A/N Hello! Here is a story inspired by too many Christmas leftovers and mince pies with every meal.

Disclaimer: DA would have more lesbians in it if I had my way. As it is, everything belongs to JF and ITV.

Over and out.

When Lady Grantham looked at her maid, she often thought things that she ought not to think.

She thought of how she'd look, her face alight with laughter.

She wondered how long her hair was, unpinned and uncoiled.

She thought of her hands, the long fingers so sure and so nimble as she sewed.

When Lady Grantham looked at her maid, she often longed for things which she could not explain.

She wanted to sit with her, quietly by a fire, and see the flames dancing in a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

She wanted to hear stories of her childhood, her day, her dreams.

She wanted...

She thought...

She sighed as O'Brien knelt before her and fastened the buckles of her shoes.

When she closed her eyes, O'Brien was Sarah, and Sarah did not wear the black of a domestic servant. She did not kneel before a mistress in order to complete her dressing. She sewed for the love of it, not because it was required of her...and, in evenings spent reading by the warmth of a fire, she gripped the long, pale fingers of the companion sat in the chair beside her own. Her equal.

It was all so uncomplicated, behind closed eyes.

When her eyes were shut tightly, her body writhing with fever, Sarah was there, the domesticity of their secret life as uncomplicated as ever.

Whenever lucidity returned, fleetingly, Cora was aware of O'Brien, too. She had finally, on the brink of death, been able to unpick and label the complex tumult of emotion she felt.

When she eventually opened her eyes to rejoin the living, it was with a heart that knew what it wanted at long last.

Neither Sarah nor O'Brien had left her. The thought gave her comfort.

It gave her hope.

The long nights of her convalescence afforded her opportunity to dwell. That which had seemed so obvious, so simple had become quite the opposite.

Her hope was foolish. Was false. She knew that, now. A delusion brought about by her fever.

What had she even hoped for? Something wicked. Something impossible.

Despair welled in her chest; she had allowed herself to dream of something she oughtn't and was to be punished with misery.

She could hardly bear to look at O'Brien, thoughts of what she could not have at the forefront of her mind.

The Sarah behind her eyes was all she would ever have.

She glanced at O'Brien in the mirror, her chest aching at the care with which she combed and arranged her hair. She couldn't face her kindness, her devotion, her servitude.

Her eyes swam with unshed tears.

It would never be enough.

It was with a heavy heart that Sarah O'Brien arrived at the only possible course of action as she saw it. Tears coursed unchecked into the pillow beneath her cheek.

It was what was to be done for the best.

Since Her Ladyship's fall, she had thought of little else but keeping her safe and happy.

Broken-hearted at the thought of being discarded by the woman she loved with a passion as fierce as it was secret, she had acted so maliciously that she could scarcely believe it - a lifetime tending to her every need would never, ever make amends. But it was all she could do.

And it was no longer enough.

The thought pained Sarah more than she would ever be able to express.

Her Ladyship was miserable, that was plain to see. Sarah had done everything she could possibly think of to bring her out of her depression; she took extra care when dressing her, arranging her hair in ever more fashionable styles, retrimming her dresses and making up new ones using fabric and patterns she knew Cora had long admired. She told her every amusing anecdote she could think of from downstairs and requested her favourite meals of Mrs Patmore whenever she could.

She couldn't pinpoint the moment that she had noticed Her Ladyship's melancholy - the war had not been kind to good spirits - but she knew exactly when she had realised that she was the source.

Sarah had been dressing her mistress for dinner, and upon fastening the top button at the back of the dress, her knuckles had brushed the bare skin of Her Ladyship's shoulder; Cora had flinched, physically recoiling from the touch. Sarah had apologised with some confusion, but wearily, bitterly, the Countess had sent her away. Cora hadn't even looked at her, and it was then that Sarah had realised that the Countess hadn't looked at her for quite some time.

Something had been missing, and now Sarah knew what - it had been weeks since she had last been granted the pleasure of those startlingly blue eyes meeting her own.

Lady Grantham could no longer bear her maid tending her, and foolishly (wrongly, she now knew) sure of her mistress' undeserved affection, her maid had not noticed.

The solution was as simple as it was heart-breaking.

"That will be all, O'Brien."

Now that she knew what she was looking for, Sarah was surprised she had remained unaware for so long. Her skin felt hot with despair. Steeling herself for the indifference she fully expected would follow her announcement, she spoke, voice wavering,

"I wondered if I might trouble you for a moment longer, Milady?"

"Oh?" Cora didn't even look up from her dressing table, thoroughly uninterested.

Sighing, Sarah pressed on,

"I hope you don't mind the liberty, Milady, but I've arranged for some young women to visit tomorrow mornin' at eleven - they all come very highly recommended and seem well-suited to the work. I looked over their references myself, Milady, and there's not one among them not up to the task. All you need do is pick your favourite, Milady. And if you don't think any of them suitable, perhaps one would suffice until a girl of your liking is found."

"References? O'Brien, what are you talking about?"

Lady Grantham stood, and turned to face her maid, her eyes finally locking with the stormy blue of those she admired so much just as Sarah spoke again,

"For my replacement, Milady."

Leaving. O'Brien was leaving her.

She felt winded.

Closing her eyes tightly, her breathing fast and shallow, she sought Sarah...but the fireside chair was empty, the sewing abandoned. No!

Her eyes sprang open, and met the concerned gaze of O'Brien.

"Milady, you-..."

Whatever O'Brien had been about to say was cut short as Cora felt herself sway dangerously. O'Brien was at her side in an instant, and she felt the other woman's arm wind around her waist, steadying her.

She felt O'Brien guide her to a seat and knew the other woman was talking, her tones panicked, but the words washed over in a torrent of white noise.

No O'Brien. No Sarah.

She was lost.

In that one, agonising moment when Cora's eyes had finally met her own, Sarah knew she had been wrong.

The mirrored despair was as unexpected as it was ultimately comforting, but the brief and exultant swell of joy she felt was swiftly tempered by Cora's sudden pallor. She clutched the Countess to her side, steering her to the chaise, and sat her down carefully before moving to kneel before her. Gripping both of Cora's hands in one of her own, she brought the other up to press against the Countess' soft cheek.

"O'Brien?" The voice was soft, broken.

"No." The Countess raised her tear-filled eyes sharply, brow creasing in confusion.

"No. Not O'Brien. It's Sarah, Cora. I'm Sarah. And I always 'ave been."

The end. I hope you enjoyed it.

Even if you didn't, I know Santa would want you to leave a review. It's in the spirit of the season and whatnot.

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