Where to from Here

Part 3: A Sharp Turn

By: piperholmes

A/N: Thank you so much to those who reviewed the last chapter. The continual support is mind boggling! Thank you to i'll-cover-you-x, alertthecorgis, Dinky Dau, lady555, violet-phoenix-rose, beyondgurl, Agnes Robinson, ch0sen0ne, Redconky, dare-to-dream22, peps281, , hifinewtune, and Guest—even anonymous reviews are awesome—and particularly The Irish Chauffeur, keep me on my toes my friend! Please enjoy the next installment, though as always, be warned, this is not beta'd

Mary Crawley was bored.

Dinner had been a fine affair, as dinner often was. The conversation had been as a rock skipping along the surface of the water, never delving too deep but somehow weighted, as any polite dinner conversation should be. It had been a small party: her parents, Edith and herself. Sybil was still off at some committee meeting, her granny had complained of some rheumatism and had stayed home, and she hadn't heard from Matthew.

Matthew.

There was a name that brought a bit of excitement.

Mary gave a small smile as she considered those passionate blue eyes and just slightly too long blonde hair. Her fingers longed to push through the lushes locks.

"I say Mary, you are looking quite pleased with yourself," Edith accused, snatching Mary from her vision.

For a moment Mary truly felt bereft to find herself still sat in the great opulence of her home, where the clock on the wall continued to tick away. She could only scowl at her sister. Just like Edith to go and ruin a perfectly good daydream.

"You are looking a bit flushed," Lady Grantham declared concerned.

Mary could only sigh. It seemed everything in this home was blown out of proportion, but Mary had little doubt why. They had been staring at one another, having nothing of consequence to discuss. But now Mary had a bit of color in her cheeks and scandal must surely be just around the corner. Only Mary wasn't in the mood for games.

"A small headache; I believe a bit of fresh air will help. Good night."

Without waiting for a reply she rose and gracefully exited. She had no intentions of heading outside, preferring the silence and safety of her own room, but suddenly she longed for a moment of freedom, to be outside these walls and in the cool night air. She needed to think. She needed to think about Matthew.

"Lady Mary," a voice called, causing Mary to whirl around in surprise.

Gwen gave her an apologetic smile but did not comment, instead offered, "I've fetched a coat."

Confusion marred the young aristocrat's pale face. "Why? What do I need a coat for?"

"I need your help."

Mary's gaze flew to the face of the man who haunted her imaginings as he stepped out of the shadows.

"Matthew?" Mary cried, but pressed her lips together as Matthew place a finger to his own lips, begging her silence.

"What's happened?" she whispered harshly. "What are you doing skulking about in the dark?"

Even as she goaded him, she obediently allowed Gwen to help her with her coat, ready to follow him.

Matthew motioned to the front door and she led the way, giving Gwen a dismissive nod. The duo quietly moved through the large front doors and out onto the pebbled drive.

"Matthew?" Mary questioned again.

"I ran into Sybil and Branson in Ripon. They were there for the count," he began to explain.

Mary couldn't help the small gasp at such a revelation. She was surprised by her younger sister's open rebellion against their father's wishes though she suspected it had more to do with the young handsome Irishman who spouted socialist nonsense at any opportunity.

"Oh, I could ring Branson's neck," Mary interrupted intensely.

Matthew gave Mary a rather uncomfortable look. "What's happened?" she demanded.

"There was a fight."

Mary's hand flew to her mouth in shock and fear. "Sybil?" she breathed, sudden images of her sister horribly injured invading her mind.

Matthew shook his head. "No, Sybil's fine. Branson, however, was left rather badly injured. I didn't know what to do so I had a friend bring me here to collect you, and he'll drive us back. "

Mary's brow gathered and lowered in confusion, her flawless white skin suddenly marred by the wrinkles of uncertainty. "I don't understand. Where's Sybil and why do you need me?"

It wasn't that she wasn't concerned for the family chauffeur, and she was quite certain Lord Grantham would have plenty to say on the matter, but she couldn't see how it was necessary for her to go traipsing about the countryside with two men, unescorted, late at night.

Matthew hesitated.

His reticent behavior and her own sudden impatience born of frustration locked horns, and Mary found herself snapping, "For heaven's sake Matthew, where are they now?"

"We've taken Branson to the infirmary."

"And Sybil? Why did you not bring her back with you?"

"That's the thing…"

Sybil shifted—again. The hard, unforgiving wood chair seemed to have struck a deal with her unrepentant corset: make life miserable for her.

Her stomach growled.

Sybil glanced to the now cold cup of tea a nurse had brought her a few hours ago. She hadn't been able to drink it earlier; her insides had felt so displaced as to make the idea of eating or drinking seem impossible. There was an acrid smell that permeated the air about her, summoning forth a rather vivid image from her childhood of visiting a great uncle as he lay in his sickbed. She had been rather young, maybe 4 or 5 years of age, and the incident, as with most memories from such a long time ago, appeared to have no beginning or end, but rather was one moment that stood alone. It was the image of his grey, boney fingers resting lifelessly on the bed. She had stared at them; afraid they were going to reach out and try to grab her. He had been sick for a long time, if she recalled correctly, and his entire room had smelled dreadful, causing her eyes to water.

She could smell it again, and it brought a feeling of foreboding, of despair, of loss.

Her fingers gripped the armrests as she shifted again, trying to relieve the uncomfortable pressure in her backside. Her derrière screamed for relief, but Sybil simply didn't have enough left in her to resume her pacing. She had anticipated an emotionally effecting day, looking forward to her first by-election, but this had far exceeded her expectations, leaving her adrenalin-drained body feeling shaky and exhausted.

Yet she couldn't leave him.

Matthew had pleaded and begged for her to go back with him to Downton. The doctor had assured Sybil that Branson would mend and would most likely sleep the rest of the night thanks to the medication he had been given, but Sybil couldn't reconcile the idea of him being here because of her, and then her abandoning him. She had no clear plan or idea what her next step would be, only knowing she couldn't hide forever in the doctor's private office.

If only they would let her see him.

Once help had arrived, Branson had been whisked away, taken from her arms. The hours of waiting had been agonizing, and for a time Sybil had considered using her position to begin making demands on the staff in order to find out what was happening, but her courage fled under the weight of her guilt. She felt very un-aristocratic knowing the role she'd played in bringing them all to this point.

Thankfully Matthew seemed not to suffer with such thoughts and had pressed for the information she had so desperately desired.

"Looks worse than it is…no permanent damage…if we can avoid infection then we can assume a full recovery…"

The words all ran together in Sybil's head, their defined meanings making sense but the implications escaping her understanding. Her mind was still in that tiny room, holding his hand as he bled onto her coat. Words couldn't pull her from that office in Ripon; she had to see him for herself.

The doctor had spoken politely and patiently, in deference to her title, but was adamant that she return tomorrow to visit. Matthew had insisted in taking her home. The nurses had tenderly encouraged her to consider her own needs. Still Sybil had refused.

She heard the door open, and turned to find her oldest sister staring at her.

"Mary? What are you doing here?" Sybil asked, moving to stand.

Mary elegantly raised an eyebrow, a small frown marring her face. "My dear, perhaps you are better equipped to answer that question. What am I doing here?"

Sybil felt the implication of Mary's words wash over her. She felt her skin burn with embarrassment, but it wasn't in the nature of their family to reach out to each other and so she used her defensiveness to reply, "Clearly Matthew's told you what's happened."

"Obviously," Mary replied, her tone droll, but Sybil wasn't fooled. She could see the way Mary's fingers curled into her hands and knew she wasn't quite as complacent as she wished to appear.

The two locked gazes. Sybil in her dirty, bloodstained dress and Mary in her beautiful finery.

"I'm not leaving," she declared softly.

Mary's lips thinned at such a declaration. "You are," she responded firmly yet equally as calm, as if they were offering each other a slice of cake.

Sybil shook her head but Mary was not to be deterred. "Papa will be furious, but you must face it at some point—"

"You think I wish to stay here because I'm afraid of Papa?" Sybil interrupted, her anger finally finding release. "You believe me so heartless as to be concerned with my own wellbeing?"

Mary's brow knitted together but she said nothing as Sybil began to move in agitation.

"I lied to him! Tricked him!" she confessed. "I wanted to go to the count and I knew he wouldn't go against Papa's wishes but I didn't care. I wanted to go so I went. I told him he was taking me to committee meeting. When he realized what it was, he wanted to come straight back. I ignored him, patronized him and now…"

Mary could see Sybil's neck work as she fought to swallow her emotions, which was a relief to Mary. It was embarrassing to witness such an outburst. Her younger sister had always been passionate and naïve, which seemed a dangerous combination.

In a more controlled voice Sybil continued, "I did this. I can't leave him here, in a strange place, a strange bed, watched over by strangers."

Mary's fist bounced against her legs as she considered Sybil's words. Slowly, carefully she began, "Look, darling, Branson is in enough trouble as it is—"

"Haven't you been listening?" Sybil cried. "He's not responsible for this."

"Yes, I have been listening," Mary finally snapped, her nostrils flaring with indignation. "Now you will listen to me. I believe you when you say Branson isn't responsible, but in this moment it doesn't matter. What do you think is going to happen to Branson when Papa finds out? You're going to have to stick up for him, but what credit will you do either him or yourself if the whole world is gossiping about how the Earl of Grantham's youngest daughter was mooning over the chauffeur, refusing to leave his side?"

Sybil's heart sank and she visibly wilted. "I didn't…I'm not mooning, I'm concerned."

Mary took a small step forward. "I understand, but that's not how the world works, not for a Lady and the chauffeur. You open him up to something much harder to recover from than the wounds sustained today. Do you not see the harm you can cause?"

Sybil slowly nodded, beginning to understand.

"We need to leave," Mary instructed, her clenched jaw relaxing some. "It's for the best."

A single tear fell gracefully down Sybil's cheek, but she forced air into her chest and held it until the burn pushed it between her lips. She swiped at the wet path down her face.

"I'm ready. I only wish they would allow me to see him."

"I know Sybil."

Again Sybil merely nodded, defeated.

Mary placed a gentle hand to her sister's back and pressed her towards the door. The hall was dark and still and it seemed to Sybil that time had started again and she had missed an entire day.

A shadow moved across her path and she met the cool blue eyes of her cousin.

"Cousin Matthew," she greeted, her own endless blue eyes petitioning his understanding. "I can't thank you enough for your help today. If you hadn't happened along I don't know how I would have managed." She rested a hand on his arm and gazed up at him.

Matthew offered Sybil a gentle smile, and both missed the slight widening of Lady Mary's eyes. "I'm glad I was there," he acknowledged.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" a mousey voice called, causing the trio to turn. Looking directly at Sybil, she squeaked out, "If you'll follow me."

Confusion danced across Sybil's face

"You've three minutes," Mary decreed.

"How…?" the youngest Crawley stammered.

Mary just shrugged, "Go, because I promise you Sybil if you make me wait even a second over that—"

"I won't!" Sybil promised, the corners of her mouth sliding upwards. She scrambled after the tiny nurse who threw a warning glance over her shoulder and shushed dramatically.

The ball of tension that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her stomach began to release, instead replaced with a sudden nervousness as they moved quickly along the darkened hall. She was taken through a heavy door into a room with about ten beds, five along each wall, though in the low light it was difficult to truly tell. It seemed most of the beds were empty but three had been sectioned off with white curtains, allowing some privacy.

Another nurse sat at a desk at the far end of the room, but she made no move to help Sybil or even acknowledge her presence so Sybil simply followed where she was led, to the curtain furthest from the door. Her guide gave her a firm look, as if Sybil were a disruptive child seeking to awaken the dead, but then moved the curtain back enough to allow Sybil to step through.

It took a moment for Sybil's eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness that was only dispelled by the lazy orange of a small lamp. After a moment of blinking she was finally able to make out his stocky form. Her cheeks pinked as she realized he was shirtless, his broad chest bare, though the lower half of his torso was wrapped and bound. Forcing her gaze upwards she could see dark bruises forming under the pale curly hair that peppered his chest and his lip still looked swollen. Stamping down her missish impulses, she carefully allowed her fingers to graze the warm skin of his shoulder. He didn't stir from his slumber and she was grateful. His chest rose and fell, over and over again, and she found herself mimicking, breathing with him.

He was safe for the night, and it was time for her to go home and face her family.

Thank you so much for reading! I admit I found a bit of fun writing for Mary's character—first time attempt of course, but I really enjoyed it! Hopefully this was equally as enjoyable for the reader. Lol!