A/N: I'm sorry for leaving this story on such a painful cliff-hanger.

London, 1918

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Colin stared at the piece of paper in his hand and wondered why the world hadn't crashed around him yet. Why there was still a bright, twinkling sky outside; why the birds still sang; why the flowers hadn't wilted in sorrow. Didn't they realise that the world was over? That there was no point to any of it anymore.

There was utter silence around the breakfast table. Mr Williams looked grave, while Mrs Williams sniffled quietly, a napkin pressed to her face. Samantha was staring at her plate, frightened and bewildered. Mary's seat was still empty – she had not yet come down for breakfast. Had not yet heard the news.

Colin swallowed back the bile in his throat, his eyes burning sharply. He stared again at the words before him, as though if he stared long enough they might disappear, might vanish forever and make things right again.

But the words only stared balefully back, devastating in their simplicity.

We regret to inform you… Dickon and Philip Sowerby… missing in action… presumed dead.

His hands curled into fists, and he gasped, feeling as though he couldn't breathe, as though he was choking on his own hatred and self-loathing.

Dickon and Phil were dead. And it was all his fault.

There was a sound on the stairwell, and they all looked over. Mary was standing there, looking withdrawn and tired as she normally did these days, but otherwise unconcerned. She took a step toward them and paused, her brow furrowing as she recognised that something was wrong. Colin felt as though there were icy fingers clutching his heart, ruthlessly squeezing the life out of him.

For the space of a heartbeat there was utter silence. Then a look of sheer terror passed across Mary's face. Her eyes skidded from Mr Williams, to his wife, to Sam, and finally to Colin. There was a question there, and Colin thought it would kill him to have to answer it.

No one spoke. There was no need. Understanding crumpled Mary's pretty features, and she sank onto the step, her hands flying to her chest and clutching, clutching as though to rip her heart out. Her breath came in small, shallow pants, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," said Mr Williams solemnly. "I'm afraid Dickon is – "

Mary gave a little scream and huddled in on herself. Her arms came around her body and she began to rock, backwards and forwards like an old, grieving woman. Her small, desperate whimpers were worse than any screaming or crying Colin had ever heard.

They were all looking at him, he realised; Mr and Mrs Williams, and Samantha. Their expressions were plain – do something. Help her. He stared back, bewildered, knowing that he was most certainly not the person to try and put things right; quite the opposite in fact. But their faces were pleading, and so he stood up, and went over to where Mary huddled, silently weeping. He brought the letter with him, because he knew she would want to read it for herself, wouldn't really believe it until she had seen the words. He sat beside her and put his own arm gingerly around her shoulders, feeling the shudders coursing through her body.

"Mary," he began, inadequately. Because everything was inadequate. He was inadequate.

She didn't reply. He doubted she even heard him.

Feeling much older than his eighteen years, Colin stood up and tucked his hands carefully beneath her, then lifted Mary into his arms like a child. He gave the Williams' family a curt nod, and began to walk back up the stairs, Mary shivering against his chest.

He deposited her on her bed, and she curled up instantly into a ball, her hands over her face, her whole body tight and straining with grief. Her gasps cut at him, and he felt his own body tense with pain. For Dickon had been his friend too, despite everything. And now he was gone.

There was nothing he could do; no reason to stay there, silent witness to Mary's heartbreak. Colin squared his shoulders, hesitated, then placed the death notice on her bedside table. He dragged a hand across his eyes, which were dry but burning as though they had been rubbed raw, then stepped quietly to the door.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice like an old man's. Mary said nothing, just continued to shake and whimper, as though her entire world had broken.

He turned and fled, feeling like the devil himself was shadowing his steps.

The days passed in darkness. Mary didn't know how long she had been lying there. She didn't care. She didn't know whether it was day or night outside, what season it was, the time of month. None of it mattered. For her, the world was shrouded in black. And it always would be.

She didn't know how long it had been. Days, weeks, months? Colin came into her room and spoke to her in a voice she hardly recognised.

"We're going back to Yorkshire," he told her. "I'm taking you home."

She didn't lift her head, and after a moment he left her. It wasn't true, anyway. She couldn't go home. Not now. There was no such place, without him.

.

France, 1918.

He was weary, but long training had taught him how to push such weakness deep inside, to bottle it up for those rare private moments. There was no time in war for weariness, no time for anything but doing your duty.

"Sir?"

Basil turned to see one of the casualty wardens standing before him. A young lad, his face red and sweaty with exertion. Thank God for men like you, he thought silently.

"Yes?"

"The surgeon wants to speak with you, sir."

"Where is he?"

"Row 7, bed 13."

"Very well." He turned and went there immediately, passing rows and rows of injured young men in various states of pain and distress. This was a first line dressing station, where the wounded from the front were sent. As a consequence it was filled with those near death, and the horrible gurgling moans of the freshly injured. Basil grit his teeth and walked on.

The surgeon was a familiar face; Basil had had dealings with him on several occasions, and knew him to be a good man, intelligent and principled. At the moment he was standing beside a soldier's bedside wearing a deep frown. He looked up when he saw Basil approaching.

"What is it?" asked Basil cautiously.

"Do you know this man?" the surgeon pointed to the bedside, to the soldier that lay there, unconscious. He was young, with russet coloured hair that stood out starkly against his pale face.

Basil's eyes swept over him, and he shook his head. "Afraid not. Who is he?"

"That's just it," said the surgeon. "We don't know." When Basil raised an eyebrow he continued. "He was brought in a few days ago, after that disastrous assault on Peronne. Didn't think he'd make it at the time, he'd been out in the field for hours before he was found by a retreating soldier. Horrific injuries… but he's stabilised, for now. Only thing is, fellow's got no tag. Must've blown off in the explosion somehow. Thought he might have been one of yours."

Basil looked at him again, but there was no flash of recognition. "I don't think so. Have you asked Castor – he might know."

"Castor's dead," said the surgeon heavily. "Died in the assault. And so's the fellow who brought him in."

"I see…" Basil swallowed the ache of another loss. "Well, when he wakes… "

"Yes I suppose," said the surgeon. "He regained consciousness briefly yesterday, but he was delirious. The nurse couldn't get a word of sense out of him. We had to put him back under before he harmed himself."

"Hopefully he'll come round."

"Perhaps." The surgeon's tone was doubtful. "But we need the bed. This is a clearing station, not a recovery ward. I've done all I can for him – it's up to him now whether he lives or not. He's got to be moved further down the line."

"Right," said Basil briskly. "Well, since the fellow's got no unit, all we can do is send him to Amiens. He can stay there until he remembers. Then he can be sent home – he won't be fighting anymore, I should imagine."

"Very well. I'll get the paperwork, shall I? Now that Castor's dead, you're in charge of transfers."

Basil straightened his shoulders, feeling as though there was a heavy weight there that he couldn't dislodge. "So be it," he said, and with a last look at the wounded soldier, he followed the surgeon away.

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A/N: I hope everyone is staying safe during these strange times. Till next time, ~A