John woke up to the grating sound of the radio. It was blaring. He didn't know where his fiancée was, only that his body hurt, like glass in his joints. When he sat up, he was hit by a wave of headache, and he groaned as his hand blindly attempted to turn down the sound.

He stumbled up from the couch to open the thick blackout curtains, looking outside to their large front yard.

It was Sunday. Which meant church. Which meant more talking to older men and women who made ill-advised comments about the war.

John didn't mind the war - in fact, he encouraged it. But he hated the way they talked. They spoke about joining, they chatted about it, but no one ever stepped up to bat. Honestly, he would. He wanted to. He wanted the taste of death in the air and the explosions, shaking him, he wanted to run in the forest and fight for something he knew was right.

He just didn't want to bring it up to Claire. The night her brother left, she cried until 2:30 in the morning.

Sighing, John patted down his hair, which was messy as all hell, then pulled on his socks and groggily made his way into the kitchen to drink some tea. The radio was still buzzing in the other room.

"8th of September, 1940. The sun rises to meet a new day, but devastation is met in its wake."

John had to hire a maid to make him breakfast. If he tried, he'd set it on fire. He poured himself some lukewarm Earl Grey, not even bothering to see if Claire was up. The sun had just risen, apparently. Shadows were long across their lawn, and the birds had just recently begun to chirp. John padded out the door and stood in the patio, even though it was pretty cold.

Claire's father had made them well off. The house was really quite large. The dining room alone took up a large portion of the house, and the living room was grand, luxurious. The entire second floor was a mezzanine, practically. You could see the stairs climb up the wall and feed into their bedroom, the guest room, the child's room, the maid's room... All of which were unoccupied. They had a supply closet with no supplies. There was a Ford in the garage without any gas in it.

They were rich. That was it. They were so rich they had no idea what to do with their money, and the solution? Do absolutely nothing.

John wanted to run from this house. He hated it. When he was a kid his family never told him that they were well off. They just chose to live somewhere in the city, right off Castle Street, where the shops looked like toy soldiers, lined up all in a row. Now he lived in a rich-people house because Claire's dad said he had to live in a rich-people house because that was what rich people did.

He used to have dreams of shooting people. The gun would be pointing at a woman dressed in lavish jewelry, a red dress that swayed when she walked, and he'd would shoot her, twice. His shoulder would ache from the backfire as he felt the bullet push through her flesh, break her bone, sever nerves and the blood would flow around the bullet, parting like the Red Sea. John would feel it.

When her body crumpled to the ground, John would walk over, every time. And every time, there would be no blood on the ground; she was empty, a paper person.

He would feel the wet, warm trickle of liquid painting stripes down his temple, and his fingers would come up-

And there would be a hole in his head. He shot himself.

After a few minutes of sitting on the patio, he heard the passive aggressive banging of pots and pans in the house, and John nearly walked right out and into the road so he wouldn't have to deal with it. His back hurt from sleeping on the couch - and for God's sakes, couldn't Claire just give him a moment of quiet before assaulting him with accusation? He could hear the disapproval through the fucking wall.

John stumbled up and dragged his body into the house, not even acting happy to see her. She met his eyes coldly, saying nothing at all. The radio was still playing in the living room, and John drifted away from Claire to follow the sound.

"Tell us what you saw last night," John heard a temperate voice say as he sat down on the couch. He brought the last of the tea to his lips, sipping the dregs expectantly. Probably aliens. That was all people talked about nowadays - aliens this, aliens that, aliens have bloody abducted the royal family and are wearing their skins-

"Oh my God," the person replied. His voice was inflected with dreadful reverence. John looked up from his tea. He quieted to listen to the radio.

"The skyline," the man breathed, haunted. "It was alight."

John's tea cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the hardwood.

"Claire!" he shouted to the kitchen. "It's started!"

***

They'd attacked just after dark. Roundly three hundred fifty German bombers escorted by six hundred fighter jets had whistled their way through London, laying waste to their path. They had continued until 4:30 AM, approximately. The subsequent fires had burned down much of the city. The death toll? No one knew.

Richard Dimbleby, the host on BBC radio, had outlined this all with the help of a few eye witnesses that had been on the scene. Most of the population had been in the below ground subway systems as bombs lit up the city. Someone had said they sounded like rolling thunder, another said that they sounded like a thick crump, crump, crump.

"What did it look like, Mr. Calloway?"

"Oh," the man said, thinking. A chuckle erupted from his voice. "There was a perverse sort of elation I got from the sight, Mr. Dimbleby. Amazing, quite amazing. I feel like a horrid person for entertaining it."

"Describe it to us."

"Uh, I could feel the shake from the guns, sir. It vibrated throughout my entire body. I, in my vanity - it's likely to get me killed, someday" - they laughed - "decided to leave the safety of my home and gather a few of my closest friends. We emerged at a high balcony, overlooking some of London. The entire horizon was lined with roaring infernos, sir. Smoke billowed from each fire, towering into the sky."

"How many fires?"

"Hundreds of them. They were red and white and pink, and you could see small black dots fall from the sky and light up yet more. The firemen - bless them, brave lads - they would extinguish one and travel to another sector, only for it to spark to life again. It was relentless."

"When did it end?"

"It must have been early. I fell asleep despite the noise. Exhaustion overtook me, alas."

"In closing, give us one word to describe how you felt."

"I felt awed," the man replied immediately. "I was too shocked to be afraid."

"You must have been," Mr. Dimbleby agreed. "Thank you for being on the show, sir."

"You're welcome," the man replied. "Anytime."

"Now to Mr. Atkins. Last night, he was also watching the German bombers attack the Port of London. Let's hear what he has to say." Slight pause. "Hello, Mr. Atkins."

"'Ello, sir."

"What happened, Mr. Atkins?" the radio buzzed. "Where were you?"

John sat back, Claire perched next to him, sitting on the armrest of the sofa.

"I was just watchin' from my house, Mr. Dimbleby. I heard 'em comin' in, and I didn't know where the shelters might'a been, so I just climbed up to the rooftop an' I looked at the bombs bein' dropped from a distance."

"Do you know where they were being dropped?"

"Looked right near the Port of London, sir. They was droppin' them near the boats, for sure."

"And what did it look like, Mr. Atkins?"

"It looked..." The man paused.

"Hello?"

"Sorry, sir. I just... I dunno how to explain it. There weren't a lotta dark spaces. It was all on fire. And the guns were poppin' off. I'm sorry, I dunno how to... articulate it, sir."

"One word, Mr. Atkins, give us just one word to explain how you felt last night, and we'll pass it off to Mr. Jameson."

It was achingly silent for a few moments. Then, the man spoke, his accent thick. "It's bloody terrifyin', Mr. Dimbleby. Innit?"

"...Yes," the host murmured, his voice soft. "Truly."

***

They had skipped church to listen to that station. As soon as it was done, John told Claire that he was leaving; she yelled at him for even trying to, lest the Germans descend from the skies and blow the whole of Castle Street into the air. He disregarded her completely, throwing on his hat and jacket. "That's what they want," John said as he left. "They want us to be scared of them. Now I'm going to the pub, and I'm going to get myself a drink with Mark and James. Alright?"

"No," he heard, "no - John - don't-"

He shut the door in her face, pacing down to the nearest bus station. The ride into town was cold, even though it was practically still summer. The person sitting across with him conversed with a woman who looked a bit disgruntled. "What?" she said. "They bombed London?"

"Yeah," the older man replied. "Not too well, though. The death toll hasn't been announced yet. Mostly 'cuz they can't find anyone who's dead."

"Well," she said, looking to John absently. When John met her eyes, she smiled, and John touched his fingers to his hat in respect.

She continued. "My husband's in Germany, right near some concentration camps." She looked at John, as if expecting him to respond - but he had nothing to say to her. The other man replied, babbling. "Oh, goodness. You must be proud."

She nodded. "Scared, mostly, sir. You know, we have a little girl. It's hard, raising her alone." The woman looked at her knees. "I know he's coming home, soon, though. God is good that way."

***

"Where's Mark?"

John had arrived to the pub to see a swelling group of men yelling about the bombings, cheering heartily. John couldn't hear himself think. James was the only one he knew there, absently stirring a gin and listening to the boys yell about how they were going to enlist, today. "Nazi scum! This is a free bloody country, aye, boys?"

"Aye!" the entire pub shook, their voices overpowering the record player.

John sat down next to his friend, raising his hand for the bartender to come over and removing his trilby. "One scotch," he said to the server. "Cheers." He turned to his friend as the bartender poured him a shot.

"Mark's going to his kid's school," James said. "Something about 'not being able to wait.'"

"Well, more beer for us," John laughed.

"That's... not how beer works."

"Y'know what? Shut up. Today has been a long bloody day, James." John looked over to the large screaming crowd. "What're they hopped up on?" he asked, frowning.

"The glory, John. Do you smell it? The testosterone. Invigorating," James mocked. "I can feel the masculinity filling me to the brim." He shook his head, bringing a bottle of beer to his lips and snorting as he drank. His sky blues shone as he smiled, clinking his beer against John's shot glass. "They're all sixteen year old kids who want to copulate with the first thing they see," James said. "They equate that to valor."

John shook his head, drinking.

"I don't see anything wrong with it," James chuckled. "No harm in disguising your horniness as patriotism."

"They get off on Britain getting bombed," John muttered.

James shook his head. "Americans would create a holiday for today, if they could. Don't be such an old fucking man."

"Watch your fucking language," John bit.

"Francis curses all the fucking time."

John fixed James with a look. "And stop bringing up your girlfriend," he added. "It depresses me."

"Why? Jealous? Having a little marriage trouble?"

John scoffed, downing his shot and cringing at the acrid taste. "Mm," he coughed.

James was silent for a moment, his grin dropping. "Wait - seriously?"

John looked at him blankly. "No," he said. "'Course not." He went back to staring at his empty glass. And, for some unknown reason and a predisposition to get himself into crock loads of shit, John said, "I met someone."

"Sounds scandalous."

"Sherlock Holmes," John clarified.

"Oh. That is scandalous."

"Hmm?"

"He's a real handsome guy. Gets into a lot of trouble."

"Yeah," John agreed. Quieter, "I can't stop thinking about him."

"Huh?" James glanced back at John as he raised his hand for another two drinks. "What, does he give you a hard on?"

John scoffed, taking his drink from the bartender. "Yeah, James," John said, faking bitter sarcasm. "I mean - his shoulders. Have you seen those things? Thick as tree trunks."

"Next time I see Sherlock Holmes, I will immediately inform him of his masculine shoulders."

"Good," John replied. "Don't forget his ears. Bloody magnificent, those things."

"Sherlock Holmes..." James sighed, drawing a heart into the condensation of his beer. "But seriously," James said, continuing to illustrate on his glass. "What happened?"

The truth clawed at the base of John's throat. "He was an utter cock," John stated.

"People do say that."

"Mm. Must have a reputation," John agreed. "Being a right dickhead, and all that." He took a large swig of beer, hoping that he'd lose cognizance enough to not have to force the story out through his teeth. And his groin was heating up, just thinking about it. God, he was a tragedy waiting to happen. "Claire and I went to this... thing. And he was there. And he was an extraordinary piss pot. And now?" John shrugged. "Can't stop thinking about him. What he said," John clarified.

"What'd he say?"

"He said... that he was sorry about Claire's children."

James's face crumpled into bewilderment as he squinted at John. "Claire d-"

"I know," John hissed, his mannerism harsh. "Claire and I argued about it when we got home, and now she's not talking to me."

"You serious?"

"'Cuz it's true. We don't have the same..." John searched for the word, "...goals. Goals, yeah."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Sherlock said, 'Sorry about your children,' because she's not going to be having any," John muttered. "I don't want to. She's angry I didn't tell her - but more angry that she found out." John drank, again. "Damned if you do..."

James shrugged, wistfully staring at the wall. "Just give her the goddamn children, John," James said. "She's a twenty-six year old who's not even married, yet. All her friends have seven kids and twenty-nine grandchildren." James laughed into his beer, then. "You're fucked, old man."

John fixed James with a numb look as he thought.

"You don't like domestic, John," James said, his smile more like a grimace, "you don't do domestic."

"I could," John insisted. "I could."

James shook his head. "You couldn't. You're an adrenaline junkie," he explained. "And that's fine - but don't expect that from Claire. Expect a nice lunch from Claire. Expect quiet Sunday afternoons. But don't expect that, don't do that to her. Don't make promises."

"I want to get out of this place," John said, rolling around the ice in his glass. "Go to London. Somewhere."

James smiled at him, his expression pensive. "You can't." He shook his head. "The only place you can go?" James pointed right, east. "That way."

John's response was eerily silent and James continued through the quiet. "You're not a moaner. You're a doer," he said, using his hand for emphasis. "Stop running from her. Do something about it."

"Can't," John stated simply.

"Why?"

John didn't even know how to articulate an answer. Claire had the ability to make her eyes like graying marbles, and she could say the most precise things, the worst things. Her k's would click and her p's would pop and her r's would rip through your stomach and you'd be standing there, intact, yet shattered. If given the chance, she would peel off her plastic smile and brand it to your face - skin, melting into skin. Why? Because you'd hurt her, and she only dealt in absolutes.

For a few minutes, it was deadly quiet except for the raucous yelling of teens, with John trying to form some kind of viable reason in his head. Through the silence, James abruptly looked up from his beer glass and stared at John. A feeling long gone stirred in John's stomach. "...Hey," he murmured, his brow creased. "John."

"Hmm," he answered numbly, not managing to look up. His beer glass was scintillating in the afternoon light.

"Are you...?" James leaned a bit closer, his hair turning a bright and fiery yellow from the sun filtering in behind him. "Are you happy?"

John looked up and smiled at him, raising his hand for another drink.