A/N: Editing this one was a pain in the rear, if only because it's been written for so long. Having to pick it apart after months of just glazing over it was not fun.


Chapter Fifty-Four: January 1948

Rain sluiced down the windowpane, sending a chill through John's bones. It was warmer than it had been at that time last year… that was for certain. That was merely a distraction though, something he had less time for now more than ever. He needed to get his new rough draft done and sketches outlined so that he could present it to Mr. Brown at the end of the month. It was a short turn-around from his previous book having been done in mid-November, but he was lucky to have his contract, he kept reminding himself, and he needed to stay on the task at hand.

…or, he would have a better time of this whole focusing thing if Clara hadn't kept on interrupting him.

"Would you like some tea?" she called out from the stairs, jarring John from his concentration.

"No thank you Clara," he replied, voice slightly raised so she could hear easily.

"Okay."

A while passed, allowing John to continue his work. It wasn't long though before the sound of the vacuum cleaner began thundering through the house. He rolled his chair over towards the door and closed it before scooting back. The vacuum rumbled and wheezed and eventually found its way up the stairs as Clara cleaned the rugs. Folding his arms on the desk, he groaned while the racket worked its way around the upper floor of the building.

Eventually the offending noise passed and things were quiet again. John picked his pencil back up and continued sketching images of a tiger on a passenger liner to Britain from India. Timmy, he had decided, was going to visit his pen pal in Scotland, where he would play about while comparing and contrasting their homelands. He had plenty of reference books on India, as well as newspaper clippings about the nation's more recent references in the global events, and wanted to make sure while both places were very different, they could be rather similar and were good places to be. With any luck he wouldn't need to scrap the plot for something completely different to please Mr. Brown, as his editor had done to him before.

Things began to run more smoothly after that for at least a little while. Timmy was able to make it to Scotland and was touring the city when John had to stop—he needed to look up some things about the Indian wildlife before moving the story to the glens and mountains. As he flipped through a book on the native flora of the subcontinent, the door opened and Clara popped in.

"Hey, how's it coming along?" she asked, walking up to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and began to rub as he examined the photos in the book.

"It's coming," he replied. "I don't want to be rude and get something wrong; those blokes were able to do what Scotland can't seem to manage and I am anything but looking down on them."

"Then maybe Timmy's adventures will help some little ones out there do the same," she said. "The pen pal still Donny?"

"Yeah; I figure Collette and Duncan won't mind." He flipped a page and frowned. Clara's presence was nice, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain focused. "I'm sorry, but could you please leave? It's hard work trying to piece this all together."

His wife scratched his scalp roughly and tugged on the side of his beard. "See if I offer you any tea later," she teased before leaving the room. She left the door wide open, causing John to grumble and stand, walking over to the door to shut it.

A moment of self-discussion later and he made his way over to the radio on the far corner of the room. He tuned it to a station that was dead in the middle of a symphony and left it on slightly louder than normal. They had gone through days like this before, where he was easily distracted and she ready to touch and play, and while they had the potential to end up enjoyable in the moment, he always seemed to hold some level of guilty regret when his workload began to pile.

Four rough sketches later and the radio cut out in the middle of an adagio. John turned around and saw Clara standing by the radio, looking a cross between confused and irritated.

"I asked you what you wanted for lunch," she said sternly, hands on her hips. Her husband sighed and scratched his head.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you," he explained noncommittally.

"Of course you didn't hear me—you had this stupid thing turned up too loud."

"I need to concentrate, Clara. Art is hard."

"…and so is lunch," she retorted. "Are sandwiches okay?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Then I need you to run to the bakery for me because we're out of bread."

John rolled back in his chair and frowned at his wife. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I told you that those thick-chunk slices you kept on hacking off the other day would backfire and when they did, that you'd have to go get the replacement loaf."

Oh yeah. She had warned him.

"Fine… where's the books?" he groaned as he slowly stood from his chair.

"In my purse in the bedroom," she answered. Clara exited the room before him and went back down the stairs.

John sighed and went into their bedroom, looking for the mysterious purse containing their ration books. The new loaf would have to go on his, most likely, though he'd have to check Clara's book as well to make sure they could squeeze it in that month. He finally found her purse and opened it up; there was never usually much to the contents of her purse and she hardly ever minded him checking in it for her. There was just a tube of lipstick, her wallet, a pen, and the worn paper sleeve their ration books sat in. He took the sleeve and slid the booklets out, one the yellow-tan color he was used to and the other… green.

A green ration book. The last time he held one was back when they were expecting Victoria. He quickly flipped through it and let his jaw grow slack as his suspicions were confirmed. It was a pregnant woman's ration book.

Clara was pregnant.

Now shaking, John slowly sat down on the bed as he tried to sort himself out. They were going to have a baby. He stared at the booklet in his hand—why hadn't she said anything before? Did she just forget how obvious it would be if he went into her purse? Impossible; Clara was cleverer than that. Despite this, John allowed a grin to creep across his face and he felt himself sigh in happiness.

It was another chance. Nothing would erase their previous loss, but the only way for them to move forward was to keep on living, and to keep on living was to keep on trying. Now as long as they were successful in bringing another life into the world, the pain and loss they went through would not have been experienced in vain.

"John? Are you alright?" Clara asked. He turned around and saw her leaning on the door frame, smiling softly at him. He scrambled over the bed and met her at the door, his eyes wide in excitement.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"This was me telling you," she replied. She laughed as he leaned down to press their lips together and used the moment as an excuse to pick her up and twirl her around. They came to a crashing halt atop their bed, where John wrapped his arms around Clara's waist and rubbed his face into her midsection.

"Hello there my wee bairn," he murmured. "We're going to make sure you and your mam are healthy, alright? I don't care what you are as long as I get to hold you in my arms and raise you with my wife by my side. That's Dad's first order, you hear?"

"I'm sure they will be more than happy to oblige," Clara chuckled happily. She pet John's grey fluff of hair as they laid there, her husband growing increasingly closer to tears. "Instead of sandwiches, how does some soup sound?"

"It's sitting ready on the stove, isn't it?" His voice was raw and cracking as he attempted to hold himself together.

"It is."

"Thank you, Clara. I love you both."

"I love you too."