They gather in the small library, with servants in the hall, Molesley trembling as he hands the telegram to Lord Grantham.

"I didn't know what else to do when I saw the telegram. I knew it was urgent, so I hope it was right."

"Quite right. Mrs Crawley won't mind my opening it. The main thing is, he's not dead. Not yet, anyway."

He exhales sharply. The moment O'Brien woke up him and Cora he was overcome with terror. He sees Cora wilt in relief that the telegram concerns Matthew, not any of the girls, but he doesn't feel any better. To think of Matthew seriously wounded, maybe dying, maybe crippled for life in some horrible manner – he shudders.

"When did it happen?" asks Edith.

"It looks like Monday or Tuesday."

Edith nods, thinking of her conversations with recovering soldiers and their families.

"Sometimes they wait to see which telegram they should send."

"They've patched him up. They're bringing him to the hospital in Downton, which shows someone has their wits about them."

"When do they think he'll get here?" asks Cora.

"It doesn't say."

"But how do we contact Isobel, how will she get back?"

"One thing at a time. I'll ring the War Office in the morning. If they don't help, I think Mary knows how to contact her."

"Maybe they know she's out there. Perhaps she's with him now."

Robert shakes his head.

"They wouldn't have sent a telegram here, and she'd have rung. No, it's the usual balls... usual mess up, I'm afraid."

Suddenly their discussion is interrupted by banging on the door. A moment later, a flustered Carson brings another telegram.

"A telegram for his Lordship," he says unnecessarily.

Robert hastens to tear it open, pale like a sheet. A second telegram, so soon after the first... It must either mean that Matthew died on the way, or...

"God Almighty!" he exclaims voicelessly. "Mary has been hurt as well!"

Cora gasps, her hand grasping his arm for support, the other flying to her mouth.

"How bad? Do they write how bad?"

"Not so very seriously," says Robert, striving for calm. "The telegram is from Sybil. She writes Mary was wounded while getting Matthew, William and some of the others from the battlefield on August 8th. She has been shot through the arm – not badly, according to Sybil" he says quickly to quiet the cry on Cora's lips, even though he himself feels faint reading the details of his little girl's injuries. "She also was hit on the head by some shrapnel but seems to suffer only from a cut and mild concussion. Sybil says she should fully recover."

"She is coming here, isn't she?" asks Cora desperately. "She cannot stay there now! Not when she's been injured!"

Robert nods.

"Yes, she is coming with the transport bringing Matthew and should hopefully be here tomorrow. Today, that's it," he corrects himself, looking at the clock.

Carson, looking uncomfortable in his dressing gown, and awfully pale, clears his throat and asks:

"Beg pardon, my lord, but we're all very anxious to know the news..."

"Yes, of course," Robert walks briskly to the door where most of the staff gathered.

"It appears that, a few days ago, both Captain Crawley and Lady Mary were wounded. It is hopefully minor for her, serious for him though, I'm afraid, but he's alive and they are both on their way home, to the hospital in the village."

"Where there's life, there's hope," says Mrs Hughes.

"What about William? Is he alright?" asks Daisy. Robert swallows heavily.

"I'm afraid Lady Sybil sent word that he was wounded as well. It seems both he and Captain Crawley were rescued by Lady Mary from the battlefield, and she was wounded in the process. Unfortunately, I do not have any other details concerning William."

"William's father would have had a telegram if anything happened. It might contain more information," points out Bates.

Edith offers to drive there in the morning to make inquiries and they all slowly disperse, although many of them can not imagine falling back asleep.

xxx

By the time the lorry carrying the transport of wounded officers finally reaches Downton, Mary is completely exhausted. The whole journey has been nightmarish – trucks, ambulance train, the ship, ambulance train to London and another to Leeds and then the lorry again. It has taken days.

She is sitting squeezed between Matthew's stretcher and the wall of the lorry, feeling every jostle of the car on uneven roads in both her arm and head. She feels so sore, filthy and tired, so very tired, that she wonders dimly for a moment if she shouldn't have listened to the orderlies and take a train home instead. There has been no way she could have stood being separated from Matthew now though.

He looks so awful, lying pale and motionless on the stretcher. They pumped him full of morphine for the journey, which must be a good thing considering how his body jumps from being jostled. She is holding his limp hand, hoping that if he is at all aware he can feel her presence and knows he is not alone. Her eyes fall again on the card attached to him and she swallows hard.

Probable spinal damage.

xxx

Matthew blinks and finally the world seems to come into some sort of blurry focus. There is someone sitting by his bed, a slim figure in a grey dress.

"Mary?" he croaks.

"Matthew! You're awake!" exclaims Edith in happy surprise. "Mary will be so happy to hear it! Although knowing her maybe more angry that she missed it than happy."

Matthew fights confusion trying to overwhelm his muddled brain. What is Edith doing in France? Or is he somewhere else? He is obviously in a military hospital, surrounded by wounded soldiers – judging from how absolutely rotten he feels he must have been wounded as well, not that he remembers any of it now – but the set up looks too clean, too well organised to be somewhere in an immediate vicinity of the battlelines.

He must have made some kind of questioning noise, because thankfully Edith starts providing explanations.

"You are in Downton Hospital; they have brought you and Mary here yesterday. Doctor Clarkson still has to assess you properly, now that you are conscious, but he assured us you are not in any immediate danger. You and Mary gave us all such a scare, we were so terrified when the telegrams arrived!"

"Mary? She is here?" he manages to ask, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he went into battle and woke up home. It seems too surreal to be true.

"Yes, she is, she is just getting her wounds seen to..."

"What wounds?!" he interrupts Edith, feeling wild with sudden terror.

"Nothing too serious!" Edith reassures him hurriedly, her hands fluttering nervously over him. "She got injured getting you off the battlefield, but Doctor Clarkson says she should be perfectly alright. You will see in a moment; she said she will come back straight here after the nurse is done with her. She has spent most of the day by your bed and made me promise to sit here until she returns so you wouldn't wake up alone. Just bad luck that you haven't woken up earlier, when she was still here."

Matthew closes his eyes and inhales slowly. Whatever has happened, she will be alright. Her wounds are not serious, whatever they are. She is well enough to sit by his bedside and order Edith around; it can't be too bad.

Then something else Edith said registers and his eyes snap open.

"She got me out?"

"Yes," confirms Edith. "From what she told us and what a sergeant from your unit wrote Papa, it seems you were injured pretty early in the battle. A soldier from your unit tried to get an ambulance to get you out and no driver agreed except Mary, because the battle was still ongoing. But she did, and she got you and William out, only she got wounded in the process. But at least you are both here, safe, now."

Matthew's head swims, his brain unable or unwilling to comprehend the meaning of Edith's words. The picture which they are painting is too awful, too terrifying. However little Matthew remembers of the battle which got him into this bed, he does remember hundreds of other charges and the thought of Mary getting into the middle of this, all to save him specifically while it was so bad that all the others present reasonably refused, endangering her life, getting injured – and he still doesn't know what her actual injuries are; he knows all too well how broad is the range of "not serious" wounds – he feels sick with guilt and terror.

Before he can interrogate Edith further, he notices Mary herself approaching the bed and gasps.

Her head is bandaged, some of her beautiful hair shorn, and her left arm, bandaged heavily as well, is hanging limply in a sling. She is pale, chalky pale really, with shadows under her eyes so deep they look more like bruises.

But then she notices that he is conscious and her lovely chocolate eyes shine with joy.

"Darling, you're awake!"

He wants to leap from this blasted bed, hug her tight and never let her go again. All he can muster enough energy for is to open his hand pleadingly. Thankfully, she sits by his bedside and grasps it at once, distractedly shooing Edith away. Edith just shakes her head and leaves them alone.

"My darling," whispers Matthew, his eyes darting over her injuries and that pale, pale face. "How are you really?"

Mary shakes her head dismissively and immediately winces in pain.

"My head got cut with a piece of shrapnel and my arm was hit by a bullet lightly, but to be honest, I am most bothered about my hair. Anna nearly fainted when she saw what those butchers at CCS did to it, although she gamely promises she can somehow work with it to make me presentable," she grimaces.

"I'm sure she will," he says, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb, wanting so much more. "But even if she wouldn't, you're no less beautiful."

She scoffs.

"Just looking ridiculous," she makes sure they are not likely to be overheard and continues quietly. "I have your ring and my lucky charm. Sybil got them out of your pocket when they were undressing you and gave them to me for safekeeping."

"It's good that they weren't lost," he smiles, but then startles in sudden alarm. "Wait a moment, did Sybil see me naked?"

Mary's mouth twitches.

"I'm afraid so," she confirms solemnly, but then breaks out laughing at Matthew's embarrassed groan. "She was the one to undress and wash you. She actually asked me to tell you that you're hardly different from hundreds of other soldiers she treated at the front."

Matthew groans again, not at all comforted by it. It's embarrassing enough to be attended in such intimate ways by anonymous nurses, but to have his younger cousin and sister-in-law to do that for him…

He glares at Mary when she laughs quietly again, but his gaze softens when it falls on her bandages.

"Edith said you got me out," he says, torn between gratitude and admiration and the need to yell at her for her utter disregard for her own safety and common sense when she nods. "Mary, how could you risk yourself like that?"

She looks at him incredulously.

"How could I not?" she answers simply. "You were there and you were hurt. You would have done the same if it was me. You did the same when it was me."

He shuts his eyes against the immediate flashback to digging her out. Sometimes he thinks that this memory will still haunt him when he's eighty. He wants to quarrel that it was different, of course it was different, but he doesn't think she is going to accept his argument and he doesn't have the strength for a proper fight right now.

"You're sure that you're going to be alright?" he asks instead. "Truly? Your head and your arm?"

Something loosens in him when she nods with a smile. Mary does not lie; not to him. She will evade and obfuscate and hide if she thinks she has to, but she has never outright lied to him and so he can let go of some of his worry. Not all of it, not when she looks so fragile as she does, but some.

Which frees him to finally wonder what exactly is wrong with him. He feels an awful amount of pain, seemingly all over, but mostly radiating from his back outwards, but his head is still swimming, the pain making his thoughts hard to grasp and his sensations to analyse and he can hardly define what he actually is experiencing other than to be very sure that he hopes it passes quickly.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks simply and frowns at the immediate look of alarm on Mary's face. Surely whatever it is can't be so very bad… can it?

She must have noticed his distress because she hastens to reassure him.

"We don't exactly know, darling," she says, leaning forward in her chair to caress his face soothingly. "Doctor Clarkson will be here promptly to examine you now that you're awake."

"I'm not sure how long I will manage to keep it up," he confesses, closing his eyes. Now that his concern for Mary has been partially assuaged, he can feel his consciousness starting to drift. He wonders if it was only that which kept him alert for so long. "Everything hurts like the dickens and I'm tired."

He feels her slender hand caressing his cheek again.

"I know, my darling. They will give you more medication soon and will let you rest, I promise. But please, try to stay awake just a little bit longer, so we will have a better idea about the extent of your injuries."

He tries, he really tries, but it is very difficult, his body too tired of handling ever worsening pain to keep his mind working. But in the growing haze he remembers something, something important.

"How's William?" he asks urgently, although with his eyes still closed. The cry of "Sir!" echoes in his head. "He tried to push me out of the way, to save me… Is he alright?"

Mary's fingers tremble briefly on his cheek.

"He's alive," she says steadily. "He's at hospital in Leeds. Edith said that his father is there with him and that he promised to send news on his condition."

"I hope he's going to be alright," says Matthew worriedly. "He saved me so many times…"

"He told me that you saved him too," points out Mary. "That you both saved each other."

That doesn't change the fact that Matthew feels he owes William; that if anybody deserves to survive the whole debacle and live a long and happy life it's this man, so much braver and truly noble than him. He's too tired by then to explain it to Mary, but he thinks he will one day.

When Major Clarkson approaches his bed just minutes later, Matthew is barely awake enough to register it.

"Captain Crawley, I know you are exhausted and in pain, but I need to examine you before you can be given another dose of morphine."

Matthew nods and instantly regrets the motion since it sends sparks of pain through his whole body. He must have made some pained noise because he feels Mary's hand tighten on his as he is delicately but firmly moved to his side so the doctor can examine his back. He resigns himself to the necessity of enduring this torture, Mary's touch the lifeline tethering him to consciousness. He's certain he would have drowned in the pain if it wasn't for her.

xxx

Papa comes while Doctor Clarkson is still examining Matthew, so she reluctantly leaves his side to answer Papa's questions.

"Do they know any more yet?" he asks anxiously. "Have they found out what happened?"

"They were in a crater when a shell landed near them. The explosion threw Matthew against a wheel from a cart..." she closes her eyes, the image of Matthew and William laying like rag dolls against that wheel imprinted on them. "Matthew says William tried to save him, pushed him away from the shell."

"Go on," urges Papa and Mary somehow finds the strength to utter the words she has been fearing for days now.

"Doctor Clarkson thinks there may be a problem with his legs."

Thankfully this is the moment when Clarkson himself emerges from behind the screen.

"Not good news, I'm afraid. There appears to be extensive crushing of the sacrum and lumbar regions."

"What's the prognosis?" asks Papa, and Mary can see the fear in his eyes too.

"It's early days, but I'd say the spinal cord has been transected, that it is permanently damaged."

"You mean he won't walk again?"

"If I'm right, then no, he won't. It's a shock, of course, and you must be allowed to grieve. But I would only say that he will, in all likelihood, regain his health. This is not the end of his life."

"Just the start of a different life," says Mary woodenly.

"Exactly. Lord Grantham, I wonder if I might have a word?"

Sudden suspicion immediately pulls Mary out of her stupor at the diagnosis and she bristles.

"Major Clarkson," she says firmly. "Captain Crawley is my fiancé and I have the right to be told everything. Hiding something from me is pointless, anyway, since I will drag it out of Papa sooner or later."

If the mood was less dire, she would have laughed at how Papa is not even trying to deny it. He just resignedly gestures at Clarkson to go on.

Clarkson, while clearly unhappy with this development, leads them to his office for more privacy and does. Mary finds herself grabbing his desk to keep her balance when her brain comprehends what he means.

No more intimacy like they shared during their precious three days of honeymoon. No children. No heir to Downton. No... anything.

She sees Papa and Clarkson looking at her with pity and composes herself.

She is not the one who will be the most devastated by the news after all.

xxx

Anna fusses over her hair and hands and assures her that she really will make some kind of miracles with it all to make Mary presentable. It's comforting like nothing else. Then she draws Mary a bath which is simply sinfully good, hot and smelling divine and so unlike anything Mary has experienced in the last six months that she nearly cries. And then she thinks there must be something wrong with her considering that she is near tears over a bath and yet hasn't shed any over the fact that her husband will never walk again.

She ponders it as she sinks into the hot water, her arm dutifully out of the bathtub so that the wound doesn't get wet. How can she be so calm over it all? Maybe calm is actually not the right word; when she looks into herself more closely she can tell that she is in fact not calm at all – she is detached, empty, with no feelings at all. Those words, which should mean so much – Matthew, husband, will never walk again – feel meaningless, alien, removed. As if they are too far from her and hidden beyond a thick wall for a good measure, to hurt her. One cannot be hurt by words which hold no meaning.

This strange detachment keeps Mary going through Anna's washing and brushing her hair, ever so gently so she doesn't hurt the wound on Mary's head, and through being dressed into her softest nightgown, and finally being put into her soft, huge bed which feels alien and empty too. Which is ridiculous because how could she get used to sharing a bed with Matthew when it happened only a score of times in her life and only three times for a full night? Three wonderful, amazing times, but Mary shies away from that thought. She has a feeling that if she lets herself to consider it there is a huge black abyss just waiting to gobble her up and keep her falling forever. So she focuses on the familiar yet strange touch of smooth sheets on her skin until she falls asleep and, by some miracle, does not dream at all.

The detachment lasts through breakfast which she eats in bed like a married woman she in fact is but nobody knows, the privilege granted to her as an invalid. It lasts as Anna helps her dress into a simple grey dress, her arm sling in place and her hair brushed carefully over her bandages. Mary looks at herself in the mirror and feels wrong, mismatched, as if the pieces of Lady Mary Crawley from Downton Abbey and from France were broken up and glued together without checking if they fit. She is both and neither and just feels wrong, but even this doesn't break through this strange non-feeling state she has been in since Major Clarkson's diagnosis.

It's still there when she sits by Matthew's bed, his long, elegant hand grasped lightly in her own, but she can start feeling it rip at the edges and she is terrified of what lies under it. She clings to the detachment by her very fingernails. She cannot afford to start feeling now, not now, not when Matthew's eyelids start fluttering, and he still doesn't know, oh God he doesn't know, and she cannot be the one to tell him!

He sees her and a smile slowly appears on his poor battered face.

"My darling..."

"Are you feeling a bit less groggy?"

"A bit. Have you been sitting here long?" he asks, eyeing her immobile arm and bandaged head with concern.

"Just a short moment. I was a good patient and rested. Anna took wonderful care of me."

He smiles, looking relieved.

"Good. I cannot have you impede your own healing on my behalf," he frowns slightly, his smile disappearing. "How's William?"

"He isn't too good, I'm afraid, but the last news we got is there is still some hope."

"Where is he? Not here, I guess, with the hospital intended for officers..."

"In Leeds. Granny tried to get him transferred here, but it's apparently impossible."

Matthew scoffs lightly.

"Of course it is. Any sign of Mother?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure she's making her way back by now."

"Has the doctor said anything else? I was too out of it to really listen yesterday."

Mary's insides twist in icy fear.

"Oh, this and that. You've taken quite a hammering."

"I certainly have," for a moment, he looks puzzled. "I've still got this funny things with my legs. I can't seem to move them. Or feel them, now that I think about it. Did Clarkson mention what that might be?"

"Why don't we wait for him and then we can all talk about it? I'm sure he will explain everything better than me."

Matthew's eyes narrow. He can see that she's trying to avoid the conversation.

"Tell me."

"And you've not even been here for forty-eight hours. Nothing will have settled down yet," she hears the pleading in her voice and stops herself from further babbling. It won't help anyway.

"Tell me."

She caves in, with more trepidation than she ever felt under heavy shelling.

"He says you may have damaged your spine."

"How long will it take to repair?"

"We can't expect them to put timings on that sort of thing."

"But he did say it would get better?" probs Matthew, breaking her heart utterly. How, how is she going to tell him?

"He says the first task is to rebuild your health, and that's what we have to concentrate on."

Why does she even bother with dissembling? It's obvious that he understands what she isn't saying.

"I see," he says only, and if she thought her heart was breaking before, she was wrong. It is breaking now at the sight of a single tear forming in his beautiful blue eye.

"And he says there is no reason why you should not have a perfectly full and normal life."

"Just not a very mobile one."

The tear falls and Mary can stand it no longer. Whatever detachment has been protecting her from processing the enormity of what happened to him is completely gone now, and she knows that unless she runs away somewhere right this moment, she is going to have a spectacular breakdown in the middle of the crowded ward.

"Would you like some tea? I would," she blurts out desperately and stands without waiting for his answer, ready to flee. His words stop her though. She looks back and sees that his eyes are full of tears.

"Thank you for telling me. I know I'm blubbing, but I mean it. I'd much rather know. Thank you."

"Blub all you like. And then, when we're both ready, we can make plans."

She hates herself for walking away from him now, when he must need her so much, but the tears are already pouring down her cheeks. She can't let him see her devastation, not when he needs her to be strong for him. She is determined to find that strength, whatever it's going to cost her. But not yet, oh God, not yet...

She barely reaches the linen closet before she completely falls apart.

xxx

Clarkson comes over and explains the details of everything Mary hasn't managed to spell out. Matthew thought he got a general gist of it from her – enough to accept the doctor's explanations calmly – but each sentence hits him like another bullet in a hail of them.

No control or feeling below the waist.

No walking, of course.

No bowel or urine control.

No sexual function.

A wheelchair is a good outcome and one they are going to work towards but not a given. Worst case scenario he is going to be stuck in bed, but let's not be pessimistic, Captain Crawley, it's likely it won't come to that. If he manages to sit in a wheelchair, it is unknown whether he will be able to push himself, but he is young and fit, so it is to be hoped for, in time.

There are all kinds of things which can kill him now, apparently. Bed sores. Infection from the caterer. Deep vein thrombosis. Lung infections from an inadequate cough. People like him don't usually live very long, Doctor Clarkson is sorry to say, but he will have the best of care and the resources unavailable to most soldiers, so again, let's not be pessimistic, Captain Crawley. You will get used to all of it in time and may yet live a long and normal life. One without basic independence, dignity, children or sex, but otherwise perfectly normal and happy.

Matthew thanks the doctor for explaining everything to him so clearly and waits until he is gone to allow himself to quietly fall apart.

He is not at all surprised at Mary's flight, now that he knows everything.

He is going to be much more surprised if she comes back.

And then he remembers that whether she wants to or not, they are irrevocably tied together. They are married, even though nearly nobody knows it. However horrified Mary must be at finding herself shackled to him when he is like this – when he is always going to be like this – there is nothing she can do about it.

No proper marriage. No children. Always schlepping him from room to room in a bloody wheelchair – if he is even capable of sitting in one, Clarkson said they have to wait and see even about that. Changing his...

No!

He won't do it to her. He can't. There is simply no fucking way. He will think of something to set her free. There simply must be a way to release her. He can't imagine living like this for God knows how many years, but to imagine Mary dragged into it as well... It is not a life; it is a travesty. A death sentence delayed in time. Nobody deserves it and least of all her.

Even if his heart breaks utterly at the prospect of losing her along with everything else, even if he can't breathe when he thinks about it – he must. For her own good, her own happiness, he must find a way and the strength to go with it when he does. He can't drag her with him into this wretched misery. There must be something to be done to prevent it! He goes frantically through the allowed causes for divorce and curses internally in despair; there is none which could apply to him, or at least not easily in his current pathetic state. The easiest solution would be of course for Mary to commit adultery – he mercilessly suppresses a sudden pain at the very thought – but he can't push her into that, not with the scandal and reprobation she would have to contend with as the result of him bringing a divorce suit on such grounds. No, it has to be his fault, as it truly is.

He could abandon her, he guesses, but it would take years for it to be viable as a cause, and of course there is a matter of how he would do it considering that right now he can't even get out of that bloody bed. He suspects darkly that as useless as he is as the heir now, his family will not let him go and disappear without a fight, and he is dead tired just thinking about it. There must be something else, something he is overlooking, it can't be so impossible to end a marriage nobody even knows about!

A marriage nobody even knows about…

He starts to form an idea.

xxx

By the time Mary comes back, a little red-eyed but besides that fully composed, Matthew's plan is ready. It's not perfect, of course – in fact, normally he would have considered it beyond risky, if not outright insane – but desperate circumstances do call for desperate measures and he can't think of any more desperate circumstances than the ones they are currently facing.

After checking surreptitiously that his immediate neighbours are still unconscious or at least deeply asleep, Matthew grasps her hand tightly and looks at her intently.

"Mary," he says quietly, but with complete seriousness. "I want you to destroy your marriage certificate."

Mary's eyes widen in shock.

"Why?"

"Nobody knows we are married. If you destroy the documents, nobody needs to know, ever, and you can be free to marry someone whole."

Mary stares at him incredulously, completely stunned.

"Absolutely not!" she hisses furiously when she gains back her ability to speak. "Are you out of your mind? Or have I understood you right and you are trying to talk me into committing bigamy?"

Matthew winces.

"There would be very little risk anybody would ever find out," he persists. "It was in France and we told nobody."

"Except Sybil, Tom and William, who were there," points out Mary, glaring at him.

"As if they would ever betray you!" scoffs Matthew, only for Mary's glare to intensify.

"As if they would ever accept me abandoning you! As if I ever would do that, actually!"

She takes a deep breath to calm herself.

"Matthew, we both made vows to each other. As far as I remember, a phrase about keeping each other in sickness and in health was definitely included," she glares again at his stubborn, downturned face. "We made those vows when we both faced the same kinds of dangers. Tell me then, Matthew, if that shell landed next to my ambulance instead of next to you; if it were me laying in this hospital bed instead of you, would you deny our marriage and abandon me? Would you? Don't even bother to lie."

Matthew knows he should lie if he wants any chance whatsoever of convincing her; that he should confirm that it would have been exactly what he would have done; but the picture she paints strikes him so hard, brings such vivid memories of that awful moments when he thought her ambulance had been struck, that he is not able to do it. Mary looks at him triumphantly.

"You wouldn't, would you? Even if you didn't love me, and I know you do, your honour would prevent it. Do you really think that I love you less? Or that I am less determined to honour my vows?"

Matthew feels tears pooling in his eyes and blinks furiously to stop them.

"I know you are determined to honour them, darling. I just cannot think of you trapped like that. That was not what you were signing up for."

Mary's grasp on his hand tightens.

"It was exactly what both of us were potentially signing up for. As well as potentially immediate widowhood. We were at war, Matthew. I made my vows with my eyes open to many ghastly possibilities. But it didn't matter to me then and it doesn't matter to me now. I just want to be with you. On any terms."

"Nobody sane would want to be with me as I am now, including me. For God's sake, I'll be wearing nappies till I die!" he pales visibly. "Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick."

Mary seizes a bowl from the table nearby and helps him to sit up, awkward because of her immobilised arm, but stroking his back gently. His heart contracts painfully at the tender care in her every gesture. He loves her so incredibly much for it but it just highlights for him what an utter injustice and selfishness it would be for him to take advantage of her kindness and compassion. He must set her free somehow. He must.

"It's alright. It's perfectly all right."

He leans back as Mary wipes his mouth and hands him a glass of water.

"I'm not saying it'll be easy for either of us. But just because a life isn't easy doesn't mean it isn't right," she says after he is done.

"Your parents would hate me and I wouldn't blame them."

"You leave my parents to me. Besides, Papa considers you a son he never had and I seriously doubt he will say one cross word to you over our marriage. He is elated you survived."

"But does he, does your mother know all the details? The disgusting ones as well as pathetic? I cannot be married to you. I'd feel like a murderer."

"Well, it's not up to you, and thank God for that. We are married. The only question is whether we admit to it or organise another ceremony here in England. But there is no chance, absolutely no chance I will deny our marriage and since I am the one in possession of our marriage certificate, there is nothing you can do about it."

Matthew laughs mirthlessly.

"What is it?" asks Mary suspiciously.

"I was just thinking. It seems such a short time ago since I turned you down. And now look at me. An impotent cripple, stinking of sick. What a reversal. If we managed to control ourselves back in France, you would have had quite a lucky escape, my darling. You have to admit it's quite funny."

"Not really," says Mary curtly, getting up to pick up the metal bowl with the vomit. Thankfully it is light enough that she can manage with one hand, but she supports it on her hip just to be sure. "All I'll admit is that you're here, you've survived the war and so did I, and you are stuck with me, darling, whatever you say. That's enough for now."

She smiles at his stubborn face and goes to dispose of the sick. She nearly walks into Isobel and feels enormous relief to finally have an ally. Let Matthew quarrel with her. Isobel is certainly up for the task.

"You're back. That is good news. He will be so pleased."

Isobel's eyes flicker to the basin in her hand.

"I see you've become quite the nurse since I last saw you," she says, her voice clearly controlled only with great effort.

Mary forcibly pushes away the memory of sharing lunch with Isobel on the way back from their honeymoon and how incredibly happy they were then. She can't stand to think about it now, not with the conversation she's just had to endure with Matthew.

"It's nothing," she says dismissively. "Sybil is the nurse in the family."

As she passes Isobel to dispose of the vomit, she hears her say, mostly to herself.

"It's the very opposite of nothing."

Mary ponders it when she washes her right hand. She disagrees. Taking care of Matthew is nothing to praise her for – it's easy, natural, it's what she needs to do, not due to any obligation but because she can't stand the thought of being apart from him, not ever, really, but especially not now, not when he obviously needs her so much, whatever he says. She scoffs derisively at his insane attempt at pushing her away. As if she would! But it hurt, goodness, it did hurt that he tried it. She knows that it is not a true rejection of her, that it's just his damn noble streak at work, but it was so very hard to hear and not feel as if he didn't want her anymore. It's not that, she knows it's not that, she tells herself it's not that, but she still has to blink away tears gathering in her eyes.

She dries her hand on a towel and straightens her back with renewed determination. Matthew has just learnt the extent of his injuries; he must be in shock over it all – unlike her, he hasn't had a night to sleep on it yet. She will give him time to think and grieve, but if he thinks for a moment that it's going to make a difference for her – after everything they went through! – then he has another thing coming.

She will just to show him that she's not going anywhere.

Her hand reaches into her pocket and she smiles when she touches the objects there. She won't be able to give Matthew his wedding ring yet – she doesn't think any of them has enough mental capacity to deal with the reveal of their marriage right this moment with everything else going on – but she hopes her lucky charm will remind him just how much he means to her.

And in the meantime, she intends to keep their rings and their marriage certificate very safe.

When she goes back to Matthew's bed, she finds him in Isobel's fierce embrace, shaking with suppressed sobs, and feels like an intruder.

"Matthew," she says gently, noting his flinch at her voice with regret. She really has not wanted to interrupt, but she couldn't go without a goodbye either, not after what transpired. She will not have him think that she is affected in any way by what has happened to him. "I will let you two catch up and go home for lunch, but I will return after tea."

She addresses Isobel, observing them both in their usual shrewd manner.

"You must be tired after your journey here. I can stay until evening if you want to rest a bit."

"Thank you, my dear. It would be nice. I'm looking forward to talking with you more when you return," says Isobel, then lets go of Matthew and gets up. "In fact, if you could wait a moment until I refresh myself a bit? I was so impatient to see Matthew I came straight in from the station."

"Of course," Mary assures her and watches her walk away briskly in the direction of the bathroom.

"You know she only did it to give us a moment of privacy?" observes Matthew drily. "I hardly need to be watched like a baby while she goes away."

Mary laughs.

"The better I get to know your mother, the more I like her," she says, her voice deliberately light. She takes the little dog out of her skirt pocket and hands it to Matthew, whose hand immediately closes over it possessively. "I think you may have a use for him for a little longer."

"I agree," says Matthew, staring at the toy for a long while, then raising his eyes to meet hers. "I know I will need all my luck, however shoddy it has been lately, to convince you to see reason."

Mary rolls her eyes.

"I am not going to quarrel with you now," she answers candidly. "And if you think my own lucky charm will work against me, you are delusional. Then again, you might be anyway, to come up with such a harebrained scheme as you did. I am charitably writing it off as the effects of morphine."

Matthew half-laughs, half-sighs.

"It might be," he says, and looks at her with such obvious love in his eyes that Mary's heart flutters with hope all will be well yet. Somehow. But then they fill with despair and her hope dies. "But darling, how can I force you to share my fate if there is any chance of getting you free?"

Mary's expression hardens.

"You aren't forcing me to do anything," she stresses firmly. "We are married. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Even if we did make the vows in French. Or are you telling me you didn't mean yours, since it wasn't supposed to be our official wedding?"

Matthew puts the lucky charm away on his immobile knees so he can grasp her hand instead.

"I did mean every word of them," he swears.

"Then why do you doubt mine?" asks Mary, the question torn from her chest. Matthew's hand tightens on hers painfully.

"I don't, Mary, not really," he closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, wide and scared. "But I'm terrified."

Mary hates all the people crowding the ward, with their eyes on the two of them preventing her from showing Matthew just how much she feels in response to his whispered confession. She hates that the best she can do is to squeeze his hand back with her only working one, and try to convey the depth of her conviction as she locks her eyes with his.

"I'm terrified too," she whispers back. "But we will face it all together. Because I can't imagine my life without you, darling, and I am not going to. I didn't drag you back from there just to lose you now."

Matthew closes his eyes before the tears gathering there can fall and pulls their joined hands to his lips to kiss hers, but just as Mary starts to hope again that all will be well yet, he whispers brokenly.

"But Mary… no children… no anything… How can you want that? You deserve so much better."

"As do you," she whispers fiercely. "But if that's not in the cards for us, I still want you. And you should know by now, Matthew Crawley, that I do get what I want."

He laughs shakily at that, opening his wet eyes to look at her in fond amusement, and when Isobel returns and Mary makes her goodbyes, she leaves the hospital exhausted beyond belief but triumphant.