrs. Patmore packed something for me to have on the train, and I've the leftover portion in my bag. I'll be quite alright for a while."

"Excellent. I'll head to the house and have your things brought up, and then I'll arrange for the cook to have a small dinner ready later on tonight. How does that sound?"

Elsie wasn't sure what to do with this newer, more familiar, easier Lady Mary. "If you think it best, Milady, that would be most welcome, thank you," she said hesitantly. She figured that was the best way out: polite, short, and sweet. It was also the honest-to-God truth: she would like some time alone with Mr. Carson, but there had been no proper way of asking, and she also knew she'd be famished when she finally arrived at Grantham House. She hadn't lied about Mrs. Patmore sending her with food, but she hadn't any left, either; she just didn't want Lady Mary returning early because she thought Elsie might be in need of a meal.

"Should you wish to return earlier, please just have someone telephone the house. But visitors are allowed for several more hours, and if he wakes you may have a chance to make some progress if you're here."

"I will do that – thank you again, Milady. I have no real plan at the moment, I'm afraid. I suppose we'll have to wait and see what the rest of the afternoon brings."

"Very good, Mrs. Hughes." The young woman reached out and squeezed the housekeeper's hand briefly, an act that surprised them both a little.

But Lady Mary wasn't quite done yet. If Elsie had thought her behavior surprising before, then astonishment could be the only word to describe what she felt the moment she saw the younger woman approach Mr. Carson, pick up his hand in hers, and squeeze it firmly before leaning over him and gently kissing the top of his head. She turned back to the housekeeper, who felt herself frozen to the floor and thoroughly unable to move, recognizing in the deepest recesses of her mind that as astonished as she was by what she had just witnessed, jealous would also be an accurate descriptor.

"I leave him to you, Mrs. Hughes," Mary whispered, unable to hide the look on her face that said she'd failed him, somehow, and that it was killing her. "I wish you luck … I'm not sure what any of us would do without him, truly." She looked into the housekeeper's eyes as she said that last bit, and a feeling of mutual understanding passed between them: the woman who had fervently wished she'd been the correct 'daughter' had failed in her attempt, but the one who might have the best chance of all at bringing back their beloved Mr. Carson was the woman who would have always given anything to be his wife.

"Thank you. I'll do my best, Milady."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Lady Mary left and Elsie approached Mr. Carson's bedside. She was no stranger to a hospital scene since the days when Downton had been converted into a convalescence home, and she found herself able to give a general assessment of his appearance in very few words: not good.

She looked at his face, taking in his complexion, the way his color had sallowed after days of only consuming broth and other fluids. She smiled as she wondered if he'd demanded anything more substantial: a slice of apple tart came to mind, and she heard herself chuckle before she could stop the sound from escaping her mouth. Shaking her head, she moved the chair closer to his bedside, and tried to get as comfortable in it as possible.

For more years than she cared to count, the man before her had resided in a private part of Elsie's mind and heart. She knew every stray curl of his hair, every scar on his face and hands; she could visualize how he held his teacup, wineglass, or silver tray on those days when they'd been separated by the Season, days when she had longed for his presence. She knew how to read the varying inflections in his spoken tone and she knew the minute details of his myriad facial expressions; she was usually able to decipher his feelings by the color of his eyes and she could identify his stress level by his very posture.

Somewhere along the way, quite far back now, Elsie realized that she could use that information in order to keep the man operating at an even keel – and, by extension, the household at large. She wasn't sure if he was aware of her subtle influence, but she thought that he now had his suspicions … the day at the beach had truly been a significant point in their relationship, one where she'd led him into unknown depths, so to speak, and he'd have been a fool not to recognize it. Elsie also realized that it would be foolish not to acknowledge that perhaps he knew her just as well, although she was certainly aware that he was not as subtle of a plotter as she. She wondered fleetingly if that would change if (when) he came back into his own mind again.

They'd spent well over twenty years as a unified front. Even before her promotion to housekeeper she'd worked with the man on occasion; the former housekeeper was not very keen on actually working and Elsie had taken over some of her responsibilities soon after joining the staff, finding herself working more and more with the butler even though she was still (technically) only head housemaid. It had taken her forever to come to terms with it, but she now knew that she loved the man unconditionally, that she had for a great many years that she'd originally been willing to accept. Therefore, as she took her seat by his bedside, Elsie had no qualms about taking his hand in hers once again – not to steady him this time, no, but as an attempt to bring him back from the brink of wherever his mind was now. She felt as if they were all standing on the precipice of something horrible, felt as though she'd been sent to do a seemingly impossible job, one of lifting the man she loved back out of the pit into which he seemed to be descending. With every day that he remained unaware, forgetting about Elsie and Lady Mary and everyone else under the roof of the great Downton Abbey, he was slipping further and further away from them all, and she couldn't bear it.

She found herself speaking to him, soft words of endearment that she wondered if (hoped that) he could hear. All of her previous planning and sifting through stories and memories had been cast out the window the instant she'd laid her eyes upon his resting figure. She simply started talking about everything, stories of their times together, from the moment they'd first met – stories no one else would remember anyhow, and thank goodness Lady Mary wasn't beside her to hear some of those! She reminisced about Sunday sermons, Servants' Balls, Christmases past, and sang him a song about a smoothing iron in her soft, melodious brogue.

As the afternoon wore on she acknowledged that her body was beginning to tire, and she started to pray. It had been years since she'd truly prayed – since the time she'd feared she had cancer – and she spared a minute to regret not having prayed during all the good times she'd had, and wondered if that would render the pleas falling from her mouth now somehow less meaningful.

"Say something," she whispered to the man before her. "Just … wake up and say something to me, Mr. Carson. Anything, anything to show me that I'm getting through to you."

But he only turned his head to face in her general direction, eyes closed, still lost in the deep slumber in which she'd found him, unresponsive but for that small movement.

"I'm not giving up on you, Charles Carson" she told him, squeezing his hand as her tears were released. "I never did before, and I'm not starting today."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Charles felt as though he were floating through a warm, heady summer day. Everything before him was crisp, sharp, and brightly-colored. After a moment, he wondered how he could see it all so clearly when his eyes seemed to be closed. His mind got lost in that conundrum for a moment, trying to analyze it before it could flit away from him.

Just go with it, Charlie, his inner voice told him.

Alright, then, he answered.

He took in every image that his inner eye was bringing to him, and was mildly shocked to find that his ears had picked up on a sound as well, something quite far away, faint and delicate and hauntingly familiar. He looked around the vast field of green with infinite blades of grass, soft and vivid and fluttering in the breeze, and noticed an enormous building in the background. The building tried to draw him in but he pulled back, needing instead to locate the source of the beautiful sound (a voice?) wanting desperately to identify what it was, to whom it belonged. He had a sensation of spinning around and around as he hovered just over the earth, losing his sense of direction before coming to an abrupt stop. He felt himself turn his head to listen more carefully, and suddenly he felt his heart sing its own reply.

It's HER. She's come for me, at long last.

He calmed instantly, focused on the direction from which the voice was coming, and headed in that direction.

She's just there, around the backside of the big building – a house? The great edifice made him pause again; it niggled at his mind, made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain, as though there were something that resided inside that he didn't want to see, that he couldn't come to terms with. But the mysterious melody continued to call him like siren song; it was undeniable, a melody that reached inside of him and touched upon the essence of who he was. He felt himself letting go, bypassing the house altogether. He had the strange sensation that he was in the middle of some great struggle, a battle of wills where he was the prize, and he was unsure of whether or not he wanted to be a part of it anymore. His sole purpose had suddenly become finding the singer of the song, the voice behind the haunting words, aware that he was unable to imagine her face but knowing he would recognize its features once he found her, aware that he'd follow her anywhere, and that she had won him at last.

He took a long, shuddering breath and slipped into a deep, but restful, sleep.

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