Immediately after watching the Christmas Special this came to me. It will be multi-chapter, and begins just after Matthew's funeral.

Without Having to Explain Oneself

He could not see her at the funeral reception. He knew she would be there somewhere, she would see it as bad form, as disloyalty to her son's memory not to be present at all. But also he knew that she would not be able to have people's sympathy- however well-intentioned- poured upon her. Well, he didn't want to pour his sympathy upon her, but he had to know if she was alright. The knowledge that she almost certainly wasn't only made his need to find out all the more pressing. Discretely, he put his cup of tea down on a side table and left the gathering in the grand drawing room unannounced.

It took him a few tries, a few doors down the corridor, but he found her alone. Of that at least he could be glad. He closed the door of the small sitting room behind himself with a clearly audible click so as to announce his presence and avoid startling her, leaning back against the wood when she did not turn around. Her face was to the wide, bright window- where the sky was thick with cloud and rain- and he could tell from the slight quivering of her dark mourning-clad silhouette that she was sobbing quietly.

"Please," her voice issued softly and shakily, "Don't look at me."

He felt his whole body sigh in grief for her, and sink a little more deeply back against the door.

"Isobel," he murmured softly, "You don't have to hide anything from me."

He saw her body tense a little at his voice; obviously she had been expecting someone else to be there. Then there was a sniff, and he saw her wipe her eyes on the back of her hand before half-turning to look at him.

"Here," he crossed to her, offering her his handkerchief.

"Thank you," she accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and trying to get him to take it back.

"Please," he told her, pressing her hand softly back towards her body, the gap in her fist revealing that it had his initials embroidered on in small blue stitches, "Keep it."

"Alright," she replied, "Thank you."

She did not attempt to with draw her ungloved hand away from her body or away from his hand which held it. He found his thumb running down the back of her hand, trying to comfort her in any small way. When he glanced upwards at her face, he found her watching their hands together intently, as another tear trailed down her cheek.

"Isobel," he repeated, whispering this time, "Oh, Isobel."

He saw her throat clench tightly, and a tear trail from the other eye. Holding her hand firmly in his now, and pressing it tenderly to her body, he raised his other hand softly to her neck, caressing her throat with his thumb, trying to relax the tension. She spluttered a little in relief, and more tears fell forth.

"Come here," he told her, dropping her hand, lifting both of his hands to her face, wiping her tears away as best he could, chastely kissing her forehead and holding her to him. All the while, he had an idea that he had no right to do this- he had no right to kiss her hand let alone her beautiful face- but still it did not stop him from whispering again, "Come here, my darling."

It would have been a relief, almost, if it did not confirm and emphasise her pain, that she clutched at the lapels of his jacket, that she buried her face in his neck so he could feel her tears, damp and raw, because it let him know that she wanted him there, that she would allow him the comfort of comforting her like this.

They stood like that for a very long time, until her crying subsided, but then she seemed to break away very sharply.

"I'm sorry," she told him, giving a hearty sniff and stepping backwards a little, "I don't know what you must think of me."

She had not stepped so far back that he could not reach her, and his hands quite protectively lingered around her elbows.

"What kind of thing is that to say?" he asked her in a low voice, "You've just lost your son. I don't think I can imagine what you must be going through, never mind judging how you behave!"

"I've got no right to come to you like this," she told him, her hand half-concealing her eyes, her face tilting instinctively away from him, "I can't ask for your comfort."

"You didn't come to me," he reminded her, "I found you."

"I turned you down," she pressed, as if he needed reminding of it, "I have no right."

Her words stung a little, that she was suddenly willing to acknowledge the fact so directly. Nevertheless, he continued as good as undeterred.

"Do you want me here, Isobel?" he asked her, as softly as he could, "Do you want my comfort?"

She had turned sideways to him now, facing out of the window, her hand clasped into a fist over her mouth. His eyes never left her, and her tiny, almost involuntary nod, did not escape him. Already ready for her response, he simply opened his arms and drew her back to him. He heard her let out a sob, which did not sound too far removed from relief and she sank her head to rest against his chest, and under his chin.

"Then you may ask for it," he told her, "Rights don't even come into it, Isobel. I want to be here for you, if you'll let me."

He felt her hand clasp tightly onto his arm; she was still crying.

"Even if you did turn me down," he continued, "That wouldn't change the way I feel about you. I know... when I proposed... I didn't exactly make the best job of it," he was talking now, if only for the reason that it seemed to sooth her, along with the motion of him rocking her softly to and fro, "I didn't tell you how I feel. The time I've spent with you recently, Isobel, I've been so happy. I didn't want to just get married, I wanted to marry you."

Still, she said nothing, just allowed him to rock her gently, like a baby. Tenderly, he pressed another kiss into her forehead.

"I've lost my boy," she finally managed to croak, breaking through the barrier of her speechlessness, "My... my little boy."

"And everything," he nodded slowly, "Everything is going to seem so difficult for a little while. But I want to be there, Isobel, I want to try at least to help you."

"Richard," she whispered, "There is nothing to risk any more, now that he's gone. I wish, I wish to God that I could go mad and not know this was happening."

"Don't say that," he told her, his hand brushing softly against her face, "Please Isobel, don't say things like that. There are people it would kill to lose you."

"It would kill me to lose him!" she almost screamed, and he felt her limbs, her body, clench and convulse as she almost doubled over with grief, sobbing frantically. As carefully as he could, he lowered her to nearest sofa, keeping his arm around her for support, "I used to think that, when he was in the war. I used to think, if the telegram comes tomorrow, everything will just stop. Go black, and numb, and fade out until I'm with him and his father again. Only that hasn't happened now," she told him, "Everything hurts. There's no numbness. Just pain. Last night, I didn't know how I was going to face today. I'd rather have died than gone through it."

"But you've got through it," he whispered fiercely, tears stinging his own eyes now with the thoughts that she was bringing into his head, "Isobel, my darling, you are the strongest person I know. You fight. Against all odds, you fight."

"I don't want to fight any more," she told him, her body flopping limp, weak and childlike against his torso, allowing his hand to brush up and down her arm, "Not this. This is too hard."

"Isobel," he murmured into her hair, "You have a grieving daughter-in-law. You have a beautiful grandson, who you helped to deliver. You are the bravest of the brave."

Her hand was resting on his waistcoat, over his chest and it moved with the rise and the fall of his uneven breathing.

"How can you say that?" she asked feebly, "Now that you've seen me like this?"

"Because you need to do this," he replied, "You needed to let this out in order to be strong."

"I don't feel strong," she told him flatly.

"In order to go on, then," he amended, "In order to start. To try to begin."

He heard her let out a protracted and breathy sigh, sinking further against his chest. The sound of the rain outside increased, hammering a little harder, blurring the window panes into confusion bordering on oblivion. He wondered for a moment if her numbness was beginning to settle in, but the feeling that flooded the sound of her hesitant voice made him think otherwise.

"You'll be here, Richard?" she asked, almost shyly.

"Yes," he replied, not having to think about it, "However, whenever you need me."

She was quiet again for a moment, and he decided to be brave himself for a moment, to say what he was really thinking as he made that promise.

"All the love I can give you," he told her, "It's yours, Isobel."

"Richard," she murmured at last, her voice thankfully soft and unaccusing, "Take me home will you, please."

"Of course," he told her, then thought again, "You will be alright alone, won't you? There's no Ethel any more."

"I'll be as alright there as I would be anywhere else," she informed him.

"Yes," he agreed quietly- that had been what he had been worried about. But he said nothing else, helping her to her feet and then to the door, before loosening his hold on her even a little.

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