I don't own Downton Abbey, never shall, never will. Please dinnae sue me for writing this nonsense; you'd not get much blood from this stone.

Changing Tides
by ScintillatingTart

I:

There were always things that could not be said, must not ever be said. They danced around one another like moths and the open flame of a candle; too close and they would be singed, too far, and they would lose the warmth, the heat, the precious light of one another. Elsie Hughes knew the temptations far too well of loving one's best friend, and she kept the strings on her feelings tightly tied and kept the little bag tightly affixed to her chatelaine – a part of her, close to her side at all times, but never interfering with her work. And, of course, he must never know how she truly felt.

It wasn't realistic to expect for Charles Carson, the staid and steady butler of Downton Abbey, to be anything but staid and responsible. If he had any affection for her beyond the vague bond of deep friendship they had forged out of the fires of mutual strife in the household over the years, he had hardly shown it but once or twice, and never enough for her to believe it to be anything but a passing glimmer of fancy. All men had them. She couldn't afford to be swayed by a moment's fancy, even now – especially now.

She hummed lowly to herself as she sorted through the piles of old things in storage; Lady Grantham had asked her to personally to go through a few of the chests and sort the antiques in them into several piles – 'sellable', 'giftable', 'valuable', and 'junk'. So far, she had found scores of moth-eaten old linens that were destined for the scrap heap, several bundles of stained letters from the second Earl to his wife, and a couple of brooches with broken clasps and missing stones. Her back was beginning to protest and she was fighting the urge to sneeze.

The Great War had come at such a high price; so many men lost, the economy in tatters, fields with no laborers to till them, great houses standing empty because their inhabitants had been killed in the trenches or had emigrated to save their fortunes. Downton Abbey was not immune to the pinch of the ever-tightening corset strings of the penny pinchers, and Elsie knew why Lady Grantham was desperate to find a few hidden gems in the offing, despite the unspoken words: the family needed money. It was simply that. She could not say it aloud, but it was there nonetheless.

Moving into the next chest of drawers, Elsie found more linens, more letters – this time, what looked to be letters from, well, no, that could hardly be Queen Adelaide, could it really?, to one of the Countesses – and, bless and blimey! There was a jewel case, but it was locked and none of her keys fit the lock. She would definitely have to carry it downstairs and see if one of the myriad of ancient keys in storage in Mr. Carson's pantry would open the lock. Who knew what could possibly be inside – or if it was empty? There was only one way to find out.

She took the steps quickly, by twos, nimble on her feet as a woman half her age – scampering around Argyll as a mischievous child had seen her fleet of foot and very quick to outrun her father's lash. But the sneeze caught up with her mid-step, knocking her feet right out from under her.

Elsie Hughes felt the steps rush up to meet her ribs first, the heavy jewel case flying from her hands as though it weighed nothing at all. Then Sir Isaac Newton rolled over in his grave laughing as gravity caught up with her; she continued to skid down the steps, apace, rolling slightly onto her back so her spine dragged over the ragged wood, and the box came crashing down against the uppermost portion of her head just as she had almost gotten out of the way of it. She did not cry out; the pain was too great to make a sound. She just continued her downward descent until the staircase ended, and there, at the bottom, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

She would be fine; she just needed a moment to rest before she tried to get up and get help.

"It's not like Herself to be late for tea," O'Brien drawled derisively, helping herself to another biscuit since Mrs. Hughes wasn't there to fix an icy glare on her for overstepping boundaries of propriety.

"No, it isn't," Anna agreed quietly. "Mr. Carson, you haven't seen Mrs. Hughes this afternoon, by chance? Only I've not seen her since luncheon – she had a meeting with her Ladyship just after."

Charles Carson glanced up from his cup of tea, trying to remain calm, unflappable, despite the very unsettling knowledge that Mrs. Hughes was not present at his side. She was always there, every mealtime, every teatime, every appropriate moment of the day when the heads of household were permitted to be together, they were together. That she was not there was rattling him to the very core. "Perhaps she is in her sitting room?" he suggested.

"Mrs. Hughes never misses tea," Barrow pointed out lazily. "She can't stand to not have a biscuit."

"Mr. Barrow, I'll thank you to keep your comments to yourself," Carson snapped. "What Mrs. Hughes eats at teatime is none of your business."

"She's not in her sitting room," Daisy said from the doorway as she brought in another pot of tea. "Only I checked already 'cause I didn't want her to be missin' the ginger shortbreads. They're her favorite."

Carson stood up, and everyone else with him, chairs dragging quickly across the floor. He waved his hands placatingly for the others to sit down again. "I will get to the bottom of this; I'm certain that Mrs. Hughes has just gone for a lie-down and is right as rain," he said, his voice betraying none of the panic he felt inside. The weather outside was blustery and rainy; surely she hadn't gone out to the village or further? Surely she was still inside the house. She would have told him if she was leaving. She always did. "Mr. Barrow, if I am not back in time to ring the dressing gong, I would implore you to do so."

"Mr. Carson, I wouldn't think it would take you very long to find the housekeeper," Barrow said in a most sarcastic manner that made Carson want to cuff him round the ears. Ungrateful welp.

"I hope you're not inferring anythin' at all improper about Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, Thomas," O'Brien said in a sharp tone.

"I took tea in to Mrs. Hughes and her Ladyship earlier," Alfred said quickly. "I think Mrs. Hughes was going to be going up to the storage attics to look through some old things – maybe she just lost track of time."

"And you didn't think to mention this to anyone, Alfred?" Carson rumbled, sounding far angrier than he intended to. Worry was clouding his better judgement; there was no one in the house that he was more concerned for than Elsie Hughes, not even his employers, though he was loathe to admit it – and if asked to perjure himself on the stand, he would do so.

"I didn't want anyone to think I were eavesdropping," Alfred said defensively. "Because I weren't."

"Don't be stupid, Alfred," Thomas scolded, "that's just overhearing –"

"Eavesdropping is what Mr. Barrow does," O'Brien said curtly, "lurking in corners."

Carson put up his hands in resignation with a sigh. "I will go remind Mrs. Hughes that teatime waits for no one," he said. "Daisy, will you please have Mrs. Patmore set aside a small tray for Mrs. Hughes and brew a fresh pot of tea when I've found Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Daisy said cheerfully. "But we're out of the ginger shortbreads now."

"Serves her right for missing teatime," O'Brien commented wryly.

Carson refrained from pointing out that she was in the process of eating her fourth of said biscuit and instead turned on his heel and headed for the attics. The storage attics were on the opposite wing of the house from the servants' quarters, so he had a choice to make. Either he chose to see if the housekeeper was just having a nap, or if she was scrounging around in the dust and muck.

He decided it was more likely to be the latter, and headed for the storage attics with a renewed vigor to his step. He didn't like being separated from her for very long; they were very similar in temperament and deportment, no matter how she would splutter and "I'll have you know what a lie that is" to anyone who would listen, but she was kind and gentle where he was firm and unyielding. They made a well-oiled machine, each giving as well as they could, taking as little as they could, making it work when no one else could. She steadied him and he lifted her. He looked forward to a day when he could step away from the pressures of this life and maybe take her with him – but it was maybe a foolish dream, because what woman in her right mind would want him?

The storage attics were comprised of seven large rooms; one for paintings, one for ceramics, and the rest for furniture that was packed with miscellaneous items of god only knew what. Every room was a riot of god forsaken chaos, and Charles hated them with a passion – no one knew what on earth was up there, aside from the historian, who, even with an inventory, didn't know where anything was, or even if it was really there or not. So if Mrs. Hughes had been sent up there to look for something in particular, where had she been sent?

He hedged his bets and headed toward one of the furniture rooms, the farthest one. The electric lighting was feeble, and no sign of inhabitation – only thick layers of dust, grime, and spiders' webs were evident. So he moved to the next room, the one with steps that led up into the tower.

The first thing he saw upon opening the door was her shoes; small, delicate feet in sturdy low boots as she preferred for working, her reasoning being if she dropped something on her foot, her toes and instep were more protected that way. A jewel box lay on the bottom step, cracked open, a king's ransom of diamonds, pearls, and emeralds scattered over the floor and the steps.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he called softly as he came in, worry gnawing in the pit of his gut, churning away suddenly with a fury that surprised him. There was no response, and as he turned left and saw her fully, he knew why.

Blood had dribbled down her face from a cut on the top of her head, drying to a dark crust on her cheek. Her right leg was at an unnatural angle, clearly broken, as if she had fallen down the stairs. She was breathing, steadily, but showed no sign of rousing at the sound of his voice, nor sign that indeed she heard him at all.

"Elsie," he began, then stopped, trying to collect his thoughts into one coherent string. "Mrs. Hughes, I cannot move you – I must go call for Dr. Clarkson. I don't want to leave you, but I must. Please don't be upset with me, but I must – if you wake up while I'm gone, please know that I will be back soon as I can be…" He squeezed her hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead, trying to impress on her unconscious nature that he would return as soon as he could.

And then he was off at a run. He had not run since he was a child; it was not stately, it was not gentlemanly. Even in the cricket, he did not so much run as lope. But this… this was a run, a dead run, borne of fear and terror and knowledge that if he did not do it, she might die, and even if he did, she might yet die still. And if she died and it was because of him, because he had not done right by her, oh, god, what would he do?

He did not make it downstairs to use his own phone, propriety be damned; he stopped to use the family phone in the Great Hall, jamming on the cradle until the operator's voice came down the line. "This is Downton Abbey, Carson the butler speaking – I need the Downton Hospital, Dr. Clarkson, immediately. It is an emergency of the utmost imperative nature. I said – it is an emergency, Mrs. Hart!"

"Carson, old chap, what on earth –" Lord Grantham said as he made his presence known.

"My lord, Mrs. Hughes –" Carson was out of breath, his run through the house showcasing just how out of shape he was, just how far he had failed himself and the house. The line flared to life again. "Hello, Dr. Clarkson?"

"Carson, what's happened? What has happened?"

Carson closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind, stark reality burning the image onto the back of his eyelids angrily. "Mrs. Hughes has taken a fall down a flight of stairs in the storage attics, Dr. Clarkson," he said, willing the panic to stay at bay for as long as it would. "At the very least, she has broken her leg and has done herself a head injury; she is unconscious, and I cannot say how long she has been injured."

There was a tense silence, then Clarkson said, "I'm dispatching the ambulance; do not attempt to move Mrs. Hughes by yourself, Carson."

"I haven't," Carson said, his voice wavering for the first time. "I couldn't. I was afraid to do her more injury."

"Have someone pack a bag with necessaries for Mrs. Hughes," Clarkson ordered. "She may be in hospital for some days. Carson, try not to worry until we know what we're dealing with – it may be nothing at all."

Carson replaced the receiver in its home and closed his eyes, leaning weakly into the table, thinking about Elsie upstairs, unconscious and broken, bleeding, possibly dying or worse – and his shoulders began to shake with the effort of repressing the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to overtake and drown him. Lord Grantham came up to him and held up a glass of whisky and Carson shook his head; he needed a clear head, needed to think, to feel, to not be numb to it. He needed to be raw and bleeding and stripped bare to the shanks and beaten, just as she had been, tumbling down the stairs. Only hers had been an accident – his had been by design. By choosing to love her, he had opened himself to this pain, this torment. This was his payment in kind, his punishment for wishing to love.

"She will be all right," Lord Grantham assured him.

"I wish I could be so certain." The words were hollow, brittle, on his tongue.

Anna brought up a bucket with a cleaning solution to get the blood out of the plaster on the wall, along with a wad of rags and a determined, if worried, face. "Mr. Carson, you should get going if you mean to go to the hospital with Mrs. Patmore," she said softly.

"It would be inappropriate," he said simply. "At least tonight. I will assist you in cleaning up the mess."

"She will be all right, won't she?" Anna murmured, beginning to scrub the wall, taking away the caked on discoloration of blood – Mrs. Hughes's blood – and leaving shining ivory plaster in its wake. "I mean, people fall down the stairs all the time and don't die."

"Yes, and sometimes, people fall down the stairs and do die," he pointed out angrily as he began to gather up the jewels that he suspected to have been the start of all of the mess in the first place. If he found out that Elsie had fallen because of the box of gems, he would be beyond angry – it might be enough to cause him to rethink his employment. If she died because of a few precious stones, his precious Elsie… it didn't bear thinking of. He was full of pain, conflict, and did not want to do anything he might regret later, but – oh, please, Lord, don't allow her to die. Not over these trinkets.

"Mr. Carson, please forgive me for… overstepping," Anna said, "but I know you care for Mrs. Hughes. We all do. And she cares for you. It's like having a mum and a dad downstairs; it's nice. But you need to tell her. You need to tell her you love her – even if you only care for her like a friend, or a sister. She needs to know in case she does die. She needs to know she's not alone – that she's loved." Anna's voice was shaking, and she was near tears. "I need to tell her – she's like… she's like my sister… like my mum…"

Carson knew it wasn't right, it wasn't appropriate, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He reached out and pulled Anna into an embrace, holding her tightly like he would a child, comforting her and allowing her to cry it out. He wished he could cry like that, that he could just blubber out his anguish at having seen Mrs. Hughes – Elsie – near death only a few feet from where they were stood just now. How he had only kept it together by a wing and a prayer and how he had no idea how he was going to put one foot in front of the other without her to guide him, to steady him. How he depended on her, how he loved her – how he longed to hear her voice even now.

"I love her like the sun loves the sky," he whispered. "Or the fish love the sea."

"You cannot live without her," Anna murmured through her sniffling sobs.

"Like you and your Mr. Bates," Carson said knowingly. "Though you might get burned, Anna –"

"Yes, I know well enough," Anna sighed. "But… he is the air that I need to breathe, Mr. Carson. Like Mrs. Hughes is to you. You must tell her. You must. So that she knows."

"It wouldn't be appropriate –"

"You can't keep lying to yourself," Anna said, pulling out of his arms and going back to her cleaning. "And if she dies… wouldn't it be better to have not lied to her?"

Maybe it was better that she wasn't looking at him; he couldn't bear for her to see the pain on his face as he went back to cleaning up the scattered mess of gemstones and pearls. He couldn't bear for anyone to see him like this; out of control and not at all like Carson the butler. Not at all reliable and staid.

He was unrecognizable, even to himself.