A/N: Thanks, everyone, for sticking through it all. I wholly appreciate it. We're far from done, but this has been rough.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Next Morning

Hours passed in what felt like seconds and Clara woke up to find that she was alone in bed. It was still dark outside, as the sky had yet to lighten and everything seemed very still. She sat up and looked at the empty space where John had been laying and sighed; touching it found that it was still warm, but only just.

'I guess I was wrong,' she thought. Waking up alone was a rarity, though now she figured it would quickly become more common. Clara rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling, her hand resting automatically on her stomach. She curled her fingers into a fist and bit her bottom lip; her torso throbbed, bringing her to concentrate on her thoughts to numb the pain.

The stories were all there, floating around in her head, both rumors and grounded facts. John was right now where many of them started: slipping away from the routine they once shared. He was emotional and vulnerable and, based on his reaction when they came home, likely unable to express himself fully. It was just a morning where he was not in bed, but mornings out of bed could become nights out of bed. He'd spend more time at the pub and take walks without her. There was even the possibility he'd see other women, if he was distressed enough. She loved him dearly, but she didn't know what she would do if he did that.

She was lucky though, Clara knew that for sure. As heartbroken as he was over the loss of their child, as cold as she imagined him possibly growing towards her, as much as she was sure their marriage would be tested, he would never be cruel and hateful. She was sure her husband did not hate her—if he hated her it was possible she would have the bruises to prove it—though it was not at all an odd thought to think that he might become distant for a while. Distant, she could live with. Distant, she could stay alive with. Distant, she could divorce if it came to that. She didn't want it to come to that; she loved him and knew he loved her as well, but until now children had always been in their future. How much of the passion was left, now that some died with their daughter?

'I have to get used to this, for now.' Clara slowly sat up and forced her legs over the side of the bed to dangle as she gathered strength. She was sore and achy worse than she had ever felt before, aftershocks of the trauma she experienced the previous day. The combination of the dizzy spell and the medications she had been given made most of the experience a total blackout, but she could still remember the shooting pain and panicked doctors and lots of blood and crying. She closed her eyes and tried to block the memory from her mind.

Her stomach, queasy and grumbling, broke the silence of the room. Clara stood up and weakly shuffled towards the bedroom door; breakfast was certainly going to have to be the first thing she attended to, whether John was there or had already left the flat in an effort to help air out his plans of the future. The rest of the flat was quiet and still, eerie and unsettling until she entered the kitchen.

"Good, you're up," John said as his wife came into view. She jumped at the surprise his voice brought as he stood by the stovetop, changed into fresh clothes and lording over a pan. Clara sat down at the table and stared at the false grain design on the pressed wooden surface. What could she reply to that with? She was scared, if only because she had no idea what to do that would not risk driving more of a wedge between them.

Before long a bowl of porridge was set in front of her and a kiss landed lightly on her cheek. She watched John sit with his own bowl before he took a spoon from the utensil canister on the table. His face was blank and nothingness—lips drawn tight and eyes half-lidded, his emotions were carefully concealed. Clara took her own spoon and began to stir her porridge, knowing it was likely too hot for her to eat right away.

"Thank you," she said quietly. He ate a spoonful of porridge and nodded.

"You need your rest, considering how sudden of a change your body is going through right now," he replied. He sounded mostly better, but Clara could still hear a slight raspy quality to his voice.

"It's… it's fine. You don't have to baby me," she insisted, instantly regretting her choice of words. Her face grew hot as she saw a scowl go across her husband's face.

"I promised I'd take care of you, so that's what I'm doing," he answered sharply, his gaze downcast. Immediately afterwards he licked his lips and his voice softened. "I want to, Clara. I want to…"

"I know."

They sat silently, with John slowly eating and Clara waiting on her food to cool. Neither said a word until John broke the silence, his voice drenched in trepidation.

"Can I… ask something?"

Clara took a deep breath and steadied herself for the worst. "Sure."

"Where is she?" He poked at his porridge now, shuffling it around the bowl with his spoon. "Did they take care of her or do we have to…"

"They did," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, but I told them to. I didn't think I could…"

"No, that's alright. That's probably better," he nodded solemnly. A long pause filled the kitchen as he glanced out the window at the paling sky. "Victoria."

Clara paused stirring her porridge and looked at John curiously. "I'm sorry…?"

"We should name her anyways, and I think Victoria would be nice."

Oh. "Victoria is lovely, but you don't want to save it?"

"No."

John went back to his porridge silently. Clara looked at him and sighed, her eyes trailing down to the bowl in front of her. She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip.

"Victoria it is then," she said, her voice wavering. She tried to start her breakfast, but it was impossible now. It was all she could do to not burst into tears as she sat there; it did not matter what John had said the night before, because Clara knew she was a failure as both a mother and a wife. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she put her face in her hands and propped her elbows on the table.

A couple moments passed and she jerked back at the feeling of his hands on hers. She looked up and saw him towering over her, the corners of his mouth twisted up ever-so-slightly and his eyes brimming with adoration. After carefully leading her out of the kitchen to sink down onto the sitting room couch, John gently pulled Clara into his lap. He tucked her head underneath his chin and rubbed her back.

"Go ahead," he murmured. "It's okay."

"…but you should be getting ready for work…"

"Today's Sunday. I wouldn't go anyways."

"Oh…" Clara said, her voice trailing off. It felt as if it was still Saturday to her; everything was such a haze that she could barely tell what was what anymore. "John… I think I'm going to stay home from work tomorrow. I don't know if I can handle the kids just yet."

"Stay as long as you like," John said. He swung his legs up onto the length of the couch and cuddled Clara protectively between the back cushion and his chest. "I can stay, a couple days at least. Will said he'd give that to me."

"…but John…"

"…but nothing, Clara," he snapped. He held her tighter and shoved his face into the couch to muffle his cracking voice. "I thought I could have lost you and Victoria yesterday. Do you realize how scared I was?"

Reaching back into her mind, she did remember him saying such a thing. It felt like so long ago and, if she was honest, as if it had been only something to say while engulfed in grief.

"You thought you lost me?"

"Yes." John removed his face from the cushions and kissed the top of Clara's hair, barely keeping his composure. "I thought there was a very real chance you were dead, that you both died or I was going to have to raise a child alone. Victoria can't be replaced, but we can adopt children if that's what it ends up coming down to—I don't care. None of it would be the same without you there with me… and that's terrifying."

'Oh my God, he thought I had died,' she thought, making her physically ill to think about what it must have been like for him on the way to the hospital the day before. She sniffled as she went back in time and remembered the root cellar, with the handgun tucked away amongst the emergency rations. Clara knew he had told her that it had just been an afterthought when he packed it—that he'd by no means even think of such a thing now—but the fact it was even a thought at all, no matter how small, stirred and sat in her mind, screaming as it continually reminded her it once existed. She felt no obligation from it, but only worry and fear for her husband's sense of self-perseverance.

Clara scrunched up her face and closed her eyes as John kept holding her. It was so unlike him to be weepy that the aftershocks of the hand they had been dealt were likely to keep him from being the John she knew best for a while. Mourning did that to people, she had to remind herself, and it would likely be a long time before either of them recovered.

Time passed and John eventually calmed back down enough to let go of Clara and allow her to return to the kitchen to resume breakfast. He had just finished washing his face in the bathroom sink when the phone rang their ring, five short and a long, and he quickly made a dash for the receiver.

"Smith Residence," he said, voice hoarse and grating. Clara heard a pause before her husband put on a false laugh. "Oh, no, something just accidentally went down the wrong pipe two seconds before you called. It's nothing. What's the ring for?" Another pause and his voice shifted from forced to genuinely shocked. "Wait, already? When did she go in? Where is she at?" He wrote something down and tore the page from the pad. "Alright, I'll see you Verity. Just give me some time to get over there." He hung up the phone and nearly staggered into the kitchen, stunned.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked. John shook his head, leaning up against the sink.

"Nothing's wrong," he replied. "Collette had her baby early this morning; Verity was calling because I promised to go with her to visit. It's a different hospital, at least."

"If you promised, then you should go," she said. He looked back at her, seeing that her eyes were locked on her cold porridge. "A couple hours apart will do us some good, but no more, okay?"

"You got it, boss." He crossed the kitchen and kissed the top of her head, placing a cautious hand on her shoulder. Clara took his hand in hers and looked up at him, trying to lie without words that she would be fine.

"If anyone asks, I caught the flu," she said. "That should keep questions about me at bay for at least a little while."

"The flu means bedrest, so eat up," John replied. He left the kitchen so Clara could finish her breakfast. When she went to find where he had wandered off to, she found him in the bedroom propping up pillows and setting up the nightstand with their small radio and books.

"What's this?" she asked. He gave her a smile and continued fussing.

"I don't care what we're calling it; you do need to take it easy," he said. "Go ahead and change into something more comfortable—you've been wearing that since yesterday."

Clara looked down at her clothes and realized with a twist of her gut that he was right. She shed her skirt and blouse and changed into a nightgown, leaving her other clothes on the floor. John helped her back into bed and made sure she was upright and tucked in before heading back towards the kitchen. He returned with a tea tray that he put next to her on the bed, which held the teapot in its cozy, along with some little snacks.

"I'll be back before you know it," he assured. John then went into the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out a paper bag, one Clara knew had a toy he had come home with just the previous week, claiming it was the first thing he bought with their daughter in-mind. "I want to see you there when I return, okay? Don't feel like you need to do anything; you're my responsibility right now and I'm going to take care of you."

"I'm not an invalid…"

He put the bag down on the end of the bed and carefully sat on the edge of the mattress next to her. "Let me do this, to make it up to you. It's nowhere near enough… but it's a start."

"It's not your…" Clara began. Her husband cut her off by gently putting a forefinger to her lips before leaning in to softly kiss her.

"I'll see you in a couple hours," he murmured. "I… I love you, Clara, for better or worse."

"I love you too."

Sighing heavily, John stood back up and left the flat, taking the paper bag with him. As soon as the door was shut and the lock was latched, Clara's hand shot up to her mouth as she began to chew her nails in worry. How long would it take them before everything came crashing down around them? Things were far from settled, that she knew for certain. She turned on the radio to some music and turned it up loud, trying to drown out everything else.

John's hand cramped awkwardly as he and Verity rode together in the empty lift. The paper bag in his hand was allowing a stiffness to well up through his palm and wrist, but he did not much care.

"So where's Clara?" Verity asked. They had met one another in front of the hospital, so the question had yet to come up. "Considering how long the two of you have been waiting, I would have thought she'd be all over this."

"She's at home, resting," he answered. "You know that flu that's been going around the school—we're thinking she might've caught a touch of it." It was far from the truth, but she didn't need to know that quite yet. "She sends her love though, and a promise of many nappy changes."

"You and that English girl of yours, I swear," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. The lift then opened on their floor and they got out, eventually finding their way to the maternity ward and Collette's bedside.

"There you are!" she grinned. The young woman looked tired, though so incredibly happy John felt his heart shatter. With the infant in her arms, she looked brighter than ever. "Duncan should be right back—he's getting me some fresh clothes for when I go home tomorrow. Did you run into my mam and dad on the way in?"

"Not that I could see," Verity replied. She hunched over the baby and tickled its chin. "And who is this that's been causing such a fuss?"

"Donald," Collette beamed. "Duncan's dad is going to be thrilled, since that was his brother's name. Would you like to hold him while he's still awake?"

"Held one and you've held them all," Verity shrugged. She turned back to John and pointed at the bundle in the younger woman's arms. "You've never held one that I'm aware. How about some practice before you and Clara have a go?"

"S-sure," he said. John put the paper bag down on the floor and approached Collette cautiously. The newborn looked up at him quizzically as his mother passed him over, careful to not allow his head to remain unsupported. Once he was securely in John's arms, she leaned back and smiled.

"You're the first man that's held Donny who he hasn't cried for," Collette mentioned. She watched as her coworker sank down onto the nearby chair, his knees too weak to stay standing.

"Is that so?" Verity chuckled. "Looks like we've got a natural; your dad skills are going to be sharp as a tack once you have one of your own, aren't they?"

"Shut up," John said sternly, glaring at Verity from underneath his eyebrows. She blinked curiously.

"Excuse you… I'm only teasing," she said. John chose to ignore her, turning back to the confused-looking boy in his arms.

"Hey there Donny," he whispered. "You don't know me yet, but I'm your twelfth-cousin, maybe thirteenth; not too clear on which man was which when you go that far back. I hope you'll know me as your Uncle Johnny though, and my wife as your Auntie Clara. She couldn't come today, but the two of you will meet soon enough." He looked up at Collette and grinned, his eyes wet and sore. "To think I remember chasing you out of my garden, and now I'm holding your wee bairn."

"You're so dramatic, John," Collette giggled. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh, that's right…" He reached down and with his free hand took a small stuffed animal out. "I caught you a tiger, lad. His name is Timmy and I hear he came all the way from India just to see you." John pressed the toy's nose to Donny's in an attempt to get a reaction. The newborn yawned heavily and closed his eyes, promptly falling asleep. "Maybe I should wait a little bit before I begin with the stories."

"Well, if that's how a captive audience reacts to your work, then I pity your next editor," Verity snarked. Once she ended up on the wrong end of John's piercing glare a second time, she and Collette watched very carefully as he fawned over the sleeping boy. For holding a coworker's child, an honorary nephew and such a distant relation there was barely any blood shared at all, he seemed to adore the baby unconditionally. Inside, John knew he was merely projecting emotions, and that the feeling would pass, but he simply felt so right that he knew it was going to be tough to hand the boy back. When he eventually had to, it also earned him a look of concern from the new mother.

"John, are you okay?" Collette asked.

"Of course I am; why wouldn't I be?"

"You're crying," she said. John wiped his cheeks on his sleeve—he had been crying, more of an eye-leak, really. He simply shrugged it off.

"Never held a baby before." She didn't need to know, not yet. Let the boy grow a little before levying the bad news. "Just imagine how much of a mess I'll be with my own child."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Verity said. She watched as John morosely fiddled with the toy tiger before placing it down on the bed next to Collette. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," he lied. "I was just thinking about keeping a story or two about Timmy filed away for later—some of the best tales start as the ones you tell children."

"I'm sure," Collette agreed. She bounced her son in her arms and playfully scrunched her face at him, blissfully unaware of her old coworker's troubles.