Hey hey! Just thought I should clear up an unintentional confusion: For those who were wondering/worried, no, Thomas didn't cut his wrists – it was actually an accident! Sorry about the muddle.

Sparki: I own nothing!


Evelyn was tired. She would not waste precious energy pretending that she wasn't. Especially when the only souls who would pay witness to her performance were a handful of morbidly-ill patients. With a sigh, the young nurse checked yet another name from her list.

The hour was late; the passing windows were dark, and Evelyn could see the night's first stars beginning to peek through the lingering clouds. All around her, the hospital was quiet. She walked alone down the deserted hallway, stopping only to poke her fair head around each and every door. When she saw that the room's inhabitant slept soundly, she would tick them from the list, leaving them to their slumber. Peering through the dimness, Evelyn ran her weary eyes down the row of names. To her relief, she had but one box left to check off. Despite her fatigue, she smiled a little at the name.

Branson, Tom.

He was a funny fellow; despite his deteriorating state, Evelyn had never seen a frown upon his handsome face. Every evening, as she made her tiresome walk along that corridor, Mr. Branson would bid her goodnight, with a warm grin, and a wave of his hand.

Yes, Tom Branson was one of the few who made Evelyn's night-rounds bearable.

As she approached the man's room, all was unusually silent. Evelyn stepped quietly into the room. Through the darkness, she could see Mr. Branson, sitting upright in his bed. Evelyn stood by the door, unsure of whether she should venture any closer. After all, Mr. Branson had surely fallen asleep by now. There was nothing wrong, Evelyn told herself. No reason for her to fret.

And yet, his silence was disconcerting. Tom Branson was what Evelyn's mother would have called a night-owl; the nurse herself had never seen the man asleep before eleven. Her heart beating, perhaps a little faster than it should have been, the woman crept closer.

"Mr. Branson?" she whispered. Her uttered words were met with a heavy silence. Not even the breath of sleep replied to her query.

The breath of sleep...

With a strangled gasp, Evelyn dropped her papers. As the stack fluttered to the floor, she ran to the silent man, and took his by the shoulders. With a rough shake, she prayed for a reaction.

"Mr. Branson!" she cried. "Tom!"

But there was nothing.


The telegram felt strange in her hands. Absently, Mrs. Hughes fingered the printed letters. How something so very small could bring with it so much worry, and so much heartache, Elsie hadn't a notion. With a sigh, she lay the now-folded slip upon the table.

"Why is this here?" Elsie asked quietly, refusing to meet Mr. Carson's saddened eyes. "Shouldn't this be with His Lordship?" She heard Carson sigh.

"His Lordship is in a meeting," the butler explained. "With Mr. Higgs. And Her Ladyship is asleep." She heard the man sigh once again. "I thought that you should know."

"Should we tell her, do you think?" Elsie glanced up. Mr. Carson was watching her, his shadowed eyes dark with concern, and the sting of uncertainty. He was at a loss, the housekeeper knew; as was she. She pushed the offending message further from her seated person.

"They've requested that we do," she reminded the butler. Mr. Carson gave a heavy grunt.

"I'm well aware of that, Mrs. Hughes," he pointed out, and Elsie tried not to wince at the coolness in his words. She knew the man did not intend to be cruel; he never did. It was simply a method of defence – a shield, erected against the chaos of confusion. Still studying the abandoned telegram, Elsie ran a weary hand across her brow.

"Yes," she decided after a moment. "Yes, Mr. Carson, I don't think it wise to keep the poor child in the dark." Finally, she met the butler's waiting gaze. "She's stronger than she seems." To her surprise, Mr. Carson nodded.

"You're right, of course," he agreed quietly. "But you know, Mrs. Hughes, that I'll not envy the one who tells her." He shot a scathing glance at the telegram. It was now Mrs. Hughes time to give a small nod.


"Did you know that a mouse's heart beats six-hundred times every minute?" Sybil's voice was soft, but Thomas could hear the quiet wonder in her words. She was gazing down at the yellowing novel that she held, cradled in her lap. Every now and then, she would turn a page, her touch gentle, as though she were afraid a rough brush might damage them. Turning back to his own book, Thomas smiled.

"Where did you hear that, Miss?" he wondered aloud. He heard the rustle of silk as Sybil swivelled around on the garden bench. "Papa told me," she replied. "He said, that it's so fast, you can't hear it thumping." Thomas glanced up, smiling again as he saw Sybil's thoughtful expression.

"So what can you hear, Miss Sybil?" he asked. Pursing her lips, the girl let out a low hum. Thomas chuckled. Without another word, the pair returned to their reading.

It was unusually warm, sitting there in the garden. The morning's sunlight was a splendid change from the cold, grey light winter seemed to blow upon Downton. Thomas sighed, and shifted upon the wooden chair. He was supposed to be walking Isis; in the wake of Branson's absence, the dog's morning exercise had fallen to the unfortunate under butler.

However, as he'd attempted to drag the stubborn animal through the gardens, Sybil had found him. Of course, Isis was overjoyed – so much so, that Thomas soon found himself face down upon the gravelly path. With the promise of Sybil nearby, and Thomas appropriately bested, Isis took to following a scent that only she could smell, leaving the pair in question to chuckle in her wake.

"Mr. Barrow."

Startled, Thomas looked up. Mrs. Hughes hurried down the garden path, a look of concern marring her usually-calm features. Uncertain, Thomas rose to his feet. "Mrs. Hughes," he greeted the housekeeper. "I was just taking Isis for her walk." Thomas threw an inconspicuous glance around the garden, hoping that the dog's absence would remain unnoticed. Thankfully, Mrs. Hughes seemed uninterested with Isis' whereabouts. She stood before the two, hands clenched stiffly at her sides.

"Mr. Barrow," she murmured, "would you come with me for a moment?" Not waiting for an answer, she turned away. Thomas placed his book upon the garden bench. Sybil was gazing after Mrs. Hughes, a clear twinkle of curiosity in her dark eyes. Thomas smiled.

"I'll be back," he promised, before sprinting after the housekeeper. When the woman finally halted in her brisk steps, Thomas gazed down at her, the faintest tinge of apprehension beginning to taint his pale gaze. "Mrs. Hughes?" he prompted, frowning slightly. "What is it?"

It was a moment before she replied. As Thomas watched, she seemed to be struggling, searching, perhaps, for the right words.

"Has... has Miss Branson said anything about her father?" Mrs. Hughes finally asked. Thomas raised a brow. "No," he murmured. Mrs. Hughes sighed.

"She hasn't asked after him?" she ventured, her hands clasped about her waist. Her fingers fiddled anxiously with one another. Thomas' frown deepened, but he shook his head all the same.

"No." Mrs. Hughes was visibly relieved.

"Thank heavens," she muttered, and Thomas struggled to decipher the woman's strange behaviour. "Mrs. Hughes," he pressed, "what's going on?" Silently, Mrs. Hughes offered the under butler a folded slip of paper. It took Thomas but a moment to see that it was in fact a telegram. Uncertain, he opened the note, smoothing the creases with his thumb.

To whom it may concern,

Mr. Branson, Tom, is ill.

Uncertainty remains.

Request that his daughter be informed.

Andrew Rhineston, Dr.

Sir. William's Hospital, London.

Thomas read those few words again, and again. As his eyes flew across the small, hastily-printed letters, he felt a lump of fear, small but striking, beginning to form in his chest. Absently, he brought a hand to his throat.

Tom Branson was ill. Gravely ill.

The telegram still held between his fingers, Thomas gazed over his shoulder, along the garden path, back to the bench where Sybil sat. Isis had returned; she was now curled up in Thomas' spot, her muzzle resting upon Sybil's leg. The little girl herself was buried in her book. The morning's sunlight fell upon her small figure, stroking though her dark curls, and warming her from the inside. Thomas felt a small ache stab at his heart.

He had never been friends with Tom Branson. But Thomas could no longer pretend that he did not care for his daughter. Forlorn, he turned back to Mrs. Hughes. She was watching him, a look of sympathy in her worried eyes.

"Do they...," Thomas muttered, "do they think he'll make it?" Mrs. Hughes sighed.

"I know no more than you," was her only reply.

For a moment, Thomas closed his eyes. The telegram felt suddenly heavy in his grasp; he wanted nothing more than to let it fall, crashing to the ground. He knew that Mrs. Hughes was still watching him. With a heavy heart, he opened his eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began, tentatively, "please don't." At this, the housekeeper glanced down. Thomas shook his head, scrunching the note in his gloved hand. "Don't ask me to do this," he all but begged the woman. "Please!" Mrs. Hughes was silent.

"Someone upstairs will tell her!" But Mrs. Hughes shook her head.

"It will be easier coming from you," she murmured, the finality in her voice astounding. Thomas blinked, incredulous. "How do you figure?" he demanded. Mrs. Hughes only sighed.

"Because she trusts you." Thomas almost laughed. Mrs. Hughes watched him, her brows knitting into a deep frown. "You know that I'm right, Thomas." The under butler glowered down at her, but the housekeeper didn't flinch. "She deserves to know the truth."

Silently, Thomas turned away.

Back down the path he wandered, the telegram burning beneath the leather of his glove. Sybil was but a few steps away, basking happily in the morning's glow. Thomas almost ran away when her saw her glance up and smile. He struggled to smile back. As he neared the bench, he threw a pointed glare at Isis. She didn't budge. And so, Thomas remained standing.

Sybil closed her book, and gazed up at him. Before her hands all but covered it, Thomas caught a glimpse of the novel's title.

The Wind in the Willows, it read. Thomas paled. He was not certain how he'd not noticed it before; they'd been together all morning. The knowledge that the child carried with her a gift that he had given only made the guilt settle into Thomas' heart all the more.

"Miss Sybil," he began, his words strangled and soft. "I think you should go to London." He knew not what else he could say. On the bench, Sybil's smile faded.

"Why?" Thomas sighed.

"Your father... he's not well." Sybil looked away, and Thomas could see the tears beginning to gather.

Please don't cry.

"I think you should go and see him," he murmured, unable to look another moment upon the child whose heart he was breaking. "I think... I think it would be best." Sybil didn't reply. She simply sat, running her small fingers through Isis' greying fur. Thomas turned away, making for Mrs. Hughes, who remained, waiting for him.

"Thomas." He froze in his escape. Unable to stop himself, he turned back to the child. She was watching his with quiet, fear-stricken eyes.

"Is Papa going to be alright?"

Would I lie? Could I lie to you?

"I don't know, Miss Sybil," he replied. "I wish that I did. But I don't."

A heartbeat, that's all I need.


The doctor was coming. Evelyn could hear his approach; his feet pounded the corridor, his usual regard for the patients' slumber noticeably absent. Yes, the nurse could hear him.

But she could hear no heartbeat.

Please. Just one heartbeat.

Just one.


Told you Tom would return ;)