Author's Note: While writing this chapter I realized that I have finally brought this story full circle, so I am marking this as the end of "Fear Finds Lady Sybil". Now that series 2 has begun, I'm sure my own little story has drifted into an alternate universe (as I live in the US, I don't actually know what is going on yet, but please don't tell me!), and I will probably put any further Downton Abbey inspired scribblings on hold until I see series 2 myself. For now, I'd like to thank everyone for reading and thanks again to those of you who reviewed; receiving your feedback has been a real treat. I hope you all enjoyed reading this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. -PV

They are so many, and she knows it would be better if she did not feel for them so deeply. She tries to guard herself, but they all leave their marks on her one way or another. Five crescent shaped bruises on her forearm, ghosts of the fingers of a young soldier who grabbed her in the throes of agony, linger on her skin long after his eyes are closed. The death rattle of a colonel who looked unbearably like her father echoes in her ears as she drifts into sleep each night for months. She cannot manage to close her heart to them, and the scars accumulate steadily. She lives in dread of a day when she will be left, not with a scar, but an open wound.

...

When the matron fetches her in the middle of the night with an oil lamp and a concerned expression because a patient has asked for her by name, she tries to prepare herself. Despite her shaking hands she dresses quickly and follows the matron down corridors and staircases, listening to her hushed voice.

"A young man, fair haired, sounds like he might be Irish." Sybil pauses for a moment and steadies herself against the wall as if she has missed her step in the dark.

"How badly is he injured?" She hears her own voice rasp the question as if someone else is speaking.

"Badly, I'm afraid. If we can prevent infection he should live, but it will take him a long time to heal and we're not sure about his left arm and leg."

"I see," are all the words Sybil can muster as the matron leads her through a door. Before she even has time to think she sees him stretched out on a low cot, and there is so much blood she feels instantly sick. She is cold, not just her skin but in the pit of her stomach and inside her chest. She can feel beads of sweat forming on her arms and on her neck that instantly turn clammy. It's fear – fear freezing her from the inside out until she can't tell if she is shaking or shivering. She kneels on the ground and places her trembling hands on either side of the cot.

"Branson," she calls, and he opens his eyes slowly. To her dismay, he seems confused even after his eyes focus on her. After a moment he smiles and starts to sit up, but then cries out in pain and falls back. The sound claws at Sybil's heart and she grabs his good hand to steady him.

"Hold on to me, Branson," she says and feels his hand tighten painfully around her own.

"Oh God, you're real," he groans, and she is uncertain whether the words were meant for her or God.

She calls to him again more urgently, fearing that mind might be as injured as body.

"What was that, Branson? Can you hear me? Branson!"

"Tom."

"No, Branson, it's Lady Sybil. Sybil Crawley!" She is half frenzied and close to tears, but to her utter astonishment, Branson softly laughs.

"I know, m'lady. My name is Tom."

"Oh!" And then, because there is nothing else for it, she laughs as well.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Tom Branson. Now stay still while I have a look at you." Before she finishes speaking, her practiced hands are already pulling aside cloth and bandage as she takes stock of his injuries with a trained eye.

"Enchanted, Sybil Crawley. You're welcome to whatever is left of me."

She laughs some more because she can't seem to stop now and reaches up to cover her face as her breath begins to come in ragged gasps. She looks back over her shoulder and nods to the matron who quietly places the lamp on a table and backs away, closing the door behind her.

"Why are you crying? Am I that badly hurt?" The light tone does not completely disguise the worry in Branson's weak voice.

"Don't be ridiculous," she splutters, wiping her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve and managing to slow her breathing to a manageable rate.

"Sybil," he presses on, "tell me honestly, am I going to die?" Her stomach tightens into a knot, but her voice is calm when she replies.

"Certainly not. You're well looked after here. Besides, I absolutely forbid it."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. And I give the orders around here." Her fingers push stray hairs off his face and smooth his brow. "I'm going to keep my eyes on you, so don't cause any trouble."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They both smile and lapse into silence. She sits back on her heels and he reclaims her hand with his own. When he does speak again, his voice is quiet and contemplative.

"Strange, isn't it, that I should be brought here, that you would find me."

"Not so strange."

"Sybil," at the sound of his voice forming her name, she wants to run and hide. "You don't know what you've meant to me. If I don't get another chance, I want to say-"

"Tom, you've already given me a scare tonight. I'm not sure how much more I can stand." She tries to keep her tone light, but the honesty of her words is betrayed by a tremor in her voice.

"But if I don't have-"

"You will have many more days, a whole lifetime full."

"Sybil, I love you."

She looks into his eyes, searching for deception or confusion. She finds none, only those words looking back at her, desperate to be heard. She feels small like a speck of dust floating in sunlight, and yet there are whole worlds moving inside her. A tear drops down her cheek and falls onto his face. She wants to say that she has missed him so terribly, that ever since he left a fear for him has sat like a weight on her chest, that she is young and terrified but will do all she can to make him well and whole again. She wants him to know that she would give anything to be able to hold him now, and she aches to feel his arms around her, but no words come. As she watches, his expression turns to dismay at her silence.

"I know it is too much to hope," he begins in a strained voice, but she reaches down to wipe away her tear that has pooled on his cheek, and replaces it with a soft kiss.

"No, not too much," she whispers before gently catching his lips with her own. As she begins to pull away he reaches up and tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her back for another kiss, a deeper kiss, this one somehow urgent and hungry. He tastes of salt, of sweat and blood, and she spends her last clear thoughts wondering what she tastes like to him until she becomes breathless and dizzy. Even though her lungs burn, she doesn't pull away until he releases her. When he does, she takes an undignified gulp of air and sits back. She looks down at him, and his eyes shine back at her just as they did before he left. It feels a lifetime ago, but they look the same; like a clear sky, like freedom, like hope. Her heart kindles, and Sybil Crawley knows she is a woman in love.