A/N: the art in the media is RandomFandom3 's and i l O VE it

The green of the trees turned to yellow and red. Mornings were cold to the touch, like lemonade in summer, crisp and sharp.

Colors exploded.

Work was stressful. Art was stressful. Living was stressful. The bomb drills had tightened up to two a week, and now, everyone was on their toes, looking at their watches and not knowing, their throats thick with the arsenic of ignorance.

And John hadn't seen that man in weeks.

It wasn't as if he was looking for him; he hated the sod. But it almost seemed too deliberate to be accidental.

Maybe the man had found a way to avoid him, or maybe he'd bugged him with a tracker, like in an Eric Ambler novel. All the same, John hadn't let himself go down that eerie corridor that lead to the man's domain. The music room.

The painting was watercolor, which wasn't his favorite medium, but he felt as if the harsh brightness of acrylic was too intense for this piece. It was a brunette woman with her head held in her hands, an army uniform crumpled on the bed beside her.

There was a soft noise trickling in through the back halls, like a buzz, except less consistent. John turned to the radio and turned it up. Swing jazz was playing, and God, if he'd known, he wouldn't have turned it on, but the buzzing became louder, louder.

And then the door opened and there were children flooding in, like tributaries feeding into a massive river. They were crying out, yelling about some problem, yelling about finger paints and it was as if there was no longer any cognitive thought in that room, just children screaming. One kid was sucking his thumb, another was sobbing, snot dripping onto papers... John jumped up to move the child away from anything that was his, giving him a perfunctory pat on the back and glaring at the door to see whatever teacher came in. Probably so John could yell at him about the sanctity of art.

It was finally Mr. Anderson who slipped in, wearing a tired expression. That expression was quickly gone as he saw John angrily approaching from the side. John could still hear the radio playing in the background.

"Hello," he bit. "Why, exactly, are there a flock of rabid children crying in my room?"

Mr. Anderson adjusted his hair and stated in a firm, nasally voice: "The other paint room is being reconstructed."

"Oh. Oh," John snapped, mocking realization, "sorry, I didn't know that you'd checked out this room for rain dates. Next time, I'll just rent it out, hmm?"

"Mr. Watson," the man snorted, "don't be-"

"I can't work like this!" John shouted at him, pushing a giddy child out of his way with one hand. He made his way through the din, grabbing his paints and his canvas. A child, for some odd reason, attached to his leg, yelling something unintelligible about food. "Next time," John said, pointing at the teacher, his face serious, "put the kids in the bloody hallway."

A shock of wispy hair fell into Mr. Anderson's eyes as he watched in utter resignation.

"And it's Dr. Watson to you," John called as he stormed out with his things, a couple of outlying children following after him until Mr. Anderson neutralized the danger with a sharp threat. They scurried back in, mousy squeaks breaking through their mouths.

The hallway was empty and dark. Through the art room's windows, he could see a child eating some of his paints, but he was too fatigued to do anything about it. Instead, he just walked around the academy holding a wet canvas in his hand, trying to think of a good place to finish. Generally, the only area with good lighting was his room, and, surprisingly... the music room.

I could just slip in. He's probably not there. It's a Friday. People go out to the cinema on Fridays, if they're half sane. Then again, that man was just a touch crazy. Maybe I should just go home.

No, John thought, the rebellious part of him. They stole your room, not your dignity. Go in there, sit by the window. Paint.

He walked to the hallway, looking down it. It was darker than usual, it seemed.

Tentatively, he stepped in, and marched until he stopped at the doorway. He peeked inside.

It looked almost exactly like the art room, except there were chairs and music stands strewn about, tubas and violins and cellos lining the walls, just like that night a few weeks ago. No one was in, it seemed. Thank God. Finally. Some quiet.

John strode in, pulling up a chair and propping his painting on a spare music stand. Carefully, he arranged his paints on a table, finally relaxing his shoulders and allowing himself to glance over his work. He still felt a tad bit on edge, like someone was going to walk in at any moment, but it wasn't as if anyone was here anymore. It wasn't as if there was anyone behind him.

He whipped around, and there they were, his entire spine shooting with tension as he jumped, yelling, "The bloody fu...?!" A tall man with a circle of children with surrounding him gasped in shock.

"Sherlock," a small girl whispered, tugging on his sleeve with the arm that wasn't carrying a small violin. "Who's that?"

"Yeah, Mr. Holmes," a boy piped up.

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, John thought, mind churning with realization.

"It's alright, Liz," that man responded, giving the child a gentle glance before turning to John, running his eyes over John's body. "He'll be leaving shortly."

John's abdomen was heaving, his heart racing in his chest as he bent over a table, gasping for air. He hadn't expected him to be there, he'd never expected to see him ever again. They'd been having a music lesson when John waltzed in, like he owned the room. Embarrassing, embarrassing.

John finally adjusted into a standing position, breathing deeply. "Well," he choked. "This is a turn up."

Sherlock's eyes squinted, as if to chastise John. He half turned to the children, his voice dripping with disdain, and said: "Excuse us, Dr. Watson and I need to... talk."

In four wide strides Sherlock was across the room and closing in on John, and then his arm was on John's wrist - oh, and they were out the door and Sherlock was saying something to him that came out a lot like, "You can't be here," but all John could see was his lips moving, sounding the words out.

"Hello?" the man said. "Anyone home?"

"Sorry, I... I was just..." John was just having a stroke.

"Staring at my lips, I know. Why are you here? Wait, no, don't answer that. Is it because you're an idiot?"

"Huh?" John said, half comatose.

"I'm teaching, John."

"Wha...?"

"I play violin. I am teaching other children to play violin. Teaching. Instilling knowledge."

John shook his head, stabbing a finger in the man's direction. "You're Mr. Holmes."

The man squinted again, his eyes dark. "Yes," he stated. "Time for you to go."

John crossed his arms. "You're the rich one," he said, staying firm. "Your dad owns that company... What is it..." John set his tongue on his lips, trying to think of this man, but all that was coming up were blanks. It was almost as if Sherlock Holmes had erased his name from John's memory. He remembered girls talking about him.

Saying how elusive he was, how gorgeous, and that they, and only they, had been given the best night of their lives on a silver platter. ("He's going to call me when I get home," the girl had said. "He's so dangerous, I can't wait to see him again.")

"People talk about you," John continued, peering at Sherlock incredulously.

"You really don't understand the nature of 'people,'" Sherlock snapped. "Leave."

"Wait," John insisted, involuntarily reaching out to grab hold of the fabric on his sleeve, pulling him closer without any awareness of doing so. "Why haven't I seen you before?"

"Dear God," Sherlock muttered, looking away from John. "Do you want me to pay you to go away? Or shall I have to kill you and throw your body into the river?"

"I need to paint."

"I need to teach."

"Let me in."

"Why should I?" Sherlock growled.

"I won't be any trouble," John answered, "I swear, I'll stay utterly silent. You can go on as usual, I just need to borrow your windows."

Sherlock's eyes squinted even further. And then his lips curled up in a pink smirk. "You can come back later," he said, low.

John suddenly became aware that his hand was gripping Sherlock's forearm. He stared at it before removing it and straightening his back.

"Yeah, ah," John stammered, "don't think that's a good idea."

"Is it your fiancée, John? Or is it because you're a doctor and you have to get up early for work tomorrow?" Sherlock's voice was so straight, so deadpan, that John didn't even know how to respond.

There were a couple of things spinning in his mind, but everything was racing so fast he didn't actually know what those thoughts were; he couldn't hang onto them as they ripped through him. If he strung out those notions into actual words it would sound like, "How on earth I'm a doctor how did you do that amazing amazing piss off though really how did you do that what are you implying," and he'd look like a moron, but at least he would have been honest.

So, yes, John wasn't entirely sure who Sherlock Holmes was or why he wasn't letting him paint or how on Earth he knew that he was a doctor. Did he look like a doctor? Or was it tucked under his fingernails and written into the creases of his brow, waiting to be dug out, excavated?

John gave Sherlock an almost angry look, a smile so slight that it could be taken for a frown if you weren't looking for it. He adjusted himself, shuffling in place before hissing, "I just wanted to use the goddamn window!"

"Go away," Sherlock insisted, rolling his eyes and pulling himself inside the room. He slammed the door in John's face.

John stared at the wooden door, his eyes still squinting in angry disbelief. He opened his mouth to yell, but thought better of it and began to walk out, home. There was no point in bothering him. John had a feeling that would help nothing.

He was on the bus when he realized he left his paints and canvas in the music room. John pressed his head into the cold window, his breath staining the glass.

***

Their house was covered in curtained peach and plum tapestries and the walls were composed of flower patterns. Hardwood floors, intricately designed mahogany couches - posh.

Claire was sitting on the sofa, listening to the radio absently. Something was running, something about Japan and Italy.

"Claire," John said, a rumbling in his stomach.

"You're home early today," was her dry response without looking back. She tucked her hair behind her ear, dipping her fingers into some peanut butter and licking it off lazily. She didn't bother to look up, only dipped her fingers into the peanut butter again. Dip, lick, repeat.

John stood for a moment, not sure how to break the impregnable silence.

"What?" she asked, finally looking up at him. Her eyes were sharper than ever - blue and acutely aware of John's stance, his composure, his expressions. He felt surprisingly bare under her gaze, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing," he responded. "Did you make any lunch?"

She shook her head and dipped her fingers in, once again. "No."

"Oh." John began walking up the stairs, but then he stopped and turned back. "Um, why?"

Claire shrugged at him, turning back to the radio. "I wasn't especially hungry." She wiped her wet finger on her dress and closed the peanut butter, placing it on the arm rest next to her. Every word sounded rehearsed, as if she was sliding her speech patterns into a specific slot and reciting them back to John with a smile and a trite uniformity that John couldn't help but doubt. She said pleasing words so seamlessly that that was what gave her away. No one said those words with such plastic eloquence anymore.

John shifted again, this time setting down his case and his clothing, removing his leather gloves and eying his fianceé suspiciously. "Mm," he said, "I was rather hoping for a sandwich."

"I was hoping for an apology to my father. It's been three weeks. Have you done it?"

"No."

"Make your own sandwich, John."

He looked over at Claire, whose gaze was steely and gray, her eyes blank as she stared at the small metal box droning the news. "Today is going dreadfully," she prompted. "I woke up and the paper said that the Germans were experimenting on children."

"Probably just propaganda," John replied, grabbing the peanut butter off of the arm rest and walking away a few feet into the kitchen.

"And then the next door neighbor told me that they were going to start limiting ration cards even more, so I won't be able to make cakes any longer, for birthdays and the likes," she went on, calling to John through a wall.

"Claire," John said in an unsure tone as he gathered supplies from their cupboards. "You don't like baking." Bread, peanut butter, he thought as he gathered materials, goddammit, the jam is gone.

"Of course I do," Claire responded coldly. "And then there was this dreadful gossip about this bloke Sherlock Holmes-"

John's heart nearly stopped. "What about him?" he choked out, his hand frozen on the knife.

"What do you mean, 'what about him'? It was just idle chatter between Allison Baker and I, John."

John slowly began to butter his bread with churned peanuts again, thinking up a response. "I'm just curious."

"Why?" Claire responded cynically.

"Because I'm curious about things sometimes, Claire," John snapped.

He heard the sound of Claire getting up, languidly and gracefully padding to the kitchen, sliding in next to him. That motion was so familiar. John felt like he had slid in with Claire a thousand times before, and he was going to a thousand times more, until she and he were just pulleys, going through the motions for the comfort, not for the action itself. She took the bread and began viciously making a sandwich, ignoring John completely.

"What are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing," John repeated, putting down his bread on the counter.

"Don't put it on the counter, John. Germs. Do you want to eat bacteria? I heard there was a bout of pneumonia going around."

John left the bread there. "What," he said, "are you doing?"

"Making a sandwich."

"And why did you bring up Sherlock Holmes if you didn't want to talk about Sherlock Holmes?" he pressed on, his heart racing.

Claire looked at him with skeptical eyes. "The only one who seems to really want to talk about him is you, darling." Claire finished making the sandwich and handed it to John with dainty, small hands. "We were talking about his mother."

John's eyebrows creased, confused. He didn't even think people like him had mothers. Claire looked bewildered. "John, surely you've heard. It was a complete riot last week. That was all anyone was talking about."

"Sorry, I..."

"His mother and brother are important people in government, correct?"

John never had heard of this, but he nodded anyway, biting down onto his bread. Claire went on: "They visited one of our surrounding countries a few months ago, in hopes of pacifying some hostile situations. The brother came back. The mother didn't."

John put down his half eaten sandwich on the varnish next to his other one, which Claire glanced at, but said nothing. His body leaned onto the counter, going still. "So..." he trailed.

"Austria. She's most likely dead."

John nodded, slowly.

"The Holmes most likely kept it a secret for the past six or seven months so we wouldn't jump to any conclusions." She moved over to John and took his uneaten sandwich off the counter, sinking her teeth into it and starting to pad away. Her figure was thin and curvy, like a viper. "Well, they've reached their conclusion now. Haven't they, John?"