I apologise for the length – it just felt wrong to cut anything out.
London, 17th December 1983
The American tourists walked side by side down Hans Crescent. They revelled in the fact that no-one even looked twice at their joined hands. This was a city that was filled with the locals (who didn't take any notice of anything other than their own business) and tourists (who didn't notice anything other than the famous tourist sites).
Kurt Hummel and Noah Puckerman were in love, or very nearly. They had never said it, but they both felt it. They had come on holiday together here, to the city that was millennia old, and yet still had a modern twist on every corner. Old and new stood next to each other, Tudor buildings wedged between glass spires. Anything seemed possible in this place, a city of love and of war, for it had seen more than its fair share of both.
People came to drink in the history. Over two thousand years of it, recorded in books, and walls, and streets, and buildings. In the museums that were open to all, just longing to share the wealth of knowledge that the city had gained over the years.
Very few realised that on that day, they were going to become part of that ever-growing history.
The two men had just turned the corner onto Sloane Street, revelling in the anonymity of the busy city, when an almighty explosion echoed from the road behind them. They turned around, horrified at what they might see.
A plume of thick black smoke obscured the building. There were screams coming from every direction. A policemen charged past them, muttering something about "Fucking IRA at it again." A wrecked police car was just visible through the smoke. The man who had been selling pretzels on the street corner was now lying on the floor, writhing in agony, his legs apparently beyond repair. The plump, pretty little nurse who had been just ahead of the American couple dashed back to tend to the man.
In amongst all the horror, the terror, the sounds of despair, the two men stood still, each clinging to the other's hand like a lifeline. It had never really struck them before: the temporary nature of life. They had thought they had all the time in the world.
They watched as the pandemonium was slowly brought under control, wishing they could help in some way, but not knowing what to do. Fire engines did their work, ambulances came and went. The crowds that had gathered slowly dispersed. Workers in the shops along the road brought out cups of tea, offering them to the wounded, the shocked, the bereaved.
Still they stood there, hands clasped tightly.
A policemen asked them politely to move along, to be on their way, not to worry; everything was under control.
And so they turned away, moving as one, hands never parting. As they started walking, the taller of the pair leaned to whisper in the shorter one's ear, "I love you, Kurt. If anything else happens, you have to know: I love you."
With a tight squeeze of his partner's hand, Kurt replied, "I know. But I love you more."
"Not possible," Noah said simply. The pair carried on their way, and the city carried on around them. As always, the love was just enough to balance out the war, and London lived on.
A special mention must go here to Sheila Selves, the nurse who ran back to help the pretzel seller. You are a truly wonderful woman and I am so lucky to know you.