Summary: No lights burned in the cottage as he neared, not even a solitary candle in the window. Warning: character death.

Disclaimer: I in no way own these characters. Any angst-ridden misappropriation is not intended to reflect otherwise.

A/N: Okay, not to spoil anything, but just fair warning, this is the saddest thing I have ever written. I'm not sure where it came from beyond a writing exercise in which I tried to convey an emotional story without real dialogue or character thoughts. I kind of fudged it a bit to add some humanity. Feel free to let me know what you think.

Raindrops bounced from his hat, pattering onto his shoulders to settle into the thick wool of his charcoal coat. His cane slipped on the larger stones in the lane, slick from the wetness, only to slide between them to sink into small pits of sandy gravel.

But Bates kept walking, leaning heavily on the cane as he approached the cottage. The sun, hidden behind storm clouds, had almost finished its solitary journey across the sky, leaving little light in the cold, wet evening.

No lights burned in the cottage as he neared, not even a solitary candle in the window. No smoke came from the chimney and no movement could be heard from within.

Bates lowered himself down the two steps to the front door, not bothering to remove his house key from his pocket until he could put his weight against the door frame. He paused there for a long minute before unlocking the door, sighing heavily as he finally pushed it open.

He removed his hat as he entered the small sitting room but did not bother taking off his coat before moving through the darkness to collapse onto the couch. Only then, with the oppressive silence and merciful darkness surrounding him, did he lower his head into his hands and begin to cry.

The sounds of his sobs carried through the small cottage, reverberating off walls painted with delicate, loving hands, only to be absorbed by the curtains hung by those same fingers. The noise even carried up the stairs to the bedroom, where their bed sat, neatly made and empty.

When he could cry no more tears, Bates leaned back against the couch, the springs creaking with the shifting of his weight. Somewhere in the darkness of the room the sound of a ticking clock filled the emptiness.

For a time, he sat there, still and quiet. Nothing stirred. Rain pattered outside, distantly.

When he stood from the couch, barely a hint of light could been seen through the curtained windows. Shadows sprung up everywhere, transforming the familiar room into a cavernous maze. But Bates walked with the surety of a blind man, making his way to the table.

He lit the lamp with steady hands, which then carefully lowered the glass back into place. The lamp bathed the room in warm light, although only for a short distance. Dark shadows stood at the edge of that circle, and beyond them a void of nothingness beckoned.

Removing his wet and heavy coat, Bates dropped it haphazardly in one chair before lowering himself into the other. A book sat on the table, not far from the lamp, and his fingers rested next to it for a long moment before he reached for it. Letting out a shuddering breath, he opened the book, his place marked by a familiar card. He turned his eyes to it rather than the words on the page.

Wishing you a Most Happy and Joyous Saint Valentine

The impersonal, stylized words on the front of the card frolicked among images of daisies and tulips. Setting the book aside, Bates opened the card, his fingers shaking hard, as though the tiny paper weighed more than he could bear.

The note penned inside the folded paper was unsigned, but the familiar loops and lines and cheerful letters required no identification.

My Dearest Love,

Today is a day for confessing secret loves, but my love for you is no secret to anyone. Therefore I must find a secret that I may share with you on this beautiful February morning. And you thought I had no secrets... But I have thought of a couple to share.

I love how your eyes sparkle when you smile, as though you have a thousand secrets you're waiting for just the right time to tell me. I so rarely hear you laugh, but your smiles are always ready and warm.

I love your hands and how easily they encircle mine. I even love the callouses and marks of work because they show you have never been one to sit around idle.

And I love your voice, so deep and rich, like coffee flavored with milk but no sugar. The way you say my name has always undone me, and I'll never tire of listening to you read in the evenings before we retire to bed.

I love so many more things about you, but they will have to wait for another day. I must keep some secrets, Mr. Bates.

All My Love,

Your not-so-very-Secret Admirer

A smile had appeared on his face as he read the words, the tears in his eyes glimmering in the lamplight. He held the paper card gently, almost reverently as his gaze swept across the words several times.

But suddenly, as though something integral in the machine of a man had suddenly broken, Bates' smile slipped. Moisture filled his eyes until it had to spill out as tears on his cheeks, following deep worry lines like floodwaters filling once-dry creek beds. His vision blurred the words but he made no move to wipe away the tears as he cried openly, never taking his eyes off the card.

When he finally did put away the Valentine, he placed it in the book gently, careful not to bend the corners or smear the ink with his fingers. He set the book back on the table by the lamp, the tiny noise it made easily absorbed by the crisp white tablecloth. Pushing himself up from the table, Bates left his cane hooked on the back of the chair as he limped heavily over to one of the kitchen cabinets.

The shrill, disappointing creak of the cabinet door sounded loudly in the silent kitchen, and Bates squeezed shut his eyes for a moment. Even when he opened them, he hesitated before lifting his hand to the second shelf.

First came down a tin of dry tea leaves. Then he removed several jars of last summer's jams. A box of biscuits, not yet opened, lost to the recesses of the back of the cabinet, were discovered and removed.

But Bates continued reaching until his hands found the item in the very rear, where it had been pushed until it touched the wooden back of the cabinet. His fingers wrapped around the heavy glass bottle and removed it slowly. Setting it on the counter, his eyes ignored the label as he returned all the other items to their rightful place on the shelf.

Whiskey. The dark liquid filled the bottle almost to the unopened lid.

Absently grabbing a glass from another cabinet, Bates took the bottle back to the table, his injured knee giving out just as he began lowering himself back into the chair.

With the bottle solid in his hand, Bates moved quickly and with purpose. He twisted off the cap, using a bit of extra force to break into the sealed bottle. And then he poured two fingers of the liquid into the glass before setting the open bottle aside. The cap sat abandoned on the table, unneeded.

Rather than stare at that glass like he might a much despised enemy, he embraced it with the fervor of a lost lover. Tilting the whiskey to his lips, he barely felt it burn his insides as he downed the glass.

He poured another.

It followed the first, this time coating his throat in fire. He choked at the sensation, sputtering momentarily for a clear breath as he poured a third glass.

But rather than down that glass as he had the first two, he simply held it in his hand as he examined the liquid. The lamplight shone through it and cast a small amber reflection on the far wall.

Time passed. The clock ticked on irrespective of the sound of the rain outside.

His shoulders began to relax, the tension in the room softening as the lamp burned lower.

Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, Bates removed a folded piece of paper.

A telegram.

Before unfolding it to read it again, Bates downed the glass of whiskey.

We regret to inform you that Mrs. Anna Bates was killed this morning in London. An inattentive motorist...

fin