A Temporary Partnership

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The wonderful plot came from beautifully made graphics by Abbynormalsauce on tumblr. Downton is not mine either, if it were I wouldn't ugly cry on a regular basis. Yeah, I'm looking at you Fellowes. Reviews are appreciated.

1946 was supposed to be a new start. The world had changed; the war was over, men had been returning from the front, settling back into their homes. It should have been a time of celebration. Those from the Allied Forces could release a collective sigh of relief… everyone could really. It was a new year, new opportunities. Sybil smiled to herself as the thought of new experience flitted across her mind. It was New Years Eve, she was young and alive, there was a lovely young man waiting for her in the small room he rented above the bar where he worked. Oh yes, it was going to be a lovely start to the New Year.

Tom would be waiting for her behind the bar. Waiting for her to arrive so that he could slip away, they would ring in the New Year together. Sybil had finally agreed that it was time to move their relationship to the next level. It was going to be a big night. She giggled to herself as she thought of what would happen in his single bed, the noise from the club would drown out any that they might make. Oh yes, this would be a night she would remember for the rest of her-

A sickening crack echoed throughout the street. A hard thud signaled the youngest Crawley daughter falling to the cold road. Just a few steps from a brick building, still slightly damaged from air raids. The flashing neon sign cast an eerie glow on the lifeless body of the young heiress. Blood pooled around her head like a horrific halo. Sybil really should have known better. This late at night, with rain coming down in sheets. Few could have foreseen the trouble that was lurking and only one could plan it.

Reggie's was an upscale place. Built in the basement of a brick building that had been damaged during the war. The drinks were always flowing, the music was always playing, and the atmosphere lively but not obnoxious. Matthew and Thomas Branson ran the club like a well-oiled machine. The two were often found behind the bar, sweet-talking the customers and keeping the cigarettes between pretty red lips lit.

Tom glanced nervously around the room, the fifth time in the last ten minutes. It was starting to wear on his brother Matthew's nerves. By the sixth search he had had it.

"Thomas, she's running late, just calm yourself." Matthew snapped, refilling his glass whiskey. In contrast to his brother, Matthew's gaze was fixed solely on one person in the room.

"It's not like her to be late. Not this late anyways. It's almost midnight."

"It's pouring out-"

"It's London, when isn't it pouring out? That's no excuse."

"Maybe she couldn't get a cab and is coming on foot."

"Maybe you should stop staring at the illustrious Mrs. Carlisle and listen to my legitimate concerns." Thomas said, his voice growing louder with each word.

"I am not staring at anyone." Matthew denied, finally turning away. "And it isn't a legitimate concern, it's an unwarranted one. She's 10 minutes late."

"Something isn't right. I'm going to go look for her."

Despite Matthew's insisting that it was an overreaction and that this display would only scare her off, Thomas pulled on his jacket and hurried to the stairs leading up to the street.

The bar was crowded, which was hardly surprising given the holiday. After the damn war ended it seemed the only thing anyone wanted to do was celebrate. It wasn't even limited to the people of his age, those that had fought. An older crowd had started to appear every night, keen to have a drink and a dance.

It was impossible for Matthew to control his eyes as they drifted back to the corner booth. The Carlisle. Sir Richard, a prick if Matthew ever knew one. He ran one of the most influential papers in London. In addition to his legitimate affairs, Richard also dabbled in the hidden depravities of the city. How he ever ended up married to Mary Crawley Matthew would never know. He took another sip from his whiskey as he thought about it. She looked gorgeous, dressed impeccably for the evening. The halter dress reached her ankles, but made up in bare shoulders what it failed to show of her legs. The cream material was covered with see-through red lace that had been formed in the shape of flowers. Her wrists were covered with gaudy diamonds, probably at her husband's insistence. But her neck remained clear, save for the presence of Richard's hand curled around the nape. An overzealous display of control, but it certainly made his point.

It was almost cruel the amount of time Matthew had to watch the couple. It was a double edge sword to be sure. The pleasure of Mary with the risk of being caught staring by her jealous husband. But it was a risk he was happy to take. Even if it meant turning down every blonde in the bar until a close enough brunette threw herself at him, they were poor substitutes but it kept his bed warm. For as infatuated as he was with Mary Carlisle, he wasn't a saint. After the war he wanted very little in his life: a steady supply of alcohol and the occasional willing young lady to keep him company. No one could begrudge a veteran those luxuries.

He broke his gaze long enough to look at the stage. The new girl clearly wasn't new to performing.

"I told you." Came a voice from the other side of the bar.

"You often do, Mrs. Hughes. On what this time?"

"I believe you told me that a girl called Ethel couldn't possibly sound any better than her name."

"I stand corrected and slightly less prejudice towards the name." He laughed. As the girl finished her song, the band took over with an instrumental piece. He couldn't quite place the melody… Something 'Dream.'

Even with the music Matthew could hear his brother's cries. The entire club could hear Thomas wailing. There was a rush of people moving towards the street, by the time Matthew managed to push through a crowd had formed around his brother. For a moment all he could do was stand there and stare. The night was cold and the rain freezing, Sybil's body had taken on a bluish hue. Even if she had survived the attack she would have frozen to death before reaching help.

"What is it?" Came a voice from behind Matthew. He spun around quickly, putting himself between the bloody sight and Mrs. Carlisle.

"You don't need to see this." He assured her. The crowd forced them to stand close together; he could smell the champagne and cigarettes on her… and her husband's cologne. "Trust me, you don't need to see this."

"Matthew, what is it? Just let me-"

Her screams were worse than anything he had ever heard before.

"Sybil! Sybil!" She cried, trying desperately to get to her sister. Matthew held her back, keeping her from being covered in her sister's blood. He searched the crowd for Sir Carlisle, as difficult as it was for Matthew to admit, her husband should be the one holding her. "SYBIL!"

Toward the back of the group of onlookers, Matthew could just barely make out the tall form of a dark haired man. Before he could think on it further Mary collapsed in his arms. When Matthew looked back up the man was gone and Richard was hurrying towards them.

"I'll thank you to let go of my wife."

"As soon as she's conscious, I'll be happy to." Richard glared for a moment before taking hold of Mary and pulling her towards him. "Perhaps you should see to your brother."

Matthew turned and realized for the first time that police had arrived. They were trying to pry Thomas from Sybil's body. It was a difficult task, but once free the police were able to examine the wounds.

"Tom, let's go inside." Matthew tried to pull his brother away from the scene.

"No- no- I can't leave her, she can't be alone. I don't want her to be alone-" He sobbed. "She can't leave me-"

"Tom, please." Matthew finally managed to push him back to their doorway, unable to do anything but hold him as he cried.

Richard was trying to comfort Mary, rather unsuccessfully.

All of them too deep in shock to acknowledge the flashes of cameras, memorializing the savage crime for the people of London to examine over the first breakfast of 1946.