A/N: What I'd feared came true - school life completely sucked me in. In the meantime, the real S5 has come and gone, so this is now officially a S5 AU fic. I had the story planned right from the start, so it's been interesting to be able to compare S5 with my imagined version of it. Lol. Huge thanks to bugs and Awesomegreentie, two wonderful Betas and even more wonderful friends. (It's holidays season! I'm allowed to get a little sentimental!) And my thanks and apologies go to the reader who sent me a little nudge about this story - I'm really sorry about the long delay! I tried my best.

Despite the disapproval of Mr. Carson and his thick, furrowed eyebrows, Henry Stowe had managed to establish himself as a regular presence downstairs at Downton Abbey. It was thanks in part to the boy's own obstinacy — he simply refused to stay away — and in part to His Lordship and Her Ladyship having given their easy, amused permission for his frequent visits, the words of consent skillfully extricated by their valet and lady's maid. (Miss Baxter, once she had been detached from Thomas's mysterious hold on her, was turning out to be quite the valuable friend to John and Anna.)

It had been a very long time since the corridors of Downton had seen a boy Henry's age run through them, and the staff members adjusted in various ways. Some downstairs had taken a liking to the bright-eyed firebrand, while others considered him a nuisance and only tolerated him at best. Mrs. Patmore, for example, was indefatigable in her efforts to chase the hungry boy out of the kitchen, no matter how sneaky, stubborn, or charming his efforts at obtaining her pies and crackers. The job therefore fell to Daisy or Anna to furnish him with snacks every time he visited, as they were the only two brazen enough to face Mrs. Patmore and fond enough of Henry to attempt it.

John, of course, was himself very attached to the boy. Henry could at times be an unstoppable miscreant of mischief, and at other times a solemn, rational young scholar; in any case, it was quite apparent that Henry had not let his lack of outside guidance hinder an impressive store of knowledge.

"You know, in America," the boy announced one day, "They've got trains that run as fast as an actual bullet."

John forbid himself from glancing at his wife, lest either of them let out an accidental grin. "Do they, really?"

"Honest, they do! They're so fast you can't even see them after they've left the station!"

Perhaps it was more accurate to say that Henry had not let anything hinder his impressive store of self-confidence, in what little knowledge he had managed to gather.

The most remarkable development of all, however, was the unexpected friendship between Henry and the prickly under-butler.

The young boy had been on his usual trek through the courtyard to the back door when he had spotted the pale man at a table, scowling with concentration as he fiddled around with the inner workings of a clock.

"What's that?"

Thomas Barrow barely glanced at the boy before returning to his work, but his tone was not hostile. "Mr. Carson asked me to take a look at the clock, as it's been making odd noises recently."

His original pursuit forgotten, Henry watched Thomas for a few seconds, enthralled by the mysterious knowledge and skill that directed the sure, nimble fingers in their manipulations of the machine.

"How do you know so much about clocks?"

"Blimey, are you still here?" This time, Thomas's gaze lingered curiously, studying Henry's solemn expression and bright eyes for a moment. "My dad was a clockmaker, and he taught me a bit of it." Thomas had resumed his cool attitude, but his tone was ever-so-slightly gentler.

He glanced at Henry again. He couldn't quite peg it exactly, but there was something familiar in Henry's pout that the man recognized. "Here," Thomas found himself saying, "Shift over here and you'll get a better look at it."

The boy's face lit up immediately, its previous shadow nowhere to be seen, and he shifted to peer eagerly into the clock's interior. The under-butler was struck, at that moment, by a faint echo of a memory – a young boy, Tommy, who had worshiped the magical, deft fingers of his own father, the venerable Mr. Clyde Barrow, who had seemed like the smartest, kindest, and best man in the eyes of his young son. But the illusion had crumbled the moment Mr. Barrow had found his young son in the shed with Ned, a classmate – and Thomas had never allowed himself to look up to anyone since. Any person one revered as a role model was a deception at best, a jumbled mess of one's fantasies bound to be shattered.

But no one (or at least very few) had ever admired Thomas like this before. It was a strange feeling. In any case, he was loath to break the spell too quickly, though he very well knew it was inevitable – no one ever remained in his circle of friendship for long. For now, however, the boy's affection was his to lose.

Naturally, nothing compared to the adoration Henry plainly reserved for John. Lured into confidence by his friendship with the child, Thomas made the mistake of letting a remark of contempt for Mr. Bates slip past his lips a few days later.

"Don't speak ill of Mr. Bates," Henry said sharply. "I won't let you."

Startled, Thomas took a moment to regain his composure. "I can say whatever I like, and you can't stop me." He took a puff of smoke. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"Why do you hate him so much?" Henry fired back. "What's he done to you?"

"He's caused me nothing but trouble since the day he arrived, that's what," Thomas grumbled, having already willfully banished from his mind all memories of Bates's help after the midnight kiss debacle. And certainly most of John's curt, derisive comments were reserved for Thomas; but really, the source of Thomas's distaste for the valet had always lain with envy, though he was never conscious of it himself.

Henry shifted upwind to avoid being choked by the cigarette smoke. "That's because you've been trying to get him sacked as soon as he got here," he said very matter-of-factly.

Thomas glanced at him sharply. "What? Did Mr. Bates tell you that?"

The ten-year-old fixed him with a look. "No, but everyone else says so. No one here seems to like you very much."

"I know that," Thomas snapped. It wasn't exactly true – he did get along, at least, with some of the staff, and he had managed to win over some of the upstairs population – but it would have been petty even for him to explain all that to Henry.

"And you don't call me 'Master Stowe' or treat me respectful, and buy me things, like he does," Henry added, as though this were the final and insurmountable touchstone to his argument.

Thomas made a valiant effort to win over his opponent. "He was a convicted murderer, you know."

"Yes, I know," Henry replied, his eyes shining. Tales of murder and imprisonment had not yet lost their exciting appeal to the young boy. "But he hadn't done it. Besides," he said with an accusing frown, "You killed people, in the war, haven't you?"

"No, I didn't. And that doesn't count. It was war."

"Why does it matter if it's one man killing another, but not when it's a million killing another million?" Henry countered.

No suitable reply sprang to mind immediately, and Thomas decided to forfeit the match gracefully while he still could. "I was a medic, anyway." He glanced down at his gloved hand, the disfigured hand that had let him escape that den of hell. The boy had a point – numbers meant nothing in defining murder.

He had always been rubbish at these word games, but today John found that Henry's eager zeal was more than a match for his stumbling, distracted brain. He could not bear to be still, much less focus on thinking of a word that began with A-N-T-I-C. ("Antics" would have him lose the match, but was there anything else?) Lady Mary — and therefore Anna — was due back from London at any moment, after a fortnight of agonizing absence and two hastily scribbled letters, neither hardly enough to satisfy a man who kept count of every minute without his wife's company. Why Lady Mary couldn't just use her rapier-sharp wits to draw her suitors to Downton Abbey, rather than going to London to meet them — he forgot which one she currently fancied — he could not understand.

The car had been duly dispatched from the house an hour ago, to await the two women at the train station. It was due back at any minute.

"Well?" Henry prodded, his legs bouncing impatiently. "Don't tell me you give up."

There had to be a thousand words that began with the five letters, but for the life of him, John could not conjure up a single one. Perhaps he should have been upstairs already, waiting. That might set his mind at ease. What if the train had been delayed? What if — à la Mr. Crawley — the car had met with an unfortunate, devastating accident on its way back? It was possible. He had never quite trusted the chauffeur, quite frankly.

But no, he was behaving foolishly. John turned his mind back to the game at hand. "What were the letters again?" he asked sheepishly.

Before Henry could reply, Jimmy's head appeared in the doorway. "They've called from the station — they're coming now," he blurted out, before rushing back out into the hallway.

The game instantly forgotten, John grabbed his cane and stood, making his way upstairs and to the front entrance without so much as a glance backwards. If he had thought to do so, he would have seen Henry's unhappy frown at this sudden termination of their game, but like a bulldog catching sight of his long-absent master, John's head was entirely full of reawakened excitement – and anticipation.

Before the hour was up, John Bates was back in the servant's hall and happily reunited with his equally delighted wife, Lady Mary's valise having been unpacked with unprecedented swiftness.

"Aren't you curious about London, Henry?" John asked. "You should ask Mrs. Bates for any details you want."

"I don't care about London," Henry replied, his tone sullen and his gaze fixed on the floor. "I hate London."

The valet traded concerned glances with his wife, having finally become aware of Henry's change in mood. "Is something the matter?" Had he said something wrong? John could not think of a single explanation for this sudden mood swing.

Henry continued to stare down. "No, nothing," he said glumly. "But I'd better get home." Then he was gone, scurrying off without a single glance.

John gazed after Henry, his brows knitted together in confusion. Anna eyed her husband, then sighed. "Bit of a little beast sometimes, isn't he?"

He glanced at her sharply, feeling an urgent need to defend the boy — but her eyes were dancing merrily. "I'm getting quite fond of him, actually. But I'm afraid he isn't very fond of me," she remarked with a tilt of her head.

John had assumed his clueless, blank look, one that always managed to both exasperate and amuse his wife. "Isn't he?"

"Yes. In fact, I think he quite envies me," she observed thoughtfully.

John still looked puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Well," she replied calmly, sipping at her tea, "I've got you, and he hasn't."

He frowned, attempting to unpack the meaning of her cryptic words. "I don't understand," he finally confessed.

She grinned, then gave a little shake of her head. "Never you mind, Mr. Bates." She sounded amused, he noted, and not a little pleased with herself. "Have you made any progress on the research yet, for the Stowes?"

He was on firmer ground here, and he sat back with a sigh as he began to recite what he had managed to gather from both experience and His Lordship's books. "Well, she can't get a divorce unless she's got proof of his violence, or something of the sort."

"So that hasn't changed."

"No."

She nodded stiffly, letting out a little sigh.

"And even then — even if he were somehow got out of the way, I don't know how she would live on her own, with little Henry to take care of. She can't very well carry on the carpentry trade. If she hasn't got any relations to help her, I don't see what she can do."

He could tell Anna was becoming increasingly upset at the thought of yet another woman being made a victim to the injustices of the world. He wished he had better news to deliver.

"There must be something that can be done," she insisted.

John opened his mouth helplessly, without knowing what he would say.

"I wish you would speak to His Lordship about it. He does own the village, after all. He might have ideas of his own."

John tried to smile comfortingly, though he knew she could spot the uncertainty in his face. "If you'd like."

Cough.

Startled, the married couple looked up to see Mr. Carson by the entranceway, his face solemn and inscrutable. "Mr. Bates, if I might have a word."

Such words rarely boded well, especially coming from one's superior. But John maintained a careful mask of cool professionalism even as his mind spun in all different directions, poring over his own actions from the past few days and the content of his most recent conversation with Anna for a hint of the butler's intentions. Perhaps, he thought, the butler's patience had finally worn out, and Henry was to be forcibly barred from the Abbey once and for all.

Mr. Carson did not reveal his intentions until they were both safely seated in the privacy of his office, a smile playing on the valet's lips. To most observers, John would have appeared completely at ease, aloof even, but the few who knew him intimately would have recognized it as a sign of simmering anxiety.

"Mr. Bates," the butler began, his voice a grave rumble. "You have now been in the service of His Lordship and this household for twelve years—" He held up a hand as John opened his mouth to speak. "—Excepting, of course, the few unfortunate periods of your absence."

Here he paused, tilting his head slightly as he tented his fingertips together in a thoughtful fashion.

"If I may speak to you in the strictest confidence, Mr. Bates—"

"You may."

Mr. Carson nodded. "—I can no longer, in good conscience, ignore the state of my health, which has been growing increasingly… fragile, in recent years. It is, I think, perhaps time I began to think about retirement. Please, I must ask you to not speak until I've finished."

John complied and held his tongue, and Mr. Carson used the brief silence to gather his thoughts before continuing.

"Of course, I have grown very attached to this household, and I am — most — anxious that my successor carry on in my stead with the utmost dignity and competence."

This time, the butler paused long enough that John felt it safe to speak. "And you don't trust Mr. Barrow to do the job."

"Certainly not." Mr. Carson pulled out his best offended expression for the occasion, though John detected a hint of a smile in it. "He would bring the house down around our ears before I've even stepped out of my office. No, and Mr. Molesley, being a trained butler, could conceivably pull it off. But in truth, Mr. Bates, the only man I respect enough to trust Downton to is—" And here he cleared his throat uncomfortably, as any proper Englishman did before an emotional concession, "—You."

John regarded the man opposite himself with great gravity. The butler had been less than confident of John's abilities at his arrival, all those years ago; in fact, Mr. Carson had been second only to Thomas, perhaps, in resisting His Lordship's attempts at employing his old batman. Once it had been made clear that John Bates was here to stay, however, a remarkable rapport, one of mutual respect and esteem, had soon developed between the two men, each of whom recognized the stubborn, honorable man in the other.

"I'm very honored, Mr. Carson," he finally said.

The butler nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"But I don't know what to say." He had just been offered the post of managing an earl's castle, more or less, as its butler. The thought slowly began to sink in. He, the miserable, lame ex-prisoner, ex-drunkard… Did he deserve this post? Did he want it? What would Anna say? John could not quite grasp the situation that had unfolded before him.

Mr. Carson seemed to sense the mushrooming cloud of chaos within John's mind. "There is no rush, Mr. Bates. I'm not quite ready to step down, and I won't be, for quite a while yet. You may take all the time you need to make a decision on it."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

"I trust…" He paused again, studying John carefully. "That you will make a very good decision."

His head still swimming, John nodded. "I shall try my best."

"But what'll happen to Thomas?" she asked, slipping into their former address of the under-butler now that they were safely within the walls of their cottage. A storm raged outside, but neither of them registered it. "I can't imagine His Lordship will want him back as his valet. Better Molesley than Thomas, I should think."

"I'm not sure," John replied.

Anna stepped closer, laying a hand on his back. "Talk to me, John."

He did not want to. His inclination was to mull it over in his mind first and reach some sort of a conclusion on his own, before discussing it with his wife. But he had learned all too well the consequences of always keeping his thoughts to himself.

John turned, facing his wife and capturing her hand. "I'm not sure that I want the job."

"What? Why ever not?"

He took a moment to think, and to admire the feel of her hand in his, before answering her. "What about our hotel? Our dream? Have we gone off that for good?"

She was searching his eyes, looking for the right words to say. "I thought we might… might wait, since we've waited this long, for Lady Mary to get married. She might move away then, and I can't very well go without you."

He sifted through her words, weighing them carefully to uncover their hidden meaning. "You don't want to leave Downton," he realized.

Anna did not seem surprised that he had parsed her intentions — only mildly dismayed. "Well, it's all I've known, for most of my life now." A grin appeared, teasing the corners of her mouth. "And besides, Mr. Bates, the butler of Downton Abbey? I can't let you miss such anopportunity."

He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"But of course I love the hotel dream. You know I do," she said hastily, her expression serious again. "And if you—"

There was a sudden series of pounding at the door, piercing the silence of the night like the swelling claps of thunder just before a tempest unleashed.

Bewildered, and not a little alarmed, John and Anna traded startled glances before heading to the front door together. Gripping his cane tighter and shooting a look towards Anna to make sure she was at a safe distance away, John threw open the door.

His breath hitched. It was Henry, hatless and drenched, with a queer look in his eyes.

"Henry?" John exclaimed in alarm. "What's all this? What's wrong?" Instinctively, he reached out to pull the boy into the dry warmth of the cottage.

The boy burst into tears. "Me mam's disappeared," he sobbed, violently and desperately. "And Pap's in a mood fit for murder."