I know, 'yall are thinking, "What in the world has gotten into Andrewthegreat1?" But yes, I'm on a roll with new fandoms! I know 'yall loved me writing Avengers and Harry Potter, and I will continue to, but I'm widening my horizons a bit. Star Trek, Downton Abbey, and Sherlock here I come! This story is inspired by "Demons" by Imagine Dragons. Lyrics for the chapters are not always in order!

So one of my awesome friends requested this story. And seriously, who am I to deny? For now, we shall call this friend "BransonBuddy." So, BransonBuddy got Valedictorian this year in our class, so major congrats! I know, what did I do to deserve such awesomely smart friends?! Well BransonBuddy, here ya go, hope you enjoy.

Warnings- This is not for the light-hearted. Ok, lots of angst and hurt/comfort. There will be some fluff, if you are a very depressed peep, I would not read this. There is a convenient back button in the left hand corner.

Disclaimer- I do not own Downton Abbey. Because if I did…well, let's just say that the series would be VERY different. It would not have me yelling at the TV going "Noooooo, how could you?!" But then again, we all love those moments don't we? XD

Ok, enough with this. Read!

Chapter 1- First Time

When the days are cold

And the cards all fold

And the saints we see

Are all made of gold

When your dreams all fail

And the ones we hail

Are the worst of all

And the blood's run stale…..

The first night without Sybil was the hardest.

Tom Branson arrived in his room in a haze that night. He slipped under the soft sheets and put his arm out to draw Sybil closer, wanting to hold her, to smell her hair. His arm met empty air. Then it hit him like rocks, leaving a sick feeling all over, enveloping him in a prickling cold.

She was dead.

He slept on the floor that night by the baby crib, Sybil's pillow clutched to his chest, tears streaming out of his eyes. God, it still smelled like her lavender hair wash they had gotten in Ireland. The first time they visited was quite….interesting.

As soon as they got off the ship, Branson could feel all the pent up tension slipping away. He had had enough of Downton. He and Lord Grantham had been getting along now better than they had in the beginning, but he couldn't take it all any more- the suits, dinners, fancy talk….. It could all just be too much. He didn't want to have to change who and what he was for some pompous tradition; he didn't belong in Downton, he belonged here. He inhaled the scent of Ireland- sandalwood, fresh rain, sausage and just home.

That night was a blur. Sybil and Branson somehow ended up in an old Irish pub, surrounded by Tom's friends, whiskey in all of their hands, smiles on their faces. Tom had remembered coming here when he was a lad, trying to impress the girls with drunken tricks. But now, he had Sybil, and she was far better than anyone he had ever tried to impress. Surprisingly, Sybil had whiskey as well, astounding many of the men flooding the bar.

It had all been going fine- Angus and Donal, some old friends of Branson's, were cracking jokes and telling old stories. Tom could feel a soft buzz in his head and he felt more alive than he had in ages- he was at home, where he belonged, with the love of his life at his side. It was perfect, until…

Some tall man, well-built with dark eyes, was eyeing Sybil. Branson felt jealousy unfurl inside him, like a tiger ready to pounce at any moment. He decided he wouldn't say anything unless the "enemy" made any other moves. He distracted himself by listening to Angus, telling his mind to "shut up and catch up on what you've been missing all these years."

Then the man put his hand on Sybil's waist, and Branson nearly lost it. Sybil smacked his hand away, shock written clearly on her face, only adding a smirk to the "enemy's" face.

"Oh, frisky little thing are ya?" He said, sauntering closer.

Branson's fist collided with the "enemy's" face. Branson resisted the urge to cradle his knuckles; it had been a while since he had punched someone, and it wasn't always a painless task. But he was too busy trying not to wince when the "enemy's" fist collided with his own face, temporarily flashing black and white in front of his eyelids.

"Oi, break it up ya little girls," Angus yelled, pulling Tom away from the other man. The "enemy" walked out of the pub, and even through his blurry vision, Tom smiled when he saw the blood leaking from the other man's face. In a haze, he was taken home by Sybil and his friends, and was set on the couch. When they were alone, Sybil put a wet washcloth to Tom's swollen lip and cheek, where the cut was. He didn't wince even if it stung quite a bit.

"What were you thinking?" Sybil asked softly, trying not to let anger creep into her voice.

"Tryin' to protec' my damsel in distress," Branson mumbled, leaning into her touch.

"Oh, I see. I need protecting?" Sybil asked with a smile.

"I wou' say so after tha' convention Matthew and I had ta save ya from," Branson replied, batting Sybil's hand away. She replied in turn with a kiss, making Tom's head spin as fireworks exploded in his vision. God, he loved his girl! After a couple of seconds, she pushed him back onto the couch.

"Now rest."

"Says who?"

"Says your kind nurse to whom you are ever faithful." Sybil laid down with him, her head on his chest. They were both so warm, and crickets were chirping in the late night, enveloped in the sweet Ireland fog. Soon Tom's eyes became heavy, and the last thing he recalled was the sweet scent of Sybil's lavender shampoo…

Tom was choking back sobs into Sybil's pillow, trying to hold onto the little control he had left. It was so hard. God, how could you take her away? I can't do this without her. I can't! Please help me. Give her back! How am I going to survive? Oh God Sybil, I can't; I can't do this without you. Please come back! Please…..

*What was he doing?! This begging was pitiful! Was God even listening? He had been raised Catholic, but now…..did God even exist? God was supposed to be kind and forgiving, not evil and heartless...

Then Tom heard a cry. Baby Sybil was crying in her crib, squirming slightly. Branson wanted to get up and cradle her, but he couldn't find the strength; he was physically and emotionally drained. He felt so cold and empty inside-so hollow. Tom slipped his hand through the crib bars, feeling his daughter grasp his hand with her tiny fingers. How warm they were, like Lady Sybil's hands… More tears fell from his red, swollen eyes. Baby Sybil was the only reason Tom was still alive, the only reason Tom still had the will to breathe. He would carry on for her.

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When Tom woke up, the first thing he noticed was the crick in his neck from sleeping on the floor. Then came the dull throb, the stinging ache in his chest. Sybil was…. He wouldn't say gone, or dead, or even passed. He had to just get over it. But he couldn't. He just wouldn't think about it.

He went to the bathroom to shower and clean up a bit. Branson turned the water up all the way, as hot as it went. It burned his skin, turning it red, but it felt good in a way, like a way of release. It was as if he was washing it all away—all the pain and sorrow. When he shut the water off, steam filled the bathroom, fogging up the mirror. He rubbed the mirror, trying to clear it up a bit. When he looked in, he was surprised at what he saw.

He saw a tired man who looked far too old for his age. His face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He had never looked his bad, ever, not even when he was hung-over in some pub. He looked sick. Not just sick- like a corpse come back from the dead. After all, maybe he wanted to be dead. Was this world even worth it without her?

Yes, it was. Baby Sybil. He would continue, if only for her. Sybil would have wanted him to live life, to take care of their daughter. He needed to put up an illusion, to show everyone he was fine. He could deal with this…..right? No one else needed to be concerned. After all, they were all family of Sybil's; they probably hurt as much as he did, if not more. They all had their own ways of dealing with pain—for Mary and Edith; it was taking comfort in each other, not fighting like they usually did. Families took comfort from pain in each other. But these people, they weren't his real family. He would suffer on his own; he didn't need to bother them with his troubles. He walked out of the bathroom, got dressed, and dropped the baby off at the nanny's. Then came the long trek down to breakfast.

He wasn't thinking about her, he had told himself this, but his body told a different story. His head throbbed, and everything just hurt. His joints felt inflamed and rusty, and his head was made of lead. His eyes wouldn't stay open, as they were sore from crying.

When he came to breakfast, he was met with Matthew, Lord Grantham, and Lady Edith. He tried to stand up a little straighter, to appear better than he was really feeling. It was funny, that- about posture. Downton had taught him how to appear proper no matter how you were feeling. It was all about posture and tone of voice and using your silverware correctly and using correct wineglasses and… He really needed to snap out of this posh nonsense.

"I hope that you got some sleep," Edith said, trying to force a smile.

"Some," Tom said, convincing himself that it wasn't a complete lie.

* I'm a strong Catholic. I do not mean to offend God. I Loooovvvvveeeee him!

Reviews please, there's more to come!