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(characters don't belong to me)

John Smith didn't notice the black, sprawling clouds when he came out of the buggy that morning, so close after Arthur jumped out and left him gape-mouthed.

Why should he, when there's something new and exciting to be known, to be fantasized about?

Maybe making a man into a God wasn't the most intelligent thing he could do, but as he looked out on the crowds of people through the light of day-break, his thoughts flowed to him to the crowds to Amelia and back again.

But the important bit is that he never looked up to the dark sky and found the red-black clouds peculiar.

The buggy stopped with a jerk and he got up, rocking slightly as the rains buffeted the thin walls of the carriage and the horses tossed their heads, and reached deeply into the pocket of his suit jacket (It was blue this time. He had been feeling adventurous) and paid the cabby what he owed.

He stepped off and immediately covered his head with his briefcase, keeping his head down, and rushing into the slightly run-down building the Glasgow Times had called home.

The warmth engulfed him at once, reminding him of the sweet heat of his library. He very so wished that he could have been there right then, perhaps rereading his beloved Dickens, but he could not, damned by his decision to work. He made the long, damp walk to his small office in the corner of the building, greeting his friend Erik and Mark (They were editors) who were talking quite exuberantly about something, and John remembered Arthur.

Wasn't Arthur working here now? His heart leaped, and he looked anxiously around him, looking for that familiar face, but only seeing the rumpled faces of his coworkers at 6 in the morning.

He sighed, digging out his keys and unlocking the door to his office and stepping inside, discarding his damp jacket onto a coat-rack and setting his briefcase onto his desk, briefly considering going through the contents, but deciding that he didn't need to. He'd looked through them what must have been a dozen times.

He settled down at his desk, and reread some memos from his contacts; basically nameless people who gave him inside information and disappeared in the Glaswegian streets. He had his suspicions on who they truly were, but kept it to himself.

He didn't really enjoy writing about other people's social life, but it was easy for him, more convenient than World Affairs or such nonsense.

He worked dutifully through the morning, reading anonymous memos and typing up the weeks "social happenings," when a knock sounded at his door. He looked up at his grandfather clock, a present from his uncle, and shouted, "Come in!"

"John!" A chipper voice called from outside his doorway, and John craned his neck to see Charles, his only real mate at the firm, grinning with all his might, his bowler drooping down his face, still heavy with water.

"Hello, Charlie," He said happily. Charles pulled a face at the nickname, and leaned across his doorway.

Charles was perhaps a year older than him, and had perfectly groomed black hair that John had unending envy over. He also had a neat little mustache that John must say he was not particularly fond of, and spoke with a thick Scottish accent, opposed to John imported English one. He had blue, blue eyes that made ladies swoon, but John knew Charles was the same as he; he was having an affair with a bloke who worked in Photography. Charles had told him this on a drunken night out at their favourite bar, Harrison's, and John didn't think Charles knew he was aware of it. So, he stayed quiet while Charles stayed happy.

"What can I do for you, old chap?" John said, turning to face away from his, rummaging through his briefcase.

Every day at noon precisely, almost the entire firm closes and they all go out for lunch, going to a fish-and-chips shop down the way or Harrison's bar. John and Charles always, always went out for lunch, and it was getting quite dull, if John was honest, with just the two of them.

"Apparently there's a new bloke taking over for Higgens for Literature. I was thinking we go say hello before we close up shop for lunch," Charles said, chipper, and John thought yes, that's definitely Arthur.

Would Arthur remember him? Most likely no, unless he introduced himself again. They had locked eyes for the briefest of moments before Arthur had jumped out.

"Why not. I'll lock up here," He said, gathering his jacket from the coatrack and slipping it on, patting his sides to see if his money-clip was still safe tied up inside his pocket, and, feeling the reassuring bulge, nodded at Charles, who then lead the way towards the Literature and Music offices, winding between the Accountant offices while doing so.

"Calling for an Arthur Williams!" Charles called loudly as they reached the door, and rapped on it several, hard times.

A tired-faced man poked his head out after minutes of incessant knocking and calling provided by Charles, and looked them over a couple times, as if the first time didn't quite stick.

"Can I help you?" He asked finally, and Charles stepped forward, affecting a sweet-boy disguise, and folded his hands behind his back, leaning forward to look like a child in trouble.

"If we are not bothering you too much, we would like to request a certain Mr. Arthur Williams for lunch," He said, smiling sweetly.

Music and Literature usually work through lunch for some reason, which was peculiar, because the only real time they had needed to was when Doyle came by from visiting his family, and only really stayed for about 5 minutes.

"Williams?" The man blinked up at them, his large, bushy mustache twitching lazily under his nose, and rubbed the tiredness from his eye with a calloused, red hand.

"Yes, sir. Arthur Williams. Is he available for lunch?" Charles said pleasantly, and the man sighed and turned back into the room, mouth opening to shout over the small buzz of voices that always somehow comes with people in Music.

"WILLIAMS!" He called back into the room, and at least seven men's heads popped up, all eerily similiar in their ready-to-please expressions.

"Yes, boss?" They chirped, almost exactly in perfect synchrony, wide smiles on their stubble-free faces.

"Not you - ARTHUR WILLIAMS!" He shouted, and at last, Arthur's voice sounded from a run-down red velvet coach in the corner, where he had been talking with another man, who looked on impassively.

"Yes, sir?" He said nervously, and, with a nervous glance shot at his companion who smirked back at him, he pried himself off the couch and made his way over to the man, wringing his hands.

"These two idiots from Accounting and Social want to take you on a lunch. Can you please agree, and get them away?" The man said, rolling his eyes, and Arthur nodded, letting his eyes drift away from the man and settle on John. A wide, child-like smile spread across his face upon seeing him, and John had to struggle at not letting his cheeks curve up as well.

"Oh, John! How terrific! Of course I'll get them away from you, Mr. Barley. Let me just get my coat, gentlemen, and I'll be right with you!" He said excitedly, turned on his heels, and disappeared into the crowd of Literature and Music that was clumping like dust around the post, which had just arrived.

John tried to glimpse what the anxious whisperings were about, but all he seemed to get were messes of tweed and time-pieces as they swung around wildly.

Mr. Barley, as Arthur had called him, rested on the doorway, looking back into the crowd, waiting for Arthur to re-emerge, and yawned suddenly, a desperate, gulping yawn that made John wonder if he had been sick. Fumes of medicine and coffee drifted his way, and he scrunched his nose, turning torward Charles who looked like he was about to burst out into a very childish burst of giggles at his discomfort.

Arthur reappeared suddenly, cap in hand and jacket slung over his shoulder, and he gave a nod to Mr. Barley, who let go of the doorframe and disappeared back into the room. Arthur stepped forward before the large wooden door slammed shut on him, and turned to grin at John, almost maniacally.

"Nice to see you again. Fish and chips?"

Charles had been looking on with disapproving eyes, and finally took John's elbow and swung him toward the entrance, leaning his mouth close to whisper in his ear.

"You'll have to excuse me a moment," John said, smiling again at Arthur, who looked on in confused amusement.

"Charles! Don't be rude! This is our guest for the moment!" He chastised him loud enough for Arthur to hear, then dropped his tone and looked him straight in the eye, the fringe bobbing slightly in front of him not helping his cause at all.

"What?" John asked, and Charles shrugged a bit, and said,

"I wouldn't trust him with my grandmother's diamonds, that's all. Be careful, Johnny," Charles seemed to warn, serious as the chill in the air, and John snorted quietly.

"He wouldn't harm a hair on a fly. Now, let's go to Harrison's and get ourselves a pint, eh Charlie boy?" John winked, and before Charles could smile at him and release his arm from his grasp, Arthur came up behind them and took John's elbow as well. Charles looked frightened by the least, and that was right before Arthur started tugging on them, forming a line like they were schoolboys.

"Sounds lovely. Let's go!" It took a smile aimed at John, strangely John alone, and a cold wind buffeting his face before he realized.

"Why, it's the middle of July!" He ejaculated, stopping suddenly, causing Arthur to get pushed forward by Charles colliding with his back.

"Yes, John, and?" Charles said, frowning as he adjusted his cap and brought it closer to him.

"It's not supposed to be freezing in July, old friend!" He looked up at the darkening clouds, and peered closer at them.

There was some sort of face in the clouds, he thought. He suddenly heard the ticking of a clock, a nonexistent time-piece, and squinted his eyes further, the ticking pounding in his head like a heart-beat.

"John!" Charles appeared in front of him, a furrow in his brow as he looked at John concernedly, and John shook his head a dozen times, grateful for that dastardly ticking to disappear, and smiled back at Arthur, who had shaken himself free of Charles and took a step back, looking guilty.

"It is always freezing in July, my friend. Just as it's balmy and warm in December. Did you hurt your head trying to get your cap on this morning?" Charles said, looking a squidge away from grabbing his shoulders and shaking the sense into him.

"Of course, sorry. I just... blanked out there. Terribly sorry. Let's go, shall we?" John smiled up at Charles, and reached up to pat him on the shoulder before turning toward Harrison's.

He carefully tried not to remember Arthur's guilty look aimed up at the sky.

work in progress is progressing yes

review if you want to! :D

(no john isn't the master)