A/N: Okay, it wasn't the next planned chapter, but this festive quickie has been in my notes pile for some time. I started playing with it the other day and couldn't stop, so I finished it up for the holiday hangover. No plot whatsoever - just bromance, wintery fun, and Tom going head-to-head with Downton's newest resident. It's a bit quirky, but I had a ton of fun writing it. Continued thanks for all the reads and reviews and I hope everyone is enjoying their holiday season.

Totally unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine...

BASIL UNLEASHED
Downton, Late December, 1924

Muttering a string of profanities, Tom Branson fastened his robe with an unceremonious knot and barged down the stairs of Downton Cottage. He'd been up to his eyeballs in estate work for the past month, including yet another prolonged visit by Mr. Charles Blake, sent by the Ministry of Agriculture to reassess Downton's operation. With affairs finally tapering off a few days before Christmas, Tom welcomed the break. He and Sybil had also been graced with a rare afternoon of tranquility after both children played themselves into simultaneous naps, so he certainly didn't appreciate the unrelenting knock resounding through his house.

On the next to last step, the sole of his bare foot landed on one of Bobby's iron tractors. "Feck!" He limped across the short foyer and snatched open the door. A burst of cold air whipped through his tousled hair.

Matthew dropped his gloved hand from where it had paused mid-knock and quirked a brow at his brother-in-law's attire. "You're not dressed?"

"You're early."

"But, still, it's the middle of the day."

"I was busy."

"What could you possibly..." He trailed off as his sister-in-law breezed through the background.

"For Heaven's sake, Tom, shut the door," Sybil called, burrowing even further into her dressing gown. "You're letting all the warm air out."

Her husband stood aside, ushering in their guest who held tight to the mittened hand of his three-year-old son. David tottered awkwardly under his thick layers of clothing. Tom slammed the door behind them.

"Sorry." Matthew at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "If I had known..."

Tom waved him off and looked down as David tugged on his robe. If his own son had inherited all the Branson features, no one could possibly be left wondering who sired little David Crawley either. All blonde hair, crystal blue eyes and pale skin, he was Matthew made over.

"Where's Bobby?" the tot asked.

Ruffling his nephew's hair, Tom smiled. "Wanna help me wake him up?" He glared back up at his brother-in-law. "Although I don't understand how he's still asleep." With an excited nod, David shrugged out of his overcoat and dropped it at his father's feet.

Matthew hung the coat on a hook by the door and followed the sounds of pots and pans toward the back of the house, where the Branson's small kitchen extended toward the garden. Sybil was putting on a kettle when he wandered in. "It will be a few minutes before they both get dressed," she said. "You might as well warm up before you head out for the afternoon."

Draping his coat over a chair, he ran a hand through his hair and perused the little tiled kitchen, brightened by the reflecting snow outside the windows. In many ways, he envied his brother and sister-in-law, cozied up here in their own home and away from the propriety of the big house. He tried to recall the last time he even saw Downton's kitchen. Ah right, he remembered, Mary's scrambled eggs after the Tamsworth pig fiasco of 1922. The sponginess had been palatable only with enough spice. His stomach gave an unwelcome lurch. "How's the baby?"

"Saoirse's fine," Sybil replied, pulling a pair of cups from the cupboard. "Hopefully she'll stay down a little longer so I can catch up on a few things around here."

He settled down into a chair at the table. "Grand plans?"

"It seems Father Christmas hasn't wrapped all the presents yet so your sledding excursion is timely. My son is curious to a fault and we've had a few near misses."

"Tom said trains were still in vogue this year."

"They are, and Bobby's to get a few more railcars for his collection. He's asked for a bucket crane as well," she said with a conspiratorial smile. "To help build a new railway he's engineering in the back garden."

Matthew laughed. Bobby's fascination with anything mechanical rivaled his father's. "Has Tom changed his mind about the Servants' Ball?" he asked as the kettle hissed.

Shaking her head, Sybil offered a cup and settled into a chair beside him. "He insists the ball is a house affair. Now that we live here, we're not obligated to attend."

Matthew welcomed the steam curling up into his nose. "But your grandmother is always there as is my own mother..."

"I know, I know," she sing-songed. "But try telling my husband that."

"I don't know why it's such a drudgery to him," he groused. "It's not like he had to partner with O'Brien for all those years. Baxter's a step in the right direction, I suppose, but still...at least he gets to dance with Anna during the first round."

Sybil chuckled into her tea. "With Bates out, I've been stuck with Molesley."

He gave her a wry grin. "Poor Molesley's not that bad."

"My toes would disagree. He's like an albatross on crutches."

By the time they finished calculating how the Bransons' absence would reconfigure this year's dance cards, the killjoy in question appeared with two very excited and very bundled sledders at his side. "Alright," Tom called from the door. "Ready to go. You have the sleds, right?"

"Of course," Matthew declared, snatching on his coat. "Would I come all the way over here if I didn't have..." Peering down at his son, he asked, "Did you remember to tell Barrow about putting the sleds in the lorry?"

David shook his head. "You said you'd do it."

Pulling both boys behind him, Matthew muttered his way into the hall. Tom rolled his eyes as Sybil sauntered into his arms. She tucked a fluffy scarf into his collar and then snugged it up to his ears. "Be nice, darling, or Father Christmas won't bring your present." Taking both cheeks in her hands, she smacked a kiss to his mouth.

"But he always brings me a present on Christmas Eve," he teased, snuggling close with a wink. "And you enjoy it as much as I do."

Sybil laughed as he whispered suggestively in her ear and then nibbled on her neck. She reared back, eyes twinkling. "Only if you're good. And this year that includes going to the Servants'..." He growled. "Tom, it's just one evening."

"Of pomp."

"Of dancing. And its the one night of the year when upstairs and down come together." She pulled him into a languorous kiss, her tongue finding his just as it did when they were interrupted earlier. Their mouths separated sloppily, leaving him a bit woozy, and she grinned. "Would you deny your wife the opportunity to dance with her husband?"

His shoulders sagged in defeat. "It's blackmail."

"It's family politics." Her fingers rested in the lapels of his overcoat. "Besides, we've begged out of every dinner party this year and we should throw Papa a bone every once in a while..."

"Alright, alright."

"Promise?"

"For you?" He reached down with both hands to give her backside a playful squeeze. "I suppose I can hardly turn down a chance to dance with my girl."

Once the foursome had retrieved the sleds back at the Abbey, they navigated a tree-canopied road blanketed the previous night by virgin snow. With Tom at the lorry's helm, they puttered along at a safe pace, heading towards the far western edge of the estate along a meandering route that terminated atop a prominent hill. At the summit, they were greeted with a postcard view: gray skies and frosted trees framed Downton Abbey in the distance.

Tom and Matthew had come here with the boys a year ago, testing an ancient pair of sleds discovered in the attics. After a few mechanical breakdowns, the fathers determined that the next Christmas the Branson and Crawley boys would receive brand new instruments of fun. And so, when the first snowfall came just a week ago, Matthew told Bobby and David that Father Christmas had posted an early gift, unwilling to let two of his best-behaved children miss an hour of fun. To Tom's surprise, Jolly Old Saint Nick had sent one each for him and Matthew as well. Apparently, we've been very good this year, his brother-in-law said as he presented their adult-sized Lightening Guiders.

Matthew waved a gloved hand at the landscape, his breath hanging in the air in front of them. "Magnificent, isn't it?" His face glowed with anticipation. "And nothing to stop us this year."

Tom squinted toward the lower end of the slope. "Did you cut the aspen trees?"

"Yes, of course. They were in the way."

"The third earl planted that stand in honor of his bride!"

"I broke two fingers last year because of those bloody things."

"You shouldn't have driven into them."

"It was hardly my fault!"

"Then whose was it?"

"Whoever came up with the concept of these pedals, that's who," Matthew sputtered. "Push on the left to go right and vice versa? What sort of logic is that?"

"Probably an English design."

"Nevertheless," he continued, clearing his throat, "we've clear sailing now, and of course we won't have to worry about the boys running into anything either."

"Children are tougher than you think. Much more than we are...ow!" Even through the extra layers of clothing, a nimble pair of teeth managed to snag the skin on the back of his calf. A cream-colored ball of hair, better known as Basil, tugged on his trouser leg with a growl. "Did you have to bring that along?" None-too-gently, Tom nudged the puppy away with his boot. Basil yip-yip-yipped before attacking his prey again.

Poor old Isis had gone on to better hunting grounds that autumn, leaving her longtime master bereft of canine company. Once he'd finally come out of mourning, Lord Grantham posted inquiries far and wide to the best Labrador breeders in England. For nearly two weeks, the earl personally inspected puppy after puppy, searching for a suitable replacement. He finally settled on a six-week-old pup from Norfolk who displayed the appropriate amount of vigor, inquisitive sniffing, and a lively tail. Bedecked in a bright red collar, Basil had pranced home to Downton Abbey.

Tom had gotten on splendidly with old Isis, who'd been a reliable companion during those early tenuous days as Lady Sybil's exiled husband. When he and the earl argued, which they frequently did, Isis would often come and flop down at the Irishman's feet, wagging her tail and nuzzling his leg. Sometimes Tom suspected Lord Grantham felt the camaraderie was a mutinous blow, but such would appear not to be in the cards with Basil. When his father-in-law proudly presented the canine heir at a special teatime one Saturday, Tom wondered aloud about the anemic name intended to follow in such great paw prints. He'd meant it in jest, of course, but the earl reddened, declaring that he'd shortened it from Basileus, of the Ancient Greek meaning "king." As if in conspiracy with his master – or perhaps he'd been informed of a socialist in his realm - the little wad of fur bounded over and piddled on Tom's shoe. They'd literally gotten off on the wrong foot.

But Tom took solace in the fact that Basil's behavior landed him on the wrong side of most everyone inside the house. Both Carson and Mrs. Hughes had grown weary of constantly cleaning the carpets and Mrs. Patmore threatened to roast him after he gorged himself in the scrap bucket and hurled it back up in front of her stove. Even Mr. Bates, with the patience of Job, considered muzzling the little miscreant if it didn't stop gnawing on His Lordship's shoes. Downstairs, the pup had earned the title Lord Basil, Marquis of Mayhem, which no one dared repeat in front of his owner.

Surrounded by paw-printed snow, Tom stared down at the earl's little darling through narrowed slits and barked out an ominous arf-arf-arf! Basil whimpered, sprang back through the snow and hunkered down with his tail snapping back and forth, returning fire with a few innocuous yips.

"Stop that," Matthew snapped at his brother-in-law. "We can't get him to behave as it is."

"He'll be all under our feet!"

"Cora strongly suggested I get him out of the house for a while. I'm not sure what he did, but she mentioned something about dropping him down the dumbwaiter."

"Our mother-in-law is the last person he needs to cross," Tom said. "I thought he was a goner when he vandalized her flower arrangement last week."

"Well, he's on his last straw with Mary as well. He shredded one her favorite nightgowns the other day." It was his favorite too, a lacy risqué number purchased on their honeymoon in Paris.

Tom clapped his gloved hands together to warm them. "Did you at least bring a leash?

"No."

"If it comes to it, we'll think of something," he said, shaking his head as the pup lost interest in the adults and bounded off towards the children. Basil's short legs presented problems in the snow and he tripped snout-first into the wintery blanket.

"Alright, let's set the course..."

"No," Tom cut him off. "No, no and no. We're not turning this into a competition. Not after last year."

"Why not?"

"Sledding is supposed to be fun. Just gliding down the hill," he replied, simulating a slope with his hand.

"The boys can do that, but where's the fun in it for us?" Matthew smiled, pointing at the broad viewscape toward the Abbey. "Look, the boys can go there. It's a soft grade with a little rise at the end to help stop them. Perfectly safe." He then turned to the northeast, his hand swaying in a zigzag at various features on a steeper slope. "Nothing particularly disastrous, just the occasional tree or bush and spaced out enough to give us an opportunity to test the turns." When Tom stared back, unconvinced, he confessed, "I came up here the other day. It was marvelous fun."

"Is this your way of recuperating that last ten pounds you lost at billiards?"

"Certainly not!" He grinned innocently. "This is an entirely new game."

As Tom and Matthew finalized the route and identified the makeshift pylons of trees and shrubs, Bobby dropped his sled at his father's feet. Turning towards the Abbey, he pushed off before Tom could stop him. He held his breath – Sybil will murder me – and watched his son whizz down through the snow in a perfectly straight line before ascending the little rise and coming to an artful stop. The little boy turned with a wave. "I did it, Da!"

Tom waved back with a sigh of relief. "He's a natural. Takes after his Da."

Just then David scrambled onto his own sled. "Oh right," Matthew said, reaching down. "Here, David, let me pop on we'll make a test run."

"No, Papa, I want to go alone."

"Well you can't. Not the first..." But the little boy shrugged off his father's hand and leaned forward, barreling down the hill. Bobby clapped happily when his cousin pulled to a halt in front of him. Both boys laughed so hard they toppled into a heap in the snow.

Tom smiled as Lord Grantham's grandsons began lugging the sleds up the hill on the return trip. "I think they'll be alright...fecking dog." Tom kicked at Basil, who in the absence of the children had sought other means of play. The little pup sank his teeth into Tom's trousers and gave a vicious jerk of the head, ripping a long slit just above his boot. "That's it," the Irishman snapped, yanking up the puppy. Basil nipped at his gloved fingers, growling when he snagged one. "Stop biting me you little bugger!"

"Don't lock him in there!" Matthew yelled as Tom opened the cab of the lorry.

"Why not?"

"He'll soil the seats that's why not, if he doesn't tear them apart first!"

"Well, I'm not going home with my clothes in tatters," Tom called over his shoulder, scrounging in the lorry's bed for a makeshift leash. Cinched up under Tom's arm, the pup growled and clamped his jaws on a dangling tail of scarf. Tom cursed when he couldn't find any sort of rope and then glanced down at his boots. "Matthew, come here!"

Matthew's feet sprayed up snow in his path. "What?" When thrust into Matthew's arms, Basil at least at the sense to play favorites and proceeded to slurp the underside of his jaw. Tom squatted and popped back up moments later with a bootlace. Matthew rolled his eyes. "That'll never work."

Pulling a blanket from the cab, Tom dropped it on the snow by the front wheel. "It will if I double the knot...ow...shit..." Swatting at the pup's biting jaws, Tom slipped the lace under Basil's bright red collar. He snatched the dog from Matthew and plopped it on the blanket, securing the improvised leash to the wheel well. Basil's yapping distilled into pitiful whimpers. "That should do it. Let's go."

Despite the wintery air, Tom sweated under his own collar and perused the landscape for the boys. Both had made another pass on the slope and their laughter peeled up from the dell.

"Ready?" Matthew asked.

"We're not keeping time, are we?" After his brother-in-law brandished a shiny new stopwatch from his pocket, Tom glanced heavenward. "Fine. Raise your arm when you pass that alder tree at the far end – that'll be the finish line. We'll plan on seven passes each and add it all up - best time wins. I'm guessing about twenty seconds to the bottom, so we'll add five seconds if you miss a pylon or hit one."

"If you hit one, you'll lose in more ways than one."

"Very funny," he smirked. "You first."

On their initial passes, Tom and Matthew were both a little rusty and missed three pylons each and posted snailish times. By the fourth round they'd found a groove and were thoroughly enjoying themselves, though Matthew was a little disgruntled with his score. After sneaking out a few days before, he expected a wider margin. They broke for some of Mrs. Patmore's hot chocolate and then men and boys headed back to their slopes, though the boys soon abandoned the sleds in favor of pelting one another with snowballs.

It was a tightly contested race by the beginning of the seventh round and Bobby and David had scuttled over to watch the final match. When Matthew trudged back up from his last pass, Tom frowned as he scribbled down the time.

"Almost missed my turn at one of the cedars, but I squeaked it in." Matthew's felt as if his cheeks had cracked in the frigid air. "Well?" came the breathless question.

Tom's head tipped side to side. "Not bad, nineteen seconds."

Making a mental calculation, he relaxed with a heavy sigh. "So I should be ahead by eight, right?"

Bobby pointed towards the right side of the course with a mittened hand. "But Uncle Matthew, weren't you supposed to go around that shrub?"

Tom's eyes lit as he scratched down a new score.

"Thank you, Bobby," his uncle mumbled. "I'm surprised I forgot about that one."

"Only three behind now," Tom chuckled. "I can make that up easily enough." He handed over the watch, scoresheet and pencil.

Matthew glanced back at the lorry where the bootlace had lost its occupant. "Where's Basil?"

"Forget about the damn dog."

"Uncle Tom, he's just a puppy," David cried. "What if he freezes to death?"

"We'll find him after this last run," Tom promised, patting his head. "He can't get far in the snow." Settling down on the sled, he kicked the snow off the handles. "Alright Bobby, give your Da a push."

Tom zipped away towards the first leg, knowing he picked up at least a second when he skirted around the troublesome second pylon. Back and forth he whizzed through the trees and shrubs, snow showering up behind him. He aimed right of a rowan tree and then back around a cedar before cutting a path through the remaining pylons and ploughing on. With a laugh, he steered round one last cedar and hit the straightaway. Holding tight to the reins, he leaned back to punch on a little more speed to cut his time. In the distance, near the finish line, a cream-colored blob striped with red bounded into his path. "No! Out of the way!" But he was closing in too fast to miss.

"Tom!"

"Da!"

"Feck!" Slamming his right foot on the handle, Tom skidded sideways towards a brown blur. And then everything went white.

Tom thought his pride had taken enough of a beating, literally, but hurtling his body off a child's toy into a snowdrift was nothing compared to staring up at his father-in-law from a hospital bed. Matthew hung aside, guiltily explaining the situation to Cora, whose eyes bulged wide as he painted the description of Tom's narrow escape.

"Thank God he jumped off," Matthew finished, turning to Tom. "You had an impressive amount of speed going down the hill. That alder tree could have been the end of you."

A low growl reverberated in Tom's chest.

"But I don't understand," Lord Grantham sputtered to the Irishman. "Why didn't you secure him a safe distance away?"

Tom clutched his frayed bootlace, his face flushing from red to deep purple. He glared first at his father-in-law and then down to the wriggling pup in his arms. Basil licked his master's chin before issuing an indignant yip.

"I can't believe you'd risk running over him!"

Cora blanched. "Robert," she hissed. "I'm sure Tom doesn't feel like talking right now."

"If I hadn't thrown myself to God's mercy," Tom popped off, "he'd be nothing but an empty pelt back on that hill!"

Whimpering, Basil cowered into Lord Grantham's arm. The earl puffed with resentment and glowered at his son-in-law. "You're determined not to get along with him! From the moment I brought him home, you've done nothing but..."

"Please don't disturb my other patients," Dr. Clarkson sung cheerily as he sauntered into the examination room.

Sybil followed with a pair of crutches and eased down next to her husband. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, she dropped a kiss on his head. "Well, my darling, I think you'll live."

"No thanks to that," Tom sniped, pointing at the pup.

Dr. Clarkson's laugh dissipated into an awkward cough before announcing, "Nothing's broken!" He waved a large square of black and white film. "Probably just a tendon injury as best I can tell, but you'll need to keep the weight off your knee for a few weeks until it has a chance to heal properly." Turning to Sybil, he said, "Aspirin, ice...you know the routine."

Tom's brows shot up. "So...no dancing until after the first of the year, right?"

"At least."

Tom hummed with a haughty giggle and smacked a kiss on his wife's cheek.

Sybil returned it with one of her own, along with a smirk. "No dancing...no nothing else until its better."

"But what about my Christmas present?"

"I'm sorry darling," she chirped. "Doctor's orders."

Tom's eyes narrowed back to Basil, who all but purred as Lord Grantham massaged him behind the ears. Tongue wagging, the pup's jowls curled up into a sloppy canine grin before unleashing a triumphant yip.

A/N2: Historical footnote – X-rays had been used in the medical field since the late nineteenth century, including glass plate imagery and, by the early twentieth century, celluloid film. Unlikely that a small hospital might have had such a machine, so I took a little license with that.