A/N: smut property of garbagebaby

she is my soul & she is my light & and she wrote me a shameless handjob and I thank her endlessly for that

PSA: look at the media and be destroyed by 1940's hotness k thx

John's parents shifted in their seats, looking to their son. He nodded at them, his fingertips pulsing. Silently, they garnered their clothes, kissed John's cheek, and left without so much as a goodbye to anyone else.

"Should I...?" John asked once they were gone. His hand drifted up from his side to point to the entryway of the kitchen. The question hung in the air, a sphere of uncertainty.

"No, no," Allison finally said. "I'll do it." She pressed her son back into his chair as she began to walk into the kitchen. Whispers erupted from the kitchen moments afterwards. They sounded sad.

John took the rest of his friends outside, bidding them all farewell except Mark and James. "Hey, Frannie," James said, "can you take Mikey home for Allison and Mark? I'll be there in forty minutes. Tops."

She smiled at Michael, who immediately jumped at the chance to go home with her. His small hand closed around hers, and he started yelling something about how his first day at school was. "I'll meet you in forty minutes!" she shouted back at James, laughing. Outside, the sun was lowering on the horizon. The sirens would be ringing out, soon. ARP wardens would filter into the streets like black flies, looking for light bulbs to attach themselves to. John found that the moment before the sun set was nice. It was quiet.

"I love you!" James yelled at her disappearing form, disregarding the serenity completely. "I love her," he added to Mark, seemingly random. "I love her a lot."

"How much did you have to drink, mate?" Mark said, clasping his arm around James's back.

"Enough," he replied. A hiccup bubbled in his throat. "Probably explains my rant at Claire's dad."

"Extremely inappropriate," Mark clarified.

John pressed his fingertips into his skull. "Americans don't know when to shut up," he groaned.

"Don't generalize, you ignorant fuck."

John batted James's ear. "Go back home."

"But John!" James exclaimed. "You're my home!"

"And take off that fucking denim jacket!"

Mark bit his lip, leaning over the fence on the patio. It was silent for a second, and then James's voice disrupted it rather frankly. "That was awkward," he said. "Claire's dad obviously hates you."

John scoffed derisively, and Mark put his head in his hands. "Brilliant observation," John responded, his voice mocking. "Truly."

"What happened?" Mark asked John, disregarding James completely. "What was that?"

"You think I know?"

"You're supposed to." James shrugged. "Maybe that's the problem, old man."

"She was staring at my hands," John said, somewhat wary. "I don't know what was on them."

Mark gestured for John to bring his arms forward. "Lemme see," he said. John procured his hands, and Mark ran his eyes over them. After a few moments, in a bewildered tone: "They're fine."

"Yeah I kn-" John was promptly cut off as James yanked his arm from Mark's grip. "Hey," John indignantly yelled, shouldering James away. He frantically tried to hold on, cursing at John as a means to make him relent.

"It's not what's on it, John," he said, John's spare hand roughing him away. A finger came up to point in John's face. "It's what's not on it."

"What the hell are you on about?" John asked, ripping his hand away and burying it into his left pocket. Mark's eyes widened in epiphany. "Holy smokes, mate."

John looked between them both. "What?"

"Your engagement ring," Mark said. "You're not wearing it."

***

John eased his way into bed a few hours later. The blackout curtains were stopping him from seeing any features of Claire's face. It was pitch black in their bedroom, and it was paired with a tension that John could cleave with a butcher knife. "So," he started. "About tonight." John glanced over at her, despite the darkness. She said nothing, and John took that as cue to continue talking. He inhaled before spitting it out. "Are you alright?"

He heard the ruffling of sheets as Claire sat up in bed, looking at him. He could feel her gaze, cool on his skin. "I don't think you're being honest with me," came a tiny voice.

"Well, you're right."

Claire didn't speak. John heard her sniff.

"I didn't tell you the truth," John said, slowly easing it out. "When I said that I was applying for a new job this morning."

"Okay," Claire breathed warily. Her voice was so quiet John could have mistaken it for the house settling.

"Mrs. Hopkin's stomach ache had been revealed to be stomach cancer. We had to remove the tumor, and I just took off my ring so it wouldn't be covered in acid and blood. I forgot to put it back on. And that's it." John touched her, then, her wrist. "I'm sorry I lied."

"You told my father the truth, but not me." Claire added, "And you despise my father."

"Because he's right," John stated simply. "Because I didn't want to give him that satisfaction. I'm failing. At a lot more than my job." John swallowed, and they could hear it fill the room, hang in the air. "I love you and I'm sorry."

She situated her body to face him as she spoke, quiet. Cold, dainty fingertips pressed prints into John's cheek. Her voice was quivering. "Why aren't we making this work?" John's skin prickled as she carded her hands through the soft hairs on either side of his head. "I don't want to go through with this if we don't want to - can't make it work."

"It's just the war," John insisted, his voice finally sinking into a gentle timber. It was moments like these that he convinced himself that this was just a fight, just an argument, that they could make up over and move on from. "We were happy before the war." John kissed her, then, if only to perpetuate the fragile pretense.

"We can be like that again," she breathed, pressing her nose to his.

"Claire."

"Yes?"

"We can't," he wanted to say. He wanted to let the silence apologize for him. He wanted to swallow down the pieces of them that were broken, even if it ripped through his stomach, even if it ruined his life.

He told Claire he loved her, instead. His voice wasn't any louder than a breath. She'd hear the lie on his tongue and she would feel it on his lips and she'd taste it like rotting, sickly fruit.

She responded, "I know." Her voice was like feathers, and her kiss was light and tainted with cigarette ash. Bile rose in John's throat.

***

The academy was more quiet than it would usually be on a Wednesday. Mark had nearly passed out. His brush accidentally dragged down the canvas on more than one occasion, turning the clouds into a rugged blue. "I think you need a nap," John told him.

"I'm teaching a class in thirty minutes," Mark replied blearily. "Need to be awake."

"Take a nap."

"Where? There's no place to take a nap."

"Lay down on the couch," John said, turning away from his painting to point towards a couch where parents sat when they wanted to watch their child's lesson. Usually there were a couple more people painting, but everyone had decided to stay home today, and Mark and John were the only people there. They attended religiously.

Once in a while, James and Francis would drop in just to bother the two of them and fool around with the materials, often ruining brushes in the process. But today... was just... empty.

Mark limped up and walked to the back, collapsing onto the couch and closing his eyes. His feet extended a quarter meter off the end, his body weirdly disproportionate to the couch. John chuckled and turned back to his illustration.

"What're you even drawing?" he heard Mark say. His arm was draped across his face, shielding his eyes from the light that was relentlessly streaming in through the windows.

"Night," John answered. Mark peeked at the drawing from under his arm. He said, "Looks amazing." Then he rolled onto his arm.

"Cheers." It didn't really look that good. He'd done better. Actually - he'd done exceptionally. This was mediocre, compared to most things he'd drawn.

It was a simple landscape, but the night sky was churning with rolling clouds that covered the hills. There was occasional moonlight poking through, dappling the land in lighter shades of teal. John stared at it wordlessly for a couple of minutes, trying to find way to give it more contrast.

"Use purple," Mark suddenly said from the back. John turned to look at him, cynical. "Pink mixed with black. On the clouds."

John nodded at him, and responded, "Good idea. Yeah, that would work well."

Mark started chatting with John, picking up the tone of his voice into sticky optimism that he sported so often. "How'd it go?"

"How'd what go?" John said. He ran his horsetail brush against the clouds, making them a shade lighter with pink.

"You and Claire?"

"Oh." John stopped painting a moment, so he could think. The past week had been strange. They'd skipped all of the charity events so that they could stay at home and play board games, often falling asleep on the couch at two in the morning when they were too tired to finish. And he wasn't saying it wasn't a nice change; it was - but every once in a while he would remember what he was doing to her.

John said it was because she was boring and most of the time he hated her for imposing herself upon him. Some of the time, he didn't. Sometimes, he could almost see a gleam of a future behind the horizon, but then it was gone and he hated her even more, for being almost good enough. Sometimes they fell asleep on the couch and he would wake up and he would remember being in love with her, like trying to recall a vivid dream you'd forgotten.

They were tiny puppets with the strings torn from their limbs. Claire's wrists were bleeding.

They were fine. They were normal. He would tell Mark they were normal, because could he say anything else, anything real, anything true?

The truth was: he spent his waking moments thinking about being kissed into tree bark and running his fingers through dark curls. John was falling apart, being dissected cleanly into even, thin lines, being inspected inside and out. Somehow, Sherlock knew everything about him, and somehow, linear events had led them both to those moments, pinpoint moments. John stuck the thumbtack into the map and watched it as it ripped a hole through his life.

John had relapsed. Some people relapse on drugs. John? John had relapsed on pretty boys. Boys with smooth skin and light blue eyes and abdomens that felt like silk. Boys that were dirty and didn't give a fuck if your wife found out, because you were only skin and a good time, anyway.

"We're fine," John said, after a long while.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I told her what really happened."

"Oh." Mark nodded at him. "Good, that's good."

John pulled into a stand before adding: "And take that nap, for God's sake."

"On it." Mark rolled on his side, away from John. Once he seemed like he was situated, John looked over his painting. It was saturated with the color black, a thick storm setting in over the land. It was hopeless, bone dry.

Like drums, John's heartbeats seemed to come in threes. "Sod this," he muttered at the painting, like it could hear and take offense. "I'm gonna be out for a bit," he said to a snoring Mark, "Don't wait up."

The door clicked behind him, footsteps reverberating throughout the cool air as he progressed down the coldly lit hallways. Tigers were climbing around in his throat, tearing his vocal cords. By the time he was in front of Sherlock - ready to speak to him, his voice would be absolutely destroyed.

The gentle whisperings of a violin being played danced like watercolors, blending with the air, soaking into the concrete. In John's mind, the sound might have looked like the color yellow, striking, yet serene. His footsteps quickened to the pace of the melody.

John knew the source.

Almost personally.

The door was cracked just enough for John to look through and see the tall figure before the window, his body swaying gently as his shoulders worked on the instrument. The tigers had ripped up his mouth, so it hurt, so he couldn't make a sound.

So he didn't.

Willfully, and only a bit shakily, he stepped inside, footfalls tentative and silent. Sherlock's music still continued, his yellow melody clinging to the air like the smoke from one of Claire's cigarettes. Using his back and a bit of his legs, he pushed the door shut.

The sound that followed reverberated throughout the entire room. Sherlock's violin stopped.

All that was left was cavernous emptiness, a vacuum that consumed all sound, all absence, until colors drained from light and shadows inverted. John's eyes traced Sherlock's back, watching as his shoulders slowly began to move again, the melody once more picking up. John took a moment to exhale quietly. He hadn't realized how quickly his heart was hammering.

Each step he took towards Sherlock was another step away from forgiveness. Each step he took towards Sherlock was hollow. Almost spitefully, Sherlock continued playing until John was right there, a hand curling around his hip, and then he stopped.

Fabric rustled as John fought to speak, fought for breath.

Sherlock's words were a hiss. "What are you doing?"

John's hand settled on the coarse fabric of Sherlock's dress shirt, on his abdomen. He could feel a pulse thudding in his neck. Three inches down, and...

"Don't tell my wife," John whispered, fingers working circles on the soft bulge in Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock's warm body pressed back against John invitingly. He gave a cold scoff. "Fiancée."

John pressed stubbornly, and Sherlock gasped.

"Do you even know what you're doing back there?" Sherlock breathed, turning his head only slightly to the side so he could track John in his periphery.

John's hand faltered only slightly, but Sherlock felt it. All too quickly the violin was in its place and John was pinned against the table.

"Funny how after all this time knowing you're queer, you never learned how to touch a man," Sherlock's voice dripped with thick mockery.

"I didn't come to be insulted by a bloody violinist."

"Right, you came so a bloody violinist would make you come."

John swallowed as Sherlock grinned, filthy and arrogant. His eyes meandered up and down John's body with a hunger to match an entire pack of wolves. John's breath caught when that pale, deft hand slid up from his torso to rest on the middle of his chest, the other wrapping around to squeeze his arse.

"You didn't lock the door," Sherlock muttered, his lips ghosting along John's neck. John could feel chills zapping down his spine and into his groin as sharp teeth barely grazed his tender skin. "No one's coming in here, Sherlock."

"Oh?" The syllable vibrated in John's ear as Sherlock took his earlobe between his teeth. "Care to elaborate?"

"No one likes you, so no one's going to come visit." John's voice was nearly chipper with the insult.

Sherlock bit down hard on John's ear, his hand squeezing his arse in retaliation. John jumped out of his skin. "Don't leave marks," he panted. "Claire - Claire'll know."

Sherlock growled, the hand on John's chest sliding down to unbuckle his trousers. John's pelvis pushed against Sherlock's hand eagerly, a small noise of desperation escaping his lips as he made contact. Sherlock smirked to himself, watching John's face twist as his hand worked the precum against John's dickhead.

John's breaths came out rugged and labored, his mind completely wiped of all thoughts and words. Sherlock's hand squeezed around him, and John thrust again for more friction. Sherlock used his thigh to spread John's legs for easier access, his breath catching as his own erection pressed against John's thigh.

"John," he began, but John was already ahead of him. He frantically ripped open Sherlock's zipper, his hand delving past his pants, gripping Sherlock eagerly. Sherlock mewled, the feeling of John's rough hands cascading down his skin oh so exhilarating.

They worked each other as if they were untangling knots. Their hearts raced, their legs trembled, the tips of Sherlock's ears were a violent pink. The sounds of heavy breathing and the table behind John squeaking as they thrust into each other's hands filled the air. Sherlock's voice rose in pitch, and a helpless and beautiful noise tumbled from his throat.

"John, I can't," and Sherlock was gone. He spasmed in John's hand, thick white ropes draping John's fingers. John watched as Sherlock shivered through his orgasm, his head falling forward and his eyes squeezing shut. He exhaled heavily as the last wave hit him, his shoulders slumping and his chest heaving. The sight was nearly enough to make John come himself.

"That was rather fast," John whispered, removing his hand from Sherlock's trousers. He cleaned his fingers on the handkerchief from his pocket as Sherlock took a moment to regain himself. "You should be flattered," he retorted huskily with a sloppy smirk.

Sherlock squeezed John harder this time, and John's voice broke like porcelain on a hardwood floor. Now that Sherlock's full attention was placed on getting John off, he was ruthless. He tugged and pulled until John was panting like a dog and sweating as if it were summer. Every now and again, a pained noise would escape him.

He could feel the tightening in his groin, he knew what was next, but he wasn't prepared for-

"God!"

The sound he made was inhuman, the impact made his legs turn to jelly and his brain spin circles. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but couldn't be bothered, for his whole body swam with electricity and his pants were sticky and the very tips of his fingers were numb with ecstasy.

By the time John had finished, Sherlock had wiped himself clean with the handkerchief and was zipping his trousers with nonchalance. John stood there, resting against the table, watching Sherlock pick up his violin. Just like that, Sherlock looked completely normal, as if he hadn't just stroked a man to completion, as if he hadn't just come himself.

John picked up the handkerchief again to clean himself, then folding it up and carefully slipping it into his back pocket. He ran an anxious hand through his hair to fix it up a bit, trying to gain the same indifference that Sherlock was sporting.

"You look fine," Sherlock said to him, not sharing eye contact. He was transfixed on his violin, the first note beginning to drag itself away from the mahogany instrument. "The sooner you leave, the better."

Well, it was nice to see you, too, John thought with a roll of his eyes, briskly adjusting his coat. Before walking out, he stopped at the door, and looked at Sherlock one last time. His body was taut, his pristine dress shirt turned a shade of yellow sunlight. The melody floated to John's ears - colder, this time. Spent.

At the noise, he resumed walking, shutting the door behind him and hurrying back to the art studio to retrieve his supplies before Mark's class began. The kids would undoubtedly rip it up.

Once John reached the room, he heard the little giggles of children inside. He sighed out through his nose and opened the door, looking around to survey the damage. But they were all at their easels, still and painting. Mark was in the far corner, showing the fourth year students how to draw a nice fruit. John poked his head out behind the door, smiling at the kids and then shifting his gaze to Mark. Mark didn't look up. "On the desk," he said, absent.

John moved over to the front desk, moving around his papers. Underneath, there were his paints and paintbrushes. A child behind him suddenly laughed raucously, and Mark seemed to snicker.

John turned to him, questioning.

"Fly's undone, mate," Mark laughed.

John turned back to the desk and moved things about furiously, his cheeks turning a shade darker. Another child giggled as John packed his supply bag and began to leave, his eyebrows still twisted into a disgruntled line.

A clatter of a paintbrush was heard as Mark stood up, making his way over to John at the door. He got really close, leaning on the wall. John could see the sun filter through his chocolate brown eyes, his beard almost burgundy. Suddenly, a hand was on his zipper, pulling up. John shot out half a protest.

"Next time you go to the loo for twenty-five minutes..." Mark warned, leaving his sentence hanging with a warm chuckle.

"You counted?" John shot back. "I'm bloody flattered."

"Watch your tongue."

"And don't zip up my trousers." John's brow furrowed. "Please."

Mark ignored a small child crying out so he could lean a bit closer to John, his voice low. "Seriously. Why were you gone so long?"

John swallowed so softly that it was imperceptible, and then he smiled at Mark. The child yelled again. "Claire," he said. "Wasn't at the loo."

Mark's eyes widened, and he opened the door for John himself. "Off you pop," he said, pushing John out with one hand.

As John was leaving, he threw the dirty handkerchief from his back pocket into a nearby trash bin.