A/N: This is one of the longer chapters to-date, as well as something that I've had in my pocket since August.

Chapter Thirty-Six: March 1944

John smiled as he woke up, his face covered by Clara's hair and his arm draped over her waist. He ran his hand along her stomach, a curve having finally begun to take shape within the past month. Even in the darkness before twilight he knew she was beautiful and radiant and everything she should be. She was another day closer to becoming a mother—within a week or two she would not be able to hide it by claiming a lack of exercise and he would be able to tell everyone. The neighbors, his coworkers, Dave… yes, it was probably a good thing to tell Dave he was getting a granddaughter… or a grandson, John supposed. Whichever was coming was going to be loved though, that he knew for certain.

"Mmm… morning," John muttered, kissing the back of Clara's neck. She shifted in the bed and rolled over to look at him.

"Morning. You have work today?"

"Yeah; we're still on Saturdays for a while longer yet. How's our princess this morning?"

"Doing backflips on Mum's bladder," Clara groaned, officially having given up on correcting him. She had felt the tiny flutter of the baby's first movement the month before and it seemed like it had not stopped since. "I'm going to ask today if this is normal. Knowing my luck it probably is."

"Mams are always suffering, didn't you know that?" John chuckled. He smirked as Clara slid back down underneath the blanket and grumbled. She had taken to hiding as of late, mainly to combat the embarrassing baby names or ridiculous standards for their child he was proposing. John got out of bed and dressed for the day before sitting back down and gently peeling the blanket back from his wife's face. She was visibly upset to the point of biting her lip and avoiding eye contact.

"Have a good day; see you after work," Clara whispered. John gave her a soft smile and kissed her lightly.

"I love you both."

"I love you too. Now go on, or you'll be late."

John brushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear before leaving.

It was mid-afternoon and everything was going smoothly. Well, as smooth as building a submarine could go anyways. It was just John and Verity working the rivet guns on their side of the ship that morning, since Collette had already left in order to have her baby, which was due within a fortnight. They were partway up the side when the foreman called up to them from the shipyard floor.

"John! John! I need you down here!" Will shouted. "Special assignment from higher up!" The riveters stopped what they were doing and looked down at their boss.

"Well that's odd…" Verity said. "What on earth do they want with your old sack of bones?"

"I don't know, but there's only one way to get that answered," John shrugged. He eased some slack into his rope and slid down the side of the vessel until he reached the bottom. After unhitching himself, he walked over to the foreman. "What's going on?"

Will leaned in close and put an arm around John's shoulder, forcing him to walk alongside him. "I'm doing this because we're mates, alright, and this is something no man should ever hear."

John's heart skipped a beat.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He tried to keep his face straight, but his eyebrows could not help rising into his forehead.

"Keep breathing as I lead you to the lockers," Will said. "Someone just telephoned about Clara."

"No… what about Clara?!"

"Stay calm, don't make a scene." Will brought John into the locker area and finally let go. "Clara's been admitted to the hospital—whichever one she went to for her appointment."

Placing his hand on the lockers to steady himself, John's eyes went wide. "What for?"

"They didn't say, other than that it's advisable you come—listen, John," Will said. He held the other man's shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. "Don't run. Don't shout. Go home, shower, and then take the bus over. They're not going to let you in a hospital smelling like you do."

"…but…!"

"No, John, listen to me," Will insisted. "If they admitted her, then she's in the place she needs to be. They'll watch over her until you come."

"Okay…" John agreed half-heartedly. His breathing became uneven and his face uncertain. "Why didn't they say what happened to her?"

Will hesitated before answering. "I don't know, but get home so you can get to her. I can manage to get you a couple days off if you need it, alright? Go to Clara."

John nodded silently and thanked Will before walking out of the shipyard wearing the straightest face he could muster. Trying to keep his gait quick yet controlled, he caught the bus and walked back to his flat. He was barely in the door before he began to shred his outer layers and toss himself in the bathroom. He showered in a rush and panicked as he scrambled through the wardrobe for clean clothes.

'I need to stay calm,' he reminded himself. 'Just don't think John. Act. Just act. Thinking will only get in the way.' He was pulling on his jumper, nearly out the door again, when a sudden wave of realization hit him.

Will knew more than he let on. The hospital… they had told him, but Will didn't want to be the one to relay the news. What was he told that could have been so horrible that he wanted to avoid being the one to tell him?

His body began to shake. It was something simple, right? They just wanted to monitor Clara, since this was her first child and all. There was any number of tests that they could want to do, and some might even involve her staying overnight. He had neighbors that went through such things while pregnant, so really there was nothing to worry about…

…but why did Will not tell him that? Nearly as important: why did Will offer to give John days off?

His chest constricted as he wobbled over to the couch and sank down into it. Twelve hours before, Clara had been sleeping in his arms, supporting a life they had created together. Now… now she and their child were any number of things.

'Focus,' John told himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, trying to calm his nerves and settle his brain.

"Okay, best-case scenario: Clara needs tests done." He waved his hands around in an attempt to sort things out mentally. "Eunice had them with her little girl, and even Collette did and she's as sturdy as an ox. Modern medicine is really incredible, but also makes you over-worry."

The sitting room did not answer back.

"Now, worst-case scenario… oh shit… no, no, no, no, no… don't think that." He stood and began to pace about, crossing the room quickly with his long stride as he whispered harshly to himself. "Best case is tests. Worst case is tests. You can't worry. You shan't worry or it's an early grave for y…"

He stopped for a moment, hands coming to rest on his hips and lips pursing together. The very thought made his stomach churn, but he couldn't see a way around it: no one got time off while they were rushing to beat the clock on the submarine contract, not unless it had been negotiated well in advance. His eyes stung as he grabbed his jacket and made his way out the door, vision blurred and throat itching.

If there was any good in the world, he thought, then he hoped they were at least alive.

Traffic was bad as John sat on the bus, giving him more time to think as he made his way to the hospital, trying to keep his mind off the worst. If he made it there and Clara had simply been admitted for some tests then he would be thankful. He would bring her home afterwards and ask Dave if there was a way he could bow out of service and stay with them until the baby was born, so that someone she trusted could be with her all day and night. John knew he was far from a controlling man (in fact it was more Clara that was the controlling one and he was fine with that), but if it would benefit his wife's health to stay home, then he wanted her to stay home for as long as was necessary. They did not need her salary to survive unlike some couples, and their savings was enough to supplement any emergency expenditure that they might require…

…but if Clara was dead? He'd still need to contact Dave. If she was dead there was a good chance there could be no baby, though John did not know if he'd have to arrange a double funeral or not. Then again, Clara was due the first week in June, so there was still a chance, even if it was a slim one, for a child to survive this early. If the baby did make it, he'd have to find a nanny, preferably one that no one could accuse him of shagging. Maybe Dave, again, if he wanted; Dave should know everything. John hoped that if—his forebears forbid—Clara was dead, that he was still allowed their child. Claire? Clark? He knew he needed something, someone, to live for, or after his wife was gone and ashes spread it would be the Clyde for him. If there was a sin in the world for him to commit, it would be outliving her.

With the rest of his family either dead or presumably so, the gut-churning realization that he only truly had Clara left in the world settled over John in a haze. Together they were a team, but with her gone, if she was gone, what else did he have other than a name near-anonymity and a job that was turning him into an old man by the day? He didn't even have a house anymore, just some awful flat that was low-income housing in all but name. His career, illustrating stories for the children he never had, wasn't even a guarantee for after the war. What if the shipyards wore him down so quickly he broke before it ended, leaving a wee babe with a father that couldn't even care for it? If there had been anything the past four years had shown him, it was that he needed someone to care about in order to keep up his spirits and his strength. He needed someone to hold and cherish and love; that would drive him to make himself better and stay on the right side of the Clyde's surface.

He hoped Clara was alive, that their child was alive. He needed them alive, since he didn't want to go just yet.

When he finally got to the hospital, John nervously walked in to the front office and inquired which ward he'd have to visit. The nurse directed him towards Maternity, which picked his hopes up slightly. He tried not to rush as he walked up the stairs and navigated the halls until he found the main desk of the ward. He stood nearby as the nurse found the doctor he needed to talk to, nervously drumming his fingers against the wooden surface. Everything around him smelled of bleach and disinfectant, the exact opposite of what he was used to with his paints and machinery. Far off in another room, a woman in labor was shouting in a language definitely not English; her cries were enough to make John's stomach flip.

Eventually, the nurse returned with a doctor. He was very plain and nondescript, as far as doctors went, and seemed to be more interested in the contents of his clipboard than anything else.

"John Smith, husband of Clara?" he asked, not looking up from the paper.

"A-Aye. That's me." The doctor looked up at him and back down at the papers, examining a hand-drawn chart.

"Come with me, please," he said. John followed the man further into the corridor, where there was a small nook with a couple chairs where they sat down. "I was told we were able to get hold of your supervisor. Why your supervisor?"

"I work in a shipyard—when the call was made, I was suspended off the side of a submarine."

"Oh, I see," the doctor said plainly, his tone of voice not sitting well with John. "Did he tell you why you needed to come?"

"No, he did not."

"Well then, I've got good news and bad, as trite as that sounds," the doctor said. He looked the other man in the eyes, his face a professional mask. "Which do you want first?"

"Is Clara okay?" John asked quickly. "Please tell me she's okay."

"That was the good news."

John sighed happily. She was doing okay. She was still alive. He kept in his tears for later, for when he was allowed to be more open than now. There was though…

"…then what's the bad news?"

"The baby is not." The man shifted in his seat, more out of his own comfort levels than the information he was giving or at the visible drooping of John's shoulders. "She was overcome by a dizzy spell and she fell on the stairs. It was only a couple steps according to the nurse that was there, but it was enough of an impact to force the labor early. I do have a question for you though: was she using the appropriate ration card?"

"She was," John said quietly. "As far as I know, she was doing everything properly. Why?"

"We ran some tests and there were certain nutrients that seemed to run high in the baby and not in her," the doctor explained. He flipped though his charts nonchalantly. "If she was eating well and being a good patient, then it's probably for the better it happened this way… silver lining and all that."

John straightened himself and his eyes hardened into a glare, his eyebrows furrowed and his lip threatening a sneer. "What do you mean?" The doctor seemed unfazed by the change in demeanor.

"While I'm not sure if the discrepancy in vitals would have been picked up at her appointment today, had the baby been carried to term I'm almost certain your wife would not have survived the delivery. The stress of the birth would have sent her into shock once the adrenaline worn down." He took a pen from his pocket and flipped to a back sheet to write something down. "Her stress levels are very high as things are—too much more could kill her."

"Is she… is she going to be okay? You know, in the long run?" John breathed. The doctor nodded.

"As far as I can tell, she should be. Tell me, what are her hobbies?" he asked, almost mechanically. "She doesn't seem to want to answer any of our questions, which is understandable."

John raised an eyebrow at the request. "She doesn't have much time for it, but she loves reading," he replied cautiously.

"Not much time?" The doctor's own eyebrow lifted slightly. "Please tell."

"My wife teaches primary school, on top of doing most of the chores and cooking at home. She also volunteers in kitchens on occasion, and she tends to run errands for some of the older people in the building that can't take the stairs as often as they'd like. She really is very busy."

"Ah, as I thought—she indulges in too much. Mr. Smith, if your wife did not work then there's a better chance this baby could have survived and developed to-term with less danger to her." The doctor's voice needled and scraped at John's nerves, as if judging him for the active life Clara chose. "Having a baby is a lot of stress on any woman, but too much stress and her body can rebel—the fall was the perfect scapegoat." He flipped through the papers on the clipboard again, pensive.

"Can you tell if this will happen again?" John asked. The doctor shrugged in response.

"To be honest, I'm surprised a pregnancy kept as long as it did, since she was spread so thin. I don't know how long you've been married, but there's a chance she could have had any number of first-trimester miscarriages that just looked like her cycle was off. With the equipment and information available to me right now, I'd have to say that there is a chance children might not be in her future no matter what."

No matter… no matter what…? How could he be so sure? If there was a chance the one way, there was a chance the other, and it was simply a matter of the right amount of care. The doctor seemed too relaxed in all of this.

"We need to run a couple more tests while we have her here—nothing urgent—just to confirm our suspicions," he said. "In the meantime, I would suggest not trying to beat the odds until your wife can significantly lessen her stressors. If rationing eases up, that would be even better, just to give her easier access to a wider variety of fruits and things. Bananas, now, I'd almost kill to see a banana again at the market… but you do understand what I'm saying, Mr. Smith? Is any of this clear or do I need to explain it again?"

John shook his head slowly, though the doctor did not lift his eyes from his papers. "No, I understand." He felt his stomach drop and his breath became shallow. A pit of emotion began swirling inside him, one made him want to smack the judgmental look off the doctor's face right then and there. "Do you have a wife, Doctor?"

"No, I'm afraid. Not enough time."

"Then, can I at least see mine? Can I see her right now?"

"She's stable, so I don't see why not," the doctor said, standing up and motioning towards the ward. John followed suit and walked through to find it mostly empty, with Clara alone towards the end. Lying on her side, she was looking out the window with a blank expression. She wore a hospital gown, a blouse and blood-stained skirt from earlier in the day sitting on the table next to her. When he reached the end of her bed, John licked his lips and inhaled, gathering his courage.

"Clara…?"

His wife gasped sharply, her eyes coming into focus. "John?"

"Yes, I'm here," he answered, grabbing a nearby chair and setting it in front of her. John sat down and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his line of sight in hers. He grabbed her hand and began stroking the back of it with his thumb. "I'm here Clara. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay," she whimpered. "I couldn't…"

"Hush now, no… none of that," John murmured. "Now tell me what happened." Clara paused, swallowing hard before answering in a cracked, distant voice.

"The lift was busy, so I took the stairs. I must have gone up too fast, because all I remember is I made it as far as the third floor and my head spun as I stumbled. Everything just went black and the next thing I know, I'm in here and… and… I lost…" She couldn't continue, her eyes welling up in tears and mucus jamming her throat.

"Shh, no it's okay," he whispered. He kissed the back of her hand and stroked her hair in an effort to calm her down. "I'm just glad I didn't lose you as well."

"You were so looking forward to her," she choked. "She was going to be so beautiful…"

So it was a girl… "We'll try again, after the war, like we had planned."

"Like we had planned."

Clara bit her lip and turned her head, burying her face in the pillow to muffle a sob. John brought his other hand down so as to envelope her own. Bringing it to his forehead first, then his lips, he could taste the metal of her wedding band. It was the shiny scrap that, paired with his, remained the only physical evidence of their union. His eyes watered as he sighed.

"Get dressed; we're leaving." She looked at him, terrified.

"What…?"

"We need to get you in your own bed, in familiar surroundings, because being here is going to do nothing for you," he said. "The doctor said you're stable, so I'm taking you home."

"…but what about…?" Clara started, but was cut off by John leaning forward and drawing her in for a hug. He grimaced, his eyes closing lightly and brow wrinkling in worry.

"I just want you where I know you're safe and I can look after you; they can test you later." He pulled away, his face back to a supportive mask, and stood. "Now please, get dressed."

Clara nodded slowly, quietly agreeing. She put her clothes back on as John disappeared from the room to sign her out into his care. It took a while for him to return, carrying a blanket and looking red in the face.

"Wear this," he said, his voice hoarse. Clara looked up at him and wordlessly took the blanket. She stood up and draped it around herself before allowing him to lead her out of the room. As they walked out of the hospital, she noticed one of the doctors off to the side nursing what looked like a broken nose. She kept her head down and hoped it had nothing to do with her.

The bus ride back to the flat was a quiet one, with John protectively holding Clara by the waist as she tried to control her breathing. No one bothered them, the man whose eyes possessed hellfire and the woman who blankly clung to him. They walked from the bus stop to the flat block arm-in-arm, silently going up the steps and entering the flat together. After ushering Clara in, John shut the door behind them and leaned up against it, one hand still on the knob and his other arm wedged between his forehead and the door.

"John…?" she asked. When she heard no answer she cautiously approached him, placing a hand on his back. He sucked in breath and shuddered before turning around and grabbing her by the waist, pressing his face into the crook of her neck.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he croaked. "I am so sorry."

"John, you have nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one that couldn't do this one thing for you," she sniffled. "Don't apologize."

Instead of protesting, John picked her up and carried her to their bedroom. He set her down on the bed, hospital blanket and all, and crawled in to hold her tight. Clara scratched his hair and put a hand on his shoulder as he let out a shaky sob into her midsection.

"Don't…" she whispered. "I understand… I understand if you're cross with me."

"I'm not cross, not at you," he muttered through his tears. "I'm just glad you're still alive. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you… the entire reason I'm alive…"

"Don't talk like that," Clara sighed. "That man doesn't exist anymore, remember? He hasn't for four years now, you told me so yourself. You're stronger than that."

"I'm strong because of you," John insisted. He choked back some tears as he propped himself up on his elbows in order to look at Clara; his face was beginning to redden again and his eyelids drooped over his glassy stare. "You take care of me more than you know. If it wasn't for you, I'd likely be dead at either my own pathetic hand, or in the ruins of my grandparents' house, or in some ditch on the Continent. Because of you, I've had someone else to live for. I'm reckless enough as it is—don't make me worse by turning me into a widower."

"…but John…" she sniffled. "You've done so much for me and this is something only I could have done, for you. You wanted that daughter so badly you were halfway to adopting a total stranger's children from London… and that was a couple years ago now. Don't tell me that you never thought about keeping Gwen and Ruby even when I told you not to."

"I did," he admitted. "I would have kept them, yes. Happily too, if you would have asked and their mam gave permission."

"See? You want a family. I should be able to give you that family, not someone else's. I'm sorry John… I failed."

"You didn't fail. I was the one being too greedy and asking for so much. By being alive, you're all the family I need." John sank back down onto the bed, letting his head fall into his pillow. He pulled Clara close, tucking one arm behind his head and using the other to hold her waist.

Clara frowned at the dark room. "You must be hungry. I should make…"

"No. Please, just be here."

Closing his eyes, John dug his nose into Clara's hair and grit his teeth. Moments later he heaved into a sob that shook his entire body as well as hers. He cried until his eyes hurt and his throat grew raw, the entire time holding his wife in place so that she could not turn around and see him so shattered. Instead Clara closed her eyes and held his hand—she had never felt so useless before, and now it was all she could do to lay there.

It was true: John had wanted a family in the worst way. Between the names he was suggesting on a daily basis and the snuggling of the baby and the excited way he talked about the child's future, Clara had been certain giving him a child would have been the best thing she could do for him after marriage. Now, thanks to something neither of them could control, he was lost instead as that entire future disintegrated around him. It was an ill omen, signaling that it might be entirely impossible now. No children. No family. No legacy. Just them. It scared her, as she had heard stories of loving and doting husbands turning cold and cruel after learning their wives couldn't carry a baby long enough to give it life.

No. Not her John. He was nothing like that. Clara shifted in bed, turning around to find her husband fast asleep. His face was distraught even though his breath was deep and slow through parted lips. Tears and snot soaked his pillow, showing how truly hard a cry he had. Clara let her forehead press against his chest as she tried to match her breathing to his in an attempt to keep from crying again.

She closed her eyes and held him tightly; they were meant to endure this.

A/N: Yeeaaahhh... this is one of those things that has definitely been a looming threat, something I both didn't want to get to but I also needed to get off my chest. Hopefully the less-12 moments in here for John are forgivable, given the circumstances, but everything happens for a reason, after all (the only problem with playing the long game, I swear).