A/N: I would like to dedicate this to Katsuba, for giving me the idea. I mention this event in two of my stories and am going into more detail with it here. Reading the other stories isn't necessary, all you need to know is that it's post war and Thomas is mute.

I was out on the lawn outside our small cottage when I got the news. I had been sitting underneath a large and shady tree looking towards the distant sea and marvelling at the blue sky and how peaceful the scenery was in general. I kept expecting to blink and find myself back amongst the mud and shit of the trenches. It seemed unreal, this place.

My precarious peace was interrupted by a brisk looking Dr Clarkson striding out, holding a letter. I felt a pang as I saw the mourning band he wore on his arm for the two sons he'd lost. I couldn't fathom how bereft he'd felt after their loss. I'd mocked a man for his mourning band once. That man was dead now and I wondered who was in mourning for him? No don't think about William...seeing the screaming man at night was bad enough, during the day...

I blinked as John seemed to have suddenly materialised in front of me. I realised my breathing had quickened to the point where I was nearly panting. He was looking at me with concern and I tried to slow my breathing and calm myself down. I do try not to be too much of a burden to him.

Originally I'd thought he'd come to berate me for not having written in my journal that day. This idea had irritated me slightly. The previous day I'd finally written something about the war and I'd thought that would have been enough to earn me a few days respite from the occupation. I now realised however, that his interruption must have something to do with the telegram in his hand. I eyed the thing curiously, getting over the brief fit. John followed my glance to his hand almost as curiously. He seemed to have forgotten his reason for coming out in his concern for me. He now cleared his throat and began to speak, as though eager to deliver a message before forgetting it.

"My son Jeremiah would like to visit us in a few days time," he informed me. My breathing quickened to its previous rate at this news.

Jeremiah was John's only surviving son. He and John's daughter Betty were his only surviving offspring. The man had literally lost half of his children, all of whom had been involved in the war. Jeremiah had served in the Air Force as a fighter pilot and it was truly a miracle he had survived. His younger brother, John's second son Ruben, had held the same position and died, as was statistically more likely. Nathan, the youngest brother, had died at sea during a naval battle. Betty the youngest of all, only daughter and second surviving sibling had been part of the Women's Air Force, couriering planes between air bases.

I was deathly afraid of what Jeremiah would think of me and what he would think of his father living with me. People never wanted to disgrace their families with...this kind of thing. I was lucky in that I didn't have much family to disgrace, just an old aunt who I occasionally exchanged a letter with. I doubted she'd be ashamed of anything I did, seeing that people were extremely unlikely to connect her with me. But children were an entirely different story. I had no doubt that the opinion of John's oldest and only surviving son would carry a lot of weight.

It wasn't only that I was scared Jeremiah might attempt to break us up. The idea of his even finding out about our relationship scared me. It wasn't something I was used to discussing with anyone other than John himself. Only I handful of people knew of my inclination towards men; O'Brien, the Duke and of course John. No doubt other people suspected, but they politely ignored it, for the most part. I could only hope Jeremiah would too.

I realised John was staring at me with concern once again. I quickly pasted a smile onto my face and nodded vigorously. This was my signal that I was pleased about something. John smiled in return and leaned forward to kiss me. I returned the gentle kiss running my fingers through his hair and feeling a gentle breeze waft across my face. As I surveyed the scenery once again, I wondered why I couldn't be more peaceful.

"I can't wait for you two to meet," Dr Clarkson whispered in my ear. 'Oh yes, that's why,' I thought to myself as he returned to the house. I stared moodily into the distance and began nervously pulling up handfuls of grass.

I sat in the living room tearing up handfuls of tissues. I always shredded things when nervous, a trait that had gotten worse since my breakdown. Clarkson eyed me with that concerned look he always seemed to be wearing and that I was beginning to hate. I felt guilty at being the one who put it there. He ought to be grieving and I was distracting him.

"Calm down," John told me firmly. "I've already told him..."

John was interrupted by a knock on the door. He shrugged before going to answer it, obviously deciding not to finish his sentence. That was the problem with not having a voice, you couldn't demand an explanation. I tried to think of somewhere to hide the shredded remains of the tissues I'd dissembled. Nothing appropriate being forthcoming, I shoved them under the sofa cushions, before sitting with my hands firmly folded in my lap. My resolve lasted a few moments before I picked up another unfortunate tissue and began shredding it. At this point Jeremiah walked in.

He was a handsome young man and I had no doubt he was a hit among the ladies. A uniform seemed to make an ordinary man instantly more attractive, but Jeremiah Clarkson was handsome without one. With one, he obviously became a god to young women everywhere. He had his father's pale blue eyes and earnest look, but to his detriment (in my opinion), did not sport a moustache. He also walked with a slight limp and was supported by a cane.

My conscience pricked as I thought of Bates, another man I'd tormented. After confessing my behaviour towards this particular fellow servant to John through my journal, my partner had looked particularly disappointed. His reaction must have had something to do with his own son's condition. I felt terrible. If this was an omen for how things would end up, it was certainly not a promising one.

I nervously stood up to shake Jeremiah's hand, the disturbed tissue fragments floating down from their place in my lap like a miniature snowstorm. Jeremiah politely ignored what seemed to me a highly embarrassing occurrence, barely glancing at the blizzard below our feet. After shaking hands he began to sign words rather quickly with his hands. He'd obviously been forewarned of my muteness.

"Nice to meet you, I've heard a lot about you," he signed. "How are you?"

I signed back slowly. He was more fluent in sign language than I was and he wasn't even mute. John has been unsuccessfully trying to get me to master sign language ever since he brought me back here after the war. I'd been extremely uncooperative sitting back and smirking while he demonstrated different signals, because honestly, his facial expressions when he signed were hilarious. Anyway it had seemed unnecessary to me in the first place as John could generally tell what I wanted without my saying anything and I had no desire to communicate with anyone else. Now I wished I'd paid more attention. Jeremiah probably already thought I was mentally incompetent.

"I've heard a lot about you too. I'm fine, how are you?" I laboriously signed back. I gave John a quick look and he nodded. I backed out of the room, smiling at Jeremiah so he wouldn't think I was being unfriendly.

"He's gone to finish lunch," John explained to his son. He was right; the roast was finally ready to take out of the oven. I listened to their conversation as I plated up.

"He refused to let me cook," John continued.

"I'm glad he did," Jeremiah commented. I smiled to myself. I'd done so for two reasons; the first being that John's food was edible and that was all you could say about it. The second being that I didn't want to be left alone with Jeremiah and a room full of awkward silence while John fumbled about in the kitchen.

"How's your injury?" John inquired.

"Oh about the same," Jeremiah answered airily, as though it were the least of his concerns.

"Well at least it's no worse," my man the optimist felt it necessary to point out.

Jeremy grunted before I heard him walk slowly over to the opposite side of the room stopping I guessed in front of the mantel piece which was decorated with pictures of him and his siblings. There were no pictures of John's late wife Constance. They'd been desperately unhappy throughout their marriage and he didn't like to be reminded of her.

My suspicions were confirmed when I heard Jeremiah observe in a slightly choked voice, "It's strange to think they won't be coming back here. I can't get used to the idea"

John sighed. "Neither can I. Sometimes I sit here staring at the door, expecting you all to come bustling in"

It was true. I'd seen him do it. I selfishly interrupted their sad conversation by bustling out with two plates of food and laying them on the table, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. The two men stopped their joint reflection and seated themselves in front of the plates I'd laid down, while I went to fetch my own. We all began to eat after I joined them.

"This is wonderful," Jeremiah told me after seeming to devour half his serving in a few mouthfuls. He'd given up on signing. It was hard to sign and eat.

I inclined my head and smiled in acknowledgement of his compliment. I figured that was all that was expected of me anyway. Dr Clarkson was supplying the conversation.

"Well Jeremy, how's your sister?" he asked eager for news of his much doted upon daughter. I was curious about her as well. Out of all the pictures that adorned John's crowded mantel place my favourite was the one of his daughter, posing as though in the act of getting into one of the planes she'd flown during her military service. She had a head full of unruly dark curls with aviator goggles perched precariously on top of them. Betty's dark curls were complimented by pale skin, dark eyes and dark brows. She appeared short and busty, but there was an air of intense energy about her. She looked like a little pocket rocket. In short, Betty was absolutely nothing like her father in appearance so Thomas assumed she must look like her mother, the infamous Constance.

Jeremiah shook his head at the mention of his sister. "She's refusing to leave London," he informed them. "But I think she could use a visit from you, dad"

John frowned slightly looking at me in what he probably thought was a discreet way. "I'm not sure a change in scenery would be good for..." he began.

I rolled my eyes over his shoulder and Jeremiah grinned at me. I tapped John on the shoulder before he could finish his sentence and began the laborious process of signing the words "I'll be fine" to him. Honestly, the man wraps me up in cotton wool.

A few different emotions flitted across John's face. He was clearly pleased that I was finally signing (it had taken a lot of persistence on his part for me to participate). But I could tell he didn't like the idea of moving me. "We'll discuss it later," he said in a guarded tone.

I tried to repress another frustrated facial expression, but from the way Jeremy stuffed his napkin into his mouth to hide a fit of laughter I guessed I hadn't succeeded.

"I have some good news," Jeremy announced presently. My ears pricked up in spite of myself; I hadn't heard anyone use that phrase in some time. John too, seemed curious.

"Oh?" he said, quizzically.

"I'm engaged," Jeremy announced, beaming with pleasure. John grinned and reached across the table to clap his son affectionately on the upper arm.

"Congratulations son," John exclaimed, pleasure and pride obvious in his face and tone. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Jeremiah reached into his shirt pocket before taking out a fob watch and opening it. Inside was a photograph of a young lady, evidently his fiancée. "Her name is Mary Holland," he informed us. "This is her here," he added, passing the watch to his father.

I looked over John's shoulder and he shifted so I could see her better. I was interested to see what kind of woman had caught the attention of John's handsome son. I found Mary Holland surprisingly plain. She had slightly curly blonde hair and steely grey eyes and was lightly freckled. Although there was nothing inspiring in her features, there was strength in them that I found appealing. Hers was the kind of face I imagined grew on you the longer you looked at it and the more familiar you were with it.

"She was in the Women's Air Force with Betty," Jeremiah was telling us. "We met when I stopped at her base. She and Betty are great friends"

"Fortunately for you," John said with a smile, "we both know it wouldn't last without her approval"

Jeremiah chuckled at this and I inferred from the interaction that John's darling daughter had quite a strong character. We'd finished eating by this point and I began to clear away the dishes. John rose to help me, but I waved him down, indicating with my head that he ought to talk to his son. I stood in the kitchen listening to the two of them conversing once again.

"You're certainly able to communicate well," Jeremiah observed and I guessed he was referring to John and I. It's funny how when you're mute people assume you can't hear their conversations.

"Yes," John replied. "He's been making great progress since coming here". I hated it when John talked about me like I was his patient.

"Just don't..." Jeremy trailed off.

"Don't what?" John pressed.

"Don't get your hopes up that he'll return to normal," Jeremiah continued. "Betty goes to see her lad every day at the war hospital and he's never any better. He tried to strangle her last week. Thought she was an enemy soldier"

"Thomas's case isn't that severe," John said soberly, "I believe he will eventually recover his powers of speech"

Jeremy let out a noise of frustration. "I just don't want you getting disappointed"

"I'm a big lad," Dr Clarkson said, not without amusement. "I can handle my own disappointments"

I stopped listening to their conversation at that point and stood with my hands in the sink, thinking about what had been said. Would I ever recover my powers of speech? I was scared to even try, fearing that my inability would prove to be physical, instead of mental and I'd never be able to speak again. Remaining silent enabled me to postpone the awful knowledge that I was permanently mute. Standing there, my hands turning wrinkly from the water, I resolved to try in earnest; tonight, after John's pessimistic son had left for London. There was something I needed to say.