A/N: Hey lads and ladettes. I haven't written in a while but stressed and have exams coming up, so procrastination FTW. They're fighting. Not related to any other fics. Will get a follow up and open to any suggestions if anyone wants them to do anything in particular when making up. Minds out of the gutter.

John lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The only light was the pale moonlight, slowly climbing across the wall as the moon sank into the hills surrounding Milton.

John couldn't sleep. It had been this way for weeks. He lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, staring at the ray of light moving across, showing that time was passing even if for him every second felt like an eternity.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could just hear it; the shallow in and out of breath coming from the other side of the bed. The occasional sound of an arm or a leg sliding across the bedding. He could smell the soap she used, a mixture of lavender and rose oils. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the heat of her body, lying just centimetres from him.

He knew, though. He knew that if he reached across, as he had done so many times in the past two months, and slid his hand under the covers to her side of the bed, his hand would reach nothing. He knew that if he turned, he wouldn't see her sleeping form, her angelic face surrounded by a halo of curls, but the smooth untouched pillow. He knew that if he listened carefully, he would only hear the servants moving below as they rose to prepare the house for the day.

He knew this, because he knew that she was gone, and had been for two months, and during those long two months he imagined her near him always, and only in keeping still and not breaking the illusion could he keep on imagining.

Hearing the maid creep past his room to light the fire in the breakfast room and seeing the grey of the dawn, he rose. There was no point. He would not sleep. Experience had taught him that.

John Thornton rose for another long day at the mill, his loneliness settling like a weight on his shoulders as he tied his cravat at the dressing table, avoiding looking into the mirror which he knew would just show his own tired face and the half of the bed which had not been touched since she had gone.

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Two weeks later, she came home.

The train from London had run late. He had arrived at the station at two, not expecting the train until two-twenty, and had suffered the cruellest agony as that time came and went. Eventually a message had come down the line that the train was not to be expected until four, and Thornton's heart nearly burst at the idea of waiting so much longer.

In his mind, she was already there. She had descended from the carriage, smiled at him and been swept into his arms. In his mind, she was yet where she belonged.

As the black steam engine came into sight, carriages trailing, he felt so overcome as to be anxious. He wanted to see her more than anything else in his life before, except perhaps his desire to have her before they married.

As the train came to a halt, he peered through the steam, walking along the platform and peering into each carriage as he passed. Until he saw her. Hair pulled back, dark bags under her eyes, and looking thinner than her norm. Her royal blue dress drew in at her waist and he saw that she had not been eating. His eyes took in her sunken, pale skin, and he knew that she had not been sleeping. She stared at him as if she was seeing a ghost; fear and apprehension marred her features. No happiness, he noted. No excitement. She had not been anticipating her return.

She still did not believe him then, despite his letters. She still believed her eyes.

He stood before her, the flurry of activity surrounding them going unnoticed as they stared at one another, slowly approaching the other but not yet touching. No embrace. No chaste kisses. Just her sad, hurt eyes staring into his, while he drank in her presence.

It didn't matter, he told himself. She was back. That was a start. He could already feel his weary body replenishing just at the sight of her.

Finally, he reached her, and taking her bag from her, moved to kiss her- she looked to the side so that he kissed only her cheek.

He pulled away, and sought her eyes.

"You are well?"

She looked up at him.

"No. I am as well as to be expected in the circumstances." Above all else, her tone held a note of accusation. It was the same tone that he had heard every day that she had been gone as he relived their last argument.

Motioning that she move ahead of him, they approached the exit. He could barely see where he was going, too keen to stare at every part of her, her neck, her shoulders, as she walked ahead of him. Too relieved that finally, finally, she had returned.

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My dearest Margaret,

It has been two months since you left our house, since you left our marital bed, and I cannot help but ache for you every moment. I am writing not to defend myself against your accusations; I have already heard that you will not believe me on that account. Rather, I write to remind you of what you mean to me.

I am not accustomed to writing love letters, so please excuse if this is not to your liking. But I love you.

From the first moment of our acquaintance, you moved something within me that I didn't know existed. I have loved you for the longest time, and I have known all that time that I do not deserve you. You are a far better creature than me; you deserve only the best, and it has been my intention every day to bestow upon you the best.

In my darkest moments, I never believed that you could love me, that you could care for me at all, or even look upon me as more than the uncouth man who so violently failed to persuade you of his passions. The day that I was lucky enough to gain your hand, I promised myself to do all I could to make you happy.

I know you will not believe me. You are so stubborn sometimes. You did not allow me to explain. I was in the library when she came in, and, thinking she was you, I allowed her to touch my shoulders. Only when I saw he hands did I realise that she was not you- then I stood, she reached for me, and you walked in as I was pulling her hands off me.

I do not sleep. When I do, I dream of you. When I don't, I dream of you. I spend every waking moment thinking of you. The house is huge. It was never this big before; without you, it echoes.

Come home, Margaret. Please, come home, and let us talk. I know you spoke of a separation; Margaret, I cannot live without you. Please, do not extend my agony. Come home. Be with me again, I will prove my love for you. Please.

I am yours, forever. Nothing, and no one, can change that, Margaret.

Yours, eternally.

John.

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"So only you may believe the worst of me? So only you are allowed to judge according to appearances, while I must believe every word you say when I saw you with my own eyes with that woman, touching her! What kind of ridiculous double standard are you perpetrating?"

"If you remember correctly, ma'am, you will remember that when I made those judgments, I was wrong! You should also do well to remember that we were not yet married, and did not know each other as we do now! I am your husband, and you must believe me."

"I must do no such thing. I must believe only my own conscience. I cannot stay here John. Not when you flagrantly violate your vows to me-"

"Margaret, I did no such thing!"

"I saw you John!" The pain in her voice was palpable.

"You do not understand what you saw! She moved towards me! She was touching me- if you looked, you would see that I was moving away from her, discouraging her!"

"At least have the decency for standing up for your mistress, if you must have one!"

"I have no mistress!" He roared

"And I have no husband!" She snapped.

He paled. "What do you mean?"

Looking as if her heart was breaking in two at the prospect, she looked into his eyes. "If you want to be with Miss Latimer, I will allow it. I want a husband whose purpose is to love me. If you want a divorce-"

"No. No, no, Margaret, no." He interrupted.

"If you want a divorce I will grant you one."

"No, Margaret, think it through. Think about what you say and do, for what is done cannot be undone."

"That is the exact advice I would have given you."

"Margaret, I did not betray you!"

She stared at him. "I saw you John. I saw you with my own eyes. And now I can hardly look at you without seeing her arms around you, you looking down at her..."

"Please…"

"I will be leaving in the morning. I cannot stay here, I cannot stay with you. It hurts too much."

And so the next morning, she had left, and passed ten week at London, where her illness was remarked upon and none but Edith knew the reason of her absence from home.

And John waited.